"'LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT\n\nby Charles Dickens\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nWhat is exaggeration to one class of minds and perceptions, is plain\ntruth to another. That which is commonly called a long-sight, perceives\nin a prospect innumerable features and bearings non-existent to\na short-sighted person. I sometimes ask myself whether there may\noccasionally be a difference of this kind between some writers and some\nreaders; whether it is ALWAYS the writer who colours highly, or whether\nit is now and then the reader whose eye for colour is a little dull?\n\nOn this head of exaggeration I have a positive experience, more curious\nthan the speculation I have just set down. It is this: I have never\ntouched a character precisely from the life, but some counterpart of\nthat character has incredulously asked me: \"Now really, did I ever\nreally, see one like it?\"\n\nAll the Pecksniff family upon earth are quite agreed, I believe, that\nMr Pecksniff is an exaggeration, and that no such character ever\nexisted. I will not offer any plea on his behalf to so powerful and\ngenteel a body, but will make a remark on the character of Jonas\nChuzzlewit.\n\nI conceive that the sordid coarseness and brutality of Jonas would be\nunnatural, if there had been nothing in his early education, and in the\nprecept and example always before him, to engender and develop the vices\nthat make him odious. But, so born and so bred, admired for that which\nmade him hateful, and justified from his cradle in cunning, treachery,\nand avarice; I claim him as the legitimate issue of the father upon whom\nthose vices are seen to recoil. And I submit that their recoil upon that\nold man, in his unhonoured age, is not a mere piece of poetical justice,\nbut is the extreme exposition of a direct truth.\n\nI make this comment, and solicit the reader\'s attention to it in his or\nher consideration of this tale, because nothing is more common in real\nlife than a want of profitable reflection on the causes of many vices\nand crimes that awaken the general horror. What is substantially true of\nfamilies in this respect, is true of a whole commonwealth. As we sow,\nwe reap. Let the reader go into the children\'s side of any prison in\nEngland, or, I grieve to add, of many workhouses, and judge whether\nthose are monsters who disgrace our streets, people our hulks and\npenitentiaries, and overcrowd our penal colonies, or are creatures whom\nwe have deliberately suffered to be bred for misery and ruin.\n\nThe American portion of this story is in no other respect a caricature\nthan as it is an exhibition, for the most part (Mr Bevan expected), of\na ludicrous side, ONLY, of the American character--of that side which\nwas, four-and-twenty years ago, from its nature, the most obtrusive, and\nthe most likely to be seen by such travellers as Young Martin and Mark\nTapley. As I had never, in writing fiction, had any disposition to\nsoften what is ridiculous or wrong at home, so I then hoped that the\ngood-humored people of the United States would not be generally disposed\nto quarrel with me for carrying the same usage abroad. I am happy to\nbelieve that my confidence in that great nation was not misplaced.\n\nWhen this book was first published, I was given to understand, by some\nauthorities, that the Watertoast Association and eloquence were beyond\nall bounds of belief. Therefore I record the fact that all that portion\nof Martin Chuzzlewit\'s experiences is a literal paraphrase of some\nreports of public proceedings in the United States (especially of the\nproceedings of a certain Brandywine Association), which were printed in\nthe Times Newspaper in June and July, 1843--at about the time when I was\nengaged in writing those parts of the book; and which remain on the file\nof the Times Newspaper, of course.\n\nIn all my writings, I hope I have taken every available opportunity of\nshowing the want of sanitary improvements in the neglected dwellings\nof the poor. Mrs Sarah Gamp was, four-and-twenty years ago, a fair\nrepresentation of the hired attendant on the poor in sickness. The\nhospitals of London were, in many respects, noble Institutions; in\nothers, very defective. I think it not the least among the instances\nof their mismanagement, that Mrs Betsey Prig was a fair specimen of\na Hospital Nurse; and that the Hospitals, with their means and funds,\nshould have left it to private humanity and enterprise, to enter on\nan attempt to improve that class of persons--since, greatly improved\nthrough the agency of good women.\n\n\n\n\nPOSTSCRIPT\n\nAt a Public Dinner given to me on Saturday the 18th of April, 1868, in\nthe city of New York, by two hundred representatives of the Press of\nthe United States of America, I made the following observations, among\nothers:--\n\n\"So much of my voice has lately been heard in the land, that I might\nhave been contented with troubling you no further from my present\nstanding-point, were it not a duty with which I henceforth charge\nmyself, not only here but on every suitable occasion, whatsoever\nand wheresoever, to express my high and grateful sense of my second\nreception in America, and to bear my honest testimony to the national\ngenerosity and magnanimity. Also, to declare how astounded I have been\nby the amazing changes I have seen around me on every side--changes\nmoral, changes physical, changes in the amount of land subdued and\npeopled, changes in the rise of vast new cities, changes in the growth\nof older cities almost out of recognition, changes in the graces and\namenities of life, changes in the Press, without whose advancement no\nadvancement can take place anywhere. Nor am I, believe me, so arrogant\nas to suppose that in five-and-twenty years there have been no changes\nin me, and that I had nothing to learn and no extreme impressions to\ncorrect when I was here first. And this brings me to a point on which I\nhave, ever since I landed in the United States last November, observed\na strict silence, though sometimes tempted to break it, but in reference\nto which I will, with your good leave, take you into my confidence now.\nEven the Press, being human, may be sometimes mistaken or misinformed,\nand I rather think that I have in one or two rare instances observed\nits information to be not strictly accurate with reference to myself.\nIndeed, I have, now and again, been more surprised by printed news that\nI have read of myself, than by any printed news that I have ever read\nin my present state of existence. Thus, the vigour and perseverance with\nwhich I have for some months past been collecting materials for, and\nhammering away at, a new book on America has much astonished me; seeing\nthat all that time my declaration has been perfectly well known to my\npublishers on both sides of the Atlantic, that no consideration on earth\nwould induce me to write one. But what I have intended, what I have\nresolved upon (and this is the confidence I seek to place in you), is,\non my return to England, in my own person, in my own Journal, to bear,\nfor the behoof of my countrymen, such testimony to the gigantic changes\nin this country as I have hinted at to-night. Also, to record that\nwherever I have been, in the smallest places equally with the largest,\nI have been received with unsurpassable politeness, delicacy, sweet\ntemper, hospitality, consideration, and with unsurpassable respect for\nthe privacy daily enforced upon me by the nature of my avocation here\nand the state of my health. This testimony, so long as I live, and so\nlong as my descendants have any legal right in my books, I shall cause\nto be republished, as an appendix to every copy of those two books of\nmine in which I have referred to America. And this I will do and cause\nto be done, not in mere love and thankfulness, but because I regard it\nas an act of plain justice and honour.\"\n\nI said these words with the greatest earnestness that I could lay upon\nthem, and I repeat them in print here with equal earnestness. So long as\nthis book shall last, I hope that they will form a part of it, and will\nbe fairly read as inseparable from my experiences and impressions of\nAmerica.\n\nCHARLES DICKENS.\n\nMay, 1868.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nINTRODUCTORY, CONCERNING THE PEDIGREE OF THE CHUZZLEWIT FAMILY\n\n\nAs no lady or gentleman, with any claims to polite breeding, can\npossibly sympathize with the Chuzzlewit Family without being first\nassured of the extreme antiquity of the race, it is a great satisfaction\nto know that it undoubtedly descended in a direct line from Adam and\nEve; and was, in the very earliest times, closely connected with the\nagricultural interest. If it should ever be urged by grudging and\nmalicious persons, that a Chuzzlewit, in any period of the family\nhistory, displayed an overweening amount of family pride, surely the\nweakness will be considered not only pardonable but laudable, when the\nimmense superiority of the house to the rest of mankind, in respect of\nthis its ancient origin, is taken into account.\n\nIt is remarkable that as there was, in the oldest family of which we\nhave any record, a murderer and a vagabond, so we never fail to meet,\nin the records of all old families, with innumerable repetitions of\nthe same phase of character. Indeed, it may be laid down as a general\nprinciple, that the more extended the ancestry, the greater the amount\nof violence and vagabondism; for in ancient days those two amusements,\ncombining a wholesome excitement with a promising means of repairing\nshattered fortunes, were at once the ennobling pursuit and the healthful\nrecreation of the Quality of this land.\n\nConsequently, it is a source of inexpressible comfort and happiness\nto find, that in various periods of our history, the Chuzzlewits were\nactively connected with divers slaughterous conspiracies and bloody\nfrays. It is further recorded of them, that being clad from head to\nheel in steel of proof, they did on many occasions lead their\nleather-jerkined soldiers to the death with invincible courage, and\nafterwards return home gracefully to their relations and friends.\n\nThere can be no doubt that at least one Chuzzlewit came over with\nWilliam the Conqueror. It does not appear that this illustrious ancestor\n\'came over\' that monarch, to employ the vulgar phrase, at any subsequent\nperiod; inasmuch as the Family do not seem to have been ever greatly\ndistinguished by the possession of landed estate. And it is well known\nthat for the bestowal of that kind of property upon his favourites,\nthe liberality and gratitude of the Norman were as remarkable as those\nvirtues are usually found to be in great men when they give away what\nbelongs to other people.\n\nPerhaps in this place the history may pause to congratulate itself upon\nthe enormous amount of bravery, wisdom, eloquence, virtue, gentle birth,\nand true nobility, that appears to have come into England with the\nNorman Invasion: an amount which the genealogy of every ancient family\nlends its aid to swell, and which would beyond all question have been\nfound to be just as great, and to the full as prolific in giving birth\nto long lines of chivalrous descendants, boastful of their origin, even\nthough William the Conqueror had been William the Conquered; a change of\ncircumstances which, it is quite certain, would have made no manner of\ndifference in this respect.\n\nThere was unquestionably a Chuzzlewit in the Gunpowder Plot, if indeed\nthe arch-traitor, Fawkes himself, were not a scion of this remarkable\nstock; as he might easily have been, supposing another Chuzzlewit\nto have emigrated to Spain in the previous generation, and there\nintermarried with a Spanish lady, by whom he had issue, one\nolive-complexioned son. This probable conjecture is strengthened, if not\nabsolutely confirmed, by a fact which cannot fail to be interesting\nto those who are curious in tracing the progress of hereditary tastes\nthrough the lives of their unconscious inheritors. It is a notable\ncircumstance that in these later times, many Chuzzlewits, being\nunsuccessful in other pursuits, have, without the smallest rational\nhope of enriching themselves, or any conceivable reason, set up as\ncoal-merchants; and have, month after month, continued gloomily to watch\na small stock of coals, without in any one instance negotiating with a\npurchaser. The remarkable similarity between this course of proceeding\nand that adopted by their Great Ancestor beneath the vaults of the\nParliament House at Westminster, is too obvious and too full of\ninterest, to stand in need of comment.\n\nIt is also clearly proved by the oral traditions of the Family, that\nthere existed, at some one period of its history which is not distinctly\nstated, a matron of such destructive principles, and so familiarized to\nthe use and composition of inflammatory and combustible engines, that\nshe was called \'The Match Maker;\' by which nickname and byword she is\nrecognized in the Family legends to this day. Surely there can be\nno reasonable doubt that this was the Spanish lady, the mother of\nChuzzlewit Fawkes.\n\nBut there is one other piece of evidence, bearing immediate reference\nto their close connection with this memorable event in English History,\nwhich must carry conviction, even to a mind (if such a mind there be)\nremaining unconvinced by these presumptive proofs.\n\nThere was, within a few years, in the possession of a highly respectable\nand in every way credible and unimpeachable member of the Chuzzlewit\nFamily (for his bitterest enemy never dared to hint at his being\notherwise than a wealthy man), a dark lantern of undoubted antiquity;\nrendered still more interesting by being, in shape and pattern,\nextremely like such as are in use at the present day. Now this\ngentleman, since deceased, was at all times ready to make oath, and\ndid again and again set forth upon his solemn asseveration, that he had\nfrequently heard his grandmother say, when contemplating this venerable\nrelic, \'Aye, aye! This was carried by my fourth son on the fifth of\nNovember, when he was a Guy Fawkes.\' These remarkable words wrought\n(as well they might) a strong impression on his mind, and he was in the\nhabit of repeating them very often. The just interpretation which\nthey bear, and the conclusion to which they lead, are triumphant and\nirresistible. The old lady, naturally strong-minded, was nevertheless\nfrail and fading; she was notoriously subject to that confusion of\nideas, or, to say the least, of speech, to which age and garrulity\nare liable. The slight, the very slight, confusion apparent in these\nexpressions is manifest, and is ludicrously easy of correction. \'Aye,\naye,\' quoth she, and it will be observed that no emendation whatever is\nnecessary to be made in these two initiative remarks, \'Aye, aye!\nThis lantern was carried by my forefather\'--not fourth son, which is\npreposterous--\'on the fifth of November. And HE was Guy Fawkes.\' Here\nwe have a remark at once consistent, clear, natural, and in strict\naccordance with the character of the speaker. Indeed the anecdote is\nso plainly susceptible of this meaning and no other, that it would be\nhardly worth recording in its original state, were it not a proof of\nwhat may be (and very often is) affected not only in historical prose\nbut in imaginative poetry, by the exercise of a little ingenious labour\non the part of a commentator.\n\nIt has been said that there is no instance, in modern times, of a\nChuzzlewit having been found on terms of intimacy with the Great. But\nhere again the sneering detractors who weave such miserable figments\nfrom their malicious brains, are stricken dumb by evidence. For letters\nare yet in the possession of various branches of the family, from which\nit distinctly appears, being stated in so many words, that one Diggory\nChuzzlewit was in the habit of perpetually dining with Duke Humphrey.\nSo constantly was he a guest at that nobleman\'s table, indeed; and so\nunceasingly were His Grace\'s hospitality and companionship forced, as\nit were, upon him; that we find him uneasy, and full of constraint and\nreluctance; writing his friends to the effect that if they fail to do\nso and so by bearer, he will have no choice but to dine again with Duke\nHumphrey; and expressing himself in a very marked and extraordinary\nmanner as one surfeited of High Life and Gracious Company.\n\nIt has been rumoured, and it is needless to say the rumour originated in\nthe same base quarters, that a certain male Chuzzlewit, whose birth must\nbe admitted to be involved in some obscurity, was of very mean and low\ndescent. How stands the proof? When the son of that individual, to whom\nthe secret of his father\'s birth was supposed to have been communicated\nby his father in his lifetime, lay upon his deathbed, this question was\nput to him in a distinct, solemn, and formal way: \'Toby Chuzzlewit,\nwho was your grandfather?\' To which he, with his last breath, no less\ndistinctly, solemnly, and formally replied: and his words were taken\ndown at the time, and signed by six witnesses, each with his name and\naddress in full: \'The Lord No Zoo.\' It may be said--it HAS been said,\nfor human wickedness has no limits--that there is no Lord of that\nname, and that among the titles which have become extinct, none at all\nresembling this, in sound even, is to be discovered. But what is the\nirresistible inference? Rejecting a theory broached by some well-meaning\nbut mistaken persons, that this Mr Toby Chuzzlewit\'s grandfather, to\njudge from his name, must surely have been a Mandarin (which is wholly\ninsupportable, for there is no pretence of his grandmother ever having\nbeen out of this country, or of any Mandarin having been in it within\nsome years of his father\'s birth; except those in the tea-shops, which\ncannot for a moment be regarded as having any bearing on the question,\none way or other), rejecting this hypothesis, is it not manifest that\nMr Toby Chuzzlewit had either received the name imperfectly from his\nfather, or that he had forgotten it, or that he had mispronounced it?\nand that even at the recent period in question, the Chuzzlewits were\nconnected by a bend sinister, or kind of heraldic over-the-left, with\nsome unknown noble and illustrious House?\n\nFrom documentary evidence, yet preserved in the family, the fact is\nclearly established that in the comparatively modern days of the Diggory\nChuzzlewit before mentioned, one of its members had attained to\nvery great wealth and influence. Throughout such fragments of his\ncorrespondence as have escaped the ravages of the moths (who, in right\nof their extensive absorption of the contents of deeds and papers, may\nbe called the general registers of the Insect World), we find him making\nconstant reference to an uncle, in respect of whom he would seem to have\nentertained great expectations, as he was in the habit of seeking to\npropitiate his favour by presents of plate, jewels, books, watches, and\nother valuable articles. Thus, he writes on one occasion to his\nbrother in reference to a gravy-spoon, the brother\'s property, which he\n(Diggory) would appear to have borrowed or otherwise possessed himself\nof: \'Do not be angry, I have parted with it--to my uncle.\' On another\noccasion he expresses himself in a similar manner with regard to a\nchild\'s mug which had been entrusted to him to get repaired. On another\noccasion he says, \'I have bestowed upon that irresistible uncle of mine\neverything I ever possessed.\' And that he was in the habit of paying\nlong and constant visits to this gentleman at his mansion, if, indeed,\nhe did not wholly reside there, is manifest from the following sentence:\n\'With the exception of the suit of clothes I carry about with me,\nthe whole of my wearing apparel is at present at my uncle\'s.\' This\ngentleman\'s patronage and influence must have been very extensive, for\nhis nephew writes, \'His interest is too high\'--\'It is too much\'--\'It is\ntremendous\'--and the like. Still it does not appear (which is strange)\nto have procured for him any lucrative post at court or elsewhere, or\nto have conferred upon him any other distinction than that which was\nnecessarily included in the countenance of so great a man, and the being\ninvited by him to certain entertainment\'s, so splendid and costly in\ntheir nature, that he calls them \'Golden Balls.\'\n\nIt is needless to multiply instances of the high and lofty station, and\nthe vast importance of the Chuzzlewits, at different periods. If it\ncame within the scope of reasonable probability that further proofs were\nrequired, they might be heaped upon each other until they formed an Alps\nof testimony, beneath which the boldest scepticism should be crushed\nand beaten flat. As a goodly tumulus is already collected, and decently\nbattened up above the Family grave, the present chapter is content to\nleave it as it is: merely adding, by way of a final spadeful, that many\nChuzzlewits, both male and female, are proved to demonstration, on the\nfaith of letters written by their own mothers, to have had chiselled\nnoses, undeniable chins, forms that might have served the sculptor for a\nmodel, exquisitely-turned limbs and polished foreheads of so transparent\na texture that the blue veins might be seen branching off in various\ndirections, like so many roads on an ethereal map. This fact in itself,\nthough it had been a solitary one, would have utterly settled and\nclenched the business in hand; for it is well known, on the authority\nof all the books which treat of such matters, that every one of these\nphenomena, but especially that of the chiselling, are invariably\npeculiar to, and only make themselves apparent in, persons of the very\nbest condition.\n\nThis history having, to its own perfect satisfaction, (and,\nconsequently, to the full contentment of all its readers,) proved the\nChuzzlewits to have had an origin, and to have been at one time or other\nof an importance which cannot fail to render them highly improving and\nacceptable acquaintance to all right-minded individuals, may now proceed\nin earnest with its task. And having shown that they must have had, by\nreason of their ancient birth, a pretty large share in the foundation\nand increase of the human family, it will one day become its province to\nsubmit, that such of its members as shall be introduced in these pages,\nhave still many counterparts and prototypes in the Great World about us.\nAt present it contents itself with remarking, in a general way, on this\nhead: Firstly, that it may be safely asserted, and yet without\nimplying any direct participation in the Manboddo doctrine touching the\nprobability of the human race having once been monkeys, that men do\nplay very strange and extraordinary tricks. Secondly, and yet without\ntrenching on the Blumenbach theory as to the descendants of Adam having\na vast number of qualities which belong more particularly to swine than\nto any other class of animals in the creation, that some men certainly\nare remarkable for taking uncommon good care of themselves.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWO\n\nWHEREIN CERTAIN PERSONS ARE PRESENTED TO THE READER, WITH WHOM HE MAY,\nIF HE PLEASE, BECOME BETTER ACQUAINTED\n\n\nIt was pretty late in the autumn of the year, when the declining sun\nstruggling through the mist which had obscured it all day, looked\nbrightly down upon a little Wiltshire village, within an easy journey of\nthe fair old town of Salisbury.\n\nLike a sudden flash of memory or spirit kindling up the mind of an old\nman, it shed a glory upon the scene, in which its departed youth and\nfreshness seemed to live again. The wet grass sparkled in the light;\nthe scanty patches of verdure in the hedges--where a few green twigs\nyet stood together bravely, resisting to the last the tyranny of nipping\nwinds and early frosts--took heart and brightened up; the stream which\nhad been dull and sullen all day long, broke out into a cheerful smile;\nthe birds began to chirp and twitter on the naked boughs, as though the\nhopeful creatures half believed that winter had gone by, and spring\nhad come already. The vane upon the tapering spire of the old church\nglistened from its lofty station in sympathy with the general gladness;\nand from the ivy-shaded windows such gleams of light shone back upon\nthe glowing sky, that it seemed as if the quiet buildings were the\nhoarding-place of twenty summers, and all their ruddiness and warmth\nwere stored within.\n\nEven those tokens of the season which emphatically whispered of the\ncoming winter, graced the landscape, and, for the moment, tinged its\nlivelier features with no oppressive air of sadness. The fallen leaves,\nwith which the ground was strewn, gave forth a pleasant fragrance, and\nsubduing all harsh sounds of distant feet and wheels created a repose\nin gentle unison with the light scattering of seed hither and thither by\nthe distant husbandman, and with the noiseless passage of the plough as\nit turned up the rich brown earth, and wrought a graceful pattern in\nthe stubbled fields. On the motionless branches of some trees, autumn\nberries hung like clusters of coral beads, as in those fabled orchards\nwhere the fruits were jewels; others stripped of all their garniture,\nstood, each the centre of its little heap of bright red leaves, watching\ntheir slow decay; others again, still wearing theirs, had them all\ncrunched and crackled up, as though they had been burnt; about the stems\nof some were piled, in ruddy mounds, the apples they had borne that\nyear; while others (hardy evergreens this class) showed somewhat stern\nand gloomy in their vigour, as charged by nature with the admonition\nthat it is not to her more sensitive and joyous favourites she grants\nthe longest term of life. Still athwart their darker boughs, the\nsunbeams struck out paths of deeper gold; and the red light, mantling in\namong their swarthy branches, used them as foils to set its brightness\noff, and aid the lustre of the dying day.\n\nA moment, and its glory was no more. The sun went down beneath the long\ndark lines of hill and cloud which piled up in the west an airy city,\nwall heaped on wall, and battlement on battlement; the light was all\nwithdrawn; the shining church turned cold and dark; the stream forgot\nto smile; the birds were silent; and the gloom of winter dwelt on\neverything.\n\nAn evening wind uprose too, and the slighter branches cracked and\nrattled as they moved, in skeleton dances, to its moaning music. The\nwithering leaves no longer quiet, hurried to and fro in search of\nshelter from its chill pursuit; the labourer unyoked his horses, and\nwith head bent down, trudged briskly home beside them; and from the\ncottage windows lights began to glance and wink upon the darkening\nfields.\n\nThen the village forge came out in all its bright importance. The lusty\nbellows roared Ha ha! to the clear fire, which roared in turn, and bade\nthe shining sparks dance gayly to the merry clinking of the hammers on\nthe anvil. The gleaming iron, in its emulation, sparkled too, and shed\nits red-hot gems around profusely. The strong smith and his men dealt\nsuch strokes upon their work, as made even the melancholy night rejoice,\nand brought a glow into its dark face as it hovered about the door and\nwindows, peeping curiously in above the shoulders of a dozen loungers.\nAs to this idle company, there they stood, spellbound by the place, and,\ncasting now and then a glance upon the darkness in their rear, settled\ntheir lazy elbows more at ease upon the sill, and leaned a little\nfurther in: no more disposed to tear themselves away than if they had\nbeen born to cluster round the blazing hearth like so many crickets.\n\nOut upon the angry wind! how from sighing, it began to bluster round the\nmerry forge, banging at the wicket, and grumbling in the chimney, as if\nit bullied the jolly bellows for doing anything to order. And what an\nimpotent swaggerer it was too, for all its noise; for if it had any\ninfluence on that hoarse companion, it was but to make him roar his\ncheerful song the louder, and by consequence to make the fire burn\nthe brighter, and the sparks to dance more gayly yet; at length, they\nwhizzed so madly round and round, that it was too much for such a surly\nwind to bear; so off it flew with a howl giving the old sign before the\nale-house door such a cuff as it went, that the Blue Dragon was more\nrampant than usual ever afterwards, and indeed, before Christmas, reared\nclean out of its crazy frame.\n\nIt was small tyranny for a respectable wind to go wreaking its vengeance\non such poor creatures as the fallen leaves, but this wind happening to\ncome up with a great heap of them just after venting its humour on the\ninsulted Dragon, did so disperse and scatter them that they fled away,\npell-mell, some here, some there, rolling over each other, whirling\nround and round upon their thin edges, taking frantic flights into the\nair, and playing all manner of extraordinary gambols in the extremity\nof their distress. Nor was this enough for its malicious fury; for not\ncontent with driving them abroad, it charged small parties of them and\nhunted them into the wheel wright\'s saw-pit, and below the planks and\ntimbers in the yard, and, scattering the sawdust in the air, it looked\nfor them underneath, and when it did meet with any, whew! how it drove\nthem on and followed at their heels!\n\nThe scared leaves only flew the faster for all this, and a giddy chase\nit was; for they got into unfrequented places, where there was no\noutlet, and where their pursuer kept them eddying round and round at his\npleasure; and they crept under the eaves of houses, and clung tightly to\nthe sides of hay-ricks, like bats; and tore in at open chamber windows,\nand cowered close to hedges; and, in short, went anywhere for safety.\nBut the oddest feat they achieved was, to take advantage of the sudden\nopening of Mr Pecksniff\'s front-door, to dash wildly into his passage;\nwhither the wind following close upon them, and finding the back-door\nopen, incontinently blew out the lighted candle held by Miss Pecksniff,\nand slammed the front-door against Mr Pecksniff who was at that moment\nentering, with such violence, that in the twinkling of an eye he lay on\nhis back at the bottom of the steps. Being by this time weary of such\ntrifling performances, the boisterous rover hurried away rejoicing,\nroaring over moor and meadow, hill and flat, until it got out to sea,\nwhere it met with other winds similarly disposed, and made a night of\nit.\n\nIn the meantime Mr Pecksniff, having received from a sharp angle in the\nbottom step but one, that sort of knock on the head which lights up, for\nthe patient\'s entertainment, an imaginary general illumination of very\nbright short-sixes, lay placidly staring at his own street door. And it\nwould seem to have been more suggestive in its aspect than street\ndoors usually are; for he continued to lie there, rather a lengthy and\nunreasonable time, without so much as wondering whether he was hurt\nor no; neither, when Miss Pecksniff inquired through the key-hole in a\nshrill voice, which might have belonged to a wind in its teens, \'Who\'s\nthere\' did he make any reply; nor, when Miss Pecksniff opened the door\nagain, and shading the candle with her hand, peered out, and looked\nprovokingly round him, and about him, and over him, and everywhere but\nat him, did he offer any remark, or indicate in any manner the least\nhint of a desire to be picked up.\n\n\'I see you,\' cried Miss Pecksniff, to the ideal inflicter of a runaway\nknock. \'You\'ll catch it, sir!\'\n\nStill Mr Pecksniff, perhaps from having caught it already, said nothing.\n\n\'You\'re round the corner now,\' cried Miss Pecksniff. She said it at a\nventure, but there was appropriate matter in it too; for Mr Pecksniff,\nbeing in the act of extinguishing the candles before mentioned pretty\nrapidly, and of reducing the number of brass knobs on his street door\nfrom four or five hundred (which had previously been juggling of their\nown accord before his eyes in a very novel manner) to a dozen or so,\nmight in one sense have been said to be coming round the corner, and\njust turning it.\n\nWith a sharply delivered warning relative to the cage and the constable,\nand the stocks and the gallows, Miss Pecksniff was about to close the\ndoor again, when Mr Pecksniff (being still at the bottom of the steps)\nraised himself on one elbow, and sneezed.\n\n\'That voice!\' cried Miss Pecksniff. \'My parent!\'\n\nAt this exclamation, another Miss Pecksniff bounced out of the parlour;\nand the two Miss Pecksniffs, with many incoherent expressions, dragged\nMr Pecksniff into an upright posture.\n\n\'Pa!\' they cried in concert. \'Pa! Speak, Pa! Do not look so wild my\ndearest Pa!\'\n\nBut as a gentleman\'s looks, in such a case of all others, are by no\nmeans under his own control, Mr Pecksniff continued to keep his mouth\nand his eyes very wide open, and to drop his lower jaw, somewhat after\nthe manner of a toy nut-cracker; and as his hat had fallen off, and his\nface was pale, and his hair erect, and his coat muddy, the spectacle he\npresented was so very doleful, that neither of the Miss Pecksniffs could\nrepress an involuntary screech.\n\n\'That\'ll do,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'I\'m better.\'\n\n\'He\'s come to himself!\' cried the youngest Miss Pecksniff.\n\n\'He speaks again!\' exclaimed the eldest.\n\nWith these joyful words they kissed Mr Pecksniff on either cheek; and\nbore him into the house. Presently, the youngest Miss Pecksniff ran\nout again to pick up his hat, his brown paper parcel, his umbrella, his\ngloves, and other small articles; and that done, and the door closed,\nboth young ladies applied themselves to tending Mr Pecksniff\'s wounds in\nthe back parlour.\n\nThey were not very serious in their nature; being limited to abrasions\non what the eldest Miss Pecksniff called \'the knobby parts\' of her\nparent\'s anatomy, such as his knees and elbows, and to the development\nof an entirely new organ, unknown to phrenologists, on the back of his\nhead. These injuries having been comforted externally, with patches of\npickled brown paper, and Mr Pecksniff having been comforted internally,\nwith some stiff brandy-and-water, the eldest Miss Pecksniff sat down\nto make the tea, which was all ready. In the meantime the youngest Miss\nPecksniff brought from the kitchen a smoking dish of ham and eggs, and,\nsetting the same before her father, took up her station on a low stool\nat his feet; thereby bringing her eyes on a level with the teaboard.\n\nIt must not be inferred from this position of humility, that the\nyoungest Miss Pecksniff was so young as to be, as one may say, forced to\nsit upon a stool, by reason of the shortness of her legs. Miss Pecksniff\nsat upon a stool because of her simplicity and innocence, which were\nvery great, very great. Miss Pecksniff sat upon a stool because she was\nall girlishness, and playfulness, and wildness, and kittenish buoyancy.\nShe was the most arch and at the same time the most artless creature,\nwas the youngest Miss Pecksniff, that you can possibly imagine. It\nwas her great charm. She was too fresh and guileless, and too full of\nchild-like vivacity, was the youngest Miss Pecksniff, to wear combs in\nher hair, or to turn it up, or to frizzle it, or braid it. She wore it\nin a crop, a loosely flowing crop, which had so many rows of curls in\nit, that the top row was only one curl. Moderately buxom was her shape,\nand quite womanly too; but sometimes--yes, sometimes--she even wore\na pinafore; and how charming THAT was! Oh! she was indeed \'a gushing\nthing\' (as a young gentleman had observed in verse, in the Poet\'s Corner\nof a provincial newspaper), was the youngest Miss Pecksniff!\n\nMr Pecksniff was a moral man--a grave man, a man of noble sentiments and\nspeech--and he had had her christened Mercy. Mercy! oh, what a charming\nname for such a pure-souled Being as the youngest Miss Pecksniff! Her\nsister\'s name was Charity. There was a good thing! Mercy and Charity!\nAnd Charity, with her fine strong sense and her mild, yet not\nreproachful gravity, was so well named, and did so well set off and\nillustrate her sister! What a pleasant sight was that the contrast\nthey presented; to see each loved and loving one sympathizing with, and\ndevoted to, and leaning on, and yet correcting and counter-checking,\nand, as it were, antidoting, the other! To behold each damsel in her\nvery admiration of her sister, setting up in business for herself on\nan entirely different principle, and announcing no connection with\nover-the-way, and if the quality of goods at that establishment don\'t\nplease you, you are respectfully invited to favour ME with a call! And\nthe crowning circumstance of the whole delightful catalogue was, that\nboth the fair creatures were so utterly unconscious of all this!\nThey had no idea of it. They no more thought or dreamed of it than Mr\nPecksniff did. Nature played them off against each other; THEY had no\nhand in it, the two Miss Pecksniffs.\n\nIt has been remarked that Mr Pecksniff was a moral man. So he was.\nPerhaps there never was a more moral man than Mr Pecksniff, especially\nin his conversation and correspondence. It was once said of him by a\nhomely admirer, that he had a Fortunatus\'s purse of good sentiments in\nhis inside. In this particular he was like the girl in the fairy tale,\nexcept that if they were not actual diamonds which fell from his lips,\nthey were the very brightest paste, and shone prodigiously. He was a\nmost exemplary man; fuller of virtuous precept than a copy book. Some\npeople likened him to a direction-post, which is always telling the\nway to a place, and never goes there; but these were his enemies, the\nshadows cast by his brightness; that was all. His very throat was moral.\nYou saw a good deal of it. You looked over a very low fence of white\ncravat (whereof no man had ever beheld the tie for he fastened it\nbehind), and there it lay, a valley between two jutting heights of\ncollar, serene and whiskerless before you. It seemed to say, on the part\nof Mr Pecksniff, \'There is no deception, ladies and gentlemen, all is\npeace, a holy calm pervades me.\' So did his hair, just grizzled with\nan iron-grey which was all brushed off his forehead, and stood bolt\nupright, or slightly drooped in kindred action with his heavy eyelids.\nSo did his person, which was sleek though free from corpulency. So did\nhis manner, which was soft and oily. In a word, even his plain black\nsuit, and state of widower and dangling double eye-glass, all tended to\nthe same purpose, and cried aloud, \'Behold the moral Pecksniff!\'\n\nThe brazen plate upon the door (which being Mr Pecksniff\'s, could\nnot lie) bore this inscription, \'PECKSNIFF, ARCHITECT,\' to which Mr\nPecksniff, on his cards of business, added, AND LAND SURVEYOR.\' In one\nsense, and only one, he may be said to have been a Land Surveyor on a\npretty large scale, as an extensive prospect lay stretched out before\nthe windows of his house. Of his architectural doings, nothing was\nclearly known, except that he had never designed or built anything; but\nit was generally understood that his knowledge of the science was almost\nawful in its profundity.\n\nMr Pecksniff\'s professional engagements, indeed, were almost, if not\nentirely, confined to the reception of pupils; for the collection of\nrents, with which pursuit he occasionally varied and relieved his graver\ntoils, can hardly be said to be a strictly architectural employment. His\ngenius lay in ensnaring parents and guardians, and pocketing premiums. A\nyoung gentleman\'s premium being paid, and the young gentleman come to\nMr Pecksniff\'s house, Mr Pecksniff borrowed his case of mathematical\ninstruments (if silver-mounted or otherwise valuable); entreated him,\nfrom that moment, to consider himself one of the family; complimented\nhim highly on his parents or guardians, as the case might be; and\nturned him loose in a spacious room on the two-pair front; where, in the\ncompany of certain drawing-boards, parallel rulers, very stiff-legged\ncompasses, and two, or perhaps three, other young gentlemen, he improved\nhimself, for three or five years, according to his articles, in making\nelevations of Salisbury Cathedral from every possible point of sight;\nand in constructing in the air a vast quantity of Castles, Houses of\nParliament, and other Public Buildings. Perhaps in no place in the\nworld were so many gorgeous edifices of this class erected as under\nMr Pecksniff\'s auspices; and if but one-twentieth part of the churches\nwhich were built in that front room, with one or other of the Miss\nPecksniffs at the altar in the act of marrying the architect, could only\nbe made available by the parliamentary commissioners, no more churches\nwould be wanted for at least five centuries.\n\n\'Even the worldly goods of which we have just disposed,\' said Mr\nPecksniff, glancing round the table when he had finished, \'even cream,\nsugar, tea, toast, ham--\'\n\n\'And eggs,\' suggested Charity in a low voice.\n\n\'And eggs,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'even they have their moral. See how they\ncome and go! Every pleasure is transitory. We can\'t even eat, long.\nIf we indulge in harmless fluids, we get the dropsy; if in exciting\nliquids, we get drunk. What a soothing reflection is that!\'\n\n\'Don\'t say WE get drunk, Pa,\' urged the eldest Miss Pecksniff.\n\n\'When I say we, my dear,\' returned her father, \'I mean mankind in\ngeneral; the human race, considered as a body, and not as individuals.\nThere is nothing personal in morality, my love. Even such a thing as\nthis,\' said Mr Pecksniff, laying the fore-finger of his left hand upon\nthe brown paper patch on the top of his head, \'slight casual baldness\nthough it be, reminds us that we are but\'--he was going to say \'worms,\'\nbut recollecting that worms were not remarkable for heads of hair, he\nsubstituted \'flesh and blood.\'\n\n\'Which,\' cried Mr Pecksniff after a pause, during which he seemed to\nhave been casting about for a new moral, and not quite successfully,\n\'which is also very soothing. Mercy, my dear, stir the fire and throw up\nthe cinders.\'\n\nThe young lady obeyed, and having done so, resumed her stool, reposed\none arm upon her father\'s knee, and laid her blooming cheek upon\nit. Miss Charity drew her chair nearer the fire, as one prepared for\nconversation, and looked towards her father.\n\n\'Yes,\' said Mr Pecksniff, after a short pause, during which he had been\nsilently smiling, and shaking his head at the fire--\'I have again been\nfortunate in the attainment of my object. A new inmate will very shortly\ncome among us.\'\n\n\'A youth, papa?\' asked Charity.\n\n\'Ye-es, a youth,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'He will avail himself of the\neligible opportunity which now offers, for uniting the advantages of the\nbest practical architectural education with the comforts of a home, and\nthe constant association with some who (however humble their sphere,\nand limited their capacity) are not unmindful of their moral\nresponsibilities.\'\n\n\'Oh Pa!\' cried Mercy, holding up her finger archly. \'See advertisement!\'\n\n\'Playful--playful warbler,\' said Mr Pecksniff. It may be observed in\nconnection with his calling his daughter a \'warbler,\' that she was not\nat all vocal, but that Mr Pecksniff was in the frequent habit of using\nany word that occurred to him as having a good sound, and rounding a\nsentence well without much care for its meaning. And he did this so\nboldly, and in such an imposing manner, that he would sometimes stagger\nthe wisest people with his eloquence, and make them gasp again.\n\nHis enemies asserted, by the way, that a strong trustfulness in sounds\nand forms was the master-key to Mr Pecksniff\'s character.\n\n\'Is he handsome, Pa?\' inquired the younger daughter.\n\n\'Silly Merry!\' said the eldest: Merry being fond for Mercy. \'What is the\npremium, Pa? tell us that.\'\n\n\'Oh, good gracious, Cherry!\' cried Miss Mercy, holding up her hands with\nthe most winning giggle in the world, \'what a mercenary girl you are! oh\nyou naughty, thoughtful, prudent thing!\'\n\nIt was perfectly charming, and worthy of the Pastoral age, to see how\nthe two Miss Pecksniffs slapped each other after this, and then subsided\ninto an embrace expressive of their different dispositions.\n\n\'He is well looking,\' said Mr Pecksniff, slowly and distinctly; \'well\nlooking enough. I do not positively expect any immediate premium with\nhim.\'\n\nNotwithstanding their different natures, both Charity and Mercy\nconcurred in opening their eyes uncommonly wide at this announcement,\nand in looking for the moment as blank as if their thoughts had actually\nhad a direct bearing on the main chance.\n\n\'But what of that!\' said Mr Pecksniff, still smiling at the fire. \'There\nis disinterestedness in the world, I hope? We are not all arrayed in two\nopposite ranks; the OFfensive and the DEfensive. Some few there are\nwho walk between; who help the needy as they go; and take no part with\neither side. Umph!\'\n\nThere was something in these morsels of philanthropy which reassured the\nsisters. They exchanged glances, and brightened very much.\n\n\'Oh! let us not be for ever calculating, devising, and plotting for the\nfuture,\' said Mr Pecksniff, smiling more and more, and looking at the\nfire as a man might, who was cracking a joke with it: \'I am weary of\nsuch arts. If our inclinations are but good and open-hearted, let us\ngratify them boldly, though they bring upon us Loss instead of Profit.\nEh, Charity?\'\n\nGlancing towards his daughters for the first time since he had begun\nthese reflections, and seeing that they both smiled, Mr Pecksniff eyed\nthem for an instant so jocosely (though still with a kind of saintly\nwaggishness) that the younger one was moved to sit upon his knee\nforthwith, put her fair arms round his neck, and kiss him twenty times.\nDuring the whole of this affectionate display she laughed to a most\nimmoderate extent: in which hilarious indulgence even the prudent Cherry\njoined.\n\n\'Tut, tut,\' said Mr Pecksniff, pushing his latest-born away and running\nhis fingers through his hair, as he resumed his tranquil face. \'What\nfolly is this! Let us take heed how we laugh without reason lest we cry\nwith it. What is the domestic news since yesterday? John Westlock is\ngone, I hope?\'\n\n\'Indeed, no,\' said Charity.\n\n\'And why not?\' returned her father. \'His term expired yesterday. And his\nbox was packed, I know; for I saw it, in the morning, standing in the\nhall.\'\n\n\'He slept last night at the Dragon,\' returned the young lady, \'and had\nMr Pinch to dine with him. They spent the evening together, and Mr Pinch\nwas not home till very late.\'\n\n\'And when I saw him on the stairs this morning, Pa,\' said Mercy with her\nusual sprightliness, \'he looked, oh goodness, SUCH a monster! with his\nface all manner of colours, and his eyes as dull as if they had been\nboiled, and his head aching dreadfully, I am sure from the look of\nit, and his clothes smelling, oh it\'s impossible to say how strong,\noh\'--here the young lady shuddered--\'of smoke and punch.\'\n\n\'Now I think,\' said Mr Pecksniff with his accustomed gentleness, though\nstill with the air of one who suffered under injury without complaint,\n\'I think Mr Pinch might have done better than choose for his companion\none who, at the close of a long intercourse, had endeavoured, as he\nknew, to wound my feelings. I am not quite sure that this was delicate\nin Mr Pinch. I am not quite sure that this was kind in Mr Pinch. I will\ngo further and say, I am not quite sure that this was even ordinarily\ngrateful in Mr Pinch.\'\n\n\'But what can anyone expect from Mr Pinch!\' cried Charity, with as\nstrong and scornful an emphasis on the name as if it would have given\nher unspeakable pleasure to express it, in an acted charade, on the calf\nof that gentleman\'s leg.\n\n\'Aye, aye,\' returned her father, raising his hand mildly: \'it is\nvery well to say what can we expect from Mr Pinch, but Mr Pinch is\na fellow-creature, my dear; Mr Pinch is an item in the vast total of\nhumanity, my love; and we have a right, it is our duty, to expect in\nMr Pinch some development of those better qualities, the possession\nof which in our own persons inspires our humble self-respect. No,\'\ncontinued Mr Pecksniff. \'No! Heaven forbid that I should say, nothing\ncan be expected from Mr Pinch; or that I should say, nothing can be\nexpected from any man alive (even the most degraded, which Mr Pinch is\nnot, no, really); but Mr Pinch has disappointed me; he has hurt me;\nI think a little the worse of him on this account, but not if human\nnature. Oh, no, no!\'\n\n\'Hark!\' said Miss Charity, holding up her finger, as a gentle rap was\nheard at the street door. \'There is the creature! Now mark my words, he\nhas come back with John Westlock for his box, and is going to help\nhim to take it to the mail. Only mark my words, if that isn\'t his\nintention!\'\n\nEven as she spoke, the box appeared to be in progress of conveyance from\nthe house, but after a brief murmuring of question and answer, it was\nput down again, and somebody knocked at the parlour door.\n\n\'Come in!\' cried Mr Pecksniff--not severely; only virtuously. \'Come in!\'\n\nAn ungainly, awkward-looking man, extremely short-sighted, and\nprematurely bald, availed himself of this permission; and seeing that\nMr Pecksniff sat with his back towards him, gazing at the fire,\nstood hesitating, with the door in his hand. He was far from handsome\ncertainly; and was drest in a snuff-coloured suit, of an uncouth make at\nthe best, which, being shrunk with long wear, was twisted and tortured\ninto all kinds of odd shapes; but notwithstanding his attire, and his\nclumsy figure, which a great stoop in his shoulders, and a ludicrous\nhabit he had of thrusting his head forward, by no means redeemed, one\nwould not have been disposed (unless Mr Pecksniff said so) to consider\nhim a bad fellow by any means. He was perhaps about thirty, but he might\nhave been almost any age between sixteen and sixty; being one of those\nstrange creatures who never decline into an ancient appearance, but look\ntheir oldest when they are very young, and get it over at once.\n\nKeeping his hand upon the lock of the door, he glanced from Mr Pecksniff\nto Mercy, from Mercy to Charity, and from Charity to Mr Pecksniff again,\nseveral times; but the young ladies being as intent upon the fire as\ntheir father was, and neither of the three taking any notice of him, he\nwas fain to say, at last,\n\n\'Oh! I beg your pardon, Mr Pecksniff: I beg your pardon for intruding;\nbut--\'\n\n\'No intrusion, Mr Pinch,\' said that gentleman very sweetly, but without\nlooking round. \'Pray be seated, Mr Pinch. Have the goodness to shut the\ndoor, Mr Pinch, if you please.\'\n\n\'Certainly, sir,\' said Pinch; not doing so, however, but holding it\nrather wider open than before, and beckoning nervously to somebody\nwithout: \'Mr Westlock, sir, hearing that you were come home--\'\n\n\'Mr Pinch, Mr Pinch!\' said Pecksniff, wheeling his chair about, and\nlooking at him with an aspect of the deepest melancholy, \'I did not\nexpect this from you. I have not deserved this from you!\'\n\n\'No, but upon my word, sir--\' urged Pinch.\n\n\'The less you say, Mr Pinch,\' interposed the other, \'the better. I utter\nno complaint. Make no defence.\'\n\n\'No, but do have the goodness, sir,\' cried Pinch, with great\nearnestness, \'if you please. Mr Westlock, sir, going away for good and\nall, wishes to leave none but friends behind him. Mr Westlock and you,\nsir, had a little difference the other day; you have had many little\ndifferences.\'\n\n\'Little differences!\' cried Charity.\n\n\'Little differences!\' echoed Mercy.\n\n\'My loves!\' said Mr Pecksniff, with the same serene upraising of his\nhand; \'My dears!\' After a solemn pause he meekly bowed to Mr Pinch, as\nwho should say, \'Proceed;\' but Mr Pinch was so very much at a loss how\nto resume, and looked so helplessly at the two Miss Pecksniffs, that\nthe conversation would most probably have terminated there, if a\ngood-looking youth, newly arrived at man\'s estate, had not stepped\nforward from the doorway and taken up the thread of the discourse.\n\n\'Come, Mr Pecksniff,\' he said, with a smile, \'don\'t let there be any\nill-blood between us, pray. I am sorry we have ever differed, and\nextremely sorry I have ever given you offence. Bear me no ill-will at\nparting, sir.\'\n\n\'I bear,\' answered Mr Pecksniff, mildly, \'no ill-will to any man on\nearth.\'\n\n\'I told you he didn\'t,\' said Pinch, in an undertone; \'I knew he didn\'t!\nHe always says he don\'t.\'\n\n\'Then you will shake hands, sir?\' cried Westlock, advancing a step or\ntwo, and bespeaking Mr Pinch\'s close attention by a glance.\n\n\'Umph!\' said Mr Pecksniff, in his most winning tone.\n\n\'You will shake hands, sir.\'\n\n\'No, John,\' said Mr Pecksniff, with a calmness quite ethereal; \'no, I\nwill not shake hands, John. I have forgiven you. I had already forgiven\nyou, even before you ceased to reproach and taunt me. I have embraced\nyou in the spirit, John, which is better than shaking hands.\'\n\n\'Pinch,\' said the youth, turning towards him, with a hearty disgust of\nhis late master, \'what did I tell you?\'\n\nPoor Pinch looked down uneasily at Mr Pecksniff, whose eye was fixed\nupon him as it had been from the first; and looking up at the ceiling\nagain, made no reply.\n\n\'As to your forgiveness, Mr Pecksniff,\' said the youth, \'I\'ll not have\nit upon such terms. I won\'t be forgiven.\'\n\n\'Won\'t you, John?\' retorted Mr Pecksniff, with a smile. \'You must. You\ncan\'t help it. Forgiveness is a high quality; an exalted virtue; far\nabove YOUR control or influence, John. I WILL forgive you. You cannot\nmove me to remember any wrong you have ever done me, John.\'\n\n\'Wrong!\' cried the other, with all the heat and impetuosity of his age.\n\'Here\'s a pretty fellow! Wrong! Wrong I have done him! He\'ll not even\nremember the five hundred pounds he had with me under false pretences;\nor the seventy pounds a year for board and lodging that would have been\ndear at seventeen! Here\'s a martyr!\'\n\n\'Money, John,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'is the root of all evil. I grieve\nto see that it is already bearing evil fruit in you. But I will not\nremember its existence. I will not even remember the conduct of that\nmisguided person\'--and here, although he spoke like one at peace with\nall the world, he used an emphasis that plainly said \"I have my eye\nupon the rascal now\"--\'that misguided person who has brought you here\nto-night, seeking to disturb (it is a happiness to say, in vain) the\nheart\'s repose and peace of one who would have shed his dearest blood to\nserve him.\'\n\nThe voice of Mr Pecksniff trembled as he spoke, and sobs were heard from\nhis daughters. Sounds floated on the air, moreover, as if two spirit\nvoices had exclaimed: one, \'Beast!\' the other, \'Savage!\'\n\n\'Forgiveness,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'entire and pure forgiveness is not\nincompatible with a wounded heart; perchance when the heart is wounded,\nit becomes a greater virtue. With my breast still wrung and grieved to\nits inmost core by the ingratitude of that person, I am proud and glad\nto say that I forgive him. Nay! I beg,\' cried Mr Pecksniff, raising his\nvoice, as Pinch appeared about to speak, \'I beg that individual not to\noffer a remark; he will truly oblige me by not uttering one word, just\nnow. I am not sure that I am equal to the trial. In a very short space\nof time, I shall have sufficient fortitude, I trust to converse with\nhim as if these events had never happened. But not,\' said Mr Pecksniff,\nturning round again towards the fire, and waving his hand in the\ndirection of the door, \'not now.\'\n\n\'Bah!\' cried John Westlock, with the utmost disgust and disdain the\nmonosyllable is capable of expressing. \'Ladies, good evening. Come,\nPinch, it\'s not worth thinking of. I was right and you were wrong.\nThat\'s small matter; you\'ll be wiser another time.\'\n\nSo saying, he clapped that dejected companion on the shoulder, turned\nupon his heel, and walked out into the passage, whither poor Mr\nPinch, after lingering irresolutely in the parlour for a few seconds,\nexpressing in his countenance the deepest mental misery and gloom\nfollowed him. Then they took up the box between them, and sallied out to\nmeet the mail.\n\nThat fleet conveyance passed, every night, the corner of a lane at some\ndistance; towards which point they bent their steps. For some minutes\nthey walked along in silence, until at length young Westlock burst into\na loud laugh, and at intervals into another, and another. Still there\nwas no response from his companion.\n\n\'I\'ll tell you what, Pinch!\' he said abruptly, after another lengthened\nsilence--\'You haven\'t half enough of the devil in you. Half enough! You\nhaven\'t any.\'\n\n\'Well!\' said Pinch with a sigh, \'I don\'t know, I\'m sure. It\'s compliment\nto say so. If I haven\'t, I suppose, I\'m all the better for it.\'\n\n\'All the better!\' repeated his companion tartly: \'All the worse, you\nmean to say.\'\n\n\'And yet,\' said Pinch, pursuing his own thoughts and not this last\nremark on the part of his friend, \'I must have a good deal of what\nyou call the devil in me, too, or how could I make Pecksniff so\nuncomfortable? I wouldn\'t have occasioned him so much distress--don\'t\nlaugh, please--for a mine of money; and Heaven knows I could find good\nuse for it too, John. How grieved he was!\'\n\n\'HE grieved!\' returned the other.\n\n\'Why didn\'t you observe that the tears were almost starting out of his\neyes!\' cried Pinch. \'Bless my soul, John, is it nothing to see a man\nmoved to that extent and know one\'s self to be the cause! And did you\nhear him say that he could have shed his blood for me?\'\n\n\'Do you WANT any blood shed for you?\' returned his friend, with\nconsiderable irritation. \'Does he shed anything for you that you DO\nwant? Does he shed employment for you, instruction for you, pocket\nmoney for you? Does he shed even legs of mutton for you in any decent\nproportion to potatoes and garden stuff?\'\n\n\'I am afraid,\' said Pinch, sighing again, \'that I am a great eater; I\ncan\'t disguise from myself that I\'m a great eater. Now, you know that,\nJohn.\'\n\n\'You a great eater!\' retorted his companion, with no less indignation\nthan before. \'How do you know you are?\'\n\nThere appeared to be forcible matter in this inquiry, for Mr Pinch only\nrepeated in an undertone that he had a strong misgiving on the subject,\nand that he greatly feared he was.\n\n\'Besides, whether I am or no,\' he added, \'that has little or nothing to\ndo with his thinking me ungrateful. John, there is scarcely a sin in the\nworld that is in my eyes such a crying one as ingratitude; and when\nhe taxes me with that, and believes me to be guilty of it, he makes me\nmiserable and wretched.\'\n\n\'Do you think he don\'t know that?\' returned the other scornfully.\n\'But come, Pinch, before I say anything more to you, just run over the\nreasons you have for being grateful to him at all, will you? Change\nhands first, for the box is heavy. That\'ll do. Now, go on.\'\n\n\'In the first place,\' said Pinch, \'he took me as his pupil for much less\nthan he asked.\'\n\n\'Well,\' rejoined his friend, perfectly unmoved by this instance of\ngenerosity. \'What in the second place?\'\n\n\'What in the second place?\' cried Pinch, in a sort of desperation, \'why,\neverything in the second place. My poor old grandmother died happy to\nthink that she had put me with such an excellent man. I have grown up\nin his house, I am in his confidence, I am his assistant, he allows me a\nsalary; when his business improves, my prospects are to improve too.\nAll this, and a great deal more, is in the second place. And in the very\nprologue and preface to the first place, John, you must consider this,\nwhich nobody knows better than I: that I was born for much plainer and\npoorer things, that I am not a good hand for his kind of business, and\nhave no talent for it, or indeed for anything else but odds and ends\nthat are of no use or service to anybody.\'\n\nHe said this with so much earnestness, and in a tone so full of feeling,\nthat his companion instinctively changed his manner as he sat down on\nthe box (they had by this time reached the finger-post at the end of the\nlane); motioned him to sit down beside him; and laid his hand upon his\nshoulder.\n\n\'I believe you are one of the best fellows in the world,\' he said, \'Tom\nPinch.\'\n\n\'Not at all,\' rejoined Tom. \'If you only knew Pecksniff as well as I do,\nyou might say it of him, indeed, and say it truly.\'\n\n\'I\'ll say anything of him, you like,\' returned the other, \'and not\nanother word to his disparagement.\'\n\n\'It\'s for my sake, then; not his, I am afraid,\' said Pinch, shaking his\nhead gravely.\n\n\'For whose you please, Tom, so that it does please you. Oh! He\'s a\nfamous fellow! HE never scraped and clawed into his pouch all your poor\ngrandmother\'s hard savings--she was a housekeeper, wasn\'t she, Tom?\'\n\n\'Yes,\' said Mr Pinch, nursing one of his large knees, and nodding his\nhead; \'a gentleman\'s housekeeper.\'\n\n\'HE never scraped and clawed into his pouch all her hard savings;\ndazzling her with prospects of your happiness and advancement, which he\nknew (and no man better) never would be realised! HE never speculated\nand traded on her pride in you, and her having educated you, and on her\ndesire that you at least should live to be a gentleman. Not he, Tom!\'\n\n\'No,\' said Tom, looking into his friend\'s face, as if he were a little\ndoubtful of his meaning. \'Of course not.\'\n\n\'So I say,\' returned the youth, \'of course he never did. HE didn\'t take\nless than he had asked, because that less was all she had, and more than\nhe expected; not he, Tom! He doesn\'t keep you as his assistant\nbecause you are of any use to him; because your wonderful faith in his\npretensions is of inestimable service in all his mean disputes; because\nyour honesty reflects honesty on him; because your wandering about this\nlittle place all your spare hours, reading in ancient books and foreign\ntongues, gets noised abroad, even as far as Salisbury, making of him,\nPecksniff the master, a man of learning and of vast importance. HE gets\nno credit from you, Tom, not he.\'\n\n\'Why, of course he don\'t,\' said Pinch, gazing at his friend with a more\ntroubled aspect than before. \'Pecksniff get credit from me! Well!\'\n\n\'Don\'t I say that it\'s ridiculous,\' rejoined the other, \'even to think\nof such a thing?\'\n\n\'Why, it\'s madness,\' said Tom.\n\n\'Madness!\' returned young Westlock. \'Certainly it\'s madness. Who but\na madman would suppose he cares to hear it said on Sundays, that the\nvolunteer who plays the organ in the church, and practises on summer\nevenings in the dark, is Mr Pecksniff\'s young man, eh, Tom? Who but a\nmadman would suppose it is the game of such a man as he, to have his\nname in everybody\'s mouth, connected with the thousand useless odds and\nends you do (and which, of course, he taught you), eh, Tom? Who but a\nmadman would suppose you advertised him hereabouts, much cheaper and\nmuch better than a chalker on the walls could, eh, Tom? As well might\none suppose that he doesn\'t on all occasions pour out his whole heart\nand soul to you; that he doesn\'t make you a very liberal and indeed\nrather an extravagant allowance; or, to be more wild and monstrous\nstill, if that be possible, as well might one suppose,\' and here, at\nevery word, he struck him lightly on the breast, \'that Pecksniff traded\nin your nature, and that your nature was to be timid and distrustful\nof yourself, and trustful of all other men, but most of all, of him who\nleast deserves it. There would be madness, Tom!\'\n\nMr Pinch had listened to all this with looks of bewilderment, which\nseemed to be in part occasioned by the matter of his companion\'s speech,\nand in part by his rapid and vehement manner. Now that he had come to a\nclose, he drew a very long breath; and gazing wistfully in his face as\nif he were unable to settle in his own mind what expression it wore, and\nwere desirous to draw from it as good a clue to his real meaning as it\nwas possible to obtain in the dark, was about to answer, when the sound\nof the mail guard\'s horn came cheerily upon their ears, putting\nan immediate end to the conference; greatly as it seemed to the\nsatisfaction of the younger man, who jumped up briskly, and gave his\nhand to his companion.\n\n\'Both hands, Tom. I shall write to you from London, mind!\'\n\n\'Yes,\' said Pinch. \'Yes. Do, please. Good-bye. Good-bye. I can hardly\nbelieve you\'re going. It seems, now, but yesterday that you came.\nGood-bye! my dear old fellow!\'\n\nJohn Westlock returned his parting words with no less heartiness of\nmanner, and sprung up to his seat upon the roof. Off went the mail at\na canter down the dark road; the lamps gleaming brightly, and the horn\nawakening all the echoes, far and wide.\n\n\'Go your ways,\' said Pinch, apostrophizing the coach; \'I can hardly\npersuade myself but you\'re alive, and are some great monster who visits\nthis place at certain intervals, to bear my friends away into the world.\nYou\'re more exulting and rampant than usual tonight, I think; and you\nmay well crow over your prize; for he is a fine lad, an ingenuous lad,\nand has but one fault that I know of; he don\'t mean it, but he is most\ncruelly unjust to Pecksniff!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THREE\n\nIN WHICH CERTAIN OTHER PERSONS ARE INTRODUCED; ON THE SAME TERMS AS IN\nTHE LAST CHAPTER\n\n\nMention has been already made more than once, of a certain Dragon who\nswung and creaked complainingly before the village alehouse door. A\nfaded, and an ancient dragon he was; and many a wintry storm of rain,\nsnow, sleet, and hail, had changed his colour from a gaudy blue to a\nfaint lack-lustre shade of grey. But there he hung; rearing, in a state\nof monstrous imbecility, on his hind legs; waxing, with every month that\npassed, so much more dim and shapeless, that as you gazed at him on\none side of the sign-board it seemed as if he must be gradually melting\nthrough it, and coming out upon the other.\n\nHe was a courteous and considerate dragon, too; or had been in his\ndistincter days; for in the midst of his rampant feebleness, he kept\none of his forepaws near his nose, as though he would say, \'Don\'t\nmind me--it\'s only my fun;\' while he held out the other in polite and\nhospitable entreaty. Indeed it must be conceded to the whole brood\nof dragons of modern times, that they have made a great advance in\ncivilisation and refinement. They no longer demand a beautiful virgin\nfor breakfast every morning, with as much regularity as any tame single\ngentleman expects his hot roll, but rest content with the society of\nidle bachelors and roving married men; and they are now remarkable\nrather for holding aloof from the softer sex and discouraging their\nvisits (especially on Saturday nights), than for rudely insisting on\ntheir company without any reference to their inclinations, as they are\nknown to have done in days of yore.\n\nNor is this tribute to the reclaimed animals in question so wide a\ndigression into the realms of Natural History as it may, at first sight,\nappear to be; for the present business of these pages in with the dragon\nwho had his retreat in Mr Pecksniff\'s neighbourhood, and that courteous\nanimal being already on the carpet, there is nothing in the way of its\nimmediate transaction.\n\nFor many years, then, he had swung and creaked, and flapped himself\nabout, before the two windows of the best bedroom of that house of\nentertainment to which he lent his name; but never in all his swinging,\ncreaking, and flapping, had there been such a stir within its dingy\nprecincts, as on the evening next after that upon which the incidents,\ndetailed in the last chapter occurred; when there was such a hurrying up\nand down stairs of feet, such a glancing of lights, such a whispering\nof voices, such a smoking and sputtering of wood newly lighted in a\ndamp chimney, such an airing of linen, such a scorching smell of hot\nwarming-pans, such a domestic bustle and to-do, in short, as never\ndragon, griffin, unicorn, or other animal of that species presided over,\nsince they first began to interest themselves in household affairs.\n\nAn old gentleman and a young lady, travelling, unattended, in a rusty\nold chariot with post-horses; coming nobody knew whence and going nobody\nknew whither; had turned out of the high road, and driven unexpectedly\nto the Blue Dragon; and here was the old gentleman, who had taken this\nstep by reason of his sudden illness in the carriage, suffering the most\nhorrible cramps and spasms, yet protesting and vowing in the very midst\nof his pain, that he wouldn\'t have a doctor sent for, and wouldn\'t take\nany remedies but those which the young lady administered from a small\nmedicine-chest, and wouldn\'t, in a word, do anything but terrify the\nlandlady out of her five wits, and obstinately refuse compliance with\nevery suggestion that was made to him.\n\nOf all the five hundred proposals for his relief which the good woman\npoured out in less than half an hour, he would entertain but one. That\nwas that he should go to bed. And it was in the preparation of his bed\nand the arrangement of his chamber, that all the stir was made in the\nroom behind the Dragon.\n\nHe was, beyond all question, very ill, and suffered exceedingly; not the\nless, perhaps, because he was a strong and vigorous old man, with a will\nof iron, and a voice of brass. But neither the apprehensions which\nhe plainly entertained, at times, for his life, nor the great pain he\nunderwent, influenced his resolution in the least degree. He would have\nno person sent for. The worse he grew, the more rigid and inflexible he\nbecame in his determination. If they sent for any person to attend him,\nman, woman, or child, he would leave the house directly (so he told\nthem), though he quitted it on foot, and died upon the threshold of the\ndoor.\n\nNow, there being no medical practitioner actually resident in the\nvillage, but a poor apothecary who was also a grocer and general dealer,\nthe landlady had, upon her own responsibility, sent for him, in the\nvery first burst and outset of the disaster. Of course it followed, as\na necessary result of his being wanted, that he was not at home. He had\ngone some miles away, and was not expected home until late at night; so\nthe landlady, being by this time pretty well beside herself, dispatched\nthe same messenger in all haste for Mr Pecksniff, as a learned man\nwho could bear a deal of responsibility, and a moral man who could\nadminister a world of comfort to a troubled mind. That her guest had\nneed of some efficient services under the latter head was obvious enough\nfrom the restless expressions, importing, however, rather a worldly than\na spiritual anxiety, to which he gave frequent utterance.\n\nFrom this last-mentioned secret errand, the messenger returned with no\nbetter news than from the first; Mr Pecksniff was not at home. However,\nthey got the patient into bed without him; and in the course of two\nhours, he gradually became so far better that there were much longer\nintervals than at first between his terms of suffering. By degrees, he\nceased to suffer at all; though his exhaustion was occasionally so great\nthat it suggested hardly less alarm than his actual endurance had done.\n\nIt was in one of his intervals of repose, when, looking round with\ngreat caution, and reaching uneasily out of his nest of pillows, he\nendeavoured, with a strange air of secrecy and distrust, to make use\nof the writing materials which he had ordered to be placed on a table\nbeside him, that the young lady and the mistress of the Blue Dragon\nfound themselves sitting side by side before the fire in the sick\nchamber.\n\nThe mistress of the Blue Dragon was in outward appearance just what a\nlandlady should be: broad, buxom, comfortable, and good looking, with a\nface of clear red and white, which, by its jovial aspect, at once bore\ntestimony to her hearty participation in the good things of the larder\nand cellar, and to their thriving and healthful influences. She was a\nwidow, but years ago had passed through her state of weeds, and burst\ninto flower again; and in full bloom she had continued ever since; and\nin full bloom she was now; with roses on her ample skirts, and roses\non her bodice, roses in her cap, roses in her cheeks,--aye, and roses,\nworth the gathering too, on her lips, for that matter. She had still a\nbright black eye, and jet black hair; was comely, dimpled, plump, and\ntight as a gooseberry; and though she was not exactly what the world\ncalls young, you may make an affidavit, on trust, before any mayor or\nmagistrate in Christendom, that there are a great many young ladies in\nthe world (blessings on them one and all!) whom you wouldn\'t like half\nas well, or admire half as much, as the beaming hostess of the Blue\nDragon.\n\nAs this fair matron sat beside the fire, she glanced occasionally with\nall the pride of ownership, about the room; which was a large apartment,\nsuch as one may see in country places, with a low roof and a sunken\nflooring, all downhill from the door, and a descent of two steps on\nthe inside so exquisitely unexpected, that strangers, despite the\nmost elaborate cautioning, usually dived in head first, as into a\nplunging-bath. It was none of your frivolous and preposterously bright\nbedrooms, where nobody can close an eye with any kind of propriety or\ndecent regard to the association of ideas; but it was a good, dull,\nleaden, drowsy place, where every article of furniture reminded you\nthat you came there to sleep, and that you were expected to go to sleep.\nThere was no wakeful reflection of the fire there, as in your modern\nchambers, which upon the darkest nights have a watchful consciousness of\nFrench polish; the old Spanish mahogany winked at it now and then, as\na dozing cat or dog might, nothing more. The very size and shape, and\nhopeless immovability of the bedstead, and wardrobe, and in a minor\ndegree of even the chairs and tables, provoked sleep; they were plainly\napoplectic and disposed to snore. There were no staring portraits\nto remonstrate with you for being lazy; no round-eyed birds upon the\ncurtains, disgustingly wide awake, and insufferably prying. The\nthick neutral hangings, and the dark blinds, and the heavy heap\nof bed-clothes, were all designed to hold in sleep, and act as\nnonconductors to the day and getting up. Even the old stuffed fox upon\nthe top of the wardrobe was devoid of any spark of vigilance, for his\nglass eye had fallen out, and he slumbered as he stood.\n\nThe wandering attention of the mistress of the Blue Dragon roved to\nthese things but twice or thrice, and then for but an instant at a time.\nIt soon deserted them, and even the distant bed with its strange burden,\nfor the young creature immediately before her, who, with her downcast\neyes intently fixed upon the fire, sat wrapped in silent meditation.\n\nShe was very young; apparently no more than seventeen; timid and\nshrinking in her manner, and yet with a greater share of self possession\nand control over her emotions than usually belongs to a far more\nadvanced period of female life. This she had abundantly shown, but now,\nin her tending of the sick gentleman. She was short in stature; and her\nfigure was slight, as became her years; but all the charms of youth and\nmaidenhood set it off, and clustered on her gentle brow. Her face was\nvery pale, in part no doubt from recent agitation. Her dark brown hair,\ndisordered from the same cause, had fallen negligently from its bonds,\nand hung upon her neck; for which instance of its waywardness no male\nobserver would have had the heart to blame it.\n\nHer attire was that of a lady, but extremely plain; and in her manner,\neven when she sat as still as she did then, there was an indefinable\nsomething which appeared to be in kindred with her scrupulously\nunpretending dress. She had sat, at first looking anxiously towards the\nbed; but seeing that the patient remained quiet, and was busy with his\nwriting, she had softly moved her chair into its present place; partly,\nas it seemed, from an instinctive consciousness that he desired to avoid\nobservation; and partly that she might, unseen by him, give some vent to\nthe natural feelings she had hitherto suppressed.\n\nOf all this, and much more, the rosy landlady of the Blue Dragon took\nas accurate note and observation as only woman can take of woman. And at\nlength she said, in a voice too low, she knew, to reach the bed:\n\n\'You have seen the gentleman in this way before, miss? Is he used to\nthese attacks?\'\n\n\'I have seen him very ill before, but not so ill as he has been\ntonight.\'\n\n\'What a Providence!\' said the landlady of the Dragon, \'that you had the\nprescriptions and the medicines with you, miss!\'\n\n\'They are intended for such an emergency. We never travel without them.\'\n\n\'Oh!\' thought the hostess, \'then we are in the habit of travelling, and\nof travelling together.\'\n\nShe was so conscious of expressing this in her face, that meeting\nthe young lady\'s eyes immediately afterwards, and being a very honest\nhostess, she was rather confused.\n\n\'The gentleman--your grandpapa\'--she resumed, after a short pause,\n\'being so bent on having no assistance, must terrify you very much,\nmiss?\'\n\n\'I have been very much alarmed to-night. He--he is not my grandfather.\'\n\n\'Father, I should have said,\' returned the hostess, sensible of having\nmade an awkward mistake.\n\n\'Nor my father\' said the young lady. \'Nor,\' she added, slightly smiling\nwith a quick perception of what the landlady was going to add, \'Nor my\nuncle. We are not related.\'\n\n\'Oh dear me!\' returned the landlady, still more embarrassed than before;\n\'how could I be so very much mistaken; knowing, as anybody in their\nproper senses might that when a gentleman is ill, he looks so much older\nthan he really is? That I should have called you \"Miss,\" too, ma\'am!\'\nBut when she had proceeded thus far, she glanced involuntarily at the\nthird finger of the young lady\'s left hand, and faltered again; for\nthere was no ring upon it.\n\n\'When I told you we were not related,\' said the other mildly, but not\nwithout confusion on her own part, \'I meant not in any way. Not even by\nmarriage. Did you call me, Martin?\'\n\n\'Call you?\' cried the old man, looking quickly up, and hurriedly drawing\nbeneath the coverlet the paper on which he had been writing. \'No.\'\n\nShe had moved a pace or two towards the bed, but stopped immediately,\nand went no farther.\n\n\'No,\' he repeated, with a petulant emphasis. \'Why do you ask me? If I\nhad called you, what need for such a question?\'\n\n\'It was the creaking of the sign outside, sir, I dare say,\' observed the\nlandlady; a suggestion by the way (as she felt a moment after she had\nmade it), not at all complimentary to the voice of the old gentleman.\n\n\'No matter what, ma\'am,\' he rejoined: \'it wasn\'t I. Why how you stand\nthere, Mary, as if I had the plague! But they\'re all afraid of me,\' he\nadded, leaning helplessly backward on his pillow; \'even she! There is a\ncurse upon me. What else have I to look for?\'\n\n\'Oh dear, no. Oh no, I\'m sure,\' said the good-tempered landlady, rising,\nand going towards him. \'Be of better cheer, sir. These are only sick\nfancies.\'\n\n\'What are only sick fancies?\' he retorted. \'What do you know about\nfancies? Who told you about fancies? The old story! Fancies!\'\n\n\'Only see again there, how you take one up!\' said the mistress of the\nBlue Dragon, with unimpaired good humour. \'Dear heart alive, there is\nno harm in the word, sir, if it is an old one. Folks in good health have\ntheir fancies, too, and strange ones, every day.\'\n\nHarmless as this speech appeared to be, it acted on the traveller\'s\ndistrust, like oil on fire. He raised his head up in the bed, and,\nfixing on her two dark eyes whose brightness was exaggerated by the\npaleness of his hollow cheeks, as they in turn, together with his\nstraggling locks of long grey hair, were rendered whiter by the tight\nblack velvet skullcap which he wore, he searched her face intently.\n\n\'Ah! you begin too soon,\' he said, in so low a voice that he seemed to\nbe thinking it, rather than addressing her. \'But you lose no time. You\ndo your errand, and you earn your fee. Now, who may be your client?\'\n\nThe landlady looked in great astonishment at her whom he called Mary,\nand finding no rejoinder in the drooping face, looked back again at him.\nAt first she had recoiled involuntarily, supposing him disordered in\nhis mind; but the slow composure of his manner, and the settled purpose\nannounced in his strong features, and gathering, most of all, about his\npuckered mouth, forbade the supposition.\n\n\'Come,\' he said, \'tell me who is it? Being here, it is not very hard for\nme to guess, you may suppose.\'\n\n\'Martin,\' interposed the young lady, laying her hand upon his arm;\n\'reflect how short a time we have been in this house, and that even your\nname is unknown here.\'\n\n\'Unless,\' he said, \'you--\' He was evidently tempted to express a\nsuspicion of her having broken his confidence in favour of the landlady,\nbut either remembering her tender nursing, or being moved in some sort\nby her face, he checked himself, and changing his uneasy posture in the\nbed, was silent.\n\n\'There!\' said Mrs Lupin; for in that name the Blue Dragon was licensed\nto furnish entertainment, both to man and beast. \'Now, you will be well\nagain, sir. You forgot, for the moment, that there were none but friends\nhere.\'\n\n\'Oh!\' cried the old man, moaning impatiently, as he tossed one restless\narm upon the coverlet; \'why do you talk to me of friends! Can you or\nanybody teach me to know who are my friends, and who my enemies?\'\n\n\'At least,\' urged Mrs Lupin, gently, \'this young lady is your friend, I\nam sure.\'\n\n\'She has no temptation to be otherwise,\' cried the old man, like one\nwhose hope and confidence were utterly exhausted. \'I suppose she is.\nHeaven knows. There, let me try to sleep. Leave the candle where it is.\'\n\nAs they retired from the bed, he drew forth the writing which had\noccupied him so long, and holding it in the flame of the taper burnt\nit to ashes. That done, he extinguished the light, and turning his face\naway with a heavy sigh, drew the coverlet about his head, and lay quite\nstill.\n\nThis destruction of the paper, both as being strangely inconsistent with\nthe labour he had devoted to it, and as involving considerable danger of\nfire to the Dragon, occasioned Mrs Lupin not a little consternation. But\nthe young lady evincing no surprise, curiosity, or alarm, whispered her,\nwith many thanks for her solicitude and company, that she would remain\nthere some time longer; and that she begged her not to share her watch,\nas she was well used to being alone, and would pass the time in reading.\n\nMrs Lupin had her full share and dividend of that large capital of\ncuriosity which is inherited by her sex, and at another time it might\nhave been difficult so to impress this hint upon her as to induce her to\ntake it. But now, in sheer wonder and amazement at these mysteries, she\nwithdrew at once, and repairing straightway to her own little parlour\nbelow stairs, sat down in her easy-chair with unnatural composure.\nAt this very crisis, a step was heard in the entry, and Mr Pecksniff,\nlooking sweetly over the half-door of the bar, and into the vista of\nsnug privacy beyond, murmured:\n\n\'Good evening, Mrs Lupin!\'\n\n\'Oh dear me, sir!\' she cried, advancing to receive him, \'I am so very\nglad you have come.\'\n\n\'And I am very glad I have come,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'if I can be of\nservice. I am very glad I have come. What is the matter, Mrs Lupin?\'\n\n\'A gentleman taken ill upon the road, has been so very bad upstairs,\nsir,\' said the tearful hostess.\n\n\'A gentleman taken ill upon the road, has been so very bad upstairs, has\nhe?\' repeated Mr Pecksniff. \'Well, well!\'\n\nNow there was nothing that one may call decidedly original in this\nremark, nor can it be exactly said to have contained any wise precept\ntheretofore unknown to mankind, or to have opened any hidden source of\nconsolation; but Mr Pecksniff\'s manner was so bland, and he nodded his\nhead so soothingly, and showed in everything such an affable sense of\nhis own excellence, that anybody would have been, as Mrs Lupin was,\ncomforted by the mere voice and presence of such a man; and, though he\nhad merely said \'a verb must agree with its nominative case in number\nand person, my good friend,\' or \'eight times eight are sixty-four, my\nworthy soul,\' must have felt deeply grateful to him for his humanity and\nwisdom.\n\n\'And how,\' asked Mr Pecksniff, drawing off his gloves and warming his\nhands before the fire, as benevolently as if they were somebody else\'s,\nnot his; \'and how is he now?\'\n\n\'He is better, and quite tranquil,\' answered Mrs Lupin.\n\n\'He is better, and quite tranquil,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Very well! Ve-ry\nwell!\'\n\nHere again, though the statement was Mrs Lupin\'s and not Mr Pecksniff\'s,\nMr Pecksniff made it his own and consoled her with it. It was not much\nwhen Mrs Lupin said it, but it was a whole book when Mr Pecksniff said\nit. \'I observe,\' he seemed to say, \'and through me, morality in general\nremarks, that he is better and quite tranquil.\'\n\n\'There must be weighty matters on his mind, though,\' said the hostess,\nshaking her head, \'for he talks, sir, in the strangest way you ever\nheard. He is far from easy in his thoughts, and wants some proper advice\nfrom those whose goodness makes it worth his having.\'\n\n\'Then,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'he is the sort of customer for me.\' But\nthough he said this in the plainest language, he didn\'t speak a word. He\nonly shook his head; disparagingly of himself too.\n\n\'I am afraid, sir,\' continued the landlady, first looking round to\nassure herself that there was nobody within hearing, and then looking\ndown upon the floor. \'I am very much afraid, sir, that his conscience\nis troubled by his not being related to--or--or even married to--a very\nyoung lady--\'\n\n\'Mrs Lupin!\' said Mr Pecksniff, holding up his hand with something in\nhis manner as nearly approaching to severity as any expression of his,\nmild being that he was, could ever do. \'Person! young person?\'\n\n\'A very young person,\' said Mrs Lupin, curtseying and blushing; \'--I beg\nyour pardon, sir, but I have been so hurried to-night, that I don\'t know\nwhat I say--who is with him now.\'\n\n\'Who is with him now,\' ruminated Mr Pecksniff, warming his back (as he\nhad warmed his hands) as if it were a widow\'s back, or an orphan\'s back,\nor an enemy\'s back, or a back that any less excellent man would have\nsuffered to be cold. \'Oh dear me, dear me!\'\n\n\'At the same time I am bound to say, and I do say with all my heart,\'\nobserved the hostess, earnestly, \'that her looks and manner almost\ndisarm suspicion.\'\n\n\'Your suspicion, Mrs Lupin,\' said Mr Pecksniff gravely, \'is very\nnatural.\'\n\nTouching which remark, let it be written down to their confusion, that\nthe enemies of this worthy man unblushingly maintained that he always\nsaid of what was very bad, that it was very natural; and that he\nunconsciously betrayed his own nature in doing so.\n\n\'Your suspicion, Mrs Lupin,\' he repeated, \'is very natural, and I have\nno doubt correct. I will wait upon these travellers.\'\n\nWith that he took off his great-coat, and having run his fingers through\nhis hair, thrust one hand gently in the bosom of his waist-coat and\nmeekly signed to her to lead the way.\n\n\'Shall I knock?\' asked Mrs Lupin, when they reached the chamber door.\n\n\'No,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'enter if you please.\'\n\nThey went in on tiptoe; or rather the hostess took that precaution for\nMr Pecksniff always walked softly. The old gentleman was still asleep,\nand his young companion still sat reading by the fire.\n\n\'I am afraid,\' said Mr Pecksniff, pausing at the door, and giving\nhis head a melancholy roll, \'I am afraid that this looks artful. I am\nafraid, Mrs Lupin, do you know, that this looks very artful!\'\n\nAs he finished this whisper, he advanced before the hostess; and at the\nsame time the young lady, hearing footsteps, rose. Mr Pecksniff glanced\nat the volume she held, and whispered Mrs Lupin again; if possible, with\nincreased despondency.\n\n\'Yes, ma\'am,\' he said, \'it is a good book. I was fearful of that\nbeforehand. I am apprehensive that this is a very deep thing indeed!\'\n\n\'What gentleman is this?\' inquired the object of his virtuous doubts.\n\n\'Hush! don\'t trouble yourself, ma\'am,\' said Mr Pecksniff, as the\nlandlady was about to answer. \'This young\'--in spite of himself he\nhesitated when \"person\" rose to his lips, and substituted another word:\n\'this young stranger, Mrs Lupin, will excuse me for replying briefly,\nthat I reside in this village; it may be in an influential manner,\nhowever, undeserved; and that I have been summoned here by you. I am\nhere, as I am everywhere, I hope, in sympathy for the sick and sorry.\'\n\nWith these impressive words, Mr Pecksniff passed over to the bedside,\nwhere, after patting the counterpane once or twice in a very solemn\nmanner, as if by that means he gained a clear insight into the patient\'s\ndisorder, he took his seat in a large arm-chair, and in an attitude of\nsome thoughtfulness and much comfort, waited for his waking. Whatever\nobjection the young lady urged to Mrs Lupin went no further, for nothing\nmore was said to Mr Pecksniff, and Mr Pecksniff said nothing more to\nanybody else.\n\nFull half an hour elapsed before the old man stirred, but at length he\nturned himself in bed, and, though not yet awake, gave tokens that\nhis sleep was drawing to an end. By little and little he removed the\nbed-clothes from about his head, and turned still more towards the side\nwhere Mr Pecksniff sat. In course of time his eyes opened; and he\nlay for a few moments as people newly roused sometimes will, gazing\nindolently at his visitor, without any distinct consciousness of his\npresence.\n\nThere was nothing remarkable in these proceedings, except the influence\nthey worked on Mr Pecksniff, which could hardly have been surpassed by\nthe most marvellous of natural phenomena. Gradually his hands became\ntightly clasped upon the elbows of the chair, his eyes dilated with\nsurprise, his mouth opened, his hair stood more erect upon his forehead\nthan its custom was, until, at length, when the old man rose in bed,\nand stared at him with scarcely less emotion than he showed himself, the\nPecksniff doubts were all resolved, and he exclaimed aloud:\n\n\'You ARE Martin Chuzzlewit!\'\n\nHis consternation of surprise was so genuine, that the old man, with all\nthe disposition that he clearly entertained to believe it assumed, was\nconvinced of its reality.\n\n\'I am Martin Chuzzlewit,\' he said, bitterly: \'and Martin Chuzzlewit\nwishes you had been hanged, before you had come here to disturb him in\nhis sleep. Why, I dreamed of this fellow!\' he said, lying down again,\nand turning away his face, \'before I knew that he was near me!\'\n\n\'My good cousin--\' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'There! His very first words!\' cried the old man, shaking his grey head\nto and fro upon the pillow, and throwing up his hands. \'In his very\nfirst words he asserts his relationship! I knew he would; they all do\nit! Near or distant, blood or water, it\'s all one. Ugh! What a calendar\nof deceit, and lying, and false-witnessing, the sound of any word of\nkindred opens before me!\'\n\n\'Pray do not be hasty, Mr Chuzzlewit,\' said Pecksniff, in a tone that\nwas at once in the sublimest degree compassionate and dispassionate;\nfor he had by this time recovered from his surprise, and was in full\npossession of his virtuous self. \'You will regret being hasty, I know\nyou will.\'\n\n\'You know!\' said Martin, contemptuously.\n\n\'Yes,\' retorted Mr Pecksniff. \'Aye, aye, Mr Chuzzlewit; and don\'t\nimagine that I mean to court or flatter you; for nothing is further from\nmy intention. Neither, sir, need you entertain the least misgiving that\nI shall repeat that obnoxious word which has given you so much offence\nalready. Why should I? What do I expect or want from you? There is\nnothing in your possession that I know of, Mr Chuzzlewit, which is much\nto be coveted for the happiness it brings you.\'\n\n\'That\'s true enough,\' muttered the old man.\n\n\'Apart from that consideration,\' said Mr Pecksniff, watchful of the\neffect he made, \'it must be plain to you (I am sure) by this time, that\nif I had wished to insinuate myself into your good opinion, I should\nhave been, of all things, careful not to address you as a relative;\nknowing your humour, and being quite certain beforehand that I could not\nhave a worse letter of recommendation.\'\n\nMartin made not any verbal answer; but he as clearly implied though only\nby a motion of his legs beneath the bed-clothes, that there was reason\nin this, and that he could not dispute it, as if he had said as much in\ngood set terms.\n\n\'No,\' said Mr Pecksniff, keeping his hand in his waistcoat as though\nhe were ready, on the shortest notice, to produce his heart for\nMartin Chuzzlewit\'s inspection, \'I came here to offer my services to\na stranger. I make no offer of them to you, because I know you would\ndistrust me if I did. But lying on that bed, sir, I regard you as a\nstranger, and I have just that amount of interest in you which I hope I\nshould feel in any stranger, circumstanced as you are. Beyond that, I am\nquite as indifferent to you, Mr Chuzzlewit, as you are to me.\'\n\nHaving said which, Mr Pecksniff threw himself back in the easy-chair;\nso radiant with ingenuous honesty, that Mrs Lupin almost wondered not to\nsee a stained-glass Glory, such as the Saint wore in the church, shining\nabout his head.\n\nA long pause succeeded. The old man, with increased restlessness,\nchanged his posture several times. Mrs Lupin and the young lady gazed\nin silence at the counterpane. Mr Pecksniff toyed abstractedly with his\neye-glass, and kept his eyes shut, that he might ruminate the better.\n\n\'Eh?\' he said at last, opening them suddenly, and looking towards the\nbed. \'I beg your pardon. I thought you spoke. Mrs Lupin,\' he continued,\nslowly rising \'I am not aware that I can be of any service to you here.\nThe gentleman is better, and you are as good a nurse as he can have.\nEh?\'\n\nThis last note of interrogation bore reference to another change\nof posture on the old man\'s part, which brought his face towards Mr\nPecksniff for the first time since he had turned away from him.\n\n\'If you desire to speak to me before I go, sir,\' continued that\ngentleman, after another pause, \'you may command my leisure; but I\nmust stipulate, in justice to myself, that you do so as to a stranger,\nstrictly as to a stranger.\'\n\nNow if Mr Pecksniff knew, from anything Martin Chuzzlewit had expressed\nin gestures, that he wanted to speak to him, he could only have found it\nout on some such principle as prevails in melodramas, and in virtue of\nwhich the elderly farmer with the comic son always knows what the dumb\ngirl means when she takes refuge in his garden, and relates her personal\nmemoirs in incomprehensible pantomime. But without stopping to make any\ninquiry on this point, Martin Chuzzlewit signed to his young companion\nto withdraw, which she immediately did, along with the landlady leaving\nhim and Mr Pecksniff alone together. For some time they looked at each\nother in silence; or rather the old man looked at Mr Pecksniff, and Mr\nPecksniff again closing his eyes on all outward objects, took an inward\nsurvey of his own breast. That it amply repaid him for his trouble,\nand afforded a delicious and enchanting prospect, was clear from the\nexpression of his face.\n\n\'You wish me to speak to you as to a total stranger,\' said the old man,\n\'do you?\'\n\nMr Pecksniff replied, by a shrug of his shoulders and an apparent\nturning round of his eyes in their sockets before he opened them, that\nhe was still reduced to the necessity of entertaining that desire.\n\n\'You shall be gratified,\' said Martin. \'Sir, I am a rich man. Not so\nrich as some suppose, perhaps, but yet wealthy. I am not a miser sir,\nthough even that charge is made against me, as I hear, and currently\nbelieved. I have no pleasure in hoarding. I have no pleasure in the\npossession of money, The devil that we call by that name can give me\nnothing but unhappiness.\'\n\nIt would be no description of Mr Pecksniff\'s gentleness of manner to\nadopt the common parlance, and say that he looked at this moment as if\nbutter wouldn\'t melt in his mouth. He rather looked as if any quantity\nof butter might have been made out of him, by churning the milk of human\nkindness, as it spouted upwards from his heart.\n\n\'For the same reason that I am not a hoarder of money,\' said the old\nman, \'I am not lavish of it. Some people find their gratification in\nstoring it up; and others theirs in parting with it; but I have no\ngratification connected with the thing. Pain and bitterness are the only\ngoods it ever could procure for me. I hate it. It is a spectre walking\nbefore me through the world, and making every social pleasure hideous.\'\n\nA thought arose in Pecksniff\'s mind, which must have instantly mounted\nto his face, or Martin Chuzzlewit would not have resumed as quickly and\nas sternly as he did:\n\n\'You would advise me for my peace of mind, to get rid of this source of\nmisery, and transfer it to some one who could bear it better. Even you,\nperhaps, would rid me of a burden under which I suffer so grievously.\nBut, kind stranger,\' said the old man, whose every feature darkened as\nhe spoke, \'good Christian stranger, that is a main part of my trouble.\nIn other hands, I have known money do good; in other hands I have known\nit triumphed in, and boasted of with reason, as the master-key to all\nthe brazen gates that close upon the paths to worldly honour,\nfortune, and enjoyment. To what man or woman; to what worthy, honest,\nincorruptible creature; shall I confide such a talisman, either now\nor when I die? Do you know any such person? YOUR virtues are of course\ninestimable, but can you tell me of any other living creature who will\nbear the test of contact with myself?\'\n\n\'Of contact with yourself, sir?\' echoed Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'Aye,\' returned the old man, \'the test of contact with me--with me. You\nhave heard of him whose misery (the gratification of his own foolish\nwish) was, that he turned every thing he touched into gold. The curse\nof my existence, and the realisation of my own mad desire is that by the\ngolden standard which I bear about me, I am doomed to try the metal of\nall other men, and find it false and hollow.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff shook his head, and said, \'You think so.\'\n\n\'Oh yes,\' cried the old man, \'I think so! and in your telling me \"I\nthink so,\" I recognize the true unworldly ring of YOUR metal. I tell\nyou, man,\' he added, with increasing bitterness, \'that I have gone, a\nrich man, among people of all grades and kinds; relatives, friends, and\nstrangers; among people in whom, when I was poor, I had confidence, and\njustly, for they never once deceived me then, or, to me, wronged each\nother. But I have never found one nature, no, not one, in which, being\nwealthy and alone, I was not forced to detect the latent corruption that\nlay hid within it waiting for such as I to bring it forth. Treachery,\ndeceit, and low design; hatred of competitors, real or fancied, for my\nfavour; meanness, falsehood, baseness, and servility; or,\' and here\nhe looked closely in his cousin\'s eyes, \'or an assumption of honest\nindependence, almost worse than all; these are the beauties which my\nwealth has brought to light. Brother against brother, child against\nparent, friends treading on the faces of friends, this is the social\ncompany by whom my way has been attended. There are stories told--they\nmay be true or false--of rich men who, in the garb of poverty, have\nfound out virtue and rewarded it. They were dolts and idiots for their\npains. They should have made the search in their own characters. They\nshould have shown themselves fit objects to be robbed and preyed upon\nand plotted against and adulated by any knaves, who, but for joy, would\nhave spat upon their coffins when they died their dupes; and then their\nsearch would have ended as mine has done, and they would be what I am.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff, not at all knowing what it might be best to say in the\nmomentary pause which ensued upon these remarks, made an elaborate\ndemonstration of intending to deliver something very oracular indeed;\ntrusting to the certainty of the old man interrupting him, before he\nshould utter a word. Nor was he mistaken, for Martin Chuzzlewit having\ntaken breath, went on to say:\n\n\'Hear me to an end; judge what profit you are like to gain from any\nrepetition of this visit; and leave me. I have so corrupted and changed\nthe nature of all those who have ever attended on me, by breeding\navaricious plots and hopes within them; I have engendered such domestic\nstrife and discord, by tarrying even with members of my own family; I\nhave been such a lighted torch in peaceful homes, kindling up all the\ninflammable gases and vapours in their moral atmosphere, which, but for\nme, might have proved harmless to the end, that I have, I may say, fled\nfrom all who knew me, and taking refuge in secret places have lived, of\nlate, the life of one who is hunted. The young girl whom you just now\nsaw--what! your eye lightens when I talk of her! You hate her already,\ndo you?\'\n\n\'Upon my word, sir!\' said Mr Pecksniff, laying his hand upon his breast,\nand dropping his eyelids.\n\n\'I forgot,\' cried the old man, looking at him with a keenness which the\nother seemed to feel, although he did not raise his eyes so as to see\nit. \'I ask your pardon. I forgot you were a stranger. For the moment\nyou reminded me of one Pecksniff, a cousin of mine. As I was saying--the\nyoung girl whom you just now saw, is an orphan child, whom, with one\nsteady purpose, I have bred and educated, or, if you prefer the word,\nadopted. For a year or more she has been my constant companion, and she\nis my only one. I have taken, as she knows, a solemn oath never to\nleave her sixpence when I die, but while I live I make her an annual\nallowance; not extravagant in its amount and yet not stinted. There is\na compact between us that no term of affectionate cajolery shall ever be\naddressed by either to the other, but that she shall call me always by\nmy Christian name; I her, by hers. She is bound to me in life by ties\nof interest, and losing by my death, and having no expectation\ndisappointed, will mourn it, perhaps; though for that I care little.\nThis is the only kind of friend I have or will have. Judge from such\npremises what a profitable hour you have spent in coming here, and leave\nme, to return no more.\'\n\nWith these words, the old man fell slowly back upon his pillow. Mr\nPecksniff as slowly rose, and, with a prefatory hem, began as follows:\n\n\'Mr Chuzzlewit.\'\n\n\'There. Go!\' interposed the other. \'Enough of this. I am weary of you.\'\n\n\'I am sorry for that, sir,\' rejoined Mr Pecksniff, \'because I have a\nduty to discharge, from which, depend upon it, I shall not shrink. No,\nsir, I shall not shrink.\'\n\nIt is a lamentable fact, that as Mr Pecksniff stood erect beside the\nbed, in all the dignity of Goodness, and addressed him thus, the old man\ncast an angry glance towards the candlestick, as if he were possessed\nby a strong inclination to launch it at his cousin\'s head. But he\nconstrained himself, and pointing with his finger to the door, informed\nhim that his road lay there.\n\n\'Thank you,\' said Mr Pecksniff; \'I am aware of that. I am going.\nBut before I go, I crave your leave to speak, and more than that, Mr\nChuzzlewit, I must and will--yes indeed, I repeat it, must and will--be\nheard. I am not surprised, sir, at anything you have told me tonight.\nIt is natural, very natural, and the greater part of it was known to\nme before. I will not say,\' continued Mr Pecksniff, drawing out his\npocket-handkerchief, and winking with both eyes at once, as it were,\nagainst his will, \'I will not say that you are mistaken in me. While\nyou are in your present mood I would not say so for the world. I almost\nwish, indeed, that I had a different nature, that I might repress even\nthis slight confession of weakness; which I cannot disguise from you;\nwhich I feel is humiliating; but which you will have the goodness to\nexcuse. We will say, if you please,\' added Mr Pecksniff, with great\ntenderness of manner, \'that it arises from a cold in the head, or is\nattributable to snuff, or smelling-salts, or onions, or anything but the\nreal cause.\'\n\nHere he paused for an instant, and concealed his face behind his\npocket-handkerchief. Then, smiling faintly, and holding the bed\nfurniture with one hand, he resumed:\n\n\'But, Mr Chuzzlewit, while I am forgetful of myself, I owe it to myself,\nand to my character--aye, sir, and I HAVE a character which is very dear\nto me, and will be the best inheritance of my two daughters--to tell\nyou, on behalf of another, that your conduct is wrong, unnatural,\nindefensible, monstrous. And I tell you, sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff,\ntowering on tiptoe among the curtains, as if he were literally rising\nabove all worldly considerations, and were fain to hold on tight, to\nkeep himself from darting skyward like a rocket, \'I tell you without\nfear or favour, that it will not do for you to be unmindful of your\ngrandson, young Martin, who has the strongest natural claim upon you.\nIt will not do, sir,\' repeated Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head. \'You may\nthink it will do, but it won\'t. You must provide for that young man;\nyou shall provide for him; you WILL provide for him. I believe,\' said Mr\nPecksniff, glancing at the pen-and-ink, \'that in secret you have already\ndone so. Bless you for doing so. Bless you for doing right, sir. Bless\nyou for hating me. And good night!\'\n\nSo saying, Mr Pecksniff waved his right hand with much solemnity, and\nonce more inserting it in his waistcoat, departed. There was emotion in\nhis manner, but his step was firm. Subject to human weaknesses, he was\nupheld by conscience.\n\nMartin lay for some time, with an expression on his face of silent\nwonder, not unmixed with rage; at length he muttered in a whisper:\n\n\'What does this mean? Can the false-hearted boy have chosen such a\ntool as yonder fellow who has just gone out? Why not! He has conspired\nagainst me, like the rest, and they are but birds of one feather. A new\nplot; a new plot! Oh self, self, self! At every turn nothing but self!\'\n\nHe fell to trifling, as he ceased to speak, with the ashes of the burnt\npaper in the candlestick. He did so, at first, in pure abstraction, but\nthey presently became the subject of his thoughts.\n\n\'Another will made and destroyed,\' he said, \'nothing determined on,\nnothing done, and I might have died to-night! I plainly see to what foul\nuses all this money will be put at last,\' he cried, almost writhing in\nthe bed; \'after filling me with cares and miseries all my life, it will\nperpetuate discord and bad passions when I am dead. So it always is.\nWhat lawsuits grow out of the graves of rich men, every day; sowing\nperjury, hatred, and lies among near kindred, where there should be\nnothing but love! Heaven help us, we have much to answer for! Oh self,\nself, self! Every man for himself, and no creature for me!\'\n\nUniversal self! Was there nothing of its shadow in these reflections,\nand in the history of Martin Chuzzlewit, on his own showing?\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\nFROM WHICH IT WILL APPEAR THAT IF UNION BE STRENGTH, AND FAMILY\nAFFECTION BE PLEASANT TO CONTEMPLATE, THE CHUZZLEWITS WERE THE STRONGEST\nAND MOST AGREEABLE FAMILY IN THE WORLD\n\n\nThat worthy man Mr Pecksniff having taken leave of his cousin in the\nsolemn terms recited in the last chapter, withdrew to his own home, and\nremained there three whole days; not so much as going out for a walk\nbeyond the boundaries of his own garden, lest he should be hastily\nsummoned to the bedside of his penitent and remorseful relative,\nwhom, in his ample benevolence, he had made up his mind to forgive\nunconditionally, and to love on any terms. But such was the obstinacy\nand such the bitter nature of that stern old man, that no repentant\nsummons came; and the fourth day found Mr Pecksniff apparently much\nfarther from his Christian object than the first.\n\nDuring the whole of this interval, he haunted the Dragon at all times\nand seasons in the day and night, and, returning good for evil evinced\nthe deepest solicitude in the progress of the obdurate invalid, in so\nmuch that Mrs Lupin was fairly melted by his disinterested anxiety (for\nhe often particularly required her to take notice that he would do the\nsame by any stranger or pauper in the like condition), and shed many\ntears of admiration and delight.\n\nMeantime, old Martin Chuzzlewit remained shut up in his own chamber, and\nsaw no person but his young companion, saving the hostess of the Blue\nDragon, who was, at certain times, admitted to his presence. So surely\nas she came into the room, however, Martin feigned to fall asleep. It\nwas only when he and the young lady were alone, that he would utter a\nword, even in answer to the simplest inquiry; though Mr Pecksniff\ncould make out, by hard listening at the door, that they two being left\ntogether, he was talkative enough.\n\nIt happened on the fourth evening, that Mr Pecksniff walking, as usual,\ninto the bar of the Dragon and finding no Mrs Lupin there, went straight\nupstairs; purposing, in the fervour of his affectionate zeal, to apply\nhis ear once more to the keyhole, and quiet his mind by assuring himself\nthat the hard-hearted patient was going on well. It happened that Mr\nPecksniff, coming softly upon the dark passage into which a spiral ray\nof light usually darted through the same keyhole, was astonished to find\nno such ray visible; and it happened that Mr Pecksniff, when he had felt\nhis way to the chamber-door, stooping hurriedly down to ascertain by\npersonal inspection whether the jealousy of the old man had caused this\nkeyhole to be stopped on the inside, brought his head into such violent\ncontact with another head that he could not help uttering in an audible\nvoice the monosyllable \'Oh!\' which was, as it were, sharply unscrewed\nand jerked out of him by very anguish. It happened then, and lastly,\nthat Mr Pecksniff found himself immediately collared by something which\nsmelt like several damp umbrellas, a barrel of beer, a cask of warm\nbrandy-and-water, and a small parlour-full of stale tobacco smoke,\nmixed; and was straightway led downstairs into the bar from which he\nhad lately come, where he found himself standing opposite to, and in\nthe grasp of, a perfectly strange gentleman of still stranger appearance\nwho, with his disengaged hand, rubbed his own head very hard, and looked\nat him, Pecksniff, with an evil countenance.\n\nThe gentleman was of that order of appearance which is currently termed\nshabby-genteel, though in respect of his dress he can hardly be said to\nhave been in any extremities, as his fingers were a long way out of his\ngloves, and the soles of his feet were at an inconvenient distance from\nthe upper leather of his boots. His nether garments were of a\nbluish grey--violent in its colours once, but sobered now by age and\ndinginess--and were so stretched and strained in a tough conflict\nbetween his braces and his straps, that they appeared every moment in\ndanger of flying asunder at the knees. His coat, in colour blue and of\na military cut, was buttoned and frogged up to his chin. His cravat was,\nin hue and pattern, like one of those mantles which hairdressers are\naccustomed to wrap about their clients, during the progress of the\nprofessional mysteries. His hat had arrived at such a pass that it would\nhave been hard to determine whether it was originally white or black.\nBut he wore a moustache--a shaggy moustache too; nothing in the meek and\nmerciful way, but quite in the fierce and scornful style; the regular\nSatanic sort of thing--and he wore, besides, a vast quantity of\nunbrushed hair. He was very dirty and very jaunty; very bold and very\nmean; very swaggering and very slinking; very much like a man who might\nhave been something better, and unspeakably like a man who deserved to\nbe something worse.\n\n\'You were eaves-dropping at that door, you vagabond!\' said this\ngentleman.\n\nMr Pecksniff cast him off, as Saint George might have repudiated the\nDragon in that animal\'s last moments, and said:\n\n\'Where is Mrs Lupin, I wonder! can the good woman possibly be aware that\nthere is a person here who--\'\n\n\'Stay!\' said the gentleman. \'Wait a bit. She DOES know. What then?\'\n\n\'What then, sir?\' cried Mr Pecksniff. \'What then? Do you know, sir,\nthat I am the friend and relative of that sick gentleman? That I am his\nprotector, his guardian, his--\'\n\n\'Not his niece\'s husband,\' interposed the stranger, \'I\'ll be sworn; for\nhe was there before you.\'\n\n\'What do you mean?\' said Mr Pecksniff, with indignant surprise. \'What do\nyou tell me, sir?\'\n\n\'Wait a bit!\' cried the other, \'Perhaps you are a cousin--the cousin who\nlives in this place?\'\n\n\'I AM the cousin who lives in this place,\' replied the man of worth.\n\n\'Your name is Pecksniff?\' said the gentleman.\n\n\'It is.\'\n\n\'I am proud to know you, and I ask your pardon,\' said the gentleman,\ntouching his hat, and subsequently diving behind his cravat for a\nshirt-collar, which however he did not succeed in bringing to the\nsurface. \'You behold in me, sir, one who has also an interest in that\ngentleman upstairs. Wait a bit.\'\n\nAs he said this, he touched the tip of his high nose, by way of\nintimation that he would let Mr Pecksniff into a secret presently; and\npulling off his hat, began to search inside the crown among a mass of\ncrumpled documents and small pieces of what may be called the bark of\nbroken cigars; whence he presently selected the cover of an old letter,\nbegrimed with dirt and redolent of tobacco.\n\n\'Read that,\' he cried, giving it to Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'This is addressed to Chevy Slyme, Esquire,\' said that gentleman.\n\n\'You know Chevy Slyme, Esquire, I believe?\' returned the stranger.\n\nMr Pecksniff shrugged his shoulders as though he would say \'I know there\nis such a person, and I am sorry for it.\'\n\n\'Very good,\' remarked the gentleman. \'That is my interest and business\nhere.\' With that he made another dive for his shirt-collar and brought\nup a string.\n\n\'Now, this is very distressing, my friend,\' said Mr Pecksniff, shaking\nhis head and smiling composedly. \'It is very distressing to me, to be\ncompelled to say that you are not the person you claim to be. I know Mr\nSlyme, my friend; this will not do; honesty is the best policy you had\nbetter not; you had indeed.\'\n\n\'Stop\' cried the gentleman, stretching forth his right arm, which was\nso tightly wedged into his threadbare sleeve that it looked like a cloth\nsausage. \'Wait a bit!\'\n\nHe paused to establish himself immediately in front of the fire with his\nback towards it. Then gathering the skirts of his coat under his left\narm, and smoothing his moustache with his right thumb and forefinger, he\nresumed:\n\n\'I understand your mistake, and I am not offended. Why? Because it\'s\ncomplimentary. You suppose I would set myself up for Chevy Slyme.\nSir, if there is a man on earth whom a gentleman would feel proud and\nhonoured to be mistaken for, that man is my friend Slyme. For he is,\nwithout an exception, the highest-minded, the most independent-spirited,\nmost original, spiritual, classical, talented, the most thoroughly\nShakspearian, if not Miltonic, and at the same time the most\ndisgustingly-unappreciated dog I know. But, sir, I have not the vanity\nto attempt to pass for Slyme. Any other man in the wide world, I am\nequal to; but Slyme is, I frankly confess, a great many cuts above me.\nTherefore you are wrong.\'\n\n\'I judged from this,\' said Mr Pecksniff, holding out the cover of the\nletter.\n\n\'No doubt you did,\' returned the gentleman. \'But, Mr Pecksniff, the\nwhole thing resolves itself into an instance of the peculiarities\nof genius. Every man of true genius has his peculiarity. Sir, the\npeculiarity of my friend Slyme is, that he is always waiting round the\ncorner. He is perpetually round the corner, sir. He is round the corner\nat this instant. Now,\' said the gentleman, shaking his forefinger before\nhis nose, and planting his legs wider apart as he looked attentively in\nMr Pecksniff\'s face, \'that is a remarkably curious and interesting trait\nin Mr Slyme\'s character; and whenever Slyme\'s life comes to be written,\nthat trait must be thoroughly worked out by his biographer or society\nwill not be satisfied. Observe me, society will not be satisfied!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff coughed.\n\n\'Slyme\'s biographer, sir, whoever he may be,\' resumed the gentleman,\n\'must apply to me; or, if I am gone to that what\'s-his-name from which\nno thingumbob comes back, he must apply to my executors for leave to\nsearch among my papers. I have taken a few notes in my poor way, of some\nof that man\'s proceedings--my adopted brother, sir,--which would amaze\nyou. He made use of an expression, sir, only on the fifteenth of last\nmonth when he couldn\'t meet a little bill and the other party wouldn\'t\nrenew, which would have done honour to Napoleon Bonaparte in addressing\nthe French army.\'\n\n\'And pray,\' asked Mr Pecksniff, obviously not quite at his ease, \'what\nmay be Mr Slyme\'s business here, if I may be permitted to inquire, who\nam compelled by a regard for my own character to disavow all interest in\nhis proceedings?\'\n\n\'In the first place,\' returned the gentleman, \'you will permit me to\nsay, that I object to that remark, and that I strongly and indignantly\nprotest against it on behalf of my friend Slyme. In the next place, you\nwill give me leave to introduce myself. My name, sir, is Tigg. The name\nof Montague Tigg will perhaps be familiar to you, in connection with the\nmost remarkable events of the Peninsular War?\'\n\nMr Pecksniff gently shook his head.\n\n\'No matter,\' said the gentleman. \'That man was my father, and I bear his\nname. I am consequently proud--proud as Lucifer. Excuse me one moment.\nI desire my friend Slyme to be present at the remainder of this\nconference.\'\n\nWith this announcement he hurried away to the outer door of the Blue\nDragon, and almost immediately returned with a companion shorter than\nhimself, who was wrapped in an old blue camlet cloak with a lining of\nfaded scarlet. His sharp features being much pinched and nipped by long\nwaiting in the cold, and his straggling red whiskers and frowzy hair\nbeing more than usually dishevelled from the same cause, he certainly\nlooked rather unwholesome and uncomfortable than Shakspearian or\nMiltonic.\n\n\'Now,\' said Mr Tigg, clapping one hand on the shoulder of his\nprepossessing friend, and calling Mr Pecksniff\'s attention to him with\nthe other, \'you two are related; and relations never did agree, and\nnever will; which is a wise dispensation and an inevitable thing, or\nthere would be none but family parties, and everybody in the world\nwould bore everybody else to death. If you were on good terms, I should\nconsider you a most confoundedly unnatural pair; but standing\ntowards each other as you do, I took upon you as a couple of devilish\ndeep-thoughted fellows, who may be reasoned with to any extent.\'\n\nHere Mr Chevy Slyme, whose great abilities seemed one and all to point\ntowards the sneaking quarter of the moral compass, nudged his friend\nstealthily with his elbow, and whispered in his ear.\n\n\'Chiv,\' said Mr Tigg aloud, in the high tone of one who was not to\nbe tampered with. \'I shall come to that presently. I act upon my own\nresponsibility, or not at all. To the extent of such a trifling loan\nas a crownpiece to a man of your talents, I look upon Mr Pecksniff\nas certain;\' and seeing at this juncture that the expression of Mr\nPecksniff\'s face by no means betokened that he shared this certainty, Mr\nTigg laid his finger on his nose again for that gentleman\'s private\nand especial behoof; calling upon him thereby to take notice that the\nrequisition of small loans was another instance of the peculiarities of\ngenius as developed in his friend Slyme; that he, Tigg, winked at the\nsame, because of the strong metaphysical interest which these weaknesses\npossessed; and that in reference to his own personal advocacy of such\nsmall advances, he merely consulted the humour of his friend, without\nthe least regard to his own advantage or necessities.\n\n\'Oh, Chiv, Chiv!\' added Mr Tigg, surveying his adopted brother with an\nair of profound contemplation after dismissing this piece of pantomime.\n\'You are, upon my life, a strange instance of the little frailties that\nbeset a mighty mind. If there had never been a telescope in the world,\nI should have been quite certain from my observation of you, Chiv,\nthat there were spots on the sun! I wish I may die, if this isn\'t the\nqueerest state of existence that we find ourselves forced into without\nknowing why or wherefore, Mr Pecksniff! Well, never mind! Moralise as we\nwill, the world goes on. As Hamlet says, Hercules may lay about him with\nhis club in every possible direction, but he can\'t prevent the cats from\nmaking a most intolerable row on the roofs of the houses, or the\ndogs from being shot in the hot weather if they run about the streets\nunmuzzled. Life\'s a riddle; a most infernally hard riddle to guess, Mr\nPecksniff. My own opinions, that like that celebrated conundrum, \"Why\'s\na man in jail like a man out of jail?\" there\'s no answer to it. Upon my\nsoul and body, it\'s the queerest sort of thing altogether--but there\'s\nno use in talking about it. Ha! Ha!\'\n\nWith which consolatory deduction from the gloomy premises recited,\nMr Tigg roused himself by a great effort, and proceeded in his former\nstrain.\n\n\'Now I\'ll tell you what it is. I\'m a most confoundedly soft-hearted\nkind of fellow in my way, and I cannot stand by, and see you two blades\ncutting each other\'s throats when there\'s nothing to be got by it. Mr\nPecksniff, you\'re the cousin of the testator upstairs and we\'re the\nnephew--I say we, meaning Chiv. Perhaps in all essential points you are\nmore nearly related to him than we are. Very good. If so, so be it. But\nyou can\'t get at him, neither can we. I give you my brightest word of\nhonour, sir, that I\'ve been looking through that keyhole with short\nintervals of rest, ever since nine o\'clock this morning, in expectation\nof receiving an answer to one of the most moderate and gentlemanly\napplications for a little temporary assistance--only fifteen pounds, and\nMY security--that the mind of man can conceive. In the meantime, sir, he\nis perpetually closeted with, and pouring his whole confidence into the\nbosom of, a stranger. Now I say decisively with regard to this state of\ncircumstances, that it won\'t do; that it won\'t act; that it can\'t be;\nand that it must not be suffered to continue.\'\n\n\'Every man,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'has a right, an undoubted right, (which\nI, for one, would not call in question for any earthly consideration; oh\nno!) to regulate his own proceedings by his own likings and dislikings,\nsupposing they are not immoral and not irreligious. I may feel in my\nown breast, that Mr Chuzzlewit does not regard--me, for instance; say\nme--with exactly that amount of Christian love which should subsist\nbetween us. I may feel grieved and hurt at the circumstance; still I\nmay not rush to the conclusion that Mr Chuzzlewit is wholly without a\njustification in all his coldnesses. Heaven forbid! Besides; how, Mr\nTigg,\' continued Pecksniff even more gravely and impressively than he\nhad spoken yet, \'how could Mr Chuzzlewit be prevented from having these\npeculiar and most extraordinary confidences of which you speak; the\nexistence of which I must admit; and which I cannot but deplore--for\nhis sake? Consider, my good sir--\' and here Mr Pecksniff eyed him\nwistfully--\'how very much at random you are talking.\'\n\n\'Why, as to that,\' rejoined Tigg, \'it certainly is a difficult\nquestion.\'\n\n\'Undoubtedly it is a difficult question,\' Mr Pecksniff answered. As he\nspoke he drew himself aloft, and seemed to grow more mindful, suddenly,\nof the moral gulf between himself and the creature he addressed.\n\'Undoubtedly it is a very difficult question. And I am far from feeling\nsure that it is a question any one is authorized to discuss. Good\nevening to you.\'\n\n\'You don\'t know that the Spottletoes are here, I suppose?\' said Mr Tigg.\n\n\'What do you mean, sir? what Spottletoes?\' asked Pecksniff, stopping\nabruptly on his way to the door.\n\n\'Mr and Mrs Spottletoe,\' said Chevy Slyme, Esquire, speaking aloud for\nthe first time, and speaking very sulkily; shambling with his legs the\nwhile. \'Spottletoe married my father\'s brother\'s child, didn\'t he?\nAnd Mrs Spottletoe is Chuzzlewit\'s own niece, isn\'t she? She was his\nfavourite once. You may well ask what Spottletoes.\'\n\n\'Now upon my sacred word!\' cried Mr Pecksniff, looking upwards. \'This is\ndreadful. The rapacity of these people is absolutely frightful!\'\n\n\'It\'s not only the Spottletoes either, Tigg,\' said Slyme, looking at\nthat gentleman and speaking at Mr Pecksniff. \'Anthony Chuzzlewit and his\nson have got wind of it, and have come down this afternoon. I saw \'em\nnot five minutes ago, when I was waiting round the corner.\'\n\n\'Oh, Mammon, Mammon!\' cried Mr Pecksniff, smiting his forehead.\n\n\'So there,\' said Slyme, regardless of the interruption, \'are his brother\nand another nephew for you, already.\'\n\n\'This is the whole thing, sir,\' said Mr Tigg; \'this is the point and\npurpose at which I was gradually arriving when my friend Slyme here,\nwith six words, hit it full. Mr Pecksniff, now that your cousin (and\nChiv\'s uncle) has turned up, some steps must be taken to prevent his\ndisappearing again; and, if possible, to counteract the influence which\nis exercised over him now, by this designing favourite. Everybody who\nis interested feels it, sir. The whole family is pouring down to this\nplace. The time has come when individual jealousies and interests must\nbe forgotten for a time, sir, and union must be made against the\ncommon enemy. When the common enemy is routed, you will all set up for\nyourselves again; every lady and gentleman who has a part in the game,\nwill go in on their own account and bowl away, to the best of their\nability, at the testator\'s wicket, and nobody will be in a worse\nposition than before. Think of it. Don\'t commit yourself now. You\'ll\nfind us at the Half Moon and Seven Stars in this village, at any time,\nand open to any reasonable proposition. Hem! Chiv, my dear fellow, go\nout and see what sort of a night it is.\'\n\nMr Slyme lost no time in disappearing, and it is to be presumed in going\nround the corner. Mr Tigg, planting his legs as wide apart as he could\nbe reasonably expected by the most sanguine man to keep them, shook his\nhead at Mr Pecksniff and smiled.\n\n\'We must not be too hard,\' he said, \'upon the little eccentricities of\nour friend Slyme. You saw him whisper me?\'\n\nMr Pecksniff had seen him.\n\n\'You heard my answer, I think?\'\n\nMr Pecksniff had heard it.\n\n\'Five shillings, eh?\' said Mr Tigg, thoughtfully. \'Ah! what an\nextraordinary fellow! Very moderate too!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff made no answer.\n\n\'Five shillings!\' pursued Mr Tigg, musing; \'and to be punctually repaid\nnext week; that\'s the best of it. You heard that?\'\n\nMr Pecksniff had not heard that.\n\n\'No! You surprise me!\' cried Tigg. \'That\'s the cream of the thing sir. I\nnever knew that man fail to redeem a promise, in my life. You\'re not in\nwant of change, are you?\'\n\n\'No,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'thank you. Not at all.\'\n\n\'Just so,\' returned Mr Tigg. \'If you had been, I\'d have got it for you.\'\nWith that he began to whistle; but a dozen seconds had not elapsed when\nhe stopped short, and looking earnestly at Mr Pecksniff, said:\n\n\'Perhaps you\'d rather not lend Slyme five shillings?\'\n\n\'I would much rather not,\' Mr Pecksniff rejoined.\n\n\'Egad!\' cried Tigg, gravely nodding his head as if some ground of\nobjection occurred to him at that moment for the first time, \'it\'s\nvery possible you may be right. Would you entertain the same sort of\nobjection to lending me five shillings now?\'\n\n\'Yes, I couldn\'t do it, indeed,\' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'Not even half-a-crown, perhaps?\' urged Mr Tigg.\n\n\'Not even half-a-crown.\'\n\n\'Why, then we come,\' said Mr Tigg, \'to the ridiculously small amount of\neighteen pence. Ha! ha!\'\n\n\'And that,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'would be equally objectionable.\'\n\nOn receipt of this assurance, Mr Tigg shook him heartily by both hands,\nprotesting with much earnestness, that he was one of the most consistent\nand remarkable men he had ever met, and that he desired the honour\nof his better acquaintance. He moreover observed that there were many\nlittle characteristics about his friend Slyme, of which he could by no\nmeans, as a man of strict honour, approve; but that he was prepared to\nforgive him all these slight drawbacks, and much more, in consideration\nof the great pleasure he himself had that day enjoyed in his social\nintercourse with Mr Pecksniff, which had given him a far higher and more\nenduring delight than the successful negotiation of any small loan on\nthe part of his friend could possibly have imparted. With which remarks\nhe would beg leave, he said, to wish Mr Pecksniff a very good evening.\nAnd so he took himself off; as little abashed by his recent failure as\nany gentleman would desire to be.\n\nThe meditations of Mr Pecksniff that evening at the bar of the Dragon,\nand that night in his own house, were very serious and grave indeed; the\nmore especially as the intelligence he had received from Messrs Tigg and\nSlyme touching the arrival of other members of the family, were fully\nconfirmed on more particular inquiry. For the Spottletoes had actually\ngone straight to the Dragon, where they were at that moment housed and\nmounting guard, and where their appearance had occasioned such a vast\nsensation that Mrs Lupin, scenting their errand before they had been\nunder her roof half an hour, carried the news herself with all possible\nsecrecy straight to Mr Pecksniff\'s house; indeed it was her great\ncaution in doing so which occasioned her to miss that gentleman, who\nentered at the front door of the Dragon just as she emerged from\nthe back one. Moreover, Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit and his son Jonas were\neconomically quartered at the Half Moon and Seven Stars, which was an\nobscure ale-house; and by the very next coach there came posting to the\nscene of action, so many other affectionate members of the family (who\nquarrelled with each other, inside and out, all the way down, to the\nutter distraction of the coachman), that in less than four-and-twenty\nhours the scanty tavern accommodation was at a premium, and all the\nprivate lodgings in the place, amounting to full four beds and sofa,\nrose cent per cent in the market.\n\nIn a word, things came to that pass that nearly the whole family sat\ndown before the Blue Dragon, and formally invested it; and Martin\nChuzzlewit was in a state of siege. But he resisted bravely; refusing\nto receive all letters, messages, and parcels; obstinately declining to\ntreat with anybody; and holding out no hope or promise of capitulation.\nMeantime the family forces were perpetually encountering each other\nin divers parts of the neighbourhood; and, as no one branch of the\nChuzzlewit tree had ever been known to agree with another within the\nmemory of man, there was such a skirmishing, and flouting, and snapping\noff of heads, in the metaphorical sense of that expression; such a\nbandying of words and calling of names; such an upturning of noses and\nwrinkling of brows; such a formal interment of good feelings and violent\nresurrection of ancient grievances; as had never been known in those\nquiet parts since the earliest record of their civilized existence.\n\nAt length, in utter despair and hopelessness, some few of the\nbelligerents began to speak to each other in only moderate terms of\nmutual aggravation; and nearly all addressed themselves with a show of\ntolerable decency to Mr Pecksniff, in recognition of his high character\nand influential position. Thus, by little and little, they made common\ncause of Martin Chuzzlewit\'s obduracy, until it was agreed (if such a\nword can be used in connection with the Chuzzlewits) that there should\nbe a general council and conference held at Mr Pecksniff\'s house upon\na certain day at noon; which all members of the family who had brought\nthemselves within reach of the summons, were forthwith bidden and\ninvited, solemnly, to attend.\n\nIf ever Mr Pecksniff wore an apostolic look, he wore it on this\nmemorable day. If ever his unruffled smile proclaimed the words, \'I am\na messenger of peace!\' that was its mission now. If ever man combined\nwithin himself all the mild qualities of the lamb with a considerable\ntouch of the dove, and not a dash of the crocodile, or the least\npossible suggestion of the very mildest seasoning of the serpent, that\nman was he. And, oh, the two Miss Pecksniffs! Oh, the serene expression\non the face of Charity, which seemed to say, \'I know that all my family\nhave injured me beyond the possibility of reparation, but I forgive\nthem, for it is my duty so to do!\' And, oh, the gay simplicity of Mercy;\nso charming, innocent, and infant-like, that if she had gone out\nwalking by herself, and it had been a little earlier in the season, the\nrobin-redbreasts might have covered her with leaves against her will,\nbelieving her to be one of the sweet children in the wood, come out of\nit, and issuing forth once more to look for blackberries in the young\nfreshness of her heart! What words can paint the Pecksniffs in that\ntrying hour? Oh, none; for words have naughty company among them, and\nthe Pecksniffs were all goodness.\n\nBut when the company arrived! That was the time. When Mr Pecksniff,\nrising from his seat at the table\'s head, with a daughter on either\nhand, received his guests in the best parlour and motioned them to\nchairs, with eyes so overflowing and countenance so damp with gracious\nperspiration, that he may be said to have been in a kind of moist\nmeekness! And the company; the jealous stony-hearted distrustful\ncompany, who were all shut up in themselves, and had no faith in\nanybody, and wouldn\'t believe anything, and would no more allow\nthemselves to be softened or lulled asleep by the Pecksniffs than if\nthey had been so many hedgehogs or porcupines!\n\nFirst, there was Mr Spottletoe, who was so bald and had such big\nwhiskers, that he seemed to have stopped his hair, by the sudden\napplication of some powerful remedy, in the very act of falling off his\nhead, and to have fastened it irrevocably on his face. Then there was\nMrs Spottletoe, who being much too slim for her years, and of a poetical\nconstitution, was accustomed to inform her more intimate friends that\nthe said whiskers were \'the lodestar of her existence;\' and who could\nnow, by reason of her strong affection for her uncle Chuzzlewit, and the\nshock it gave her to be suspected of testamentary designs upon him, do\nnothing but cry--except moan. Then there were Anthony Chuzzlewit, and\nhis son Jonas; the face of the old man so sharpened by the wariness and\ncunning of his life, that it seemed to cut him a passage through the\ncrowded room, as he edged away behind the remotest chairs; while the son\nhad so well profited by the precept and example of the father, that he\nlooked a year or two the elder of the twain, as they stood winking their\nred eyes, side by side, and whispering to each other softly. Then there\nwas the widow of a deceased brother of Mr Martin Chuzzlewit, who being\nalmost supernaturally disagreeable, and having a dreary face and a bony\nfigure and a masculine voice, was, in right of these qualities, what is\ncommonly called a strong-minded woman; and who, if she could, would have\nestablished her claim to the title, and have shown herself, mentally\nspeaking, a perfect Samson, by shutting up her brother-in-law in a\nprivate madhouse, until he proved his complete sanity by loving her very\nmuch. Beside her sat her spinster daughters, three in number, and of\ngentlemanly deportment, who had so mortified themselves with tight\nstays, that their tempers were reduced to something less than their\nwaists, and sharp lacing was expressed in their very noses. Then there\nwas a young gentleman, grandnephew of Mr Martin Chuzzlewit, very dark\nand very hairy, and apparently born for no particular purpose but to\nsave looking-glasses the trouble of reflecting more than just the first\nidea and sketchy notion of a face, which had never been carried out.\nThen there was a solitary female cousin who was remarkable for nothing\nbut being very deaf, and living by herself, and always having the\ntoothache. Then there was George Chuzzlewit, a gay bachelor cousin,\nwho claimed to be young but had been younger, and was inclined to\ncorpulency, and rather overfed himself; to that extent, indeed, that his\neyes were strained in their sockets, as if with constant surprise; and\nhe had such an obvious disposition to pimples, that the bright spots on\nhis cravat, the rich pattern on his waistcoat, and even his glittering\ntrinkets, seemed to have broken out upon him, and not to have come into\nexistence comfortably. Last of all there were present Mr Chevy Slyme and\nhis friend Tigg. And it is worthy of remark, that although each person\npresent disliked the other, mainly because he or she DID belong to the\nfamily, they one and all concurred in hating Mr Tigg because he didn\'t.\n\nSuch was the pleasant little family circle now assembled in Mr\nPecksniff\'s best parlour, agreeably prepared to fall foul of Mr\nPecksniff or anybody else who might venture to say anything whatever\nupon any subject.\n\n\'This,\' said Mr Pecksniff, rising and looking round upon them with\nfolded hands, \'does me good. It does my daughters good. We thank you for\nassembling here. We are grateful to you with our whole hearts. It is a\nblessed distinction that you have conferred upon us, and believe me\'--it\nis impossible to conceive how he smiled here--\'we shall not easily\nforget it.\'\n\n\'I am sorry to interrupt you, Pecksniff,\' remarked Mr Spottletoe, with\nhis whiskers in a very portentous state; \'but you are assuming too much\nto yourself, sir. Who do you imagine has it in contemplation to confer a\ndistinction upon YOU, sir?\'\n\nA general murmur echoed this inquiry, and applauded it.\n\n\'If you are about to pursue the course with which you have begun, sir,\'\npursued Mr Spottletoe in a great heat, and giving a violent rap on\nthe table with his knuckles, \'the sooner you desist, and this assembly\nseparates, the better. I am no stranger, sir, to your preposterous\ndesire to be regarded as the head of this family, but I can tell YOU,\nsir--\'\n\nOh yes, indeed! HE tell. HE! What? He was the head, was he? From the\nstrong-minded woman downwards everybody fell, that instant, upon Mr\nSpottletoe, who after vainly attempting to be heard in silence was\nfain to sit down again, folding his arms and shaking his head most\nwrathfully, and giving Mrs Spottletoe to understand in dumb show, that\nthat scoundrel Pecksniff might go on for the present, but he would cut\nin presently, and annihilate him.\n\n\'I am not sorry,\' said Mr Pecksniff in resumption of his address, \'I am\nreally not sorry that this little incident has happened. It is good to\nfeel that we are met here without disguise. It is good to know that we\nhave no reserve before each other, but are appearing freely in our own\ncharacters.\'\n\nHere, the eldest daughter of the strong-minded woman rose a little way\nfrom her seat, and trembling violently from head to foot, more as it\nseemed with passion than timidity, expressed a general hope that some\npeople WOULD appear in their own characters, if it were only for such\na proceeding having the attraction of novelty to recommend it; and that\nwhen they (meaning the some people before mentioned) talked about their\nrelations, they would be careful to observe who was present in company\nat the time; otherwise it might come round to those relations\' ears, in\na way they little expected; and as to red noses (she observed) she\nhad yet to learn that a red nose was any disgrace, inasmuch as people\nneither made nor coloured their own noses, but had that feature provided\nfor them without being first consulted; though even upon that branch of\nthe subject she had great doubts whether certain noses were redder than\nother noses, or indeed half as red as some. This remark being received\nwith a shrill titter by the two sisters of the speaker, Miss Charity\nPecksniff begged with much politeness to be informed whether any of\nthose very low observations were levelled at her; and receiving no more\nexplanatory answer than was conveyed in the adage \'Those the cap fits,\nlet them wear it,\' immediately commenced a somewhat acrimonious and\npersonal retort, wherein she was much comforted and abetted by her\nsister Mercy, who laughed at the same with great heartiness; indeed\nfar more naturally than life. And it being quite impossible that any\ndifference of opinion can take place among women without every woman who\nis within hearing taking active part in it, the strong-minded lady and\nher two daughters, and Mrs Spottletoe, and the deaf cousin (who was\nnot at all disqualified from joining in the dispute by reason of being\nperfectly unacquainted with its merits), one and all plunged into the\nquarrel directly.\n\nThe two Miss Pecksniffs being a pretty good match for the three Miss\nChuzzlewits, and all five young ladies having, in the figurative\nlanguage of the day, a great amount of steam to dispose of, the\naltercation would no doubt have been a long one but for the high valour\nand prowess of the strong-minded woman, who, in right of her reputation\nfor powers of sarcasm, did so belabour and pummel Mrs Spottletoe with\ntaunting words that the poor lady, before the engagement was two minutes\nold, had no refuge but in tears. These she shed so plentifully, and so\nmuch to the agitation and grief of Mr Spottletoe, that that gentleman,\nafter holding his clenched fist close to Mr Pecksniff\'s eyes, as if\nit were some natural curiosity from the near inspection whereof he was\nlikely to derive high gratification and improvement, and after offering\n(for no particular reason that anybody could discover) to kick Mr George\nChuzzlewit for, and in consideration of, the trifling sum of sixpence,\ntook his wife under his arm and indignantly withdrew. This diversion, by\ndistracting the attention of the combatants, put an end to the strife,\nwhich, after breaking out afresh some twice or thrice in certain\ninconsiderable spurts and dashes, died away in silence.\n\nIt was then that Mr Pecksniff once more rose from his chair. It was then\nthat the two Miss Pecksniffs composed themselves to look as if there\nwere no such beings--not to say present, but in the whole compass of the\nworld--as the three Miss Chuzzlewits; while the three Miss Chuzzlewits\nbecame equally unconscious of the existence of the two Miss Pecksniffs.\n\n\'It is to be lamented,\' said Mr Pecksniff, with a forgiving recollection\nof Mr Spottletoe\'s fist, \'that our friend should have withdrawn himself\nso very hastily, though we have cause for mutual congratulation even in\nthat, since we are assured that he is not distrustful of us in regard\nto anything we may say or do while he is absent. Now, that is very\nsoothing, is it not?\'\n\n\'Pecksniff,\' said Anthony, who had been watching the whole party with\npeculiar keenness from the first--\'don\'t you be a hypocrite.\'\n\n\'A what, my good sir?\' demanded Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'A hypocrite.\'\n\n\'Charity, my dear,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'when I take my chamber\ncandlestick to-night, remind me to be more than usually particular in\npraying for Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit; who has done me an injustice.\'\n\nThis was said in a very bland voice, and aside, as being addressed to\nhis daughter\'s private ear. With a cheerfulness of conscience, prompting\nalmost a sprightly demeanour, he then resumed:\n\n\'All our thoughts centring in our very dear but unkind relative, and he\nbeing as it were beyond our reach, we are met to-day, really as if we\nwere a funeral party, except--a blessed exception--that there is no body\nin the house.\'\n\nThe strong-minded lady was not at all sure that this was a blessed\nexception. Quite the contrary.\n\n\'Well, my dear madam!\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Be that as it may, here we\nare; and being here, we are to consider whether it is possible by any\njustifiable means--\'\n\n\'Why, you know as well as I,\' said the strong-minded lady, \'that any\nmeans are justifiable in such a case, don\'t you?\'\n\n\'Very good, my dear madam, very good; whether it is possible by ANY\nmeans, we will say by ANY means, to open the eyes of our valued\nrelative to his present infatuation. Whether it is possible to make\nhim acquainted by any means with the real character and purpose of that\nyoung female whose strange, whose very strange position, in reference\nto himself\'--here Mr Pecksniff sunk his voice to an impressive\nwhisper--\'really casts a shadow of disgrace and shame upon this family;\nand who, we know\'--here he raised his voice again--\'else why is she his\ncompanion? harbours the very basest designs upon his weakness and his\nproperty.\'\n\nIn their strong feeling on this point, they, who agreed in nothing else,\nall concurred as one mind. Good Heaven, that she should harbour designs\nupon his property! The strong-minded lady was for poison, her three\ndaughters were for Bridewell and bread-and-water, the cousin with\nthe toothache advocated Botany Bay, the two Miss Pecksniffs suggested\nflogging. Nobody but Mr Tigg, who, notwithstanding his extreme\nshabbiness, was still understood to be in some sort a lady\'s man,\nin right of his upper lip and his frogs, indicated a doubt of the\njustifiable nature of these measures; and he only ogled the three Miss\nChuzzlewits with the least admixture of banter in his admiration, as\nthough he would observe, \'You are positively down upon her to too great\nan extent, my sweet creatures, upon my soul you are!\'\n\n\'Now,\' said Mr Pecksniff, crossing his two forefingers in a manner which\nwas at once conciliatory and argumentative; \'I will not, upon the one\nhand, go so far as to say that she deserves all the inflictions which\nhave been so very forcibly and hilariously suggested;\' one of his\nornamental sentences; \'nor will I, upon the other, on any account\ncompromise my common understanding as a man, by making the assertion\nthat she does not. What I would observe is, that I think some practical\nmeans might be devised of inducing our respected, shall I say our\nrevered--?\'\n\n\'No!\' interposed the strong-minded woman in a loud voice.\n\n\'Then I will not,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'You are quite right, my\ndear madam, and I appreciate and thank you for your discriminating\nobjection--our respected relative, to dispose himself to listen to the\npromptings of nature, and not to the--\'\n\n\'Go on, Pa!\' cried Mercy.\n\n\'Why, the truth is, my dear,\' said Mr Pecksniff, smiling upon his\nassembled kindred, \'that I am at a loss for a word. The name of those\nfabulous animals (pagan, I regret to say) who used to sing in the water,\nhas quite escaped me.\'\n\nMr George Chuzzlewit suggested \'swans.\'\n\n\'No,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Not swans. Very like swans, too. Thank you.\'\n\nThe nephew with the outline of a countenance, speaking for the first and\nlast time on that occasion, propounded \'Oysters.\'\n\n\'No,\' said Mr Pecksniff, with his own peculiar urbanity, \'nor oysters.\nBut by no means unlike oysters; a very excellent idea; thank you, my\ndear sir, very much. Wait! Sirens. Dear me! sirens, of course. I think,\nI say, that means might be devised of disposing our respected relative\nto listen to the promptings of nature, and not to the siren-like\ndelusions of art. Now we must not lose sight of the fact that our\nesteemed friend has a grandson, to whom he was, until lately, very much\nattached, and whom I could have wished to see here to-day, for I have a\nreal and deep regard for him. A fine young man, a very fine young man!\nI would submit to you, whether we might not remove Mr Chuzzlewit\'s\ndistrust of us, and vindicate our own disinterestedness by--\'\n\n\'If Mr George Chuzzlewit has anything to say to ME,\' interposed the\nstrong-minded woman, sternly, \'I beg him to speak out like a man; and\nnot to look at me and my daughters as if he could eat us.\'\n\n\'As to looking, I have heard it said, Mrs Ned,\' returned Mr George,\nangrily, \'that a cat is free to contemplate a monarch; and therefore\nI hope I have some right, having been born a member of this family, to\nlook at a person who only came into it by marriage. As to eating, I\nbeg to say, whatever bitterness your jealousies and disappointed\nexpectations may suggest to you, that I am not a cannibal, ma\'am.\'\n\n\'I don\'t know that!\' cried the strong-minded woman.\n\n\'At all events, if I was a cannibal,\' said Mr George Chuzzlewit, greatly\nstimulated by this retort, \'I think it would occur to me that a lady\nwho had outlived three husbands, and suffered so very little from their\nloss, must be most uncommonly tough.\'\n\nThe strong-minded woman immediately rose.\n\n\'And I will further add,\' said Mr George, nodding his head violently at\nevery second syllable; \'naming no names, and therefore hurting nobody\nbut those whose consciences tell them they are alluded to, that I think\nit would be much more decent and becoming, if those who hooked and\ncrooked themselves into this family by getting on the blind side of some\nof its members before marriage, and manslaughtering them afterwards by\ncrowing over them to that strong pitch that they were glad to die, would\nrefrain from acting the part of vultures in regard to other members of\nthis family who are living. I think it would be full as well, if not\nbetter, if those individuals would keep at home, contenting themselves\nwith what they have got (luckily for them) already; instead of hovering\nabout, and thrusting their fingers into, a family pie, which they\nflavour much more than enough, I can tell them, when they are fifty\nmiles away.\'\n\n\'I might have been prepared for this!\' cried the strong-minded woman,\nlooking about her with a disdainful smile as she moved towards the door,\nfollowed by her three daughters. \'Indeed I was fully prepared for it\nfrom the first. What else could I expect in such an atmosphere as this!\'\n\n\'Don\'t direct your halfpay-officers\' gaze at me, ma\'am, if you please,\'\ninterposed Miss Charity; \'for I won\'t bear it.\'\n\nThis was a smart stab at a pension enjoyed by the strong-minded woman,\nduring her second widowhood and before her last coverture. It told\nimmensely.\n\n\'I passed from the memory of a grateful country, you very miserable\nminx,\' said Mrs Ned, \'when I entered this family; and I feel now, though\nI did not feel then, that it served me right, and that I lost my claim\nupon the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland when I so degraded\nmyself. Now, my dears, if you\'re quite ready, and have sufficiently\nimproved yourselves by taking to heart the genteel example of these two\nyoung ladies, I think we\'ll go. Mr Pecksniff, we are very much obliged\nto you, really. We came to be entertained, and you have far surpassed\nour utmost expectations, in the amusement you have provided for us.\nThank you. Good-bye!\'\n\nWith such departing words, did this strong-minded female paralyse the\nPecksniffian energies; and so she swept out of the room, and out of\nthe house, attended by her daughters, who, as with one accord, elevated\ntheir three noses in the air, and joined in a contemptuous titter.\nAs they passed the parlour window on the outside, they were seen to\ncounterfeit a perfect transport of delight among themselves; and\nwith this final blow and great discouragement for those within, they\nvanished.\n\nBefore Mr Pecksniff or any of his remaining visitors could offer a\nremark, another figure passed this window, coming, at a great rate in\nthe opposite direction; and immediately afterwards, Mr Spottletoe burst\ninto the chamber. Compared with his present state of heat, he had gone\nout a man of snow or ice. His head distilled such oil upon his whiskers,\nthat they were rich and clogged with unctuous drops; his face was\nviolently inflamed, his limbs trembled; and he gasped and strove for\nbreath.\n\n\'My good sir!\' cried Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'Oh yes!\' returned the other; \'oh yes, certainly! Oh to be sure! Oh, of\ncourse! You hear him? You hear him? all of you!\'\n\n\'What\'s the matter?\' cried several voices.\n\n\'Oh nothing!\' cried Spottletoe, still gasping. \'Nothing at all! It\'s of\nno consequence! Ask him! HE\'ll tell you!\'\n\n\'I do not understand our friend,\' said Mr Pecksniff, looking about him\nin utter amazement. \'I assure you that he is quite unintelligible to\nme.\'\n\n\'Unintelligible, sir!\' cried the other. \'Unintelligible! Do you mean\nto say, sir, that you don\'t know what has happened! That you haven\'t\ndecoyed us here, and laid a plot and a plan against us! Will you venture\nto say that you didn\'t know Mr Chuzzlewit was going, sir, and that you\ndon\'t know he\'s gone, sir?\'\n\n\'Gone!\' was the general cry.\n\n\'Gone,\' echoed Mr Spottletoe. \'Gone while we were sitting here. Gone.\nNobody knows where he\'s gone. Oh, of course not! Nobody knew he was\ngoing. Oh, of course not! The landlady thought up to the very last\nmoment that they were merely going for a ride; she had no other\nsuspicion. Oh, of course not! She\'s not this fellow\'s creature. Oh, of\ncourse not!\'\n\nAdding to these exclamations a kind of ironical howl, and gazing upon\nthe company for one brief instant afterwards, in a sudden silence, the\nirritated gentleman started off again at the same tremendous pace, and\nwas seen no more.\n\nIt was in vain for Mr Pecksniff to assure them that this new and\nopportune evasion of the family was at least as great a shock\nand surprise to him as to anybody else. Of all the bullyings and\ndenunciations that were ever heaped on one unlucky head, none can\never have exceeded in energy and heartiness those with which he was\ncomplimented by each of his remaining relatives, singly, upon bidding\nhim farewell.\n\nThe moral position taken by Mr Tigg was something quite tremendous; and\nthe deaf cousin, who had the complicated aggravation of seeing all the\nproceedings and hearing nothing but the catastrophe, actually scraped\nher shoes upon the scraper, and afterwards distributed impressions of\nthem all over the top step, in token that she shook the dust from her\nfeet before quitting that dissembling and perfidious mansion.\n\nMr Pecksniff had, in short, but one comfort, and that was the knowledge\nthat all these his relations and friends had hated him to the very\nutmost extent before; and that he, for his part, had not distributed\namong them any more love than, with his ample capital in that respect,\nhe could comfortably afford to part with. This view of his affairs\nyielded him great consolation; and the fact deserves to be noted, as\nshowing with what ease a good man may be consoled under circumstances of\nfailure and disappointment.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\nCONTAINING A FULL ACCOUNT OF THE INSTALLATION OF MR PECKSNIFF\'S NEW\nPUPIL INTO THE BOSOM OF MR PECKSNIFF\'S FAMILY. WITH ALL THE FESTIVITIES\nHELD ON THAT OCCASION, AND THE GREAT ENJOYMENT OF MR PINCH\n\n\nThe best of architects and land surveyors kept a horse, in whom the\nenemies already mentioned more than once in these pages pretended to\ndetect a fanciful resemblance to his master. Not in his outward\nperson, for he was a raw-boned, haggard horse, always on a much shorter\nallowance of corn than Mr Pecksniff; but in his moral character,\nwherein, said they, he was full of promise, but of no performance.\nHe was always in a manner, going to go, and never going. When at his\nslowest rate of travelling he would sometimes lift up his legs so high,\nand display such mighty action, that it was difficult to believe he was\ndoing less than fourteen miles an hour; and he was for ever so\nperfectly satisfied with his own speed, and so little disconcerted by\nopportunities of comparing himself with the fastest trotters, that the\nillusion was the more difficult of resistance. He was a kind of animal\nwho infused into the breasts of strangers a lively sense of hope, and\npossessed all those who knew him better with a grim despair. In what\nrespect, having these points of character, he might be fairly likened\nto his master, that good man\'s slanderers only can explain. But it is a\nmelancholy truth, and a deplorable instance of the uncharitableness of\nthe world, that they made the comparison.\n\nIn this horse, and the hooded vehicle, whatever its proper name might\nbe, to which he was usually harnessed--it was more like a gig with a\ntumour than anything else--all Mr Pinch\'s thoughts and wishes centred,\none bright frosty morning; for with this gallant equipage he was about\nto drive to Salisbury alone, there to meet with the new pupil, and\nthence to bring him home in triumph.\n\nBlessings on thy simple heart, Tom Pinch, how proudly dost thou button\nup that scanty coat, called by a sad misnomer, for these many years,\na \'great\' one; and how thoroughly, as with thy cheerful voice thou\npleasantly adjurest Sam the hostler \'not to let him go yet,\' dost thou\nbelieve that quadruped desires to go, and would go if he might! Who\ncould repress a smile--of love for thee, Tom Pinch, and not in jest at\nthy expense, for thou art poor enough already, Heaven knows--to think\nthat such a holiday as lies before thee should awaken that quick flow\nand hurry of the spirits, in which thou settest down again, almost\nuntasted, on the kitchen window-sill, that great white mug (put by, by\nthy own hands, last night, that breakfast might not hold thee late), and\nlayest yonder crust upon the seat beside thee, to be eaten on the road,\nwhen thou art calmer in thy high rejoicing! Who, as thou drivest off, a\nhappy, man, and noddest with a grateful lovingness to Pecksniff in his\nnightcap at his chamber-window, would not cry, \'Heaven speed thee, Tom,\nand send that thou wert going off for ever to some quiet home where thou\nmightst live at peace, and sorrow should not touch thee!\'\n\nWhat better time for driving, riding, walking, moving through the air by\nany means, than a fresh, frosty morning, when hope runs cheerily through\nthe veins with the brisk blood, and tingles in the frame from head to\nfoot! This was the glad commencement of a bracing day in early winter,\nsuch as may put the languid summer season (speaking of it when it can\'t\nbe had) to the blush, and shame the spring for being sometimes cold by\nhalves. The sheep-bells rang as clearly in the vigorous air, as if they\nfelt its wholesome influence like living creatures; the trees, in lieu\nof leaves or blossoms, shed upon the ground a frosty rime that sparkled\nas it fell, and might have been the dust of diamonds. So it was to Tom.\nFrom cottage chimneys, smoke went streaming up high, high, as if the\nearth had lost its grossness, being so fair, and must not be oppressed\nby heavy vapour. The crust of ice on the else rippling brook was so\ntransparent, and so thin in texture, that the lively water might of its\nown free will have stopped--in Tom\'s glad mind it had--to look upon the\nlovely morning. And lest the sun should break this charm too eagerly,\nthere moved between him and the ground, a mist like that which waits\nupon the moon on summer nights--the very same to Tom--and wooed him to\ndissolve it gently.\n\nTom Pinch went on; not fast, but with a sense of rapid motion, which did\njust as well; and as he went, all kinds of things occurred to keep him\nhappy. Thus when he came within sight of the turnpike, and was--oh a\nlong way off!--he saw the tollman\'s wife, who had that moment checked a\nwaggon, run back into the little house again like mad, to say (she knew)\nthat Mr Pinch was coming up. And she was right, for when he drew within\nhail of the gate, forth rushed the tollman\'s children, shrieking in tiny\nchorus, \'Mr Pinch!\' to Tom\'s intense delight. The very tollman, though\nan ugly chap in general, and one whom folks were rather shy of handling,\ncame out himself to take the toll, and give him rough good morning; and\nthat with all this, and a glimpse of the family breakfast on a little\nround table before the fire, the crust Tom Pinch had brought away with\nhim acquired as rich a flavour as though it had been cut from a fairy\nloaf.\n\nBut there was more than this. It was not only the married people and the\nchildren who gave Tom Pinch a welcome as he passed. No, no. Sparkling\neyes and snowy breasts came hurriedly to many an upper casement as he\nclattered by, and gave him back his greeting: not stinted either, but\nsevenfold, good measure. They were all merry. They all laughed. And some\nof the wickedest among them even kissed their hands as Tom looked back.\nFor who minded poor Mr Pinch? There was no harm in HIM.\n\nAnd now the morning grew so fair, and all things were so wide awake and\ngay, that the sun seeming to say--Tom had no doubt he said--\'I can\'t\nstand it any longer; I must have a look,\' streamed out in radiant\nmajesty. The mist, too shy and gentle for such lusty company, fled off,\nquite scared, before it; and as it swept away, the hills and mounds and\ndistant pasture lands, teeming with placid sheep and noisy crows, came\nout as bright as though they were unrolled bran new for the occasion. In\ncompliment to which discovery, the brook stood still no longer, but ran\nbriskly off to bear the tidings to the water-mill, three miles away.\n\nMr Pinch was jogging along, full of pleasant thoughts and cheerful\ninfluences, when he saw, upon the path before him, going in the same\ndirection with himself, a traveller on foot, who walked with a light\nquick step, and sang as he went--for certain in a very loud voice, but\nnot unmusically. He was a young fellow, of some five or six-and-twenty\nperhaps, and was dressed in such a free and fly-away fashion, that the\nlong ends of his loose red neckcloth were streaming out behind him\nquite as often as before; and the bunch of bright winter berries in the\nbuttonhole of his velveteen coat was as visible to Mr Pinch\'s rearward\nobservation, as if he had worn that garment wrong side foremost. He\ncontinued to sing with so much energy, that he did not hear the sound\nof wheels until it was close behind him; when he turned a whimsical\nface and a very merry pair of blue eyes on Mr Pinch, and checked himself\ndirectly.\n\n\'Why, Mark?\' said Tom Pinch, stopping. \'Who\'d have thought of seeing you\nhere? Well! this is surprising!\'\n\nMark touched his hat, and said, with a very sudden decrease of vivacity,\nthat he was going to Salisbury.\n\n\'And how spruce you are, too!\' said Mr Pinch, surveying him with great\npleasure. \'Really, I didn\'t think you were half such a tight-made\nfellow, Mark!\'\n\n\'Thankee, Mr Pinch. Pretty well for that, I believe. It\'s not my fault,\nyou know. With regard to being spruce, sir, that\'s where it is, you\nsee.\' And here he looked particularly gloomy.\n\n\'Where what is?\' Mr Pinch demanded.\n\n\'Where the aggravation of it is. Any man may be in good spirits and good\ntemper when he\'s well dressed. There an\'t much credit in that. If I was\nvery ragged and very jolly, then I should begin to feel I had gained a\npoint, Mr Pinch.\'\n\n\'So you were singing just now, to bear up, as it were, against being\nwell dressed, eh, Mark?\' said Pinch.\n\n\'Your conversation\'s always equal to print, sir,\' rejoined Mark, with a\nbroad grin. \'That was it.\'\n\n\'Well!\' cried Pinch, \'you are the strangest young man, Mark, I ever knew\nin my life. I always thought so; but now I am quite certain of it. I am\ngoing to Salisbury, too. Will you get in? I shall be very glad of your\ncompany.\'\n\nThe young fellow made his acknowledgments and accepted the offer;\nstepping into the carriage directly, and seating himself on the very\nedge of the seat with his body half out of it, to express his being\nthere on sufferance, and by the politeness of Mr Pinch. As they went\nalong, the conversation proceeded after this manner.\n\n\'I more than half believed, just now, seeing you so very smart,\' said\nPinch, \'that you must be going to be married, Mark.\'\n\n\'Well, sir, I\'ve thought of that, too,\' he replied. \'There might be some\ncredit in being jolly with a wife, \'specially if the children had the\nmeasles and that, and was very fractious indeed. But I\'m a\'most afraid\nto try it. I don\'t see my way clear.\'\n\n\'You\'re not very fond of anybody, perhaps?\' said Pinch.\n\n\'Not particular, sir, I think.\'\n\n\'But the way would be, you know, Mark, according to your views of\nthings,\' said Mr Pinch, \'to marry somebody you didn\'t like, and who was\nvery disagreeable.\'\n\n\'So it would, sir; but that might be carrying out a principle a little\ntoo far, mightn\'t it?\'\n\n\'Perhaps it might,\' said Mr Pinch. At which they both laughed gayly.\n\n\'Lord bless you, sir,\' said Mark, \'you don\'t half know me, though. I\ndon\'t believe there ever was a man as could come out so strong under\ncircumstances that would make other men miserable, as I could, if I\ncould only get a chance. But I can\'t get a chance. It\'s my opinion\nthat nobody never will know half of what\'s in me, unless something very\nunexpected turns up. And I don\'t see any prospect of that. I\'m a-going\nto leave the Dragon, sir.\'\n\n\'Going to leave the Dragon!\' cried Mr Pinch, looking at him with great\nastonishment. \'Why, Mark, you take my breath away!\'\n\n\'Yes, sir,\' he rejoined, looking straight before him and a long way off,\nas men do sometimes when they cogitate profoundly. \'What\'s the use of my\nstopping at the Dragon? It an\'t at all the sort of place for ME. When\nI left London (I\'m a Kentish man by birth, though), and took that\nsituation here, I quite made up my mind that it was the dullest little\nout-of-the-way corner in England, and that there would be some credit in\nbeing jolly under such circumstances. But, Lord, there\'s no dullness at\nthe Dragon! Skittles, cricket, quoits, nine-pins, comic songs, choruses,\ncompany round the chimney corner every winter\'s evening. Any man could\nbe jolly at the Dragon. There\'s no credit in THAT.\'\n\n\'But if common report be true for once, Mark, as I think it is, being\nable to confirm it by what I know myself,\' said Mr Pinch, \'you are the\ncause of half this merriment, and set it going.\'\n\n\'There may be something in that, too, sir,\' answered Mark. \'But that\'s\nno consolation.\'\n\n\'Well!\' said Mr Pinch, after a short silence, his usually subdued tone\nbeing even now more subdued than ever. \'I can hardly think enough of\nwhat you tell me. Why, what will become of Mrs Lupin, Mark?\'\n\nMark looked more fixedly before him, and further off still, as he\nanswered that he didn\'t suppose it would be much of an object to her.\nThere were plenty of smart young fellows as would be glad of the place.\nHe knew a dozen himself.\n\n\'That\'s probable enough,\' said Mr Pinch, \'but I am not at all sure that\nMrs Lupin would be glad of them. Why, I always supposed that Mrs Lupin\nand you would make a match of it, Mark; and so did every one, as far as\nI know.\'\n\n\'I never,\' Mark replied, in some confusion, \'said nothing as was in a\ndirect way courting-like to her, nor she to me, but I don\'t know what I\nmightn\'t do one of these odd times, and what she mightn\'t say in answer.\nWell, sir, THAT wouldn\'t suit.\'\n\n\'Not to be landlord of the Dragon, Mark?\' cried Mr Pinch.\n\n\'No, sir, certainly not,\' returned the other, withdrawing his gaze from\nthe horizon, and looking at his fellow-traveller. \'Why that would be the\nruin of a man like me. I go and sit down comfortably for life, and no\nman never finds me out. What would be the credit of the landlord of the\nDragon\'s being jolly? Why, he couldn\'t help it, if he tried.\'\n\n\'Does Mrs Lupin know you are going to leave her?\' Mr Pinch inquired.\n\n\'I haven\'t broke it to her yet, sir, but I must. I\'m looking out this\nmorning for something new and suitable,\' he said, nodding towards the\ncity.\n\n\'What kind of thing now?\' Mr Pinch demanded.\n\n\'I was thinking,\' Mark replied, \'of something in the grave-digging.\nway.\'\n\n\'Good gracious, Mark?\' cried Mr Pinch.\n\n\'It\'s a good damp, wormy sort of business, sir,\' said Mark, shaking his\nhead argumentatively, \'and there might be some credit in being jolly,\nwith one\'s mind in that pursuit, unless grave-diggers is usually given\nthat way; which would be a drawback. You don\'t happen to know how that\nis in general, do you, sir?\'\n\n\'No,\' said Mr Pinch, \'I don\'t indeed. I never thought upon the subject.\'\n\n\'In case of that not turning out as well as one could wish, you know,\'\nsaid Mark, musing again, \'there\'s other businesses. Undertaking now.\nThat\'s gloomy. There might be credit to be gained there. A broker\'s man\nin a poor neighbourhood wouldn\'t be bad perhaps. A jailor sees a deal of\nmisery. A doctor\'s man is in the very midst of murder. A bailiff\'s an\'t\na lively office nat\'rally. Even a tax-gatherer must find his feelings\nrather worked upon, at times. There\'s lots of trades in which I should\nhave an opportunity, I think.\'\n\nMr Pinch was so perfectly overwhelmed by these remarks that he could\ndo nothing but occasionally exchange a word or two on some indifferent\nsubject, and cast sidelong glances at the bright face of his odd friend\n(who seemed quite unconscious of his observation), until they reached a\ncertain corner of the road, close upon the outskirts of the city, when\nMark said he would jump down there, if he pleased.\n\n\'But bless my soul, Mark,\' said Mr Pinch, who in the progress of\nhis observation just then made the discovery that the bosom of his\ncompanion\'s shirt was as much exposed as if it was Midsummer, and was\nruffled by every breath of air, \'why don\'t you wear a waistcoat?\'\n\n\'What\'s the good of one, sir?\' asked Mark.\n\n\'Good of one?\' said Mr Pinch. \'Why, to keep your chest warm.\'\n\n\'Lord love you, sir!\' cried Mark, \'you don\'t know me. My chest don\'t\nwant no warming. Even if it did, what would no waistcoat bring it to?\nInflammation of the lungs, perhaps? Well, there\'d be some credit in\nbeing jolly, with a inflammation of the lungs.\'\n\nAs Mr Pinch returned no other answer than such as was conveyed in his\nbreathing very hard, and opening his eyes very wide, and nodding his\nhead very much, Mark thanked him for his ride, and without troubling\nhim to stop, jumped lightly down. And away he fluttered, with his red\nneckerchief, and his open coat, down a cross-lane; turning back from\ntime to time to nod to Mr Pinch, and looking one of the most careless,\ngood-humoured comical fellows in life. His late companion, with a\nthoughtful face pursued his way to Salisbury.\n\nMr Pinch had a shrewd notion that Salisbury was a very desperate sort of\nplace; an exceeding wild and dissipated city; and when he had put up the\nhorse, and given the hostler to understand that he would look in again\nin the course of an hour or two to see him take his corn, he set forth\non a stroll about the streets with a vague and not unpleasant idea that\nthey teemed with all kinds of mystery and bedevilment. To one of\nhis quiet habits this little delusion was greatly assisted by the\ncircumstance of its being market-day, and the thoroughfares about the\nmarket-place being filled with carts, horses, donkeys, baskets, waggons,\ngarden-stuff, meat, tripe, pies, poultry and huckster\'s wares of every\nopposite description and possible variety of character. Then there were\nyoung farmers and old farmers with smock-frocks, brown great-coats, drab\ngreat-coats, red worsted comforters, leather-leggings, wonderful shaped\nhats, hunting-whips, and rough sticks, standing about in groups, or\ntalking noisily together on the tavern steps, or paying and receiving\nhuge amounts of greasy wealth, with the assistance of such bulky\npocket-books that when they were in their pockets it was apoplexy to\nget them out, and when they were out it was spasms to get them in again.\nAlso there were farmers\' wives in beaver bonnets and red cloaks, riding\nshaggy horses purged of all earthly passions, who went soberly into all\nmanner of places without desiring to know why, and who, if required,\nwould have stood stock still in a china shop, with a complete\ndinner-service at each hoof. Also a great many dogs, who were strongly\ninterested in the state of the market and the bargains of their masters;\nand a great confusion of tongues, both brute and human.\n\nMr Pinch regarded everything exposed for sale with great delight, and\nwas particularly struck by the itinerant cutlery, which he considered\nof the very keenest kind, insomuch that he purchased a pocket knife with\nseven blades in it, and not a cut (as he afterwards found out) among\nthem. When he had exhausted the market-place, and watched the farmers\nsafe into the market dinner, he went back to look after the horse.\nHaving seen him eat unto his heart\'s content he issued forth again,\nto wander round the town and regale himself with the shop windows;\npreviously taking a long stare at the bank, and wondering in what\ndirection underground the caverns might be where they kept the money;\nand turning to look back at one or two young men who passed him, whom\nhe knew to be articled to solicitors in the town; and who had a sort of\nfearful interest in his eyes, as jolly dogs who knew a thing or two, and\nkept it up tremendously.\n\nBut the shops. First of all there were the jewellers\' shops, with all\nthe treasures of the earth displayed therein, and such large silver\nwatches hanging up in every pane of glass, that if they were anything\nbut first-rate goers it certainly was not because the works could\ndecently complain of want of room. In good sooth they were big enough,\nand perhaps, as the saying is, ugly enough, to be the most correct of\nall mechanical performers; in Mr Pinch\'s eyes, however they were smaller\nthan Geneva ware; and when he saw one very bloated watch announced as a\nrepeater, gifted with the uncommon power of striking every quarter of an\nhour inside the pocket of its happy owner, he almost wished that he were\nrich enough to buy it.\n\nBut what were even gold and silver, precious stones and clockwork, to\nthe bookshops, whence a pleasant smell of paper freshly pressed came\nissuing forth, awakening instant recollections of some new grammar had\nat school, long time ago, with \'Master Pinch, Grove House Academy,\'\ninscribed in faultless writing on the fly-leaf! That whiff of russia\nleather, too, and all those rows on rows of volumes neatly ranged\nwithin--what happiness did they suggest! And in the window were\nthe spick-and-span new works from London, with the title-pages, and\nsometimes even the first page of the first chapter, laid wide open;\ntempting unwary men to begin to read the book, and then, in the\nimpossibility of turning over, to rush blindly in, and buy it! Here too\nwere the dainty frontispiece and trim vignette, pointing like handposts\non the outskirts of great cities, to the rich stock of incident beyond;\nand store of books, with many a grave portrait and time-honoured name,\nwhose matter he knew well, and would have given mines to have, in any\nform, upon the narrow shell beside his bed at Mr Pecksniff\'s. What a\nheart-breaking shop it was!\n\nThere was another; not quite so bad at first, but still a trying shop;\nwhere children\'s books were sold, and where poor Robinson Crusoe\nstood alone in his might, with dog and hatchet, goat-skin cap and\nfowling-pieces; calmly surveying Philip Quarn and the host of imitators\nround him, and calling Mr Pinch to witness that he, of all the crowd,\nimpressed one solitary footprint on the shore of boyish memory, whereof\nthe tread of generations should not stir the lightest grain of sand.\nAnd there too were the Persian tales, with flying chests and students of\nenchanted books shut up for years in caverns; and there too was Abudah,\nthe merchant, with the terrible little old woman hobbling out of the box\nin his bedroom; and there the mighty talisman, the rare Arabian Nights,\nwith Cassim Baba, divided by four, like the ghost of a dreadful sum,\nhanging up, all gory, in the robbers\' cave. Which matchless wonders,\ncoming fast on Mr Pinch\'s mind, did so rub up and chafe that wonderful\nlamp within him, that when he turned his face towards the busy street,\na crowd of phantoms waited on his pleasure, and he lived again, with new\ndelight, the happy days before the Pecksniff era.\n\nHe had less interest now in the chemists\' shops, with their great\nglowing bottles (with smaller repositories of brightness in their very\nstoppers); and in their agreeable compromises between medicine and\nperfumery, in the shape of toothsome lozenges and virgin honey. Neither\nhad he the least regard (but he never had much) for the tailors\', where\nthe newest metropolitan waistcoat patterns were hanging up, which by\nsome strange transformation always looked amazing there, and never\nappeared at all like the same thing anywhere else. But he stopped to\nread the playbill at the theatre and surveyed the doorway with a kind\nof awe, which was not diminished when a sallow gentleman with long dark\nhair came out, and told a boy to run home to his lodgings and bring down\nhis broadsword. Mr Pinch stood rooted to the spot on hearing this, and\nmight have stood there until dark, but that the old cathedral bell began\nto ring for vesper service, on which he tore himself away.\n\nNow, the organist\'s assistant was a friend of Mr Pinch\'s, which was a\ngood thing, for he too was a very quiet gentle soul, and had been, like\nTom, a kind of old-fashioned boy at school, though well liked by the\nnoisy fellow too. As good luck would have it (Tom always said he had\ngreat good luck) the assistant chanced that very afternoon to be on duty\nby himself, with no one in the dusty organ loft but Tom; so while he\nplayed, Tom helped him with the stops; and finally, the service being\njust over, Tom took the organ himself. It was then turning dark, and the\nyellow light that streamed in through the ancient windows in the choir\nwas mingled with a murky red. As the grand tones resounded through\nthe church, they seemed, to Tom, to find an echo in the depth of every\nancient tomb, no less than in the deep mystery of his own heart. Great\nthoughts and hopes came crowding on his mind as the rich music rolled\nupon the air and yet among them--something more grave and solemn in\ntheir purpose, but the same--were all the images of that day, down to\nits very lightest recollection of childhood. The feeling that the sounds\nawakened, in the moment of their existence, seemed to include his whole\nlife and being; and as the surrounding realities of stone and wood\nand glass grew dimmer in the darkness, these visions grew so much the\nbrighter that Tom might have forgotten the new pupil and the expectant\nmaster, and have sat there pouring out his grateful heart till midnight,\nbut for a very earthy old verger insisting on locking up the cathedral\nforthwith. So he took leave of his friend, with many thanks, groped his\nway out, as well as he could, into the now lamp-lighted streets, and\nhurried off to get his dinner.\n\nAll the farmers being by this time jogging homewards, there was nobody\nin the sanded parlour of the tavern where he had left the horse; so he\nhad his little table drawn out close before the fire, and fell to\nwork upon a well-cooked steak and smoking hot potatoes, with a strong\nappreciation of their excellence, and a very keen sense of enjoyment.\nBeside him, too, there stood a jug of most stupendous Wiltshire beer;\nand the effect of the whole was so transcendent, that he was obliged\nevery now and then to lay down his knife and fork, rub his hands, and\nthink about it. By the time the cheese and celery came, Mr Pinch had\ntaken a book out of his pocket, and could afford to trifle with the\nviands; now eating a little, now drinking a little, now reading a\nlittle, and now stopping to wonder what sort of a young man the new\npupil would turn out to be. He had passed from this latter theme and was\ndeep in his book again, when the door opened, and another guest came in,\nbringing with him such a quantity of cold air, that he positively seemed\nat first to put the fire out.\n\n\'Very hard frost to-night, sir,\' said the newcomer, courteously\nacknowledging Mr Pinch\'s withdrawal of the little table, that he might\nhave place: \'Don\'t disturb yourself, I beg.\'\n\nThough he said this with a vast amount of consideration for Mr Pinch\'s\ncomfort, he dragged one of the great leather-bottomed chairs to the\nvery centre of the hearth, notwithstanding; and sat down in front of the\nfire, with a foot on each hob.\n\n\'My feet are quite numbed. Ah! Bitter cold to be sure.\'\n\n\'You have been in the air some considerable time, I dare say?\' said Mr\nPinch.\n\n\'All day. Outside a coach, too.\'\n\n\'That accounts for his making the room so cool,\' thought Mr Pinch. \'Poor\nfellow! How thoroughly chilled he must be!\'\n\nThe stranger became thoughtful likewise, and sat for five or ten minutes\nlooking at the fire in silence. At length he rose and divested himself\nof his shawl and great-coat, which (far different from Mr Pinch\'s) was\na very warm and thick one; but he was not a whit more conversational out\nof his great-coat than in it, for he sat down again in the same place\nand attitude, and leaning back in his chair, began to bite his nails. He\nwas young--one-and-twenty, perhaps--and handsome; with a keen dark eye,\nand a quickness of look and manner which made Tom sensible of a great\ncontrast in his own bearing, and caused him to feel even more shy than\nusual.\n\nThere was a clock in the room, which the stranger often turned to\nlook at. Tom made frequent reference to it also; partly from a nervous\nsympathy with its taciturn companion; and partly because the new pupil\nwas to inquire for him at half after six, and the hands were getting\non towards that hour. Whenever the stranger caught him looking at this\nclock, a kind of confusion came upon Tom as if he had been found out in\nsomething; and it was a perception of his uneasiness which caused the\nyounger man to say, perhaps, with a smile:\n\n\'We both appear to be rather particular about the time. The fact is, I\nhave an engagement to meet a gentleman here.\'\n\n\'So have I,\' said Mr Pinch.\n\n\'At half-past six,\' said the stranger.\n\n\'At half-past six,\' said Tom in the very same breath; whereupon the\nother looked at him with some surprise.\n\n\'The young gentleman, I expect,\' remarked Tom, timidly, \'was to inquire\nat that time for a person by the name of Pinch.\'\n\n\'Dear me!\' cried the other, jumping up. \'And I have been keeping the\nfire from you all this while! I had no idea you were Mr Pinch. I am the\nMr Martin for whom you were to inquire. Pray excuse me. How do you do?\nOh, do draw nearer, pray!\'\n\n\'Thank you,\' said Tom, \'thank you. I am not at all cold, and you are;\nand we have a cold ride before us. Well, if you wish it, I will. I--I am\nvery glad,\' said Tom, smiling with an embarrassed frankness peculiarly\nhis, and which was as plainly a confession of his own imperfections, and\nan appeal to the kindness of the person he addressed, as if he had drawn\none up in simple language and committed it to paper: \'I am very glad\nindeed that you turn out to be the party I expected. I was thinking, but\na minute ago, that I could wish him to be like you.\'\n\n\'I am very glad to hear it,\' returned Martin, shaking hands with him\nagain; \'for I assure you, I was thinking there could be no such luck as\nMr Pinch\'s turning out like you.\'\n\n\'No, really!\' said Tom, with great pleasure. \'Are you serious?\'\n\n\'Upon my word I am,\' replied his new acquaintance. \'You and I will get\non excellently well, I know; which it\'s no small relief to me to feel,\nfor to tell you the truth, I am not at all the sort of fellow who could\nget on with everybody, and that\'s the point on which I had the greatest\ndoubts. But they\'re quite relieved now.--Do me the favour to ring the\nbell, will you?\'\n\nMr Pinch rose, and complied with great alacrity--the handle hung just\nover Martin\'s head, as he warmed himself--and listened with a smiling\nface to what his friend went on to say. It was:\n\n\'If you like punch, you\'ll allow me to order a glass apiece, as hot\nas it can be made, that we may usher in our friendship in a becoming\nmanner. To let you into a secret, Mr Pinch, I never was so much in want\nof something warm and cheering in my life; but I didn\'t like to run the\nchance of being found drinking it, without knowing what kind of person\nyou were; for first impressions, you know, often go a long way, and last\na long time.\'\n\nMr Pinch assented, and the punch was ordered. In due course it came; hot\nand strong. After drinking to each other in the steaming mixture, they\nbecame quite confidential.\n\n\'I\'m a sort of relation of Pecksniff\'s, you know,\' said the young man.\n\n\'Indeed!\' cried Mr Pinch.\n\n\'Yes. My grandfather is his cousin, so he\'s kith and kin to me, somehow,\nif you can make that out. I can\'t.\'\n\n\'Then Martin is your Christian name?\' said Mr Pinch, thoughtfully. \'Oh!\'\n\n\'Of course it is,\' returned his friend: \'I wish it was my surname for\nmy own is not a very pretty one, and it takes a long time to sign\nChuzzlewit is my name.\'\n\n\'Dear me!\' cried Mr Pinch, with an involuntary start.\n\n\'You\'re not surprised at my having two names, I suppose?\' returned the\nother, setting his glass to his lips. \'Most people have.\'\n\n\'Oh, no,\' said Mr Pinch, \'not at all. Oh dear no! Well!\' And then\nremembering that Mr Pecksniff had privately cautioned him to say nothing\nin reference to the old gentleman of the same name who had lodged at\nthe Dragon, but to reserve all mention of that person for him, he had\nno better means of hiding his confusion than by raising his own glass\nto his mouth. They looked at each other out of their respective tumblers\nfor a few seconds, and then put them down empty.\n\n\'I told them in the stable to be ready for us ten minutes ago,\' said Mr\nPinch, glancing at the clock again. \'Shall we go?\'\n\n\'If you please,\' returned the other.\n\n\'Would you like to drive?\' said Mr Pinch; his whole face beaming with a\nconsciousness of the splendour of his offer. \'You shall, if you wish.\'\n\n\'Why, that depends, Mr Pinch,\' said Martin, laughing, \'upon what sort\nof a horse you have. Because if he\'s a bad one, I would rather keep my\nhands warm by holding them comfortably in my greatcoat pockets.\'\n\nHe appeared to think this such a good joke, that Mr Pinch was quite sure\nit must be a capital one. Accordingly, he laughed too, and was fully\npersuaded that he enjoyed it very much. Then he settled his bill, and Mr\nChuzzlewit paid for the punch; and having wrapped themselves up, to the\nextent of their respective means, they went out together to the front\ndoor, where Mr Pecksniff\'s property stopped the way.\n\n\'I won\'t drive, thank you, Mr Pinch,\' said Martin, getting into the\nsitter\'s place. \'By the bye, there\'s a box of mine. Can we manage to\ntake it?\'\n\n\'Oh, certainly,\' said Tom. \'Put it in, Dick, anywhere!\'\n\nIt was not precisely of that convenient size which would admit of its\nbeing squeezed into any odd corner, but Dick the hostler got it in\nsomehow, and Mr Chuzzlewit helped him. It was all on Mr Pinch\'s side,\nand Mr Chuzzlewit said he was very much afraid it would encumber him; to\nwhich Tom said, \'Not at all;\' though it forced him into such an awkward\nposition, that he had much ado to see anything but his own knees. But it\nis an ill wind that blows nobody any good; and the wisdom of the saying\nwas verified in this instance; for the cold air came from Mr Pinch\'s\nside of the carriage, and by interposing a perfect wall of box and\nman between it and the new pupil, he shielded that young gentleman\neffectually; which was a great comfort.\n\nIt was a clear evening, with a bright moon. The whole landscape was\nsilvered by its light and by the hoar-frost; and everything looked\nexquisitely beautiful. At first, the great serenity and peace through\nwhich they travelled, disposed them both to silence; but in a very short\ntime the punch within them and the healthful air without, made them\nloquacious, and they talked incessantly. When they were halfway home,\nand stopped to give the horse some water, Martin (who was very generous\nwith his money) ordered another glass of punch, which they drank between\nthem, and which had not the effect of making them less conversational\nthan before. Their principal topic of discourse was naturally Mr\nPecksniff and his family; of whom, and of the great obligations they had\nheaped upon him, Tom Pinch, with the tears standing in his eyes, drew\nsuch a picture as would have inclined any one of common feeling\nalmost to revere them; and of which Mr Pecksniff had not the slightest\nforesight or preconceived idea, or he certainly (being very humble)\nwould not have sent Tom Pinch to bring the pupil home.\n\nIn this way they went on, and on, and on--in the language of the\nstory-books--until at last the village lights appeared before them, and\nthe church spire cast a long reflection on the graveyard grass; as if\nit were a dial (alas, the truest in the world!) marking, whatever light\nshone out of Heaven, the flight of days and weeks and years, by some new\nshadow on that solemn ground.\n\n\'A pretty church!\' said Martin, observing that his companion slackened\nthe slack pace of the horse, as they approached.\n\n\'Is it not?\' cried Tom, with great pride. \'There\'s the sweetest little\norgan there you ever heard. I play it for them.\'\n\n\'Indeed?\' said Martin. \'It is hardly worth the trouble, I should think.\nWhat do you get for that, now?\'\n\n\'Nothing,\' answered Tom.\n\n\'Well,\' returned his friend, \'you ARE a very strange fellow!\'\n\nTo which remark there succeeded a brief silence.\n\n\'When I say nothing,\' observed Mr Pinch, cheerfully, \'I am wrong, and\ndon\'t say what I mean, because I get a great deal of pleasure from it,\nand the means of passing some of the happiest hours I know. It led to\nsomething else the other day; but you will not care to hear about that I\ndare say?\'\n\n\'Oh yes I shall. What?\'\n\n\'It led to my seeing,\' said Tom, in a lower voice, \'one of the loveliest\nand most beautiful faces you can possibly picture to yourself.\'\n\n\'And yet I am able to picture a beautiful one,\' said his friend,\nthoughtfully, \'or should be, if I have any memory.\'\n\n\'She came\' said Tom, laying his hand upon the other\'s arm, \'for the\nfirst time very early in the morning, when it was hardly light; and when\nI saw her, over my shoulder, standing just within the porch, I turned\nquite cold, almost believing her to be a spirit. A moment\'s reflection\ngot the better of that, of course, and fortunately it came to my relief\nso soon, that I didn\'t leave off playing.\'\n\n\'Why fortunately?\'\n\n\'Why? Because she stood there, listening. I had my spectacles on, and\nsaw her through the chinks in the curtains as plainly as I see you; and\nshe was beautiful. After a while she glided off, and I continued to play\nuntil she was out of hearing.\'\n\n\'Why did you do that?\'\n\n\'Don\'t you see?\' responded Tom. \'Because she might suppose I hadn\'t seen\nher; and might return.\'\n\n\'And did she?\'\n\n\'Certainly she did. Next morning, and next evening too; but always when\nthere were no people about, and always alone. I rose earlier and sat\nthere later, that when she came, she might find the church door open,\nand the organ playing, and might not be disappointed. She strolled that\nway for some days, and always stayed to listen. But she is gone now,\nand of all unlikely things in this wide world, it is perhaps the most\nimprobable that I shall ever look upon her face again.\'\n\n\'You don\'t know anything more about her?\'\n\n\'No.\'\n\n\'And you never followed her when she went away?\'\n\n\'Why should I distress her by doing that?\' said Tom Pinch. \'Is it likely\nthat she wanted my company? She came to hear the organ, not to see me;\nand would you have had me scare her from a place she seemed to grow\nquite fond of? Now, Heaven bless her!\' cried Tom, \'to have given her but\na minute\'s pleasure every day, I would have gone on playing the organ\nat those times until I was an old man; quite contented if she sometimes\nthought of a poor fellow like me, as a part of the music; and more than\nrecompensed if she ever mixed me up with anything she liked as well as\nshe liked that!\'\n\nThe new pupil was clearly very much amazed by Mr Pinch\'s weakness, and\nwould probably have told him so, and given him some good advice, but\nfor their opportune arrival at Mr Pecksniff\'s door; the front door this\ntime, on account of the occasion being one of ceremony and rejoicing.\nThe same man was in waiting for the horse who had been adjured by Mr\nPinch in the morning not to yield to his rabid desire to start;\nand after delivering the animal into his charge, and beseeching Mr\nChuzzlewit in a whisper never to reveal a syllable of what he had just\ntold him in the fullness of his heart, Tom led the pupil in, for instant\npresentation.\n\nMr Pecksniff had clearly not expected them for hours to come; for he was\nsurrounded by open books, and was glancing from volume to volume, with a\nblack lead-pencil in his mouth, and a pair of compasses in his hand,\nat a vast number of mathematical diagrams, of such extraordinary shapes\nthat they looked like designs for fireworks. Neither had Miss Charity\nexpected them, for she was busied, with a capacious wicker basket before\nher, in making impracticable nightcaps for the poor. Neither had Miss\nMercy expected them, for she was sitting upon her stool, tying on\nthe--oh good gracious!--the petticoat of a large doll that she was\ndressing for a neighbour\'s child--really, quite a grown-up doll, which\nmade it more confusing--and had its little bonnet dangling by the ribbon\nfrom one of her fair curls, to which she had fastened it lest it should\nbe lost or sat upon. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to\nconceive a family so thoroughly taken by surprise as the Pecksniffs\nwere, on this occasion.\n\nBless my life!\' said Mr Pecksniff, looking up, and gradually exchanging\nhis abstracted face for one of joyful recognition. \'Here already!\nMartin, my dear boy, I am delighted to welcome you to my poor house!\'\n\nWith this kind greeting, Mr Pecksniff fairly took him to his arms, and\npatted him several times upon the back with his right hand the while,\nas if to express that his feelings during the embrace were too much for\nutterance.\n\n\'But here,\' he said, recovering, \'are my daughters, Martin; my two only\nchildren, whom (if you ever saw them) you have not beheld--ah, these sad\nfamily divisions!--since you were infants together. Nay, my dears, why\nblush at being detected in your everyday pursuits? We had prepared\nto give you the reception of a visitor, Martin, in our little room of\nstate,\' said Mr Pecksniff, smiling, \'but I like this better, I like this\nbetter!\'\n\nOh blessed star of Innocence, wherever you may be, how did you glitter\nin your home of ether, when the two Miss Pecksniffs put forth each her\nlily hand, and gave the same, with mantling cheeks, to Martin! How did\nyou twinkle, as if fluttering with sympathy, when Mercy, reminded of\nthe bonnet in her hair, hid her fair face and turned her head aside; the\nwhile her gentle sister plucked it out, and smote her with a sister\'s\nsoft reproof, upon her buxom shoulder!\n\n\'And how,\' said Mr Pecksniff, turning round after the contemplation of\nthese passages, and taking Mr Pinch in a friendly manner by the elbow,\n\'how has our friend used you, Martin?\'\n\n\'Very well indeed, sir. We are on the best terms, I assure you.\'\n\n\'Old Tom Pinch!\' said Mr Pecksniff, looking on him with affectionate\nsadness. \'Ah! It seems but yesterday that Thomas was a boy fresh from\na scholastic course. Yet years have passed, I think, since Thomas Pinch\nand I first walked the world together!\'\n\nMr Pinch could say nothing. He was too much moved. But he pressed his\nmaster\'s hand, and tried to thank him.\n\n\'And Thomas Pinch and I,\' said Mr Pecksniff, in a deeper voice, \'will\nwalk it yet, in mutual faithfulness and friendship! And if it comes to\npass that either of us be run over in any of those busy crossings which\ndivide the streets of life, the other will convey him to the hospital in\nHope, and sit beside his bed in Bounty!\'\n\n\'Well, well, well!\' he added in a happier tone, as he shook Mr Pinch\'s\nelbow hard. \'No more of this! Martin, my dear friend, that you may be at\nhome within these walls, let me show you how we live, and where. Come!\'\n\nWith that he took up a lighted candle, and, attended by his young\nrelative, prepared to leave the room. At the door, he stopped.\n\n\'You\'ll bear us company, Tom Pinch?\'\n\nAye, cheerfully, though it had been to death, would Tom have followed\nhim; glad to lay down his life for such a man!\n\n\'This,\' said Mr Pecksniff, opening the door of an opposite parlour, \'is\nthe little room of state, I mentioned to you. My girls have pride in it,\nMartin! This,\' opening another door, \'is the little chamber in which my\nworks (slight things at best) have been concocted. Portrait of myself\nby Spiller. Bust by Spoker. The latter is considered a good likeness.\nI seem to recognize something about the left-hand corner of the nose,\nmyself.\'\n\nMartin thought it was very like, but scarcely intellectual enough. Mr\nPecksniff observed that the same fault had been found with it before. It\nwas remarkable it should have struck his young relation too. He was glad\nto see he had an eye for art.\n\n\'Various books you observe,\' said Mr Pecksniff, waving his hand towards\nthe wall, \'connected with our pursuit. I have scribbled myself, but\nhave not yet published. Be careful how you come upstairs. This,\' opening\nanother door, \'is my chamber. I read here when the family suppose I have\nretired to rest. Sometimes I injure my health rather more than I can\nquite justify to myself, by doing so; but art is long and time is short.\nEvery facility you see for jotting down crude notions, even here.\'\n\nThese latter words were explained by his pointing to a small round table\non which were a lamp, divers sheets of paper, a piece of India rubber,\nand a case of instruments; all put ready, in case an architectural idea\nshould come into Mr Pecksniff\'s head in the night; in which event he\nwould instantly leap out of bed, and fix it for ever.\n\nMr Pecksniff opened another door on the same floor, and shut it again,\nall at once, as if it were a Blue Chamber. But before he had well done\nso, he looked smilingly round, and said, \'Why not?\'\n\nMartin couldn\'t say why not, because he didn\'t know anything at all\nabout it. So Mr Pecksniff answered himself, by throwing open the door,\nand saying:\n\n\'My daughters\' room. A poor first-floor to us, but a bower to them. Very\nneat. Very airy. Plants you observe; hyacinths; books again; birds.\'\nThese birds, by the bye, comprised, in all, one staggering old sparrow\nwithout a tail, which had been borrowed expressly from the kitchen.\n\'Such trifles as girls love are here. Nothing more. Those who seek\nheartless splendour, would seek here in vain.\'\n\nWith that he led them to the floor above.\n\n\'This,\' said Mr Pecksniff, throwing wide the door of the memorable\ntwo-pair front; \'is a room where some talent has been developed I\nbelieve. This is a room in which an idea for a steeple occurred to me\nthat I may one day give to the world. We work here, my dear Martin. Some\narchitects have been bred in this room; a few, I think, Mr Pinch?\'\n\nTom fully assented; and, what is more, fully believed it.\n\n\'You see,\' said Mr Pecksniff, passing the candle rapidly from roll to\nroll of paper, \'some traces of our doings here. Salisbury Cathedral\nfrom the north. From the south. From the east. From the west. From the\nsouth-east. From the nor\'west. A bridge. An almshouse. A jail. A\nchurch. A powder-magazine. A wine-cellar. A portico. A summer-house. An\nice-house. Plans, elevations, sections, every kind of thing. And this,\'\nhe added, having by this time reached another large chamber on the same\nstory, with four little beds in it, \'this is your room, of which Mr\nPinch here is the quiet sharer. A southern aspect; a charming prospect;\nMr Pinch\'s little library, you perceive; everything agreeable and\nappropriate. If there is any additional comfort you would desire to have\nhere at anytime, pray mention it. Even to strangers, far less to you, my\ndear Martin, there is no restriction on that point.\'\n\nIt was undoubtedly true, and may be stated in corroboration of Mr\nPecksniff, that any pupil had the most liberal permission to mention\nanything in this way that suggested itself to his fancy. Some young\ngentlemen had gone on mentioning the very same thing for five years\nwithout ever being stopped.\n\n\'The domestic assistants,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'sleep above; and that\nis all.\' After which, and listening complacently as he went, to the\nencomiums passed by his young friend on the arrangements generally, he\nled the way to the parlour again.\n\nHere a great change had taken place; for festive preparations on\na rather extensive scale were already completed, and the two Miss\nPecksniffs were awaiting their return with hospitable looks. There were\ntwo bottles of currant wine, white and red; a dish of sandwiches (very\nlong and very slim); another of apples; another of captain\'s biscuits\n(which are always a moist and jovial sort of viand); a plate of oranges\ncut up small and gritty; with powdered sugar, and a highly geological\nhome-made cake. The magnitude of these preparations quite took away Tom\nPinch\'s breath; for though the new pupils were usually let down softly,\nas one may say, particularly in the wine department, which had so many\nstages of declension, that sometimes a young gentleman was a whole\nfortnight in getting to the pump; still this was a banquet; a sort of\nLord Mayor\'s feast in private life; a something to think of, and hold on\nby, afterwards.\n\nTo this entertainment, which apart from its own intrinsic merits, had\nthe additional choice quality, that it was in strict keeping with the\nnight, being both light and cool, Mr Pecksniff besought the company to\ndo full justice.\n\n\'Martin,\' he said, \'will seat himself between you two, my dears, and\nMr Pinch will come by me. Let us drink to our new inmate, and may we be\nhappy together! Martin, my dear friend, my love to you! Mr Pinch, if you\nspare the bottle we shall quarrel.\'\n\nAnd trying (in his regard for the feelings of the rest) to look as if\nthe wine were not acid and didn\'t make him wink, Mr Pecksniff did honour\nto his own toast.\n\n\'This,\' he said, in allusion to the party, not the wine, \'is a mingling\nthat repays one for much disappointment and vexation. Let us be merry.\'\nHere he took a captain\'s biscuit. \'It is a poor heart that never\nrejoices; and our hearts are not poor. No!\'\n\nWith such stimulants to merriment did he beguile the time, and do the\nhonours of the table; while Mr Pinch, perhaps to assure himself that\nwhat he saw and heard was holiday reality, and not a charming dream, ate\nof everything, and in particular disposed of the slim sandwiches to a\nsurprising extent. Nor was he stinted in his draughts of wine; but on\nthe contrary, remembering Mr Pecksniff\'s speech, attacked the bottle\nwith such vigour, that every time he filled his glass anew, Miss\nCharity, despite her amiable resolves, could not repress a fixed and\nstony glare, as if her eyes had rested on a ghost. Mr Pecksniff also\nbecame thoughtful at those moments, not to say dejected; but as he\nknew the vintage, it is very likely he may have been speculating on the\nprobable condition of Mr Pinch upon the morrow, and discussing within\nhimself the best remedies for colic.\n\nMartin and the young ladies were excellent friends already, and compared\nrecollections of their childish days, to their mutual liveliness and\nentertainment. Miss Mercy laughed immensely at everything that was said;\nand sometimes, after glancing at the happy face of Mr Pinch, was\nseized with such fits of mirth as brought her to the very confines of\nhysterics. But for these bursts of gaiety, her sister, in her better\nsense, reproved her; observing, in an angry whisper, that it was far\nfrom being a theme for jest; and that she had no patience with the\ncreature; though it generally ended in her laughing too--but much more\nmoderately--and saying that indeed it was a little too ridiculous and\nintolerable to be serious about.\n\nAt length it became high time to remember the first clause of that great\ndiscovery made by the ancient philosopher, for securing health, riches,\nand wisdom; the infallibility of which has been for generations verified\nby the enormous fortunes constantly amassed by chimney-sweepers and\nother persons who get up early and go to bed betimes. The young ladies\naccordingly rose, and having taken leave of Mr Chuzzlewit with much\nsweetness, and of their father with much duty and of Mr Pinch with\nmuch condescension, retired to their bower. Mr Pecksniff insisted on\naccompanying his young friend upstairs for personal superintendence of\nhis comforts; and taking him by the arm, conducted him once more to his\nbedroom, followed by Mr Pinch, who bore the light.\n\n\'Mr Pinch,\' said Pecksniff, seating himself with folded arms on one of\nthe spare beds. \'I don\'t see any snuffers in that candlestick. Will you\noblige me by going down, and asking for a pair?\'\n\nMr Pinch, only too happy to be useful, went off directly.\n\n\'You will excuse Thomas Pinch\'s want of polish, Martin,\' said Mr\nPecksniff, with a smile of patronage and pity, as soon as he had left\nthe room. \'He means well.\'\n\n\'He is a very good fellow, sir.\'\n\n\'Oh, yes,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Yes. Thomas Pinch means well. He is very\ngrateful. I have never regretted having befriended Thomas Pinch.\'\n\n\'I should think you never would, sir.\'\n\n\'No,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'No. I hope not. Poor fellow, he is always\ndisposed to do his best; but he is not gifted. You will make him useful\nto you, Martin, if you please. If Thomas has a fault, it is that he is\nsometimes a little apt to forget his position. But that is soon checked.\nWorthy soul! You will find him easy to manage. Good night!\'\n\n\'Good night, sir.\'\n\nBy this time Mr Pinch had returned with the snuffers.\n\n\'And good night to YOU, Mr Pinch,\' said Pecksniff. \'And sound sleep to\nyou both. Bless you! Bless you!\'\n\nInvoking this benediction on the heads of his young friends with great\nfervour, he withdrew to his own room; while they, being tired, soon fell\nasleep. If Martin dreamed at all, some clue to the matter of his visions\nmay possibly be gathered from the after-pages of this history. Those\nof Thomas Pinch were all of holidays, church organs, and seraphic\nPecksniffs. It was some time before Mr Pecksniff dreamed at all, or even\nsought his pillow, as he sat for full two hours before the fire in his\nown chamber, looking at the coals and thinking deeply. But he, too,\nslept and dreamed at last. Thus in the quiet hours of the night, one\nhouse shuts in as many incoherent and incongruous fancies as a madman\'s\nhead.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIX\n\nCOMPRISES, AMONG OTHER IMPORTANT MATTERS, PECKSNIFFIAN AND\nARCHITECTURAL, AND EXACT RELATION OF THE PROGRESS MADE BY MR PINCH IN\nTHE CONFIDENCE AND FRIENDSHIP OF THE NEW PUPIL\n\n\nIt was morning; and the beautiful Aurora, of whom so much hath been\nwritten, said, and sung, did, with her rosy fingers, nip and tweak Miss\nPecksniff\'s nose. It was the frolicsome custom of the Goddess, in her\nintercourse with the fair Cherry, so to do; or in more prosaic phrase,\nthe tip of that feature in the sweet girl\'s countenance was always\nvery red at breakfast-time. For the most part, indeed, it wore, at that\nseason of the day, a scraped and frosty look, as if it had been rasped;\nwhile a similar phenomenon developed itself in her humour, which was\nthen observed to be of a sharp and acid quality, as though an extra\nlemon (figuratively speaking) had been squeezed into the nectar of her\ndisposition, and had rather damaged its flavour.\n\nThis additional pungency on the part of the fair young creature led, on\nordinary occasions, to such slight consequences as the copious dilution\nof Mr Pinch\'s tea, or to his coming off uncommonly short in respect\nof butter, or to other the like results. But on the morning after the\nInstallation Banquet, she suffered him to wander to and fro among the\neatables and drinkables, a perfectly free and unchecked man; so utterly\nto Mr Pinch\'s wonder and confusion, that like the wretched captive who\nrecovered his liberty in his old age, he could make but little use of\nhis enlargement, and fell into a strange kind of flutter for want of\nsome kind hand to scrape his bread, and cut him off in the article of\nsugar with a lump, and pay him those other little attentions to which\nhe was accustomed. There was something almost awful, too, about the\nself-possession of the new pupil; who \'troubled\' Mr Pecksniff for the\nloaf, and helped himself to a rasher of that gentleman\'s own particular\nand private bacon, with all the coolness in life. He even seemed to\nthink that he was doing quite a regular thing, and to expect that Mr\nPinch would follow his example, since he took occasion to observe of\nthat young man \'that he didn\'t get on\'; a speech of so tremendous a\ncharacter, that Tom cast down his eyes involuntarily, and felt as if\nhe himself had committed some horrible deed and heinous breach of Mr\nPecksniff\'s confidence. Indeed, the agony of having such an indiscreet\nremark addressed to him before the assembled family, was breakfast\nenough in itself, and would, without any other matter of reflection,\nhave settled Mr Pinch\'s business and quenched his appetite, for one\nmeal, though he had been never so hungry.\n\nThe young ladies, however, and Mr Pecksniff likewise, remained in\nthe very best of spirits in spite of these severe trials, though with\nsomething of a mysterious understanding among themselves. When the meal\nwas nearly over, Mr Pecksniff smilingly explained the cause of their\ncommon satisfaction.\n\n\'It is not often,\' he said, \'Martin, that my daughters and I desert our\nquiet home to pursue the giddy round of pleasures that revolves abroad.\nBut we think of doing so to-day.\'\n\n\'Indeed, sir!\' cried the new pupil.\n\n\'Yes,\' said Mr Pecksniff, tapping his left hand with a letter which\nhe held in his right. \'I have a summons here to repair to London;\non professional business, my dear Martin; strictly on professional\nbusiness; and I promised my girls, long ago, that whenever that happened\nagain, they should accompany me. We shall go forth to-night by the\nheavy coach--like the dove of old, my dear Martin--and it will be a week\nbefore we again deposit our olive-branches in the passage. When I say\nolive-branches,\' observed Mr Pecksniff, in explanation, \'I mean, our\nunpretending luggage.\'\n\n\'I hope the young ladies will enjoy their trip,\' said Martin.\n\n\'Oh! that I\'m sure we shall!\' cried Mercy, clapping her hands. \'Good\ngracious, Cherry, my darling, the idea of London!\'\n\n\'Ardent child!\' said Mr Pecksniff, gazing on her in a dreamy way. \'And\nyet there is a melancholy sweetness in these youthful hopes! It is\npleasant to know that they never can be realised. I remember thinking\nonce myself, in the days of my childhood, that pickled onions grew on\ntrees, and that every elephant was born with an impregnable castle on\nhis back. I have not found the fact to be so; far from it; and yet those\nvisions have comforted me under circumstances of trial. Even when I have\nhad the anguish of discovering that I have nourished in my breast on\nostrich, and not a human pupil--even in that hour of agony, they have\nsoothed me.\'\n\nAt this dread allusion to John Westlock, Mr Pinch precipitately choked\nin his tea; for he had that very morning received a letter from him, as\nMr Pecksniff very well knew.\n\n\'You will take care, my dear Martin,\' said Mr Pecksniff, resuming his\nformer cheerfulness, \'that the house does not run away in our absence.\nWe leave you in charge of everything. There is no mystery; all is free\nand open. Unlike the young man in the Eastern tale--who is described as\na one-eyed almanac, if I am not mistaken, Mr Pinch?--\'\n\n\'A one-eyed calender, I think, sir,\' faltered Tom.\n\n\'They are pretty nearly the same thing, I believe,\' said Mr Pecksniff,\nsmiling compassionately; \'or they used to be in my time. Unlike that\nyoung man, my dear Martin, you are forbidden to enter no corner of this\nhouse; but are requested to make yourself perfectly at home in every\npart of it. You will be jovial, my dear Martin, and will kill the fatted\ncalf if you please!\'\n\nThere was not the least objection, doubtless, to the young man\'s\nslaughtering and appropriating to his own use any calf, fat or lean,\nthat he might happen to find upon the premises; but as no such animal\nchanced at that time to be grazing on Mr Pecksniff\'s estate, this\nrequest must be considered rather as a polite compliment that\na substantial hospitality. It was the finishing ornament of the\nconversation; for when he had delivered it, Mr Pecksniff rose and led\nthe way to that hotbed of architectural genius, the two-pair front.\n\n\'Let me see,\' he said, searching among the papers, \'how you can best\nemploy yourself, Martin, while I am absent. Suppose you were to give\nme your idea of a monument to a Lord Mayor of London; or a tomb for a\nsheriff; or your notion of a cow-house to be erected in a nobleman\'s\npark. Do you know, now,\' said Mr Pecksniff, folding his hands, and\nlooking at his young relation with an air of pensive interest, \'that I\nshould very much like to see your notion of a cow-house?\'\n\nBut Martin by no means appeared to relish this suggestion.\n\n\'A pump,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'is very chaste practice. I have found that\na lamp post is calculated to refine the mind and give it a classical\ntendency. An ornamental turnpike has a remarkable effect upon the\nimagination. What do you say to beginning with an ornamental turnpike?\'\n\n\'Whatever Mr Pecksniff pleased,\' said Martin, doubtfully.\n\n\'Stay,\' said that gentleman. \'Come! as you\'re ambitious, and are a very\nneat draughtsman, you shall--ha ha!--you shall try your hand on these\nproposals for a grammar-school; regulating your plan, of course, by the\nprinted particulars. Upon my word, now,\' said Mr Pecksniff, merrily, \'I\nshall be very curious to see what you make of the grammar-school.\nWho knows but a young man of your taste might hit upon something,\nimpracticable and unlikely in itself, but which I could put into shape?\nFor it really is, my dear Martin, it really is in the finishing touches\nalone, that great experience and long study in these matters tell. Ha,\nha, ha! Now it really will be,\' continued Mr Pecksniff, clapping his\nyoung friend on the back in his droll humour, \'an amusement to me, to\nsee what you make of the grammar-school.\'\n\nMartin readily undertook this task, and Mr Pecksniff forthwith proceeded\nto entrust him with the materials necessary for its execution; dwelling\nmeanwhile on the magical effect of a few finishing touches from the hand\nof a master; which, indeed, as some people said (and these were the\nold enemies again!) was unquestionably very surprising, and almost\nmiraculous; as there were cases on record in which the masterly\nintroduction of an additional back window, or a kitchen door, or\nhalf-a-dozen steps, or even a water spout, had made the design of a\npupil Mr Pecksniff\'s own work, and had brought substantial rewards into\nthat gentleman\'s pocket. But such is the magic of genius, which changes\nall it handles into gold!\n\n\'When your mind requires to be refreshed by change of occupation,\' said\nMr Pecksniff, \'Thomas Pinch will instruct you in the art of surveying\nthe back garden, or in ascertaining the dead level of the road between\nthis house and the finger-post, or in any other practical and pleasing\npursuit. There are a cart-load of loose bricks, and a score or two of\nold flower-pots, in the back yard. If you could pile them up my dear\nMartin, into any form which would remind me on my return say of St.\nPeter\'s at Rome, or the Mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople, it would\nbe at once improving to you and agreeable to my feelings. And now,\' said\nMr Pecksniff, in conclusion, \'to drop, for the present, our professional\nrelations and advert to private matters, I shall be glad to talk with\nyou in my own room, while I pack up my portmanteau.\'\n\nMartin attended him; and they remained in secret conference together for\nan hour or more; leaving Tom Pinch alone. When the young man returned,\nhe was very taciturn and dull, in which state he remained all day; so\nthat Tom, after trying him once or twice with indifferent conversation,\nfelt a delicacy in obtruding himself upon his thoughts, and said no\nmore.\n\nHe would not have had leisure to say much, had his new friend been ever\nso loquacious; for first of all Mr Pecksniff called him down to stand\nupon the top of his portmanteau and represent ancient statues there,\nuntil such time as it would consent to be locked; and then Miss Charity\ncalled him to come and cord her trunk; and then Miss Mercy sent for him\nto come and mend her box; and then he wrote the fullest possible cards\nfor all the luggage; and then he volunteered to carry it all downstairs;\nand after that to see it safely carried on a couple of barrows to the\nold finger-post at the end of the lane; and then to mind it till the\ncoach came up. In short, his day\'s work would have been a pretty heavy\none for a porter, but his thorough good-will made nothing of it; and as\nhe sat upon the luggage at last, waiting for the Pecksniffs, escorted by\nthe new pupil, to come down the lane, his heart was light with the hope\nof having pleased his benefactor.\n\n\'I was almost afraid,\' said Tom, taking a letter from his pocket and\nwiping his face, for he was hot with bustling about though it was a cold\nday, \'that I shouldn\'t have had time to write it, and that would have\nbeen a thousand pities; postage from such a distance being a serious\nconsideration, when one\'s not rich. She will be glad to see my hand,\npoor girl, and to hear that Pecksniff is as kind as ever. I would have\nasked John Westlock to call and see her, and tell her all about me by\nword of mouth, but I was afraid he might speak against Pecksniff to her,\nand make her uneasy. Besides, they are particular people where she is,\nand it might have rendered her situation uncomfortable if she had had a\nvisit from a young man like John. Poor Ruth!\'\n\nTom Pinch seemed a little disposed to be melancholy for half a minute or\nso, but he found comfort very soon, and pursued his ruminations thus:\n\n\'I\'m a nice man, I don\'t think, as John used to say (John was a kind,\nmerry-hearted fellow; I wish he had liked Pecksniff better), to be\nfeeling low, on account of the distance between us, when I ought to\nbe thinking, instead, of my extraordinary good luck in having ever got\nhere. I must have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I am sure,\nto have ever come across Pecksniff. And here have I fallen again into\nmy usual good luck with the new pupil! Such an affable, generous, free\nfellow, as he is, I never saw. Why, we were companions directly! and he\na relation of Pecksniff\'s too, and a clever, dashing youth who might cut\nhis way through the world as if it were a cheese! Here he comes while\nthe words are on my lips\' said Tom; \'walking down the lane as if the\nlane belonged to him.\'\n\nIn truth, the new pupil, not at all disconcerted by the honour of having\nMiss Mercy Pecksniff on his arm, or by the affectionate adieux of that\nyoung lady, approached as Mr Pinch spoke, followed by Miss Charity and\nMr Pecksniff. As the coach appeared at the same moment, Tom lost no time\nin entreating the gentleman last mentioned, to undertake the delivery of\nhis letter.\n\n\'Oh!\' said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the superscription. \'For your\nsister, Thomas. Yes, oh yes, it shall be delivered, Mr Pinch. Make your\nmind easy upon that score. She shall certainly have it, Mr Pinch.\'\n\nHe made the promise with so much condescension and patronage, that\nTom felt he had asked a great deal (this had not occurred to his mind\nbefore), and thanked him earnestly. The Miss Pecksniffs, according to\na custom they had, were amused beyond description at the mention of\nMr Pinch\'s sister. Oh the fright! The bare idea of a Miss Pinch! Good\nheavens!\n\nTom was greatly pleased to see them so merry, for he took it as a token\nof their favour, and good-humoured regard. Therefore he laughed too and\nrubbed his hands and wished them a pleasant journey and safe return,\nand was quite brisk. Even when the coach had rolled away with the\nolive-branches in the boot and the family of doves inside, he stood\nwaving his hand and bowing; so much gratified by the unusually courteous\ndemeanour of the young ladies, that he was quite regardless, for the\nmoment, of Martin Chuzzlewit, who stood leaning thoughtfully against\nthe finger-post, and who after disposing of his fair charge had hardly\nlifted his eyes from the ground.\n\nThe perfect silence which ensued upon the bustle and departure of the\ncoach, together with the sharp air of the wintry afternoon, roused them\nboth at the same time. They turned, as by mutual consent, and moved off\narm-in-arm.\n\n\'How melancholy you are!\' said Tom; \'what is the matter?\'\n\n\'Nothing worth speaking of,\' said Martin. \'Very little more than was\nthe matter yesterday, and much more, I hope, than will be the matter\nto-morrow. I\'m out of spirits, Pinch.\'\n\n\'Well,\' cried Tom, \'now do you know I am in capital spirits today, and\nscarcely ever felt more disposed to be good company. It was a very kind\nthing in your predecessor, John, to write to me, was it not?\'\n\n\'Why, yes,\' said Martin carelessly; \'I should have thought he would have\nhad enough to do to enjoy himself, without thinking of you, Pinch.\'\n\n\'Just what I felt to be so very likely,\' Tom rejoined; \'but no, he keeps\nhis word, and says, \"My dear Pinch, I often think of you,\" and all sorts\nof kind and considerate things of that description.\'\n\n\'He must be a devilish good-natured fellow,\' said Martin, somewhat\npeevishly: \'because he can\'t mean that, you know.\'\n\n\'I don\'t suppose he can, eh?\' said Tom, looking wistfully in his\ncompanion\'s face. \'He says so to please me, you think?\'\n\n\'Why, is it likely,\' rejoined Martin, with greater earnestness, \'that\na young man newly escaped from this kennel of a place, and fresh to all\nthe delights of being his own master in London, can have much leisure\nor inclination to think favourably of anything or anybody he has left\nbehind him here? I put it to you, Pinch, is it natural?\'\n\nAfter a short reflection, Mr Pinch replied, in a more subdued tone, that\nto be sure it was unreasonable to expect any such thing, and that he had\nno doubt Martin knew best.\n\n\'Of course I know best,\' Martin observed.\n\n\'Yes, I feel that,\' said Mr Pinch mildly. \'I said so.\' And when he had\nmade this rejoinder, they fell into a blank silence again, which lasted\nuntil they reached home; by which time it was dark.\n\nNow, Miss Charity Pecksniff, in consideration of the inconvenience of\ncarrying them with her in the coach, and the impossibility of preserving\nthem by artificial means until the family\'s return, had set forth, in a\ncouple of plates, the fragments of yesterday\'s feast. In virtue of which\nliberal arrangement, they had the happiness to find awaiting them in\nthe parlour two chaotic heaps of the remains of last night\'s pleasure,\nconsisting of certain filmy bits of oranges, some mummied sandwiches,\nvarious disrupted masses of the geological cake, and several entire\ncaptain\'s biscuits. That choice liquor in which to steep these dainties\nmight not be wanting, the remains of the two bottles of currant wine\nhad been poured together and corked with a curl-paper; so that every\nmaterial was at hand for making quite a heavy night of it.\n\nMartin Chuzzlewit beheld these roystering preparations with infinite\ncontempt, and stirring the fire into a blaze (to the great destruction\nof Mr Pecksniff\'s coals), sat moodily down before it, in the most\ncomfortable chair he could find. That he might the better squeeze\nhimself into the small corner that was left for him, Mr Pinch took up\nhis position on Miss Mercy Pecksniff\'s stool, and setting his glass down\nupon the hearthrug and putting his plate upon his knees, began to enjoy\nhimself.\n\nIf Diogenes coming to life again could have rolled himself, tub and all,\ninto Mr Pecksniff\'s parlour and could have seen Tom Pinch as he sat on\nMercy Pecksniff\'s stool with his plate and glass before him he could\nnot have faced it out, though in his surliest mood, but must have\nsmiled good-temperedly. The perfect and entire satisfaction of Tom; his\nsurpassing appreciation of the husky sandwiches, which crumbled in his\nmouth like saw-dust; the unspeakable relish with which he swallowed the\nthin wine by drops, and smacked his lips, as though it were so rich and\ngenerous that to lose an atom of its fruity flavour were a sin; the look\nwith which he paused sometimes, with his glass in his hand, proposing\nsilent toasts to himself; and the anxious shade that came upon his\ncontented face when, after wandering round the room, exulting in\nits uninvaded snugness, his glance encountered the dull brow of his\ncompanion; no cynic in the world, though in his hatred of its men a very\ngriffin, could have withstood these things in Thomas Pinch.\n\nSome men would have slapped him on the back, and pledged him in a bumper\nof the currant wine, though it had been the sharpest vinegar--aye, and\nliked its flavour too; some would have seized him by his honest hand,\nand thanked him for the lesson that his simple nature taught them. Some\nwould have laughed with, and others would have laughed at him; of which\nlast class was Martin Chuzzlewit, who, unable to restrain himself, at\nlast laughed loud and long.\n\n\'That\'s right,\' said Tom, nodding approvingly. \'Cheer up! That\'s\ncapital!\'\n\nAt which encouragement young Martin laughed again; and said, as soon as\nhe had breath and gravity enough:\n\n\'I never saw such a fellow as you are, Pinch.\'\n\n\'Didn\'t you though?\' said Tom. \'Well, it\'s very likely you do find me\nstrange, because I have hardly seen anything of the world, and you have\nseen a good deal I dare say?\'\n\n\'Pretty well for my time of life,\' rejoined Martin, drawing his chair\nstill nearer to the fire, and spreading his feet out on the fender.\n\'Deuce take it, I must talk openly to somebody. I\'ll talk openly to you,\nPinch.\'\n\n\'Do!\' said Tom. \'I shall take it as being very friendly of you,\'\n\n\'I\'m not in your way, am I?\' inquired Martin, glancing down at Mr Pinch,\nwho was by this time looking at the fire over his leg.\n\n\'Not at all!\' cried Tom.\n\n\'You must know then, to make short of a long story,\' said Martin,\nbeginning with a kind of effort, as if the revelation were not\nagreeable to him; \'that I have been bred up from childhood with great\nexpectations, and have always been taught to believe that I should be,\none day, very rich. So I should have been, but for certain brief\nreasons which I am going to tell you, and which have led to my being\ndisinherited.\'\n\n\'By your father?\' inquired Mr Pinch, with open eyes.\n\n\'By my grandfather. I have had no parents these many years. Scarcely\nwithin my remembrance.\'\n\n\'Neither have I,\' said Tom, touching the young man\'s hand with his own\nand timidly withdrawing it again. \'Dear me!\'\n\n\'Why, as to that, you know, Pinch,\' pursued the other, stirring the fire\nagain, and speaking in his rapid, off-hand way; \'it\'s all very right\nand proper to be fond of parents when we have them, and to bear them in\nremembrance after they\'re dead, if you have ever known anything of them.\nBut as I never did know anything about mine personally, you know, why, I\ncan\'t be expected to be very sentimental about \'em. And I am not; that\'s\nthe truth.\'\n\nMr Pinch was just then looking thoughtfully at the bars. But on\nhis companion pausing in this place, he started, and said \'Oh! of\ncourse\'--and composed himself to listen again.\n\n\'In a word,\' said Martin, \'I have been bred and reared all my life by\nthis grandfather of whom I have just spoken. Now, he has a great many\ngood points--there is no doubt about that; I\'ll not disguise the fact\nfrom you--but he has two very great faults, which are the staple of his\nbad side. In the first place, he has the most confirmed obstinacy of\ncharacter you ever met with in any human creature. In the second, he is\nmost abominably selfish.\'\n\n\'Is he indeed?\' cried Tom.\n\n\'In those two respects,\' returned the other, \'there never was such a\nman. I have often heard from those who know, that they have been, time\nout of mind, the failings of our family; and I believe there\'s some\ntruth in it. But I can\'t say of my own knowledge. All I have to do, you\nknow, is to be very thankful that they haven\'t descended to me, and, to\nbe very careful that I don\'t contract \'em.\'\n\n\'To be sure,\' said Mr Pinch. \'Very proper.\'\n\n\'Well, sir,\' resumed Martin, stirring the fire once more, and drawing\nhis chair still closer to it, \'his selfishness makes him exacting,\nyou see; and his obstinacy makes him resolute in his exactions. The\nconsequence is that he has always exacted a great deal from me in the\nway of respect, and submission, and self-denial when his wishes were in\nquestion, and so forth. I have borne a great deal from him, because I\nhave been under obligations to him (if one can ever be said to be under\nobligations to one\'s own grandfather), and because I have been really\nattached to him; but we have had a great many quarrels for all that, for\nI could not accommodate myself to his ways very often--not out of the\nleast reference to myself, you understand, but because--\' he stammered\nhere, and was rather at a loss.\n\nMr Pinch being about the worst man in the world to help anybody out of a\ndifficulty of this sort, said nothing.\n\n\'Well! as you understand me,\' resumed Martin, quickly, \'I needn\'t hunt\nfor the precise expression I want. Now I come to the cream of my story,\nand the occasion of my being here. I am in love, Pinch.\'\n\nMr Pinch looked up into his face with increased interest.\n\n\'I say I am in love. I am in love with one of the most beautiful girls\nthe sun ever shone upon. But she is wholly and entirely dependent upon\nthe pleasure of my grandfather; and if he were to know that she favoured\nmy passion, she would lose her home and everything she possesses in the\nworld. There is nothing very selfish in THAT love, I think?\'\n\n\'Selfish!\' cried Tom. \'You have acted nobly. To love her as I am sure\nyou do, and yet in consideration for her state of dependence, not even\nto disclose--\'\n\n\'What are you talking about, Pinch?\' said Martin pettishly: \'don\'t\nmake yourself ridiculous, my good fellow! What do you mean by not\ndisclosing?\'\n\n\'I beg your pardon,\' answered Tom. \'I thought you meant that, or I\nwouldn\'t have said it.\'\n\n\'If I didn\'t tell her I loved her, where would be the use of my being in\nlove?\' said Martin: \'unless to keep myself in a perpetual state of worry\nand vexation?\'\n\n\'That\'s true,\' Tom answered. \'Well! I can guess what SHE said when you\ntold her,\' he added, glancing at Martin\'s handsome face.\n\n\'Why, not exactly, Pinch,\' he rejoined, with a slight frown; \'because\nshe has some girlish notions about duty and gratitude, and all the rest\nof it, which are rather hard to fathom; but in the main you are right.\nHer heart was mine, I found.\'\n\n\'Just what I supposed,\' said Tom. \'Quite natural!\' and, in his great\nsatisfaction, he took a long sip out of his wine-glass.\n\n\'Although I had conducted myself from the first with the utmost\ncircumspection,\' pursued Martin, \'I had not managed matters so well but\nthat my grandfather, who is full of jealousy and distrust, suspected me\nof loving her. He said nothing to her, but straightway attacked me\nin private, and charged me with designing to corrupt the fidelity to\nhimself (there you observe his selfishness), of a young creature whom\nhe had trained and educated to be his only disinterested and faithful\ncompanion, when he should have disposed of me in marriage to his heart\'s\ncontent. Upon that, I took fire immediately, and told him that with his\ngood leave I would dispose of myself in marriage, and would rather\nnot be knocked down by him or any other auctioneer to any bidder\nwhomsoever.\'\n\nMr Pinch opened his eyes wider, and looked at the fire harder than he\nhad done yet.\n\n\'You may be sure,\' said Martin, \'that this nettled him, and that he\nbegan to be the very reverse of complimentary to myself. Interview\nsucceeded interview; words engendered words, as they always do; and the\nupshot of it was, that I was to renounce her, or be renounced by him.\nNow you must bear in mind, Pinch, that I am not only desperately fond\nof her (for though she is poor, her beauty and intellect would reflect\ngreat credit on anybody, I don\'t care of what pretensions who might\nbecome her husband), but that a chief ingredient in my composition is a\nmost determined--\'\n\n\'Obstinacy,\' suggested Tom in perfect good faith. But the suggestion was\nnot so well received as he had expected; for the young man immediately\nrejoined, with some irritation,\n\n\'What a fellow you are, Pinch!\'\n\n\'I beg your pardon,\' said Tom, \'I thought you wanted a word.\'\n\n\'I didn\'t want that word,\' he rejoined. \'I told you obstinacy was no\npart of my character, did I not? I was going to say, if you had given\nme leave, that a chief ingredient in my composition is a most determined\nfirmness.\'\n\n\'Oh!\' cried Tom, screwing up his mouth, and nodding. \'Yes, yes; I see!\'\n\n\'And being firm,\' pursued Martin, \'of course I was not going to yield to\nhim, or give way by so much as the thousandth part of an inch.\'\n\n\'No, no,\' said Tom.\n\n\'On the contrary, the more he urged, the more I was determined to oppose\nhim.\'\n\n\'To be sure!\' said Tom.\n\n\'Very well,\' rejoined Martin, throwing himself back in his chair, with\na careless wave of both hands, as if the subject were quite settled, and\nnothing more could be said about it--\'There is an end of the matter, and\nhere am I!\'\n\nMr Pinch sat staring at the fire for some minutes with a puzzled look,\nsuch as he might have assumed if some uncommonly difficult conundrum had\nbeen proposed, which he found it impossible to guess. At length he said:\n\n\'Pecksniff, of course, you had known before?\'\n\n\'Only by name. No, I had never seen him, for my grandfather kept not\nonly himself but me, aloof from all his relations. But our separation\ntook place in a town in the adjoining country. From that place I came to\nSalisbury, and there I saw Pecksniff\'s advertisement, which I answered,\nhaving always had some natural taste, I believe, in the matters to which\nit referred, and thinking it might suit me. As soon as I found it to be\nhis, I was doubly bent on coming to him if possible, on account of his\nbeing--\'\n\n\'Such an excellent man,\' interposed Tom, rubbing his hands: \'so he is.\nYou were quite right.\'\n\n\'Why, not so much on that account, if the truth must be spoken,\'\nreturned Martin, \'as because my grandfather has an inveterate dislike to\nhim, and after the old man\'s arbitrary treatment of me, I had a natural\ndesire to run as directly counter to all his opinions as I could. Well!\nAs I said before, here I am. My engagement with the young lady I have\nbeen telling you about is likely to be a tolerably long one; for neither\nher prospects nor mine are very bright; and of course I shall not think\nof marrying until I am well able to do so. It would never do, you know,\nfor me to be plunging myself into poverty and shabbiness and love in one\nroom up three pair of stairs, and all that sort of thing.\'\n\n\'To say nothing of her,\' remarked Tom Pinch, in a low voice.\n\n\'Exactly so,\' rejoined Martin, rising to warm his back, and leaning\nagainst the chimney-piece. \'To say nothing of her. At the same time,\nof course it\'s not very hard upon her to be obliged to yield to the\nnecessity of the case; first, because she loves me very much; and\nsecondly, because I have sacrificed a great deal on her account, and\nmight have done much better, you know.\'\n\nIt was a very long time before Tom said \'Certainly;\' so long, that he\nmight have taken a nap in the interval, but he did say it at last.\n\n\'Now, there is one odd coincidence connected with this love-story,\' said\nMartin, \'which brings it to an end. You remember what you told me last\nnight as we were coming here, about your pretty visitor in the church?\'\n\n\'Surely I do,\' said Tom, rising from his stool, and seating himself in\nthe chair from which the other had lately risen, that he might see his\nface. \'Undoubtedly.\'\n\n\'That was she.\'\n\n\'I knew what you were going to say,\' cried Tom, looking fixedly at him,\nand speaking very softly. \'You don\'t tell me so?\'\n\n\'That was she,\' repeated the young man. \'After what I have heard\nfrom Pecksniff, I have no doubt that she came and went with my\ngrandfather.--Don\'t you drink too much of that sour wine, or you\'ll have\na fit of some sort, Pinch, I see.\'\n\n\'It is not very wholesome, I am afraid,\' said Tom, setting down the\nempty glass he had for some time held. \'So that was she, was it?\'\n\nMartin nodded assent; and adding, with a restless impatience, that if\nhe had been a few days earlier he would have seen her; and that now she\nmight be, for anything he knew, hundreds of miles away; threw himself,\nafter a few turns across the room, into a chair, and chafed like a\nspoilt child.\n\nTom Pinch\'s heart was very tender, and he could not bear to see the\nmost indifferent person in distress; still less one who had awakened\nan interest in him, and who regarded him (either in fact, or as he\nsupposed) with kindness, and in a spirit of lenient construction.\nWhatever his own thoughts had been a few moments before--and to judge\nfrom his face they must have been pretty serious--he dismissed them\ninstantly, and gave his young friend the best counsel and comfort that\noccurred to him.\n\n\'All will be well in time,\' said Tom, \'I have no doubt; and some trial\nand adversity just now will only serve to make you more attached to each\nother in better days. I have always read that the truth is so, and I\nhave a feeling within me, which tells me how natural and right it is\nthat it should be. That never ran smooth yet,\' said Tom, with a smile\nwhich, despite the homeliness of his face, was pleasanter to see than\nmany a proud beauty\'s brightest glance; \'what never ran smooth yet, can\nhardly be expected to change its character for us; so we must take it as\nwe find it, and fashion it into the very best shape we can, by patience\nand good-humour. I have no power at all; I needn\'t tell you that; but I\nhave an excellent will; and if I could ever be of use to you, in any way\nwhatever, how very glad I should be!\'\n\n\'Thank you,\' said Martin, shaking his hand. \'You\'re a good fellow, upon\nmy word, and speak very kindly. Of course you know,\' he added, after a\nmoment\'s pause, as he drew his chair towards the fire again, \'I should\nnot hesitate to avail myself of your services if you could help me at\nall; but mercy on us!\'--Here he rumpled his hair impatiently with his\nhand, and looked at Tom as if he took it rather ill that he was not\nsomebody else--\'you might as well be a toasting-fork or a frying-pan,\nPinch, for any help you can render me.\'\n\n\'Except in the inclination,\' said Tom, gently.\n\n\'Oh! to be sure. I meant that, of course. If inclination went for\nanything, I shouldn\'t want help. I tell you what you may do, though, if\nyou will, and at the present moment too.\'\n\n\'What is that?\' demanded Tom.\n\n\'Read to me.\'\n\n\'I shall be delighted,\' cried Tom, catching up the candle with\nenthusiasm. \'Excuse my leaving you in the dark a moment, and I\'ll fetch\na book directly. What will you like? Shakespeare?\'\n\n\'Aye!\' replied his friend, yawning and stretching himself. \'He\'ll do. I\nam tired with the bustle of to-day, and the novelty of everything about\nme; and in such a case, there\'s no greater luxury in the world, I think,\nthan being read to sleep. You won\'t mind my going to sleep, if I can?\'\n\n\'Not at all!\' cried Tom.\n\n\'Then begin as soon as you like. You needn\'t leave off when you see\nme getting drowsy (unless you feel tired), for it\'s pleasant to wake\ngradually to the sounds again. Did you ever try that?\'\n\n\'No, I never tried that,\' said Tom\n\n\'Well! You can, you know, one of these days when we\'re both in the right\nhumour. Don\'t mind leaving me in the dark. Look sharp!\'\n\nMr Pinch lost no time in moving away; and in a minute or two returned\nwith one of the precious volumes from the shelf beside his bed. Martin\nhad in the meantime made himself as comfortable as circumstances would\npermit, by constructing before the fire a temporary sofa of three chairs\nwith Mercy\'s stool for a pillow, and lying down at full-length upon it.\n\n\'Don\'t be too loud, please,\' he said to Pinch.\n\n\'No, no,\' said Tom.\n\n\'You\'re sure you\'re not cold\'\n\n\'Not at all!\' cried Tom.\n\n\'I am quite ready, then.\'\n\nMr Pinch accordingly, after turning over the leaves of his book with as\nmuch care as if they were living and highly cherished creatures, made\nhis own selection, and began to read. Before he had completed fifty\nlines his friend was snoring.\n\n\'Poor fellow!\' said Tom, softly, as he stretched out his head to peep\nat him over the backs of the chairs. \'He is very young to have so much\ntrouble. How trustful and generous in him to bestow all this confidence\nin me. And that was she, was it?\'\n\nBut suddenly remembering their compact, he took up the poem at the place\nwhere he had left off, and went on reading; always forgetting to snuff\nthe candle, until its wick looked like a mushroom. He gradually became\nso much interested, that he quite forgot to replenish the fire; and was\nonly reminded of his neglect by Martin Chuzzlewit starting up after the\nlapse of an hour or so, and crying with a shiver.\n\n\'Why, it\'s nearly out, I declare! No wonder I dreamed of being frozen.\nDo call for some coals. What a fellow you are, Pinch!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\nIN WHICH MR CHEVY SLYME ASSERTS THE INDEPENDENCE OF HIS SPIRIT, AND THE\nBLUE DRAGON LOSES A LIMB\n\n\nMartin began to work at the grammar-school next morning, with so much\nvigour and expedition, that Mr Pinch had new reason to do homage to\nthe natural endowments of that young gentleman, and to acknowledge\nhis infinite superiority to himself. The new pupil received Tom\'s\ncompliments very graciously; and having by this time conceived a real\nregard for him, in his own peculiar way, predicted that they would\nalways be the very best of friends, and that neither of them, he was\ncertain (but particularly Tom), would ever have reason to regret the day\non which they became acquainted. Mr Pinch was delighted to hear him say\nthis, and felt so much flattered by his kind assurances of friendship\nand protection, that he was at a loss how to express the pleasure they\nafforded him. And indeed it may be observed of this friendship, such as\nit was, that it had within it more likely materials of endurance than\nmany a sworn brotherhood that has been rich in promise; for so long as\nthe one party found a pleasure in patronizing, and the other in\nbeing patronised (which was in the very essence of their respective\ncharacters), it was of all possible events among the least probable,\nthat the twin demons, Envy and Pride, would ever arise between them. So\nin very many cases of friendship, or what passes for it, the old axiom\nis reversed, and like clings to unlike more than to like.\n\nThey were both very busy on the afternoon succeeding the family\'s\ndeparture--Martin with the grammar-school, and Tom in balancing certain\nreceipts of rents, and deducting Mr Pecksniff\'s commission from the\nsame; in which abstruse employment he was much distracted by a habit his\nnew friend had of whistling aloud while he was drawing--when they were\nnot a little startled by the unexpected obtrusion into that sanctuary of\ngenius, of a human head which, although a shaggy and somewhat alarming\nhead in appearance, smiled affably upon them from the doorway, in\na manner that was at once waggish, conciliatory, and expressive of\napprobation.\n\n\'I am not industrious myself, gents both,\' said the head, \'but I know\nhow to appreciate that quality in others. I wish I may turn grey\nand ugly, if it isn\'t in my opinion, next to genius, one of the very\ncharmingest qualities of the human mind. Upon my soul, I am grateful\nto my friend Pecksniff for helping me to the contemplation of such\na delicious picture as you present. You remind me of Whittington,\nafterwards thrice Lord Mayor of London. I give you my unsullied word of\nhonour, that you very strongly remind me of that historical character.\nYou are a pair of Whittingtons, gents, without the cat; which is a most\nagreeable and blessed exception to me, for I am not attached to the\nfeline species. My name is Tigg; how do you do?\'\n\nMartin looked to Mr Pinch for an explanation; and Tom, who had never in\nhis life set eyes on Mr Tigg before, looked to that gentleman himself.\n\n\'Chevy Slyme?\' said Mr Tigg, interrogatively, and kissing his left hand\nin token of friendship. \'You will understand me when I say that I am the\naccredited agent of Chevy Slyme; that I am the ambassador from the court\nof Chiv? Ha ha!\'\n\n\'Heyday!\' asked Martin, starting at the mention of a name he knew.\n\'Pray, what does he want with me?\'\n\n\'If your name is Pinch\'--Mr Tigg began.\n\n\'It is not\' said Martin, checking himself. \'That is Mr Pinch.\'\n\n\'If that is Mr Pinch,\' cried Tigg, kissing his hand again, and beginning\nto follow his head into the room, \'he will permit me to say that I\ngreatly esteem and respect his character, which has been most highly\ncommended to me by my friend Pecksniff; and that I deeply appreciate his\ntalent for the organ, notwithstanding that I do not, if I may use the\nexpression, grind myself. If that is Mr Pinch, I will venture to express\na hope that I see him well, and that he is suffering no inconvenience\nfrom the easterly wind?\'\n\n\'Thank you,\' said Tom. \'I am very well.\'\n\n\'That is a comfort,\' Mr Tigg rejoined. \'Then,\' he added, shielding his\nlips with the palm of his hand, and applying them close to Mr Pinch\'s\near, \'I have come for the letter.\'\n\n\'For the letter,\' said Tom, aloud. \'What letter?\'\n\n\'The letter,\' whispered Tigg in the same cautious manner as before,\n\'which my friend Pecksniff addressed to Chevy Slyme, Esquire, and left\nwith you.\'\n\n\'He didn\'t leave any letter with me,\' said Tom.\n\n\'Hush!\' cried the other. \'It\'s all the same thing, though not so\ndelicately done by my friend Pecksniff as I could have wished. The\nmoney.\'\n\n\'The money!\' cried Tom quite scared.\n\n\'Exactly so,\' said Mr Tigg. With which he rapped Tom twice or thrice\nupon the breast and nodded several times, as though he would say that he\nsaw they understood each other; that it was unnecessary to mention\nthe circumstance before a third person; and that he would take it as a\nparticular favour if Tom would slip the amount into his hand, as quietly\nas possible.\n\nMr Pinch, however, was so very much astounded by this (to him)\ninexplicable deportment, that he at once openly declared there must be\nsome mistake, and that he had been entrusted with no commission whatever\nhaving any reference to Mr Tigg or to his friend, either. Mr Tigg\nreceived this declaration with a grave request that Mr Pinch would have\nthe goodness to make it again; and on Tom\'s repeating it in a still more\nemphatic and unmistakable manner, checked it off, sentence for sentence,\nby nodding his head solemnly at the end of each. When it had come to\na close for the second time, Mr Tigg sat himself down in a chair and\naddressed the young men as follows:\n\n\'Then I tell you what it is, gents both. There is at this present moment\nin this very place, a perfect constellation of talent and genius, who is\ninvolved, through what I cannot but designate as the culpable negligence\nof my friend Pecksniff, in a situation as tremendous, perhaps, as the\nsocial intercourse of the nineteenth century will readily admit\nof. There is actually at this instant, at the Blue Dragon in this\nvillage--an ale-house, observe; a common, paltry, low-minded,\nclodhopping, pipe-smoking ale-house--an individual, of whom it may be\nsaid, in the language of the Poet, that nobody but himself can in any\nway come up to him; who is detained there for his bill. Ha! ha! For his\nbill. I repeat it--for his bill. Now,\' said Mr Tigg, \'we have heard\nof Fox\'s Book of Martyrs, I believe, and we have heard of the Court of\nRequests, and the Star Chamber; but I fear the contradiction of no man\nalive or dead, when I assert that my friend Chevy Slyme being held\nin pawn for a bill, beats any amount of cockfighting with which I am\nacquainted.\'\n\nMartin and Mr Pinch looked, first at each other, and afterwards at Mr\nTigg, who with his arms folded on his breast surveyed them, half in\ndespondency and half in bitterness.\n\n\'Don\'t mistake me, gents both,\' he said, stretching forth his right\nhand. \'If it had been for anything but a bill, I could have borne it,\nand could still have looked upon mankind with some feeling of respect;\nbut when such a man as my friend Slyme is detained for a score--a thing\nin itself essentially mean; a low performance on a slate, or possibly\nchalked upon the back of a door--I do feel that there is a screw of\nsuch magnitude loose somewhere, that the whole framework of society\nis shaken, and the very first principles of things can no longer be\ntrusted. In short, gents both,\' said Mr Tigg with a passionate flourish\nof his hands and head, \'when a man like Slyme is detained for such\na thing as a bill, I reject the superstitions of ages, and believe\nnothing. I don\'t even believe that I DON\'T believe, curse me if I do!\'\n\n\'I am very sorry, I am sure,\' said Tom after a pause, \'but Mr\nPecksniff said nothing to me about it, and I couldn\'t act without his\ninstructions. Wouldn\'t it be better, sir, if you were to go to--to\nwherever you came from--yourself, and remit the money to your friend?\'\n\n\'How can that be done, when I am detained also?\' said Mr Tigg; \'and when\nmoreover, owing to the astounding, and I must add, guilty negligence of\nmy friend Pecksniff, I have no money for coach-hire?\'\n\nTom thought of reminding the gentleman (who, no doubt, in his agitation\nhad forgotten it) that there was a post-office in the land; and that\npossibly if he wrote to some friend or agent for a remittance it might\nnot be lost upon the road; or at all events that the chance, however\ndesperate, was worth trusting to. But, as his good-nature presently\nsuggested to him certain reasons for abstaining from this hint, he\npaused again, and then asked:\n\n\'Did you say, sir, that you were detained also?\'\n\n\'Come here,\' said Mr Tigg, rising. \'You have no objection to my opening\nthis window for a moment?\'\n\n\'Certainly not,\' said Tom.\n\n\'Very good,\' said Mr Tigg, lifting the sash. \'You see a fellow down\nthere in a red neckcloth and no waistcoat?\'\n\n\'Of course I do,\' cried Tom. \'That\'s Mark Tapley.\'\n\n\'Mark Tapley is it?\' said the gentleman. \'Then Mark Tapley had not only\nthe great politeness to follow me to this house, but is waiting now, to\nsee me home again. And for that attention, sir,\' added Mr Tigg, stroking\nhis moustache, \'I can tell you, that Mark Tapley had better in his\ninfancy have been fed to suffocation by Mrs Tapley, than preserved to\nthis time.\'\n\nMr Pinch was not so dismayed by this terrible threat, but that he had\nvoice enough to call to Mark to come in, and upstairs; a summons which\nhe so speedily obeyed, that almost as soon as Tom and Mr Tigg had drawn\nin their heads and closed the window again, he, the denounced, appeared\nbefore them.\n\n\'Come here, Mark!\' said Mr Pinch. \'Good gracious me! what\'s the matter\nbetween Mrs Lupin and this gentleman?\'\n\n\'What gentleman, sir?\' said Mark. \'I don\'t see no gentleman here sir,\nexcepting you and the new gentleman,\' to whom he made a rough kind of\nbow--\'and there\'s nothing wrong between Mrs Lupin and either of you, Mr\nPinch, I am sure.\'\n\n\'Nonsense, Mark!\' cried Tom. \'You see Mr--\'\n\n\'Tigg,\' interposed that gentleman. \'Wait a bit. I shall crush him soon.\nAll in good time!\'\n\n\'Oh HIM!\' rejoined Mark, with an air of careless defiance. \'Yes, I see\nHIM. I could see him a little better, if he\'d shave himself, and get his\nhair cut.\'\n\nMr Tigg shook his head with a ferocious look, and smote himself once\nupon the breast.\n\n\'It\'s no use,\' said Mark. \'If you knock ever so much in that quarter,\nyou\'ll get no answer. I know better. There\'s nothing there but padding;\nand a greasy sort it is.\'\n\n\'Nay, Mark,\' urged Mr Pinch, interposing to prevent hostilities, \'tell\nme what I ask you. You\'re not out of temper, I hope?\'\n\n\'Out of temper, sir!\' cried Mark, with a grin; \'why no, sir. There\'s\na little credit--not much--in being jolly, when such fellows as him is\na-going about like roaring lions; if there is any breed of lions, at\nleast, as is all roar and mane. What is there between him and Mrs Lupin,\nsir? Why, there\'s a score between him and Mrs Lupin. And I think Mrs\nLupin lets him and his friend off very easy in not charging \'em double\nprices for being a disgrace to the Dragon. That\'s my opinion. I wouldn\'t\nhave any such Peter the Wild Boy as him in my house, sir, not if I was\npaid race-week prices for it. He\'s enough to turn the very beer in\nthe casks sour with his looks; he is! So he would, if it had judgment\nenough.\'\n\n\'You\'re not answering my question, you know, Mark,\' observed Mr Pinch.\n\n\'Well, sir,\' said Mark, \'I don\'t know as there\'s much to answer further\nthan that. Him and his friend goes and stops at the Moon and Stars till\nthey\'ve run a bill there; and then comes and stops with us and does the\nsame. The running of bills is common enough Mr Pinch; it an\'t that as\nwe object to; it\'s the ways of this chap. Nothing\'s good enough for him;\nall the women is dying for him he thinks, and is overpaid if he winks at\n\'em; and all the men was made to be ordered about by him. This not being\naggravation enough, he says this morning to me, in his usual captivating\nway, \"We\'re going to-night, my man.\" \"Are you, sir?\" says I. \"Perhaps\nyou\'d like the bill got ready, sir?\" \"Oh no, my man,\" he says; \"you\nneedn\'t mind that. I\'ll give Pecksniff orders to see to that.\" In reply\nto which, the Dragon makes answer, \"Thankee, sir, you\'re very kind to\nhonour us so far, but as we don\'t know any particular good of you, and\nyou don\'t travel with luggage, and Mr Pecksniff an\'t at home (which\nperhaps you mayn\'t happen to be aware of, sir), we should prefer\nsomething more satisfactory;\" and that\'s where the matter stands. And I\nask,\' said Mr Tapley, pointing, in conclusion, to Mr Tigg, with his hat,\n\'any lady or gentleman, possessing ordinary strength of mind, to say\nwhether he\'s a disagreeable-looking chap or not!\'\n\n\'Let me inquire,\' said Martin, interposing between this candid speech\nand the delivery of some blighting anathema by Mr Tigg, \'what the amount\nof this debt may be?\'\n\n\'In point of money, sir, very little,\' answered Mark. \'Only just turned\nof three pounds. But it an\'t that; it\'s the--\'\n\n\'Yes, yes, you told us so before,\' said Martin. \'Pinch, a word with\nyou.\'\n\n\'What is it?\' asked Tom, retiring with him to a corner of the room.\n\n\'Why, simply--I am ashamed to say--that this Mr Slyme is a relation of\nmine, of whom I never heard anything pleasant; and that I don\'t want him\nhere just now, and think he would be cheaply got rid of, perhaps, for\nthree or four pounds. You haven\'t enough money to pay this bill, I\nsuppose?\'\n\nTom shook his head to an extent that left no doubt of his entire\nsincerity.\n\n\'That\'s unfortunate, for I am poor too; and in case you had had it, I\'d\nhave borrowed it of you. But if we told this landlady we would see her\npaid, I suppose that would answer the same purpose?\'\n\n\'Oh dear, yes!\' said Tom. \'She knows me, bless you!\'\n\n\'Then let us go down at once and tell her so; for the sooner we are rid\nof their company the better. As you have conducted the conversation with\nthis gentleman hitherto, perhaps you\'ll tell him what we purpose doing;\nwill you?\'\n\nMr Pinch, complying, at once imparted the intelligence to Mr Tigg, who\nshook him warmly by the hand in return, assuring him that his faith in\nanything and everything was again restored. It was not so much, he said,\nfor the temporary relief of this assistance that he prized it, as for\nits vindication of the high principle that Nature\'s Nobs felt with\nNature\'s Nobs, and that true greatness of soul sympathized with true\ngreatness of soul, all the world over. It proved to him, he said, that\nlike him they admired genius, even when it was coupled with the alloy\noccasionally visible in the metal of his friend Slyme; and on behalf\nof that friend, he thanked them; as warmly and heartily as if the\ncause were his own. Being cut short in these speeches by a general move\ntowards the stairs, he took possession at the street door of the lapel\nof Mr Pinch\'s coat, as a security against further interruption; and\nentertained that gentleman with some highly improving discourse until\nthey reached the Dragon, whither they were closely followed by Mark and\nthe new pupil.\n\nThe rosy hostess scarcely needed Mr Pinch\'s word as a preliminary to\nthe release of her two visitors, of whom she was glad to be rid on\nany terms; indeed, their brief detention had originated mainly with\nMr Tapley, who entertained a constitutional dislike to gentleman\nout-at-elbows who flourished on false pretences; and had conceived a\nparticular aversion to Mr Tigg and his friend, as choice specimens of\nthe species. The business in hand thus easily settled, Mr Pinch and\nMartin would have withdrawn immediately, but for the urgent entreaties\nof Mr Tigg that they would allow him the honour of presenting them\nto his friend Slyme, which were so very difficult of resistance that,\nyielding partly to these persuasions and partly to their own curiosity,\nthey suffered themselves to be ushered into the presence of that\ndistinguished gentleman.\n\nHe was brooding over the remains of yesterday\'s decanter of brandy, and\nwas engaged in the thoughtful occupation of making a chain of rings on\nthe top of the table with the wet foot of his drinking-glass. Wretched\nand forlorn as he looked, Mr Slyme had once been in his way, the\nchoicest of swaggerers; putting forth his pretensions boldly, as a\nman of infinite taste and most undoubted promise. The stock-in-trade\nrequisite to set up an amateur in this department of business is very\nslight, and easily got together; a trick of the nose and a curl of the\nlip sufficient to compound a tolerable sneer, being ample provision for\nany exigency. But, in an evil hour, this off-shoot of the Chuzzlewit\ntrunk, being lazy, and ill qualified for any regular pursuit and having\ndissipated such means as he ever possessed, had formally established\nhimself as a professor of Taste for a livelihood; and finding, too late,\nthat something more than his old amount of qualifications was necessary\nto sustain him in this calling, had quickly fallen to his present level,\nwhere he retained nothing of his old self but his boastfulness and his\nbile, and seemed to have no existence separate or apart from his friend\nTigg. And now so abject and so pitiful was he--at once so maudlin,\ninsolent, beggarly, and proud--that even his friend and parasite,\nstanding erect beside him, swelled into a Man by contrast.\n\n\'Chiv,\' said Mr Tigg, clapping him on the back, \'my friend Pecksniff not\nbeing at home, I have arranged our trifling piece of business with Mr\nPinch and friend. Mr Pinch and friend, Mr Chevy Slyme! Chiv, Mr Pinch\nand friend!\'\n\n\'These are agreeable circumstances in which to be introduced to\nstrangers,\' said Chevy Slyme, turning his bloodshot eyes towards Tom\nPinch. \'I am the most miserable man in the world, I believe!\'\n\nTom begged he wouldn\'t mention it; and finding him in this condition,\nretired, after an awkward pause, followed by Martin. But Mr Tigg so\nurgently conjured them, by coughs and signs, to remain in the shadow of\nthe door, that they stopped there.\n\n\'I swear,\' cried Mr Slyme, giving the table an imbecile blow with his\nfist, and then feebly leaning his head upon his hand, while some drunken\ndrops oozed from his eyes, \'that I am the wretchedest creature on\nrecord. Society is in a conspiracy against me. I\'m the most literary\nman alive. I\'m full of scholarship. I\'m full of genius; I\'m full of\ninformation; I\'m full of novel views on every subject; yet look at my\ncondition! I\'m at this moment obliged to two strangers for a tavern\nbill!\'\n\nMr Tigg replenished his friend\'s glass, pressed it into his hand, and\nnodded an intimation to the visitors that they would see him in a better\naspect immediately.\n\n\'Obliged to two strangers for a tavern bill, eh!\' repeated Mr Slyme,\nafter a sulky application to his glass. \'Very pretty! And crowds of\nimpostors, the while, becoming famous; men who are no more on a level\nwith me than--Tigg, I take you to witness that I am the most persecuted\nhound on the face of the earth.\'\n\nWith a whine, not unlike the cry of the animal he named, in its lowest\nstate of humiliation, he raised his glass to his mouth again. He found\nsome encouragement in it; for when he set it down he laughed scornfully.\nUpon that Mr Tigg gesticulated to the visitors once more, and with great\nexpression, implying that now the time was come when they would see Chiv\nin his greatness.\n\n\'Ha, ha, ha,\' laughed Mr Slyme. \'Obliged to two strangers for a tavern\nbill! Yet I think I\'ve a rich uncle, Tigg, who could buy up the uncles\nof fifty strangers! Have I, or have I not? I come of a good family,\nI believe! Do I, or do I not? I\'m not a man of common capacity or\naccomplishments, I think! Am I, or am I not?\'\n\n\'You are the American aloe of the human race, my dear Chiv,\' said Mr\nTigg, \'which only blooms once in a hundred years!\'\n\n\'Ha, ha, ha!\' laughed Mr Slyme again. \'Obliged to two strangers for\na tavern bill! I obliged to two architect\'s apprentices. Fellows who\nmeasure earth with iron chains, and build houses like bricklayers. Give\nme the names of those two apprentices. How dare they oblige me!\'\n\nMr Tigg was quite lost in admiration of this noble trait in his friend\'s\ncharacter; as he made known to Mr Pinch in a neat little ballet of\naction, spontaneously invented for the purpose.\n\n\'I\'ll let \'em know, and I\'ll let all men know,\' cried Chevy Slyme,\n\'that I\'m none of the mean, grovelling, tame characters they meet with\ncommonly. I have an independent spirit. I have a heart that swells in my\nbosom. I have a soul that rises superior to base considerations.\'\n\n\'Oh Chiv, Chiv,\' murmured Mr Tigg, \'you have a nobly independent nature,\nChiv!\'\n\n\'You go and do your duty, sir,\' said Mr Slyme, angrily, \'and borrow\nmoney for travelling expenses; and whoever you borrow it of, let \'em\nknow that I possess a haughty spirit, and a proud spirit, and have\ninfernally finely-touched chords in my nature, which won\'t brook\npatronage. Do you hear? Tell \'em I hate \'em, and that that\'s the way\nI preserve my self-respect; and tell \'em that no man ever respected\nhimself more than I do!\'\n\nHe might have added that he hated two sorts of men; all those who did\nhim favours, and all those who were better off than himself; as in\neither case their position was an insult to a man of his stupendous\nmerits. But he did not; for with the apt closing words above recited, Mr\nSlyme; of too haughty a stomach to work, to beg, to borrow, or to steal;\nyet mean enough to be worked or borrowed, begged or stolen for, by any\ncatspaw that would serve his turn; too insolent to lick the hand that\nfed him in his need, yet cur enough to bite and tear it in the dark;\nwith these apt closing words Mr Slyme fell forward with his head upon\nthe table, and so declined into a sodden sleep.\n\n\'Was there ever,\' cried Mr Tigg, joining the young men at the door,\nand shutting it carefully behind him, \'such an independent spirit as is\npossessed by that extraordinary creature? Was there ever such a Roman as\nour friend Chiv? Was there ever a man of such a purely classical turn of\nthought, and of such a toga-like simplicity of nature? Was there ever a\nman with such a flow of eloquence? Might he not, gents both, I ask, have\nsat upon a tripod in the ancient times, and prophesied to a perfectly\nunlimited extent, if previously supplied with gin-and-water at the\npublic cost?\'\n\nMr Pinch was about to contest this latter position with his usual\nmildness, when, observing that his companion had already gone\ndownstairs, he prepared to follow him.\n\n\'You are not going, Mr Pinch?\' said Tigg.\n\n\'Thank you,\' answered Tom. \'Yes. Don\'t come down.\'\n\n\'Do you know that I should like one little word in private with you Mr\nPinch?\' said Tigg, following him. \'One minute of your company in the\nskittle-ground would very much relieve my mind. Might I beseech that\nfavour?\'\n\n\'Oh, certainly,\' replied Tom, \'if you really wish it.\' So he accompanied\nMr Tigg to the retreat in question; on arriving at which place that\ngentleman took from his hat what seemed to be the fossil remains of an\nantediluvian pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his eyes therewith.\n\n\'You have not beheld me this day,\' said Mr Tigg, \'in a favourable\nlight.\'\n\n\'Don\'t mention that,\' said Tom, \'I beg.\'\n\n\'But you have NOT,\' cried Tigg. \'I must persist in that opinion. If you\ncould have seen me, Mr Pinch, at the head of my regiment on the coast\nof Africa, charging in the form of a hollow square, with the women and\nchildren and the regimental plate-chest in the centre, you would not\nhave known me for the same man. You would have respected me, sir.\'\n\nTom had certain ideas of his own upon the subject of glory; and\nconsequently he was not quite so much excited by this picture as Mr Tigg\ncould have desired.\n\n\'But no matter!\' said that gentleman. \'The school-boy writing home to\nhis parents and describing the milk-and-water, said \"This is indeed\nweakness.\" I repeat that assertion in reference to myself at the present\nmoment; and I ask your pardon. Sir, you have seen my friend Slyme?\'\n\n\'No doubt,\' said Mr Pinch.\n\n\'Sir, you have been impressed by my friend Slyme?\'\n\n\'Not very pleasantly, I must say,\' answered Tom, after a little\nhesitation.\n\n\'I am grieved but not surprised,\' cried Mr Tigg, detaining him with both\nhands, \'to hear that you have come to that conclusion; for it is my own.\nBut, Mr Pinch, though I am a rough and thoughtless man, I can honour\nMind. I honour Mind in following my friend. To you of all men, Mr Pinch,\nI have a right to make appeal on Mind\'s behalf, when it has not the art\nto push its fortune in the world. And so, sir--not for myself, who have\nno claim upon you, but for my crushed, my sensitive and independent\nfriend, who has--I ask the loan of three half-crowns. I ask you for the\nloan of three half-crowns, distinctly, and without a blush. I ask it,\nalmost as a right. And when I add that they will be returned by post,\nthis week, I feel that you will blame me for that sordid stipulation.\'\n\nMr Pinch took from his pocket an old-fashioned red-leather purse with\na steel clasp, which had probably once belonged to his deceased\ngrandmother. It held one half-sovereign and no more. All Tom\'s worldly\nwealth until next quarter-day.\n\n\'Stay!\' cried Mr Tigg, who had watched this proceeding keenly. \'I was\njust about to say, that for the convenience of posting you had better\nmake it gold. Thank you. A general direction, I suppose, to Mr Pinch at\nMr Pecksniff\'s--will that find you?\'\n\n\'That\'ll find me,\' said Tom. \'You had better put Esquire to Mr\nPecksniff\'s name, if you please. Direct to me, you know, at Seth\nPecksniff\'s, Esquire.\'\n\n\'At Seth Pecksniff\'s, Esquire,\' repeated Mr Tigg, taking an exact note\nof it with a stump of pencil. \'We said this week, I believe?\'\n\n\'Yes; or Monday will do,\' observed Tom.\n\n\'No, no, I beg your pardon. Monday will NOT do,\' said Mr Tigg. \'If we\nstipulated for this week, Saturday is the latest day. Did we stipulate\nfor this week?\'\n\n\'Since you are so particular about it,\' said Tom, \'I think we did.\'\n\nMr Tigg added this condition to his memorandum; read the entry over to\nhimself with a severe frown; and that the transaction might be the more\ncorrect and business-like, appended his initials to the whole. That\ndone, he assured Mr Pinch that everything was now perfectly regular;\nand, after squeezing his hand with great fervour, departed.\n\nTom entertained enough suspicion that Martin might possibly turn this\ninterview into a jest, to render him desirous to avoid the company of\nthat young gentleman for the present. With this view he took a few turns\nup and down the skittle-ground, and did not re-enter the house until\nMr Tigg and his friend had quitted it, and the new pupil and Mark were\nwatching their departure from one of the windows.\n\n\'I was just a-saying, sir, that if one could live by it,\' observed Mark,\npointing after their late guests, \'that would be the sort of service\nfor me. Waiting on such individuals as them would be better than\ngrave-digging, sir.\'\n\n\'And staying here would be better than either, Mark,\' replied Tom. \'So\ntake my advice, and continue to swim easily in smooth water.\'\n\n\'It\'s too late to take it now, sir,\' said Mark. \'I have broke it to her,\nsir. I am off to-morrow morning.\'\n\n\'Off!\' cried Mr Pinch, \'where to?\'\n\n\'I shall go up to London, sir.\'\n\n\'What to be?\' asked Mr Pinch.\n\n\'Well! I don\'t know yet, sir. Nothing turned up that day I opened my\nmind to you, as was at all likely to suit me. All them trades I thought\nof was a deal too jolly; there was no credit at all to be got in any\nof \'em. I must look for a private service, I suppose, sir. I might be\nbrought out strong, perhaps, in a serious family, Mr Pinch.\'\n\n\'Perhaps you might come out rather too strong for a serious family\'s\ntaste, Mark.\'\n\n\'That\'s possible, sir. If I could get into a wicked family, I might\ndo myself justice; but the difficulty is to make sure of one\'s ground,\nbecause a young man can\'t very well advertise that he wants a place, and\nwages an\'t so much an object as a wicked sitivation; can he, sir?\'\n\n\'Why, no,\' said Mr Pinch, \'I don\'t think he can.\'\n\n\'An envious family,\' pursued Mark, with a thoughtful face; \'or a\nquarrelsome family, or a malicious family, or even a good out-and-out\nmean family, would open a field of action as I might do something in.\nThe man as would have suited me of all other men was that old gentleman\nas was took ill here, for he really was a trying customer. Howsever, I\nmust wait and see what turns up, sir; and hope for the worst.\'\n\n\'You are determined to go then?\' said Mr Pinch.\n\n\'My box is gone already, sir, by the waggon, and I\'m going to walk on\nto-morrow morning, and get a lift by the day coach when it overtakes me.\nSo I wish you good-bye, Mr Pinch--and you too, sir--and all good luck\nand happiness!\'\n\nThey both returned his greeting laughingly, and walked home arm-in-arm.\nMr Pinch imparting to his new friend, as they went, such further\nparticulars of Mark Tapley\'s whimsical restlessness as the reader is\nalready acquainted with.\n\nIn the meantime Mark, having a shrewd notion that his mistress was\nin very low spirits, and that he could not exactly answer for the\nconsequences of any lengthened TETE-A-TETE in the bar, kept himself\nobstinately out of her way all the afternoon and evening. In this piece\nof generalship he was very much assisted by the great influx of company\ninto the taproom; for the news of his intention having gone abroad,\nthere was a perfect throng there all the evening, and much drinking of\nhealths and clinking of mugs. At length the house was closed for the\nnight; and there being now no help for it, Mark put the best face he\ncould upon the matter, and walked doggedly to the bar-door.\n\n\'If I look at her,\' said Mark to himself, \'I\'m done. I feel that I\'m\na-going fast.\'\n\n\'You have come at last,\' said Mrs Lupin.\n\nAye, Mark said: There he was.\n\n\'And you are determined to leave us, Mark?\' cried Mrs Lupin.\n\n\'Why, yes; I am,\' said Mark; keeping his eyes hard upon the floor.\n\n\'I thought,\' pursued the landlady, with a most engaging hesitation,\n\'that you had been--fond--of the Dragon?\'\n\n\'So I am,\' said Mark.\n\n\'Then,\' pursued the hostess--and it really was not an unnatural\ninquiry--\'why do you desert it?\'\n\nBut as he gave no manner of answer to this question; not even on\nits being repeated; Mrs Lupin put his money into his hand, and asked\nhim--not unkindly, quite the contrary--what he would take?\n\nIt is proverbial that there are certain things which flesh and blood\ncannot bear. Such a question as this, propounded in such a manner, at\nsuch a time, and by such a person, proved (at least, as far as, Mark\'s\nflesh and blood were concerned) to be one of them. He looked up in spite\nof himself directly; and having once looked up, there was no\nlooking down again; for of all the tight, plump, buxom, bright-eyed,\ndimple-faced landladies that ever shone on earth, there stood before him\nthen, bodily in that bar, the very pink and pineapple.\n\n\'Why, I tell you what,\' said Mark, throwing off all his constraint in an\ninstant and seizing the hostess round the waist--at which she was not at\nall alarmed, for she knew what a good young man he was--\'if I took what\nI liked most, I should take you. If I only thought what was best for me,\nI should take you. If I took what nineteen young fellows in twenty would\nbe glad to take, and would take at any price, I should take you. Yes,\nI should,\' cried Mr Tapley, shaking his head expressively enough, and\nlooking (in a momentary state of forgetfulness) rather hard at the\nhostess\'s ripe lips. \'And no man wouldn\'t wonder if I did!\'\n\nMrs Lupin said he amazed her. She was astonished how he could say such\nthings. She had never thought it of him.\n\n\'Why, I never thought if of myself till now!\' said Mark, raising his\neyebrows with a look of the merriest possible surprise. \'I always\nexpected we should part, and never have no explanation; I meant to do it\nwhen I come in here just now; but there\'s something about you, as makes\na man sensible. Then let us have a word or two together; letting it be\nunderstood beforehand,\' he added this in a grave tone, to prevent the\npossibility of any mistake, \'that I\'m not a-going to make no love, you\nknow.\'\n\nThere was for just one second a shade, though not by any means a dark\none, on the landlady\'s open brow. But it passed off instantly, in a\nlaugh that came from her very heart.\n\n\'Oh, very good!\' she said; \'if there is to be no love-making, you had\nbetter take your arm away.\'\n\n\'Lord, why should I!\' cried Mark. \'It\'s quite innocent.\'\n\n\'Of course it\'s innocent,\' returned the hostess, \'or I shouldn\'t allow\nit.\'\n\n\'Very well!\' said Mark. \'Then let it be.\'\n\nThere was so much reason in this that the landlady laughed again,\nsuffered it to remain, and bade him say what he had to say, and be quick\nabout it. But he was an impudent fellow, she added.\n\n\'Ha ha! I almost think I am!\' cried Mark, \'though I never thought so\nbefore. Why, I can say anything to-night!\'\n\n\'Say what you\'re going to say if you please, and be quick,\' returned the\nlandlady, \'for I want to get to bed.\'\n\n\'Why, then, my dear good soul,\' said Mark, \'and a kinder woman than you\nare never drawed breath--let me see the man as says she did!--what would\nbe the likely consequence of us two being--\'\n\n\'Oh nonsense!\' cried Mrs Lupin. \'Don\'t talk about that any more.\'\n\n\'No, no, but it an\'t nonsense,\' said Mark; \'and I wish you\'d attend.\nWhat would be the likely consequence of us two being married? If I can\'t\nbe content and comfortable in this here lively Dragon now, is it to be\nlooked for as I should be then? By no means. Very good. Then you, even\nwith your good humour, would be always on the fret and worrit, always\nuncomfortable in your own mind, always a-thinking as you was getting too\nold for my taste, always a-picturing me to yourself as being chained\nup to the Dragon door, and wanting to break away. I don\'t know that it\nwould be so,\' said Mark, \'but I don\'t know that it mightn\'t be. I am a\nroving sort of chap, I know. I\'m fond of change. I\'m always a-thinking\nthat with my good health and spirits it would be more creditable in me\nto be jolly where there\'s things a-going on to make one dismal. It may\nbe a mistake of mine you see, but nothing short of trying how it acts\nwill set it right. Then an\'t it best that I should go; particular when\nyour free way has helped me out to say all this, and we can part as\ngood friends as we have ever been since first I entered this here noble\nDragon, which,\' said Mr Tapley in conclusion, \'has my good word and my\ngood wish to the day of my death!\'\n\nThe hostess sat quite silent for a little time, but she very soon put\nboth her hands in Mark\'s and shook them heartily.\n\n\'For you are a good man,\' she said; looking into his face with a smile,\nwhich was rather serious for her. \'And I do believe have been a better\nfriend to me to-night than ever I have had in all my life.\'\n\n\'Oh! as to that, you know,\' said Mark, \'that\'s nonsense. But love my\nheart alive!\' he added, looking at her in a sort of rapture, \'if you ARE\nthat way disposed, what a lot of suitable husbands there is as you may\ndrive distracted!\'\n\nShe laughed again at this compliment; and, once more shaking him by both\nhands, and bidding him, if he should ever want a friend, to remember\nher, turned gayly from the little bar and up the Dragon staircase.\n\n\'Humming a tune as she goes,\' said Mark, listening, \'in case I should\nthink she\'s at all put out, and should be made down-hearted. Come,\nhere\'s some credit in being jolly, at last!\'\n\nWith that piece of comfort, very ruefully uttered, he went, in anything\nbut a jolly manner, to bed.\n\nHe rose early next morning, and was a-foot soon after sunrise. But it\nwas of no use; the whole place was up to see Mark Tapley off; the boys,\nthe dogs, the children, the old men, the busy people and the idlers;\nthere they were, all calling out \'Good-b\'ye, Mark,\' after their own\nmanner, and all sorry he was going. Somehow he had a kind of sense that\nhis old mistress was peeping from her chamber-window, but he couldn\'t\nmake up his mind to look back.\n\n\'Good-b\'ye one, good-b\'ye all!\' cried Mark, waving his hat on the top\nof his walking-stick, as he strode at a quick pace up the little street.\n\'Hearty chaps them wheelwrights--hurrah! Here\'s the butcher\'s dog\na-coming out of the garden--down, old fellow! And Mr Pinch a-going to\nhis organ--good-b\'ye, sir! And the terrier-bitch from over the way--hie,\nthen, lass! And children enough to hand down human natur to the latest\nposterity--good-b\'ye, boys and girls! There\'s some credit in it now. I\'m\na-coming out strong at last. These are the circumstances that would try\na ordinary mind; but I\'m uncommon jolly. Not quite as jolly as I could\nwish to be, but very near. Good-b\'ye! good-b\'ye!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\nACCOMPANIES MR PECKSNIFF AND HIS CHARMING DAUGHTERS TO THE CITY OF\nLONDON; AND RELATES WHAT FELL OUT UPON THEIR WAY THITHER\n\n\nWhen Mr Pecksniff and the two young ladies got into the heavy coach at\nthe end of the lane, they found it empty, which was a great comfort;\nparticularly as the outside was quite full and the passengers looked\nvery frosty. For as Mr Pecksniff justly observed--when he and his\ndaughters had burrowed their feet deep in the straw, wrapped themselves\nto the chin, and pulled up both windows--it is always satisfactory to\nfeel, in keen weather, that many other people are not as warm as\nyou are. And this, he said, was quite natural, and a very beautiful\narrangement; not confined to coaches, but extending itself into many\nsocial ramifications. \'For\' (he observed), \'if every one were warm and\nwell-fed, we should lose the satisfaction of admiring the fortitude with\nwhich certain conditions of men bear cold and hunger. And if we were\nno better off than anybody else, what would become of our sense of\ngratitude; which,\' said Mr Pecksniff with tears in his eyes, as he shook\nhis fist at a beggar who wanted to get up behind, \'is one of the holiest\nfeelings of our common nature.\'\n\nHis children heard with becoming reverence these moral precepts from the\nlips of their father, and signified their acquiescence in the same, by\nsmiles. That he might the better feed and cherish that sacred flame of\ngratitude in his breast, Mr Pecksniff remarked that he would trouble\nhis eldest daughter, even in this early stage of their journey, for the\nbrandy-bottle. And from the narrow neck of that stone vessel he imbibed\na copious refreshment.\n\n\'What are we?\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'but coaches? Some of us are slow\ncoaches\'--\n\n\'Goodness, Pa!\' cried Charity.\n\n\'Some of us, I say,\' resumed her parent with increased emphasis, \'are\nslow coaches; some of us are fast coaches. Our passions are the horses;\nand rampant animals too--!\'\n\n\'Really, Pa,\' cried both the daughters at once. \'How very unpleasant.\'\n\n\'And rampant animals too\' repeated Mr Pecksniff with so much\ndetermination, that he may be said to have exhibited, at the moment a\nsort of moral rampancy himself;\'--and Virtue is the drag. We start from\nThe Mother\'s Arms, and we run to The Dust Shovel.\'\n\nWhen he had said this, Mr Pecksniff, being exhausted, took some further\nrefreshment. When he had done that, he corked the bottle tight, with the\nair of a man who had effectually corked the subject also; and went to\nsleep for three stages.\n\nThe tendency of mankind when it falls asleep in coaches, is to wake up\ncross; to find its legs in its way; and its corns an aggravation.\nMr Pecksniff not being exempt from the common lot of humanity found\nhimself, at the end of his nap, so decidedly the victim of these\ninfirmities, that he had an irresistible inclination to visit them upon\nhis daughters; which he had already begun to do in the shape of divers\nrandom kicks, and other unexpected motions of his shoes, when the coach\nstopped, and after a short delay the door was opened.\n\n\'Now mind,\' said a thin sharp voice in the dark. \'I and my son go\ninside, because the roof is full, but you agree only to charge us\noutside prices. It\'s quite understood that we won\'t pay more. Is it?\'\n\n\'All right, sir,\' replied the guard.\n\n\'Is there anybody inside now?\' inquired the voice.\n\n\'Three passengers,\' returned the guard.\n\n\'Then I ask the three passengers to witness this bargain, if they will\nbe so good,\' said the voice. \'My boy, I think we may safely get in.\'\n\nIn pursuance of which opinion, two people took their seats in the\nvehicle, which was solemnly licensed by Act of Parliament to carry any\nsix persons who could be got in at the door.\n\n\'That was lucky!\' whispered the old man, when they moved on again. \'And\na great stroke of policy in you to observe it. He, he, he! We couldn\'t\nhave gone outside. I should have died of the rheumatism!\'\n\nWhether it occurred to the dutiful son that he had in some degree\nover-reached himself by contributing to the prolongation of his father\'s\ndays; or whether the cold had effected his temper; is doubtful. But he\ngave his father such a nudge in reply, that that good old gentleman\nwas taken with a cough which lasted for full five minutes without\nintermission, and goaded Mr Pecksniff to that pitch of irritation, that\nhe said at last--and very suddenly:\n\n\'There is no room! There is really no room in this coach for any\ngentleman with a cold in his head!\'\n\n\'Mine,\' said the old man, after a moment\'s pause, \'is upon my chest,\nPecksniff.\'\n\nThe voice and manner, together, now that he spoke out; the composure of\nthe speaker; the presence of his son; and his knowledge of Mr Pecksniff;\nafforded a clue to his identity which it was impossible to mistake.\n\n\'Hem! I thought,\' said Mr Pecksniff, returning to his usual mildness,\n\'that I addressed a stranger. I find that I address a relative, Mr\nAnthony Chuzzlewit and his son Mr Jonas--for they, my dear children,\nare our travelling companions--will excuse me for an apparently harsh\nremark. It is not MY desire to wound the feelings of any person with\nwhom I am connected in family bonds. I may be a Hypocrite,\' said Mr\nPecksniff, cuttingly; \'but I am not a Brute.\'\n\n\'Pooh, pooh!\' said the old man. \'What signifies that word, Pecksniff?\nHypocrite! why, we are all hypocrites. We were all hypocrites t\'other\nday. I am sure I felt that to be agreed upon among us, or I shouldn\'t\nhave called you one. We should not have been there at all, if we had not\nbeen hypocrites. The only difference between you and the rest was--shall\nI tell you the difference between you and the rest now, Pecksniff?\'\n\n\'If you please, my good sir; if you please.\'\n\n\'Why, the annoying quality in YOU, is,\' said the old man, \'that you\nnever have a confederate or partner in YOUR juggling; you would deceive\neverybody, even those who practise the same art; and have a way with\nyou, as if you--he, he, he!--as if you really believed yourself. I\'d\nlay a handsome wager now,\' said the old man, \'if I laid wagers, which\nI don\'t and never did, that you keep up appearances by a tacit\nunderstanding, even before your own daughters here. Now I, when I have\na business scheme in hand, tell Jonas what it is, and we discuss it\nopenly. You\'re not offended, Pecksniff?\'\n\n\'Offended, my good sir!\' cried that gentleman, as if he had received the\nhighest compliments that language could convey.\n\n\'Are you travelling to London, Mr Pecksniff?\' asked the son.\n\n\'Yes, Mr Jonas, we are travelling to London. We shall have the pleasure\nof your company all the way, I trust?\'\n\n\'Oh! ecod, you had better ask father that,\' said Jonas. \'I am not\na-going to commit myself.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff was, as a matter of course, greatly entertained by this\nretort. His mirth having subsided, Mr Jonas gave him to understand\nthat himself and parent were in fact travelling to their home in the\nmetropolis; and that, since the memorable day of the great family\ngathering, they had been tarrying in that part of the country, watching\nthe sale of certain eligible investments, which they had had in their\ncopartnership eye when they came down; for it was their custom, Mr Jonas\nsaid, whenever such a thing was practicable, to kill two birds with one\nstone, and never to throw away sprats, but as bait for whales. When he\nhad communicated to Mr Pecksniff these pithy scraps of intelligence,\nhe said, \'That if it was all the same to him, he would turn him over\nto father, and have a chat with the gals;\' and in furtherance of\nthis polite scheme, he vacated his seat adjoining that gentleman, and\nestablished himself in the opposite corner, next to the fair Miss Mercy.\n\nThe education of Mr Jonas had been conducted from his cradle on the\nstrictest principles of the main chance. The very first word he learnt\nto spell was \'gain,\' and the second (when he got into two syllables),\n\'money.\' But for two results, which were not clearly foreseen perhaps by\nhis watchful parent in the beginning, his training may be said to have\nbeen unexceptionable. One of these flaws was, that having been long\ntaught by his father to over-reach everybody, he had imperceptibly\nacquired a love of over-reaching that venerable monitor himself.\nThe other, that from his early habits of considering everything as a\nquestion of property, he had gradually come to look, with impatience,\non his parent as a certain amount of personal estate, which had no\nright whatever to be going at large, but ought to be secured in that\nparticular description of iron safe which is commonly called a coffin,\nand banked in the grave.\n\n\'Well, cousin!\' said Mr Jonas--\'Because we ARE cousins, you know, a few\ntimes removed--so you\'re going to London?\'\n\nMiss Mercy replied in the affirmative, pinching her sister\'s arm at the\nsame time, and giggling excessively.\n\n\'Lots of beaux in London, cousin!\' said Mr Jonas, slightly advancing his\nelbow.\n\n\'Indeed, sir!\' cried the young lady. \'They won\'t hurt us, sir, I dare\nsay.\' And having given him this answer with great demureness she was so\novercome by her own humour, that she was fain to stifle her merriment in\nher sister\'s shawl.\n\n\'Merry,\' cried that more prudent damsel, \'really I am ashamed of you.\nHow can you go on so? You wild thing!\' At which Miss Merry only laughed\nthe more, of course.\n\n\'I saw a wildness in her eye, t\'other day,\' said Mr Jonas, addressing\nCharity. \'But you\'re the one to sit solemn! I say--You were regularly\nprim, cousin!\'\n\n\'Oh! The old-fashioned fright!\' cried Merry, in a whisper. \'Cherry my\ndear, upon my word you must sit next him. I shall die outright if he\ntalks to me any more; I shall, positively!\' To prevent which fatal\nconsequence, the buoyant creature skipped out of her seat as she spoke,\nand squeezed her sister into the place from which she had risen.\n\n\'Don\'t mind crowding me,\' cried Mr Jonas. \'I like to be crowded by gals.\nCome a little closer, cousin.\'\n\n\'No, thank you, sir,\' said Charity.\n\n\'There\'s that other one a-laughing again,\' said Mr Jonas; \'she\'s\na-laughing at my father, I shouldn\'t wonder. If he puts on that old\nflannel nightcap of his, I don\'t know what she\'ll do! Is that my father\na-snoring, Pecksniff?\'\n\n\'Yes, Mr Jonas.\'\n\n\'Tread upon his foot, will you be so good?\' said the young gentleman.\n\'The foot next you\'s the gouty one.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff hesitating to perform this friendly office, Mr Jonas did it\nhimself; at the same time crying:\n\n\'Come, wake up, father, or you\'ll be having the nightmare, and\nscreeching out, I know.--Do you ever have the nightmare, cousin?\' he\nasked his neighbour, with characteristic gallantry, as he dropped his\nvoice again.\n\n\'Sometimes,\' answered Charity. \'Not often.\'\n\n\'The other one,\' said Mr Jonas, after a pause. \'Does SHE ever have the\nnightmare?\'\n\n\'I don\'t know,\' replied Charity. \'You had better ask her.\'\n\n\'She laughs so,\' said Jonas; \'there\'s no talking to her. Only hark how\nshe\'s a-going on now! You\'re the sensible one, cousin!\'\n\n\'Tut, tut!\' cried Charity.\n\n\'Oh! But you are! You know you are!\'\n\n\'Mercy is a little giddy,\' said Miss Charity. But she\'ll sober down in\ntime.\'\n\n\'It\'ll be a very long time, then, if she does at all,\' rejoined her\ncousin. \'Take a little more room.\'\n\n\'I am afraid of crowding you,\' said Charity. But she took it\nnotwithstanding; and after one or two remarks on the extreme heaviness\nof the coach, and the number of places it stopped at, they fell into\na silence which remained unbroken by any member of the party until\nsupper-time.\n\nAlthough Mr Jonas conducted Charity to the hotel and sat himself beside\nher at the board, it was pretty clear that he had an eye to \'the other\none\' also, for he often glanced across at Mercy, and seemed to draw\ncomparisons between the personal appearance of the two, which were not\nunfavourable to the superior plumpness of the younger sister. He allowed\nhimself no great leisure for this kind of observation, however, being\nbusily engaged with the supper, which, as he whispered in his fair\ncompanion\'s ear, was a contract business, and therefore the more she\nate, the better the bargain was. His father and Mr Pecksniff, probably\nacting on the same wise principle, demolished everything that came\nwithin their reach, and by that means acquired a greasy expression of\ncountenance, indicating contentment, if not repletion, which it was very\npleasant to contemplate.\n\nWhen they could eat no more, Mr Pecksniff and Mr Jonas subscribed for\ntwo sixpenny-worths of hot brandy-and-water, which the latter gentleman\nconsidered a more politic order than one shillingsworth; there being\na chance of their getting more spirit out of the innkeeper under this\narrangement than if it were all in one glass. Having swallowed his share\nof the enlivening fluid, Mr Pecksniff, under pretence of going to see if\nthe coach were ready, went secretly to the bar, and had his own little\nbottle filled, in order that he might refresh himself at leisure in the\ndark coach without being observed.\n\nThese arrangements concluded, and the coach being ready, they got into\ntheir old places and jogged on again. But before he composed himself\nfor a nap, Mr Pecksniff delivered a kind of grace after meat, in these\nwords:\n\n\'The process of digestion, as I have been informed by anatomical\nfriends, is one of the most wonderful works of nature. I do not know\nhow it may be with others, but it is a great satisfaction to me to know,\nwhen regaling on my humble fare, that I am putting in motion the most\nbeautiful machinery with which we have any acquaintance. I really feel\nat such times as if I was doing a public service. When I have wound\nmyself up, if I may employ such a term,\' said Mr Pecksniff with\nexquisite tenderness, \'and know that I am Going, I feel that in the\nlesson afforded by the works within me, I am a Benefactor to my Kind!\'\n\nAs nothing could be added to this, nothing was said; and Mr Pecksniff,\nexulting, it may be presumed, in his moral utility, went to sleep again.\n\nThe rest of the night wore away in the usual manner. Mr Pecksniff\nand Old Anthony kept tumbling against each other and waking up much\nterrified, or crushed their heads in opposite corners of the coach and\nstrangely tattooed the surface of their faces--Heaven knows how--in\ntheir sleep. The coach stopped and went on, and went on and stopped,\ntimes out of number. Passengers got up and passengers got down, and\nfresh horses came and went and came again, with scarcely any interval\nbetween each team as it seemed to those who were dozing, and with a gap\nof a whole night between every one as it seemed to those who were broad\nawake. At length they began to jolt and rumble over horribly uneven\nstones, and Mr Pecksniff looking out of window said it was to-morrow\nmorning, and they were there.\n\nVery soon afterwards the coach stopped at the office in the city; and\nthe street in which it was situated was already in a bustle, that fully\nbore out Mr Pecksniff\'s words about its being morning, though for any\nsigns of day yet appearing in the sky it might have been midnight. There\nwas a dense fog too; as if it were a city in the clouds, which they had\nbeen travelling to all night up a magic beanstalk; and there was a thick\ncrust upon the pavement like oilcake; which, one of the outsides (mad,\nno doubt) said to another (his keeper, of course), was Snow.\n\nTaking a confused leave of Anthony and his son, and leaving the luggage\nof himself and daughters at the office to be called for afterwards, Mr\nPecksniff, with one of the young ladies under each arm, dived across the\nstreet, and then across other streets, and so up the queerest courts,\nand down the strangest alleys and under the blindest archways, in a kind\nof frenzy; now skipping over a kennel, now running for his life from a\ncoach and horses; now thinking he had lost his way, now thinking he had\nfound it; now in a state of the highest confidence, now despondent to\nthe last degree, but always in a great perspiration and flurry; until at\nlength they stopped in a kind of paved yard near the Monument. That is\nto say, Mr Pecksniff told them so; for as to anything they could see\nof the Monument, or anything else but the buildings close at hand, they\nmight as well have been playing blindman\'s buff at Salisbury.\n\nMr Pecksniff looked about him for a moment, and then knocked at the\ndoor of a very dingy edifice, even among the choice collection of dingy\nedifices at hand; on the front of which was a little oval board like\na tea-tray, with this inscription--\'Commercial Boarding-House: M.\nTodgers.\'\n\nIt seemed that M. Todgers was not up yet, for Mr Pecksniff knocked twice\nand rang thrice, without making any impression on anything but a dog\nover the way. At last a chain and some bolts were withdrawn with a rusty\nnoise, as if the weather had made the very fastenings hoarse, and a\nsmall boy with a large red head, and no nose to speak of, and a very\ndirty Wellington boot on his left arm, appeared; who (being surprised)\nrubbed the nose just mentioned with the back of a shoe-brush, and said\nnothing.\n\n\'Still a-bed my man?\' asked Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'Still a-bed!\' replied the boy. \'I wish they wos still a-bed. They\'re\nvery noisy a-bed; all calling for their boots at once. I thought you\nwas the Paper, and wondered why you didn\'t shove yourself through the\ngrating as usual. What do you want?\'\n\nConsidering his years, which were tender, the youth may be said to have\npreferred this question sternly, and in something of a defiant manner.\nBut Mr Pecksniff, without taking umbrage at his bearing put a card\nin his hand, and bade him take that upstairs, and show them in the\nmeanwhile into a room where there was a fire.\n\n\'Or if there\'s one in the eating parlour,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'I can\nfind it myself.\' So he led his daughters, without waiting for any\nfurther introduction, into a room on the ground-floor, where a\ntable-cloth (rather a tight and scanty fit in reference to the table it\ncovered) was already spread for breakfast; displaying a mighty dish of\npink boiled beef; an instance of that particular style of loaf which\nis known to housekeepers as a slack-baked, crummy quartern; a liberal\nprovision of cups and saucers; and the usual appendages.\n\nInside the fender were some half-dozen pairs of shoes and boots, of\nvarious sizes, just cleaned and turned with the soles upwards to dry;\nand a pair of short black gaiters, on one of which was chalked--in\nsport, it would appear, by some gentleman who had slipped down for the\npurpose, pending his toilet, and gone up again--\'Jinkins\'s Particular,\'\nwhile the other exhibited a sketch in profile, claiming to be the\nportrait of Jinkins himself.\n\nM. Todgers\'s Commercial Boarding-House was a house of that sort which is\nlikely to be dark at any time; but that morning it was especially dark.\nThere was an odd smell in the passage, as if the concentrated essence of\nall the dinners that had been cooked in the kitchen since the house was\nbuilt, lingered at the top of the kitchen stairs to that hour, and like\nthe Black Friar in Don Juan, \'wouldn\'t be driven away.\' In particular,\nthere was a sensation of cabbage; as if all the greens that had ever\nbeen boiled there, were evergreens, and flourished in immortal strength.\nThe parlour was wainscoted, and communicated to strangers a magnetic\nand instinctive consciousness of rats and mice. The staircase was very\ngloomy and very broad, with balustrades so thick and heavy that they\nwould have served for a bridge. In a sombre corner on the first landing,\nstood a gruff old giant of a clock, with a preposterous coronet of three\nbrass balls on his head; whom few had ever seen--none ever looked in the\nface--and who seemed to continue his heavy tick for no other reason than\nto warn heedless people from running into him accidentally. It had not\nbeen papered or painted, hadn\'t Todgers\'s, within the memory of man. It\nwas very black, begrimed, and mouldy. And, at the top of the staircase,\nwas an old, disjointed, rickety, ill-favoured skylight, patched\nand mended in all kinds of ways, which looked distrustfully down at\neverything that passed below, and covered Todgers\'s up as if it were a\nsort of human cucumber-frame, and only people of a peculiar growth were\nreared there.\n\nMr Pecksniff and his fair daughters had not stood warming themselves at\nthe fire ten minutes, when the sound of feet was heard upon the stairs,\nand the presiding deity of the establishment came hurrying in.\n\nM. Todgers was a lady, rather a bony and hard-featured lady, with a row\nof curls in front of her head, shaped like little barrels of beer;\nand on the top of it something made of net--you couldn\'t call it a cap\nexactly--which looked like a black cobweb. She had a little basket on\nher arm, and in it a bunch of keys that jingled as she came. In her\nother hand she bore a flaming tallow candle, which, after surveying Mr\nPecksniff for one instant by its light, she put down upon the table, to\nthe end that she might receive him with the greater cordiality.\n\n\'Mr Pecksniff!\' cried Mrs Todgers. \'Welcome to London! Who would have\nthought of such a visit as this, after so--dear, dear!--so many years!\nHow do you DO, Mr Pecksniff?\'\n\n\'As well as ever; and as glad to see you, as ever;\' Mr Pecksniff made\nresponse. \'Why, you are younger than you used to be!\'\n\n\'YOU are, I am sure!\' said Mrs Todgers. \'You\'re not a bit changed.\'\n\n\'What do you say to this?\' cried Mr Pecksniff, stretching out his hand\ntowards the young ladies. \'Does this make me no older?\'\n\n\'Not your daughters!\' exclaimed the lady, raising her hands and clasping\nthem. \'Oh, no, Mr Pecksniff! Your second, and her bridesmaid!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff smiled complacently; shook his head; and said, \'My\ndaughters, Mrs Todgers. Merely my daughters.\'\n\n\'Ah!\' sighed the good lady, \'I must believe you, for now I look at \'em\nI think I should have known \'em anywhere. My dear Miss Pecksniffs, how\nhappy your Pa has made me!\'\n\nShe hugged them both; and being by this time overpowered by her feelings\nor the inclemency of the morning, jerked a little pocket handkerchief\nout of the little basket, and applied the same to her face.\n\n\'Now, my good madam,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'I know the rules of your\nestablishment, and that you only receive gentlemen boarders. But\nit occurred to me, when I left home, that perhaps you would give my\ndaughters house room, and make an exception in their favour.\'\n\n\'Perhaps?\' cried Mrs Todgers ecstatically. \'Perhaps?\'\n\n\'I may say then, that I was sure you would,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'I\nknow that you have a little room of your own, and that they can be\ncomfortable there, without appearing at the general table.\'\n\n\'Dear girls!\' said Mrs Todgers. \'I must take that liberty once more.\'\n\nMrs Todgers meant by this that she must embrace them once more, which\nshe accordingly did with great ardour. But the truth was that the house\nbeing full with the exception of one bed, which would now be occupied\nby Mr Pecksniff, she wanted time for consideration; and so much time too\n(for it was a knotty point how to dispose of them), that even when\nthis second embrace was over, she stood for some moments gazing at the\nsisters, with affection beaming in one eye, and calculation shining out\nof the other.\n\n\'I think I know how to arrange it,\' said Mrs Todgers, at length. \'A sofa\nbedstead in the little third room which opens from my own parlour.--Oh,\nyou dear girls!\'\n\nThereupon she embraced them once more, observing that she could not\ndecide which was most like their poor mother (which was highly probable,\nseeing that she had never beheld that lady), but that she rather thought\nthe youngest was; and then she said that as the gentlemen would be down\ndirectly, and the ladies were fatigued with travelling, would they step\ninto her room at once?\n\nIt was on the same floor; being, in fact, the back parlour; and had,\nas Mrs Todgers said, the great advantage (in London) of not being\noverlooked; as they would see when the fog cleared off. Nor was this\na vainglorious boast, for it commanded at a perspective of two feet,\na brown wall with a black cistern on the top. The sleeping apartment\ndesigned for the young ladies was approached from this chamber by a\nmightily convenient little door, which would only open when fallen\nagainst by a strong person. It commanded from a similar point of sight\nanother angle of the wall, and another side of the cistern. \'Not the\ndamp side,\' said Mrs Todgers. \'THAT is Mr Jinkins\'s.\'\n\nIn the first of these sanctuaries a fire was speedily kindled by the\nyouthful porter, who, whistling at his work in the absence of Mrs\nTodgers (not to mention his sketching figures on his corduroys with\nburnt firewood), and being afterwards taken by that lady in the fact,\nwas dismissed with a box on his ears. Having prepared breakfast for the\nyoung ladies with her own hands, she withdrew to preside in the other\nroom; where the joke at Mr Jinkins\'s expense seemed to be proceeding\nrather noisily.\n\n\'I won\'t ask you yet, my dears,\' said Mr Pecksniff, looking in at the\ndoor, \'how you like London. Shall I?\'\n\n\'We haven\'t seen much of it, Pa!\' cried Merry.\n\n\'Nothing, I hope,\' said Cherry. (Both very miserably.)\n\n\'Indeed,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'that\'s true. We have our pleasure, and our\nbusiness too, before us. All in good time. All in good time!\'\n\nWhether Mr Pecksniff\'s business in London was as strictly professional\nas he had given his new pupil to understand, we shall see, to adopt that\nworthy man\'s phraseology, \'all in good time.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINE\n\nTOWN AND TODGER\'S\n\n\nSurely there never was, in any other borough, city, or hamlet in the\nworld, such a singular sort of a place as Todgers\'s. And surely London,\nto judge from that part of it which hemmed Todgers\'s round and hustled\nit, and crushed it, and stuck its brick-and-mortar elbows into it, and\nkept the air from it, and stood perpetually between it and the\nlight, was worthy of Todgers\'s, and qualified to be on terms of close\nrelationship and alliance with hundreds and thousands of the odd family\nto which Todgers\'s belonged.\n\nYou couldn\'t walk about Todgers\'s neighbourhood, as you could in any\nother neighbourhood. You groped your way for an hour through lanes and\nbyways, and court-yards, and passages; and you never once emerged upon\nanything that might be reasonably called a street. A kind of resigned\ndistraction came over the stranger as he trod those devious mazes, and,\ngiving himself up for lost, went in and out and round about and quietly\nturned back again when he came to a dead wall or was stopped by an\niron railing, and felt that the means of escape might possibly present\nthemselves in their own good time, but that to anticipate them was\nhopeless. Instances were known of people who, being asked to dine at\nTodgers\'s, had travelled round and round for a weary time, with its very\nchimney-pots in view; and finding it, at last, impossible of attainment,\nhad gone home again with a gentle melancholy on their spirits,\ntranquil and uncomplaining. Nobody had ever found Todgers\'s on a verbal\ndirection, though given within a few minutes\' walk of it. Cautious\nemigrants from Scotland or the North of England had been known to reach\nit safely, by impressing a charity-boy, town-bred, and bringing him\nalong with them; or by clinging tenaciously to the postman; but these\nwere rare exceptions, and only went to prove the rule that Todgers\'s was\nin a labyrinth, whereof the mystery was known but to a chosen few.\n\nSeveral fruit-brokers had their marts near Todgers\'s; and one of the\nfirst impressions wrought upon the stranger\'s senses was of oranges--of\ndamaged oranges--with blue and green bruises on them, festering in\nboxes, or mouldering away in cellars. All day long, a stream of porters\nfrom the wharves beside the river, each bearing on his back a bursting\nchest of oranges, poured slowly through the narrow passages; while\nunderneath the archway by the public-house, the knots of those who\nrested and regaled within, were piled from morning until night. Strange\nsolitary pumps were found near Todgers\'s hiding themselves for the most\npart in blind alleys, and keeping company with fire-ladders. There were\nchurches also by dozens, with many a ghostly little churchyard, all\novergrown with such straggling vegetation as springs up spontaneously\nfrom damp, and graves, and rubbish. In some of these dingy\nresting-places which bore much the same analogy to green churchyards,\nas the pots of earth for mignonette and wall-flower in the windows\noverlooking them did to rustic gardens, there were trees; tall trees;\nstill putting forth their leaves in each succeeding year, with such a\nlanguishing remembrance of their kind (so one might fancy, looking on\ntheir sickly boughs) as birds in cages have of theirs. Here, paralysed\nold watchmen guarded the bodies of the dead at night, year after year,\nuntil at last they joined that solemn brotherhood; and, saving that they\nslept below the ground a sounder sleep than even they had ever known\nabove it, and were shut up in another kind of box, their condition can\nhardly be said to have undergone any material change when they, in turn,\nwere watched themselves.\n\nAmong the narrow thoroughfares at hand, there lingered, here and there,\nan ancient doorway of carved oak, from which, of old, the sounds of\nrevelry and feasting often came; but now these mansions, only used\nfor storehouses, were dark and dull, and, being filled with wool, and\ncotton, and the like--such heavy merchandise as stifles sound and stops\nthe throat of echo--had an air of palpable deadness about them which,\nadded to their silence and desertion, made them very grim. In like\nmanner, there were gloomy courtyards in these parts, into which few but\nbelated wayfarers ever strayed, and where vast bags and packs of goods,\nupward or downward bound, were for ever dangling between heaven and\nearth from lofty cranes There were more trucks near Todgers\'s than\nyou would suppose whole city could ever need; not active trucks, but\na vagabond race, for ever lounging in the narrow lanes before\ntheir masters\' doors and stopping up the pass; so that when a stray\nhackney-coach or lumbering waggon came that way, they were the cause of\nsuch an uproar as enlivened the whole neighbourhood, and made the bells\nin the next churchtower vibrate again. In the throats and maws of dark\nno-thoroughfares near Todgers\'s, individual wine-merchants and wholesale\ndealers in grocery-ware had perfect little towns of their own; and, deep\namong the foundations of these buildings, the ground was undermined and\nburrowed out into stables, where cart-horses, troubled by rats, might be\nheard on a quiet Sunday rattling their halters, as disturbed spirits in\ntales of haunted houses are said to clank their chains.\n\nTo tell of half the queer old taverns that had a drowsy and secret\nexistence near Todgers\'s, would fill a goodly book; while a second\nvolume no less capacious might be devoted to an account of the quaint\nold guests who frequented their dimly lighted parlours. These were, in\ngeneral, ancient inhabitants of that region; born, and bred there from\nboyhood, who had long since become wheezy and asthmatical, and short of\nbreath, except in the article of story-telling; in which respect they\nwere still marvellously long-winded. These gentry were much opposed to\nsteam and all new-fangled ways, and held ballooning to be sinful, and\ndeplored the degeneracy of the times; which that particular member\nof each little club who kept the keys of the nearest church,\nprofessionally, always attributed to the prevalence of dissent and\nirreligion; though the major part of the company inclined to the belief\nthat virtue went out with hair-powder, and that Old England\'s greatness\nhad decayed amain with barbers.\n\nAs to Todgers\'s itself--speaking of it only as a house in that\nneighbourhood, and making no reference to its merits as a commercial\nboarding establishment--it was worthy to stand where it did. There was\none staircase-window in it, at the side of the house, on the ground\nfloor; which tradition said had not been opened for a hundred years at\nleast, and which, abutting on an always dirty lane, was so begrimed and\ncoated with a century\'s mud, that no one pane of glass could possibly\nfall out, though all were cracked and broken twenty times. But the grand\nmystery of Todgers\'s was the cellarage, approachable only by a little\nback door and a rusty grating; which cellarage within the memory of man\nhad had no connection with the house, but had always been the freehold\nproperty of somebody else, and was reported to be full of wealth; though\nin what shape--whether in silver, brass, or gold, or butts of wine,\nor casks of gun-powder--was matter of profound uncertainty and supreme\nindifference to Todgers\'s and all its inmates.\n\nThe top of the house was worthy of notice. There was a sort of terrace\non the roof, with posts and fragments of rotten lines, once intended to\ndry clothes upon; and there were two or three tea-chests out there,\nfull of earth, with forgotten plants in them, like old walking-sticks.\nWhoever climbed to this observatory, was stunned at first from having\nknocked his head against the little door in coming out; and after that,\nwas for the moment choked from having looked perforce, straight down the\nkitchen chimney; but these two stages over, there were things to gaze\nat from the top of Todgers\'s, well worth your seeing too. For first\nand foremost, if the day were bright, you observed upon the house-tops,\nstretching far away, a long dark path; the shadow of the Monument; and\nturning round, the tall original was close beside you, with every hair\nerect upon his golden head, as if the doings of the city frightened him.\nThen there were steeples, towers, belfries, shining vanes, and masts of\nships; a very forest. Gables, housetops, garret-windows, wilderness upon\nwilderness. Smoke and noise enough for all the world at once.\n\nAfter the first glance, there were slight features in the midst of this\ncrowd of objects, which sprung out from the mass without any reason, as\nit were, and took hold of the attention whether the spectator would or\nno. Thus, the revolving chimney-pots on one great stack of buildings\nseemed to be turning gravely to each other every now and then, and\nwhispering the result of their separate observation of what was going\non below. Others, of a crook-backed shape, appeared to be maliciously\nholding themselves askew, that they might shut the prospect out and\nbaffle Todgers\'s. The man who was mending a pen at an upper window over\nthe way, became of paramount importance in the scene, and made a blank\nin it, ridiculously disproportionate in its extent, when he retired. The\ngambols of a piece of cloth upon the dyer\'s pole had far more interest\nfor the moment than all the changing motion of the crowd. Yet even while\nthe looker-on felt angry with himself for this, and wondered how it was,\nthe tumult swelled into a roar; the hosts of objects seemed to thicken\nand expand a hundredfold, and after gazing round him, quite scared, he\nturned into Todgers\'s again, much more rapidly than he came out; and ten\nto one he told M. Todgers afterwards that if he hadn\'t done so, he would\ncertainly have come into the street by the shortest cut; that is to say,\nhead-foremost.\n\nSo said the two Miss Pecksniffs, when they retired with Mrs Todgers from\nthis place of espial, leaving the youthful porter to close the door\nand follow them downstairs; who, being of a playful temperament, and\ncontemplating with a delight peculiar to his sex and time of life, any\nchance of dashing himself into small fragments, lingered behind to walk\nupon the parapet.\n\nIt being the second day of their stay in London, the Miss Pecksniffs\nand Mrs Todgers were by this time highly confidential, insomuch that the\nlast-named lady had already communicated the particulars of three early\ndisappointments of a tender nature; and had furthermore possessed her\nyoung friends with a general summary of the life, conduct, and character\nof Mr Todgers. Who, it seemed, had cut his matrimonial career rather\nshort, by unlawfully running away from his happiness, and establishing\nhimself in foreign countries as a bachelor.\n\n\'Your pa was once a little particular in his attentions, my dears,\' said\nMrs Todgers, \'but to be your ma was too much happiness denied me. You\'d\nhardly know who this was done for, perhaps?\'\n\nShe called their attention to an oval miniature, like a little blister,\nwhich was tacked up over the kettle-holder, and in which there was a\ndreamy shadowing forth of her own visage.\n\n\'It\'s a speaking likeness!\' cried the two Miss Pecksniffs.\n\n\'It was considered so once,\' said Mrs Todgers, warming herself in a\ngentlemanly manner at the fire; \'but I hardly thought you would have\nknown it, my loves.\'\n\nThey would have known it anywhere. If they could have met with it in\nthe street, or seen it in a shop window, they would have cried \'Good\ngracious! Mrs Todgers!\'\n\n\'Presiding over an establishment like this, makes sad havoc with the\nfeatures, my dear Miss Pecksniffs,\' said Mrs Todgers. \'The gravy alone,\nis enough to add twenty years to one\'s age, I do assure you.\'\n\n\'Lor\'!\' cried the two Miss Pecksniffs.\n\n\'The anxiety of that one item, my dears,\' said Mrs Todgers, \'keeps the\nmind continually upon the stretch. There is no such passion in human\nnature, as the passion for gravy among commercial gentlemen. It\'s\nnothing to say a joint won\'t yield--a whole animal wouldn\'t yield--the\namount of gravy they expect each day at dinner. And what I have\nundergone in consequence,\' cried Mrs Todgers, raising her eyes and\nshaking her head, \'no one would believe!\'\n\n\'Just like Mr Pinch, Merry!\' said Charity. \'We have always noticed it in\nhim, you remember?\'\n\n\'Yes, my dear,\' giggled Merry, \'but we have never given it him, you\nknow.\'\n\n\'You, my dears, having to deal with your pa\'s pupils who can\'t help\nthemselves, are able to take your own way,\' said Mrs Todgers; \'but in\na commercial establishment, where any gentleman may say any Saturday\nevening, \"Mrs Todgers, this day week we part, in consequence of the\ncheese,\" it is not so easy to preserve a pleasant understanding. Your pa\nwas kind enough,\' added the good lady, \'to invite me to take a ride with\nyou to-day; and I think he mentioned that you were going to call upon\nMiss Pinch. Any relation to the gentleman you were speaking of just now,\nMiss Pecksniff?\'\n\n\'For goodness sake, Mrs Todgers,\' interposed the lively Merry, \'don\'t\ncall him a gentleman. My dear Cherry, Pinch a gentleman! The idea!\'\n\n\'What a wicked girl you are!\' cried Mrs Todgers, embracing her with\ngreat affection. \'You are quite a quiz, I do declare! My dear Miss\nPecksniff, what a happiness your sister\'s spirits must be to your pa and\nself!\'\n\n\'He\'s the most hideous, goggle-eyed creature, Mrs Todgers, in\nexistence,\' resumed Merry: \'quite an ogre. The ugliest, awkwardest\nfrightfullest being, you can imagine. This is his sister, so I leave you\nto suppose what SHE is. I shall be obliged to laugh outright, I know\nI shall!\' cried the charming girl, \'I never shall be able to keep my\ncountenance. The notion of a Miss Pinch presuming to exist at all is\nsufficient to kill one, but to see her--oh my stars!\'\n\nMrs Todgers laughed immensely at the dear love\'s humour, and declared\nshe was quite afraid of her, that she was. She was so very severe.\n\n\'Who is severe?\' cried a voice at the door. \'There is no such thing as\nseverity in our family, I hope!\' And then Mr Pecksniff peeped smilingly\ninto the room, and said, \'May I come in, Mrs Todgers?\'\n\nMrs Todgers almost screamed, for the little door of communication\nbetween that room and the inner one being wide open, there was a full\ndisclosure of the sofa bedstead in all its monstrous impropriety. But\nshe had the presence of mind to close this portal in the twinkling of an\neye; and having done so, said, though not without confusion, \'Oh yes, Mr\nPecksniff, you can come in, if you please.\'\n\n\'How are we to-day,\' said Mr Pecksniff, jocosely, \'and what are our\nplans? Are we ready to go and see Tom Pinch\'s sister? Ha, ha, ha! Poor\nThomas Pinch!\'\n\n\'Are we ready,\' returned Mrs Todgers, nodding her head with mysterious\nintelligence, \'to send a favourable reply to Mr Jinkins\'s round-robin?\nThat\'s the first question, Mr Pecksniff.\'\n\n\'Why Mr Jinkins\'s robin, my dear madam?\' asked Mr Pecksniff, putting one\narm round Mercy, and the other round Mrs Todgers, whom he seemed, in the\nabstraction of the moment, to mistake for Charity. \'Why Mr Jinkins\'s?\'\n\n\'Because he began to get it up, and indeed always takes the lead in the\nhouse,\' said Mrs Todgers, playfully. \'That\'s why, sir.\'\n\n\'Jinkins is a man of superior talents,\' observed Mr Pecksniff. \'I have\nconceived a great regard for Jinkins. I take Jinkins\'s desire to pay\npolite attention to my daughters, as an additional proof of the friendly\nfeeling of Jinkins, Mrs Todgers.\'\n\n\'Well now,\' returned that lady, \'having said so much, you must say the\nrest, Mr Pecksniff; so tell the dear young ladies all about it.\'\n\nWith these words she gently eluded Mr Pecksniff\'s grasp, and took Miss\nCharity into her own embrace; though whether she was impelled to this\nproceeding solely by the irrepressible affection she had conceived for\nthat young lady, or whether it had any reference to a lowering, not to\nsay distinctly spiteful expression which had been visible in her face\nfor some moments, has never been exactly ascertained. Be this as it may,\nMr Pecksniff went on to inform his daughters of the purport and history\nof the round-robin aforesaid, which was in brief, that the commercial\ngentlemen who helped to make up the sum and substance of that noun of\nmultitude signifying many, called Todgers\'s, desired the honour of their\npresence at the general table, so long as they remained in the house,\nand besought that they would grace the board at dinner-time next\nday, the same being Sunday. He further said, that Mrs Todgers being a\nconsenting party to this invitation, he was willing, for his part, to\naccept it; and so left them that he might write his gracious answer, the\nwhile they armed themselves with their best bonnets for the utter defeat\nand overthrow of Miss Pinch.\n\nTom Pinch\'s sister was governess in a family, a lofty family; perhaps\nthe wealthiest brass and copper founders\' family known to mankind.\nThey lived at Camberwell; in a house so big and fierce, that its mere\noutside, like the outside of a giant\'s castle, struck terror into vulgar\nminds and made bold persons quail. There was a great front gate; with a\ngreat bell, whose handle was in itself a note of admiration; and a\ngreat lodge; which being close to the house, rather spoilt the look-out\ncertainly but made the look-in tremendous. At this entry, a great porter\nkept constant watch and ward; and when he gave the visitor high leave\nto pass, he rang a second great bell, responsive to whose note a great\nfootman appeared in due time at the great halldoor, with such great\ntags upon his liveried shoulder that he was perpetually entangling and\nhooking himself among the chairs and tables, and led a life of torment\nwhich could scarcely have been surpassed, if he had been a blue-bottle\nin a world of cobwebs.\n\nTo this mansion Mr Pecksniff, accompanied by his daughters and Mrs\nTodgers, drove gallantly in a one-horse fly. The foregoing ceremonies\nhaving been all performed, they were ushered into the house; and so, by\ndegrees, they got at last into a small room with books in it, where Mr\nPinch\'s sister was at that moment instructing her eldest pupil; to wit,\na premature little woman of thirteen years old, who had already arrived\nat such a pitch of whalebone and education that she had nothing girlish\nabout her, which was a source of great rejoicing to all her relations\nand friends.\n\n\'Visitors for Miss Pinch!\' said the footman. He must have been\nan ingenious young man, for he said it very cleverly; with a nice\ndiscrimination between the cold respect with which he would have\nannounced visitors to the family, and the warm personal interest with\nwhich he would have announced visitors to the cook.\n\n\'Visitors for Miss Pinch!\'\n\nMiss Pinch rose hastily; with such tokens of agitation as plainly\ndeclared that her list of callers was not numerous. At the same time,\nthe little pupil became alarmingly upright, and prepared herself to take\nmental notes of all that might be said and done. For the lady of the\nestablishment was curious in the natural history and habits of the\nanimal called Governess, and encouraged her daughters to report thereon\nwhenever occasion served; which was, in reference to all parties\nconcerned, very laudable, improving, and pleasant.\n\nIt is a melancholy fact; but it must be related, that Mr Pinch\'s sister\nwas not at all ugly. On the contrary, she had a good face; a very mild\nand prepossessing face; and a pretty little figure--slight and short,\nbut remarkable for its neatness. There was something of her brother,\nmuch of him indeed, in a certain gentleness of manner, and in her look\nof timid trustfulness; but she was so far from being a fright, or\na dowdy, or a horror, or anything else, predicted by the two Miss\nPecksniffs, that those young ladies naturally regarded her with great\nindignation, feeling that this was by no means what they had come to\nsee.\n\nMiss Mercy, as having the larger share of gaiety, bore up the best\nagainst this disappointment, and carried it off, in outward show at\nleast, with a titter; but her sister, not caring to hide her disdain,\nexpressed it pretty openly in her looks. As to Mrs Todgers, she leaned\non Mr Pecksniff\'s arm and preserved a kind of genteel grimness, suitable\nto any state of mind, and involving any shade of opinion.\n\n\'Don\'t be alarmed, Miss Pinch,\' said Mr Pecksniff, taking her hand\ncondescendingly in one of his, and patting it with the other. \'I have\ncalled to see you, in pursuance of a promise given to your brother,\nThomas Pinch. My name--compose yourself, Miss Pinch--is Pecksniff.\'\n\nThe good man emphasised these words as though he would have said, \'You\nsee in me, young person, the benefactor of your race; the patron of your\nhouse; the preserver of your brother, who is fed with manna daily from\nmy table; and in right of whom there is a considerable balance in my\nfavour at present standing in the books beyond the sky. But I have no\npride, for I can afford to do without it!\'\n\nThe poor girl felt it all as if it had been Gospel truth. Her brother\nwriting in the fullness of his simple heart, had often told her so, and\nhow much more! As Mr Pecksniff ceased to speak, she hung her head, and\ndropped a tear upon his hand.\n\n\'Oh very well, Miss Pinch!\' thought the sharp pupil, \'crying before\nstrangers, as if you didn\'t like the situation!\'\n\n\'Thomas is well,\' said Mr Pecksniff; \'and sends his love and this\nletter. I cannot say, poor fellow, that he will ever be distinguished in\nour profession; but he has the will to do well, which is the next thing\nto having the power; and, therefore, we must bear with him. Eh?\'\n\n\'I know he has the will, sir,\' said Tom Pinch\'s sister, \'and I know how\nkindly and considerately you cherish it, for which neither he nor I can\never be grateful enough, as we very often say in writing to each\nother. The young ladies too,\' she added, glancing gratefully at his two\ndaughters, \'I know how much we owe to them.\'\n\n\'My dears,\' said Mr Pecksniff, turning to them with a smile: \'Thomas\'s\nsister is saying something you will be glad to hear, I think.\'\n\n\'We can\'t take any merit to ourselves, papa!\' cried Cherry, as they\nboth apprised Tom Pinch\'s sister, with a curtsey, that they would\nfeel obliged if she would keep her distance. \'Mr Pinch\'s being so well\nprovided for is owing to you alone, and we can only say how glad we are\nto hear that he is as grateful as he ought to be.\'\n\n\'Oh very well, Miss Pinch!\' thought the pupil again. \'Got a grateful\nbrother, living on other people\'s kindness!\'\n\n\'It was very kind of you,\' said Tom Pinch\'s sister, with Tom\'s own\nsimplicity and Tom\'s own smile, \'to come here; very kind indeed; though\nhow great a kindness you have done me in gratifying my wish to see you,\nand to thank you with my own lips, you, who make so light of benefits\nconferred, can scarcely think.\'\n\n\'Very grateful; very pleasant; very proper,\' murmured Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'It makes me happy too,\' said Ruth Pinch, who now that her first\nsurprise was over, had a chatty, cheerful way with her, and a\nsingle-hearted desire to look upon the best side of everything, which\nwas the very moral and image of Tom; \'very happy to think that you will\nbe able to tell him how more than comfortably I am situated here, and\nhow unnecessary it is that he should ever waste a regret on my being\ncast upon my own resources. Dear me! So long as I heard that he was\nhappy, and he heard that I was,\' said Tom\'s sister, \'we could both bear,\nwithout one impatient or complaining thought, a great deal more than\never we have had to endure, I am very certain.\' And if ever the plain\ntruth were spoken on this occasionally false earth, Tom\'s sister spoke\nit when she said that.\n\n\'Ah!\' cried Mr Pecksniff whose eyes had in the meantime wandered to the\npupil; \'certainly. And how do YOU do, my very interesting child?\'\n\n\'Quite well, I thank you, sir,\' replied that frosty innocent.\n\n\'A sweet face this, my dears,\' said Mr Pecksniff, turning to his\ndaughters. \'A charming manner!\'\n\nBoth young ladies had been in ecstasies with the scion of a wealthy\nhouse (through whom the nearest road and shortest cut to her parents\nmight be supposed to lie) from the first. Mrs Todgers vowed that\nanything one quarter so angelic she had never seen. \'She wanted but\na pair of wings, a dear,\' said that good woman, \'to be a young\nsyrup\'--meaning, possibly, young sylph, or seraph.\n\n\'If you will give that to your distinguished parents, my amiable little\nfriend,\' said Mr Pecksniff, producing one of his professional cards,\n\'and will say that I and my daughters--\'\n\n\'And Mrs Todgers, pa,\' said Merry.\n\n\'And Mrs Todgers, of London,\' added Mr Pecksniff; \'that I, and my\ndaughters, and Mrs Todgers, of London, did not intrude upon them, as our\nobject simply was to take some notice of Miss Pinch, whose brother is a\nyoung man in my employment; but that I could not leave this very chaste\nmansion, without adding my humble tribute, as an Architect, to\nthe correctness and elegance of the owner\'s taste, and to his just\nappreciation of that beautiful art to the cultivation of which I have\ndevoted a life, and to the promotion of whose glory and advancement I\nhave sacrified a--a fortune--I shall be very much obliged to you.\'\n\n\'Missis\'s compliments to Miss Pinch,\' said the footman, suddenly\nappearing, and speaking in exactly the same key as before, \'and begs to\nknow wot my young lady is a-learning of just now.\'\n\n\'Oh!\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'Here is the young man. HE will take the\ncard. With my compliments, if you please, young man. My dears, we are\ninterrupting the studies. Let us go.\'\n\nSome confusion was occasioned for an instant by Mrs Todgers\'s\nunstrapping her little flat hand-basket, and hurriedly entrusting the\n\'young man\' with one of her own cards, which, in addition to\ncertain detailed information relative to the terms of the commercial\nestablishment, bore a foot-note to the effect that M. T. took that\nopportunity of thanking those gentlemen who had honoured her with their\nfavours, and begged they would have the goodness, if satisfied with\nthe table, to recommend her to their friends. But Mr Pecksniff, with\nadmirable presence of mind, recovered this document, and buttoned it up\nin his own pocket.\n\nThen he said to Miss Pinch--with more condescension and kindness than\never, for it was desirable the footman should expressly understand that\nthey were not friends of hers, but patrons:\n\n\'Good morning. Good-bye. God bless you! You may depend upon my continued\nprotection of your brother Thomas. Keep your mind quite at ease, Miss\nPinch!\'\n\n\'Thank you,\' said Tom\'s sister heartily; \'a thousand times.\'\n\n\'Not at all,\' he retorted, patting her gently on the head. \'Don\'t\nmention it. You will make me angry if you do. My sweet child\'--to the\npupil--\'farewell! That fairy creature,\' said Mr Pecksniff, looking in\nhis pensive mood hard at the footman, as if he meant him, \'has shed\na vision on my path, refulgent in its nature, and not easily to be\nobliterated. My dears, are you ready?\'\n\nThey were not quite ready yet, for they were still caressing the pupil.\nBut they tore themselves away at length; and sweeping past Miss Pinch\nwith each a haughty inclination of the head and a curtsey strangled in\nits birth, flounced into the passage.\n\nThe young man had rather a long job in showing them out; for Mr\nPecksniff\'s delight in the tastefulness of the house was such that he\ncould not help often stopping (particularly when they were near the\nparlour door) and giving it expression, in a loud voice and very learned\nterms. Indeed, he delivered, between the study and the hall, a\nfamiliar exposition of the whole science of architecture as applied to\ndwelling-houses, and was yet in the freshness of his eloquence when they\nreached the garden.\n\n\'If you look,\' said Mr Pecksniff, backing from the steps, with his head\non one side and his eyes half-shut that he might the better take in\nthe proportions of the exterior: \'If you look, my dears, at the cornice\nwhich supports the roof, and observe the airiness of its construction,\nespecially where it sweeps the southern angle of the building, you will\nfeel with me--How do you do, sir? I hope you\'re well?\'\n\nInterrupting himself with these words, he very politely bowed to a\nmiddle-aged gentleman at an upper window, to whom he spoke--not because\nthe gentleman could hear him (for he certainly could not), but as an\nappropriate accompaniment to his salutation.\n\n\'I have no doubt, my dears,\' said Mr Pecksniff, feigning to point out\nother beauties with his hand, \'that this is the proprietor. I should be\nglad to know him. It might lead to something. Is he looking this way,\nCharity?\'\n\n\'He is opening the window pa!\'\n\n\'Ha, ha!\' cried Mr Pecksniff softly. \'All right! He has found I\'m\nprofessional. He heard me inside just now, I have no doubt. Don\'t look!\nWith regard to the fluted pillars in the portico, my dears--\'\n\n\'Hallo!\' cried the gentleman.\n\n\'Sir, your servant!\' said Mr Pecksniff, taking off his hat. \'I am proud\nto make your acquaintance.\'\n\n\'Come off the grass, will you!\' roared the gentleman.\n\n\'I beg your pardon, sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff, doubtful of his having\nheard aright. \'Did you--?\'\n\n\'Come off the grass!\' repeated the gentleman, warmly.\n\n\'We are unwilling to intrude, sir,\' Mr Pecksniff smilingly began.\n\n\'But you ARE intruding,\' returned the other, \'unwarrantably intruding.\nTrespassing. You see a gravel walk, don\'t you? What do you think it\'s\nmeant for? Open the gate there! Show that party out!\'\n\nWith that he clapped down the window again, and disappeared.\n\nMr Pecksniff put on his hat, and walked with great deliberation and in\nprofound silence to the fly, gazing at the clouds as he went, with\ngreat interest. After helping his daughters and Mrs Todgers into that\nconveyance, he stood looking at it for some moments, as if he were not\nquite certain whether it was a carriage or a temple; but having settled\nthis point in his mind, he got into his place, spread his hands out on\nhis knees, and smiled upon the three beholders.\n\nBut his daughters, less tranquil-minded, burst into a torrent of\nindignation. This came, they said, of cherishing such creatures as the\nPinches. This came of lowering themselves to their level. This came of\nputting themselves in the humiliating position of seeming to know such\nbold, audacious, cunning, dreadful girls as that. They had expected\nthis. They had predicted it to Mrs Todgers, as she (Todgers) could\ndepone, that very morning. To this, they added, that the owner of the\nhouse, supposing them to be Miss Pinch\'s friends, had acted, in\ntheir opinion, quite correctly, and had done no more than, under such\ncircumstances, might reasonably have been expected. To that they added\n(with a trifling inconsistency), that he was a brute and a bear; and\nthen they merged into a flood of tears, which swept away all wandering\nepithets before it.\n\nPerhaps Miss Pinch was scarcely so much to blame in the matter as the\nSeraph, who, immediately on the withdrawal of the visitors, had hastened\nto report them at head-quarters, with a full account of their having\npresumptuously charged her with the delivery of a message afterwards\nconsigned to the footman; which outrage, taken in conjunction with Mr\nPecksniff\'s unobtrusive remarks on the establishment, might possibly\nhave had some share in their dismissal. Poor Miss Pinch, however, had to\nbear the brunt of it with both parties; being so severely taken to task\nby the Seraph\'s mother for having such vulgar acquaintances, that\nshe was fain to retire to her own room in tears, which her natural\ncheerfulness and submission, and the delight of having seen Mr\nPecksniff, and having received a letter from her brother, were at first\ninsufficient to repress.\n\nAs to Mr Pecksniff, he told them in the fly, that a good action was its\nown reward; and rather gave them to understand, that if he could have\nbeen kicked in such a cause, he would have liked it all the better. But\nthis was no comfort to the young ladies, who scolded violently the whole\nway back, and even exhibited, more than once, a keen desire to attack\nthe devoted Mrs Todgers; on whose personal appearance, but particularly\non whose offending card and hand-basket, they were secretly inclined to\nlay the blame of half their failure.\n\nTodgers\'s was in a great bustle that evening, partly owing to some\nadditional domestic preparations for the morrow, and partly to the\nexcitement always inseparable in that house from Saturday night, when\nevery gentleman\'s linen arrived at a different hour in its own little\nbundle, with his private account pinned on the outside. There was always\na great clinking of pattens downstairs, too, until midnight or so, on\nSaturdays; together with a frequent gleaming of mysterious lights in\nthe area; much working at the pump; and a constant jangling of the iron\nhandle of the pail. Shrill altercations from time to time arose between\nMrs Todgers and unknown females in remote back kitchens; and sounds were\noccasionally heard, indicative of small articles of iron mongery and\nhardware being thrown at the boy. It was the custom of that youth on\nSaturdays, to roll up his shirt sleeves to his shoulders, and pervade\nall parts of the house in an apron of coarse green baize; moreover, he\nwas more strongly tempted on Saturdays than on other days (it being a\nbusy time), to make excursive bolts into the neighbouring alleys when he\nanswered the door, and there to play at leap-frog and other sports with\nvagrant lads, until pursued and brought back by the hair of his head or\nthe lobe of his ear; thus he was quite a conspicuous feature among the\npeculiar incidents of the last day in the week at Todgers\'s.\n\nHe was especially so on this particular Saturday evening, and honoured\nthe Miss Pecksniffs with a deal of notice; seldom passing the door\nof Mrs Todgers\'s private room, where they sat alone before the fire,\nworking by the light of a solitary candle, without putting in his head\nand greeting them with some such compliments as, \'There you are agin!\'\n\'An\'t it nice?\'--and similar humorous attentions.\n\n\'I say,\' he whispered, stopping in one of his journeys to and fro,\n\'young ladies, there\'s soup to-morrow. She\'s a-making it now. An\'t she\na-putting in the water? Oh! not at all neither!\'\n\nIn the course of answering another knock, he thrust in his head again.\n\n\'I say! There\'s fowls to-morrow. Not skinny ones. Oh no!\'\n\nPresently he called through the key-hole:\n\n\'There\'s a fish to-morrow. Just come. Don\'t eat none of him!\' And, with\nthis special warning, vanished again.\n\nBy-and-bye, he returned to lay the cloth for supper; it having been\narranged between Mrs Todgers and the young ladies, that they should\npartake of an exclusive veal-cutlet together in the privacy of that\napartment. He entertained them on this occasion by thrusting the\nlighted candle into his mouth, and exhibiting his face in a state of\ntransparency; after the performance of which feat, he went on with his\nprofessional duties; brightening every knife as he laid it on the table,\nby breathing on the blade and afterwards polishing the same on the apron\nalready mentioned. When he had completed his preparations, he grinned\nat the sisters, and expressed his belief that the approaching collation\nwould be of \'rather a spicy sort.\'\n\n\'Will it be long, before it\'s ready, Bailey?\' asked Mercy.\n\n\'No,\' said Bailey, \'it IS cooked. When I come up, she was dodging among\nthe tender pieces with a fork, and eating of \'em.\'\n\nBut he had scarcely achieved the utterance of these words, when he\nreceived a manual compliment on the head, which sent him staggering\nagainst the wall; and Mrs Todgers, dish in hand, stood indignantly\nbefore him.\n\n\'Oh you little villain!\' said that lady. \'Oh you bad, false boy!\'\n\n\'No worse than yerself,\' retorted Bailey, guarding his head, on a\nprinciple invented by Mr Thomas Cribb. \'Ah! Come now! Do that again,\nwill yer?\'\n\n\'He\'s the most dreadful child,\' said Mrs Todgers, setting down the dish,\n\'I ever had to deal with. The gentlemen spoil him to that extent, and\nteach him such things, that I\'m afraid nothing but hanging will ever do\nhim any good.\'\n\n\'Won\'t it!\' cried Bailey. \'Oh! Yes! Wot do you go a-lowerin the\ntable-beer for then, and destroying my constitooshun?\'\n\n\'Go downstairs, you vicious boy,\' said Mrs Todgers, holding the door\nopen. \'Do you hear me? Go along!\'\n\nAfter two or three dexterous feints, he went, and was seen no more that\nnight, save once, when he brought up some tumblers and hot water, and\nmuch disturbed the two Miss Pecksniffs by squinting hideously behind\nthe back of the unconscious Mrs Todgers. Having done this justice to his\nwounded feelings, he retired underground; where, in company with a swarm\nof black beetles and a kitchen candle, he employed his faculties in\ncleaning boots and brushing clothes until the night was far advanced.\n\nBenjamin was supposed to be the real name of this young retainer but he\nwas known by a great variety of names. Benjamin, for instance, had been\nconverted into Uncle Ben, and that again had been corrupted into Uncle;\nwhich, by an easy transition, had again passed into Barnwell, in memory\nof the celebrated relative in that degree who was shot by his nephew\nGeorge, while meditating in his garden at Camberwell. The gentlemen at\nTodgers\'s had a merry habit, too, of bestowing upon him, for the time\nbeing, the name of any notorious malefactor or minister; and sometimes\nwhen current events were flat they even sought the pages of history for\nthese distinctions; as Mr Pitt, Young Brownrigg, and the like. At the\nperiod of which we write, he was generally known among the gentlemen as\nBailey junior; a name bestowed upon him in contradistinction, perhaps,\nto Old Bailey; and possibly as involving the recollection of an\nunfortunate lady of the same name, who perished by her own hand early in\nlife, and has been immortalised in a ballad.\n\nThe usual Sunday dinner-hour at Todgers\'s was two o\'clock--a suitable\ntime, it was considered for all parties; convenient to Mrs Todgers, on\naccount of the bakers; and convenient to the gentlemen with reference\nto their afternoon engagements. But on the Sunday which was to introduce\nthe two Miss Pecksniffs to a full knowledge of Todgers\'s and its\nsociety, the dinner was postponed until five, in order that everything\nmight be as genteel as the occasion demanded.\n\nWhen the hour drew nigh, Bailey junior, testifying great excitement,\nappeared in a complete suit of cast-off clothes several sizes too large\nfor him, and in particular, mounted a clean shirt of such extraordinary\nmagnitude, that one of the gentlemen (remarkable for his ready wit)\ncalled him \'collars\' on the spot. At about a quarter before five, a\ndeputation, consisting of Mr Jinkins, and another gentleman, whose\nname was Gander, knocked at the door of Mrs Todgers\'s room, and, being\nformally introduced to the two Miss Pecksniffs by their parent who was\nin waiting, besought the honour of conducting them upstairs.\n\nThe drawing-room at Todgers\'s was out of the common style; so much so\nindeed, that you would hardly have taken it to be a drawingroom, unless\nyou were told so by somebody who was in the secret. It was floor-clothed\nall over; and the ceiling, including a great beam in the middle,\nwas papered. Besides the three little windows, with seats in them,\ncommanding the opposite archway, there was another window looking point\nblank, without any compromise at all about it into Jinkins\'s bedroom;\nand high up, all along one side of the wall was a strip of panes of\nglass, two-deep, giving light to the staircase. There were the oddest\nclosets possible, with little casements in them like eight-day clocks,\nlurking in the wainscot and taking the shape of the stairs; and the very\ndoor itself (which was painted black) had two great glass eyes in its\nforehead, with an inquisitive green pupil in the middle of each.\n\nHere the gentlemen were all assembled. There was a general cry of \'Hear,\nhear!\' and \'Bravo Jink!\' when Mr Jinkins appeared with Charity on his\narm; which became quite rapturous as Mr Gander followed, escorting\nMercy, and Mr Pecksniff brought up the rear with Mrs Todgers.\n\nThen the presentations took place. They included a gentleman of a\nsporting turn, who propounded questions on jockey subjects to the\neditors of Sunday papers, which were regarded by his friends as rather\nstiff things to answer; and they included a gentleman of a theatrical\nturn, who had once entertained serious thoughts of \'coming out,\' but\nhad been kept in by the wickedness of human nature; and they included\na gentleman of a debating turn, who was strong at speech-making; and a\ngentleman of a literary turn, who wrote squibs upon the rest, and\nknew the weak side of everybody\'s character but his own. There was a\ngentleman of a vocal turn, and a gentleman of a smoking turn, and a\ngentleman of a convivial turn; some of the gentlemen had a turn for\nwhist, and a large proportion of the gentlemen had a strong turn for\nbilliards and betting. They had all, it may be presumed, a turn for\nbusiness; being all commercially employed in one way or other; and\nhad, every one in his own way, a decided turn for pleasure to boot. Mr\nJinkins was of a fashionable turn; being a regular frequenter of the\nParks on Sundays, and knowing a great many carriages by sight. He spoke\nmysteriously, too, of splendid women, and was suspected of having once\ncommitted himself with a Countess. Mr Gander was of a witty turn being\nindeed the gentleman who had originated the sally about \'collars;\' which\nsparkling pleasantry was now retailed from mouth to mouth, under the\ntitle of Gander\'s Last, and was received in all parts of the room with\ngreat applause. Mr Jinkins it may be added, was much the oldest of\nthe party; being a fish-salesman\'s book-keeper, aged forty. He was the\noldest boarder also; and in right of his double seniority, took the lead\nin the house, as Mrs Todgers had already said.\n\nThere was considerable delay in the production of dinner, and poor Mrs\nTodgers, being reproached in confidence by Jinkins, slipped in and out,\nat least twenty times to see about it; always coming back as though she\nhad no such thing upon her mind, and hadn\'t been out at all. But there\nwas no hitch in the conversation nevertheless; for one gentleman, who\ntravelled in the perfumery line, exhibited an interesting nick-nack,\nin the way of a remarkable cake of shaving soap which he had lately\nmet with in Germany; and the gentleman of a literary turn repeated (by\ndesire) some sarcastic stanzas he had recently produced on the freezing\nof the tank at the back of the house. These amusements, with the\nmiscellaneous conversation arising out of them, passed the time\nsplendidly, until dinner was announced by Bailey junior in these terms:\n\n\'The wittles is up!\'\n\nOn which notice they immediately descended to the banquet-hall; some of\nthe more facetious spirits in the rear taking down gentlemen as if they\nwere ladies, in imitation of the fortunate possessors of the two Miss\nPecksniffs.\n\nMr Pecksniff said grace--a short and pious grace, involving a blessing\non the appetites of those present, and committing all persons who had\nnothing to eat, to the care of Providence; whose business (so said the\ngrace, in effect) it clearly was, to look after them. This done, they\nfell to with less ceremony than appetite; the table groaning beneath the\nweight, not only of the delicacies whereof the Miss Pecksniffs had been\npreviously forewarned, but of boiled beef, roast veal, bacon, pies\nand abundance of such heavy vegetables as are favourably known to\nhousekeepers for their satisfying qualities. Besides which, there were\nbottles of stout, bottles of wine, bottles of ale, and divers other\nstrong drinks, native and foreign.\n\nAll this was highly agreeable to the two Miss Pecksniffs, who were in\nimmense request; sitting one on either hand of Mr Jinkins at the bottom\nof the table; and who were called upon to take wine with some new\nadmirer every minute. They had hardly ever felt so pleasant, and so full\nof conversation, in their lives; Mercy, in particular, was uncommonly\nbrilliant, and said so many good things in the way of lively repartee\nthat she was looked upon as a prodigy. \'In short,\' as that young lady\nobserved, \'they felt now, indeed, that they were in London, and for the\nfirst time too.\'\n\nTheir young friend Bailey sympathized in these feelings to the\nfullest extent, and, abating nothing of his patronage, gave them every\nencouragement in his power; favouring them, when the general attention\nwas diverted from his proceedings, with many nods and winks and other\ntokens of recognition, and occasionally touching his nose with a\ncorkscrew, as if to express the Bacchanalian character of the meeting.\nIn truth, perhaps even the spirits of the two Miss Pecksniffs, and the\nhungry watchfulness of Mrs Todgers, were less worthy of note than the\nproceedings of this remarkable boy, whom nothing disconcerted or put out\nof his way. If any piece of crockery, a dish or otherwise, chanced to\nslip through his hands (which happened once or twice), he let it go with\nperfect good breeding, and never added to the painful emotions of the\ncompany by exhibiting the least regret. Nor did he, by hurrying to and\nfro, disturb the repose of the assembly, as many well-trained servants\ndo; on the contrary, feeling the hopelessness of waiting upon so large a\nparty, he left the gentlemen to help themselves to what they wanted, and\nseldom stirred from behind Mr Jinkins\'s chair, where, with his hands\nin his pockets, and his legs planted pretty wide apart, he led the\nlaughter, and enjoyed the conversation.\n\nThe dessert was splendid. No waiting either. The pudding-plates had been\nwashed in a little tub outside the door while cheese was on, and though\nthey were moist and warm with friction, still there they were again,\nup to the mark, and true to time. Quarts of almonds; dozens of oranges;\npounds of raisins; stacks of biffins; soup-plates full of nuts.--Oh,\nTodgers\'s could do it when it chose! mind that.\n\nThen more wine came on; red wines and white wines; and a large china\nbowl of punch, brewed by the gentleman of a convivial turn, who adjured\nthe Miss Pecksniffs not to be despondent on account of its dimensions,\nas there were materials in the house for the decoction of half a dozen\nmore of the same size. Good gracious, how they laughed! How they coughed\nwhen they sipped it, because it was so strong; and how they laughed\nagain when somebody vowed that but for its colour it might have been\nmistaken, in regard of its innocuous qualities, for new milk! What a\nshout of \'No!\' burst from the gentlemen when they pathetically implored\nMr Jinkins to suffer them to qualify it with hot water; and how\nblushingly, by little and little, did each of them drink her whole\nglassful, down to its very dregs!\n\nNow comes the trying time. The sun, as Mr Jinkins says (gentlemanly\ncreature, Jinkins--never at a loss!), is about to leave the firmament.\n\'Miss Pecksniff!\' says Mrs Todgers, softly, \'will you--?\' \'Oh dear, no\nmore, Mrs Todgers.\' Mrs Todgers rises; the two Miss Pecksniffs rise; all\nrise. Miss Mercy Pecksniff looks downward for her scarf. Where is it?\nDear me, where CAN it be? Sweet girl, she has it on; not on her fair\nneck, but loose upon her flowing figure. A dozen hands assist her. She\nis all confusion. The youngest gentleman in company thirsts to murder\nJinkins. She skips and joins her sister at the door. Her sister has her\narm about the waist of Mrs Todgers. She winds her arm around her sister.\nDiana, what a picture! The last things visible are a shape and a skip.\n\'Gentlemen, let us drink the ladies!\'\n\nThe enthusiasm is tremendous. The gentleman of a debating turn rises in\nthe midst, and suddenly lets loose a tide of eloquence which bears down\neverything before it. He is reminded of a toast--a toast to which they\nwill respond. There is an individual present; he has him in his eye; to\nwhom they owe a debt of gratitude. He repeats it--a debt of gratitude.\nTheir rugged natures have been softened and ameliorated that day, by\nthe society of lovely woman. There is a gentleman in company whom two\naccomplished and delightful females regard with veneration, as the\nfountain of their existence. Yes, when yet the two Miss Pecksniffs\nlisped in language scarce intelligible, they called that individual\n\'Father!\' There is great applause. He gives them \'Mr Pecksniff, and God\nbless him!\' They all shake hands with Mr Pecksniff, as they drink the\ntoast. The youngest gentleman in company does so with a thrill; for he\nfeels that a mysterious influence pervades the man who claims that being\nin the pink scarf for his daughter.\n\nWhat saith Mr Pecksniff in reply? Or rather let the question be, What\nleaves he unsaid? Nothing. More punch is called for, and produced, and\ndrunk. Enthusiasm mounts still higher. Every man comes out freely in\nhis own character. The gentleman of a theatrical turn recites. The vocal\ngentleman regales them with a song. Gander leaves the Gander of all\nformer feasts whole leagues behind. HE rises to propose a toast. It is,\nThe Father of Todgers\'s. It is their common friend Jink--it is old\nJink, if he may call him by that familiar and endearing appellation. The\nyoungest gentleman in company utters a frantic negative. He won\'t\nhave it--he can\'t bear it--it mustn\'t be. But his depth of feeling is\nmisunderstood. He is supposed to be a little elevated; and nobody heeds\nhim.\n\nMr Jinkins thanks them from his heart. It is, by many degrees, the\nproudest day in his humble career. When he looks around him on the\npresent occasion, he feels that he wants words in which to express\nhis gratitude. One thing he will say. He hopes it has been shown that\nTodgers\'s can be true to itself; and that, an opportunity arising, it\ncan come out quite as strong as its neighbours--perhaps stronger. He\nreminds them, amidst thunders of encouragement, that they have heard of\na somewhat similar establishment in Cannon Street; and that they have\nheard it praised. He wishes to draw no invidious comparisons; he would\nbe the last man to do it; but when that Cannon Street establishment\nshall be able to produce such a combination of wit and beauty as has\ngraced that board that day, and shall be able to serve up (all things\nconsidered) such a dinner as that of which they have just partaken, he\nwill be happy to talk to it. Until then, gentlemen, he will stick to\nTodgers\'s.\n\nMore punch, more enthusiasm, more speeches. Everybody\'s health is drunk,\nsaving the youngest gentleman\'s in company. He sits apart, with his\nelbow on the back of a vacant chair, and glares disdainfully at Jinkins.\nGander, in a convulsing speech, gives them the health of Bailey junior;\nhiccups are heard; and a glass is broken. Mr Jinkins feels that it is\ntime to join the ladies. He proposes, as a final sentiment, Mrs Todgers.\nShe is worthy to be remembered separately. Hear, hear. So she is; no\ndoubt of it. They all find fault with her at other times; but every man\nfeels now, that he could die in her defence.\n\nThey go upstairs, where they are not expected so soon; for Mrs Todgers\nis asleep, Miss Charity is adjusting her hair, and Mercy, who has made\na sofa of one of the window-seats is in a gracefully recumbent attitude.\nShe is rising hastily, when Mr Jinkins implores her, for all their\nsakes, not to stir; she looks too graceful and too lovely, he remarks,\nto be disturbed. She laughs, and yields, and fans herself, and drops\nher fan, and there is a rush to pick it up. Being now installed, by one\nconsent, as the beauty of the party, she is cruel and capricious, and\nsends gentlemen on messages to other gentlemen, and forgets all about\nthem before they can return with the answer, and invents a thousand\ntortures, rending their hearts to pieces. Bailey brings up the tea and\ncoffee. There is a small cluster of admirers round Charity; but they\nare only those who cannot get near her sister. The youngest gentleman\nin company is pale, but collected, and still sits apart; for his spirit\nloves to hold communion with itself, and his soul recoils from noisy\nrevellers. She has a consciousness of his presence and adoration.\nHe sees it flashing sometimes in the corner of her eye. Have a care,\nJinkins, ere you provoke a desperate man to frenzy!\n\nMr Pecksniff had followed his younger friends upstairs, and taken a\nchair at the side of Mrs Todgers. He had also spilt a cup of coffee over\nhis legs without appearing to be aware of the circumstance; nor did he\nseem to know that there was muffin on his knee.\n\n\'And how have they used you downstairs, sir?\' asked the hostess.\n\n\'Their conduct has been such, my dear madam,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'as I\ncan never think of without emotion, or remember without a tear. Oh, Mrs\nTodgers!\'\n\n\'My goodness!\' exclaimed that lady. \'How low you are in your spirits,\nsir!\'\n\n\'I am a man, my dear madam,\' said Mr Pecksniff, shedding tears and\nspeaking with an imperfect articulation, \'but I am also a father. I\nam also a widower. My feelings, Mrs Todgers, will not consent to be\nentirely smothered, like the young children in the Tower. They are grown\nup, and the more I press the bolster on them, the more they look round\nthe corner of it.\'\n\nHe suddenly became conscious of the bit of muffin, and stared at it\nintently; shaking his head the while, in a forlorn and imbecile manner,\nas if he regarded it as his evil genius, and mildly reproached it.\n\n\'She was beautiful, Mrs Todgers,\' he said, turning his glazed eye\nagain upon her, without the least preliminary notice. \'She had a small\nproperty.\'\n\n\'So I have heard,\' cried Mrs Todgers with great sympathy.\n\n\'Those are her daughters,\' said Mr Pecksniff, pointing out the young\nladies, with increased emotion.\n\nMrs Todgers had no doubt about it.\n\n\'Mercy and Charity,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'Charity and Mercy. Not unholy\nnames, I hope?\'\n\n\'Mr Pecksniff!\' cried Mrs Todgers. \'What a ghastly smile! Are you ill,\nsir?\'\n\nHe pressed his hand upon her arm, and answered in a solemn manner, and a\nfaint voice, \'Chronic.\'\n\n\'Cholic?\' cried the frightened Mrs Todgers.\n\n\'Chron-ic,\' he repeated with some difficulty. \'Chron-ic. A chronic\ndisorder. I have been its victim from childhood. It is carrying me to my\ngrave.\'\n\n\'Heaven forbid!\' cried Mrs Todgers.\n\n\'Yes, it is,\' said Mr Pecksniff, reckless with despair. \'I am rather\nglad of it, upon the whole. You are like her, Mrs Todgers.\'\n\n\'Don\'t squeeze me so tight, pray, Mr Pecksniff. If any of the gentlemen\nshould notice us.\'\n\n\'For her sake,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Permit me--in honour of her memory.\nFor the sake of a voice from the tomb. You are VERY like her Mrs\nTodgers! What a world this is!\'\n\n\'Ah! Indeed you may say that!\' cried Mrs Todgers.\n\n\'I\'m afraid it is a vain and thoughtless world,\' said Mr Pecksniff,\noverflowing with despondency. \'These young people about us. Oh! what\nsense have they of their responsibilities? None. Give me your other\nhand, Mrs Todgers.\'\n\nThe lady hesitated, and said \'she didn\'t like.\'\n\n\'Has a voice from the grave no influence?\' said Mr Pecksniff, with,\ndismal tenderness. \'This is irreligious! My dear creature.\'\n\n\'Hush!\' urged Mrs Todgers. \'Really you mustn\'t.\'\n\n\'It\'s not me,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Don\'t suppose it\'s me; it\'s the\nvoice; it\'s her voice.\'\n\nMrs Pecksniff deceased, must have had an unusually thick and husky voice\nfor a lady, and rather a stuttering voice, and to say the truth somewhat\nof a drunken voice, if it had ever borne much resemblance to that in\nwhich Mr Pecksniff spoke just then. But perhaps this was delusion on his\npart.\n\n\'It has been a day of enjoyment, Mrs Todgers, but still it has been a\nday of torture. It has reminded me of my loneliness. What am I in the\nworld?\'\n\n\'An excellent gentleman, Mr Pecksniff,\' said Mrs Todgers.\n\n\'There is consolation in that too,\' cried Mr Pecksniff. \'Am I?\'\n\n\'There is no better man living,\' said Mrs Todgers, \'I am sure.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff smiled through his tears, and slightly shook his head. \'You\nare very good,\' he said, \'thank you. It is a great happiness to me, Mrs\nTodgers, to make young people happy. The happiness of my pupils is my\nchief object. I dote upon \'em. They dote upon me too--sometimes.\'\n\n\'Always,\' said Mrs Todgers.\n\n\'When they say they haven\'t improved, ma\'am,\' whispered Mr Pecksniff,\nlooking at her with profound mystery, and motioning to her to advance\nher ear a little closer to his mouth. \'When they say they haven\'t\nimproved, ma\'am, and the premium was too high, they lie! I shouldn\'t\nwish it to be mentioned; you will understand me; but I say to you as to\nan old friend, they lie.\'\n\n\'Base wretches they must be!\' said Mrs Todgers.\n\n\'Madam,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'you are right. I respect you for that\nobservation. A word in your ear. To Parents and Guardians. This is in\nconfidence, Mrs Todgers?\'\n\n\'The strictest, of course!\' cried that lady.\n\n\'To Parents and Guardians,\' repeated Mr Pecksniff. \'An eligible\nopportunity now offers, which unites the advantages of the best\npractical architectural education with the comforts of a home, and the\nconstant association with some, who, however humble their sphere and\nlimited their capacity--observe!--are not unmindful of their moral\nresponsibilities.\'\n\nMrs Todgers looked a little puzzled to know what this might mean, as\nwell she might; for it was, as the reader may perchance remember, Mr\nPecksniff\'s usual form of advertisement when he wanted a pupil; and\nseemed to have no particular reference, at present, to anything. But Mr\nPecksniff held up his finger as a caution to her not to interrupt him.\n\n\'Do you know any parent or guardian, Mrs Todgers,\' said Mr Pecksniff,\n\'who desires to avail himself of such an opportunity for a young\ngentleman? An orphan would be preferred. Do you know of any orphan with\nthree or four hundred pound?\'\n\nMrs Todgers reflected, and shook her head.\n\n\'When you hear of an orphan with three or four hundred pound,\' said Mr\nPecksniff, \'let that dear orphan\'s friends apply, by letter post-paid,\nto S. P., Post Office, Salisbury. I don\'t know who he is exactly. Don\'t\nbe alarmed, Mrs Todgers,\' said Mr Pecksniff, falling heavily against\nher; \'Chronic--chronic! Let\'s have a little drop of something to drink.\'\n\n\'Bless my life, Miss Pecksniffs!\' cried Mrs Todgers, aloud, \'your dear\npa\'s took very poorly!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff straightened himself by a surprising effort, as every\none turned hastily towards him; and standing on his feet, regarded the\nassembly with a look of ineffable wisdom. Gradually it gave place to\na smile; a feeble, helpless, melancholy smile; bland, almost to\nsickliness. \'Do not repine, my friends,\' said Mr Pecksniff, tenderly.\n\'Do not weep for me. It is chronic.\' And with these words, after making\na futile attempt to pull off his shoes, he fell into the fireplace.\n\nThe youngest gentleman in company had him out in a second. Yes, before a\nhair upon his head was singed, he had him on the hearth-rug--her father!\n\nShe was almost beside herself. So was her sister. Jinkins consoled them\nboth. They all consoled them. Everybody had something to say, except the\nyoungest gentleman in company, who with a noble self-devotion did the\nheavy work, and held up Mr Pecksniff\'s head without being taken notice\nof by anybody. At last they gathered round, and agreed to carry him\nupstairs to bed. The youngest gentleman in company was rebuked by\nJinkins for tearing Mr Pecksniff\'s coat! Ha, ha! But no matter.\n\nThey carried him upstairs, and crushed the youngest gentleman at every\nstep. His bedroom was at the top of the house, and it was a long way;\nbut they got him there in course of time. He asked them frequently\non the road for a little drop of something to drink. It seemed an\nidiosyncrasy. The youngest gentleman in company proposed a draught of\nwater. Mr Pecksniff called him opprobious names for the suggestion.\n\nJinkins and Gander took the rest upon themselves, and made him as\ncomfortable as they could, on the outside of his bed; and when he seemed\ndisposed to sleep, they left him. But before they had all gained the\nbottom of the staircase, a vision of Mr Pecksniff, strangely attired,\nwas seen to flutter on the top landing. He desired to collect their\nsentiments, it seemed, upon the nature of human life.\n\n\'My friends,\' cried Mr Pecksniff, looking over the banisters, \'let us\nimprove our minds by mutual inquiry and discussion. Let us be moral. Let\nus contemplate existence. Where is Jinkins?\'\n\n\'Here,\' cried that gentleman. \'Go to bed again\'\n\n\'To bed!\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Bed! \'Tis the voice of the sluggard, I\nhear him complain, you have woke me too soon, I must slumber again. If\nany young orphan will repeat the remainder of that simple piece from\nDoctor Watts\'s collection, an eligible opportunity now offers.\'\n\nNobody volunteered.\n\n\'This is very soothing,\' said Mr Pecksniff, after a pause. \'Extremely\nso. Cool and refreshing; particularly to the legs! The legs of the\nhuman subject, my friends, are a beautiful production. Compare them with\nwooden legs, and observe the difference between the anatomy of nature\nand the anatomy of art. Do you know,\' said Mr Pecksniff, leaning over\nthe banisters, with an odd recollection of his familiar manner among\nnew pupils at home, \'that I should very much like to see Mrs Todgers\'s\nnotion of a wooden leg, if perfectly agreeable to herself!\'\n\nAs it appeared impossible to entertain any reasonable hopes of him after\nthis speech, Mr Jinkins and Mr Gander went upstairs again, and once more\ngot him into bed. But they had not descended to the second floor before\nhe was out again; nor, when they had repeated the process, had they\ndescended the first flight, before he was out again. In a word, as often\nas he was shut up in his own room, he darted out afresh, charged\nwith some new moral sentiment, which he continually repeated over the\nbanisters, with extraordinary relish, and an irrepressible desire for\nthe improvement of his fellow creatures that nothing could subdue.\n\nUnder these circumstances, when they had got him into bed for the\nthirtieth time or so, Mr Jinkins held him, while his companion went\ndownstairs in search of Bailey junior, with whom he presently returned.\nThat youth having been apprised of the service required of him, was in\ngreat spirits, and brought up a stool, a candle, and his supper; to the\nend that he might keep watch outside the bedroom door with tolerable\ncomfort.\n\nWhen he had completed his arrangements, they locked Mr Pecksniff in,\nand left the key on the outside; charging the young page to listen\nattentively for symptoms of an apoplectic nature, with which the patient\nmight be troubled, and, in case of any such presenting themselves, to\nsummon them without delay. To which Mr Bailey modestly replied that\n\'he hoped he knowed wot o\'clock it wos in gineral, and didn\'t date his\nletters to his friends from Todgers\'s for nothing.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TEN\n\nCONTAINING STRANGE MATTER, ON WHICH MANY EVENTS IN THIS HISTORY MAY, FOR\nTHEIR GOOD OR EVIL INFLUENCE, CHIEFLY DEPEND\n\n\nBut Mr Pecksniff came to town on business. Had he forgotten that? Was he\nalways taking his pleasure with Todgers\'s jovial brood, unmindful of the\nserious demands, whatever they might be, upon his calm consideration?\nNo.\n\nTime and tide will wait for no man, saith the adage. But all men have to\nwait for time and tide. That tide which, taken at the flood, would lead\nSeth Pecksniff on to fortune, was marked down in the table, and about to\nflow. No idle Pecksniff lingered far inland, unmindful of the changes\nof the stream; but there, upon the water\'s edge, over his shoes already,\nstood the worthy creature, prepared to wallow in the very mud, so that\nit slid towards the quarter of his hope.\n\nThe trustfulness of his two fair daughters was beautiful indeed. They\nhad that firm reliance on their parent\'s nature, which taught them to\nfeel certain that in all he did he had his purpose straight and full\nbefore him. And that its noble end and object was himself, which almost\nof necessity included them, they knew. The devotion of these maids was\nperfect.\n\nTheir filial confidence was rendered the more touching, by their having\nno knowledge of their parent\'s real designs, in the present instance.\nAll that they knew of his proceedings was, that every morning, after\nthe early breakfast, he repaired to the post office and inquired for\nletters. That task performed, his business for the day was over; and he\nagain relaxed, until the rising of another sun proclaimed the advent of\nanother post.\n\nThis went on for four or five days. At length, one morning, Mr Pecksniff\nreturned with a breathless rapidity, strange to observe in him, at other\ntimes so calm; and, seeking immediate speech with his daughters, shut\nhimself up with them in private conference for two whole hours. Of all\nthat passed in this period, only the following words of Mr Pecksniff\'s\nutterance are known:\n\n\'How he has come to change so very much (if it should turn out as I\nexpect, that he has), we needn\'t stop to inquire. My dears, I have my\nthoughts upon the subject, but I will not impart them. It is enough\nthat we will not be proud, resentful, or unforgiving. If he wants our\nfriendship he shall have it. We know our duty, I hope!\'\n\nThat same day at noon, an old gentleman alighted from a hackney-coach at\nthe post-office, and, giving his name, inquired for a letter addressed\nto himself, and directed to be left till called for. It had been lying\nthere some days. The superscription was in Mr Pecksniff\'s hand, and it\nwas sealed with Mr Pecksniff\'s seal.\n\nIt was very short, containing indeed nothing more than an address\n\'with Mr Pecksniff\'s respectful, and (not withstanding what has\npassed) sincerely affectionate regards.\' The old gentleman tore off the\ndirection--scattering the rest in fragments to the winds--and giving\nit to the coachman, bade him drive as near that place as he could. In\npursuance of these instructions he was driven to the Monument; where he\nagain alighted, and dismissed the vehicle, and walked towards Todgers\'s.\n\nThough the face, and form, and gait of this old man, and even his\ngrip of the stout stick on which he leaned, were all expressive of a\nresolution not easily shaken, and a purpose (it matters little whether\nright or wrong, just now) such as in other days might have survived\nthe rack, and had its strongest life in weakest death; still there were\ngrains of hesitation in his mind, which made him now avoid the house he\nsought, and loiter to and fro in a gleam of sunlight, that brightened\nthe little churchyard hard by. There may have been, in the presence of\nthose idle heaps of dust among the busiest stir of life, something to\nincrease his wavering; but there he walked, awakening the echoes as he\npaced up and down, until the church clock, striking the quarters for\nthe second time since he had been there, roused him from his meditation.\nShaking off his incertitude as the air parted with the sound of the\nbells, he walked rapidly to the house, and knocked at the door.\n\nMr Pecksniff was seated in the landlady\'s little room, and his visitor\nfound him reading--by an accident; he apologised for it--an excellent\ntheological work. There were cake and wine upon a little table--by\nanother accident, for which he also apologised. Indeed he said, he\nhad given his visitor up, and was about to partake of that simple\nrefreshment with his children, when he knocked at the door.\n\n\'Your daughters are well?\' said old Martin, laying down his hat and\nstick.\n\nMr Pecksniff endeavoured to conceal his agitation as a father when he\nanswered Yes, they were. They were good girls, he said, very good. He\nwould not venture to recommend Mr Chuzzlewit to take the easy-chair,\nor to keep out of the draught from the door. If he made any such\nsuggestion, he would expose himself, he feared, to most unjust\nsuspicion. He would, therefore, content himself with remarking that\nthere was an easy-chair in the room, and that the door was far from\nbeing air-tight. This latter imperfection, he might perhaps venture to\nadd, was not uncommonly to be met with in old houses.\n\nThe old man sat down in the easy-chair, and after a few moments\'\nsilence, said:\n\n\'In the first place, let me thank you for coming to London so promptly,\nat my almost unexplained request; I need scarcely add, at my cost.\'\n\n\'At YOUR cost, my good sir!\' cried Mr Pecksniff, in a tone of great\nsurprise.\n\n\'It is not,\' said Martin, waving his hand impatiently, \'my habit to put\nmy--well! my relatives--to any personal expense to gratify my caprices.\'\n\n\'Caprices, my good sir!\' cried Mr Pecksniff\n\n\'That is scarcely the proper word either, in this instance,\' said the\nold man. \'No. You are right.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff was inwardly very much relieved to hear it, though he\ndidn\'t at all know why.\n\n\'You are right,\' repeated Martin. \'It is not a caprice. It is built up\non reason, proof, and cool comparison. Caprices never are. Moreover, I\nam not a capricious man. I never was.\'\n\n\'Most assuredly not,\' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'How do you know?\' returned the other quickly. \'You are to begin to know\nit now. You are to test and prove it, in time to come. You and yours are\nto find that I can be constant, and am not to be diverted from my end.\nDo you hear?\'\n\n\'Perfectly,\' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'I very much regret,\' Martin resumed, looking steadily at him, and\nspeaking in a slow and measured tone; \'I very much regret that you and\nI held such a conversation together, as that which passed between us at\nour last meeting. I very much regret that I laid open to you what were\nthen my thoughts of you, so freely as I did. The intentions that I bear\ntowards you now are of another kind; deserted by all in whom I have ever\ntrusted; hoodwinked and beset by all who should help and sustain me;\nI fly to you for refuge. I confide in you to be my ally; to attach\nyourself to me by ties of Interest and Expectation\'--he laid great\nstress upon these words, though Mr Pecksniff particularly begged him\nnot to mention it; \'and to help me to visit the consequences of the very\nworst species of meanness, dissimulation, and subtlety, on the right\nheads.\'\n\n\'My noble sir!\' cried Mr Pecksniff, catching at his outstretched hand.\n\'And YOU regret the having harboured unjust thoughts of me! YOU with\nthose grey hairs!\'\n\n\'Regrets,\' said Martin, \'are the natural property of grey hairs; and\nI enjoy, in common with all other men, at least my share of such\ninheritance. And so enough of that. I regret having been severed from\nyou so long. If I had known you sooner, and sooner used you as you well\ndeserve, I might have been a happier man.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff looked up to the ceiling, and clasped his hands in rapture.\n\n\'Your daughters,\' said Martin, after a short silence. \'I don\'t know\nthem. Are they like you?\'\n\n\'In the nose of my eldest and the chin of my youngest, Mr Chuzzlewit,\'\nreturned the widower, \'their sainted parent (not myself, their mother)\nlives again.\'\n\n\'I don\'t mean in person,\' said the old man. \'Morally, morally.\'\n\n\'\'Tis not for me to say,\' retorted Mr Pecksniff with a gentle smile. \'I\nhave done my best, sir.\'\n\n\'I could wish to see them,\' said Martin; \'are they near at hand?\'\n\nThey were, very near; for they had in fact been listening at the\ndoor from the beginning of this conversation until now, when they\nprecipitately retired. Having wiped the signs of weakness from his eyes,\nand so given them time to get upstairs, Mr Pecksniff opened the door,\nand mildly cried in the passage,\n\n\'My own darlings, where are you?\'\n\n\'Here, my dear pa!\' replied the distant voice of Charity.\n\n\'Come down into the back parlour, if you please, my love,\' said Mr\nPecksniff, \'and bring your sister with you.\'\n\n\'Yes, my dear pa,\' cried Merry; and down they came directly (being all\nobedience), singing as they came.\n\nNothing could exceed the astonishment of the two Miss Pecksniffs when\nthey found a stranger with their dear papa. Nothing could surpass their\nmute amazement when he said, \'My children, Mr Chuzzlewit!\' But when he\ntold them that Mr Chuzzlewit and he were friends, and that Mr Chuzzlewit\nhad said such kind and tender words as pierced his very heart, the two\nMiss Pecksniffs cried with one accord, \'Thank Heaven for this!\' and\nfell upon the old man\'s neck. And when they had embraced him with\nsuch fervour of affection that no words can describe it, they grouped\nthemselves about his chair, and hung over him, as figuring to themselves\nno earthly joy like that of ministering to his wants, and crowding into\nthe remainder of his life, the love they would have diffused over their\nwhole existence, from infancy, if he--dear obdurate!--had but consented\nto receive the precious offering.\n\nThe old man looked attentively from one to the other, and then at Mr\nPecksniff, several times.\n\n\'What,\' he asked of Mr Pecksniff, happening to catch his eye in its\ndescent; for until now it had been piously upraised, with something of\nthat expression which the poetry of ages has attributed to a domestic\nbird, when breathing its last amid the ravages of an electric storm:\n\'What are their names?\'\n\nMr Pecksniff told him, and added, rather hastily; his caluminators\nwould have said, with a view to any testamentary thoughts that might be\nflitting through old Martin\'s mind; \'Perhaps, my dears, you had better\nwrite them down. Your humble autographs are of no value in themselves,\nbut affection may prize them.\'\n\n\'Affection,\' said the old man, \'will expend itself on the living\noriginals. Do not trouble yourselves, my girls, I shall not so easily\nforget you, Charity and Mercy, as to need such tokens of remembrance.\nCousin!\'\n\n\'Sir!\' said Mr Pecksniff, with alacrity.\n\n\'Do you never sit down?\'\n\n\'Why--yes--occasionally, sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff, who had been standing\nall this time.\n\n\'Will you do so now?\'\n\n\'Can you ask me,\' returned Mr Pecksniff, slipping into a chair\nimmediately, \'whether I will do anything that you desire?\'\n\n\'You talk confidently,\' said Martin, \'and you mean well; but I fear you\ndon\'t know what an old man\'s humours are. You don\'t know what it is to\nbe required to court his likings and dislikings; to adapt yourself to\nhis prejudices; to do his bidding, be it what it may; to bear with his\ndistrusts and jealousies; and always still be zealous in his service.\nWhen I remember how numerous these failings are in me, and judge of\ntheir occasional enormity by the injurious thoughts I lately entertained\nof you, I hardly dare to claim you for my friend.\'\n\n\'My worthy sir,\' returned his relative, \'how CAN you talk in such a\npainful strain! What was more natural than that you should make one\nslight mistake, when in all other respects you were so very correct, and\nhave had such reason--such very sad and undeniable reason--to judge of\nevery one about you in the worst light!\'\n\n\'True,\' replied the other. \'You are very lenient with me.\'\n\n\'We always said, my girls and I,\' cried Mr Pecksniff with increasing\nobsequiousness, \'that while we mourned the heaviness of our misfortune\nin being confounded with the base and mercenary, still we could not\nwonder at it. My dears, you remember?\'\n\nOh vividly! A thousand times!\n\n\'We uttered no complaint,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Occasionally we had the\npresumption to console ourselves with the remark that Truth would in\nthe end prevail, and Virtue be triumphant; but not often. My loves, you\nrecollect?\'\n\nRecollect! Could he doubt it! Dearest pa, what strange unnecessary\nquestions!\n\n\'And when I saw you,\' resumed Mr Pecksniff, with still greater\ndeference, \'in the little, unassuming village where we take the liberty\nof dwelling, I said you were mistaken in me, my dear sir; that was all,\nI think?\'\n\n\'No--not all,\' said Martin, who had been sitting with his hand upon his\nbrow for some time past, and now looked up again; \'you said much more,\nwhich, added to other circumstances that have come to my knowledge,\nopened my eyes. You spoke to me, disinterestedly, on behalf of--I\nneedn\'t name him. You know whom I mean.\'\n\nTrouble was expressed in Mr Pecksniff\'s visage, as he pressed his hot\nhands together, and replied, with humility, \'Quite disinterestedly, sir,\nI assure you.\'\n\n\'I know it,\' said old Martin, in his quiet way. \'I am sure of it. I said\nso. It was disinterested too, in you, to draw that herd of harpies\noff from me, and be their victim yourself; most other men would have\nsuffered them to display themselves in all their rapacity, and would\nhave striven to rise, by contrast, in my estimation. You felt for me,\nand drew them off, for which I owe you many thanks. Although I left the\nplace, I know what passed behind my back, you see!\'\n\n\'You amaze me, sir!\' cried Mr Pecksniff; which was true enough.\n\n\'My knowledge of your proceedings,\' said the old man, does not stop at\nthis. You have a new inmate in your house.\'\n\n\'Yes, sir,\' rejoined the architect, \'I have.\'\n\n\'He must quit it\' said Martin.\n\n\'For--for yours?\' asked Mr Pecksniff, with a quavering mildness.\n\n\'For any shelter he can find,\' the old man answered. \'He has deceived\nyou.\'\n\n\'I hope not\' said Mr Pecksniff, eagerly. \'I trust not. I have been\nextremely well disposed towards that young man. I hope it cannot be\nshown that he has forfeited all claim to my protection. Deceit--deceit,\nmy dear Mr Chuzzlewit, would be final. I should hold myself bound, on\nproof of deceit, to renounce him instantly.\'\n\nThe old man glanced at both his fair supporters, but especially at\nMiss Mercy, whom, indeed, he looked full in the face, with a greater\ndemonstration of interest than had yet appeared in his features. His\ngaze again encountered Mr Pecksniff, as he said, composedly:\n\n\'Of course you know that he has made his matrimonial choice?\'\n\n\'Oh dear!\' cried Mr Pecksniff, rubbing his hair up very stiff upon\nhis head, and staring wildly at his daughters. \'This is becoming\ntremendous!\'\n\n\'You know the fact?\' repeated Martin\n\n\'Surely not without his grandfather\'s consent and approbation my dear\nsir!\' cried Mr Pecksniff. \'Don\'t tell me that. For the honour of human\nnature, say you\'re not about to tell me that!\'\n\n\'I thought he had suppressed it,\' said the old man.\n\nThe indignation felt by Mr Pecksniff at this terrible disclosure, was\nonly to be equalled by the kindling anger of his daughters. What! Had\nthey taken to their hearth and home a secretly contracted serpent; a\ncrocodile, who had made a furtive offer of his hand; an imposition on\nsociety; a bankrupt bachelor with no effects, trading with the spinster\nworld on false pretences! And oh, to think that he should have disobeyed\nand practised on that sweet, that venerable gentleman, whose name\nhe bore; that kind and tender guardian; his more than father--to say\nnothing at all of mother--horrible, horrible! To turn him out with\nignominy would be treatment much too good. Was there nothing else that\ncould be done to him? Had he incurred no legal pains and penalties?\nCould it be that the statutes of the land were so remiss as to have\naffixed no punishment to such delinquency? Monster; how basely had they\nbeen deceived!\n\n\'I am glad to find you second me so warmly,\' said the old man holding up\nhis hand to stay the torrent of their wrath. \'I will not deny that it\nis a pleasure to me to find you so full of zeal. We will consider that\ntopic as disposed of.\'\n\n\'No, my dear sir,\' cried Mr Pecksniff, \'not as disposed of, until I have\npurged my house of this pollution.\'\n\n\'That will follow,\' said the old man, \'in its own time. I look upon that\nas done.\'\n\n\'You are very good, sir,\' answered Mr Pecksniff, shaking his hand. \'You\ndo me honour. You MAY look upon it as done, I assure you.\'\n\n\'There is another topic,\' said Martin, \'on which I hope you will assist\nme. You remember Mary, cousin?\'\n\n\'The young lady that I mentioned to you, my dears, as having interested\nme so very much,\' remarked Mr Pecksniff. \'Excuse my interrupting you,\nsir.\'\n\n\'I told you her history?\' said the old man.\n\n\'Which I also mentioned, you will recollect, my dears,\' cried Mr\nPecksniff. \'Silly girls, Mr Chuzzlewit--quite moved by it, they were!\'\n\n\'Why, look now!\' said Martin, evidently pleased; \'I feared I should have\nhad to urge her case upon you, and ask you to regard her favourably for\nmy sake. But I find you have no jealousies! Well! You have no cause\nfor any, to be sure. She has nothing to gain from me, my dears, and she\nknows it.\'\n\nThe two Miss Pecksniffs murmured their approval of this wise\narrangement, and their cordial sympathy with its interesting object.\n\n\'If I could have anticipated what has come to pass between us four,\'\nsaid the old man thoughfully; \'but it is too late to think of that. You\nwould receive her courteously, young ladies, and be kind to her, if need\nwere?\'\n\nWhere was the orphan whom the two Miss Pecksniffs would not have\ncherished in their sisterly bosom! But when that orphan was commended to\ntheir care by one on whom the dammed-up love of years was gushing forth,\nwhat exhaustless stores of pure affection yearned to expend themselves\nupon her!\n\nAn interval ensued, during which Mr Chuzzlewit, in an absent frame of\nmind, sat gazing at the ground, without uttering a word; and as it was\nplain that he had no desire to be interrupted in his meditations, Mr\nPecksniff and his daughters were profoundly silent also. During the\nwhole of the foregoing dialogue, he had borne his part with a cold,\npassionless promptitude, as though he had learned and painfully\nrehearsed it all a hundred times. Even when his expressions were warmest\nand his language most encouraging, he had retained the same manner,\nwithout the least abatement. But now there was a keener brightness in\nhis eye, and more expression in his voice, as he said, awakening from\nhis thoughtful mood:\n\n\'You know what will be said of this? Have you reflected?\'\n\n\'Said of what, my dear sir?\' Mr Pecksniff asked.\n\n\'Of this new understanding between us.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff looked benevolently sagacious, and at the same time far\nabove all earthly misconstruction, as he shook his head, and observed\nthat a great many things would be said of it, no doubt.\n\n\'A great many,\' rejoined the old man. \'Some will say that I dote in my\nold age; that illness has shaken me; that I have lost all strength of\nmind, and have grown childish. You can bear that?\'\n\nMr Pecksniff answered that it would be dreadfully hard to bear, but he\nthought he could, if he made a great effort.\n\n\'Others will say--I speak of disappointed, angry people only--that you\nhave lied and fawned, and wormed yourself through dirty ways into my\nfavour; by such concessions and such crooked deeds, such meannesses and\nvile endurances, as nothing could repay; no, not the legacy of half the\nworld we live in. You can bear that?\'\n\nMr Pecksniff made reply that this would be also very hard to bear, as\nreflecting, in some degree, on the discernment of Mr Chuzzlewit. Still\nhe had a modest confidence that he could sustain the calumny, with the\nhelp of a good conscience, and that gentleman\'s friendship.\n\n\'With the great mass of slanderers,\' said old Martin, leaning back in\nhis chair, \'the tale, as I clearly foresee, will run thus: That to mark\nmy contempt for the rabble whom I despised, I chose from among them the\nvery worst, and made him do my will, and pampered and enriched him at\nthe cost of all the rest. That, after casting about for the means of a\npunishment which should rankle in the bosoms of these kites the most,\nand strike into their gall, I devised this scheme at a time when the\nlast link in the chain of grateful love and duty, that held me to\nmy race, was roughly snapped asunder; roughly, for I loved him well;\nroughly, for I had ever put my trust in his affection; roughly, for that\nhe broke it when I loved him most--God help me!--and he without a pang\ncould throw me off, while I clung about his heart! Now,\' said the old\nman, dismissing this passionate outburst as suddenly as he had yielded\nto it, \'is your mind made up to bear this likewise? Lay your account\nwith having it to bear, and put no trust in being set right by me.\'\n\n\'My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,\' cried Pecksniff in an ecstasy, \'for such a man\nas you have shown yourself to be this day; for a man so injured, yet so\nvery humane; for a man so--I am at a loss what precise term to use--yet\nat the same time so remarkably--I don\'t know how to express my meaning;\nfor such a man as I have described, I hope it is no presumption to say\nthat I, and I am sure I may add my children also (my dears, we perfectly\nagree in this, I think?), would bear anything whatever!\'\n\n\'Enough,\' said Martin. \'You can charge no consequences on me. When do\nyou retire home?\'\n\n\'Whenever you please, my dear sir. To-night if you desire it.\'\n\n\'I desire nothing,\' returned the old man, \'that is unreasonable. Such a\nrequest would be. Will you be ready to return at the end of this week?\'\n\nThe very time of all others that Mr Pecksniff would have suggested if\nit had been left to him to make his own choice. As to his daughters--the\nwords, \'Let us be at home on Saturday, dear pa,\' were actually upon\ntheir lips.\n\n\'Your expenses, cousin,\' said Martin, taking a folded slip of paper from\nhis pocketbook, \'may possibly exceed that amount. If so, let me know the\nbalance that I owe you, when we next meet. It would be useless if I told\nyou where I live just now; indeed, I have no fixed abode. When I have,\nyou shall know it. You and your daughters may expect to see me\nbefore long; in the meantime I need not tell you that we keep our own\nconfidence. What you will do when you get home is understood between us.\nGive me no account of it at any time; and never refer to it in any way.\nI ask that as a favour. I am commonly a man of few words, cousin; and\nall that need be said just now is said, I think.\'\n\n\'One glass of wine--one morsel of this homely cake?\' cried Mr Pecksniff,\nventuring to detain him. \'My dears--!\'\n\nThe sisters flew to wait upon him.\n\n\'Poor girls!\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'You will excuse their agitation, my\ndear sir. They are made up of feeling. A bad commodity to go through the\nworld with, Mr Chuzzlewit! My youngest daughter is almost as much of a\nwoman as my eldest, is she not, sir?\'\n\n\'Which IS the youngest?\' asked the old man.\n\n\'Mercy, by five years,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'We sometimes venture to\nconsider her rather a fine figure, sir. Speaking as an artist, I\nmay perhaps be permitted to suggest that its outline is graceful and\ncorrect. I am naturally,\' said Mr Pecksniff, drying his hands upon his\nhandkerchief, and looking anxiously in his cousin\'s face at almost every\nword, \'proud, if I may use the expression, to have a daughter who is\nconstructed on the best models.\'\n\n\'She seems to have a lively disposition,\' observed Martin.\n\n\'Dear me!\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'That is quite remarkable. You have\ndefined her character, my dear sir, as correctly as if you had known her\nfrom her birth. She HAS a lively disposition. I assure you, my dear sir,\nthat in our unpretending home her gaiety is delightful.\'\n\n\'No doubt,\' returned the old man.\n\n\'Charity, upon the other hand,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'is remarkable for\nstrong sense, and for rather a deep tone of sentiment, if the partiality\nof a father may be excused in saying so. A wonderful affection between\nthem, my dear sir! Allow me to drink your health. Bless you!\'\n\n\'I little thought,\' retorted Martin, \'but a month ago, that I should be\nbreaking bread and pouring wine with you. I drink to you.\'\n\nNot at all abashed by the extraordinary abruptness with which these\nlatter words were spoken, Mr Pecksniff thanked him devoutly.\n\n\'Now let me go,\' said Martin, putting down the wine when he had merely\ntouched it with his lips. \'My dears, good morning!\'\n\nBut this distant form of farewell was by no means tender enough for the\nyearnings of the young ladies, who again embraced him with all their\nhearts--with all their arms at any rate--to which parting caresses their\nnew-found friend submitted with a better grace than might have been\nexpected from one who, not a moment before, had pledged their parent in\nsuch a very uncomfortable manner. These endearments terminated, he took\na hasty leave of Mr Pecksniff and withdrew, followed to the door by both\nfather and daughters, who stood there kissing their hands and beaming\nwith affection until he disappeared; though, by the way, he never once\nlooked back, after he had crossed the threshold.\n\nWhen they returned into the house, and were again alone in Mrs Todgers\'s\nroom, the two young ladies exhibited an unusual amount of gaiety;\ninsomuch that they clapped their hands, and laughed, and looked with\nroguish aspects and a bantering air upon their dear papa. This conduct\nwas so very unaccountable, that Mr Pecksniff (being singularly grave\nhimself) could scarcely choose but ask them what it meant; and took them\nto task, in his gentle manner, for yielding to such light emotions.\n\n\'If it was possible to divine any cause for this merriment, even the\nmost remote,\' he said, \'I should not reprove you. But when you can have\nnone whatever--oh, really, really!\'\n\nThis admonition had so little effect on Mercy, that she was obliged to\nhold her handkerchief before her rosy lips, and to throw herself back in\nher chair, with every demonstration of extreme amusement; which want\nof duty so offended Mr Pecksniff that he reproved her in set terms,\nand gave her his parental advice to correct herself in solitude and\ncontemplation. But at that juncture they were disturbed by the sound of\nvoices in dispute; and as it proceeded from the next room, the subject\nmatter of the altercation quickly reached their ears.\n\n\'I don\'t care that! Mrs Todgers,\' said the young gentleman who had been\nthe youngest gentleman in company on the day of the festival; \'I don\'t\ncare THAT, ma\'am,\' said he, snapping his fingers, \'for Jinkins. Don\'t\nsuppose I do.\'\n\n\'I am quite certain you don\'t, sir,\' replied Mrs Todgers. \'You have\ntoo independent a spirit, I know, to yield to anybody. And quite right.\nThere is no reason why you should give way to any gentleman. Everybody\nmust be well aware of that.\'\n\n\'I should think no more of admitting daylight into the fellow,\' said the\nyoungest gentleman, in a desperate voice, \'than if he was a bulldog.\'\n\nMrs Todgers did not stop to inquire whether, as a matter of principle,\nthere was any particular reason for admitting daylight even into a\nbulldog, otherwise than by the natural channel of his eyes, but she\nseemed to wring her hands, and she moaned.\n\n\'Let him be careful,\' said the youngest gentleman. \'I give him warning.\nNo man shall step between me and the current of my vengeance. I know\na Cove--\' he used that familiar epithet in his agitation but corrected\nhimself by adding, \'a gentleman of property, I mean--who practices with\na pair of pistols (fellows too) of his own. If I am driven to borrow\n\'em, and to send at friend to Jinkins, a tragedy will get into the\npapers. That\'s all.\'\n\nAgain Mrs Todgers moaned.\n\n\'I have borne this long enough,\' said the youngest gentleman but now\nmy soul rebels against it, and I won\'t stand it any longer. I left home\noriginally, because I had that within me which wouldn\'t be domineered\nover by a sister; and do you think I\'m going to be put down by HIM? No.\'\n\n\'It is very wrong in Mr Jinkins; I know it is perfectly inexcusable in\nMr Jinkins, if he intends it,\' observed Mrs Todgers\n\n\'If he intends it!\' cried the youngest gentleman. \'Don\'t he interrupt\nand contradict me on every occasion? Does he ever fail to interpose\nhimself between me and anything or anybody that he sees I have set my\nmind upon? Does he make a point of always pretending to forget me,\nwhen he\'s pouring out the beer? Does he make bragging remarks about his\nrazors, and insulting allusions to people who have no necessity to shave\nmore than once a week? But let him look out! He\'ll find himself shaved,\npretty close, before long, and so I tell him.\'\n\nThe young gentleman was mistaken in this closing sentence, inasmuch as\nhe never told it to Jinkins, but always to Mrs Todgers.\n\n\'However,\' he said, \'these are not proper subjects for ladies\' ears.\nAll I\'ve got to say to you, Mrs Todgers, is, a week\'s notice from next\nSaturday. The same house can\'t contain that miscreant and me any longer.\nIf we get over the intermediate time without bloodshed, you may think\nyourself pretty fortunate. I don\'t myself expect we shall.\'\n\n\'Dear, dear!\' cried Mrs Todgers, \'what would I have given to have\nprevented this? To lose you, sir, would be like losing the house\'s\nright-hand. So popular as you are among the gentlemen; so generally\nlooked up to; and so much liked! I do hope you\'ll think better of it; if\non nobody else\'s account, on mine.\'\n\n\'There\'s Jinkins,\' said the youngest gentleman, moodily. \'Your\nfavourite. He\'ll console you, and the gentlemen too, for the loss of\ntwenty such as me. I\'m not understood in this house. I never have been.\'\n\n\'Don\'t run away with that opinion, sir!\' cried Mrs Todgers, with a show\nof honest indignation. \'Don\'t make such a charge as that against the\nestablishment, I must beg of you. It is not so bad as that comes to,\nsir. Make any remark you please against the gentlemen, or against me;\nbut don\'t say you\'re not understood in this house.\'\n\n\'I\'m not treated as if I was,\' said the youngest gentleman.\n\n\'There you make a great mistake, sir,\' returned Mrs Todgers, in the same\nstrain. \'As many of the gentlemen and I have often said, you are too\nsensitive. That\'s where it is. You are of too susceptible a nature; it\'s\nin your spirit.\'\n\nThe young gentleman coughed.\n\n\'And as,\' said Mrs Todgers, \'as to Mr Jinkins, I must beg of you, if we\nARE to part, to understand that I don\'t abet Mr Jinkins by any means.\nFar from it. I could wish that Mr Jinkins would take a lower tone in\nthis establishment, and would not be the means of raising differences\nbetween me and gentlemen that I can much less bear to part with than I\ncould with Mr Jinkins. Mr Jinkins is not such a boarder, sir,\' added Mrs\nTodgers, \'that all considerations of private feeling and respect give\nway before him. Quite the contrary, I assure you.\'\n\nThe young gentleman was so much mollified by these and similar speeches\non the part of Mrs Todgers, that he and that lady gradually changed\npositions; so that she became the injured party, and he was understood\nto be the injurer; but in a complimentary, not in an offensive sense;\nhis cruel conduct being attributable to his exalted nature, and to that\nalone. So, in the end, the young gentleman withdrew his notice, and\nassured Mrs Todgers of his unalterable regard; and having done so, went\nback to business.\n\n\'Goodness me, Miss Pecksniffs!\' cried that lady, as she came into the\nback room, and sat wearily down, with her basket on her knees, and her\nhands folded upon it, \'what a trial of temper it is to keep a house like\nthis! You must have heard most of what has just passed. Now did you ever\nhear the like?\'\n\n\'Never!\' said the two Miss Pecksniffs.\n\n\'Of all the ridiculous young fellows that ever I had to deal with,\'\nresumed Mrs Todgers, \'that is the most ridiculous and unreasonable. Mr\nJinkins is hard upon him sometimes, but not half as hard as he deserves.\nTo mention such a gentleman as Mr Jinkins in the same breath with\nHIM--you know it\'s too much! And yet he\'s as jealous of him, bless you,\nas if he was his equal.\'\n\nThe young ladies were greatly entertained by Mrs Todgers\'s account,\nno less than with certain anecdotes illustrative of the youngest\ngentleman\'s character, which she went on to tell them. But Mr Pecksniff\nlooked quite stern and angry; and when she had concluded, said in a\nsolemn voice:\n\n\'Pray, Mrs Todgers, if I may inquire, what does that young gentleman\ncontribute towards the support of these premises?\'\n\n\'Why, sir, for what HE has, he pays about eighteen shillings a week!\'\nsaid Mrs Todgers.\n\n\'Eighteen shillings a week!\' repeated Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'Taking one week with another; as near that as possible,\' said Mrs\nTodgers.\n\nMr Pecksniff rose from his chair, folded his arms, looked at her, and\nshook his head.\n\n\'And do you mean to say, ma\'am--is it possible, Mrs Todgers--that for\nsuch a miserable consideration as eighteen shillings a week, a female of\nyour understanding can so far demean herself as to wear a double face,\neven for an instant?\'\n\n\'I am forced to keep things on the square if I can, sir,\' faltered\nMrs Todgers. \'I must preserve peace among them, and keep my connection\ntogether, if possible, Mr Pecksniff. The profit is very small.\'\n\n\'The profit!\' cried that gentleman, laying great stress upon the word.\n\'The profit, Mrs Todgers! You amaze me!\'\n\nHe was so severe, that Mrs Todgers shed tears.\n\n\'The profit!\' repeated Mr pecksniff. \'The profit of dissimulation! To\nworship the golden calf of Baal, for eighteen shillings a week!\'\n\n\'Don\'t in your own goodness be too hard upon me, Mr Pecksniff,\' cried\nMrs Todgers, taking out her handkerchief.\n\n\'Oh Calf, Calf!\' cried Mr Pecksniff mournfully. \'Oh, Baal, Baal! oh my\nfriend, Mrs Todgers! To barter away that precious jewel, self-esteem,\nand cringe to any mortal creature--for eighteen shillings a week!\'\n\nHe was so subdued and overcome by the reflection, that he immediately\ntook down his hat from its peg in the passage, and went out for a walk,\nto compose his feelings. Anybody passing him in the street might have\nknown him for a good man at first sight; for his whole figure teemed\nwith a consciousness of the moral homily he had read to Mrs Todgers.\n\nEighteen shillings a week! Just, most just, thy censure, upright\nPecksniff! Had it been for the sake of a ribbon, star, or garter;\nsleeves of lawn, a great man\'s smile, a seat in parliament, a tap upon\nthe shoulder from a courtly sword; a place, a party, or a thriving lie,\nor eighteen thousand pounds, or even eighteen hundred;--but to worship\nthe golden calf for eighteen shillings a week! oh pitiful, pitiful!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ELEVEN\n\nWHEREIN A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN BECOMES PARTICULAR IN HIS ATTENTIONS TO A\nCERTAIN LADY; AND MORE COMING EVENTS THAN ONE, CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE\n\n\nThe family were within two or three days of their departure from Mrs\nTodgers\'s, and the commercial gentlemen were to a man despondent and\nnot to be comforted, because of the approaching separation, when Bailey\njunior, at the jocund time of noon, presented himself before Miss\nCharity Pecksniff, then sitting with her sister in the banquet chamber,\nhemming six new pocket-handkerchiefs for Mr Jinkins; and having\nexpressed a hope, preliminary and pious, that he might be blest, gave\nher in his pleasant way to understand that a visitor attended to pay\nhis respects to her, and was at that moment waiting in the drawing-room.\nPerhaps this last announcement showed in a more striking point of view\nthan many lengthened speeches could have done, the trustfulness and\nfaith of Bailey\'s nature; since he had, in fact, last seen the visitor\non the door-mat, where, after signifying to him that he would do well to\ngo upstairs, he had left him to the guidance of his own sagacity. Hence\nit was at least an even chance that the visitor was then wandering on\nthe roof of the house, or vainly seeking to extricate himself from the\nmaze of bedrooms; Todgers\'s being precisely that kind of establishment\nin which an unpiloted stranger is pretty sure to find himself in some\nplace where he least expects and least desires to be.\n\n\'A gentleman for me!\' cried Charity, pausing in her work; \'my gracious,\nBailey!\'\n\n\'Ah!\' said Bailey. \'It IS my gracious, an\'t it? Wouldn\'t I be gracious\nneither, not if I wos him!\'\n\nThe remark was rendered somewhat obscure in itself, by reason (as the\nreader may have observed) of a redundancy of negatives; but accompanied\nby action expressive of a faithful couple walking arm-in-arm towards\na parochial church, mutually exchanging looks of love, it clearly\nsignified this youth\'s conviction that the caller\'s purpose was of an\namorous tendency. Miss Charity affected to reprove so great a liberty;\nbut she could not help smiling. He was a strange boy, to be sure. There\nwas always some ground of probability and likelihood mingled with his\nabsurd behaviour. That was the best of it!\n\n\'But I don\'t know any gentlemen, Bailey,\' said Miss Pecksniff. \'I think\nyou must have made a mistake.\'\n\nMr Bailey smiled at the extreme wildness of such a supposition, and\nregarded the young ladies with unimpaired affability.\n\n\'My dear Merry,\' said Charity, \'who CAN it be? Isn\'t it odd? I have a\ngreat mind not to go to him really. So very strange, you know!\'\n\nThe younger sister plainly considered that this appeal had its origin in\nthe pride of being called upon and asked for; and that it was intended\nas an assertion of superiority, and a retaliation upon her for having\ncaptured the commercial gentlemen. Therefore, she replied, with great\naffection and politeness, that it was, no doubt, very strange indeed;\nand that she was totally at a loss to conceive what the ridiculous\nperson unknown could mean by it.\n\n\'Quite impossible to divine!\' said Charity, with some sharpness, \'though\nstill, at the same time, you needn\'t be angry, my dear.\'\n\n\'Thank you,\' retorted Merry, singing at her needle. \'I am quite aware of\nthat, my love.\'\n\n\'I am afraid your head is turned, you silly thing,\' said Cherry.\n\n\'Do you know, my dear,\' said Merry, with engaging candour, \'that I have\nbeen afraid of that, myself, all along! So much incense and nonsense,\nand all the rest of it, is enough to turn a stronger head than mine.\nWhat a relief it must be to you, my dear, to be so very comfortable in\nthat respect, and not to be worried by those odious men! How do you do\nit, Cherry?\'\n\nThis artless inquiry might have led to turbulent results, but for the\nstrong emotions of delight evinced by Bailey junior, whose relish in the\nturn the conversation had lately taken was so acute, that it impelled\nand forced him to the instantaneous performance of a dancing step,\nextremely difficult in its nature, and only to be achieved in a\nmoment of ecstasy, which is commonly called The Frog\'s Hornpipe. A\nmanifestation so lively, brought to their immediate recollection the\ngreat virtuous precept, \'Keep up appearances whatever you do,\' in which\nthey had been educated. They forbore at once, and jointly signified to\nMr Bailey that if he should presume to practice that figure any more in\ntheir presence, they would instantly acquaint Mrs Todgers with the fact,\nand would demand his condign punishment, at the hands of that lady. The\nyoung gentleman having expressed the bitterness of his contrition by\naffecting to wipe away scalding tears with his apron, and afterwards\nfeigning to wring a vast amount of water from that garment, held the\ndoor open while Miss Charity passed out; and so that damsel went in\nstate upstairs to receive her mysterious adorer.\n\nBy some strange occurrence of favourable circumstances he had found out\nthe drawing-room, and was sitting there alone.\n\n\'Ah, cousin!\' he said. \'Here I am, you see. You thought I was lost, I\'ll\nbe bound. Well! how do you find yourself by this time?\'\n\nMiss Charity replied that she was quite well, and gave Mr Jonas\nChuzzlewit her hand.\n\n\'That\'s right,\' said Mr Jonas, \'and you\'ve got over the fatigues of the\njourney have you? I say. How\'s the other one?\'\n\n\'My sister is very well, I believe,\' returned the young lady. \'I have\nnot heard her complain of any indisposition, sir. Perhaps you would like\nto see her, and ask her yourself?\'\n\n\'No, no cousin!\' said Mr Jonas, sitting down beside her on the\nwindow-seat. \'Don\'t be in a hurry. There\'s no occasion for that, you\nknow. What a cruel girl you are!\'\n\n\'It\'s impossible for YOU to know,\' said Cherry, \'whether I am or not.\'\n\n\'Well, perhaps it is,\' said Mr Jonas. \'I say--Did you think I was lost?\nYou haven\'t told me that.\'\n\n\'I didn\'t think at all about it,\' answered Cherry.\n\n\'Didn\'t you though?\' said Jonas, pondering upon this strange reply. \'Did\nthe other one?\'\n\n\'I am sure it\'s impossible for me to say what my sister may, or may not\nhave thought on such a subject,\' cried Cherry. \'She never said anything\nto me about it, one way or other.\'\n\n\'Didn\'t she laugh about it?\' inquired Jonas.\n\n\'No. She didn\'t even laugh about it,\' answered Charity.\n\n\'She\'s a terrible one to laugh, an\'t she?\' said Jonas, lowering his\nvoice.\n\n\'She is very lively,\' said Cherry.\n\n\'Liveliness is a pleasant thing--when it don\'t lead to spending money.\nAn\'t it?\' asked Mr Jonas.\n\n\'Very much so, indeed,\' said Cherry, with a demureness of manner that\ngave a very disinterested character to her assent.\n\n\'Such liveliness as yours I mean, you know,\' observed Mr Jonas, as he\nnudged her with his elbow. \'I should have come to see you before, but I\ndidn\'t know where you was. How quick you hurried off, that morning!\'\n\n\'I was amenable to my papa\'s directions,\' said Miss Charity.\n\n\'I wish he had given me his direction,\' returned her cousin, \'and then\nI should have found you out before. Why, I shouldn\'t have found you even\nnow, if I hadn\'t met him in the street this morning. What a sleek, sly\nchap he is! Just like a tomcat, an\'t he?\'\n\n\'I must trouble you to have the goodness to speak more respectfully of\nmy papa, Mr Jonas,\' said Charity. \'I can\'t allow such a tone as that,\neven in jest.\'\n\n\'Ecod, you may say what you like of MY father, then, and so I give you\nleave,\' said Jonas. \'I think it\'s liquid aggravation that circulates\nthrough his veins, and not regular blood. How old should you think my\nfather was, cousin?\'\n\n\'Old, no doubt,\' replied Miss Charity; \'but a fine old gentleman.\'\n\n\'A fine old gentleman!\' repeated Jonas, giving the crown of his hat an\nangry knock. \'Ah! It\'s time he was thinking of being drawn out a little\nfiner too. Why, he\'s eighty!\'\n\n\'Is he, indeed?\' said the young lady.\n\n\'And ecod,\' cried Jonas, \'now he\'s gone so far without giving in, I\ndon\'t see much to prevent his being ninety; no, nor even a hundred. Why,\na man with any feeling ought to be ashamed of being eighty, let alone\nmore. Where\'s his religion, I should like to know, when he goes flying\nin the face of the Bible like that? Threescore-and-ten\'s the mark, and\nno man with a conscience, and a proper sense of what\'s expected of him,\nhas any business to live longer.\'\n\nIs any one surprised at Mr Jonas making such a reference to such a\nbook for such a purpose? Does any one doubt the old saw, that the Devil\n(being a layman) quotes Scripture for his own ends? If he will take the\ntrouble to look about him, he may find a greater number of confirmations\nof the fact in the occurrences of any single day, than the steam-gun can\ndischarge balls in a minute.\n\n\'But there\'s enough of my father,\' said Jonas; \'it\'s of no use to go\nputting one\'s self out of the way by talking about HIM. I called to ask\nyou to come and take a walk, cousin, and see some of the sights; and\nto come to our house afterwards, and have a bit of something. Pecksniff\nwill most likely look in in the evening, he says, and bring you home.\nSee, here\'s his writing; I made him put it down this morning when he\ntold me he shouldn\'t be back before I came here; in case you wouldn\'t\nbelieve me. There\'s nothing like proof, is there? Ha, ha! I say--you\'ll\nbring the other one, you know!\'\n\nMiss Charity cast her eyes upon her father\'s autograph, which merely\nsaid--\'Go, my children, with your cousin. Let there be union among us\nwhen it is possible;\' and after enough of hesitation to impart a proper\nvalue to her consent, withdrew to prepare her sister and herself for the\nexcursion. She soon returned, accompanied by Miss Mercy, who was by\nno means pleased to leave the brilliant triumphs of Todgers\'s for the\nsociety of Mr Jonas and his respected father.\n\n\'Aha!\' cried Jonas. \'There you are, are you?\'\n\n\'Yes, fright,\' said Mercy, \'here I am; and I would much rather be\nanywhere else, I assure you.\'\n\n\'You don\'t mean that,\' cried Mr Jonas. \'You can\'t, you know. It isn\'t\npossible.\'\n\n\'You can have what opinion you like, fright,\' retorted Mercy. \'I am\ncontent to keep mine; and mine is that you are a very unpleasant,\nodious, disagreeable person.\' Here she laughed heartily, and seemed to\nenjoy herself very much.\n\n\'Oh, you\'re a sharp gal!\' said Mr Jonas. \'She\'s a regular teaser, an\'t\nshe, cousin?\'\n\nMiss Charity replied in effect, that she was unable to say what the\nhabits and propensities of a regular teaser might be; and that even if\nshe possessed such information, it would ill become her to admit the\nexistence of any creature with such an unceremonious name in her family;\nfar less in the person of a beloved sister; \'whatever,\' added Cherry\nwith an angry glance, \'whatever her real nature may be.\'\n\n\'Well, my dear,\' said Merry, \'the only observation I have to make is,\nthat if we don\'t go out at once, I shall certainly take my bonnet off\nagain, and stay at home.\'\n\nThis threat had the desired effect of preventing any farther\naltercation, for Mr Jonas immediately proposed an adjournment, and\nthe same being carried unanimously, they departed from the house\nstraightway. On the doorstep, Mr Jonas gave an arm to each cousin;\nwhich act of gallantry being observed by Bailey junior, from the garret\nwindow, was by him saluted with a loud and violent fit of coughing, to\nwhich paroxysm he was still the victim when they turned the corner.\n\nMr Jonas inquired in the first instance if they were good walkers and\nbeing answered, \'Yes,\' submitted their pedestrian powers to a pretty\nsevere test; for he showed them as many sights, in the way of bridges,\nchurches, streets, outsides of theatres, and other free spectacles,\nin that one forenoon, as most people see in a twelvemonth. It was\nobservable in this gentleman, that he had an insurmountable distaste to\nthe insides of buildings, and that he was perfectly acquainted with\nthe merits of all shows, in respect of which there was any charge for\nadmission, which it seemed were every one detestable, and of the very\nlowest grade of merit. He was so thoroughly possessed with this opinion,\nthat when Miss Charity happened to mention the circumstance of their\nhaving been twice or thrice to the theatre with Mr Jinkins and party, he\ninquired, as a matter of course, \'where the orders came from?\' and being\ntold that Mr Jinkins and party paid, was beyond description entertained,\nobserving that \'they must be nice flats, certainly;\' and often in the\ncourse of the walk, bursting out again into a perfect convulsion of\nlaughter at the surpassing silliness of those gentlemen, and (doubtless)\nat his own superior wisdom.\n\nWhen they had been out for some hours and were thoroughly fatigued, it\nbeing by that time twilight, Mr Jonas intimated that he would show them\none of the best pieces of fun with which he was acquainted. This joke\nwas of a practical kind, and its humour lay in taking a hackney-coach\nto the extreme limits of possibility for a shilling. Happily it brought\nthem to the place where Mr Jonas dwelt, or the young ladies might have\nrather missed the point and cream of the jest.\n\nThe old-established firm of Anthony Chuzzlewit and Son, Manchester\nWarehousemen, and so forth, had its place of business in a very narrow\nstreet somewhere behind the Post Office; where every house was in the\nbrightest summer morning very gloomy; and where light porters watered\nthe pavement, each before his own employer\'s premises, in fantastic\npatterns, in the dog-days; and where spruce gentlemen with their hands\nin the pockets of symmetrical trousers, were always to be seen in\nwarm weather, contemplating their undeniable boots in dusty warehouse\ndoorways; which appeared to be the hardest work they did, except now and\nthen carrying pens behind their ears. A dim, dirty, smoky, tumble-down,\nrotten old house it was, as anybody would desire to see; but there the\nfirm of Anthony Chuzzlewit and Son transacted all their business and\ntheir pleasure too, such as it was; for neither the young man nor the\nold had any other residence, or any care or thought beyond its narrow\nlimits.\n\nBusiness, as may be readily supposed, was the main thing in this\nestablishment; insomuch indeed that it shouldered comfort out of\ndoors, and jostled the domestic arrangements at every turn. Thus in the\nmiserable bedrooms there were files of moth-eaten letters hanging up\nagainst the walls; and linen rollers, and fragments of old patterns,\nand odds and ends of spoiled goods, strewed upon the ground; while the\nmeagre bedsteads, washing-stands, and scraps of carpet, were huddled\naway into corners as objects of secondary consideration, not to be\nthought of but as disagreeable necessities, furnishing no profit, and\nintruding on the one affair of life. The single sitting-room was on\nthe same principle, a chaos of boxes and old papers, and had more\ncounting-house stools in it than chairs; not to mention a great monster\nof a desk straddling over the middle of the floor, and an iron safe\nsunk into the wall above the fireplace. The solitary little table for\npurposes of refection and social enjoyment, bore as fair a proportion\nto the desk and other business furniture, as the graces and harmless\nrelaxations of life had ever done, in the persons of the old man and his\nson, to their pursuit of wealth. It was meanly laid out now for dinner;\nand in a chair before the fire sat Anthony himself, who rose to greet\nhis son and his fair cousins as they entered.\n\nAn ancient proverb warns us that we should not expect to find old heads\nupon young shoulders; to which it may be added that we seldom meet with\nthat unnatural combination, but we feel a strong desire to knock them\noff; merely from an inherent love we have of seeing things in their\nright places. It is not improbable that many men, in no wise choleric\nby nature, felt this impulse rising up within them, when they first made\nthe acquaintance of Mr Jonas; but if they had known him more intimately\nin his own house, and had sat with him at his own board, it would\nassuredly have been paramount to all other considerations.\n\n\'Well, ghost!\' said Mr Jonas, dutifully addressing his parent by that\ntitle. \'Is dinner nearly ready?\'\n\n\'I should think it was,\' rejoined the old man.\n\n\'What\'s the good of that?\' rejoined the son. \'I should think it was. I\nwant to know.\'\n\n\'Ah! I don\'t know for certain,\' said Anthony.\n\n\'You don\'t know for certain,\' rejoined his son in a lower tone. \'No. You\ndon\'t know anything for certain, YOU don\'t. Give me your candle here. I\nwant it for the gals.\'\n\nAnthony handed him a battered old office candlestick, with which Mr\nJonas preceded the young ladies to the nearest bedroom, where he left\nthem to take off their shawls and bonnets; and returning, occupied\nhimself in opening a bottle of wine, sharpening the carving-knife, and\nmuttering compliments to his father, until they and the dinner appeared\ntogether. The repast consisted of a hot leg of mutton with greens and\npotatoes; and the dishes having been set upon the table by a slipshod\nold woman, they were left to enjoy it after their own manner.\n\n\'Bachelor\'s Hall, you know, cousin,\' said Mr Jonas to Charity. \'I\nsay--the other one will be having a laugh at this when she gets home,\nwon\'t she? Here; you sit on the right side of me, and I\'ll have her upon\nthe left. Other one, will you come here?\'\n\n\'You\'re such a fright,\' replied Mercy, \'that I know I shall have no\nappetite if I sit so near you; but I suppose I must.\'\n\n\'An\'t she lively?\' whispered Mr Jonas to the elder sister, with his\nfavourite elbow emphasis.\n\n\'Oh I really don\'t know!\' replied Miss Pecksniff, tartly. \'I am tired of\nbeing asked such ridiculous questions.\'\n\n\'What\'s that precious old father of mine about now?\' said Mr Jonas,\nseeing that his parent was travelling up and down the room instead of\ntaking his seat at table. \'What are you looking for?\'\n\n\'I\'ve lost my glasses, Jonas,\' said old Anthony.\n\n\'Sit down without your glasses, can\'t you?\' returned his son. \'You don\'t\neat or drink out of \'em, I think; and where\'s that sleepy-headed old\nChuffey got to! Now, stupid. Oh! you know your name, do you?\'\n\nIt would seem that he didn\'t, for he didn\'t come until the father\ncalled. As he spoke, the door of a small glass office, which was\npartitioned off from the rest of the room, was slowly opened, and a\nlittle blear-eyed, weazen-faced, ancient man came creeping out. He was\nof a remote fashion, and dusty, like the rest of the furniture; he was\ndressed in a decayed suit of black; with breeches garnished at the knees\nwith rusty wisps of ribbon, the very paupers of shoestrings; on the\nlower portion of his spindle legs were dingy worsted stockings of the\nsame colour. He looked as if he had been put away and forgotten half a\ncentury before, and somebody had just found him in a lumber-closet.\n\nSuch as he was, he came slowly creeping on towards the table, until at\nlast he crept into the vacant chair, from which, as his dim faculties\nbecame conscious of the presence of strangers, and those strangers\nladies, he rose again, apparently intending to make a bow. But he sat\ndown once more without having made it, and breathing on his shrivelled\nhands to warm them, remained with his poor blue nose immovable above his\nplate, looking at nothing, with eyes that saw nothing, and a face that\nmeant nothing. Take him in that state, and he was an embodiment of\nnothing. Nothing else.\n\n\'Our clerk,\' said Mr Jonas, as host and master of the ceremonies: \'Old\nChuffey.\'\n\n\'Is he deaf?\' inquired one of the young ladies.\n\n\'No, I don\'t know that he is. He an\'t deaf, is he, father?\'\n\n\'I never heard him say he was,\' replied the old man.\n\n\'Blind?\' inquired the young ladies.\n\n\'N--no. I never understood that he was at all blind,\' said Jonas,\ncarelessly. \'You don\'t consider him so, do you, father?\'\n\n\'Certainly not,\' replied Anthony.\n\n\'What is he, then?\'\n\n\'Why, I\'ll tell you what he is,\' said Mr Jonas, apart to the young\nladies, \'he\'s precious old, for one thing; and I an\'t best pleased with\nhim for that, for I think my father must have caught it of him. He\'s a\nstrange old chap, for another,\' he added in a louder voice, \'and don\'t\nunderstand any one hardly, but HIM!\' He pointed to his honoured parent\nwith the carving-fork, in order that they might know whom he meant.\n\n\'How very strange!\' cried the sisters.\n\n\'Why, you see,\' said Mr Jonas, \'he\'s been addling his old brains with\nfigures and book-keeping all his life; and twenty years ago or so he\nwent and took a fever. All the time he was out of his head (which was\nthree weeks) he never left off casting up; and he got to so many million\nat last that I don\'t believe he\'s ever been quite right since. We don\'t\ndo much business now though, and he an\'t a bad clerk.\'\n\n\'A very good one,\' said Anthony.\n\n\'Well! He an\'t a dear one at all events,\' observed Jonas; \'and he earns\nhis salt, which is enough for our look-out. I was telling you that he\nhardly understands any one except my father; he always understands him,\nthough, and wakes up quite wonderful. He\'s been used to his ways so\nlong, you see! Why, I\'ve seen him play whist, with my father for a\npartner; and a good rubber too; when he had no more notion what sort of\npeople he was playing against, than you have.\'\n\n\'Has he no appetite?\' asked Merry.\n\n\'Oh, yes,\' said Jonas, plying his own knife and fork very fast. \'He\neats--when he\'s helped. But he don\'t care whether he waits a minute or\nan hour, as long as father\'s here; so when I\'m at all sharp set, as I am\nto-day, I come to him after I\'ve taken the edge off my own hunger, you\nknow. Now, Chuffey, stupid, are you ready?\'\n\nChuffey remained immovable.\n\n\'Always a perverse old file, he was,\' said Mr Jonas, coolly helping\nhimself to another slice. \'Ask him, father.\'\n\n\'Are you ready for your dinner, Chuffey?\' asked the old man\n\n\'Yes, yes,\' said Chuffey, lighting up into a sentient human creature at\nthe first sound of the voice, so that it was at once a curious and quite\na moving sight to see him. \'Yes, yes. Quite ready, Mr Chuzzlewit. Quite\nready, sir. All ready, all ready, all ready.\' With that he stopped,\nsmilingly, and listened for some further address; but being spoken to\nno more, the light forsook his face by little and little, until he was\nnothing again.\n\n\'He\'ll be very disagreeable, mind,\' said Jonas, addressing his cousins\nas he handed the old man\'s portion to his father. \'He always chokes\nhimself when it an\'t broth. Look at him, now! Did you ever see a horse\nwith such a wall-eyed expression as he\'s got? If it hadn\'t been for the\njoke of it I wouldn\'t have let him come in to-day; but I thought he\'d\namuse you.\'\n\nThe poor old subject of this humane speech was, happily for himself, as\nunconscious of its purport as of most other remarks that were made in\nhis presence. But the mutton being tough, and his gums weak, he quickly\nverified the statement relative to his choking propensities, and\nunderwent so much in his attempts to dine, that Mr Jonas was infinitely\namused; protesting that he had seldom seen him better company in all\nhis life, and that he was enough to make a man split his sides with\nlaughing. Indeed, he went so far as to assure the sisters, that in this\npoint of view he considered Chuffey superior to his own father; which,\nas he significantly added, was saying a great deal.\n\nIt was strange enough that Anthony Chuzzlewit, himself so old a man,\nshould take a pleasure in these gibings of his estimable son at the\nexpense of the poor shadow at their table. But he did, unquestionably;\nthough not so much--to do him justice--with reference to their ancient\nclerk, as in exultation at the sharpness of Jonas. For the same reason\nthat young man\'s coarse allusions, even to himself, filled him with a\nstealthy glee; causing him to rub his hands and chuckle covertly, as if\nhe said in his sleeve, \'I taught him. I trained him. This is the heir of\nmy bringing-up. Sly, cunning, and covetous, he\'ll not squander my money.\nI worked for this; I hoped for this; it has been the great end and aim\nof my life.\'\n\nWhat a noble end and aim it was to contemplate in the attainment truly!\nBut there be some who manufacture idols after the fashion of themselves,\nand fail to worship them when they are made; charging their deformity on\noutraged nature. Anthony was better than these at any rate.\n\nChuffey boggled over his plate so long, that Mr Jonas, losing patience,\ntook it from him at last with his own hands, and requested his father\nto signify to that venerable person that he had better \'peg away at his\nbread;\' which Anthony did.\n\n\'Aye, aye!\' cried the old man, brightening up as before, when this was\ncommunicated to him in the same voice, \'quite right, quite right. He\'s\nyour own son, Mr Chuzzlewit! Bless him for a sharp lad! Bless him, bless\nhim!\'\n\nMr Jonas considered this so particularly childish (perhaps with some\nreason), that he only laughed the more, and told his cousins that he was\nafraid one of these fine days, Chuffey would be the death of him. The\ncloth was then removed, and the bottle of wine set upon the table, from\nwhich Mr Jonas filled the young ladies\' glasses, calling on them not to\nspare it, as they might be certain there was plenty more where that came\nfrom. But he added with some haste after this sally that it was only his\njoke, and they wouldn\'t suppose him to be in earnest, he was sure.\n\n\'I shall drink,\' said Anthony, \'to Pecksniff. Your father, my dears. A\nclever man, Pecksniff. A wary man! A hypocrite, though, eh? A hypocrite,\ngirls, eh? Ha, ha, ha! Well, so he is. Now, among friends, he is. I\ndon\'t think the worse of him for that, unless it is that he overdoes it.\nYou may overdo anything, my darlings. You may overdo even hypocrisy. Ask\nJonas!\'\n\n\'You can\'t overdo taking care of yourself,\' observed that hopeful\ngentleman with his mouth full.\n\n\'Do you hear that, my dears?\' cried Anthony, quite enraptured. \'Wisdom,\nwisdom! A good exception, Jonas. No. It\'s not easy to overdo that.\'\n\n\'Except,\' whispered Mr Jonas to his favourite cousin, \'except when one\nlives too long. Ha, ha! Tell the other one that--I say!\'\n\n\'Good gracious me!\' said Cherry, in a petulant manner. \'You can tell her\nyourself, if you wish, can\'t you?\'\n\n\'She seems to make such game of one,\' replied Mr Jonas.\n\n\'Then why need you trouble yourself about her?\' said Charity. \'I am sure\nshe doesn\'t trouble herself much about you.\'\n\n\'Don\'t she though?\' asked Jonas.\n\n\'Good gracious me, need I tell you that she don\'t?\' returned the young\nlady.\n\nMr Jonas made no verbal rejoinder, but he glanced at Mercy with an odd\nexpression in his face; and said THAT wouldn\'t break his heart, she\nmight depend upon it. Then he looked on Charity with even greater favour\nthan before, and besought her, as his polite manner was, to \'come a\nlittle closer.\'\n\n\'There\'s another thing that\'s not easily overdone, father,\' remarked\nJonas, after a short silence.\n\n\'What\'s that?\' asked the father; grinning already in anticipation.\n\n\'A bargain,\' said the son. \'Here\'s the rule for bargains--\"Do other men,\nfor they would do you.\" That\'s the true business precept. All others are\ncounterfeits.\'\n\nThe delighted father applauded this sentiment to the echo; and was so\nmuch tickled by it, that he was at the pains of imparting the same to\nhis ancient clerk, who rubbed his hands, nodded his palsied head, winked\nhis watery eyes, and cried in his whistling tones, \'Good! good! Your own\nson, Mr Chuzzlewit\' with every feeble demonstration of delight that he\nwas capable of making. But this old man\'s enthusiasm had the redeeming\nquality of being felt in sympathy with the only creature to whom he was\nlinked by ties of long association, and by his present helplessness. And\nif there had been anybody there, who cared to think about it, some dregs\nof a better nature unawakened, might perhaps have been descried through\nthat very medium, melancholy though it was, yet lingering at the bottom\nof the worn-out cask called Chuffey.\n\nAs matters stood, nobody thought or said anything upon the subject; so\nChuffey fell back into a dark corner on one side of the fireplace, where\nhe always spent his evenings, and was neither seen nor heard again that\nnight; save once, when a cup of tea was given him, in which he was seen\nto soak his bread mechanically. There was no reason to suppose that he\nwent to sleep at these seasons, or that he heard, or saw, or felt, or\nthought. He remained, as it were, frozen up--if any term expressive of\nsuch a vigorous process can be applied to him--until he was again thawed\nfor the moment by a word or touch from Anthony.\n\nMiss Charity made tea by desire of Mr Jonas, and felt and looked so\nlike the lady of the house that she was in the prettiest confusion\nimaginable; the more so from Mr Jonas sitting close beside her, and\nwhispering a variety of admiring expressions in her ear. Miss Mercy, for\nher part, felt the entertainment of the evening to be so distinctly\nand exclusively theirs, that she silently deplored the commercial\ngentlemen--at that moment, no doubt, wearying for her return--and yawned\nover yesterday\'s newspaper. As to Anthony, he went to sleep outright, so\nJonas and Cherry had a clear stage to themselves as long as they chose\nto keep possession of it.\n\nWhen the tea-tray was taken away, as it was at last, Mr Jonas produced a\ndirty pack of cards, and entertained the sisters with divers small feats\nof dexterity: whereof the main purpose of every one was, that you were\nto decoy somebody into laying a wager with you that you couldn\'t do it;\nand were then immediately to win and pocket his money. Mr Jonas\ninformed them that these accomplishments were in high vogue in the most\nintellectual circles, and that large amounts were constantly changing\nhands on such hazards. And it may be remarked that he fully believed\nthis; for there is a simplicity of cunning no less than a simplicity\nof innocence; and in all matters where a lively faith in knavery and\nmeanness was required as the ground-work of belief, Mr Jonas was one of\nthe most credulous of men. His ignorance, which was stupendous, may be\ntaken into account, if the reader pleases, separately.\n\nThis fine young man had all the inclination to be a profligate of the\nfirst water, and only lacked the one good trait in the common catalogue\nof debauched vices--open-handedness--to be a notable vagabond. But there\nhis griping and penurious habits stepped in; and as one poison will\nsometimes neutralise another, when wholesome remedies would not avail,\nso he was restrained by a bad passion from quaffing his full measure of\nevil, when virtue might have sought to hold him back in vain.\n\nBy the time he had unfolded all the peddling schemes he knew upon the\ncards, it was growing late in the evening; and Mr Pecksniff not making\nhis appearance, the young ladies expressed a wish to return home. But\nthis, Mr Jonas, in his gallantry, would by no means allow, until they\nhad partaken of some bread and cheese and porter; and even then he was\nexcessively unwilling to allow them to depart; often beseeching Miss\nCharity to come a little closer, or to stop a little longer, and\npreferring many other complimentary petitions of that nature in his own\nhospitable and earnest way. When all his efforts to detain them were\nfruitless, he put on his hat and greatcoat preparatory to escorting them\nto Todgers\'s; remarking that he knew they would rather walk thither than\nride; and that for his part he was quite of their opinion.\n\n\'Good night,\' said Anthony. \'Good night; remember me to--ha, ha, ha!--to\nPecksniff. Take care of your cousin, my dears; beware of Jonas; he\'s a\ndangerous fellow. Don\'t quarrel for him, in any case!\'\n\n\'Oh, the creature!\' cried Mercy. \'The idea of quarrelling for HIM! You\nmay take him, Cherry, my love, all to yourself. I make you a present of\nmy share.\'\n\n\'What! I\'m a sour grape, am I, cousin?\' said Jonas.\n\nMiss Charity was more entertained by this repartee than one would have\nsupposed likely, considering its advanced age and simple character. But\nin her sisterly affection she took Mr Jonas to task for leaning so very\nhard upon a broken reed, and said that he must not be so cruel to poor\nMerry any more, or she (Charity) would positively be obliged to hate\nhim. Mercy, who really had her share of good humour, only retorted with\na laugh; and they walked home in consequence without any angry passages\nof words upon the way. Mr Jonas being in the middle, and having a cousin\non each arm, sometimes squeezed the wrong one; so tightly too, as to\ncause her not a little inconvenience; but as he talked to Charity in\nwhispers the whole time, and paid her great attention, no doubt this was\nan accidental circumstance. When they arrived at Todgers\'s, and the door\nwas opened, Mercy broke hastily from them, and ran upstairs; but Charity\nand Jonas lingered on the steps talking together for more than five\nminutes; so, as Mrs Todgers observed next morning, to a third party, \'It\nwas pretty clear what was going on THERE, and she was glad of it, for it\nreally was high time that Miss Pecksniff thought of settling.\'\n\nAnd now the day was coming on, when that bright vision which had burst\non Todgers\'s so suddenly, and made a sunshine in the shady breast of\nJinkins, was to be seen no more; when it was to be packed, like a brown\npaper parcel, or a fish-basket, or an oyster barrel or a fat gentleman,\nor any other dull reality of life, in a stagecoach and carried down into\nthe country.\n\n\'Never, my dear Miss Pecksniffs,\' said Mrs Todgers, when they retired\nto rest on the last night of their stay, \'never have I seen an\nestablishment so perfectly broken-hearted as mine is at this present\nmoment of time. I don\'t believe the gentlemen will be the gentlemen they\nwere, or anything like it--no, not for weeks to come. You have a great\ndeal to answer for, both of you.\'\n\nThey modestly disclaimed any wilful agency in this disastrous state of\nthings, and regretted it very much.\n\n\'Your pious pa, too,\' said Mrs Todgers. \'There\'s a loss! My dear Miss\nPecksniffs, your pa is a perfect missionary of peace and love.\'\n\nEntertaining an uncertainty as to the particular kind of love supposed\nto be comprised in Mr Pecksniff\'s mission, the young ladies received the\ncompliment rather coldly.\n\n\'If I dared,\' said Mrs Todgers, perceiving this, \'to violate a\nconfidence which has been reposed in me, and to tell you why I must beg\nof you to leave the little door between your room and mine open tonight,\nI think you would be interested. But I mustn\'t do it, for I promised Mr\nJinkins faithfully, that I would be as silent as the tomb.\'\n\n\'Dear Mrs Todgers! What can you mean?\'\n\n\'Why, then, my sweet Miss Pecksniffs,\' said the lady of the house; \'my\nown loves, if you will allow me the privilege of taking that freedom on\nthe eve of our separation, Mr Jinkins and the gentlemen have made up\na little musical party among themselves, and DO intend, in the dead of\nthis night, to perform a serenade upon the stairs outside the door. I\ncould have wished, I own,\' said Mrs Todgers, with her usual foresight,\n\'that it had been fixed to take place an hour or two earlier; because\nwhen gentlemen sit up late they drink, and when they drink they\'re not\nso musical, perhaps, as when they don\'t. But this is the arrangement;\nand I know you will be gratified, my dear Miss Pecksniffs, by such a\nmark of their attention.\'\n\nThe young ladies were at first so much excited by the news, that they\nvowed they couldn\'t think of going to bed until the serenade was over.\nBut half an hour of cool waiting so altered their opinion that they not\nonly went to bed, but fell asleep; and were, moreover, not ecstatically\ncharmed to be awakened some time afterwards by certain dulcet strains\nbreaking in upon the silent watches of the night.\n\nIt was very affecting--very. Nothing more dismal could have been desired\nby the most fastidious taste. The gentleman of a vocal turn was head\nmute, or chief mourner; Jinkins took the bass; and the rest took\nanything they could get. The youngest gentleman blew his melancholy into\na flute. He didn\'t blow much out of it, but that was all the better.\nIf the two Miss Pecksniffs and Mrs Todgers had perished by spontaneous\ncombustion, and the serenade had been in honour of their ashes, it would\nhave been impossible to surpass the unutterable despair expressed in\nthat one chorus, \'Go where glory waits thee!\' It was a requiem, a dirge,\na moan, a howl, a wail, a lament, an abstract of everything that is\nsorrowful and hideous in sound. The flute of the youngest gentleman was\nwild and fitful. It came and went in gusts, like the wind. For a long\ntime together he seemed to have left off, and when it was quite settled\nby Mrs Todgers and the young ladies that, overcome by his feelings, he\nhad retired in tears, he unexpectedly turned up again at the very top of\nthe tune, gasping for breath. He was a tremendous performer. There was\nno knowing where to have him; and exactly when you thought he was doing\nnothing at all, then was he doing the very thing that ought to astonish\nyou most.\n\nThere were several of these concerted pieces; perhaps two or three too\nmany, though that, as Mrs Todgers said, was a fault on the right side.\nBut even then, even at that solemn moment, when the thrilling sounds may\nbe presumed to have penetrated into the very depths of his nature, if he\nhad any depths, Jinkins couldn\'t leave the youngest gentleman alone. He\nasked him distinctly, before the second song began--as a personal favour\ntoo, mark the villain in that--not to play. Yes; he said so; not to\nplay. The breathing of the youngest gentleman was heard through the\nkey-hole of the door. He DIDN\'T play. What vent was a flute for the\npassions swelling up within his breast? A trombone would have been a\nworld too mild.\n\nThe serenade approached its close. Its crowning interest was at hand.\nThe gentleman of a literary turn had written a song on the departure of\nthe ladies, and adapted it to an old tune. They all joined, except\nthe youngest gentleman in company, who, for the reasons aforesaid,\nmaintained a fearful silence. The song (which was of a classical nature)\ninvoked the oracle of Apollo, and demanded to know what would become\nof Todgers\'s when CHARITY and MERCY were banished from its walls. The\noracle delivered no opinion particularly worth remembering, according\nto the not infrequent practice of oracles from the earliest ages down to\nthe present time. In the absence of enlightenment on that subject, the\nstrain deserted it, and went on to show that the Miss Pecksniffs were\nnearly related to Rule Britannia, and that if Great Britain hadn\'t been\nan island, there could have been no Miss Pecksniffs. And being now on a\nnautical tack, it closed with this verse:\n\n \'All hail to the vessel of Pecksniff the sire!\n And favouring breezes to fan;\n While Tritons flock round it, and proudly admire\n The architect, artist, and man!\'\n\nAs they presented this beautiful picture to the imagination, the\ngentlemen gradually withdrew to bed to give the music the effect of\ndistance; and so it died away, and Todgers\'s was left to its repose.\n\nMr Bailey reserved his vocal offering until the morning, when he put\nhis head into the room as the young ladies were kneeling before their\ntrunks, packing up, and treated them to an imitation of the voice of\na young dog in trying circumstances; when that animal is supposed by\npersons of a lively fancy, to relieve his feelings by calling for pen\nand ink.\n\n\'Well, young ladies,\' said the youth, \'so you\'re a-going home, are you,\nworse luck?\'\n\n\'Yes, Bailey, we\'re going home,\' returned Mercy.\n\n\'An\'t you a-going to leave none of \'em a lock of your hair?\' inquired\nthe youth. \'It\'s real, an\'t it?\'\n\nThey laughed at this, and told him of course it was.\n\n\'Oh, is it of course, though?\' said Bailey. \'I know better than that.\nHers an\'t. Why, I see it hanging up once, on that nail by the winder.\nBesides, I have gone behind her at dinner-time and pulled it; and she\nnever know\'d. I say, young ladies, I\'m a-going to leave. I an\'t a-going\nto stand being called names by her, no longer.\'\n\nMiss Mercy inquired what his plans for the future might be; in reply to\nwhom Mr Bailey intimated that he thought of going either into top-boots,\nor into the army.\n\n\'Into the army!\' cried the young ladies, with a laugh.\n\n\'Ah!\' said Bailey, \'why not? There\'s a many drummers in the Tower. I\'m\nacquainted with \'em. Don\'t their country set a valley on \'em, mind you!\nNot at all!\'\n\n\'You\'ll be shot, I see,\' observed Mercy.\n\n\'Well!\' cried Mr Bailey, \'wot if I am? There\'s something gamey in it,\nyoung ladies, an\'t there? I\'d sooner be hit with a cannon-ball than a\nrolling-pin, and she\'s always a-catching up something of that sort, and\nthrowing it at me, when the gentlemans\' appetites is good. Wot,\' said\nMr Bailey, stung by the recollection of his wrongs, \'wot, if they DO\nconsume the per-vishuns. It an\'t MY fault, is it?\'\n\n\'Surely no one says it is,\' said Mercy.\n\n\'Don\'t they though?\' retorted the youth. \'No. Yes. Ah! oh! No one mayn\'t\nsay it is! but some one knows it is. But I an\'t a-going to have every\nrise in prices wisited on me. I an\'t a-going to be killed because\nthe markets is dear. I won\'t stop. And therefore,\' added Mr Bailey,\nrelenting into a smile, \'wotever you mean to give me, you\'d better give\nme all at once, becos if ever you come back agin, I shan\'t be here; and\nas to the other boy, HE won\'t deserve nothing, I know.\'\n\nThe young ladies, on behalf of Mr Pecksniff and themselves, acted\non this thoughtful advice; and in consideration of their private\nfriendship, presented Mr Bailey with a gratuity so liberal that he could\nhardly do enough to show his gratitude; which found but an imperfect\nvent, during the remainder of the day, in divers secret slaps upon his\npocket, and other such facetious pantomime. Nor was it confined to these\nebullitions; for besides crushing a bandbox, with a bonnet in it, he\nseriously damaged Mr Pecksniff\'s luggage, by ardently hauling it down\nfrom the top of the house; and in short evinced, by every means in his\npower, a lively sense of the favours he had received from that gentleman\nand his family.\n\nMr Pecksniff and Mr Jinkins came home to dinner arm-in-arm; for the\nlatter gentleman had made half-holiday on purpose; thus gaining an\nimmense advantage over the youngest gentleman and the rest, whose time,\nas it perversely chanced, was all bespoke, until the evening. The bottle\nof wine was Mr Pecksniff\'s treat, and they were very sociable indeed;\nthough full of lamentations on the necessity of parting. While they were\nin the midst of their enjoyment, old Anthony and his son were announced;\nmuch to the surprise of Mr Pecksniff, and greatly to the discomfiture of\nJinkins.\n\n\'Come to say good-bye, you see,\' said Anthony, in a low voice, to Mr\nPecksniff, as they took their seats apart at the table, while the rest\nconversed among themselves. \'Where\'s the use of a division between\nyou and me? We are the two halves of a pair of scissors, when apart,\nPecksniff; but together we are something. Eh?\'\n\n\'Unanimity, my good sir,\' rejoined Mr Pecksniff, \'is always delightful.\'\n\n\'I don\'t know about that,\' said the old man, \'for there are some people\nI would rather differ from than agree with. But you know my opinion of\nyou.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff, still having \'hypocrite\' in his mind, only replied by a\nmotion of his head, which was something between an affirmative bow, and\na negative shake.\n\n\'Complimentary,\' said Anthony. \'Complimentary, upon my word. It was an\ninvoluntary tribute to your abilities, even at the time; and it was not\na time to suggest compliments either. But we agreed in the coach, you\nknow, that we quite understood each other.\'\n\n\'Oh, quite!\' assented Mr Pecksniff, in a manner which implied that he\nhimself was misunderstood most cruelly, but would not complain.\n\nAnthony glanced at his son as he sat beside Miss Charity, and then at Mr\nPecksniff, and then at his son again, very many times. It happened that\nMr Pecksniff\'s glances took a similar direction; but when he became\naware of it, he first cast down his eyes, and then closed them; as if he\nwere determined that the old man should read nothing there.\n\n\'Jonas is a shrewd lad,\' said the old man.\n\n\'He appears,\' rejoined Mr Pecksniff in his most candid manner, \'to be\nvery shrewd.\'\n\n\'And careful,\' said the old man.\n\n\'And careful, I have no doubt,\' returned Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'Look ye!\' said Anthony in his ear. \'I think he is sweet upon you\ndaughter.\'\n\n\'Tut, my good sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff, with his eyes still closed;\n\'young people--young people--a kind of cousins, too--no more sweetness\nthan is in that, sir.\'\n\n\'Why, there is very little sweetness in that, according to our\nexperience,\' returned Anthony. \'Isn\'t there a trifle more here?\'\n\n\'Impossible to say,\' rejoined Mr Pecksniff. \'Quite impossible! You\nsurprise me.\'\n\n\'Yes, I know that,\' said the old man, drily. \'It may last; I mean the\nsweetness, not the surprise; and it may die off. Supposing it should\nlast, perhaps (you having feathered your nest pretty well, and I having\ndone the same), we might have a mutual interest in the matter.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff, smiling gently, was about to speak, but Anthony stopped\nhim.\n\n\'I know what you are going to say. It\'s quite unnecessary. You have\nnever thought of this for a moment; and in a point so nearly affecting\nthe happiness of your dear child, you couldn\'t, as a tender father,\nexpress an opinion; and so forth. Yes, quite right. And like you! But it\nseems to me, my dear Pecksniff,\' added Anthony, laying his hand upon\nhis sleeve, \'that if you and I kept up the joke of pretending not to see\nthis, one of us might possibly be placed in a position of disadvantage;\nand as I am very unwilling to be that party myself, you will excuse my\ntaking the liberty of putting the matter beyond a doubt thus early; and\nhaving it distinctly understood, as it is now, that we do see it, and do\nknow it. Thank you for your attention. We are now upon an equal footing;\nwhich is agreeable to us both, I am sure.\'\n\nHe rose as he spoke; and giving Mr Pecksniff a nod of intelligence,\nmoved away from him to where the young people were sitting; leaving that\ngood man somewhat puzzled and discomfited by such very plain dealing,\nand not quite free from a sense of having been foiled in the exercise of\nhis familiar weapons.\n\nBut the night-coach had a punctual character, and it was time to join\nit at the office; which was so near at hand that they had already sent\ntheir luggage and arranged to walk. Thither the whole party repaired,\ntherefore, after no more delay than sufficed for the equipment of the\nMiss Pecksniffs and Mrs Todgers. They found the coach already at its\nstarting-place, and the horses in; there, too, were a large majority\nof the commercial gentlemen, including the youngest, who was visibly\nagitated, and in a state of deep mental dejection.\n\nNothing could equal the distress of Mrs Todgers in parting from the\nyoung ladies, except the strong emotions with which she bade adieu to Mr\nPecksniff. Never surely was a pocket-handkerchief taken in and out of\na flat reticule so often as Mrs Todgers\'s was, as she stood upon the\npavement by the coach-door supported on either side by a commercial\ngentleman; and by the sight of the coach-lamps caught such brief\nsnatches and glimpses of the good man\'s face, as the constant\ninterposition of Mr Jinkins allowed. For Jinkins, to the last the\nyoungest gentleman\'s rock a-head in life, stood upon the coachstep\ntalking to the ladies. Upon the other step was Mr Jonas, who maintained\nthat position in right of his cousinship; whereas the youngest\ngentleman, who had been first upon the ground, was deep in the\nbooking-office among the black and red placards, and the portraits of\nfast coaches, where he was ignominiously harassed by porters, and had to\ncontend and strive perpetually with heavy baggage. This false\nposition, combined with his nervous excitement, brought about the very\nconsummation and catastrophe of his miseries; for when in the moment of\nparting he aimed a flower, a hothouse flower that had cost money, at the\nfair hand of Mercy, it reached, instead, the coachman on the box, who\nthanked him kindly, and stuck it in his buttonhole.\n\nThey were off now; and Todgers\'s was alone again. The two young ladies,\nleaning back in their separate corners, resigned themselves to their\nown regretful thoughts. But Mr Pecksniff, dismissing all ephemeral\nconsiderations of social pleasure and enjoyment, concentrated his\nmeditations on the one great virtuous purpose before him, of casting\nout that ingrate and deceiver, whose presence yet troubled his domestic\nhearth, and was a sacrilege upon the altars of his household gods.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWELVE\n\nWILL BE SEEN IN THE LONG RUN, IF NOT IN THE SHORT ONE, TO CONCERN MR\nPINCH AND OTHERS, NEARLY. MR PECKSNIFF ASSERTS THE DIGNITY OF OUTRAGED\nVIRTUE. YOUNG MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT FORMS A DESPERATE RESOLUTION\n\n\nMr Pinch and Martin, little dreaming of the stormy weather that\nimpended, made themselves very comfortable in the Pecksniffian halls,\nand improved their friendship daily. Martin\'s facility, both of\ninvention and execution, being remarkable, the grammar-school proceeded\nwith great vigour; and Tom repeatedly declared, that if there were\nanything like certainty in human affairs, or impartiality in human\njudges, a design so new and full of merit could not fail to carry off\nthe first prize when the time of competition arrived. Without being\nquite so sanguine himself, Martin had his hopeful anticipations too; and\nthey served to make him brisk and eager at his task.\n\n\'If I should turn out a great architect, Tom,\' said the new pupil one\nday, as he stood at a little distance from his drawing, and eyed it with\nmuch complacency, \'I\'ll tell you what should be one of the things I\'d\nbuild.\'\n\n\'Aye!\' cried Tom. \'What?\'\n\n\'Why, your fortune.\'\n\n\'No!\' said Tom Pinch, quite as much delighted as if the thing were done.\n\'Would you though? How kind of you to say so.\'\n\n\'I\'d build it up, Tom,\' returned Martin, \'on such a strong foundation,\nthat it should last your life--aye, and your children\'s lives too, and\ntheir children\'s after them. I\'d be your patron, Tom. I\'d take you under\nmy protection. Let me see the man who should give the cold shoulder to\nanybody I chose to protect and patronise, if I were at the top of the\ntree, Tom!\'\n\n\'Now, I don\'t think,\' said Mr Pinch, \'upon my word, that I was ever more\ngratified than by this. I really don\'t.\'\n\n\'Oh! I mean what I say,\' retorted Martin, with a manner as free and easy\nin its condescension to, not to say in its compassion for, the other, as\nif he were already First Architect in ordinary to all the Crowned Heads\nin Europe. \'I\'d do it. I\'d provide for you.\'\n\n\'I am afraid,\' said Tom, shaking his head, \'that I should be a mighty\nawkward person to provide for.\'\n\n\'Pooh, pooh!\' rejoined Martin. \'Never mind that. If I took it in my head\nto say, \"Pinch is a clever fellow; I approve of Pinch;\" I should like\nto know the man who would venture to put himself in opposition to me.\nBesides, confound it, Tom, you could be useful to me in a hundred ways.\'\n\n\'If I were not useful in one or two, it shouldn\'t be for want of\ntrying,\' said Tom.\n\n\'For instance,\' pursued Martin, after a short reflection, \'you\'d be a\ncapital fellow, now, to see that my ideas were properly carried out; and\nto overlook the works in their progress before they were sufficiently\nadvanced to be very interesting to ME; and to take all that sort of\nplain sailing. Then you\'d be a splendid fellow to show people over my\nstudio, and to talk about Art to \'em, when I couldn\'t be bored myself,\nand all that kind of thing. For it would be devilish creditable, Tom\n(I\'m quite in earnest, I give you my word), to have a man of your\ninformation about one, instead of some ordinary blockhead. Oh, I\'d take\ncare of you. You\'d be useful, rely upon it!\'\n\nTo say that Tom had no idea of playing first fiddle in any social\norchestra, but was always quite satisfied to be set down for the hundred\nand fiftieth violin in the band, or thereabouts, is to express his\nmodesty in very inadequate terms. He was much delighted, therefore, by\nthese observations.\n\n\'I should be married to her then, Tom, of course,\' said Martin.\n\nWhat was that which checked Tom Pinch so suddenly, in the high flow\nof his gladness; bringing the blood into his honest cheeks, and a\nremorseful feeling to his honest heart, as if he were unworthy of his\nfriend\'s regard?\n\n\'I should be married to her then,\' said Martin, looking with a smile\ntowards the light; \'and we should have, I hope, children about us.\nThey\'d be very fond of you, Tom.\'\n\nBut not a word said Mr Pinch. The words he would have uttered died upon\nhis lips, and found a life more spiritual in self-denying thoughts.\n\n\'All the children hereabouts are fond of you, Tom, and mine would be,\nof course,\' pursued Martin. \'Perhaps I might name one of \'em after\nyou. Tom, eh? Well, I don\'t know. Tom\'s not a bad name. Thomas Pinch\nChuzzlewit. T. P. C. on his pinafores--no objection to that, I should\nsay?\'\n\nTom cleared his throat, and smiled.\n\n\'SHE would like you, Tom, I know,\' said Martin.\n\n\'Aye!\' cried Tom Pinch, faintly.\n\n\'I can tell exactly what she would think of you,\' said Martin leaning\nhis chin upon his hand, and looking through the window-glass as if he\nread there what he said; \'I know her so well. She would smile, Tom,\noften at first when you spoke to her, or when she looked at you--merrily\ntoo--but you wouldn\'t mind that. A brighter smile you never saw.\'\n\n\'No, no,\' said Tom. \'I wouldn\'t mind that.\'\n\n\'She would be as tender with you, Tom,\' said Martin, \'as if you were a\nchild yourself. So you are almost, in some things, an\'t you, Tom?\'\n\nMr Pinch nodded his entire assent.\n\n\'She would always be kind and good-humoured, and glad to see you,\' said\nMartin; \'and when she found out exactly what sort of fellow you were\n(which she\'d do very soon), she would pretend to give you little\ncommissions to execute, and to ask little services of you, which she\nknew you were burning to render; so that when she really pleased you\nmost, she would try to make you think you most pleased her. She\nwould take to you uncommonly, Tom; and would understand you far more\ndelicately than I ever shall; and would often say, I know, that you were\na harmless, gentle, well-intentioned, good fellow.\'\n\nHow silent Tom Pinch was!\n\n\'In honour of old time,\' said Martin, \'and of her having heard you play\nthe organ in this damp little church down here--for nothing too--we will\nhave one in the house. I shall build an architectural music-room on a\nplan of my own, and it\'ll look rather knowing in a recess at one end.\nThere you shall play away, Tom, till you tire yourself; and, as you like\nto do so in the dark, it shall BE dark; and many\'s the summer evening\nshe and I will sit and listen to you, Tom; be sure of that!\'\n\nIt may have required a stronger effort on Tom Pinch\'s part to leave the\nseat on which he sat, and shake his friend by both hands, with nothing\nbut serenity and grateful feeling painted on his face; it may have\nrequired a stronger effort to perform this simple act with a pure heart,\nthan to achieve many and many a deed to which the doubtful trumpet blown\nby Fame has lustily resounded. Doubtful, because from its long hovering\nover scenes of violence, the smoke and steam of death have clogged the\nkeys of that brave instrument; and it is not always that its notes are\neither true or tuneful.\n\n\'It\'s a proof of the kindness of human nature,\' said Tom,\ncharacteristically putting himself quite out of sight in the matter,\n\'that everybody who comes here, as you have done, is more considerate\nand affectionate to me than I should have any right to hope, if I were\nthe most sanguine creature in the world; or should have any power to\nexpress, if I were the most eloquent. It really overpowers me. But trust\nme,\' said Tom, \'that I am not ungrateful--that I never forget--and that\nif I can ever prove the truth of my words to you, I will.\'\n\n\'That\'s all right,\' observed Martin, leaning back in his chair with a\nhand in each pocket, and yawning drearily. \'Very fine talking, Tom;\nbut I\'m at Pecksniff\'s, I remember, and perhaps a mile or so out of the\nhigh-road to fortune just at this minute. So you\'ve heard again this\nmorning from what\'s his name, eh?\'\n\n\'Who may that be?\' asked Tom, seeming to enter a mild protest on behalf\nof the dignity of an absent person.\n\n\'YOU know. What is it? Northkey.\'\n\n\'Westlock,\' rejoined Tom, in rather a louder tone than usual.\n\n\'Ah! to be sure,\' said Martin, \'Westlock. I knew it was something\nconnected with a point of the compass and a door. Well! and what says\nWestlock?\'\n\n\'Oh! he has come into his property,\' answered Tom, nodding his head, and\nsmiling.\n\n\'He\'s a lucky dog,\' said Martin. \'I wish it were mine instead. Is that\nall the mystery you were to tell me?\'\n\n\'No,\' said Tom; \'not all.\'\n\n\'What\'s the rest?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'For the matter of that,\' said Tom, \'it\'s no mystery, and you won\'t\nthink much of it; but it\'s very pleasant to me. John always used to say\nwhen he was here, \"Mark my words, Pinch. When my father\'s executors cash\nup\"--he used strange expressions now and then, but that was his way.\'\n\n\'Cash-up\'s a very good expression,\' observed Martin, \'when other people\ndon\'t apply it to you. Well!--What a slow fellow you are, Pinch!\'\n\n\'Yes, I am I know,\' said Tom; \'but you\'ll make me nervous if you tell me\nso. I\'m afraid you have put me out a little now, for I forget what I was\ngoing to say.\'\n\n\'When John\'s father\'s executors cashed up,\' said Martin impatiently.\n\n\'Oh yes, to be sure,\' cried Tom; \'yes. \"Then,\" says John, \"I\'ll give you\na dinner, Pinch, and come down to Salisbury on purpose.\" Now, when John\nwrote the other day--the morning Pecksniff left, you know--he said his\nbusiness was on the point of being immediately settled, and as he was to\nreceive his money directly, when could I meet him at Salisbury? I wrote\nand said, any day this week; and I told him besides, that there was a\nnew pupil here, and what a fine fellow you were, and what friends we\nhad become. Upon which John writes back this letter\'--Tom produced\nit--\'fixes to-morrow; sends his compliments to you; and begs that we\nthree may have the pleasure of dining together; not at the house where\nyou and I were, either; but at the very first hotel in the town. Read\nwhat he says.\'\n\n\'Very well,\' said Martin, glancing over it with his customary coolness;\n\'much obliged to him. I\'m agreeable.\'\n\nTom could have wished him to be a little more astonished, a little more\npleased, or in some form or other a little more interested in such a\ngreat event. But he was perfectly self-possessed; and falling into his\nfavourite solace of whistling, took another turn at the grammar-school,\nas if nothing at all had happened.\n\nMr Pecksniff\'s horse being regarded in the light of a sacred animal,\nonly to be driven by him, the chief priest of that temple, or by some\nperson distinctly nominated for the time being to that high office by\nhimself, the two young men agreed to walk to Salisbury; and so, when the\ntime came, they set off on foot; which was, after all, a better mode of\ntravelling than in the gig, as the weather was very cold and very dry.\n\nBetter! A rare strong, hearty, healthy walk--four statute miles an\nhour--preferable to that rumbling, tumbling, jolting, shaking, scraping,\ncreaking, villanous old gig? Why, the two things will not admit of\ncomparison. It is an insult to the walk, to set them side by side. Where\nis an instance of a gig having ever circulated a man\'s blood, unless\nwhen, putting him in danger of his neck, it awakened in his veins and in\nhis ears, and all along his spine, a tingling heat, much more peculiar\nthan agreeable? When did a gig ever sharpen anybody\'s wits and energies,\nunless it was when the horse bolted, and, crashing madly down a steep\nhill with a stone wall at the bottom, his desperate circumstances\nsuggested to the only gentleman left inside, some novel and unheard-of\nmode of dropping out behind? Better than the gig!\n\nThe air was cold, Tom; so it was, there was no denying it; but would\nit have been more genial in the gig? The blacksmith\'s fire burned very\nbright, and leaped up high, as though it wanted men to warm; but would\nit have been less tempting, looked at from the clammy cushions of a gig?\nThe wind blew keenly, nipping the features of the hardy wight who fought\nhis way along; blinding him with his own hair if he had enough to it,\nand wintry dust if he hadn\'t; stopping his breath as though he had been\nsoused in a cold bath; tearing aside his wrappings-up, and whistling in\nthe very marrow of his bones; but it would have done all this a hundred\ntimes more fiercely to a man in a gig, wouldn\'t it? A fig for gigs!\n\nBetter than the gig! When were travellers by wheels and hoofs seen with\nsuch red-hot cheeks as those? when were they so good-humouredly and\nmerrily bloused? when did their laughter ring upon the air, as they\nturned them round, what time the stronger gusts came sweeping up; and,\nfacing round again as they passed by, dashed on, in such a glow of\nruddy health as nothing could keep pace with, but the high spirits it\nengendered? Better than the gig! Why, here is a man in a gig coming\nthe same way now. Look at him as he passes his whip into his left hand,\nchafes his numbed right fingers on his granite leg, and beats those\nmarble toes of his upon the foot-board. Ha, ha, ha! Who would exchange\nthis rapid hurry of the blood for yonder stagnant misery, though its\npace were twenty miles for one?\n\nBetter than the gig! No man in a gig could have such interest in the\nmilestones. No man in a gig could see, or feel, or think, like merry\nusers of their legs. How, as the wind sweeps on, upon these breezy\ndowns, it tracks its flight in darkening ripples on the grass, and\nsmoothest shadows on the hills! Look round and round upon this bare\nbleak plain, and see even here, upon a winter\'s day, how beautiful\nthe shadows are! Alas! it is the nature of their kind to be so. The\nloveliest things in life, Tom, are but shadows; and they come and go,\nand change and fade away, as rapidly as these!\n\nAnother mile, and then begins a fall of snow, making the crow, who skims\naway so close above the ground to shirk the wind, a blot of ink upon the\nlandscape. But though it drives and drifts against them as they walk,\nstiffening on their skirts, and freezing in the lashes of their eyes,\nthey wouldn\'t have it fall more sparingly, no, not so much as by a\nsingle flake, although they had to go a score of miles. And, lo! the\ntowers of the Old Cathedral rise before them, even now! and by-and-bye\nthey come into the sheltered streets, made strangely silent by their\nwhite carpet; and so to the Inn for which they are bound; where they\npresent such flushed and burning faces to the cold waiter, and are so\nbrimful of vigour, that he almost feels assaulted by their presence;\nand, having nothing to oppose to the attack (being fresh, or rather\nstale, from the blazing fire in the coffee-room), is quite put out of\nhis pale countenance.\n\nA famous Inn! the hall a very grove of dead game, and dangling joints\nof mutton; and in one corner an illustrious larder, with glass doors,\ndeveloping cold fowls and noble joints, and tarts wherein the raspberry\njam coyly withdrew itself, as such a precious creature should, behind a\nlattice work of pastry. And behold, on the first floor, at the court-end\nof the house, in a room with all the window-curtains drawn, a fire piled\nhalf-way up the chimney, plates warming before it, wax candles gleaming\neverywhere, and a table spread for three, with silver and glass enough\nfor thirty--John Westlock; not the old John of Pecksniff\'s, but a proper\ngentleman; looking another and a grander person, with the consciousness\nof being his own master and having money in the bank; and yet in some\nrespects the old John too, for he seized Tom Pinch by both his hands the\ninstant he appeared, and fairly hugged him, in his cordial welcome.\n\n\'And this,\' said John, \'is Mr Chuzzlewit. I am very glad to see\nhim!\'--John had an off-hand manner of his own; so they shook hands\nwarmly, and were friends in no time.\n\n\'Stand off a moment, Tom,\' cried the old pupil, laying one hand on each\nof Mr Pinch\'s shoulders, and holding him out at arm\'s length. \'Let me\nlook at you! Just the same! Not a bit changed!\'\n\n\'Why, it\'s not so very long ago, you know,\' said Tom Pinch, \'after all.\'\n\n\'It seems an age to me,\' cried John, \'and so it ought to seem to you,\nyou dog.\' And then he pushed Tom down into the easiest chair, and\nclapped him on the back so heartily, and so like his old self in their\nold bedroom at old Pecksniff\'s that it was a toss-up with Tom Pinch\nwhether he should laugh or cry. Laughter won it; and they all three\nlaughed together.\n\n\'I have ordered everything for dinner, that we used to say we\'d have,\nTom,\' observed John Westlock.\n\n\'No!\' said Tom Pinch. \'Have you?\'\n\n\'Everything. Don\'t laugh, if you can help it, before the waiters. I\ncouldn\'t when I was ordering it. It\'s like a dream.\'\n\nJohn was wrong there, because nobody ever dreamed such soup as was put\nupon the table directly afterwards; or such fish; or such side-dishes;\nor such a top and bottom; or such a course of birds and sweets; or\nin short anything approaching the reality of that entertainment at\nten-and-sixpence a head, exclusive of wines. As to THEM, the man who can\ndream such iced champagne, such claret, port, or sherry, had better go\nto bed and stop there.\n\nBut perhaps the finest feature of the banquet was, that nobody was half\nso much amazed by everything as John himself, who in his high delight\nwas constantly bursting into fits of laughter, and then endeavouring\nto appear preternaturally solemn, lest the waiters should conceive he\nwasn\'t used to it. Some of the things they brought him to carve, were\nsuch outrageous practical jokes, though, that it was impossible to stand\nit; and when Tom Pinch insisted, in spite of the deferential advice of\nan attendant, not only on breaking down the outer wall of a raised pie\nwith a tablespoon, but on trying to eat it afterwards, John lost all\ndignity, and sat behind the gorgeous dish-cover at the head of the\ntable, roaring to that extent that he was audible in the kitchen. Nor\nhad he the least objection to laugh at himself, as he demonstrated when\nthey had all three gathered round the fire and the dessert was on\nthe table; at which period the head waiter inquired with respectful\nsolicitude whether that port, being a light and tawny wine, was suited\nto his taste, or whether he would wish to try a fruity port with greater\nbody. To this John gravely answered that he was well satisfied with what\nhe had, which he esteemed, as one might say, a pretty tidy vintage;\nfor which the waiter thanked him and withdrew. And then John told his\nfriends, with a broad grin, that he supposed it was all right, but he\ndidn\'t know; and went off into a perfect shout.\n\nThey were very merry and full of enjoyment the whole time, but not the\nleast pleasant part of the festival was when they all three sat about\nthe fire, cracking nuts, drinking wine and talking cheerfully. It\nhappened that Tom Pinch had a word to say to his friend the organist\'s\nassistant, and so deserted his warm corner for a few minutes at this\nseason, lest it should grow too late; leaving the other two young men\ntogether.\n\nThey drank his health in his absence, of course; and John Westlock took\nthat opportunity of saying, that he had never had even a peevish word\nwith Tom during the whole term of their residence in Mr Pecksniff\'s\nhouse. This naturally led him to dwell upon Tom\'s character, and to hint\nthat Mr Pecksniff understood it pretty well. He only hinted this, and\nvery distantly; knowing that it pained Tom Pinch to have that gentleman\ndisparaged, and thinking it would be as well to leave the new pupil to\nhis own discoveries.\n\n\'Yes,\' said Martin. \'It\'s impossible to like Pinch better than I do,\nor to do greater justice to his good qualities. He is the most willing\nfellow I ever saw.\'\n\n\'He\'s rather too willing,\' observed John, who was quick in observation.\n\'It\'s quite a fault in him.\'\n\n\'So it is,\' said Martin. \'Very true. There was a fellow only a week or\nso ago--a Mr Tigg--who borrowed all the money he had, on a promise to\nrepay it in a few days. It was but half a sovereign, to be sure; but\nit\'s well it was no more, for he\'ll never see it again.\'\n\n\'Poor fellow!\' said John, who had been very attentive to these few\nwords. \'Perhaps you have not had an opportunity of observing that, in\nhis own pecuniary transactions, Tom\'s proud.\'\n\n\'You don\'t say so! No, I haven\'t. What do you mean? Won\'t he borrow?\'\n\nJohn Westlock shook his head.\n\n\'That\'s very odd,\' said Martin, setting down his empty glass. \'He\'s a\nstrange compound, to be sure.\'\n\n\'As to receiving money as a gift,\' resumed John Westlock; \'I think he\'d\ndie first.\'\n\n\'He\'s made up of simplicity,\' said Martin. \'Help yourself.\'\n\n\'You, however,\' pursued John, filling his own glass, and looking at his\ncompanion with some curiosity, \'who are older than the majority of Mr\nPecksniff\'s assistants, and have evidently had much more experience,\nunderstand him, I have no doubt, and see how liable he is to be imposed\nupon.\'\n\n\'Certainly,\' said Martin, stretching out his legs, and holding his wine\nbetween his eye and the light. \'Mr Pecksniff knows that too. So do his\ndaughters. Eh?\'\n\nJohn Westlock smiled, but made no answer.\n\n\'By the bye,\' said Martin, \'that reminds me. What\'s your opinion of\nPecksniff? How did he use you? What do you think of him now?--Coolly,\nyou know, when it\'s all over?\'\n\n\'Ask Pinch,\' returned the old pupil. \'He knows what my sentiments used\nto be upon the subject. They are not changed, I assure you.\'\n\n\'No, no,\' said Martin, \'I\'d rather have them from you.\'\n\n\'But Pinch says they are unjust,\' urged John with a smile.\n\n\'Oh! well! Then I know what course they take beforehand,\' said Martin;\n\'and, therefore, you can have no delicacy in speaking plainly. Don\'t\nmind me, I beg. I don\'t like him I tell you frankly. I am with him\nbecause it happens from particular circumstances to suit my convenience.\nI have some ability, I believe, in that way; and the obligation, if any,\nwill most likely be on his side and not mine. At the lowest mark, the\nbalance will be even, and there\'ll be no obligation at all. So you may\ntalk to me, as if I had no connection with him.\'\n\n\'If you press me to give my opinion--\' returned John Westlock.\n\n\'Yes, I do,\' said Martin. \'You\'ll oblige me.\'\n\n\'--I should say,\' resumed the other, \'that he is the most consummate\nscoundrel on the face of the earth.\'\n\n\'Oh!\' said Martin, as coolly as ever. \'That\'s rather strong.\'\n\n\'Not stronger than he deserves,\' said John; \'and if he called upon me\nto express my opinion of him to his face, I would do so in the very same\nterms, without the least qualification. His treatment of Pinch is in\nitself enough to justify them; but when I look back upon the five years\nI passed in that house, and remember the hyprocrisy, the knavery, the\nmeannesses, the false pretences, the lip service of that fellow, and\nhis trading in saintly semblances for the very worst realities; when\nI remember how often I was the witness of all this and how often I was\nmade a kind of party to it, by the fact of being there, with him for my\nteacher; I swear to you that I almost despise myself.\'\n\nMartin drained his glass, and looked at the fire.\n\n\'I don\'t mean to say that is a right feeling,\' pursued John Westlock\n\'because it was no fault of mine; and I can quite understand--you for\ninstance, fully appreciating him, and yet being forced by circumstances\nto remain there. I tell you simply what my feeling is; and even now,\nwhen, as you say, it\'s all over; and when I have the satisfaction of\nknowing that he always hated me, and we always quarrelled, and I always\ntold him my mind; even now, I feel sorry that I didn\'t yield to an\nimpulse I often had, as a boy, of running away from him and going\nabroad.\'\n\n\'Why abroad?\' asked Martin, turning his eyes upon the speaker.\n\n\'In search,\' replied John Westlock, shrugging his shoulders, \'of\nthe livelihood I couldn\'t have earned at home. There would have been\nsomething spirited in that. But, come! Fill your glass, and let us\nforget him.\'\n\n\'As soon as you please,\' said Martin. \'In reference to myself and my\nconnection with him, I have only to repeat what I said before. I have\ntaken my own way with him so far, and shall continue to do so, even more\nthan ever; for the fact is, to tell you the truth, that I believe he\nlooks to me to supply his defects, and couldn\'t afford to lose me. I had\na notion of that in first going there. Your health!\'\n\n\'Thank you,\' returned young Westlock. \'Yours. And may the new pupil turn\nout as well as you can desire!\'\n\n\'What new pupil?\'\n\n\'The fortunate youth, born under an auspicious star,\' returned John\nWestlock, laughing; \'whose parents, or guardians, are destined to be\nhooked by the advertisement. What! Don\'t you know that he has advertised\nagain?\'\n\n\'No.\'\n\n\'Oh, yes. I read it just before dinner in the old newspaper. I know it\nto be his; having some reason to remember the style. Hush! Here\'s Pinch.\nStrange, is it not, that the more he likes Pecksniff (if he can like him\nbetter than he does), the greater reason one has to like HIM? Not a word\nmore, or we shall spoil his whole enjoyment.\'\n\nTom entered as the words were spoken, with a radiant smile upon his\nface; and rubbing his hands, more from a sense of delight than because\nhe was cold (for he had been running fast), sat down in his warm corner\nagain, and was as happy as only Tom Pinch could be. There is no other\nsimile that will express his state of mind.\n\n\'And so,\' he said, when he had gazed at his friend for some time in\nsilent pleasure, \'so you really are a gentleman at last, John. Well, to\nbe sure!\'\n\n\'Trying to be, Tom; trying to be,\' he rejoined good-humouredly. \'There\nis no saying what I may turn out, in time.\'\n\n\'I suppose you wouldn\'t carry your own box to the mail now?\' said Tom\nPinch, smiling; \'although you lost it altogether by not taking it.\'\n\n\'Wouldn\'t I?\' retorted John. \'That\'s all you know about it, Pinch.\nIt must be a very heavy box that I wouldn\'t carry to get away from\nPecksniff\'s, Tom.\'\n\n\'There!\' cried Pinch, turning to Martin, \'I told you so. The great fault\nin his character is his injustice to Pecksniff. You mustn\'t mind a word\nhe says on that subject. His prejudice is most extraordinary.\'\n\n\'The absence of anything like prejudice on Tom\'s part, you know,\' said\nJohn Westlock, laughing heartily, as he laid his hand on Mr Pinch\'s\nshoulder, \'is perfectly wonderful. If one man ever had a profound\nknowledge of another, and saw him in a true light, and in his own proper\ncolours, Tom has that knowledge of Mr Pecksniff.\'\n\n\'Why, of course I have,\' cried Tom. \'That\'s exactly what I have so often\nsaid to you. If you knew him as well as I do--John, I\'d give almost any\nmoney to bring that about--you\'d admire, respect, and reverence him. You\ncouldn\'t help it. Oh, how you wounded his feelings when you went away!\'\n\n\'If I had known whereabout his feelings lay,\' retorted young Westlock,\n\'I\'d have done my best, Tom, with that end in view, you may depend upon\nit. But as I couldn\'t wound him in what he has not, and in what he knows\nnothing of, except in his ability to probe them to the quick in other\npeople, I am afraid I can lay no claim to your compliment.\'\n\nMr Pinch, being unwilling to protract a discussion which might possibly\ncorrupt Martin, forbore to say anything in reply to this speech; but\nJohn Westlock, whom nothing short of an iron gag would have\nsilenced when Mr Pecksniff\'s merits were once in question, continued\nnotwithstanding.\n\n\'HIS feelings! Oh, he\'s a tender-hearted man. HIS feelings! Oh, he\'s a\nconsiderate, conscientious, self-examining, moral vagabond, he is! HIS\nfeelings! Oh!--what\'s the matter, Tom?\'\n\nMr Pinch was by this time erect upon the hearth-rug, buttoning his coat\nwith great energy.\n\n\'I can\'t bear it,\' said Tom, shaking his head. \'No. I really cannot. You\nmust excuse me, John. I have a great esteem and friendship for you;\nI love you very much; and have been perfectly charmed and overjoyed\nto-day, to find you just the same as ever; but I cannot listen to this.\'\n\n\'Why, it\'s my old way, Tom; and you say yourself that you are glad to\nfind me unchanged.\'\n\n\'Not in this respect,\' said Tom Pinch. \'You must excuse me, John. I\ncannot, really; I will not. It\'s very wrong; you should be more guarded\nin your expressions. It was bad enough when you and I used to be alone\ntogether, but under existing circumstances, I can\'t endure it, really.\nNo. I cannot, indeed.\'\n\n\'You are quite right!\' exclaimed the other, exchanging looks with\nMartin. \'and I am quite wrong, Tom, I don\'t know how the deuce we fell\non this unlucky theme. I beg your pardon with all my heart.\'\n\n\'You have a free and manly temper, I know,\' said Pinch; \'and therefore,\nyour being so ungenerous in this one solitary instance, only grieves\nme the more. It\'s not my pardon you have to ask, John. You have done ME\nnothing but kindnesses.\'\n\n\'Well! Pecksniff\'s pardon then,\' said young Westlock. \'Anything Tom,\nor anybody. Pecksniff\'s pardon--will that do? Here! let us drink\nPecksniff\'s health!\'\n\n\'Thank you,\' cried Tom, shaking hands with him eagerly, and filling\na bumper. \'Thank you; I\'ll drink it with all my heart, John. Mr\nPecksniff\'s health, and prosperity to him!\'\n\nJohn Westlock echoed the sentiment, or nearly so; for he drank Mr\nPecksniff\'s health, and Something to him--but what, was not quite\naudible. The general unanimity being then completely restored, they drew\ntheir chairs closer round the fire, and conversed in perfect harmony and\nenjoyment until bed-time.\n\nNo slight circumstance, perhaps, could have better illustrated the\ndifference of character between John Westlock and Martin Chuzzlewit,\nthan the manner in which each of the young men contemplated Tom Pinch,\nafter the little rupture just described. There was a certain amount of\njocularity in the looks of both, no doubt, but there all resemblance\nceased. The old pupil could not do enough to show Tom how cordially he\nfelt towards him, and his friendly regard seemed of a graver and more\nthoughtful kind than before. The new one, on the other hand, had no\nimpulse but to laugh at the recollection of Tom\'s extreme absurdity;\nand mingled with his amusement there was something slighting and\ncontemptuous, indicative, as it appeared, of his opinion that Mr Pinch\nwas much too far gone in simplicity to be admitted as the friend, on\nserious and equal terms, of any rational man.\n\nJohn Westlock, who did nothing by halves, if he could help it, had\nprovided beds for his two guests in the hotel; and after a very happy\nevening, they retired. Mr Pinch was sitting on the side of his bed with\nhis cravat and shoes off, ruminating on the manifold good qualities of\nhis old friend, when he was interrupted by a knock at his chamber door,\nand the voice of John himself.\n\n\'You\'re not asleep yet, are you, Tom?\'\n\n\'Bless you, no! not I. I was thinking of you,\' replied Tom, opening the\ndoor. \'Come in.\'\n\n\'I am not going to detail you,\' said John; \'but I have forgotten all the\nevening a little commission I took upon myself; and I am afraid I may\nforget it again, if I fail to discharge it at once. You know a Mr Tigg,\nTom, I believe?\'\n\n\'Tigg!\' cried Tom. \'Tigg! The gentleman who borrowed some money of me?\'\n\n\'Exactly,\' said John Westlock. \'He begged me to present his compliments,\nand to return it with many thanks. Here it is. I suppose it\'s a good\none, but he is rather a doubtful kind of customer, Tom.\'\n\nMr Pinch received the little piece of gold with a face whose brightness\nmight have shamed the metal; and said he had no fear about that. He\nwas glad, he added, to find Mr Tigg so prompt and honourable in his\ndealings; very glad.\n\n\'Why, to tell you the truth, Tom,\' replied his friend, \'he is not always\nso. If you\'ll take my advice, you\'ll avoid him as much as you can, in\nthe event of your encountering him again. And by no means, Tom--pray\nbear this in mind, for I am very serious--by no means lend him money any\nmore.\'\n\n\'Aye, aye!\' said Tom, with his eyes wide open.\n\n\'He is very far from being a reputable acquaintance,\' returned young\nWestlock; \'and the more you let him know you think so, the better for\nyou, Tom.\'\n\n\'I say, John,\' quoth Mr Pinch, as his countenance fell, and he shook\nhis head in a dejected manner. \'I hope you are not getting into bad\ncompany.\'\n\n\'No, no,\' he replied laughing. \'Don\'t be uneasy on that score.\'\n\n\'Oh, but I AM uneasy,\' said Tom Pinch; \'I can\'t help it, when I hear you\ntalking in that way. If Mr Tigg is what you describe him to be, you have\nno business to know him, John. You may laugh, but I don\'t consider it by\nany means a laughing matter, I assure you.\'\n\n\'No, no,\' returned his friend, composing his features. \'Quite right. It\nis not, certainly.\'\n\n\'You know, John,\' said Mr Pinch, \'your very good nature and kindness of\nheart make you thoughtless, and you can\'t be too careful on such a\npoint as this. Upon my word, if I thought you were falling among bad\ncompanions, I should be quite wretched, for I know how difficult you\nwould find it to shake them off. I would much rather have lost this\nmoney, John, than I would have had it back again on such terms.\'\n\n\'I tell you, my dear good old fellow,\' cried his friend, shaking him\nto and fro with both hands, and smiling at him with a cheerful, open\ncountenance, that would have carried conviction to a mind much more\nsuspicious than Tom\'s; \'I tell you there is no danger.\'\n\n\'Well!\' cried Tom, \'I am glad to hear it; I am overjoyed to hear it. I\nam sure there is not, when you say so in that manner. You won\'t take it\nill, John, that I said what I did just now!\'\n\n\'Ill!\' said the other, giving his hand a hearty squeeze; \'why what\ndo you think I am made of? Mr Tigg and I are not on such an intimate\nfooting that you need be at all uneasy, I give you my solemn assurance\nof that, Tom. You are quite comfortable now?\'\n\n\'Quite,\' said Tom.\n\n\'Then once more, good night!\'\n\n\'Good night!\' cried Tom; \'and such pleasant dreams to you as should\nattend the sleep of the best fellow in the world!\'\n\n\'--Except Pecksniff,\' said his friend, stopping at the door for a\nmoment, and looking gayly back.\n\n\'Except Pecksniff,\' answered Tom, with great gravity; \'of course.\'\n\nAnd thus they parted for the night; John Westlock full of\nlight-heartedness and good humour, and poor Tom Pinch quite satisfied;\nthough still, as he turned over on his side in bed, he muttered to\nhimself, \'I really do wish, for all that, though, that he wasn\'t\nacquainted with Mr Tigg.\'\n\nThey breakfasted together very early next morning, for the two young\nmen desired to get back again in good season; and John Westlock was to\nreturn to London by the coach that day. As he had some hours to spare,\nhe bore them company for three or four miles on their walk, and\nonly parted from them at last in sheer necessity. The parting was an\nunusually hearty one, not only as between him and Tom Pinch, but on the\nside of Martin also, who had found in the old pupil a very different\nsort of person from the milksop he had prepared himself to expect.\n\nYoung Westlock stopped upon a rising ground, when he had gone a little\ndistance, and looked back. They were walking at a brisk pace, and Tom\nappeared to be talking earnestly. Martin had taken off his greatcoat,\nthe wind being now behind them, and carried it upon his arm. As he\nlooked, he saw Tom relieve him of it, after a faint resistance, and,\nthrowing it upon his own, encumber himself with the weight of both. This\ntrivial incident impressed the old pupil mightily, for he stood there,\ngazing after them, until they were hidden from his view; when he\nshook his head, as if he were troubled by some uneasy reflection, and\nthoughtfully retraced his steps to Salisbury.\n\nIn the meantime, Martin and Tom pursued their way, until they halted,\nsafe and sound, at Mr Pecksniff\'s house, where a brief epistle from that\ngood gentleman to Mr Pinch announced the family\'s return by that night\'s\ncoach. As it would pass the corner of the lane at about six o\'clock in\nthe morning, Mr Pecksniff requested that the gig might be in waiting at\nthe finger-post about that time, together with a cart for the luggage.\nAnd to the end that he might be received with the greater honour, the\nyoung men agreed to rise early, and be upon the spot themselves.\n\nIt was the least cheerful day they had yet passed together. Martin\nwas out of spirits and out of humour, and took every opportunity of\ncomparing his condition and prospects with those of young Westlock;\nmuch to his own disadvantage always. This mood of his depressed Tom; and\nneither that morning\'s parting, nor yesterday\'s dinner, helped to mend\nthe matter. So the hours dragged on heavily enough; and they were glad\nto go to bed early.\n\nThey were not quite so glad to get up again at half-past four o\'clock,\nin all the shivering discomfort of a dark winter\'s morning; but they\nturned out punctually, and were at the finger-post full half-an-hour\nbefore the appointed time. It was not by any means a lively morning, for\nthe sky was black and cloudy, and it rained hard; but Martin said there\nwas some satisfaction in seeing that brute of a horse (by this, he meant\nMr Pecksniff\'s Arab steed) getting very wet; and that he rejoiced, on\nhis account, that it rained so fast. From this it may be inferred that\nMartin\'s spirits had not improved, as indeed they had not; for while he\nand Mr Pinch stood waiting under a hedge, looking at the rain, the gig,\nthe cart, and its reeking driver, he did nothing but grumble; and, but\nthat it is indispensable to any dispute that there should be two parties\nto it, he would certainly have picked a quarrel with Tom.\n\nAt length the noise of wheels was faintly audible in the distance and\npresently the coach came splashing through the mud and mire with one\nmiserable outside passenger crouching down among wet straw, under a\nsaturated umbrella; and the coachman, guard, and horses, in a fellowship\nof dripping wretchedness. Immediately on its stopping, Mr Pecksniff let\ndown the window-glass and hailed Tom Pinch.\n\n\'Dear me, Mr Pinch! Is it possible that you are out upon this very\ninclement morning?\'\n\n\'Yes, sir,\' cried Tom, advancing eagerly, \'Mr Chuzzlewit and I, sir.\'\n\n\'Oh!\' said Mr Pecksniff, looking not so much at Martin as at the spot on\nwhich he stood. \'Oh! Indeed. Do me the favour to see to the trunks, if\nyou please, Mr Pinch.\'\n\nThen Mr Pecksniff descended, and helped his daughters to alight; but\nneither he nor the young ladies took the slightest notice of Martin,\nwho had advanced to offer his assistance, but was repulsed by Mr\nPecksniff\'s standing immediately before his person, with his back\ntowards him. In the same manner, and in profound silence, Mr Pecksniff\nhanded his daughters into the gig; and following himself and taking the\nreins, drove off home.\n\nLost in astonishment, Martin stood staring at the coach, and when the\ncoach had driven away, at Mr Pinch, and the luggage, until the cart\nmoved off too; when he said to Tom:\n\n\'Now will you have the goodness to tell me what THIS portends?\'\n\n\'What?\' asked Tom.\n\n\'This fellow\'s behaviour. Mr Pecksniff\'s, I mean. You saw it?\'\n\n\'No. Indeed I did not,\' cried Tom. \'I was busy with the trunks.\'\n\n\'It is no matter,\' said Martin. \'Come! Let us make haste back!\' And\nwithout another word started off at such a pace, that Tom had some\ndifficulty in keeping up with him.\n\nHe had no care where he went, but walked through little heaps of mud\nand little pools of water with the utmost indifference; looking straight\nbefore him, and sometimes laughing in a strange manner within himself.\nTom felt that anything he could say would only render him the more\nobstinate, and therefore trusted to Mr Pecksniff\'s manner when they\nreached the house, to remove the mistaken impression under which he felt\nconvinced so great a favourite as the new pupil must unquestionably be\nlabouring. But he was not a little amazed himself, when they did reach\nit, and entered the parlour where Mr Pecksniff was sitting alone\nbefore the fire, drinking some hot tea, to find that instead of taking\nfavourable notice of his relative and keeping him, Mr Pinch, in the\nbackground, he did exactly the reverse, and was so lavish in his\nattentions to Tom, that Tom was thoroughly confounded.\n\n\'Take some tea, Mr Pinch--take some tea,\' said Pecksniff, stirring the\nfire. \'You must be very cold and damp. Pray take some tea, and come into\na warm place, Mr Pinch.\'\n\nTom saw that Martin looked at Mr Pecksniff as though he could have\neasily found it in his heart to give HIM an invitation to a very warm\nplace; but he was quite silent, and standing opposite that gentleman at\nthe table, regarded him attentively.\n\n\'Take a chair, Pinch,\' said Pecksniff. \'Take a chair, if you please. How\nhave things gone on in our absence, Mr Pinch?\'\n\n\'You--you will be very much pleased with the grammar-school, sir,\' said\nTom. \'It\'s nearly finished.\'\n\n\'If you will have the goodness, Mr Pinch,\' said Pecksniff, waving his\nhand and smiling, \'we will not discuss anything connected with that\nquestion at present. What have YOU been doing, Thomas, humph?\'\n\nMr Pinch looked from master to pupil, and from pupil to master, and was\nso perplexed and dismayed that he wanted presence of mind to answer\nthe question. In this awkward interval, Mr Pecksniff (who was perfectly\nconscious of Martin\'s gaze, though he had never once glanced towards\nhim) poked the fire very much, and when he couldn\'t do that any more,\ndrank tea assiduously.\n\n\'Now, Mr Pecksniff,\' said Martin at last, in a very quiet voice, \'if you\nhave sufficiently refreshed and recovered yourself, I shall be glad to\nhear what you mean by this treatment of me.\'\n\n\'And what,\' said Mr Pecksniff, turning his eyes on Tom Pinch, even more\nplacidly and gently than before, \'what have YOU been doing, Thomas,\nhumph?\'\n\nWhen he had repeated this inquiry, he looked round the walls of the room\nas if he were curious to see whether any nails had been left there by\naccident in former times.\n\nTom was almost at his wit\'s end what to say between the two, and had\nalready made a gesture as if he would call Mr Pecksniff\'s attention to\nthe gentleman who had last addressed him, when Martin saved him further\ntrouble, by doing so himself.\n\n\'Mr Pecksniff,\' he said, softly rapping the table twice or thrice, and\nmoving a step or two nearer, so that he could have touched him with his\nhand; \'you heard what I said just now. Do me the favour to reply, if you\nplease. I ask you\'--he raised his voice a little here--\'what you mean by\nthis?\'\n\n\'I will talk to you, sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff in a severe voice, as he\nlooked at him for the first time, \'presently.\'\n\n\'You are very obliging,\' returned Martin; \'presently will not do. I must\ntrouble you to talk to me at once.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff made a feint of being deeply interested in his pocketbook,\nbut it shook in his hands; he trembled so.\n\n\'Now,\' retorted Martin, rapping the table again. \'Now. Presently will\nnot do. Now!\'\n\n\'Do you threaten me, sir?\' cried Mr Pecksniff.\n\nMartin looked at him, and made no answer; but a curious observer\nmight have detected an ominous twitching at his mouth, and perhaps\nan involuntary attraction of his right hand in the direction of Mr\nPecksniff\'s cravat.\n\n\'I lament to be obliged to say, sir,\' resumed Mr Pecksniff, \'that it\nwould be quite in keeping with your character if you did threaten me.\nYou have deceived me. You have imposed upon a nature which you knew to\nbe confiding and unsuspicious. You have obtained admission, sir,\' said\nMr Pecksniff, rising, \'to this house, on perverted statements and on\nfalse pretences.\'\n\n\'Go on,\' said Martin, with a scornful smile. \'I understand you now. What\nmore?\'\n\n\'Thus much more, sir,\' cried Mr Pecksniff, trembling from head to foot,\nand trying to rub his hands, as though he were only cold. \'Thus much\nmore, if you force me to publish your shame before a third party, which\nI was unwilling and indisposed to do. This lowly roof, sir, must not\nbe contaminated by the presence of one who has deceived, and cruelly\ndeceived, an honourable, beloved, venerated, and venerable gentleman;\nand who wisely suppressed that deceit from me when he sought my\nprotection and favour, knowing that, humble as I am, I am an honest\nman, seeking to do my duty in this carnal universe, and setting my face\nagainst all vice and treachery. I weep for your depravity, sir,\' said\nMr Pecksniff; \'I mourn over your corruption, I pity your voluntary\nwithdrawal of yourself from the flowery paths of purity and peace;\' here\nhe struck himself upon his breast, or moral garden; \'but I cannot have\na leper and a serpent for an inmate. Go forth,\' said Mr Pecksniff,\nstretching out his hand: \'go forth, young man! Like all who know you, I\nrenounce you!\'\n\nWith what intention Martin made a stride forward at these words, it is\nimpossible to say. It is enough to know that Tom Pinch caught him in\nhis arms, and that, at the same moment, Mr Pecksniff stepped back so\nhastily, that he missed his footing, tumbled over a chair, and fell in\na sitting posture on the ground; where he remained without an effort\nto get up again, with his head in a corner, perhaps considering it the\nsafest place.\n\n\'Let me go, Pinch!\' cried Martin, shaking him away. \'Why do you hold me?\nDo you think a blow could make him a more abject creature than he is? Do\nyou think that if I spat upon him, I could degrade him to a lower level\nthan his own? Look at him. Look at him, Pinch!\'\n\nMr Pinch involuntarily did so. Mr Pecksniff sitting, as has been\nalready mentioned, on the carpet, with his head in an acute angle of the\nwainscot, and all the damage and detriment of an uncomfortable journey\nabout him, was not exactly a model of all that is prepossessing and\ndignified in man, certainly. Still he WAS Pecksniff; it was impossible\nto deprive him of that unique and paramount appeal to Tom. And he\nreturned Tom\'s glance, as if he would have said, \'Aye, Mr Pinch, look at\nme! Here I am! You know what the Poet says about an honest man; and an\nhonest man is one of the few great works that can be seen for nothing!\nLook at me!\'\n\n\'I tell you,\' said Martin, \'that as he lies there, disgraced, bought,\nused; a cloth for dirty hands, a mat for dirty feet, a lying, fawning,\nservile hound, he is the very last and worst among the vermin of the\nworld. And mark me, Pinch! The day will come--he knows it; see it\nwritten on his face, while I speak!--when even you will find him out,\nand will know him as I do, and as he knows I do. HE renounce ME!\nCast your eyes on the Renouncer, Pinch, and be the wiser for the\nrecollection!\'\n\nHe pointed at him as he spoke, with unutterable contempt, and flinging\nhis hat upon his head, walked from the room and from the house. He went\nso rapidly that he was already clear of the village, when he heard Tom\nPinch calling breathlessly after him in the distance.\n\n\'Well! what now?\' he said, when Tom came up.\n\n\'Dear, dear!\' cried Tom, \'are you going?\'\n\n\'Going!\' he echoed. \'Going!\'\n\n\'I didn\'t so much mean that, as were you going now at once--in this bad\nweather--on foot--without your clothes--with no money?\' cried Tom.\n\n\'Yes,\' he answered sternly, \'I am.\'\n\n\'And where?\' cried Tom. \'Oh where will you go?\'\n\n\'I don\'t know,\' he said. \'Yes, I do. I\'ll go to America!\'\n\n\'No, no,\' cried Tom, in a kind of agony. \'Don\'t go there. Pray don\'t.\nThink better of it. Don\'t be so dreadfully regardless of yourself. Don\'t\ngo to America!\'\n\n\'My mind is made up,\' he said. \'Your friend was right. I\'ll go to\nAmerica. God bless you, Pinch!\'\n\n\'Take this!\' cried Tom, pressing a book upon him in great agitation.\n\'I must make haste back, and can\'t say anything I would. Heaven be with\nyou. Look at the leaf I have turned down. Good-bye, good-bye!\'\n\nThe simple fellow wrung him by the hand, with tears stealing down his\ncheeks; and they parted hurriedly upon their separate ways.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN\n\nSHOWING WHAT BECAME OF MARTIN AND HIS DESPARATE RESOLVE, AFTER HE LEFT\nMR PECKSNIFF\'S HOUSE; WHAT PERSONS HE ENCOUNTERED; WHAT ANXIETIES HE\nSUFFERED; AND WHAT NEWS HE HEARD\n\n\nCarrying Tom Pinch\'s book quite unconsciously under his arm, and not\neven buttoning his coat as a protection against the heavy rain, Martin\nwent doggedly forward at the same quick pace, until he had passed the\nfinger-post, and was on the high road to London. He slackened very\nlittle in his speed even then, but he began to think, and look about\nhim, and to disengage his senses from the coil of angry passions which\nhitherto had held them prisoner.\n\nIt must be confessed that, at that moment, he had no very agreeable\nemployment either for his moral or his physical perceptions. The day was\ndawning from a patch of watery light in the east, and sullen clouds\ncame driving up before it, from which the rain descended in a thick, wet\nmist. It streamed from every twig and bramble in the hedge; made little\ngullies in the path; ran down a hundred channels in the road; and\npunched innumerable holes into the face of every pond and gutter. It\nfell with an oozy, slushy sound among the grass; and made a muddy kennel\nof every furrow in the ploughed fields. No living creature was anywhere\nto be seen. The prospect could hardly have been more desolate if\nanimated nature had been dissolved in water, and poured down upon the\nearth again in that form.\n\nThe range of view within the solitary traveller was quite as cheerless\nas the scene without. Friendless and penniless; incensed to the last\ndegree; deeply wounded in his pride and self-love; full of independent\nschemes, and perfectly destitute of any means of realizing them; his\nmost vindictive enemy might have been satisfied with the extent of his\ntroubles. To add to his other miseries, he was by this time sensible of\nbeing wet to the skin, and cold at his very heart.\n\nIn this deplorable condition he remembered Mr Pinch\'s book; more\nbecause it was rather troublesome to carry, than from any hope of being\ncomforted by that parting gift. He looked at the dingy lettering on the\nback, and finding it to be an odd volume of the \'Bachelor of Salamanca,\'\nin the French tongue, cursed Tom Pinch\'s folly twenty times. He was on\nthe point of throwing it away, in his ill-humour and vexation, when he\nbethought himself that Tom had referred him to a leaf, turned down;\nand opening it at that place, that he might have additional cause\nof complaint against him for supposing that any cold scrap of the\nBachelor\'s wisdom could cheer him in such circumstances, found!--\n\nWell, well! not much, but Tom\'s all. The half-sovereign. He had wrapped\nit hastily in a piece of paper, and pinned it to the leaf. These words\nwere scrawled in pencil on the inside: \'I don\'t want it indeed. I should\nnot know what to do with it if I had it.\'\n\nThere are some falsehoods, Tom, on which men mount, as on bright wings,\ntowards Heaven. There are some truths, cold bitter taunting truths,\nwherein your worldly scholars are very apt and punctual, which bind men\ndown to earth with leaden chains. Who would not rather have to fan him,\nin his dying hour, the lightest feather of a falsehood such as thine,\nthan all the quills that have been plucked from the sharp porcupine,\nreproachful truth, since time began!\n\nMartin felt keenly for himself, and he felt this good deed of Tom\'s\nkeenly. After a few minutes it had the effect of raising his spirits,\nand reminding him that he was not altogether destitute, as he had left\na fair stock of clothes behind him, and wore a gold hunting-watch in\nhis pocket. He found a curious gratification, too, in thinking what a\nwinning fellow he must be to have made such an impression on Tom; and in\nreflecting how superior he was to Tom; and how much more likely to make\nhis way in the world. Animated by these thoughts, and strengthened in\nhis design of endeavouring to push his fortune in another country, he\nresolved to get to London as a rallying-point, in the best way he could;\nand to lose no time about it.\n\nHe was ten good miles from the village made illustrious by being the\nabiding-place of Mr Pecksniff, when he stopped to breakfast at a little\nroadside alehouse; and resting upon a high-backed settle before the\nfire, pulled off his coat, and hung it before the cheerful blaze to\ndry. It was a very different place from the last tavern in which he\nhad regaled; boasting no greater extent of accommodation than the\nbrick-floored kitchen yielded; but the mind so soon accommodates itself\nto the necessities of the body, that this poor waggoner\'s house-of-call,\nwhich he would have despised yesterday, became now quite a choice hotel;\nwhile his dish of eggs and bacon, and his mug of beer, were not by\nany means the coarse fare he had supposed, but fully bore out the\ninscription on the window-shutter, which proclaimed those viands to be\n\'Good entertainment for Travellers.\'\n\nHe pushed away his empty plate; and with a second mug upon the hearth\nbefore him, looked thoughtfully at the fire until his eyes ached. Then\nhe looked at the highly-coloured scripture pieces on the walls, in\nlittle black frames like common shaving-glasses, and saw how the Wise\nMen (with a strong family likeness among them) worshipped in a pink\nmanger; and how the Prodigal Son came home in red rags to a purple\nfather, and already feasted his imagination on a sea-green calf. Then he\nglanced through the window at the falling rain, coming down aslant upon\nthe sign-post over against the house, and overflowing the horse-trough;\nand then he looked at the fire again, and seemed to descry a double\ndistant London, retreating among the fragments of the burning wood.\n\nHe had repeated this process in just the same order, many times, as\nif it were a matter of necessity, when the sound of wheels called his\nattention to the window out of its regular turn; and there he beheld a\nkind of light van drawn by four horses, and laden, as well as he could\nsee (for it was covered in), with corn and straw. The driver, who\nwas alone, stopped at the door to water his team, and presently came\nstamping and shaking the wet off his hat and coat, into the room where\nMartin sat.\n\nHe was a red-faced burly young fellow; smart in his way, and with a\ngood-humoured countenance. As he advanced towards the fire he touched\nhis shining forehead with the forefinger of his stiff leather glove,\nby way of salutation; and said (rather unnecessarily) that it was an\nuncommon wet day.\n\n\'Very wet,\' said Martin.\n\n\'I don\'t know as ever I see a wetter.\'\n\n\'I never felt one,\' said Martin.\n\nThe driver glanced at Martin\'s soiled dress, and his damp shirt-sleeves,\nand his coat hung up to dry; and said, after a pause, as he warmed his\nhands:\n\n\'You have been caught in it, sir?\'\n\n\'Yes,\' was the short reply.\n\n\'Out riding, maybe?\' said the driver\n\n\'I should have been, if I owned a horse; but I don\'t,\' returned Martin.\n\n\'That\'s bad,\' said the driver.\n\n\'And may be worse,\' said Martin.\n\nNow the driver said \'That\'s bad,\' not so much because Martin didn\'t own\na horse, as because he said he didn\'t with all the reckless desperation\nof his mood and circumstances, and so left a great deal to be inferred.\nMartin put his hands in his pockets and whistled when he had retorted on\nthe driver; thus giving him to understand that he didn\'t care a pin for\nFortune; that he was above pretending to be her favourite when he was\nnot; and that he snapped his fingers at her, the driver, and everybody\nelse.\n\nThe driver looked at him stealthily for a minute or so; and in the\npauses of his warming whistled too. At length he asked, as he pointed\nhis thumb towards the road.\n\n\'Up or down?\'\n\n\'Which IS up?\' said Martin.\n\n\'London, of course,\' said the driver.\n\n\'Up then,\' said Martin. He tossed his head in a careless manner\nafterwards, as if he would have added, \'Now you know all about it.\'\nput his hands deeper into his pockets; changed his tune, and whistled a\nlittle louder.\n\n\'I\'m going up,\' observed the driver; \'Hounslow, ten miles this side\nLondon.\'\n\n\'Are you?\' cried Martin, stopping short and looking at him.\n\nThe driver sprinkled the fire with his wet hat until it hissed again and\nanswered, \'Aye, to be sure he was.\'\n\n\'Why, then,\' said Martin, \'I\'ll be plain with you. You may suppose from\nmy dress that I have money to spare. I have not. All I can afford for\ncoach-hire is a crown, for I have but two. If you can take me for that,\nand my waistcoat, or this silk handkerchief, do. If you can\'t, leave it\nalone.\'\n\n\'Short and sweet,\' remarked the driver.\n\n\'You want more?\' said Martin. \'Then I haven\'t got more, and I can\'t get\nit, so there\'s an end of that.\' Whereupon he began to whistle again.\n\n\'I didn\'t say I wanted more, did I?\' asked the driver, with something\nlike indignation.\n\n\'You didn\'t say my offer was enough,\' rejoined Martin.\n\n\'Why, how could I, when you wouldn\'t let me? In regard to the waistcoat,\nI wouldn\'t have a man\'s waistcoat, much less a gentleman\'s waistcoat,\non my mind, for no consideration; but the silk handkerchief\'s another\nthing; and if you was satisfied when we got to Hounslow, I shouldn\'t\nobject to that as a gift.\'\n\n\'Is it a bargain, then?\' said Martin.\n\n\'Yes, it is,\' returned the other.\n\n\'Then finish this beer,\' said Martin, handing him the mug, and pulling\non his coat with great alacrity; \'and let us be off as soon as you\nlike.\'\n\nIn two minutes more he had paid his bill, which amounted to a shilling;\nwas lying at full length on a truss of straw, high and dry at the top\nof the van, with the tilt a little open in front for the convenience of\ntalking to his new friend; and was moving along in the right direction\nwith a most satisfactory and encouraging briskness.\n\nThe driver\'s name, as he soon informed Martin, was William Simmons,\nbetter known as Bill; and his spruce appearance was sufficiently\nexplained by his connection with a large stage-coaching establishment at\nHounslow, whither he was conveying his load from a farm belonging to\nthe concern in Wiltshire. He was frequently up and down the road on such\nerrands, he said, and to look after the sick and rest horses, of which\nanimals he had much to relate that occupied a long time in the\ntelling. He aspired to the dignity of the regular box, and expected\nan appointment on the first vacancy. He was musical besides, and had\na little key-bugle in his pocket, on which, whenever the conversation\nflagged, he played the first part of a great many tunes, and regularly\nbroke down in the second.\n\n\'Ah!\' said Bill, with a sigh, as he drew the back of his hand across\nhis lips, and put this instrument in his pocket, after screwing off the\nmouth-piece to drain it; \'Lummy Ned of the Light Salisbury, HE was the\none for musical talents. He WAS a guard. What you may call a Guard\'an\nAngel, was Ned.\'\n\n\'Is he dead?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'Dead!\' replied the other, with a contemptuous emphasis. \'Not he. You\nwon\'t catch Ned a-dying easy. No, no. He knows better than that.\'\n\n\'You spoke of him in the past tense,\' observed Martin, \'so I supposed he\nwas no more.\n\n\'He\'s no more in England,\' said Bill, \'if that\'s what you mean. He went\nto the U-nited States.\'\n\n\'Did he?\' asked Martin, with sudden interest. \'When?\'\n\n\'Five year ago, or then about,\' said Bill. \'He had set up in the public\nline here, and couldn\'t meet his engagements, so he cut off to Liverpool\none day, without saying anything about it, and went and shipped himself\nfor the U-nited States.\'\n\n\'Well?\' said Martin.\n\n\'Well! as he landed there without a penny to bless himself with, of\ncourse they wos very glad to see him in the U-nited States.\'\n\n\'What do you mean?\' asked Martin, with some scorn.\n\n\'What do I mean?\' said Bill. \'Why, THAT. All men are alike in the\nU-nited States, an\'t they? It makes no odds whether a man has a thousand\npound, or nothing, there. Particular in New York, I\'m told, where Ned\nlanded.\'\n\n\'New York, was it?\' asked Martin, thoughtfully.\n\n\'Yes,\' said Bill. \'New York. I know that, because he sent word home that\nit brought Old York to his mind, quite vivid, in consequence of being so\nexactly unlike it in every respect. I don\'t understand what particular\nbusiness Ned turned his mind to, when he got there; but he wrote home\nthat him and his friends was always a-singing, Ale Columbia, and blowing\nup the President, so I suppose it was something in the public line; or\nfree-and-easy way again. Anyhow, he made his fortune.\'\n\n\'No!\' cried Martin.\n\n\'Yes, he did,\' said Bill. \'I know that, because he lost it all the day\nafter, in six-and-twenty banks as broke. He settled a lot of the notes\non his father, when it was ascertained that they was really stopped and\nsent \'em over with a dutiful letter. I know that, because they was\nshown down our yard for the old gentleman\'s benefit, that he might treat\nhimself with tobacco in the workus.\'\n\n\'He was a foolish fellow not to take care of his money when he had it,\'\nsaid Martin, indignantly.\n\n\'There you\'re right,\' said Bill, \'especially as it was all in paper, and\nhe might have took care of it so very easy, by folding it up in a small\nparcel.\'\n\nMartin said nothing in reply, but soon afterwards fell asleep, and\nremained so for an hour or more. When he awoke, finding it had ceased\nto rain, he took his seat beside the driver, and asked him several\nquestions; as how long had the fortunate guard of the Light Salisbury\nbeen in crossing the Atlantic; at what time of the year had he sailed;\nwhat was the name of the ship in which he made the voyage; how much had\nhe paid for passage-money; did he suffer greatly from sea-sickness?\nand so forth. But on these points of detail his friend was possessed\nof little or no information; either answering obviously at random or\nacknowledging that he had never heard, or had forgotten; nor, although\nhe returned to the charge very often, could he obtain any useful\nintelligence on these essential particulars.\n\nThey jogged on all day, and stopped so often--now to refresh, now to\nchange their team of horses, now to exchange or bring away a set of\nharness, now on one point of business, and now upon another, connected\nwith the coaching on that line of road--that it was midnight when they\nreached Hounslow. A little short of the stables for which the van was\nbound, Martin got down, paid his crown, and forced his silk handkerchief\nupon his honest friend, notwithstanding the many protestations that he\ndidn\'t wish to deprive him of it, with which he tried to give the lie to\nhis longing looks. That done, they parted company; and when the van had\ndriven into its own yard and the gates were closed, Martin stood in the\ndark street, with a pretty strong sense of being shut out, alone, upon\nthe dreary world, without the key of it.\n\nBut in this moment of despondency, and often afterwards, the\nrecollection of Mr Pecksniff operated as a cordial to him; awakening\nin his breast an indignation that was very wholesome in nerving him to\nobstinate endurance. Under the influence of this fiery dram he started\noff for London without more ado. Arriving there in the middle of the\nnight, and not knowing where to find a tavern open, he was fain to\nstroll about the streets and market-places until morning.\n\nHe found himself, about an hour before dawn, in the humbler regions\nof the Adelphi; and addressing himself to a man in a fur-cap, who was\ntaking down the shutters of an obscure public-house, informed him\nthat he was a stranger, and inquired if he could have a bed there. It\nhappened by good luck that he could. Though none of the gaudiest, it was\ntolerably clean, and Martin felt very glad and grateful when he crept\ninto it, for warmth, rest, and forgetfulness.\n\nIt was quite late in the afternoon when he awoke; and by the time he had\nwashed and dressed, and broken his fast, it was growing dusk again. This\nwas all the better, for it was now a matter of absolute necessity that\nhe should part with his watch to some obliging pawn-broker. He would\nhave waited until after dark for this purpose, though it had been the\nlongest day in the year, and he had begun it without a breakfast.\n\nHe passed more Golden Balls than all the jugglers in Europe have juggled\nwith, in the course of their united performances, before he could\ndetermine in favour of any particular shop where those symbols were\ndisplayed. In the end he came back to one of the first he had seen,\nand entering by a side-door in a court, where the three balls, with the\nlegend \'Money Lent,\' were repeated in a ghastly transparency, passed\ninto one of a series of little closets, or private boxes, erected for\nthe accommodation of the more bashful and uninitiated customers. He\nbolted himself in; pulled out his watch; and laid it on the counter.\n\n\'Upon my life and soul!\' said a low voice in the next box to the shopman\nwho was in treaty with him, \'you must make it more; you must make it a\ntrifle more, you must indeed! You must dispense with one half-quarter\nof an ounce in weighing out your pound of flesh, my best of friends, and\nmake it two-and-six.\'\n\nMartin drew back involuntarily, for he knew the voice at once.\n\n\'You\'re always full of your chaff,\' said the shopman, rolling up the\narticle (which looked like a shirt) quite as a matter of course, and\nnibbing his pen upon the counter.\n\n\'I shall never be full of my wheat,\' said Mr Tigg, \'as long as I come\nhere. Ha, ha! Not bad! Make it two-and-six, my dear friend, positively\nfor this occasion only. Half-a-crown is a delightful coin. Two-and-six.\nGoing at two-and-six! For the last time at two-and-six!\'\n\n\'It\'ll never be the last time till it\'s quite worn out,\' rejoined the\nshopman. \'It\'s grown yellow in the service as it is.\'\n\n\'Its master has grown yellow in the service, if you mean that, my\nfriend,\' said Mr Tigg; \'in the patriotic service of an ungrateful\ncountry. You are making it two-and-six, I think?\'\n\n\'I\'m making it,\' returned the shopman, \'what it always has been--two\nshillings. Same name as usual, I suppose?\'\n\n\'Still the same name,\' said Mr Tigg; \'my claim to the dormant peerage\nnot being yet established by the House of Lords.\'\n\n\'The old address?\'\n\n\'Not at all,\' said Mr Tigg; \'I have removed my town establishment from\nthirty-eight, Mayfair, to number fifteen-hundred-and-forty-two, Park\nLane.\'\n\n\'Come, I\'m not going to put down that, you know,\' said the shopman with\na grin.\n\n\'You may put down what you please, my friend,\' quoth Mr Tigg. \'The fact\nis still the same. The apartments for the under-butler and the fifth\nfootman being of a most confounded low and vulgar kind at thirty-eight,\nMayfair, I have been compelled, in my regard for the feelings which do\nthem so much honour, to take on lease for seven, fourteen, or twenty-one\nyears, renewable at the option of the tenant, the elegant and commodious\nfamily mansion, number fifteen-hundred-and-forty-two Park Lane. Make it\ntwo-and-six, and come and see me!\'\n\nThe shopman was so highly entertained by this piece of humour that Mr\nTigg himself could not repress some little show of exultation. It vented\nitself, in part, in a desire to see how the occupant of the next\nbox received his pleasantry; to ascertain which he glanced round the\npartition, and immediately, by the gaslight, recognized Martin.\n\n\'I wish I may die,\' said Mr Tigg, stretching out his body so far that\nhis head was as much in Martin\'s little cell as Martin\'s own head was,\n\'but this is one of the most tremendous meetings in Ancient or Modern\nHistory! How are you? What is the news from the agricultural districts?\nHow are our friends the P.\'s? Ha, ha! David, pay particular attention to\nthis gentleman immediately, as a friend of mine, I beg.\'\n\n\'Here! Please to give me the most you can for this,\' said Martin,\nhanding the watch to the shopman. \'I want money sorely.\'\n\n\'He wants money, sorely!\' cried Mr Tigg with excessive sympathy. \'David,\nwill you have the goodness to do your very utmost for my friend, who\nwants money sorely. You will deal with my friend as if he were myself.\nA gold hunting-watch, David, engine-turned, capped and jewelled in\nfour holes, escape movement, horizontal lever, and warranted to perform\ncorrectly, upon my personal reputation, who have observed it narrowly\nfor many years, under the most trying circumstances\'--here he winked\nat Martin, that he might understand this recommendation would have an\nimmense effect upon the shopman; \'what do you say, David, to my friend?\nBe very particular to deserve my custom and recommendation, David.\'\n\n\'I can lend you three pounds on this, if you like\' said the shopman to\nMartin, confidentially. \'It is very old-fashioned. I couldn\'t say more.\'\n\n\'And devilish handsome, too,\' cried Mr Tigg. \'Two-twelve-six for the\nwatch, and seven-and-six for personal regard. I am gratified; it may\nbe weakness, but I am. Three pounds will do. We take it. The name of my\nfriend is Smivey: Chicken Smivey, of Holborn, twenty-six-and-a-half B:\nlodger.\' Here he winked at Martin again, to apprise him that all the\nforms and ceremonies prescribed by law were now complied with, and\nnothing remained but the receipt for the money.\n\nIn point of fact, this proved to be the case, for Martin, who had no\nresource but to take what was offered him, signified his acquiescence by\na nod of his head, and presently came out with the cash in his pocket.\nHe was joined in the entry by Mr Tigg, who warmly congratulated him, as\nhe took his arm and accompanied him into the street, on the successful\nissue of the negotiation.\n\n\'As for my part in the same,\' said Mr Tigg, \'don\'t mention it. Don\'t\ncompliment me, for I can\'t bear it!\'\n\n\'I have no such intention, I assure you,\' retorted Martin, releasing his\narm and stopping.\n\n\'You oblige me very much\' said Mr Tigg. \'Thank you.\'\n\n\'Now, sir,\' observed Martin, biting his lip, \'this is a large town, and\nwe can easily find different ways in it. If you will show me which is\nyour way, I will take another.\'\n\nMr Tigg was about to speak, but Martin interposed:\n\n\'I need scarcely tell you, after what you have just seen, that I\nhave nothing to bestow upon your friend Mr Slyme. And it is quite as\nunnecessary for me to tell you that I don\'t desire the honour of your\ncompany.\'\n\n\'Stop\' cried Mr Tigg, holding out his hand. \'Hold! There is a most\nremarkably long-headed, flowing-bearded, and patriarchal proverb, which\nobserves that it is the duty of a man to be just before he is generous.\nBe just now, and you can be generous presently. Do not confuse me with\nthe man Slyme. Do not distinguish the man Slyme as a friend of mine, for\nhe is no such thing. I have been compelled, sir, to abandon the party\nwhom you call Slyme. I have no knowledge of the party whom you call\nSlyme. I am, sir,\' said Mr Tigg, striking himself upon the breast,\n\'a premium tulip, of a very different growth and cultivation from the\ncabbage Slyme, sir.\'\n\n\'It matters very little to me,\' said Martin coolly, \'whether you have\nset up as a vagabond on your own account, or are still trading on behalf\nof Mr Slyme. I wish to hold no correspondence with you. In the devil\'s\nname, man\' said Martin, scarcely able, despite his vexation, to repress\na smile as Mr Tigg stood leaning his back against the shutters of a shop\nwindow, adjusting his hair with great composure, \'will you go one way or\nother?\'\n\n\'You will allow me to remind you, sir,\' said Mr Tigg, with sudden\ndignity, \'that you--not I--that you--I say emphatically, YOU--have\nreduced the proceedings of this evening to a cold and distant matter of\nbusiness, when I was disposed to place them on a friendly footing.\nIt being made a matter of business, sir, I beg to say that I expect\na trifle (which I shall bestow in charity) as commission upon the\npecuniary advance, in which I have rendered you my humble services.\nAfter the terms in which you have addressed me, sir,\' concluded Mr\nTigg, \'you will not insult me, if you please, by offering more than\nhalf-a-crown.\'\n\nMartin drew that piece of money from his pocket, and tossed it towards\nhim. Mr Tigg caught it, looked at it to assure himself of its goodness,\nspun it in the air after the manner of a pieman, and buttoned it up.\nFinally, he raised his hat an inch or two from his head with a military\nair, and, after pausing a moment with deep gravity, as to decide in\nwhich direction he should go, and to what Earl or Marquis among his\nfriends he should give the preference in his next call, stuck his hands\nin his skirt-pockets and swaggered round the corner. Martin took the\ndirectly opposite course; and so, to his great content, they parted\ncompany.\n\nIt was with a bitter sense of humiliation that he cursed, again and\nagain, the mischance of having encountered this man in the pawnbroker\'s\nshop. The only comfort he had in the recollection was, Mr Tigg\'s\nvoluntary avowal of a separation between himself and Slyme, that would\nat least prevent his circumstances (so Martin argued) from being known\nto any member of his family, the bare possibility of which filled him\nwith shame and wounded pride. Abstractedly there was greater reason,\nperhaps, for supposing any declaration of Mr Tigg\'s to be false, than\nfor attaching the least credence to it; but remembering the terms on\nwhich the intimacy between that gentleman and his bosom friend had\nsubsisted, and the strong probability of Mr Tigg\'s having established\nan independent business of his own on Mr Slyme\'s connection, it had a\nreasonable appearance of probability; at all events, Martin hoped so;\nand that went a long way.\n\nHis first step, now that he had a supply of ready money for his present\nnecessities, was, to retain his bed at the public-house until further\nnotice, and to write a formal note to Tom Pinch (for he knew Pecksniff\nwould see it) requesting to have his clothes forwarded to London by\ncoach, with a direction to be left at the office until called for. These\nmeasures taken, he passed the interval before the box arrived--three\ndays--in making inquiries relative to American vessels, at the offices\nof various shipping-agents in the city; and in lingering about the docks\nand wharves, with the faint hope of stumbling upon some engagement\nfor the voyage, as clerk or supercargo, or custodian of something or\nsomebody, which would enable him to procure a free passage. But\nfinding, soon, that no such means of employment were likely to present\nthemselves, and dreading the consequences of delay, he drew up a short\nadvertisement, stating what he wanted, and inserted it in the leading\nnewspapers. Pending the receipt of the twenty or thirty answers which\nhe vaguely expected, he reduced his wardrobe to the narrowest limits\nconsistent with decent respectability, and carried the overplus at\ndifferent times to the pawnbroker\'s shop, for conversion into money.\n\nAnd it was strange, very strange, even to himself, to find how, by\nquick though almost imperceptible degrees, he lost his delicacy and\nself-respect, and gradually came to do that as a matter of course,\nwithout the least compunction, which but a few short days before had\ngalled him to the quick. The first time he visited the pawnbroker\'s,\nhe felt on his way there as if every person whom he passed suspected\nwhither he was going; and on his way back again, as if the whole human\ntide he stemmed, knew well where he had come from. When did he care to\nthink of their discernment now! In his first wanderings up and down the\nweary streets, he counterfeited the walk of one who had an object in\nhis view; but soon there came upon him the sauntering, slipshod gait of\nlistless idleness, and the lounging at street-corners, and plucking and\nbiting of stray bits of straw, and strolling up and down the same place,\nand looking into the same shop-windows, with a miserable indifference,\nfifty times a day. At first, he came out from his lodging with an uneasy\nsense of being observed--even by those chance passers-by, on whom he had\nnever looked before, and hundreds to one would never see again--issuing\nin the morning from a public-house; but now, in his comings-out and\ngoings-in he did not mind to lounge about the door, or to stand sunning\nhimself in careless thought beside the wooden stem, studded from head to\nheel with pegs, on which the beer-pots dangled like so many boughs upon\na pewter-tree. And yet it took but five weeks to reach the lowest round\nof this tall ladder!\n\nOh, moralists, who treat of happiness and self-respect, innate in every\nsphere of life, and shedding light on every grain of dust in God\'s\nhighway, so smooth below your carriage-wheels, so rough beneath the\ntread of naked feet, bethink yourselves in looking on the swift descent\nof men who HAVE lived in their own esteem, that there are scores of\nthousands breathing now, and breathing thick with painful toil, who in\nthat high respect have never lived at all, nor had a chance of life! Go\nye, who rest so placidly upon the sacred Bard who had been young,\nand when he strung his harp was old, and had never seen the righteous\nforsaken, or his seed begging their bread; go, Teachers of content and\nhonest pride, into the mine, the mill, the forge, the squalid depths of\ndeepest ignorance, and uttermost abyss of man\'s neglect, and say can any\nhopeful plant spring up in air so foul that it extinguishes the soul\'s\nbright torch as fast as it is kindled! And, oh! ye Pharisees of the\nnineteen hundredth year of Christian Knowledge, who soundingly appeal\nto human nature, see that it be human first. Take heed it has not been\ntransformed, during your slumber and the sleep of generations, into the\nnature of the Beasts!\n\nFive weeks! Of all the twenty or thirty answers, not one had come. His\nmoney--even the additional stock he had raised from the disposal of his\nspare clothes (and that was not much, for clothes, though dear to buy,\nare cheap to pawn)--was fast diminishing. Yet what could he do? At times\nan agony came over him in which he darted forth again, though he was\nbut newly home, and, returning to some place where he had been already\ntwenty times, made some new attempt to gain his end, but always\nunsuccessfully. He was years and years too old for a cabin-boy, and\nyears upon years too inexperienced to be accepted as a common seaman.\nHis dress and manner, too, militated fatally against any such proposal\nas the latter; and yet he was reduced to making it; for even if he could\nhave contemplated the being set down in America totally without money,\nhe had not enough left now for a steerage passage and the poorest\nprovisions upon the voyage.\n\nIt is an illustration of a very common tendency in the mind of man, that\nall this time he never once doubted, one may almost say the certainty\nof doing great things in the New World, if he could only get there.\nIn proportion as he became more and more dejected by his present\ncircumstances, and the means of gaining America receded from his grasp,\nthe more he fretted himself with the conviction that that was the only\nplace in which he could hope to achieve any high end, and worried his\nbrain with the thought that men going there in the meanwhile might\nanticipate him in the attainment of those objects which were dearest to\nhis heart. He often thought of John Westlock, and besides looking out\nfor him on all occasions, actually walked about London for three days\ntogether for the express purpose of meeting with him. But although he\nfailed in this; and although he would not have scrupled to borrow money\nof him; and although he believed that John would have lent it; yet still\nhe could not bring his mind to write to Pinch and inquire where he was\nto be found. For although, as we have seen, he was fond of Tom after\nhis own fashion, he could not endure the thought (feeling so superior to\nTom) of making him the stepping-stone to his fortune, or being anything\nto him but a patron; and his pride so revolted from the idea that it\nrestrained him even now.\n\nIt might have yielded, however; and no doubt must have yielded soon, but\nfor a very strange and unlooked-for occurrence.\n\nThe five weeks had quite run out, and he was in a truly desperate\nplight, when one evening, having just returned to his lodging, and\nbeing in the act of lighting his candle at the gas jet in the bar before\nstalking moodily upstairs to his own room, his landlord called him by\nhis name. Now as he had never told it to the man, but had scrupulously\nkept it to himself, he was not a little startled by this; and so plainly\nshowed his agitation that the landlord, to reassure him, said \'it was\nonly a letter.\'\n\n\'A letter!\' cried Martin.\n\n\'For Mr Martin Chuzzlewit,\' said the landlord, reading the\nsuperscription of one he held in his hand. \'Noon. Chief office. Paid.\'\n\nMartin took it from him, thanked him, and walked upstairs. It was not\nsealed, but pasted close; the handwriting was quite unknown to him.\nHe opened it and found enclosed, without any name, address, or other\ninscription or explanation of any kind whatever, a Bank of England note\nfor Twenty Pounds.\n\nTo say that he was perfectly stunned with astonishment and delight; that\nhe looked again and again at the note and the wrapper; that he hurried\nbelow stairs to make quite certain that the note was a good note; and\nthen hurried up again to satisfy himself for the fiftieth time that\nhe had not overlooked some scrap of writing on the wrapper; that he\nexhausted and bewildered himself with conjectures; and could make\nnothing of it but that there the note was, and he was suddenly enriched;\nwould be only to relate so many matters of course to no purpose. The\nfinal upshot of the business at that time was, that he resolved to treat\nhimself to a comfortable but frugal meal in his own chamber; and having\nordered a fire to be kindled, went out to purchase it forthwith.\n\nHe bought some cold beef, and ham, and French bread, and butter, and\ncame back with his pockets pretty heavily laden. It was somewhat of\na damping circumstance to find the room full of smoke, which was\nattributable to two causes; firstly, to the flue being naturally vicious\nand a smoker; and secondly, to their having forgotten, in lighting the\nfire, an odd sack or two and some trifles, which had been put up the\nchimney to keep the rain out. They had already remedied this oversight,\nhowever; and propped up the window-sash with a bundle of firewood to\nkeep it open; so that except in being rather inflammatory to the eyes\nand choking to the lungs, the apartment was quite comfortable.\n\nMartin was in no vein to quarrel with it, if it had been in less\ntolerable order, especially when a gleaming pint of porter was set upon\nthe table, and the servant-girl withdrew, bearing with her particular\ninstructions relative to the production of something hot when he should\nring the bell. The cold meat being wrapped in a playbill, Martin laid\nthe cloth by spreading that document on the little round table with the\nprint downwards, and arranging the collation upon it. The foot of the\nbed, which was very close to the fire, answered for a sideboard; and\nwhen he had completed these preparations, he squeezed an old arm-chair\ninto the warmest corner, and sat down to enjoy himself.\n\nHe had begun to eat with great appetite, glancing round the room\nmeanwhile with a triumphant anticipation of quitting it for ever on the\nmorrow, when his attention was arrested by a stealthy footstep on the\nstairs, and presently by a knock at his chamber door, which, although\nit was a gentle knock enough, communicated such a start to the bundle of\nfirewood, that it instantly leaped out of window, and plunged into the\nstreet.\n\n\'More coals, I suppose,\' said Martin. \'Come in!\'\n\n\'It an\'t a liberty, sir, though it seems so,\' rejoined a man\'s voice.\n\'Your servant, sir. Hope you\'re pretty well, sir.\'\n\nMartin stared at the face that was bowing in the doorway, perfectly\nremembering the features and expression, but quite forgetting to whom\nthey belonged.\n\n\'Tapley, sir,\' said his visitor. \'Him as formerly lived at the Dragon,\nsir, and was forced to leave in consequence of a want of jollity, sir.\'\n\n\'To be sure!\' cried Martin. \'Why, how did you come here?\'\n\n\'Right through the passage, and up the stairs, sir,\' said Mark.\n\n\'How did you find me out, I mean?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'Why, sir,\' said Mark, \'I\'ve passed you once or twice in the street, if\nI\'m not mistaken; and when I was a-looking in at the beef-and-ham shop\njust now, along with a hungry sweep, as was very much calculated to make\na man jolly, sir--I see you a-buying that.\'\n\nMartin reddened as he pointed to the table, and said, somewhat hastily:\n\n\'Well! What then?\'\n\n\'Why, then, sir,\' said Mark, \'I made bold to foller; and as I told \'em\ndownstairs that you expected me, I was let up.\'\n\n\'Are you charged with any message, that you told them you were\nexpected?\' inquired Martin.\n\n\'No, sir, I an\'t,\' said Mark. \'That was what you may call a pious fraud,\nsir, that was.\'\n\nMartin cast an angry look at him; but there was something in the\nfellow\'s merry face, and in his manner--which with all its cheerfulness\nwas far from being obtrusive or familiar--that quite disarmed him.\nHe had lived a solitary life too, for many weeks, and the voice was\npleasant in his ear.\n\n\'Tapley,\' he said, \'I\'ll deal openly with you. From all I can judge and\nfrom all I have heard of you through Pinch, you are not a likely kind of\nfellow to have been brought here by impertinent curiosity or any other\noffensive motive. Sit down. I\'m glad to see you.\'\n\n\'Thankee, sir,\' said Mark. \'I\'d as lieve stand.\'\n\n\'If you don\'t sit down,\' retorted Martin, \'I\'ll not talk to you.\'\n\n\'Very good, sir,\' observed Mark. \'Your will\'s a law, sir. Down it is;\'\nand he sat down accordingly upon the bedstead.\n\n\'Help yourself,\' said Martin, handing him the only knife.\n\n\'Thankee, sir,\' rejoined Mark. \'After you\'ve done.\'\n\n\'If you don\'t take it now, you\'ll not have any,\' said Martin.\n\n\'Very good, sir,\' rejoined Mark. \'That being your desire--now it is.\'\nWith which reply he gravely helped himself and went on eating. Martin\nhaving done the like for a short time in silence, said abruptly:\n\n\'What are you doing in London?\'\n\n\'Nothing at all, sir,\' rejoined Mark.\n\n\'How\'s that?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'I want a place,\' said Mark.\n\n\'I\'m sorry for you,\' said Martin.\n\n\'--To attend upon a single gentleman,\' resumed Mark. \'If from the\ncountry the more desirable. Makeshifts would be preferred. Wages no\nobject.\'\n\nHe said this so pointedly, that Martin stopped in his eating, and said:\n\n\'If you mean me--\'\n\n\'Yes, I do, sir,\' interposed Mark.\n\n\'Then you may judge from my style of living here, of my means of keeping\na man-servant. Besides, I am going to America immediately.\'\n\n\'Well, sir,\' returned Mark, quite unmoved by this intelligence \'from all\nthat ever I heard about it, I should say America is a very likely sort\nof place for me to be jolly in!\'\n\nAgain Martin looked at him angrily; and again his anger melted away in\nspite of himself.\n\n\'Lord bless you, sir,\' said Mark, \'what is the use of us a-going round\nand round, and hiding behind the corner, and dodging up and down, when\nwe can come straight to the point in six words? I\'ve had my eye upon you\nany time this fortnight. I see well enough there\'s a screw loose in\nyour affairs. I know\'d well enough the first time I see you down at the\nDragon that it must be so, sooner or later. Now, sir here am I, without\na sitiwation; without any want of wages for a year to come; for I saved\nup (I didn\'t mean to do it, but I couldn\'t help it) at the Dragon--here\nam I with a liking for what\'s wentersome, and a liking for you, and\na wish to come out strong under circumstances as would keep other men\ndown; and will you take me, or will you leave me?\'\n\n\'How can I take you?\' cried Martin.\n\n\'When I say take,\' rejoined Mark, \'I mean will you let me go? and when I\nsay will you let me go, I mean will you let me go along with you? for go\nI will, somehow or another. Now that you\'ve said America, I see clear at\nonce, that that\'s the place for me to be jolly in. Therefore, if I don\'t\npay my own passage in the ship you go in, sir, I\'ll pay my own passage\nin another. And mark my words, if I go alone it shall be, to carry out\nthe principle, in the rottenest, craziest, leakingest tub of a wessel\nthat a place can be got in for love or money. So if I\'m lost upon the\nway, sir, there\'ll be a drowned man at your door--and always a-knocking\ndouble knocks at it, too, or never trust me!\'\n\n\'This is mere folly,\' said Martin.\n\n\'Very good, sir,\' returned Mark. \'I\'m glad to hear it, because if you\ndon\'t mean to let me go, you\'ll be more comfortable, perhaps, on account\nof thinking so. Therefore I contradict no gentleman. But all I say is,\nthat if I don\'t emigrate to America in that case, in the beastliest old\ncockle-shell as goes out of port, I\'m--\'\n\n\'You don\'t mean what you say, I\'m sure,\' said Martin.\n\n\'Yes I do,\' cried Mark.\n\n\'I tell you I know better,\' rejoined Martin.\n\n\'Very good, sir,\' said Mark, with the same air of perfect satisfaction.\n\'Let it stand that way at present, sir, and wait and see how it turns\nout. Why, love my heart alive! the only doubt I have is, whether there\'s\nany credit in going with a gentleman like you, that\'s as certain to make\nhis way there as a gimlet is to go through soft deal.\'\n\nThis was touching Martin on his weak point, and having him at a great\nadvantage. He could not help thinking, either, what a brisk fellow this\nMark was, and how great a change he had wrought in the atmosphere of the\ndismal little room already.\n\n\'Why, certainly, Mark,\' he said, \'I have hopes of doing well there, or I\nshouldn\'t go. I may have the qualifications for doing well, perhaps.\'\n\n\'Of course you have, sir,\' returned Mark Tapley. \'Everybody knows that.\'\n\n\'You see,\' said Martin, leaning his chin upon his hand, and looking at\nthe fire, \'ornamental architecture applied to domestic purposes,\ncan hardly fail to be in great request in that country; for men are\nconstantly changing their residences there, and moving further off; and\nit\'s clear they must have houses to live in.\'\n\n\'I should say, sir,\' observed Mark, \'that that\'s a state of things as\nopens one of the jolliest look-outs for domestic architecture that ever\nI heerd tell on.\'\n\nMartin glanced at him hastily, not feeling quite free from a suspicion\nthat this remark implied a doubt of the successful issue of his plans.\nBut Mr Tapley was eating the boiled beef and bread with such entire good\nfaith and singleness of purpose expressed in his visage that he could\nnot but be satisfied. Another doubt arose in his mind however, as this\none disappeared. He produced the blank cover in which the note had been\nenclosed, and fixing his eyes on Mark as he put it in his hands, said:\n\n\'Now tell me the truth. Do you know anything about that?\'\n\nMark turned it over and over; held it near his eyes; held it away from\nhim at arm\'s length; held it with the superscription upwards and with\nthe superscription downwards; and shook his head with such a genuine\nexpression of astonishment at being asked the question, that Martin\nsaid, as he took it from him again:\n\n\'No, I see you don\'t. How should you! Though, indeed, your knowing about\nit would not be more extraordinary than its being here. Come, Tapley,\'\nhe added, after a moment\'s thought, \'I\'ll trust you with my history,\nsuch as it is, and then you\'ll see more clearly what sort of fortunes\nyou would link yourself to, if you followed me.\'\n\n\'I beg your pardon, sir,\' said Mark; \'but afore you enter upon it\nwill you take me if I choose to go? Will you turn off me--Mark\nTapley--formerly of the Blue Dragon, as can be well recommended by Mr\nPinch, and as wants a gentleman of your strength of mind to look up to;\nor will you, in climbing the ladder as you\'re certain to get to the\ntop of, take me along with you at a respectful distance? Now, sir,\'\nsaid Mark, \'it\'s of very little importance to you, I know, there\'s the\ndifficulty; but it\'s of very great importance to me, and will you be so\ngood as to consider of it?\'\n\nIf this were meant as a second appeal to Martin\'s weak side, founded on\nhis observation of the effect of the first, Mr Tapley was a skillful and\nshrewd observer. Whether an intentional or an accidental shot, it\nhit the mark fully for Martin, relenting more and more, said with a\ncondescension which was inexpressibly delicious to him, after his recent\nhumiliation:\n\n\'We\'ll see about it, Tapley. You shall tell me in what disposition you\nfind yourself to-morrow.\'\n\n\'Then, sir,\' said Mark, rubbing his hands, \'the job\'s done. Go on, sir,\nif you please. I\'m all attention.\'\n\nThrowing himself back in his arm-chair, and looking at the fire, with\nnow and then a glance at Mark, who at such times nodded his head sagely,\nto express his profound interest and attention. Martin ran over the\nchief points in his history, to the same effect as he had related them,\nweeks before, to Mr Pinch. But he adapted them, according to the best of\nhis judgment, to Mr Tapley\'s comprehension; and with that view made as\nlight of his love affair as he could, and referred to it in very few\nwords. But here he reckoned without his host; for Mark\'s interest was\nkeenest in this part of the business, and prompted him to ask sundry\nquestions in relation to it; for which he apologised as one in some\nmeasure privileged to do so, from having seen (as Martin explained to\nhim) the young lady at the Blue Dragon.\n\n\'And a young lady as any gentleman ought to feel more proud of being in\nlove with,\' said Mark, energetically, \'don\'t draw breath.\'\n\n\'Aye! You saw her when she was not happy,\' said Martin, gazing at the\nfire again. \'If you had seen her in the old times, indeed--\'\n\n\'Why, she certainly was a little down-hearted, sir, and something paler\nin her colour than I could have wished,\' said Mark, \'but none the worse\nin her looks for that. I think she seemed better, sir, after she come to\nLondon.\'\n\nMartin withdrew his eyes from the fire; stared at Mark as if he thought\nhe had suddenly gone mad; and asked him what he meant.\n\n\'No offence intended, sir,\' urged Mark. \'I don\'t mean to say she was any\nthe happier without you; but I thought she was a-looking better, sir.\'\n\n\'Do you mean to tell me she has been in London?\' asked Martin, rising\nhurriedly, and pushing back his chair.\n\n\'Of course I do,\' said Mark, rising too, in great amazement from the\nbedstead.\n\n\'Do you mean to tell me she is in London now?\'\n\n\'Most likely, sir. I mean to say she was a week ago.\'\n\n\'And you know where?\'\n\n\'Yes!\' cried Mark. \'What! Don\'t you?\'\n\n\'My good fellow!\' exclaimed Martin, clutching him by both arms, \'I have\nnever seen her since I left my grandfather\'s house.\'\n\n\'Why, then!\' cried Mark, giving the little table such a blow with his\nclenched fist that the slices of beef and ham danced upon it, while all\nhis features seemed, with delight, to be going up into his forehead, and\nnever coming back again any more, \'if I an\'t your nat\'ral born servant,\nhired by Fate, there an\'t such a thing in natur\' as a Blue Dragon. What!\nwhen I was a-rambling up and down a old churchyard in the City, getting\nmyself into a jolly state, didn\'t I see your grandfather a-toddling to\nand fro for pretty nigh a mortal hour! Didn\'t I watch him into Todgers\'s\ncommercial boarding-house, and watch him out, and watch him home to his\nhotel, and go and tell him as his was the service for my money, and I\nhad said so, afore I left the Dragon! Wasn\'t the young lady a-sitting\nwith him then, and didn\'t she fall a-laughing in a manner as was\nbeautiful to see! Didn\'t your grandfather say, \"Come back again next\nweek,\" and didn\'t I go next week; and didn\'t he say that he couldn\'t\nmake up his mind to trust nobody no more; and therefore wouldn\'t engage\nme, but at the same time stood something to drink as was handsome! Why,\'\ncried Mr Tapley, with a comical mixture of delight and chagrin, \'where\'s\nthe credit of a man\'s being jolly under such circumstances! Who could\nhelp it, when things come about like this!\'\n\nFor some moments Martin stood gazing at him, as if he really doubted the\nevidence of his senses, and could not believe that Mark stood there, in\nthe body, before him. At length he asked him whether, if the young lady\nwere still in London, he thought he could contrive to deliver a letter\nto her secretly.\n\n\'Do I think I can?\' cried Mark. \'THINK I can? Here, sit down, sir. Write\nit out, sir!\'\n\nWith that he cleared the table by the summary process of tilting\neverything upon it into the fireplace; snatched some writing materials\nfrom the mantel-shelf; set Martin\'s chair before them; forced him down\ninto it; dipped a pen into the ink; and put it in his hand.\n\n\'Cut away, sir!\' cried Mark. \'Make it strong, sir. Let it be wery\npinted, sir. Do I think so? I should think so. Go to work, sir!\'\n\nMartin required no further adjuration, but went to work at a great rate;\nwhile Mr Tapley, installing himself without any more formalities into\nthe functions of his valet and general attendant, divested himself\nof his coat, and went on to clear the fireplace and arrange the room;\ntalking to himself in a low voice the whole time.\n\n\'Jolly sort of lodgings,\' said Mark, rubbing his nose with the knob at\nthe end of the fire-shovel, and looking round the poor chamber; \'that\'s\na comfort. The rain\'s come through the roof too. That an\'t bad. A lively\nold bedstead, I\'ll be bound; popilated by lots of wampires, no doubt.\nCome! my spirits is a-getting up again. An uncommon ragged nightcap\nthis. A very good sign. We shall do yet! Here, Jane, my dear,\' calling\ndown the stairs, \'bring up that there hot tumbler for my master as was\na-mixing when I come in. That\'s right, sir,\' to Martin. \'Go at it as if\nyou meant it, sir. Be very tender, sir, if you please. You can\'t make it\ntoo strong, sir!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOURTEEN\n\nIN WHICH MARTIN BIDS ADIEU TO THE LADY OF HIS LOVE; AND HONOURS AN\nOBSCURE INDIVIDUAL WHOSE FORTUNE HE INTENDS TO MAKE BY COMMENDING HER TO\nHIS PROTECTION\n\n\nThe letter being duly signed, sealed, and delivered, was handed to Mark\nTapley, for immediate conveyance if possible. And he succeeded so well\nin his embassy as to be enabled to return that same night, just as the\nhouse was closing, with the welcome intelligence that he had sent it\nupstairs to the young lady, enclosed in a small manuscript of his\nown, purporting to contain his further petition to be engaged in Mr\nChuzzlewit\'s service; and that she had herself come down and told him,\nin great haste and agitation, that she would meet the gentleman at\neight o\'clock to-morrow morning in St. James\'s Park. It was then agreed\nbetween the new master and the new man, that Mark should be in waiting\nnear the hotel in good time, to escort the young lady to the place\nof appointment; and when they had parted for the night with this\nunderstanding, Martin took up his pen again; and before he went to bed\nwrote another letter, whereof more will be seen presently.\n\nHe was up before daybreak, and came upon the Park with the morning,\nwhich was clad in the least engaging of the three hundred and sixty-five\ndresses in the wardrobe of the year. It was raw, damp, dark, and dismal;\nthe clouds were as muddy as the ground; and the short perspective\nof every street and avenue was closed up by the mist as by a filthy\ncurtain.\n\n\'Fine weather indeed,\' Martin bitterly soliloquised, \'to be wandering\nup and down here in, like a thief! Fine weather indeed, for a meeting of\nlovers in the open air, and in a public walk! I need be departing, with\nall speed, for another country; for I have come to a pretty pass in\nthis!\'\n\nHe might perhaps have gone on to reflect that of all mornings in the\nyear, it was not the best calculated for a young lady\'s coming forth\non such an errand, either. But he was stopped on the road to this\nreflection, if his thoughts tended that way, by her appearance at a\nshort distance, on which he hurried forward to meet her. Her squire,\nMr Tapley, at the same time fell discreetly back, and surveyed the fog\nabove him with an appearance of attentive interest.\n\n\'My dear Martin,\' said Mary.\n\n\'My dear Mary,\' said Martin; and lovers are such a singular kind of\npeople that this is all they did say just then, though Martin took her\narm, and her hand too, and they paced up and down a short walk that was\nleast exposed to observation, half-a-dozen times.\n\n\'If you have changed at all, my love, since we parted,\' said Martin at\nlength, as he looked upon her with a proud delight, \'it is only to be\nmore beautiful than ever!\'\n\nHad she been of the common metal of love-worn young ladies, she would\nhave denied this in her most interesting manner; and would have told him\nthat she knew she had become a perfect fright; or that she had wasted\naway with weeping and anxiety; or that she was dwindling gently into an\nearly grave; or that her mental sufferings were unspeakable; or would,\neither by tears or words, or a mixture of both, have furnished him with\nsome other information to that effect, and made him as miserable as\npossible. But she had been reared up in a sterner school than the minds\nof most young girls are formed in; she had had her nature strengthened\nby the hands of hard endurance and necessity; had come out from her\nyoung trials constant, self-denying, earnest, and devoted; had acquired\nin her maidenhood--whether happily in the end, for herself or him, is\nforeign to our present purpose to inquire--something of that nobler\nquality of gentle hearts which is developed often by the sorrows and\nstruggles of matronly years, but often by their lessons only. Unspoiled,\nunpampered in her joys or griefs; with frank and full, and deep\naffection for the object of her early love; she saw in him one who for\nher sake was an outcast from his home and fortune, and she had no\nmore idea of bestowing that love upon him in other than cheerful and\nsustaining words, full of high hope and grateful trustfulness, than she\nhad of being unworthy of it, in her lightest thought or deed, for any\nbase temptation that the world could offer.\n\n\'What change is there in YOU, Martin,\' she replied; \'for that concerns\nme nearest? You look more anxious and more thoughtful than you used.\'\n\n\'Why, as to that, my love,\' said Martin as he drew her waist within his\narm, first looking round to see that there were no observers near,\nand beholding Mr Tapley more intent than ever on the fog; \'it would be\nstrange if I did not; for my life--especially of late--has been a hard\none.\'\n\n\'I know it must have been,\' she answered. \'When have I forgotten to\nthink of it and you?\'\n\n\'Not often, I hope,\' said Martin. \'Not often, I am sure. Not often, I\nhave some right to expect, Mary; for I have undergone a great deal of\nvexation and privation, and I naturally look for that return, you know.\'\n\n\'A very, very poor return,\' she answered with a fainter smile. \'But you\nhave it, and will have it always. You have paid a dear price for a poor\nheart, Martin; but it is at least your own, and a true one.\'\n\n\'Of course I feel quite certain of that,\' said Martin, \'or I shouldn\'t\nhave put myself in my present position. And don\'t say a poor heart,\nMary, for I say a rich one. Now, I am about to break a design to you,\ndearest, which will startle you at first, but which is undertaken for\nyour sake. I am going,\' he added slowly, looking far into the deep\nwonder of her bright dark eyes, \'abroad.\'\n\n\'Abroad, Martin!\'\n\n\'Only to America. See now. How you droop directly!\'\n\n\'If I do, or, I hope I may say, if I did,\' she answered, raising her\nhead after a short silence, and looking once more into his face, \'it was\nfor grief to think of what you are resolved to undergo for me. I would\nnot venture to dissuade you, Martin; but it is a long, long distance;\nthere is a wide ocean to be crossed; illness and want are sad calamities\nin any place, but in a foreign country dreadful to endure. Have you\nthought of all this?\'\n\n\'Thought of it!\' cried Martin, abating, in his fondness--and he WAS very\nfond of her--hardly an iota of his usual impetuosity. \'What am I to do?\nIt\'s very well to say, \"Have I thought of it?\" my love; but you should\nask me in the same breath, have I thought of starving at home; have I\nthought of doing porter\'s work for a living; have I thought of holding\nhorses in the streets to earn my roll of bread from day to day? Come,\ncome,\' he added, in a gentler tone, \'do not hang down your head, my\ndear, for I need the encouragement that your sweet face alone can give\nme. Why, that\'s well! Now you are brave again.\'\n\n\'I am endeavouring to be,\' she answered, smiling through her tears.\n\n\'Endeavouring to be anything that\'s good, and being it, is, with you,\nall one. Don\'t I know that of old?\' cried Martin, gayly. \'So! That\'s\nfamous! Now I can tell you all my plans as cheerfully as if you were my\nlittle wife already, Mary.\'\n\nShe hung more closely on his arm, and looking upwards in his face, bade\nhim speak on.\n\n\'You see,\' said Martin, playing with the little hand upon his wrist,\n\'that my attempts to advance myself at home have been baffled and\nrendered abortive. I will not say by whom, Mary, for that would give\npain to us both. But so it is. Have you heard him speak of late of any\nrelative of mine or his, called Pecksniff? Only tell me what I ask you,\nno more.\'\n\n\'I have heard, to my surprise, that he is a better man than was\nsupposed.\'\n\n\'I thought so,\' interrupted Martin.\n\n\'And that it is likely we may come to know him, if not to visit and\nreside with him and--I think--his daughters. He HAS daughters, has he,\nlove?\'\n\n\'A pair of them,\' Martin answered. \'A precious pair! Gems of the first\nwater!\'\n\n\'Ah! You are jesting!\'\n\n\'There is a sort of jesting which is very much in earnest, and includes\nsome pretty serious disgust,\' said Martin. \'I jest in reference to Mr\nPecksniff (at whose house I have been living as his assistant, and at\nwhose hands I have received insult and injury), in that vein. Whatever\nbetides, or however closely you may be brought into communication with\nthis family, never forget that, Mary; and never for an instant,\nwhatever appearances may seem to contradict me, lose sight of this\nassurance--Pecksniff is a scoundrel.\'\n\n\'Indeed!\'\n\n\'In thought, and in deed, and in everything else. A scoundrel from the\ntopmost hair of his head, to the nethermost atom of his heel. Of his\ndaughters I will only say that, to the best of my knowledge and belief,\nthey are dutiful young ladies, and take after their father closely. This\nis a digression from the main point, and yet it brings me to what I was\ngoing to say.\'\n\nHe stopped to look into her eyes again, and seeing, in a hasty glance\nover his shoulder, that there was no one near, and that Mark was still\nintent upon the fog, not only looked at her lips, too, but kissed them\ninto the bargain.\n\n\'Now I am going to America, with great prospects of doing well, and of\nreturning home myself very soon; it may be to take you there for a few\nyears, but, at all events, to claim you for my wife; which, after such\ntrials, I should do with no fear of your still thinking it a duty to\ncleave to him who will not suffer me to live (for this is true), if he\ncan help it, in my own land. How long I may be absent is, of course,\nuncertain; but it shall not be very long. Trust me for that.\'\n\n\'In the meantime, dear Martin--\'\n\n\'That\'s the very thing I am coming to. In the meantime you shall hear,\nconstantly, of all my goings-on. Thus.\'\n\nHe paused to take from his pocket the letter he had written overnight,\nand then resumed:\n\n\'In this fellow\'s employment, and living in this fellow\'s house (by\nfellow, I mean Mr Pecksniff, of course), there is a certain person of\nthe name of Pinch. Don\'t forget; a poor, strange, simple oddity, Mary;\nbut thoroughly honest and sincere; full of zeal; and with a cordial\nregard for me. Which I mean to return one of these days, by setting him\nup in life in some way or other.\'\n\n\'Your old kind nature, Martin!\'\n\n\'Oh!\' said Martin, \'that\'s not worth speaking of, my love. He\'s very\ngrateful and desirous to serve me; and I am more than repaid. Now one\nnight I told this Pinch my history, and all about myself and you; in\nwhich he was not a little interested, I can tell you, for he knows you!\nAye, you may look surprised--and the longer the better for it becomes\nyou--but you have heard him play the organ in the church of that village\nbefore now; and he has seen you listening to his music; and has caught\nhis inspiration from you, too!\'\n\n\'Was HE the organist?\' cried Mary. \'I thank him from my heart!\'\n\n\'Yes, he was,\' said Martin, \'and is, and gets nothing for it either.\nThere never was such a simple fellow! Quite an infant! But a very good\nsort of creature, I assure you.\'\n\n\'I am sure of that,\' she said with great earnestness. \'He must be!\'\n\n\'Oh, yes, no doubt at all about it,\' rejoined Martin, in his usual\ncareless way. \'He is. Well! It has occurred to me--but stay. If I read\nyou what I have written and intend sending to him by post to-night\nit will explain itself. \"My dear Tom Pinch.\" That\'s rather familiar\nperhaps,\' said Martin, suddenly remembering that he was proud when they\nhad last met, \'but I call him my dear Tom Pinch because he likes it, and\nit pleases him.\'\n\n\'Very right, and very kind,\' said Mary.\n\n\'Exactly so!\' cried Martin. \'It\'s as well to be kind whenever one can;\nand, as I said before, he really is an excellent fellow. \"My dear Tom\nPinch--I address this under cover to Mrs Lupin, at the Blue Dragon,\nand have begged her in a short note to deliver it to you without saying\nanything about it elsewhere; and to do the same with all future letters\nshe may receive from me. My reason for so doing will be at once apparent\nto you\"--I don\'t know that it will be, by the bye,\' said Martin,\nbreaking off, \'for he\'s slow of comprehension, poor fellow; but he\'ll\nfind it out in time. My reason simply is, that I don\'t want my letters\nto be read by other people; and particularly by the scoundrel whom he\nthinks an angel.\'\n\n\'Mr Pecksniff again?\' asked Mary.\n\n\'The same,\' said Martin \'--will be at once apparent to you. I have\ncompleted my arrangements for going to America; and you will be\nsurprised to hear that I am to be accompanied by Mark Tapley, upon whom\nI have stumbled strangely in London, and who insists on putting himself\nunder my protection\'--meaning, my love,\' said Martin, breaking off\nagain, \'our friend in the rear, of course.\'\n\nShe was delighted to hear this, and bestowed a kind glance upon Mark,\nwhich he brought his eyes down from the fog to encounter and received\nwith immense satisfaction. She said in his hearing, too, that he was a\ngood soul and a merry creature, and would be faithful, she was certain;\ncommendations which Mr Tapley inwardly resolved to deserve, from such\nlips, if he died for it.\n\n\'\"Now, my dear Pinch,\"\' resumed Martin, proceeding with his letter; \'\"I\nam going to repose great trust in you, knowing that I may do so with\nperfect reliance on your honour and secrecy, and having nobody else just\nnow to trust in.\"\'\n\n\'I don\'t think I would say that, Martin.\'\n\n\'Wouldn\'t you? Well! I\'ll take that out. It\'s perfectly true, though.\'\n\n\'But it might seem ungracious, perhaps.\'\n\n\'Oh, I don\'t mind Pinch,\' said Martin. \'There\'s no occasion to stand on\nany ceremony with HIM. However, I\'ll take it out, as you wish it, and\nmake the full stop at \"secrecy.\" Very well! \"I shall not only\"--this is\nthe letter again, you know.\'\n\n\'I understand.\'\n\n\'\"I shall not only enclose my letters to the young lady of whom I have\ntold you, to your charge, to be forwarded as she may request; but I most\nearnestly commit her, the young lady herself, to your care and regard,\nin the event of your meeting in my absence. I have reason to think\nthat the probabilities of your encountering each other--perhaps very\nfrequently--are now neither remote nor few; and although in our position\nyou can do very little to lessen the uneasiness of hers, I trust to you\nimplicitly to do that much, and so deserve the confidence I have reposed\nin you.\" You see, my dear Mary,\' said Martin, \'it will be a great\nconsolation to you to have anybody, no matter how simple, with whom you\ncan speak about ME; and the very first time you talk to Pinch, you\'ll\nfeel at once that there is no more occasion for any embarrassment or\nhesitation in talking to him, than if he were an old woman.\'\n\n\'However that may be,\' she returned, smiling, \'he is your friend, and\nthat is enough.\'\n\n\'Oh, yes, he\'s my friend,\' said Martin, \'certainly. In fact, I have told\nhim in so many words that we\'ll always take notice of him, and protect\nhim; and it\'s a good trait in his character that he\'s grateful--very\ngrateful indeed. You\'ll like him of all things, my love, I know. You\'ll\nobserve very much that\'s comical and old-fashioned about Pinch, but you\nneedn\'t mind laughing at him; for he\'ll not care about it. He\'ll rather\nlike it indeed!\'\n\n\'I don\'t think I shall put that to the test, Martin.\'\n\n\'You won\'t if you can help it, of course,\' he said, \'but I think you\'ll\nfind him a little too much for your gravity. However, that\'s neither\nhere nor there, and it certainly is not the letter; which ends\nthus: \"Knowing that I need not impress the nature and extent of that\nconfidence upon you at any greater length, as it is already sufficiently\nestablished in your mind, I will only say, in bidding you farewell and\nlooking forward to our next meeting, that I shall charge myself from\nthis time, through all changes for the better, with your advancement and\nhappiness, as if they were my own. You may rely upon that. And\nalways believe me, my dear Tom Pinch, faithfully your friend, Martin\nChuzzlewit. P.S.--I enclose the amount which you so kindly\"--Oh,\' said\nMartin, checking himself, and folding up the letter, \'that\'s nothing!\'\n\nAt this crisis Mark Tapley interposed, with an apology for remarking\nthat the clock at the Horse Guards was striking.\n\n\'Which I shouldn\'t have said nothing about, sir,\' added Mark, \'if the\nyoung lady hadn\'t begged me to be particular in mentioning it.\'\n\n\'I did,\' said Mary. \'Thank you. You are quite right. In another minute\nI shall be ready to return. We have time for a very few words more, dear\nMartin, and although I had much to say, it must remain unsaid until the\nhappy time of our next meeting. Heaven send it may come speedily and\nprosperously! But I have no fear of that.\'\n\n\'Fear!\' cried Martin. \'Why, who has? What are a few months? What is a\nwhole year? When I come gayly back, with a road through life hewn out\nbefore me, then indeed, looking back upon this parting, it may seem\na dismal one. But now! I swear I wouldn\'t have it happen under more\nfavourable auspices, if I could; for then I should be less inclined to\ngo, and less impressed with the necessity.\'\n\n\'Yes, yes. I feel that too. When do you go?\'\n\n\'To-night. We leave for Liverpool to-night. A vessel sails from that\nport, as I hear, in three days. In a month, or less, we shall be there.\nWhy, what\'s a month! How many months have flown by, since our last\nparting!\'\n\n\'Long to look back upon,\' said Mary, echoing his cheerful tone, \'but\nnothing in their course!\'\n\n\'Nothing at all!\' cried Martin. \'I shall have change of scene and change\nof place; change of people, change of manners, change of cares and\nhopes! Time will wear wings indeed! I can bear anything, so that I have\nswift action, Mary.\'\n\nWas he thinking solely of her care for him, when he took so little heed\nof her share in the separation; of her quiet monotonous endurance,\nand her slow anxiety from day to day? Was there nothing jarring and\ndiscordant even in his tone of courage, with this one note \'self\' for\never audible, however high the strain? Not in her ears. It had been\nbetter otherwise, perhaps, but so it was. She heard the same bold spirit\nwhich had flung away as dross all gain and profit for her sake, making\nlight of peril and privation that she might be calm and happy; and she\nheard no more. That heart where self has found no place and raised no\nthrone, is slow to recognize its ugly presence when it looks upon it.\nAs one possessed of an evil spirit was held in old time to be alone\nconscious of the lurking demon in the breasts of other men, so kindred\nvices know each other in their hiding-places every day, when Virtue is\nincredulous and blind.\n\n\'The quarter\'s gone!\' cried Mr Tapley, in a voice of admonition.\n\n\'I shall be ready to return immediately,\' she said. \'One thing, dear\nMartin, I am bound to tell you. You entreated me a few minutes since\nonly to answer what you asked me in reference to one theme, but you\nshould and must know (otherwise I could not be at ease) that since\nthat separation of which I was the unhappy occasion, he has never once\nuttered your name; has never coupled it, or any faint allusion to it,\nwith passion or reproach; and has never abated in his kindness to me.\'\n\n\'I thank him for that last act,\' said Martin, \'and for nothing else.\nThough on consideration I may thank him for his other forbearance also,\ninasmuch as I neither expect nor desire that he will mention my name\nagain. He may once, perhaps--to couple it with reproach--in his will.\nLet him, if he please! By the time it reaches me, he will be in his\ngrave; a satire on his own anger, God help him!\'\n\n\'Martin! If you would but sometimes, in some quiet hour; beside the\nwinter fire; in the summer air; when you hear gentle music, or think of\nDeath, or Home, or Childhood; if you would at such a season resolve to\nthink, but once a month, or even once a year, of him, or any one who\never wronged you, you would forgive him in your heart, I know!\'\n\n\'If I believed that to be true, Mary,\' he replied, \'I would resolve at\nno such time to bear him in my mind; wishing to spare myself the shame\nof such a weakness. I was not born to be the toy and puppet of any man,\nfar less his; to whose pleasure and caprice, in return for any good he\ndid me, my whole youth was sacrificed. It became between us two a fair\nexchange--a barter--and no more; and there is no such balance against\nme that I need throw in a mawkish forgiveness to poise the scale. He has\nforbidden all mention of me to you, I know,\' he added hastily. \'Come!\nHas he not?\'\n\n\'That was long ago,\' she returned; \'immediately after your parting;\nbefore you had left the house. He has never done so since.\'\n\n\'He has never done so since because he has seen no occasion,\' said\nMartin; \'but that is of little consequence, one way or other. Let all\nallusion to him between you and me be interdicted from this time forth.\nAnd therefore, love\'--he drew her quickly to him, for the time of\nparting had now come--\'in the first letter that you write to me through\nthe Post Office, addressed to New York; and in all the others that you\nsend through Pinch; remember he has no existence, but has become to us\nas one who is dead. Now, God bless you! This is a strange place for such\na meeting and such a parting; but our next meeting shall be in a better,\nand our next and last parting in a worse.\'\n\n\'One other question, Martin, I must ask. Have you provided money for\nthis journey?\'\n\n\'Have I?\' cried Martin; it might have been in his pride; it might have\nbeen in his desire to set her mind at ease: \'Have I provided money? Why,\nthere\'s a question for an emigrant\'s wife! How could I move on land or\nsea without it, love?\'\n\n\'I mean, enough.\'\n\n\'Enough! More than enough. Twenty times more than enough. A pocket-full.\nMark and I, for all essential ends, are quite as rich as if we had the\npurse of Fortunatus in our baggage.\'\n\n\'The half-hour\'s a-going!\' cried Mr Tapley.\n\n\'Good-bye a hundred times!\' cried Mary, in a trembling voice.\n\nBut how cold the comfort in Good-bye! Mark Tapley knew it perfectly.\nPerhaps he knew it from his reading, perhaps from his experience,\nperhaps from intuition. It is impossible to say; but however he knew\nit, his knowledge instinctively suggested to him the wisest course of\nproceeding that any man could have adopted under the circumstances. He\nwas taken with a violent fit of sneezing, and was obliged to turn his\nhead another way. In doing which, he, in a manner fenced and screened\nthe lovers into a corner by themselves.\n\nThere was a short pause, but Mark had an undefined sensation that it was\na satisfactory one in its way. Then Mary, with her veil lowered, passed\nhim with a quick step, and beckoned him to follow. She stopped once more\nbefore they lost that corner; looked back; and waved her hand to Martin.\nHe made a start towards them at the moment as if he had some other\nfarewell words to say; but she only hurried off the faster, and Mr\nTapley followed as in duty bound.\n\nWhen he rejoined Martin again in his own chamber, he found that\ngentleman seated moodily before the dusty grate, with his two feet on\nthe fender, his two elbows on his knees, and his chin supported, in a\nnot very ornamental manner, on the palms of his hands.\n\n\'Well, Mark!\'\n\n\'Well, sir,\' said Mark, taking a long breath, \'I see the young lady safe\nhome, and I feel pretty comfortable after it. She sent a lot of kind\nwords, sir, and this,\' handing him a ring, \'for a parting keepsake.\'\n\n\'Diamonds!\' said Martin, kissing it--let us do him justice, it was for\nher sake; not for theirs--and putting it on his little finger. \'Splendid\ndiamonds! My grandfather is a singular character, Mark. He must have\ngiven her this now.\'\n\nMark Tapley knew as well that she had bought it, to the end that that\nunconscious speaker might carry some article of sterling value with him\nin his necessity; as he knew that it was day, and not night. Though he\nhad no more acquaintance of his own knowledge with the history of the\nglittering trinket on Martin\'s outspread finger, than Martin himself\nhad, he was as certain that in its purchase she had expended her whole\nstock of hoarded money, as if he had seen it paid down coin by coin. Her\nlover\'s strange obtuseness in relation to this little incident, promptly\nsuggested to Mark\'s mind its real cause and root; and from that moment\nhe had a clear and perfect insight into the one absorbing principle of\nMartin\'s character.\n\n\'She is worthy of the sacrifices I have made,\' said Martin, folding his\narms, and looking at the ashes in the stove, as if in resumption of some\nformer thoughts. \'Well worthy of them. No riches\'--here he stroked his\nchin and mused--\'could have compensated for the loss of such a nature.\nNot to mention that in gaining her affection I have followed the bent\nof my own wishes, and baulked the selfish schemes of others who had\nno right to form them. She is quite worthy--more than worthy--of the\nsacrifices I have made. Yes, she is. No doubt of it.\'\n\nThese ruminations might or might not have reached Mark Tapley; for\nthough they were by no means addressed to him, yet they were softly\nuttered. In any case, he stood there, watching Martin with an\nindescribable and most involved expression on his visage, until that\nyoung man roused himself and looked towards him; when he turned away,\nas being suddenly intent upon certain preparations for the journey,\nand, without giving vent to any articulate sound, smiled with surpassing\nghastliness, and seemed by a twist of his features and a motion of his\nlips, to release himself of this word:\n\n\'Jolly!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTEEN\n\nTHE BURDEN WHEREOF, IS HAIL COLUMBIA!\n\n\nA dark and dreary night; people nestling in their beds or circling\nlate about the fire; Want, colder than Charity, shivering at the street\ncorners; church-towers humming with the faint vibration of their own\ntongues, but newly resting from the ghostly preachment \'One!\' The earth\ncovered with a sable pall as for the burial of yesterday; the clumps of\ndark trees, its giant plumes of funeral feathers, waving sadly to and\nfro: all hushed, all noiseless, and in deep repose, save the swift\nclouds that skim across the moon, and the cautious wind, as, creeping\nafter them upon the ground, it stops to listen, and goes rustling on,\nand stops again, and follows, like a savage on the trail.\n\nWhither go the clouds and wind so eagerly? If, like guilty spirits, they\nrepair to some dread conference with powers like themselves, in what\nwild regions do the elements hold council, or where unbend in terrible\ndisport?\n\nHere! Free from that cramped prison called the earth, and out upon the\nwaste of waters. Here, roaring, raging, shrieking, howling, all night\nlong. Hither come the sounding voices from the caverns on the coast of\nthat small island, sleeping, a thousand miles away, so quietly in the\nmidst of angry waves; and hither, to meet them, rush the blasts from\nunknown desert places of the world. Here, in the fury of their unchecked\nliberty, they storm and buffet with each other, until the sea, lashed\ninto passion like their own, leaps up, in ravings mightier than theirs,\nand the whole scene is madness.\n\nOn, on, on, over the countless miles of angry space roll the long\nheaving billows. Mountains and caves are here, and yet are not; for\nwhat is now the one, is now the other; then all is but a boiling heap of\nrushing water. Pursuit, and flight, and mad return of wave on wave, and\nsavage struggle, ending in a spouting-up of foam that whitens the\nblack night; incessant change of place, and form, and hue; constancy in\nnothing, but eternal strife; on, on, on, they roll, and darker grows the\nnight, and louder howls the wind, and more clamorous and fierce become\nthe million voices in the sea, when the wild cry goes forth upon the\nstorm \'A ship!\'\n\nOnward she comes, in gallant combat with the elements, her tall masts\ntrembling, and her timbers starting on the strain; onward she comes, now\nhigh upon the curling billows, now low down in the hollows of the sea,\nas hiding for the moment from its fury; and every storm-voice in the air\nand water cries more loudly yet, \'A ship!\'\n\nStill she comes striving on; and at her boldness and the spreading cry,\nthe angry waves rise up above each other\'s hoary heads to look; and\nround about the vessel, far as the mariners on the decks can pierce into\nthe gloom, they press upon her, forcing each other down and starting up,\nand rushing forward from afar, in dreadful curiosity. High over her\nthey break; and round her surge and roar; and giving place to others,\nmoaningly depart, and dash themselves to fragments in their baffled\nanger. Still she comes onward bravely. And though the eager multitude\ncrowd thick and fast upon her all the night, and dawn of day discovers\nthe untiring train yet bearing down upon the ship in an eternity of\ntroubled water, onward she comes, with dim lights burning in her hull,\nand people there, asleep; as if no deadly element were peering in at\nevery seam and chink, and no drowned seaman\'s grave, with but a plank to\ncover it, were yawning in the unfathomable depths below.\n\nAmong these sleeping voyagers were Martin and Mark Tapley, who, rocked\ninto a heavy drowsiness by the unaccustomed motion, were as insensible\nto the foul air in which they lay, as to the uproar without. It was\nbroad day when the latter awoke with a dim idea that he was dreaming\nof having gone to sleep in a four-post bedstead which had turned bottom\nupwards in the course of the night. There was more reason in this too,\nthan in the roasting of eggs; for the first objects Mr Tapley recognized\nwhen he opened his eyes were his own heels--looking down to him, as he\nafterwards observed, from a nearly perpendicular elevation.\n\n\'Well!\' said Mark, getting himself into a sitting posture, after various\nineffectual struggles with the rolling of the ship. \'This is the first\ntime as ever I stood on my head all night.\'\n\n\'You shouldn\'t go to sleep upon the ground with your head to leeward\nthen,\' growled a man in one of the berths.\n\n\'With my head to WHERE?\' asked Mark.\n\nThe man repeated his previous sentiment.\n\n\'No, I won\'t another time,\' said Mark, \'when I know whereabouts on the\nmap that country is. In the meanwhile I can give you a better piece of\nadvice. Don\'t you nor any other friend of mine never go to sleep with\nhis head in a ship any more.\'\n\nThe man gave a grunt of discontented acquiescence, turned over in his\nberth, and drew his blanket over his head.\n\n\'--For,\' said Mr Tapley, pursuing the theme by way of soliloquy in a low\ntone of voice; \'the sea is as nonsensical a thing as any going. It never\nknows what to do with itself. It hasn\'t got no employment for its\nmind, and is always in a state of vacancy. Like them Polar bears in the\nwild-beast shows as is constantly a-nodding their heads from side to\nside, it never CAN be quiet. Which is entirely owing to its uncommon\nstupidity.\'\n\n\'Is that you, Mark?\' asked a faint voice from another berth.\n\n\'It\'s as much of me as is left, sir, after a fortnight of this work,\'\nMr Tapley replied, \'What with leading the life of a fly, ever since I\'ve\nbeen aboard--for I\'ve been perpetually holding-on to something or other\nin a upside-down position--what with that, sir, and putting a very\nlittle into myself, and taking a good deal out of myself, there an\'t too\nmuch of me to swear by. How do you find yourself this morning, sir?\'\n\n\'Very miserable,\' said Martin, with a peevish groan. \'Ugh. This is\nwretched, indeed!\'\n\n\'Creditable,\' muttered Mark, pressing one hand upon his aching head and\nlooking round him with a rueful grin. \'That\'s the great comfort. It IS\ncreditable to keep up one\'s spirits here. Virtue\'s its own reward. So\'s\njollity.\'\n\nMark was so far right that unquestionably any man who retained his\ncheerfulness among the steerage accommodations of that noble and\nfast-sailing line-of-packet ship, \'THE SCREW,\' was solely indebted to\nhis own resources, and shipped his good humour, like his provisions,\nwithout any contribution or assistance from the owners. A dark, low,\nstifling cabin, surrounded by berths all filled to overflowing with men,\nwomen, and children, in various stages of sickness and misery, is not\nthe liveliest place of assembly at any time; but when it is so crowded\n(as the steerage cabin of the Screw was, every passage out), that\nmattresses and beds are heaped upon the floor, to the extinction of\neverything like comfort, cleanliness, and decency, it is liable to\noperate not only as a pretty strong banner against amiability of temper,\nbut as a positive encourager of selfish and rough humours. Mark felt\nthis, as he sat looking about him; and his spirits rose proportionately.\n\nThere were English people, Irish people, Welsh people, and Scotch people\nthere; all with their little store of coarse food and shabby clothes;\nand nearly all with their families of children. There were children of\nall ages; from the baby at the breast, to the slattern-girl who was as\nmuch a grown woman as her mother. Every kind of domestic suffering that\nis bred in poverty, illness, banishment, sorrow, and long travel in bad\nweather, was crammed into the little space; and yet was there infinitely\nless of complaint and querulousness, and infinitely more of mutual\nassistance and general kindness to be found in that unwholesome ark,\nthan in many brilliant ballrooms.\n\nMark looked about him wistfully, and his face brightened as he looked.\nHere an old grandmother was crooning over a sick child, and rocking it\nto and fro, in arms hardly more wasted than its own young limbs; here a\npoor woman with an infant in her lap, mended another little creature\'s\nclothes, and quieted another who was creeping up about her from their\nscanty bed upon the floor. Here were old men awkwardly engaged in little\nhousehold offices, wherein they would have been ridiculous but for their\ngood-will and kind purpose; and here were swarthy fellows--giants in\ntheir way--doing such little acts of tenderness for those about them,\nas might have belonged to gentlest-hearted dwarfs. The very idiot in\nthe corner who sat mowing there, all day, had his faculty of imitation\nroused by what he saw about him; and snapped his fingers to amuse a\ncrying child.\n\n\'Now, then,\' said Mark, nodding to a woman who was dressing her three\nchildren at no great distance from him--and the grin upon his face had\nby this time spread from ear to ear--\'Hand over one of them young \'uns\naccording to custom.\'\n\n\'I wish you\'d get breakfast, Mark, instead of worrying with people who\ndon\'t belong to you,\' observed Martin, petulantly.\n\n\'All right,\' said Mark. \'SHE\'ll do that. It\'s a fair division of labour,\nsir. I wash her boys, and she makes our tea. I never COULD make tea, but\nany one can wash a boy.\'\n\nThe woman, who was delicate and ill, felt and understood his kindness,\nas well she might, for she had been covered every night with his\ngreatcoat, while he had for his own bed the bare boards and a rug. But\nMartin, who seldom got up or looked about him, was quite incensed by the\nfolly of this speech, and expressed his dissatisfaction by an impatient\ngroan.\n\n\'So it is, certainly,\' said Mark, brushing the child\'s hair as coolly as\nif he had been born and bred a barber.\n\n\'What are you talking about, now?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'What you said,\' replied Mark; \'or what you meant, when you gave that\nthere dismal vent to your feelings. I quite go along with it, sir. It IS\nvery hard upon her.\'\n\n\'What is?\'\n\n\'Making the voyage by herself along with these young impediments here,\nand going such a way at such a time of the year to join her husband.\nIf you don\'t want to be driven mad with yellow soap in your eye, young\nman,\' said Mr Tapley to the second urchin, who was by this time under\nhis hands at the basin, \'you\'d better shut it.\'\n\n\'Where does she join her husband?\' asked Martin, yawning.\n\n\'Why, I\'m very much afraid,\' said Mr Tapley, in a low voice, \'that she\ndon\'t know. I hope she mayn\'t miss him. But she sent her last letter by\nhand, and it don\'t seem to have been very clearly understood between \'em\nwithout it, and if she don\'t see him a-waving his pocket-handkerchief on\nthe shore, like a pictur out of a song-book, my opinion is, she\'ll break\nher heart.\'\n\n\'Why, how, in Folly\'s name, does the woman come to be on board ship on\nsuch a wild-goose venture!\' cried Martin.\n\nMr Tapley glanced at him for a moment as he lay prostrate in his berth,\nand then said, very quietly:\n\n\'Ah! How indeed! I can\'t think! He\'s been away from her for two year;\nshe\'s been very poor and lonely in her own country; and has always been\na-looking forward to meeting him. It\'s very strange she should be here.\nQuite amazing! A little mad perhaps! There can\'t be no other way of\naccounting for it.\'\n\nMartin was too far gone in the lassitude of sea-sickness to make any\nreply to these words, or even to attend to them as they were spoken. And\nthe subject of their discourse returning at this crisis with some hot\ntea, effectually put a stop to any resumption of the theme by Mr Tapley;\nwho, when the meal was over and he had adjusted Martin\'s bed, went up on\ndeck to wash the breakfast service, which consisted of two half-pint tin\nmugs, and a shaving-pot of the same metal.\n\nIt is due to Mark Tapley to state that he suffered at least as much from\nsea-sickness as any man, woman, or child, on board; and that he had a\npeculiar faculty of knocking himself about on the smallest provocation,\nand losing his legs at every lurch of the ship. But resolved, in his\nusual phrase, to \'come out strong\' under disadvantageous circumstances,\nhe was the life and soul of the steerage, and made no more of stopping\nin the middle of a facetious conversation to go away and be excessively\nill by himself, and afterwards come back in the very best and gayest of\ntempers to resume it, than if such a course of proceeding had been the\ncommonest in the world.\n\nIt cannot be said that as his illness wore off, his cheerfulness and\ngood nature increased, because they would hardly admit of augmentation;\nbut his usefulness among the weaker members of the party was much\nenlarged; and at all times and seasons there he was exerting it. If\na gleam of sun shone out of the dark sky, down Mark tumbled into the\ncabin, and presently up he came again with a woman in his arms, or\nhalf-a-dozen children, or a man, or a bed, or a saucepan, or a basket,\nor something animate or inanimate, that he thought would be the better\nfor the air. If an hour or two of fine weather in the middle of the day\ntempted those who seldom or never came on deck at other times to crawl\ninto the long-boat, or lie down upon the spare spars, and try to eat,\nthere, in the centre of the group, was Mr Tapley, handing about salt\nbeef and biscuit, or dispensing tastes of grog, or cutting up the\nchildren\'s provisions with his pocketknife, for their greater ease and\ncomfort, or reading aloud from a venerable newspaper, or singing some\nroaring old song to a select party, or writing the beginnings of letters\nto their friends at home for people who couldn\'t write, or cracking\njokes with the crew, or nearly getting blown over the side, or emerging,\nhalf-drowned, from a shower of spray, or lending a hand somewhere or\nother; but always doing something for the general entertainment. At\nnight, when the cooking-fire was lighted on the deck, and the driving\nsparks that flew among the rigging, and the clouds of sails, seemed to\nmenace the ship with certain annihilation by fire, in case the elements\nof air and water failed to compass her destruction; there, again, was Mr\nTapley, with his coat off and his shirt-sleeves turned up to his elbows,\ndoing all kinds of culinary offices; compounding the strangest dishes;\nrecognized by every one as an established authority; and helping all\nparties to achieve something which, left to themselves, they never could\nhave done, and never would have dreamed of. In short, there never was a\nmore popular character than Mark Tapley became, on board that noble and\nfast-sailing line-of-packet ship, the Screw; and he attained at last to\nsuch a pitch of universal admiration, that he began to have grave doubts\nwithin himself whether a man might reasonably claim any credit for being\njolly under such exciting circumstances.\n\n\'If this was going to last,\' said Tapley, \'there\'d be no great\ndifference as I can perceive, between the Screw and the Dragon. I\nnever am to get credit, I think. I begin to be afraid that the Fates is\ndetermined to make the world easy to me.\'\n\n\'Well, Mark,\' said Martin, near whose berth he had ruminated to this\neffect. \'When will this be over?\'\n\n\'Another week, they say, sir,\' returned Mark, \'will most likely bring\nus into port. The ship\'s a-going along at present, as sensible as a ship\ncan, sir; though I don\'t mean to say as that\'s any very high praise.\'\n\n\'I don\'t think it is, indeed,\' groaned Martin.\n\n\'You\'d feel all the better for it, sir, if you was to turn out,\'\nobserved Mark.\n\n\'And be seen by the ladies and gentlemen on the after-deck,\' returned\nMartin, with a scronful emphasis upon the words, \'mingling with the\nbeggarly crowd that are stowed away in this vile hole. I should be\ngreatly the better for that, no doubt.\'\n\n\'I\'m thankful that I can\'t say from my own experience what the feelings\nof a gentleman may be,\' said Mark, \'but I should have thought, sir, as a\ngentleman would feel a deal more uncomfortable down here than up in the\nfresh air, especially when the ladies and gentlemen in the after-cabin\nknow just as much about him as he does about them, and are likely to\ntrouble their heads about him in the same proportion. I should have\nthought that, certainly.\'\n\n\'I tell you, then,\' rejoined Martin, \'you would have thought wrong, and\ndo think wrong.\'\n\n\'Very likely, sir,\' said Mark, with imperturbable good temper. \'I often\ndo.\'\n\n\'As to lying here,\' cried Martin, raising himself on his elbow, and\nlooking angrily at his follower. \'Do you suppose it\'s a pleasure to lie\nhere?\'\n\n\'All the madhouses in the world,\' said Mr Tapley, \'couldn\'t produce such\na maniac as the man must be who could think that.\'\n\n\'Then why are you forever goading and urging me to get up?\' asked\nMartin, \'I lie here because I don\'t wish to be recognized, in the better\ndays to which I aspire, by any purse-proud citizen, as the man who came\nover with him among the steerage passengers. I lie here because I wish\nto conceal my circumstances and myself, and not to arrive in a new world\nbadged and ticketed as an utterly poverty-stricken man. If I could have\nafforded a passage in the after-cabin I should have held up my head with\nthe rest. As I couldn\'t I hide it. Do you understand that?\'\n\n\'I am very sorry, sir,\' said Mark. \'I didn\'t know you took it so much to\nheart as this comes to.\'\n\n\'Of course you didn\'t know,\' returned his master. \'How should you\nknow, unless I told you? It\'s no trial to you, Mark, to make yourself\ncomfortable and to bustle about. It\'s as natural for you to do so under\nthe circumstances as it is for me not to do so. Why, you don\'t suppose\nthere is a living creature in this ship who can by possibility have half\nso much to undergo on board of her as I have? Do you?\' he asked, sitting\nupright in his berth and looking at Mark, with an expression of great\nearnestness not unmixed with wonder.\n\nMark twisted his face into a tight knot, and with his head very much\non one side, pondered upon this question as if he felt it an extremely\ndifficult one to answer. He was relieved from his embarrassment by\nMartin himself, who said, as he stretched himself upon his back again\nand resumed the book he had been reading:\n\n\'But what is the use of my putting such a case to you, when the very\nessence of what I have been saying is, that you cannot by possibility\nunderstand it! Make me a little brandy-and-water--cold and very\nweak--and give me a biscuit, and tell your friend, who is a nearer\nneighbour of ours than I could wish, to try and keep her children a\nlittle quieter to-night than she did last night; that\'s a good fellow.\'\n\nMr Tapley set himself to obey these orders with great alacrity, and\npending their execution, it may be presumed his flagging spirits\nrevived; inasmuch as he several times observed, below his breath, that\nin respect of its power of imparting a credit to jollity, the Screw\nunquestionably had some decided advantages over the Dragon. He also\nremarked that it was a high gratification to him to reflect that he\nwould carry its main excellence ashore with him, and have it constantly\nbeside him wherever he went; but what he meant by these consolatory\nthoughts he did not explain.\n\nAnd now a general excitement began to prevail on board; and various\npredictions relative to the precise day, and even the precise hour\nat which they would reach New York, were freely broached. There was\ninfinitely more crowding on deck and looking over the ship\'s side than\nthere had been before; and an epidemic broke out for packing up things\nevery morning, which required unpacking again every night. Those who had\nany letters to deliver, or any friends to meet, or any settled plans of\ngoing anywhere or doing anything, discussed their prospects a hundred\ntimes a day; and as this class of passengers was very small, and the\nnumber of those who had no prospects whatever was very large, there were\nplenty of listeners and few talkers. Those who had been ill all along,\ngot well now, and those who had been well, got better. An American\ngentleman in the after-cabin, who had been wrapped up in fur and oilskin\nthe whole passage, unexpectedly appeared in a very shiny, tall, black\nhat, and constantly overhauled a very little valise of pale leather,\nwhich contained his clothes, linen, brushes, shaving apparatus, books,\ntrinkets, and other baggage. He likewise stuck his hands deep into\nhis pockets, and walked the deck with his nostrils dilated, as already\ninhaling the air of Freedom which carries death to all tyrants, and can\nnever (under any circumstances worth mentioning) be breathed by slaves.\nAn English gentleman who was strongly suspected of having run away from\na bank, with something in his possession belonging to its strong box\nbesides the key, grew eloquent upon the subject of the rights of man,\nand hummed the Marseillaise Hymn constantly. In a word, one great\nsensation pervaded the whole ship, and the soil of America lay close\nbefore them; so close at last, that, upon a certain starlight night they\ntook a pilot on board, and within a few hours afterwards lay to until\nthe morning, awaiting the arrival of a steamboat in which the passengers\nwere to be conveyed ashore.\n\nOff she came, soon after it was light next morning, and lying alongside\nan hour or more--during which period her very firemen were objects of\nhardly less interest and curiosity than if they had been so many angels,\ngood or bad--took all her living freight aboard. Among them Mark, who\nstill had his friend and her three children under his close protection;\nand Martin, who had once more dressed himself in his usual attire, but\nwore a soiled, old cloak above his ordinary clothes, until such time as\nhe should separate for ever from his late companions.\n\nThe steamer--which, with its machinery on deck, looked, as it worked its\nlong slim legs, like some enormously magnified insect or antediluvian\nmonster--dashed at great speed up a beautiful bay; and presently they\nsaw some heights, and islands, and a long, flat, straggling city.\n\n\'And this,\' said Mr Tapley, looking far ahead, \'is the Land of Liberty,\nis it? Very well. I\'m agreeable. Any land will do for me, after so much\nwater!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIXTEEN\n\nMARTIN DISEMBARKS FROM THAT NOBLE AND FAST-SAILING LINE-OF-PACKET SHIP,\n\'THE SCREW\', AT THE PORT OF NEW YORK, IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.\nHE MAKES SOME ACQUAINTANCES, AND DINES AT A BOARDING-HOUSE. THE\nPARTICULARS OF THOSE TRANSACTIONS\n\n\nSome trifling excitement prevailed upon the very brink and margin of the\nland of liberty; for an alderman had been elected the day before;\nand Party Feeling naturally running rather high on such an exciting\noccasion, the friends of the disappointed candidate had found it\nnecessary to assert the great principles of Purity of Election and\nFreedom of opinion by breaking a few legs and arms, and furthermore\npursuing one obnoxious gentleman through the streets with the design of\nhitting his nose. These good-humoured little outbursts of the popular\nfancy were not in themselves sufficiently remarkable to create any great\nstir, after the lapse of a whole night; but they found fresh life and\nnotoriety in the breath of the newsboys, who not only proclaimed them\nwith shrill yells in all the highways and byways of the town, upon the\nwharves and among the shipping, but on the deck and down in the cabins\nof the steamboat; which, before she touched the shore, was boarded and\noverrun by a legion of those young citizens.\n\n\'Here\'s this morning\'s New York Sewer!\' cried one. \'Here\'s this\nmorning\'s New York Stabber! Here\'s the New York Family Spy! Here\'s the\nNew York Private Listener! Here\'s the New York Peeper! Here\'s the New\nYork Plunderer! Here\'s the New York Keyhole Reporter! Here\'s the\nNew York Rowdy Journal! Here\'s all the New York papers! Here\'s full\nparticulars of the patriotic locofoco movement yesterday, in which\nthe whigs was so chawed up; and the last Alabama gouging case; and the\ninteresting Arkansas dooel with Bowie knives; and all the Political,\nCommercial, and Fashionable News. Here they are! Here they are! Here\'s\nthe papers, here\'s the papers!\'\n\n\'Here\'s the Sewer!\' cried another. \'Here\'s the New York Sewer! Here\'s\nsome of the twelfth thousand of to-day\'s Sewer, with the best accounts\nof the markets, and all the shipping news, and four whole columns of\ncountry correspondence, and a full account of the Ball at Mrs White\'s\nlast night, where all the beauty and fashion of New York was assembled;\nwith the Sewer\'s own particulars of the private lives of all the ladies\nthat was there! Here\'s the Sewer! Here\'s some of the twelfth thousand of\nthe New York Sewer! Here\'s the Sewer\'s exposure of the Wall Street\nGang, and the Sewer\'s exposure of the Washington Gang, and the Sewer\'s\nexclusive account of a flagrant act of dishonesty committed by the\nSecretary of State when he was eight years old; now communicated, at a\ngreat expense, by his own nurse. Here\'s the Sewer! Here\'s the New York\nSewer, in its twelfth thousand, with a whole column of New Yorkers to be\nshown up, and all their names printed! Here\'s the Sewer\'s article\nupon the Judge that tried him, day afore yesterday, for libel, and the\nSewer\'s tribute to the independent Jury that didn\'t convict him, and the\nSewer\'s account of what they might have expected if they had! Here\'s\nthe Sewer, here\'s the Sewer! Here\'s the wide-awake Sewer; always on the\nlookout; the leading Journal of the United States, now in its twelfth\nthousand, and still a-printing off:--Here\'s the New York Sewer!\'\n\n\'It is in such enlightened means,\' said a voice almost in Martin\'s ear,\n\'that the bubbling passions of my country find a vent.\'\n\nMartin turned involuntarily, and saw, standing close at his side, a\nsallow gentleman, with sunken cheeks, black hair, small twinkling eyes,\nand a singular expression hovering about that region of his face, which\nwas not a frown, nor a leer, and yet might have been mistaken at the\nfirst glance for either. Indeed it would have been difficult, on a much\ncloser acquaintance, to describe it in any more satisfactory terms than\nas a mixed expression of vulgar cunning and conceit. This gentleman wore\na rather broad-brimmed hat for the greater wisdom of his appearance; and\nhad his arms folded for the greater impressiveness of his attitude. He\nwas somewhat shabbily dressed in a blue surtout reaching nearly to\nhis ankles, short loose trousers of the same colour, and a faded buff\nwaistcoat, through which a discoloured shirt-frill struggled to force\nitself into notice, as asserting an equality of civil rights with\nthe other portions of his dress, and maintaining a declaration of\nIndependence on its own account. His feet, which were of unusually\nlarge proportions, were leisurely crossed before him as he half leaned\nagainst, half sat upon, the steamboat\'s bulwark; and his thick cane,\nshod with a mighty ferule at one end and armed with a great metal\nknob at the other, depended from a line-and-tassel on his wrist. Thus\nattired, and thus composed into an aspect of great profundity, the\ngentleman twitched up the right-hand corner of his mouth and his right\neye simultaneously, and said, once more:\n\n\'It is in such enlightened means that the bubbling passions of my\ncountry find a vent.\'\n\nAs he looked at Martin, and nobody else was by, Martin inclined his\nhead, and said:\n\n\'You allude to--?\'\n\n\'To the Palladium of rational Liberty at home, sir, and the dread of\nForeign oppression abroad,\' returned the gentleman, as he pointed with\nhis cane to an uncommonly dirty newsboy with one eye. \'To the Envy of\nthe world, sir, and the leaders of Human Civilization. Let me ask you\nsir,\' he added, bringing the ferule of his stick heavily upon the deck\nwith the air of a man who must not be equivocated with, \'how do you like\nmy Country?\'\n\n\'I am hardly prepared to answer that question yet,\' said Martin \'seeing\nthat I have not been ashore.\'\n\n\'Well, I should expect you were not prepared, sir,\' said the gentleman,\n\'to behold such signs of National Prosperity as those?\'\n\nHe pointed to the vessels lying at the wharves; and then gave a vague\nflourish with his stick, as if he would include the air and water,\ngenerally, in this remark.\n\n\'Really,\' said Martin, \'I don\'t know. Yes. I think I was.\'\n\nThe gentleman glanced at him with a knowing look, and said he liked his\npolicy. It was natural, he said, and it pleased him as a philosopher to\nobserve the prejudices of human nature.\n\n\'You have brought, I see, sir,\' he said, turning round towards Martin,\nand resting his chin on the top of his stick, \'the usual amount of\nmisery and poverty and ignorance and crime, to be located in the bosom\nof the great Republic. Well, sir! let \'em come on in shiploads from the\nold country. When vessels are about to founder, the rats are said to\nleave \'em. There is considerable of truth, I find, in that remark.\'\n\n\'The old ship will keep afloat a year or two longer yet, perhaps,\' said\nMartin with a smile, partly occasioned by what the gentleman said,\nand partly by his manner of saying it, which was odd enough for he\nemphasised all the small words and syllables in his discourse, and left\nthe others to take care of themselves; as if he thought the larger parts\nof speech could be trusted alone, but the little ones required to be\nconstantly looked after.\n\n\'Hope is said by the poet, sir,\' observed the gentleman, \'to be the\nnurse of young Desire.\'\n\nMartin signified that he had heard of the cardinal virtue in question\nserving occasionally in that domestic capacity.\n\n\'She will not rear her infant in the present instance, sir, you\'ll\nfind,\' observed the gentleman.\n\n\'Time will show,\' said Martin.\n\nThe gentleman nodded his head gravely; and said, \'What is your name,\nsir?\'\n\nMartin told him.\n\n\'How old are you, sir?\'\n\nMartin told him.\n\n\'What is your profession, sir?\'\n\nMartin told him that also.\n\n\'What is your destination, sir?\' inquired the gentleman.\n\n\'Really,\' said Martin laughing, \'I can\'t satisfy you in that particular,\nfor I don\'t know it myself.\'\n\n\'Yes?\' said the gentleman.\n\n\'No,\' said Martin.\n\nThe gentleman adjusted his cane under his left arm, and took a more\ndeliberate and complete survey of Martin than he had yet had leisure to\nmake. When he had completed his inspection, he put out his right hand,\nshook Martin\'s hand, and said:\n\n\'My name is Colonel Diver, sir. I am the Editor of the New York Rowdy\nJournal.\'\n\nMartin received the communication with that degree of respect which an\nannouncement so distinguished appeared to demand.\n\n\'The New York Rowdy Journal, sir,\' resumed the colonel, \'is, as I expect\nyou know, the organ of our aristocracy in this city.\'\n\n\'Oh! there IS an aristocracy here, then?\' said Martin. \'Of what is it\ncomposed?\'\n\n\'Of intelligence, sir,\' replied the colonel; \'of intelligence and\nvirtue. And of their necessary consequence in this republic--dollars,\nsir.\'\n\nMartin was very glad to hear this, feeling well assured that if\nintelligence and virtue led, as a matter of course, to the acquisition\nof dollars, he would speedily become a great capitalist. He was about\nto express the gratification such news afforded him, when he was\ninterrupted by the captain of the ship, who came up at the moment to\nshake hands with the colonel; and who, seeing a well-dressed stranger on\nthe deck (for Martin had thrown aside his cloak), shook hands with him\nalso. This was an unspeakable relief to Martin, who, in spite of the\nacknowledged supremacy of Intelligence and virtue in that happy country,\nwould have been deeply mortified to appear before Colonel Diver in the\npoor character of a steerage passenger.\n\n\'Well cap\'en!\' said the colonel.\n\n\'Well colonel,\' cried the captain. \'You\'re looking most uncommon bright,\nsir. I can hardly realise its being you, and that\'s a fact.\'\n\n\'A good passage, cap\'en?\' inquired the colonel, taking him aside,\n\n\'Well now! It was a pretty spanking run, sir,\' said, or rather sung, the\ncaptain, who was a genuine New Englander; \'considerin\' the weather.\'\n\n\'Yes?\' said the colonel.\n\n\'Well! It was, sir,\' said the captain. \'I\'ve just now sent a boy up to\nyour office with the passenger-list, colonel.\'\n\n\'You haven\'t got another boy to spare, p\'raps, cap\'en?\' said the\ncolonel, in a tone almost amounting to severity.\n\n\'I guess there air a dozen if you want \'em, colonel,\' said the captain.\n\n\'One moderate big \'un could convey a dozen champagne, perhaps,\' observed\nthe colonel, musing, \'to my office. You said a spanking run, I think?\'\n\n\'Well, so I did,\' was the reply.\n\n\'It\'s very nigh, you know,\' observed the colonel. \'I\'m glad it was a\nspanking run, cap\'en. Don\'t mind about quarts if you\'re short of \'em.\nThe boy can as well bring four-and-twenty pints, and travel twice as\nonce.--A first-rate spanker, cap\'en, was it? Yes?\'\n\n\'A most e--tarnal spanker,\' said the skipper.\n\n\'I admire at your good fortun, cap\'en. You might loan me a corkscrew at\nthe same time, and half-a-dozen glasses if you liked. However bad the\nelements combine against my country\'s noble packet-ship, the Screw,\nsir,\' said the colonel, turning to Martin, and drawing a flourish on\nthe surface of the deck with his cane, \'her passage either way is almost\ncertain to eventuate a spanker!\'\n\nThe captain, who had the Sewer below at that moment, lunching\nexpensively in one cabin, while the amiable Stabber was drinking himself\ninto a state of blind madness in another, took a cordial leave of his\nfriend the colonel, and hurried away to dispatch the champagne; well\nknowing (as it afterwards appeared) that if he failed to conciliate the\neditor of the Rowdy Journal, that potentate would denounce him and his\nship in large capitals before he was a day older; and would probably\nassault the memory of his mother also, who had not been dead more than\ntwenty years. The colonel being again left alone with Martin, checked\nhim as he was moving away, and offered in consideration of his being an\nEnglishman, to show him the town and to introduce him, if such were his\ndesire, to a genteel boarding-house. But before they entered on these\nproceedings (he said), he would beseech the honour of his company at the\noffice of the Rowdy Journal, to partake of a bottle of champagne of his\nown importation.\n\nAll this was so extremely kind and hospitable, that Martin, though it\nwas quite early in the morning, readily acquiesced. So, instructing\nMark, who was deeply engaged with his friend and her three children,\nthat when he had done assisting them, and had cleared the baggage,\nhe was to wait for further orders at the Rowdy Journal Office, Martin\naccompanied his new friend on shore.\n\nThey made their way as they best could through the melancholy crowd of\nemigrants upon the wharf, who, grouped about their beds and boxes, with\nthe bare ground below them and the bare sky above, might have fallen\nfrom another planet, for anything they knew of the country; and walked\nfor some short distance along a busy street, bounded on one side by the\nquays and shipping; and on the other by a long row of staring red-brick\nstorehouses and offices, ornamented with more black boards and white\nletters, and more white boards and black letters, than Martin had ever\nseen before, in fifty times the space. Presently they turned up a narrow\nstreet, and presently into other narrow streets, until at last they\nstopped before a house whereon was painted in great characters, \'ROWDY\nJOURNAL.\'\n\nThe colonel, who had walked the whole way with one hand in his breast,\nhis head occasionally wagging from side to side, and his hat thrown back\nupon his ears, like a man who was oppressed to inconvenience by a sense\nof his own greatness, led the way up a dark and dirty flight of stairs\ninto a room of similar character, all littered and bestrewn with odds\nand ends of newspapers and other crumpled fragments, both in proof and\nmanuscript. Behind a mangy old writing-table in this apartment sat a\nfigure with a stump of a pen in its mouth and a great pair of scissors\nin its right hand, clipping and slicing at a file of Rowdy Journals;\nand it was such a laughable figure that Martin had some difficulty in\npreserving his gravity, though conscious of the close observation of\nColonel Diver.\n\nThe individual who sat clipping and slicing as aforesaid at the Rowdy\nJournals, was a small young gentleman of very juvenile appearance, and\nunwholesomely pale in the face; partly, perhaps, from intense thought,\nbut partly, there is no doubt, from the excessive use of tobacco, which\nhe was at that moment chewing vigorously. He wore his shirt-collar\nturned down over a black ribbon; and his lank hair, a fragile crop, was\nnot only smoothed and parted back from his brow, that none of the Poetry\nof his aspect might be lost, but had, here and there, been grubbed up by\nthe roots; which accounted for his loftiest developments being somewhat\npimply. He had that order of nose on which the envy of mankind has\nbestowed the appellation \'snub,\' and it was very much turned up at the\nend, as with a lofty scorn. Upon the upper lip of this young gentleman\nwere tokens of a sandy down; so very, very smooth and scant, that,\nthough encouraged to the utmost, it looked more like a recent trace of\ngingerbread than the fair promise of a moustache; and this conjecture,\nhis apparently tender age went far to strengthen. He was intent upon\nhis work. Every time he snapped the great pair of scissors, he made\na corresponding motion with his jaws, which gave him a very terrible\nappearance.\n\nMartin was not long in determining within himself that this must be\nColonel Diver\'s son; the hope of the family, and future mainspring of\nthe Rowdy Journal. Indeed he had begun to say that he presumed this\nwas the colonel\'s little boy, and that it was very pleasant to see\nhim playing at Editor in all the guilelessness of childhood, when the\ncolonel proudly interposed and said:\n\n\'My War Correspondent, sir--Mr Jefferson Brick!\'\n\nMartin could not help starting at this unexpected announcement, and the\nconsciousness of the irretrievable mistake he had nearly made.\n\nMr Brick seemed pleased with the sensation he produced upon the\nstranger, and shook hands with him, with an air of patronage designed\nto reassure him, and to let him blow that there was no occasion to be\nfrightened, for he (Brick) wouldn\'t hurt him.\n\n\'You have heard of Jefferson Brick, I see, sir,\' quoth the colonel,\nwith a smile. \'England has heard of Jefferson Brick. Europe has heard of\nJefferson Brick. Let me see. When did you leave England, sir?\'\n\n\'Five weeks ago,\' said Martin.\n\n\'Five weeks ago,\' repeated the colonel, thoughtfully; as he took his\nseat upon the table, and swung his legs. \'Now let me ask you, sir which\nof Mr Brick\'s articles had become at that time the most obnoxious to the\nBritish Parliament and the Court of Saint James\'s?\'\n\n\'Upon my word,\' said Martin, \'I--\'\n\n\'I have reason to know, sir,\' interrupted the colonel, \'that the\naristocratic circles of your country quail before the name of Jefferson\nBrick. I should like to be informed, sir, from your lips, which of his\nsentiments has struck the deadliest blow--\'\n\n\'At the hundred heads of the Hydra of Corruption now grovelling in the\ndust beneath the lance of Reason, and spouting up to the universal arch\nabove us, its sanguinary gore,\' said Mr Brick, putting on a little blue\ncloth cap with a glazed front, and quoting his last article.\n\n\'The libation of freedom, Brick\'--hinted the colonel.\n\n\'--Must sometimes be quaffed in blood, colonel,\' cried Brick. And when\nhe said \'blood,\' he gave the great pair of scissors a sharp snap, as if\nTHEY said blood too, and were quite of his opinion.\n\nThis done, they both looked at Martin, pausing for a reply.\n\n\'Upon my life,\' said Martin, who had by this time quite recovered his\nusual coolness, \'I can\'t give you any satisfactory information about it;\nfor the truth is that I--\'\n\n\'Stop!\' cried the colonel, glancing sternly at his war correspondent and\ngiving his head one shake after every sentence. \'That you never heard of\nJefferson Brick, sir. That you never read Jefferson Brick, sir. That\nyou never saw the Rowdy Journal, sir. That you never knew, sir, of its\nmighty influence upon the cabinets of Europe. Yes?\'\n\n\'That\'s what I was about to observe, certainly,\' said Martin.\n\n\'Keep cool, Jefferson,\' said the colonel gravely. \'Don\'t bust! oh you\nEuropeans! After that, let\'s have a glass of wine!\' So saying, he got\ndown from the table, and produced, from a basket outside the door, a\nbottle of champagne, and three glasses.\n\n\'Mr Jefferson Brick, sir,\' said the colonel, filling Martin\'s glass\nand his own, and pushing the bottle to that gentleman, \'will give us a\nsentiment.\'\n\n\'Well, sir!\' cried the war correspondent, \'Since you have concluded to\ncall upon me, I will respond. I will give you, sir, The Rowdy Journal\nand its brethren; the well of Truth, whose waters are black from being\ncomposed of printers\' ink, but are quite clear enough for my country to\nbehold the shadow of her Destiny reflected in.\'\n\n\'Hear, hear!\' cried the colonel, with great complacency. \'There are\nflowery components, sir, in the language of my friend?\'\n\n\'Very much so, indeed,\' said Martin.\n\n\'There is to-day\'s Rowdy, sir,\' observed the colonel, handing him a\npaper. \'You\'ll find Jefferson Brick at his usual post in the van of\nhuman civilization and moral purity.\'\n\nThe colonel was by this time seated on the table again. Mr Brick also\ntook up a position on that same piece of furniture; and they fell to\ndrinking pretty hard. They often looked at Martin as he read the paper,\nand then at each other. When he laid it down, which was not until they\nhad finished a second bottle, the colonel asked him what he thought of\nit.\n\n\'Why, it\'s horribly personal,\' said Martin.\n\nThe colonel seemed much flattered by this remark; and said he hoped it\nwas.\n\n\'We are independent here, sir,\' said Mr Jefferson Brick. \'We do as we\nlike.\'\n\n\'If I may judge from this specimen,\' returned Martin, \'there must be a\nfew thousands here, rather the reverse of independent, who do as they\ndon\'t like.\'\n\n\'Well! They yield to the popular mind of the Popular Instructor, sir,\'\nsaid the colonel. \'They rile up, sometimes; but in general we have a\nhold upon our citizens, both in public and in private life, which is as\nmuch one of the ennobling institutions of our happy country as--\'\n\n\'As nigger slavery itself,\' suggested Mr Brick.\n\n\'En--tirely so,\' remarked the colonel.\n\n\'Pray,\' said Martin, after some hesitation, \'may I venture to ask,\nwith reference to a case I observe in this paper of yours, whether the\nPopular Instructor often deals in--I am at a loss to express it without\ngiving you offence--in forgery? In forged letters, for instance,\' he\npursued, for the colonel was perfectly calm and quite at his ease,\n\'solemnly purporting to have been written at recent periods by living\nmen?\'\n\n\'Well, sir!\' replied the colonel. \'It does, now and then.\'\n\n\'And the popular instructed--what do they do?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'Buy \'em:\' said the colonel.\n\nMr Jefferson Brick expectorated and laughed; the former copiously, the\nlatter approvingly.\n\n\'Buy \'em by hundreds of thousands,\' resumed the colonel. \'We are a smart\npeople here, and can appreciate smartness.\'\n\n\'Is smartness American for forgery?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'Well!\' said the colonel, \'I expect it\'s American for a good many things\nthat you call by other names. But you can\'t help yourself in Europe. We\ncan.\'\n\n\'And do, sometimes,\' thought Martin. \'You help yourselves with very\nlittle ceremony, too!\'\n\n\'At all events, whatever name we choose to employ,\' said the colonel,\nstooping down to roll the third empty bottle into a corner after the\nother two, \'I suppose the art of forgery was not invented here sir?\'\n\n\'I suppose not,\' replied Martin.\n\n\'Nor any other kind of smartness I reckon?\'\n\n\'Invented! No, I presume not.\'\n\n\'Well!\' said the colonel; \'then we got it all from the old country, and\nthe old country\'s to blame for it, and not the new \'un. There\'s an end\nof THAT. Now, if Mr Jefferson Brick and you will be so good as to clear,\nI\'ll come out last, and lock the door.\'\n\nRightly interpreting this as the signal for their departure, Martin\nwalked downstairs after the war correspondent, who preceded him with\ngreat majesty. The colonel following, they left the Rowdy Journal Office\nand walked forth into the streets; Martin feeling doubtful whether\nhe ought to kick the colonel for having presumed to speak to him,\nor whether it came within the bounds of possibility that he and his\nestablishment could be among the boasted usages of that regenerated\nland.\n\nIt was clear that Colonel Diver, in the security of his strong position,\nand in his perfect understanding of the public sentiment, cared very\nlittle what Martin or anybody else thought about him. His high-spiced\nwares were made to sell, and they sold; and his thousands of readers\ncould as rationally charge their delight in filth upon him, as a glutton\ncan shift upon his cook the responsibility of his beastly excess.\nNothing would have delighted the colonel more than to be told that\nno such man as he could walk in high success the streets of any other\ncountry in the world; for that would only have been a logical assurance\nto him of the correct adaptation of his labours to the prevailing taste,\nand of his being strictly and peculiarly a national feature of America.\n\nThey walked a mile or more along a handsome street which the colonel\nsaid was called Broadway, and which Mr Jefferson Brick said \'whipped the\nuniverse.\' Turning, at length, into one of the numerous streets which\nbranched from this main thoroughfare, they stopped before a rather\nmean-looking house with jalousie blinds to every window; a flight of\nsteps before the green street-door; a shining white ornament on the\nrails on either side like a petrified pineapple, polished; a little\noblong plate of the same material over the knocker whereon the name of\n\'Pawkins\' was engraved; and four accidental pigs looking down the area.\n\nThe colonel knocked at this house with the air of a man who lived there;\nand an Irish girl popped her head out of one of the top windows to see\nwho it was. Pending her journey downstairs, the pigs were joined by two\nor three friends from the next street, in company with whom they lay\ndown sociably in the gutter.\n\n\'Is the major indoors?\' inquired the colonel, as he entered.\n\n\'Is it the master, sir?\' returned the girl, with a hesitation\nwhich seemed to imply that they were rather flush of majors in that\nestablishment.\n\n\'The master!\' said Colonel Diver, stopping short and looking round at\nhis war correspondent.\n\n\'Oh! The depressing institutions of that British empire, colonel!\' said\nJefferson Brick. \'Master!\'\n\n\'What\'s the matter with the word?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'I should hope it was never heard in our country, sir; that\'s all,\' said\nJefferson Brick; \'except when it is used by some degraded Help, as new\nto the blessings of our form of government, as this Help is. There are\nno masters here.\'\n\n\'All \"owners,\" are they?\' said Martin.\n\nMr Jefferson Brick followed in the Rowdy Journal\'s footsteps without\nreturning any answer. Martin took the same course, thinking as he went,\nthat perhaps the free and independent citizens, who in their moral\nelevation, owned the colonel for their master, might render better\nhomage to the goddess, Liberty, in nightly dreams upon the oven of a\nRussian Serf.\n\nThe colonel led the way into a room at the back of the house upon\nthe ground-floor, light, and of fair dimensions, but exquisitely\nuncomfortable; having nothing in it but the four cold white walls and\nceiling, a mean carpet, a dreary waste of dining-table reaching from\nend to end, and a bewildering collection of cane-bottomed chairs. In the\nfurther region of this banqueting-hall was a stove, garnished on either\nside with a great brass spittoon, and shaped in itself like three little\niron barrels set up on end in a fender, and joined together on the\nprinciple of the Siamese Twins. Before it, swinging himself in a\nrocking-chair, lounged a large gentleman with his hat on, who amused\nhimself by spitting alternately into the spittoon on the right hand of\nthe stove, and the spittoon on the left, and then working his way back\nagain in the same order. A negro lad in a soiled white jacket was busily\nengaged in placing on the table two long rows of knives and forks,\nrelieved at intervals by jugs of water; and as he travelled down one\nside of this festive board, he straightened with his dirty hands the\ndirtier cloth, which was all askew, and had not been removed since\nbreakfast. The atmosphere of this room was rendered intensely hot and\nstifling by the stove; but being further flavoured by a sickly gush\nof soup from the kitchen, and by such remote suggestions of tobacco as\nlingered within the brazen receptacles already mentioned, it became, to\na stranger\'s senses, almost insupportable.\n\nThe gentleman in the rocking-chair having his back towards them, and\nbeing much engaged in his intellectual pastime, was not aware of their\napproach until the colonel, walking up to the stove, contributed\nhis mite towards the support of the left-hand spittoon, just as the\nmajor--for it was the major--bore down upon it. Major Pawkins then\nreserved his fire, and looking upward, said, with a peculiar air of\nquiet weariness, like a man who had been up all night--an air which\nMartin had already observed both in the colonel and Mr Jefferson Brick--\n\n\'Well, colonel!\'\n\n\'Here is a gentleman from England, major,\' the colonel replied, \'who\nhas concluded to locate himself here if the amount of compensation suits\nhim.\'\n\n\'I am glad to see you, sir,\' observed the major, shaking hands with\nMartin, and not moving a muscle of his face. \'You are pretty bright, I\nhope?\'\n\n\'Never better,\' said Martin.\n\n\'You are never likely to be,\' returned the major. \'You will see the sun\nshine HERE.\'\n\n\'I think I remember to have seen it shine at home sometimes,\' said\nMartin, smiling.\n\n\'I think not,\' replied the major. He said so with a stoical indifference\ncertainly, but still in a tone of firmness which admitted of no further\ndispute on that point. When he had thus settled the question, he put his\nhat a little on one side for the greater convenience of scratching his\nhead, and saluted Mr Jefferson Brick with a lazy nod.\n\nMajor Pawkins (a gentleman of Pennsylvanian origin) was distinguished by\na very large skull, and a great mass of yellow forehead; in deference\nto which commodities it was currently held in bar-rooms and other such\nplaces of resort that the major was a man of huge sagacity. He was\nfurther to be known by a heavy eye and a dull slow manner; and for being\na man of that kind who--mentally speaking--requires a deal of room to\nturn himself in. But, in trading on his stock of wisdom, he invariably\nproceeded on the principle of putting all the goods he had (and more)\ninto his window; and that went a great way with his constituency of\nadmirers. It went a great way, perhaps, with Mr Jefferson Brick, who\ntook occasion to whisper in Martin\'s ear:\n\n\'One of the most remarkable men in our country, sir!\'\n\nIt must not be supposed, however, that the perpetual exhibition in the\nmarket-place of all his stock-in-trade for sale or hire, was the major\'s\nsole claim to a very large share of sympathy and support. He was a great\npolitician; and the one article of his creed, in reference to all public\nobligations involving the good faith and integrity of his country, was,\n\'run a moist pen slick through everything, and start fresh.\' This\nmade him a patriot. In commercial affairs he was a bold speculator.\nIn plainer words he had a most distinguished genius for swindling, and\ncould start a bank, or negotiate a loan, or form a land-jobbing company\n(entailing ruin, pestilence, and death, on hundreds of families), with\nany gifted creature in the Union. This made him an admirable man of\nbusiness. He could hang about a bar-room, discussing the affairs of the\nnation, for twelve hours together; and in that time could hold forth\nwith more intolerable dulness, chew more tobacco, smoke more tobacco,\ndrink more rum-toddy, mint-julep, gin-sling, and cocktail, than any\nprivate gentleman of his acquaintance. This made him an orator and a\nman of the people. In a word, the major was a rising character, and a\npopular character, and was in a fair way to be sent by the popular party\nto the State House of New York, if not in the end to Washington itself.\nBut as a man\'s private prosperity does not always keep pace with his\npatriotic devotion to public affairs; and as fraudulent transactions\nhave their downs as well as ups, the major was occasionally under a\ncloud. Hence, just now Mrs Pawkins kept a boarding-house, and Major\nPawkins rather \'loafed\' his time away than otherwise.\n\n\'You have come to visit our country, sir, at a season of great\ncommercial depression,\' said the major.\n\n\'At an alarming crisis,\' said the colonel.\n\n\'At a period of unprecedented stagnation,\' said Mr Jefferson Brick.\n\n\'I am sorry to hear that,\' returned Martin. \'It\'s not likely to last, I\nhope?\'\n\nMartin knew nothing about America, or he would have known perfectly well\nthat if its individual citizens, to a man, are to be believed, it always\nIS depressed, and always IS stagnated, and always IS at an alarming\ncrisis, and never was otherwise; though as a body they are ready to make\noath upon the Evangelists at any hour of the day or night, that it\nis the most thriving and prosperous of all countries on the habitable\nglobe.\n\n\'It\'s not likely to last, I hope?\' said Martin.\n\n\'Well!\' returned the major, \'I expect we shall get along somehow, and\ncome right in the end.\'\n\n\'We are an elastic country,\' said the Rowdy Journal.\n\n\'We are a young lion,\' said Mr Jefferson Brick.\n\n\'We have revivifying and vigorous principles within ourselves,\' observed\nthe major. \'Shall we drink a bitter afore dinner, colonel?\'\n\nThe colonel assenting to this proposal with great alacrity, Major\nPawkins proposed an adjournment to a neighbouring bar-room, which, as he\nobserved, was \'only in the next block.\' He then referred Martin to\nMrs Pawkins for all particulars connected with the rate of board and\nlodging, and informed him that he would have the pleasure of seeing that\nlady at dinner, which would soon be ready, as the dinner hour was two\no\'clock, and it only wanted a quarter now. This reminded him that if the\nbitter were to be taken at all, there was no time to lose; so he walked\noff without more ado, and left them to follow if they thought proper.\n\nWhen the major rose from his rocking-chair before the stove, and so\ndisturbed the hot air and balmy whiff of soup which fanned their brows,\nthe odour of stale tobacco became so decidedly prevalent as to leave no\ndoubt of its proceeding mainly from that gentleman\'s attire. Indeed,\nas Martin walked behind him to the bar-room, he could not help thinking\nthat the great square major, in his listlessness and langour, looked\nvery much like a stale weed himself; such as might be hoed out of\nthe public garden, with great advantage to the decent growth of that\npreserve, and tossed on some congenial dunghill.\n\nThey encountered more weeds in the bar-room, some of whom (being thirsty\nsouls as well as dirty) were pretty stale in one sense, and pretty fresh\nin another. Among them was a gentleman who, as Martin gathered from the\nconversation that took place over the bitter, started that afternoon for\nthe Far West on a six months\' business tour, and who, as his outfit and\nequipment for this journey, had just such another shiny hat and just\nsuch another little pale valise as had composed the luggage of the\ngentleman who came from England in the Screw.\n\nThey were walking back very leisurely; Martin arm-in-arm with Mr\nJefferson Brick, and the major and the colonel side-by-side before them;\nwhen, as they came within a house or two of the major\'s residence, they\nheard a bell ringing violently. The instant this sound struck upon their\nears, the colonel and the major darted off, dashed up the steps and in\nat the street-door (which stood ajar) like lunatics; while Mr Jefferson\nBrick, detaching his arm from Martin\'s, made a precipitate dive in the\nsame direction, and vanished also.\n\n\'Good Heaven!\' thought Martin. \'The premises are on fire! It was an\nalarm bell!\'\n\nBut there was no smoke to be seen, nor any flame, nor was there any\nsmell of fire. As Martin faltered on the pavement, three more gentlemen,\nwith horror and agitation depicted in their faces, came plunging wildly\nround the street corner; jostled each other on the steps; struggled for\nan instant; and rushed into the house, a confused heap of arms and\nlegs. Unable to bear it any longer, Martin followed. Even in his\nrapid progress he was run down, thrust aside, and passed, by two more\ngentlemen, stark mad, as it appeared, with fierce excitement.\n\n\'Where is it?\' cried Martin, breathlessly, to a negro whom he\nencountered in the passage.\n\n\'In a eatin room, sa. Kernell, sa, him kep a seat \'side himself, sa.\'\n\n\'A seat!\' cried Martin.\n\n\'For a dinnar, sa.\'\n\nMartin started at him for a moment, and burst into a hearty laugh; to\nwhich the negro, out of his natural good humour and desire to please, so\nheartily responded, that his teeth shone like a gleam of light. \'You\'re\nthe pleasantest fellow I have seen yet,\' said Martin clapping him on the\nback, \'and give me a better appetite than bitters.\'\n\nWith this sentiment he walked into the dining-room and slipped into\na chair next the colonel, which that gentleman (by this time nearly\nthrough his dinner) had turned down in reserve for him, with its back\nagainst the table.\n\nIt was a numerous company--eighteen or twenty perhaps. Of these some\nfive or six were ladies, who sat wedged together in a little phalanx by\nthemselves. All the knives and forks were working away at a rate that\nwas quite alarming; very few words were spoken; and everybody seemed to\neat his utmost in self-defence, as if a famine were expected to set in\nbefore breakfast time to-morrow morning, and it had become high time\nto assert the first law of nature. The poultry, which may perhaps be\nconsidered to have formed the staple of the entertainment--for there was\na turkey at the top, a pair of ducks at the bottom, and two fowls in the\nmiddle--disappeared as rapidly as if every bird had had the use of its\nwings, and had flown in desperation down a human throat. The oysters,\nstewed and pickled, leaped from their capacious reservoirs, and slid by\nscores into the mouths of the assembly. The sharpest pickles vanished,\nwhole cucumbers at once, like sugar-plums, and no man winked his eye.\nGreat heaps of indigestible matter melted away as ice before the sun.\nIt was a solemn and an awful thing to see. Dyspeptic individuals bolted\ntheir food in wedges; feeding, not themselves, but broods of nightmares,\nwho were continually standing at livery within them. Spare men, with\nlank and rigid cheeks, came out unsatisfied from the destruction of\nheavy dishes, and glared with watchful eyes upon the pastry. What Mrs\nPawkins felt each day at dinner-time is hidden from all human knowledge.\nBut she had one comfort. It was very soon over.\n\nWhen the colonel had finished his dinner, which event took place while\nMartin, who had sent his plate for some turkey, was waiting to begin,\nhe asked him what he thought of the boarders, who were from all parts of\nthe Union, and whether he would like to know any particulars concerning\nthem.\n\n\'Pray,\' said Martin, \'who is that sickly little girl opposite, with the\ntight round eyes? I don\'t see anybody here, who looks like her mother,\nor who seems to have charge of her.\'\n\n\'Do you mean the matron in blue, sir?\' asked the colonel, with emphasis.\n\'That is Mrs Jefferson Brick, sir.\'\n\n\'No, no,\' said Martin, \'I mean the little girl, like a doll; directly\nopposite.\'\n\n\'Well, sir!\' cried the colonel. \'THAT is Mrs Jefferson Brick.\'\n\nMartin glanced at the colonel\'s face, but he was quite serious.\n\n\'Bless my soul! I suppose there will be a young Brick then, one of these\ndays?\' said Martin.\n\n\'There are two young Bricks already, sir,\' returned the colonel.\n\nThe matron looked so uncommonly like a child herself, that Martin could\nnot help saying as much. \'Yes, sir,\' returned the colonel, \'but some\ninstitutions develop human natur; others re--tard it.\'\n\n\'Jefferson Brick,\' he observed after a short silence, in commendation\nof his correspondent, \'is one of the most remarkable men in our country,\nsir!\'\n\nThis had passed almost in a whisper, for the distinguished gentleman\nalluded to sat on Martin\'s other hand.\n\n\'Pray, Mr Brick,\' said Martin, turning to him, and asking a question\nmore for conversation\'s sake than from any feeling of interest in its\nsubject, \'who is that;\' he was going to say \'young\' but thought it\nprudent to eschew the word--\'that very short gentleman yonder, with the\nred nose?\'\n\n\'That is Pro--fessor Mullit, sir,\' replied Jefferson.\n\n\'May I ask what he is professor of?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'Of education, sir,\' said Jefferson Brick.\n\n\'A sort of schoolmaster, possibly?\' Martin ventured to observe.\n\n\'He is a man of fine moral elements, sir, and not commonly endowed,\'\nsaid the war correspondent. \'He felt it necessary, at the last election\nfor President, to repudiate and denounce his father, who voted on the\nwrong interest. He has since written some powerful pamphlets, under\nthe signature of \"Suturb,\" or Brutus reversed. He is one of the most\nremarkable men in our country, sir.\'\n\n\'There seem to be plenty of \'em,\' thought Martin, \'at any rate.\'\n\nPursuing his inquiries Martin found that there were no fewer than four\nmajors present, two colonels, one general, and a captain, so that he\ncould not help thinking how strongly officered the American militia must\nbe; and wondering very much whether the officers commanded each other;\nor if they did not, where on earth the privates came from. There seemed\nto be no man there without a title; for those who had not attained to\nmilitary honours were either doctors, professors, or reverends. Three\nvery hard and disagreeable gentlemen were on missions from neighbouring\nStates; one on monetary affairs, one on political, one on sectarian.\nAmong the ladies, there were Mrs Pawkins, who was very straight, bony,\nand silent; and a wiry-faced old damsel, who held strong sentiments\ntouching the rights of women, and had diffused the same in lectures;\nbut the rest were strangely devoid of individual traits of character,\ninsomuch that any one of them might have changed minds with the other,\nand nobody would have found it out. These, by the way, were the only\nmembers of the party who did not appear to be among the most remarkable\npeople in the country.\n\nSeveral of the gentlemen got up, one by one, and walked off as they\nswallowed their last morsel; pausing generally by the stove for a minute\nor so to refresh themselves at the brass spittoons. A few sedentary\ncharacters, however, remained at table full a quarter of an hour, and\ndid not rise until the ladies rose, when all stood up.\n\n\'Where are they going?\' asked Martin, in the ear of Mr Jefferson Brick.\n\n\'To their bedrooms, sir.\'\n\n\'Is there no dessert, or other interval of conversation?\' asked Martin,\nwho was disposed to enjoy himself after his long voyage.\n\n\'We are a busy people here, sir, and have no time for that,\' was the\nreply.\n\nSo the ladies passed out in single file; Mr Jefferson Brick and such\nother married gentlemen as were left, acknowledging the departure\nof their other halves by a nod; and there was an end of THEM. Martin\nthought this an uncomfortable custom, but he kept his opinion to himself\nfor the present, being anxious to hear, and inform himself by, the\nconversation of the busy gentlemen, who now lounged about the stove as\nif a great weight had been taken off their minds by the withdrawal of\nthe other sex; and who made a plentiful use of the spittoons and their\ntoothpicks.\n\nIt was rather barren of interest, to say the truth; and the greater part\nof it may be summed up in one word. Dollars. All their cares, hopes,\njoys, affections, virtues, and associations, seemed to be melted down\ninto dollars. Whatever the chance contributions that fell into the slow\ncauldron of their talk, they made the gruel thick and slab with dollars.\nMen were weighed by their dollars, measures gauged by their dollars;\nlife was auctioneered, appraised, put up, and knocked down for its\ndollars. The next respectable thing to dollars was any venture having\ntheir attainment for its end. The more of that worthless ballast, honour\nand fair-dealing, which any man cast overboard from the ship of his Good\nName and Good Intent, the more ample stowage-room he had for dollars.\nMake commerce one huge lie and mighty theft. Deface the banner of the\nnation for an idle rag; pollute it star by star; and cut out stripe by\nstripe as from the arm of a degraded soldier. Do anything for dollars!\nWhat is a flag to THEM!\n\nOne who rides at all hazards of limb and life in the chase of a fox,\nwill prefer to ride recklessly at most times. So it was with these\ngentlemen. He was the greatest patriot, in their eyes, who brawled the\nloudest, and who cared the least for decency. He was their champion who,\nin the brutal fury of his own pursuit, could cast no stigma upon them\nfor the hot knavery of theirs. Thus, Martin learned in the five minutes\'\nstraggling talk about the stove, that to carry pistols into legislative\nassemblies, and swords in sticks, and other such peaceful toys; to seize\nopponents by the throat, as dogs or rats might do; to bluster, bully,\nand overbear by personal assailment; were glowing deeds. Not thrusts and\nstabs at Freedom, striking far deeper into her House of Life than any\nsultan\'s scimitar could reach; but rare incense on her altars, having a\ngrateful scent in patriotic nostrils, and curling upward to the seventh\nheaven of Fame.\n\nOnce or twice, when there was a pause, Martin asked such questions as\nnaturally occurred to him, being a stranger, about the national poets,\nthe theatre, literature, and the arts. But the information which these\ngentlemen were in a condition to give him on such topics, did not extend\nbeyond the effusions of such master-spirits of the time as Colonel\nDiver, Mr Jefferson Brick, and others; renowned, as it appeared, for\nexcellence in the achievement of a peculiar style of broadside essay\ncalled \'a screamer.\'\n\n\'We are a busy people, sir,\' said one of the captains, who was from the\nWest, \'and have no time for reading mere notions. We don\'t mind \'em\nif they come to us in newspapers along with almighty strong stuff of\nanother sort, but darn your books.\'\n\nHere the general, who appeared to grow quite faint at the bare thought\nof reading anything which was neither mercantile nor political, and was\nnot in a newspaper, inquired \'if any gentleman would drink some?\' Most\nof the company, considering this a very choice and seasonable idea,\nlounged out, one by one, to the bar-room in the next block. Thence\nthey probably went to their stores and counting-houses; thence to the\nbar-room again, to talk once more of dollars, and enlarge their minds\nwith the perusal and discussion of screamers; and thence each man to\nsnore in the bosom of his own family.\n\n\'Which would seem,\' said Martin, pursuing the current of his own\nthoughts, \'to be the principal recreation they enjoy in common.\' With\nthat, he fell a-musing again on dollars, demagogues, and bar-rooms;\ndebating within himself whether busy people of this class were really\nas busy as they claimed to be, or only had an inaptitude for social and\ndomestic pleasure.\n\nIt was a difficult question to solve; and the mere fact of its being\nstrongly presented to his mind by all that he had seen and heard, was\nnot encouraging. He sat down at the deserted board, and becoming\nmore and more despondent, as he thought of all the uncertainties and\ndifficulties of his precarious situation, sighed heavily.\n\nNow, there had been at the dinner-table a middle-aged man with a dark\neye and a sunburnt face, who had attracted Martin\'s attention by having\nsomething very engaging and honest in the expression of his features;\nbut of whom he could learn nothing from either of his neighbours, who\nseemed to consider him quite beneath their notice. He had taken no part\nin the conversation round the stove, nor had he gone forth with the\nrest; and now, when he heard Martin sigh for the third or fourth\ntime, he interposed with some casual remark, as if he desired, without\nobtruding himself upon a stranger\'s notice, to engage him in cheerful\nconversation if he could. His motive was so obvious, and yet so\ndelicately expressed, that Martin felt really grateful to him, and\nshowed him so in the manner of his reply.\n\n\'I will not ask you,\' said this gentleman with a smile, as he rose and\nmoved towards him, \'how you like my country, for I can quite anticipate\nyour feeling on that point. But, as I am an American, and consequently\nbound to begin with a question, I\'ll ask you how you like the colonel?\'\n\n\'You are so very frank,\' returned Martin, \'that I have no hesitation in\nsaying I don\'t like him at all. Though I must add that I am beholden to\nhim for his civility in bringing me here--and arranging for my stay,\non pretty reasonable terms, by the way,\' he added, remembering that the\ncolonel had whispered him to that effect, before going out.\n\n\'Not much beholden,\' said the stranger drily. \'The colonel occasionally\nboards packet-ships, I have heard, to glean the latest information\nfor his journal; and he occasionally brings strangers to board here, I\nbelieve, with a view to the little percentage which attaches to those\ngood offices; and which the hostess deducts from his weekly bill. I\ndon\'t offend you, I hope?\' he added, seeing that Martin reddened.\n\n\'My dear sir,\' returned Martin, as they shook hands, \'how is that\npossible! to tell you the truth, I--am--\'\n\n\'Yes?\' said the gentleman, sitting down beside him.\n\n\'I am rather at a loss, since I must speak plainly,\' said Martin,\ngetting the better of his hesitation, \'to know how this colonel escapes\nbeing beaten.\'\n\n\'Well! He has been beaten once or twice,\' remarked the gentleman\nquietly. \'He is one of a class of men, in whom our own Franklin, so\nlong ago as ten years before the close of the last century, foresaw\nour danger and disgrace. Perhaps you don\'t know that Franklin, in very\nsevere terms, published his opinion that those who were slandered\nby such fellows as this colonel, having no sufficient remedy in the\nadministration of this country\'s laws or in the decent and right-minded\nfeeling of its people, were justified in retorting on such public\nnuisances by means of a stout cudgel?\'\n\n\'I was not aware of that,\' said Martin, \'but I am very glad to know\nit, and I think it worthy of his memory; especially\'--here he hesitated\nagain.\n\n\'Go on,\' said the other, smiling as if he knew what stuck in Martin\'s\nthroat.\n\n\'Especially,\' pursued Martin, \'as I can already understand that it may\nhave required great courage, even in his time, to write freely on any\nquestion which was not a party one in this very free country.\'\n\n\'Some courage, no doubt,\' returned his new friend. \'Do you think it\nwould require any to do so, now?\'\n\n\'Indeed I think it would; and not a little,\' said Martin.\n\n\'You are right. So very right, that I believe no satirist could breathe\nthis air. If another Juvenal or Swift could rise up among us to-morrow,\nhe would be hunted down. If you have any knowledge of our literature,\nand can give me the name of any man, American born and bred, who has\nanatomized our follies as a people, and not as this or that party; and\nwho has escaped the foulest and most brutal slander, the most inveterate\nhatred and intolerant pursuit; it will be a strange name in my ears,\nbelieve me. In some cases I could name to you, where a native writer\nhas ventured on the most harmless and good-humoured illustrations of\nour vices or defects, it has been found necessary to announce, that in\na second edition the passage has been expunged, or altered, or explained\naway, or patched into praise.\'\n\n\'And how has this been brought about?\' asked Martin, in dismay.\n\n\'Think of what you have seen and heard to-day, beginning with the\ncolonel,\' said his friend, \'and ask yourself. How THEY came about,\nis another question. Heaven forbid that they should be samples of the\nintelligence and virtue of America, but they come uppermost, and in\ngreat numbers, and too often represent it. Will you walk?\'\n\nThere was a cordial candour in his manner, and an engaging confidence\nthat it would not be abused; a manly bearing on his own part, and a\nsimple reliance on the manly faith of a stranger; which Martin had\nnever seen before. He linked his arm readily in that of the American\ngentleman, and they walked out together.\n\nIt was perhaps to men like this, his new companion, that a traveller\nof honoured name, who trod those shores now nearly forty years ago, and\nwoke upon that soil, as many have done since, to blots and stains upon\nits high pretensions, which in the brightness of his distant dreams were\nlost to view, appealed in these words--\n\n \'Oh, but for such, Columbia\'s days were done;\n Rank without ripeness, quickened without sun,\n Crude at the surface, rotten at the core,\n Her fruits would fall before her spring were o\'er!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n\nMARTIN ENLARGES HIS CIRCLE OF AQUAINTANCE; INCREASES HIS STOCK\nOF WISDOM; AND HAS AN EXCELLENT OPPORTUNITY OF COMPARING HIS OWN\nEXPERIENCES WITH THOSE OF LUMMY NED OF THE LIGHT SALISBURY, AS RELATED\nBY HIS FRIEND MR WILLIAM SIMMONS\n\n\nIt was characteristic of Martin, that all this while he had either\nforgotten Mark Tapley as completely as if there had been no such person\nin existence, or, if for a moment the figure of that gentleman rose\nbefore his mental vision, had dismissed it as something by no means of\na pressing nature, which might be attended to by-and-bye, and could wait\nhis perfect leisure. But, being now in the streets again, it occurred to\nhim as just coming within the bare limits of possibility that Mr Tapley\nmight, in course of time, grow tired of waiting on the threshold of the\nRowdy Journal Office, so he intimated to his new friend, that if they\ncould conveniently walk in that direction, he would be glad to get this\npiece of business off his mind.\n\n\'And speaking of business,\' said Martin, \'may I ask, in order that I may\nnot be behind-hand with questions either, whether your occupation holds\nyou to this city, or like myself, you are a visitor here?\'\n\n\'A visitor,\' replied his friend. \'I was \"raised\" in the State of\nMassachusetts, and reside there still. My home is in a quiet country\ntown. I am not often in these busy places; and my inclination to visit\nthem does not increase with our better acquaintance, I assure you.\'\n\n\'You have been abroad?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'Oh yes.\'\n\n\'And, like most people who travel, have become more than ever attached\nto your home and native country,\' said Martin, eyeing him curiously.\n\n\'To my home--yes,\' rejoined his friend. \'To my native country AS my\nhome--yes, also.\'\n\n\'You imply some reservation,\' said Martin.\n\n\'Well,\' returned his new friend, \'if you ask me whether I came back here\nwith a greater relish for my country\'s faults; with a greater fondness\nfor those who claim (at the rate of so many dollars a day) to be her\nfriends; with a cooler indifference to the growth of principles among\nus in respect of public matters and of private dealings between man and\nman, the advocacy of which, beyond the foul atmosphere of a criminal\ntrial, would disgrace your own old Bailey lawyers; why, then I answer\nplainly, No.\'\n\n\'Oh!\' said Martin; in so exactly the same key as his friend\'s No, that\nit sounded like an echo.\n\n\'If you ask me,\' his companion pursued, \'whether I came back here better\nsatisfied with a state of things which broadly divides society into two\nclasses--whereof one, the great mass, asserts a spurious independence,\nmost miserably dependent for its mean existence on the disregard of\nhumanizing conventionalities of manner and social custom, so that the\ncoarser a man is, the more distinctly it shall appeal to his taste;\nwhile the other, disgusted with the low standard thus set up and made\nadaptable to everything, takes refuge among the graces and refinements\nit can bring to bear on private life, and leaves the public weal to\nsuch fortune as may betide it in the press and uproar of a general\nscramble--then again I answer, No.\'\n\nAnd again Martin said \'Oh!\' in the same odd way as before, being anxious\nand disconcerted; not so much, to say the truth, on public grounds, as\nwith reference to the fading prospects of domestic architecture.\n\n\'In a word,\' resumed the other, \'I do not find and cannot believe and\ntherefore will not allow, that we are a model of wisdom, and an example\nto the world, and the perfection of human reason, and a great deal more\nto the same purpose, which you may hear any hour in the day; simply\nbecause we began our political life with two inestimable advantages.\'\n\n\'What were they?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'One, that our history commenced at so late a period as to escape the\nages of bloodshed and cruelty through which other nations have passed;\nand so had all the light of their probation, and none of its darkness.\nThe other, that we have a vast territory, and not--as yet--too many\npeople on it. These facts considered, we have done little enough, I\nthink.\'\n\n\'Education?\' suggested Martin, faintly.\n\n\'Pretty well on that head,\' said the other, shrugging his shoulders,\n\'still no mighty matter to boast of; for old countries, and despotic\ncountries too, have done as much, if not more, and made less noise about\nit. We shine out brightly in comparison with England, certainly; but\nhers is a very extreme case. You complimented me on my frankness, you\nknow,\' he added, laughing.\n\n\'Oh! I am not at all astonished at your speaking thus openly when my\ncountry is in question,\' returned Martin. \'It is your plain-speaking in\nreference to your own that surprises me.\'\n\n\'You will not find it a scarce quality here, I assure you, saving among\nthe Colonel Divers, and Jefferson Bricks, and Major Pawkinses; though\nthe best of us are something like the man in Goldsmith\'s comedy, who\nwouldn\'t suffer anybody but himself to abuse his master. Come!\' he\nadded. \'Let us talk of something else. You have come here on some design\nof improving your fortune, I dare say; and I should grieve to put you\nout of heart. I am some years older than you, besides; and may, on a few\ntrivial points, advise you, perhaps.\'\n\nThere was not the least curiosity or impertinence in the manner of this\noffer, which was open-hearted, unaffected, and good-natured. As it was\nnext to impossible that he should not have his confidence awakened by\na deportment so prepossessing and kind, Martin plainly stated what had\nbrought him into those parts, and even made the very difficult avowal\nthat he was poor. He did not say how poor, it must be admitted, rather\nthrowing off the declaration with an air which might have implied that\nhe had money enough for six months, instead of as many weeks; but poor\nhe said he was, and grateful he said he would be, for any counsel that\nhis friend would give him.\n\nIt would not have been very difficult for any one to see; but it was\nparticularly easy for Martin, whose perceptions were sharpened by his\ncircumstances, to discern; that the stranger\'s face grew infinitely\nlonger as the domestic-architecture project was developed. Nor, although\nhe made a great effort to be as encouraging as possible, could he\nprevent his head from shaking once involuntarily, as if it said in the\nvulgar tongue, upon its own account, \'No go!\' But he spoke in a cheerful\ntone, and said, that although there was no such opening as Martin\nwished, in that city, he would make it matter of immediate consideration\nand inquiry where one was most likely to exist; and then he made Martin\nacquainted with his name, which was Bevan; and with his profession,\nwhich was physic, though he seldom or never practiced; and with other\ncircumstances connected with himself and family, which fully occupied\nthe time, until they reached the Rowdy Journal Office.\n\nMr Tapley appeared to be taking his ease on the landing of the first\nfloor; for sounds as of some gentleman established in that region\nwhistling \'Rule Britannia\' with all his might and main, greeted their\nears before they reached the house. On ascending to the spot from\nwhence this music proceeded, they found him recumbent in the midst of a\nfortification of luggage, apparently performing his national anthem\nfor the gratification of a grey-haired black man, who sat on one of the\noutworks (a portmanteau), staring intently at Mark, while Mark, with\nhis head reclining on his hand, returned the compliment in a thoughtful\nmanner, and whistled all the time. He seemed to have recently dined, for\nhis knife, a casebottle, and certain broken meats in a handkerchief, lay\nnear at hand. He had employed a portion of his leisure in the decoration\nof the Rowdy Journal door, whereon his own initials now appeared in\nletters nearly half a foot long, together with the day of the month in\nsmaller type; the whole surrounded by an ornamental border, and looking\nvery fresh and bold.\n\n\'I was a\'most afraid you was lost, sir!\' cried Mark, rising, and\nstopping the tune at that point where Britons generally are supposed to\ndeclare (when it is whistled) that they never, never, never--\n\n\'Nothing gone wrong, I hope, sir?\'\n\n\'No, Mark. Where\'s your friend?\'\n\n\'The mad woman, sir?\' said Mr Tapley. \'Oh! she\'s all right, sir.\'\n\n\'Did she find her husband?\'\n\n\'Yes, sir. Leastways she\'s found his remains,\' said Mark, correcting\nhimself.\n\n\'The man\'s not dead, I hope?\'\n\n\'Not altogether dead, sir,\' returned Mark; \'but he\'s had more fevers and\nagues than is quite reconcilable with being alive. When she didn\'t see\nhim a-waiting for her, I thought she\'d have died herself, I did!\'\n\n\'Was he not here, then?\'\n\n\'HE wasn\'t here. There was a feeble old shadow come a-creeping down at\nlast, as much like his substance when she know\'d him, as your shadow\nwhen it\'s drawn out to its very finest and longest by the sun, is like\nyou. But it was his remains, there\'s no doubt about that. She took on\nwith joy, poor thing, as much as if it had been all of him!\'\n\n\'Had he bought land?\' asked Mr Bevan.\n\n\'Ah! He\'d bought land,\' said Mark, shaking his head, \'and paid for it\ntoo. Every sort of nateral advantage was connected with it, the agents\nsaid; and there certainly was ONE, quite unlimited. No end to the\nwater!\'\n\n\'It\'s a thing he couldn\'t have done without, I suppose,\' observed\nMartin, peevishly.\n\n\'Certainly not, sir. There it was, any way; always turned on, and no\nwater-rate. Independent of three or four slimy old rivers close by,\nit varied on the farm from four to six foot deep in the dry season.\nHe couldn\'t say how deep it was in the rainy time, for he never had\nanything long enough to sound it with.\'\n\n\'Is this true?\' asked Martin of his companion.\n\n\'Extremely probable,\' he answered. \'Some Mississippi or Missouri lot, I\ndare say.\'\n\n\'However,\' pursued Mark, \'he came from I-don\'t-know-where-and-all, down\nto New York here, to meet his wife and children; and they started off\nagain in a steamboat this blessed afternoon, as happy to be along with\neach other as if they were going to Heaven. I should think they was,\npretty straight, if I may judge from the poor man\'s looks.\'\n\n\'And may I ask,\' said Martin, glancing, but not with any displeasure,\nfrom Mark to the negro, \'who this gentleman is? Another friend of\nyours?\'\n\n\'Why sir,\' returned Mark, taking him aside, and speaking confidentially\nin his ear, \'he\'s a man of colour, sir!\'\n\n\'Do you take me for a blind man,\' asked Martin, somewhat impatiently,\n\'that you think it necessary to tell me that, when his face is the\nblackest that ever was seen?\'\n\n\'No, no; when I say a man of colour,\' returned Mark, \'I mean that\nhe\'s been one of them as there\'s picters of in the shops. A man and a\nbrother, you know, sir,\' said Mr Tapley, favouring his master with a\nsignificant indication of the figure so often represented in tracts and\ncheap prints.\n\n\'A slave!\' cried Martin, in a whisper.\n\n\'Ah!\' said Mark in the same tone. \'Nothing else. A slave. Why, when that\nthere man was young--don\'t look at him while I\'m a-telling it--he was\nshot in the leg; gashed in the arm; scored in his live limbs, like\ncrimped fish; beaten out of shape; had his neck galled with an iron\ncollar, and wore iron rings upon his wrists and ankles. The marks are on\nhim to this day. When I was having my dinner just now, he stripped off\nhis coat, and took away my appetite.\'\n\n\'Is THIS true?\' asked Martin of his friend, who stood beside them.\n\n\'I have no reason to doubt it,\' he answered, shaking his head \'It very\noften is.\'\n\n\'Bless you,\' said Mark, \'I know it is, from hearing his whole story.\nThat master died; so did his second master from having his head cut\nopen with a hatchet by another slave, who, when he\'d done it, went and\ndrowned himself; then he got a better one; in years and years he saved\nup a little money, and bought his freedom, which he got pretty cheap at\nlast, on account of his strength being nearly gone, and he being ill.\nThen he come here. And now he\'s a-saving up to treat himself, afore\nhe dies, to one small purchase--it\'s nothing to speak of. Only his own\ndaughter; that\'s all!\' cried Mr Tapley, becoming excited. \'Liberty for\never! Hurrah! Hail, Columbia!\'\n\n\'Hush!\' cried Martin, clapping his hand upon his mouth; \'and don\'t be an\nidiot. What is he doing here?\'\n\n\'Waiting to take our luggage off upon a truck,\' said Mark. \'He\'d have\ncome for it by-and-bye, but I engaged him for a very reasonable charge\n(out of my own pocket) to sit along with me and make me jolly; and I\nam jolly; and if I was rich enough to contract with him to wait upon me\nonce a day, to be looked at, I\'d never be anything else.\'\n\nThe fact may cause a solemn impeachment of Mark\'s veracity, but it must\nbe admitted nevertheless, that there was that in his face and manner at\nthe moment, which militated strongly against this emphatic declaration\nof his state of mind.\n\n\'Lord love you, sir,\' he added, \'they\'re so fond of Liberty in this part\nof the globe, that they buy her and sell her and carry her to market\nwith \'em. They\'ve such a passion for Liberty, that they can\'t help\ntaking liberties with her. That\'s what it\'s owing to.\'\n\n\'Very well,\' said Martin, wishing to change the theme. \'Having come to\nthat conclusion, Mark, perhaps you\'ll attend to me. The place to which\nthe luggage is to go is printed on this card. Mrs Pawkins\'s Boarding\nHouse.\'\n\n\'Mrs Pawkins\'s boarding-house,\' repeated Mark. \'Now, Cicero.\'\n\n\'Is that his name?\' asked Martin\n\n\'That\'s his name, sir,\' rejoined Mark. And the negro grinning assent\nfrom under a leathern portmanteau, than which his own face was many\nshades deeper, hobbled downstairs with his portion of their worldly\ngoods; Mark Tapley having already gone before with his share.\n\nMartin and his friend followed them to the door below, and were about\nto pursue their walk, when the latter stopped, and asked, with some\nhesitation, whether that young man was to be trusted?\n\n\'Mark! oh certainly! with anything.\'\n\n\'You don\'t understand me--I think he had better go with us. He is an\nhonest fellow, and speaks his mind so very plainly.\'\n\n\'Why, the fact is,\' said Martin, smiling, \'that being unaccustomed to a\nfree republic, he is used to do so.\'\n\n\'I think he had better go with us,\' returned the other. \'He may get into\nsome trouble otherwise. This is not a slave State; but I am ashamed\nto say that a spirit of Tolerance is not so common anywhere in\nthese latitudes as the form. We are not remarkable for behaving very\ntemperately to each other when we differ; but to strangers! no, I really\nthink he had better go with us.\'\n\nMartin called to him immediately to be of their party; so Cicero and the\ntruck went one way, and they three went another.\n\nThey walked about the city for two or three hours; seeing it from the\nbest points of view, and pausing in the principal streets, and before\nsuch public buildings as Mr Bevan pointed out. Night then coming\non apace, Martin proposed that they should adjourn to Mrs Pawkins\'s\nestablishment for coffee; but in this he was overruled by his new\nacquaintance, who seemed to have set his heart on carrying him, though\nit were only for an hour, to the house of a friend of his who lived hard\nby. Feeling (however disinclined he was, being weary) that it would be\nin bad taste, and not very gracious, to object that he was unintroduced,\nwhen this open-hearted gentleman was so ready to be his sponsor,\nMartin--for once in his life, at all events--sacrificed his own will and\npleasure to the wishes of another, and consented with a fair grace. So\ntravelling had done him that much good, already.\n\nMr Bevan knocked at the door of a very neat house of moderate size, from\nthe parlour windows of which, lights were shining brightly into the now\ndark street. It was quickly opened by a man with such a thoroughly Irish\nface, that it seemed as if he ought, as a matter of right and principle,\nto be in rags, and could have no sort of business to be looking\ncheerfully at anybody out of a whole suit of clothes.\n\nCommending Mark to the care of this phenomenon--for such he may be said\nto have been in Martin\'s eyes--Mr Bevan led the way into the room\nwhich had shed its cheerfulness upon the street, to whose occupants he\nintroduced Mr Chuzzlewit as a gentleman from England, whose acquaintance\nhe had recently had the pleasure to make. They gave him welcome in all\ncourtesy and politeness; and in less than five minutes\' time he found\nhimself sitting very much at his ease by the fireside, and becoming\nvastly well acquainted with the whole family.\n\nThere were two young ladies--one eighteen; the other twenty--both very\nslender, but very pretty; their mother, who looked, as Martin thought\nmuch older and more faded than she ought to have looked; and their\ngrandmother, a little sharp-eyed, quick old woman, who seemed to have\ngot past that stage, and to have come all right again. Besides these,\nthere were the young ladies\' father, and the young ladies\' brother; the\nfirst engaged in mercantile affairs; the second, a student at college;\nboth, in a certain cordiality of manner, like his own friend, and not\nunlike him in face. Which was no great wonder, for it soon appeared that\nhe was their near relation. Martin could not help tracing the family\npedigree from the two young ladies, because they were foremost in his\nthoughts; not only from being, as aforesaid, very pretty, but by reason\nof their wearing miraculously small shoes, and the thinnest possible\nsilk stockings; the which their rocking-chairs developed to a\ndistracting extent.\n\nThere is no doubt that it was a monstrous comfortable circumstance to be\nsitting in a snug, well-furnished room, warmed by a cheerful fire, and\nfull of various pleasant decorations, including four small shoes, and\nthe like amount of silk stockings, and--yes, why not?--the feet and\nlegs therein enshrined. And there is no doubt that Martin was monstrous\nwell-disposed to regard his position in that light, after his recent\nexperience of the Screw, and of Mrs Pawkins\'s boarding-house. The\nconsequence was that he made himself very agreeable indeed; and by\nthe time the tea and coffee arrived (with sweet preserves, and cunning\ntea-cakes in its train), was in a highly genial state, and much esteemed\nby the whole family.\n\nAnother delightful circumstance turned up before the first cup of tea\nwas drunk. The whole family had been in England. There was a pleasant\nthing! But Martin was not quite so glad of this, when he found that\nthey knew all the great dukes, lords, viscounts, marquesses, duchesses,\nknights, and baronets, quite affectionately, and were beyond everything\ninterested in the least particular concerning them. However, when they\nasked, after the wearer of this or that coronet, and said, \'Was he quite\nwell?\' Martin answered, \'Yes, oh yes. Never better;\' and when they said,\n\'his lordship\'s mother, the duchess, was she much changed?\' Martin said,\n\'Oh dear no, they would know her anywhere, if they saw her to-morrow;\'\nand so got on pretty well. In like manner when the young ladies\nquestioned him touching the Gold Fish in that Grecian fountain in such\nand such a nobleman\'s conservatory, and whether there were as many as\nthere used to be, he gravely reported, after mature consideration, that\nthere must be at least twice as many; and as to the exotics, \'Oh! well!\nit was of no use talking about THEM; they must be seen to be believed;\'\nwhich improved state of circumstances reminded the family of the\nsplendour of that brilliant festival (comprehending the whole British\nPeerage and Court Calendar) to which they were specially invited, and\nwhich indeed had been partly given in their honour; and recollections\nof what Mr Norris the father had said to the marquess, and of what Mrs\nNorris the mother had said to the marchioness, and of what the marquess\nand marchioness had both said, when they said that upon their words and\nhonours they wished Mr Norris the father and Mrs Norris the mother, and\nthe Misses Norris the daughters, and Mr Norris Junior, the son, would\nonly take up their permanent residence in England, and give them the\npleasure of their everlasting friendship, occupied a very considerable\ntime.\n\nMartin thought it rather stange, and in some sort inconsistent, that\nduring the whole of these narrations, and in the very meridian of their\nenjoyment thereof, both Mr Norris the father, and Mr Norris Junior,\nthe son (who corresponded, every post, with four members of the English\nPeerage), enlarged upon the inestimable advantage of having no such\narbitrary distinctions in that enlightened land, where there were no\nnoblemen but nature\'s noblemen, and where all society was based on one\nbroad level of brotherly love and natural equality. Indeed, Mr Norris\nthe father gradually expanding into an oration on this swelling theme,\nwas becoming tedious, when Mr Bevan diverted his thoughts by happening\nto make some causal inquiry relative to the occupier of the next house;\nin reply to which, this same Mr Norris the father observed, that \'that\nperson entertained religious opinions of which he couldn\'t approve; and\ntherefore he hadn\'t the honour of knowing the gentleman.\' Mrs Norris the\nmother added another reason of her own, the same in effect, but varying\nin words; to wit, that she believed the people were well enough in their\nway, but they were not genteel.\n\nAnother little trait came out, which impressed itself on Martin\nforcibly. Mr Bevan told them about Mark and the negro, and then it\nappeared that all the Norrises were abolitionists. It was a great relief\nto hear this, and Martin was so much encouraged on finding himself in\nsuch company, that he expressed his sympathy with the oppressed and\nwretched blacks. Now, one of the young ladies--the prettiest and most\ndelicate--was mightily amused at the earnestness with which he spoke;\nand on his craving leave to ask her why, was quite unable for a time to\nspeak for laughing. As soon however as she could, she told him that\nthe negroes were such a funny people, so excessively ludicrous in their\nmanners and appearance, that it was wholly impossible for those who knew\nthem well, to associate any serious ideas with such a very absurd part\nof the creation. Mr Norris the father, and Mrs Norris the mother, and\nMiss Norris the sister, and Mr Norris Junior the brother, and even Mrs\nNorris Senior the grandmother, were all of this opinion, and laid\nit down as an absolute matter of fact--as if there were nothing in\nsuffering and slavery, grim enough to cast a solemn air on any human\nanimal; though it were as ridiculous, physically, as the most\ngrotesque of apes, or morally, as the mildest Nimrod among tuft-hunting\nrepublicans!\n\n\'In short,\' said Mr Norris the father, settling the question\ncomfortably, \'there is a natural antipathy between the races.\'\n\n\'Extending,\' said Martin\'s friend, in a low voice, \'to the cruellest of\ntortures, and the bargain and sale of unborn generations.\'\n\nMr Norris the son said nothing, but he made a wry face, and dusted his\nfingers as Hamlet might after getting rid of Yorick\'s skull; just as\nthough he had that moment touched a negro, and some of the black had\ncome off upon his hands.\n\nIn order that their talk might fall again into its former pleasant\nchannel, Martin dropped the subject, with a shrewd suspicion that it\nwould be a dangerous theme to revive under the best of circumstances;\nand again addressed himself to the young ladies, who were very\ngorgeously attired in very beautiful colours, and had every article of\ndress on the same extensive scale as the little shoes and the thin silk\nstockings. This suggested to him that they were great proficients in the\nFrench fashions, which soon turned out to be the case, for though their\ninformation appeared to be none of the newest, it was very extensive;\nand the eldest sister in particular, who was distinguished by a talent\nfor metaphysics, the laws of hydraulic pressure, and the rights of human\nkind, had a novel way of combining these acquirements and bringing them\nto bear on any subject from Millinery to the Millennium, both inclusive,\nwhich was at once improving and remarkable; so much so, in short, that\nit was usually observed to reduce foreigners to a state of temporary\ninsanity in five minutes.\n\nMartin felt his reason going; and as a means of saving himself, besought\nthe other sister (seeing a piano in the room) to sing. With this request\nshe willingly complied; and a bravura concert, solely sustained by the\nMisses Noriss, presently began. They sang in all languages--except their\nown. German, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Swiss; but nothing\nnative; nothing so low as native. For, in this respect, languages are\nlike many other travellers--ordinary and commonplace enough at home, but\n\'specially genteel abroad.\n\nThere is little doubt that in course of time the Misses Norris would\nhave come to Hebrew, if they had not been interrupted by an announcement\nfrom the Irishman, who, flinging open the door, cried in a loud voice--\n\n\'Jiniral Fladdock!\'\n\n\'My!\' cried the sisters, desisting suddenly. \'The general come back!\'\n\nAs they made the exclamation, the general, attired in full uniform for a\nball, came darting in with such precipitancy that, hitching his boot\nin the carpet, and getting his sword between his legs, he came down\nheadlong, and presented a curious little bald place on the crown of his\nhead to the eyes of the astonished company. Nor was this the worst of\nit; for being rather corpulent and very tight, the general being down,\ncould not get up again, but lay there writhing and doing such things with\nhis boots, as there is no other instance of in military history.\n\nOf course there was an immediate rush to his assistance; and the general\nwas promptly raised. But his uniform was so fearfully and wonderfully\nmade, that he came up stiff and without a bend in him like a dead Clown,\nand had no command whatever of himself until he was put quite flat upon\nthe soles of his feet, when he became animated as by a miracle, and\nmoving edgewise that he might go in a narrower compass and be in less\ndanger of fraying the gold lace on his epaulettes by brushing them\nagainst anything, advanced with a smiling visage to salute the lady of\nthe house.\n\nTo be sure, it would have been impossible for the family to testify\npurer delight and joy than at this unlooked-for appearance of General\nFladdock! The general was as warmly received as if New York had been in\na state of siege and no other general was to be got for love or money.\nHe shook hands with the Norrises three times all round, and then\nreviewed them from a little distance as a brave commander might, with\nhis ample cloak drawn forward over the right shoulder and thrown back\nupon the left side to reveal his manly breast.\n\n\'And do I then,\' cried the general, \'once again behold the choicest\nspirits of my country!\'\n\n\'Yes,\' said Mr Norris the father. \'Here we are, general.\'\n\nThen all the Norrises pressed round the general, inquiring how and where\nhe had been since the date of his letter, and how he had enjoyed himself\nin foreign parts, and particularly and above all, to what extent he had\nbecome acquainted with the great dukes, lords, viscounts, marquesses,\nduchesses, knights, and baronets, in whom the people of those benighted\ncountries had delight.\n\n\'Well, then, don\'t ask me,\' said the general, holding up his hand. \'I\nwas among \'em all the time, and have got public journals in my trunk\nwith my name printed\'--he lowered his voice and was very impressive\nhere--\'among the fashionable news. But, oh, the conventionalities of\nthat a-mazing Europe!\'\n\n\'Ah!\' cried Mr Norris the father, giving his head a melancholy shake,\nand looking towards Martin as though he would say, \'I can\'t deny it,\nsir. I would if I could.\'\n\n\'The limited diffusion of a moral sense in that country!\' exclaimed the\ngeneral. \'The absence of a moral dignity in man!\'\n\n\'Ah!\' sighed all the Norrises, quite overwhelmed with despondency.\n\n\'I couldn\'t have realised it,\' pursued the general, \'without being\nlocated on the spot. Norris, your imagination is the imagination of a\nstrong man, but YOU couldn\'t have realised it, without being located on\nthe spot!\'\n\n\'Never,\' said Mr Norris.\n\n\'The ex-clusiveness, the pride, the form, the ceremony,\' exclaimed the\ngeneral, emphasizing the article more vigorously at every repetition.\n\'The artificial barriers set up between man and man; the division of the\nhuman race into court cards and plain cards, of every denomination--into\nclubs, diamonds, spades--anything but heart!\'\n\n\'Ah!\' cried the whole family. \'Too true, general!\'\n\n\'But stay!\' cried Mr Norris the father, taking him by the arm. \'Surely\nyou crossed in the Screw, general?\'\n\n\'Well! so I did,\' was the reply.\n\n\'Possible!\' cried the young ladies. \'Only think!\'\n\nThe general seemed at a loss to understand why his having come home\nin the Screw should occasion such a sensation, nor did he seem at all\nclearer on the subject when Mr Norris, introducing him to Martin, said:\n\n\'A fellow-passenger of yours, I think?\'\n\n\'Of mine?\' exclaimed the general; \'No!\'\n\nHe had never seen Martin, but Martin had seen him, and recognized him,\nnow that they stood face to face, as the gentleman who had stuck his\nhands in his pockets towards the end of the voyage, and walked the deck\nwith his nostrils dilated.\n\nEverybody looked at Martin. There was no help for it. The truth must\nout.\n\n\'I came over in the same ship as the general,\' said Martin, \'but not in\nthe same cabin. It being necessary for me to observe strict economy, I\ntook my passage in the steerage.\'\n\nIf the general had been carried up bodily to a loaded cannon, and\nrequired to let it off that moment, he could not have been in a state\nof greater consternation than when he heard these words. He,\nFladdock--Fladdock in full militia uniform, Fladdock the General,\nFladdock, the caressed of foreign noblemen--expected to know a fellow\nwho had come over in the steerage of line-of-packet ship, at the cost\nof four pound ten! And meeting that fellow in the very sanctuary of New\nYork fashion, and nestling in the bosom of the New York aristocracy! He\nalmost laid his hand upon his sword.\n\nA death-like stillness fell upon the Norisses. If this story should get\nwind, their country relation had, by his imprudence, for ever disgraced\nthem. They were the bright particular stars of an exalted New York\nsphere. There were other fashionable spheres above them, and other\nfashionable spheres below, and none of the stars in any one of these\nspheres had anything to say to the stars in any other of these spheres.\nBut, through all the spheres it would go forth that the Norrises,\ndeceived by gentlemanly manners and appearances, had, falling from their\nhigh estate, \'received\' a dollarless and unknown man. O guardian eagle\nof the pure Republic, had they lived for this!\n\n\'You will allow me,\' said Martin, after a terrible silence, \'to take\nmy leave. I feel that I am the cause of at least as much embarrassment\nhere, as I have brought upon myself. But I am bound, before I go, to\nexonerate this gentleman, who, in introducing me to such society, was\nquite ignorant of my unworthiness, I assure you.\'\n\nWith that he made his bow to the Norrises, and walked out like a man of\nsnow; very cool externally, but pretty hot within.\n\n\'Come, come,\' said Mr Norris the father, looking with a pale face on\nthe assembled circle as Martin closed the door, \'the young man has this\nnight beheld a refinement of social manner, and an easy magnificence of\nsocial decoration, to which he is a stranger in his own country. Let us\nhope it may awake a moral sense within him.\'\n\nIf that peculiarly transatlantic article, a moral sense--for, if native\nstatesmen, orators, and pamphleteers, are to be believed, America quite\nmonopolises the commodity--if that peculiarly transatlantic article be\nsupposed to include a benevolent love of all mankind, certainly Martin\'s\nwould have borne, just then, a deal of waking. As he strode along\nthe street, with Mark at his heels, his immoral sense was in active\noperation; prompting him to the utterance of some rather sanguinary\nremarks, which it was well for his own credit that nobody overheard.\nHe had so far cooled down, however, that he had begun to laugh at the\nrecollection of these incidents, when he heard another step behind him,\nand turning round encountered his friend Bevan, quite out of breath.\n\nHe drew his arm through Martin\'s, and entreating him to walk slowly, was\nsilent for some minutes. At length he said:\n\n\'I hope you exonerate me in another sense?\'\n\n\'How do you mean?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'I hope you acquit me of intending or foreseeing the termination of our\nvisit. But I scarcely need ask you that.\'\n\n\'Scarcely indeed,\' said Martin. \'I am the more beholden to you for your\nkindness, when I find what kind of stuff the good citizens here are made\nof.\'\n\n\'I reckon,\' his friend returned, \'that they are made of pretty much the\nsame stuff as other folks, if they would but own it, and not set up on\nfalse pretences.\'\n\n\'In good faith, that\'s true,\' said Martin.\n\n\'I dare say,\' resumed his friend, \'you might have such a scene as that\nin an English comedy, and not detect any gross improbability or anomaly\nin the matter of it?\'\n\n\'Yes, indeed!\'\n\n\'Doubtless it is more ridiculous here than anywhere else,\' said his\ncompanion; \'but our professions are to blame for that. So far as I\nmyself am concerned, I may add that I was perfectly aware from the\nfirst that you came over in the steerage, for I had seen the list of\npassengers, and knew it did not comprise your name.\'\n\n\'I feel more obliged to you than before,\' said Martin.\n\n\'Norris is a very good fellow in his way,\' observed Mr Bevan.\n\n\'Is he?\' said Martin drily.\n\n\'Oh yes! there are a hundred good points about him. If you or anybody\nelse addressed him as another order of being, and sued to him IN FORMA\nPAUPERIS, he would be all kindness and consideration.\'\n\n\'I needn\'t have travelled three thousand miles from home to find such a\ncharacter as THAT,\' said Martin. Neither he nor his friend said anything\nmore on the way back; each appearing to find sufficient occupation in\nhis own thoughts.\n\nThe tea, or the supper, or whatever else they called the evening meal,\nwas over when they reached the Major\'s; but the cloth, ornamented with\na few additional smears and stains, was still upon the table. At one end\nof the board Mrs Jefferson Brick and two other ladies were drinking\ntea; out of the ordinary course, evidently, for they were bonneted\nand shawled, and seemed to have just come home. By the light of three\nflaring candles of different lengths, in as many candlesticks of\ndifferent patterns, the room showed to almost as little advantage as in\nbroad day.\n\nThese ladies were all three talking together in a very loud tone when\nMartin and his friend entered; but seeing those gentlemen, they stopped\ndirectly, and became excessively genteel, not to say frosty. As they\nwent on to exchange some few remarks in whispers, the very water in the\nteapot might have fallen twenty degrees in temperature beneath their\nchilling coldness.\n\n\'Have you been to meeting, Mrs Brick?\' asked Martin\'s friend, with\nsomething of a roguish twinkle in his eye.\n\n\'To lecture, sir.\'\n\n\'I beg your pardon. I forgot. You don\'t go to meeting, I think?\'\n\nHere the lady on the right of Mrs Brick gave a pious cough as much as to\nsay \'I do!\'--as, indeed, she did nearly every night in the week.\n\n\'A good discourse, ma\'am?\' asked Mr Bevan, addressing this lady.\n\nThe lady raised her eyes in a pious manner, and answered \'Yes.\' She\nhad been much comforted by some good, strong, peppery doctrine, which\nsatisfactorily disposed of all her friends and acquaintances, and quite\nsettled their business. Her bonnet, too, had far outshone every bonnet\nin the congregation; so she was tranquil on all accounts.\n\n\'What course of lectures are you attending now, ma\'am?\' said Martin\'s\nfriend, turning again to Mrs Brick.\n\n\'The Philosophy of the Soul, on Wednesdays.\'\n\n\'On Mondays?\'\n\n\'The Philosophy of Crime.\'\n\n\'On Fridays?\'\n\n\'The Philosophy of Vegetables.\'\n\n\'You have forgotten Thursdays; the Philosophy of Government, my dear,\'\nobserved the third lady.\n\n\'No,\' said Mrs Brick. \'That\'s Tuesdays.\'\n\n\'So it is!\' cried the lady. \'The Philosophy of Matter on Thursdays, of\ncourse.\'\n\n\'You see, Mr Chuzzlewit, our ladies are fully employed,\' said Bevan.\n\n\'Indeed you have reason to say so,\' answered Martin. \'Between these very\ngrave pursuits abroad, and family duties at home, their time must be\npretty well engrossed.\'\n\nMartin stopped here, for he saw that the ladies regarded him with no\nvery great favour, though what he had done to deserve the disdainful\nexpression which appeared in their faces he was at a loss to divine. But\non their going upstairs to their bedrooms--which they very soon did--Mr\nBevan informed him that domestic drudgery was far beneath the exalted\nrange of these Philosophers, and that the chances were a hundred to one\nthat not one of the three could perform the easiest woman\'s work for\nherself, or make the simplest article of dress for any of her children.\n\n\'Though whether they might not be better employed with such blunt\ninstruments as knitting-needles than with these edge-tools,\' he said,\n\'is another question; but I can answer for one thing--they don\'t often\ncut themselves. Devotions and lectures are our balls and concerts. They\ngo to these places of resort, as an escape from monotony; look at each\nother\'s clothes; and come home again.\'\n\n\'When you say \"home,\" do you mean a house like this?\'\n\n\'Very often. But I see you are tired to death, and will wish you good\nnight. We will discuss your projects in the morning. You cannot but\nfeel already that it is useless staying here, with any hope of advancing\nthem. You will have to go further.\'\n\n\'And to fare worse?\' said Martin, pursuing the old adage.\n\n\'Well, I hope not. But sufficient for the day, you know--good night\'\n\nThey shook hands heartily and separated. As soon as Martin was left\nalone, the excitement of novelty and change which had sustained him\nthrough all the fatigues of the day, departed; and he felt so thoroughly\ndejected and worn out, that he even lacked the energy to crawl upstairs\nto bed.\n\nIn twelve or fifteen hours, how great a change had fallen on his hopes\nand sanguine plans! New and strange as he was to the ground on which he\nstood, and to the air he breathed, he could not--recalling all that he\nhad crowded into that one day--but entertain a strong misgiving that his\nenterprise was doomed. Rash and ill-considered as it had often looked on\nshipboard, but had never seemed on shore, it wore a dismal aspect, now,\nthat frightened him. Whatever thoughts he called up to his aid, they\ncame upon him in depressing and discouraging shapes, and gave him no\nrelief. Even the diamonds on his finger sparkled with the brightness of\ntears, and had no ray of hope in all their brilliant lustre.\n\nHe continued to sit in gloomy rumination by the stove, unmindful of\nthe boarders who dropped in one by one from their stores and\ncounting-houses, or the neighbouring bar-rooms, and, after taking long\npulls from a great white waterjug upon the sideboard, and lingering with\na kind of hideous fascination near the brass spittoons, lounged heavily\nto bed; until at length Mark Tapley came and shook him by the arm,\nsupposing him asleep.\n\n\'Mark!\' he cried, starting.\n\n\'All right, sir,\' said that cheerful follower, snuffing with his fingers\nthe candle he bore. \'It ain\'t a very large bed, your\'n, sir; and a man\nas wasn\'t thirsty might drink, afore breakfast, all the water you\'ve\ngot to wash in, and afterwards eat the towel. But you\'ll sleep without\nrocking to-night, sir.\'\n\n\'I feel as if the house were on the sea\' said Martin, staggering when he\nrose; \'and am utterly wretched.\'\n\n\'I\'m as jolly as a sandboy, myself, sir,\' said Mark. \'But, Lord, I have\nreason to be! I ought to have been born here; that\'s my opinion. Take\ncare how you go\'--for they were now ascending the stairs. \'You recollect\nthe gentleman aboard the Screw as had the very small trunk, sir?\'\n\n\'The valise? Yes.\'\n\n\'Well, sir, there\'s been a delivery of clean clothes from the wash\nto-night, and they\'re put outside the bedroom doors here. If you take\nnotice as we go up, what a very few shirts there are, and what a many\nfronts, you\'ll penetrate the mystery of his packing.\'\n\nBut Martin was too weary and despondent to take heed of anything, so\nhad no interest in this discovery. Mr Tapley, nothing dashed by his\nindifference, conducted him to the top of the house, and into the\nbed-chamber prepared for his reception; which was a very little narrow\nroom, with half a window in it; a bedstead like a chest without a lid;\ntwo chairs; a piece of carpet, such as shoes are commonly tried upon\nat a ready-made establishment in England; a little looking-glass nailed\nagainst the wall; and a washing-table, with a jug and ewer, that might\nhave been mistaken for a milk-pot and slop-basin.\n\n\'I suppose they polish themselves with a dry cloth in this country,\'\nsaid Mark. \'They\'ve certainly got a touch of the \'phoby, sir.\'\n\n\'I wish you would pull off my boots for me,\' said Martin, dropping into\none of the chairs \'I am quite knocked up--dead beat, Mark.\'\n\n\'You won\'t say that to-morrow morning, sir,\' returned Mr Tapley; \'nor\neven to-night, sir, when you\'ve made a trial of this.\' With which he\nproduced a very large tumbler, piled up to the brim with little blocks\nof clear transparent ice, through which one or two thin slices of lemon,\nand a golden liquid of delicious appearance, appealed from the still\ndepths below, to the loving eye of the spectator.\n\n\'What do you call this?\' said Martin.\n\nBut Mr Tapley made no answer; merely plunging a reed into the\nmixture--which caused a pleasant commotion among the pieces of ice--and\nsignifying by an expressive gesture that it was to be pumped up through\nthat agency by the enraptured drinker.\n\nMartin took the glass with an astonished look; applied his lips to the\nreed; and cast up his eyes once in ecstasy. He paused no more until the\ngoblet was drained to the last drop.\n\n\'There, sir!\' said Mark, taking it from him with a triumphant face; \'if\never you should happen to be dead beat again, when I ain\'t in the\nway, all you\'ve got to do is to ask the nearest man to go and fetch a\ncobbler.\'\n\n\'To go and fetch a cobbler?\' repeated Martin.\n\n\'This wonderful invention, sir,\' said Mark, tenderly patting the empty\nglass, \'is called a cobbler. Sherry cobbler when you name it long;\ncobbler, when you name it short. Now you\'re equal to having your boots\ntook off, and are, in every particular worth mentioning, another man.\'\n\nHaving delivered himself of this solemn preface, he brought the\nbootjack.\n\n\'Mind! I am not going to relapse, Mark,\' said Martin; \'but, good Heaven,\nif we should be left in some wild part of this country without goods or\nmoney!\'\n\n\'Well, sir!\' replied the imperturbable Tapley; \'from what we\'ve seen\nalready, I don\'t know whether, under those circumstances, we shouldn\'t\ndo better in the wild parts than in the tame ones.\'\n\n\'Oh, Tom Pinch, Tom Pinch!\' said Martin, in a thoughtful tone; \'what\nwould I give to be again beside you, and able to hear your voice, though\nit were even in the old bedroom at Pecksniff\'s!\'\n\n\'Oh, Dragon, Dragon!\' echoed Mark, cheerfully, \'if there warn\'t any\nwater between you and me, and nothing faint-hearted-like in going back,\nI don\'t know that I mightn\'t say the same. But here am I, Dragon, in\nNew York, America; and there are you in Wiltshire, Europe; and there\'s a\nfortune to make, Dragon, and a beautiful young lady to make it for; and\nwhenever you go to see the Monument, Dragon, you mustn\'t give in on the\ndoorsteps, or you\'ll never get up to the top!\'\n\n\'Wisely said, Mark,\' cried Martin. \'We must look forward.\'\n\n\'In all the story-books as ever I read, sir, the people as looked\nbackward was turned into stones,\' replied Mark; \'and my opinion always\nwas, that they brought it on themselves, and it served \'em right. I wish\nyou good night, sir, and pleasant dreams!\'\n\n\'They must be of home, then,\' said Martin, as he lay down in bed.\n\n\'So I say, too,\' whispered Mark Tapley, when he was out of hearing and\nin his own room; \'for if there don\'t come a time afore we\'re well out of\nthis, when there\'ll be a little more credit in keeping up one\'s jollity,\nI\'m a United Statesman!\'\n\nLeaving them to blend and mingle in their sleep the shadows of objects\nafar off, as they take fantastic shapes upon the wall in the dim light\nof thought without control, be it the part of this slight chronicle--a\ndream within a dream--as rapidly to change the scene, and cross the\nocean to the English shore.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n\nDOES BUSINESS WITH THE HOUSE OF ANTHONY CHUZZLEWIT AND SON, FROM WHICH\nONE OF THE PARTNERS RETIRES UNEXPECTEDLY\n\n\nChange begets change. Nothing propagates so fast. If a man habituated to\na narrow circle of cares and pleasures, out of which he seldom travels,\nstep beyond it, though for never so brief a space, his departure from\nthe monotonous scene on which he has been an actor of importance, would\nseem to be the signal for instant confusion. As if, in the gap he had\nleft, the wedge of change were driven to the head, rending what was a\nsolid mass to fragments, things cemented and held together by the usages\nof years, burst asunder in as many weeks. The mine which Time has slowly\ndug beneath familiar objects is sprung in an instant; and what was rock\nbefore, becomes but sand and dust.\n\nMost men, at one time or other, have proved this in some degree. The\nextent to which the natural laws of change asserted their supremacy\nin that limited sphere of action which Martin had deserted, shall be\nfaithfully set down in these pages.\n\n\'What a cold spring it is!\' whimpered old Anthony, drawing near the\nevening fire, \'It was a warmer season, sure, when I was young!\'\n\n\'You needn\'t go scorching your clothes into holes, whether it was or\nnot,\' observed the amiable Jonas, raising his eyes from yesterday\'s\nnewspaper, \'Broadcloth ain\'t so cheap as that comes to.\'\n\n\'A good lad!\' cried the father, breathing on his cold hands, and feebly\nchafing them against each other. \'A prudent lad! He never delivered\nhimself up to the vanities of dress. No, no!\'\n\n\'I don\'t know but I would, though, mind you, if I could do it for\nnothing,\' said his son, as he resumed the paper.\n\n\'Ah!\' chuckled the old man. \'IF, indeed!--But it\'s very cold.\'\n\n\'Let the fire be!\' cried Mr Jonas, stopping his honoured parent\'s hand\nin the use of the poker. \'Do you mean to come to want in your old age,\nthat you take to wasting now?\'\n\n\'There\'s not time for that, Jonas,\' said the old man.\n\n\'Not time for what?\' bawled his heir.\n\n\'For me to come to want. I wish there was!\'\n\n\'You always were as selfish an old blade as need be,\' said Jonas in a\nvoice too low for him to hear, and looking at him with an angry frown.\n\'You act up to your character. You wouldn\'t mind coming to want,\nwouldn\'t you! I dare say you wouldn\'t. And your own flesh and blood\nmight come to want too, might they, for anything you cared? Oh you\nprecious old flint!\'\n\nAfter this dutiful address he took his tea-cup in his hand--for that\nmeal was in progress, and the father and son and Chuffey were partakers\nof it. Then, looking steadfastly at his father, and stopping now and\nthen to carry a spoonful of tea to his lips, he proceeded in the same\ntone, thus:\n\n\'Want, indeed! You\'re a nice old man to be talking of want at this time\nof day. Beginning to talk of want, are you? Well, I declare! There isn\'t\ntime? No, I should hope not. But you\'d live to be a couple of hundred if\nyou could; and after all be discontented. I know you!\'\n\nThe old man sighed, and still sat cowering before the fire. Mr Jonas\nshook his Britannia-metal teaspoon at him, and taking a loftier\nposition, went on to argue the point on high moral grounds.\n\n\'If you\'re in such a state of mind as that,\' he grumbled, but in the\nsame subdued key, \'why don\'t you make over your property? Buy an annuity\ncheap, and make your life interesting to yourself and everybody else\nthat watches the speculation. But no, that wouldn\'t suit YOU. That would\nbe natural conduct to your own son, and you like to be unnatural, and to\nkeep him out of his rights. Why, I should be ashamed of myself if I was\nyou, and glad to hide my head in the what you may call it.\'\n\nPossibly this general phrase supplied the place of grave, or tomb,\nor sepulchre, or cemetery, or mausoleum, or other such word which the\nfilial tenderness of Mr Jonas made him delicate of pronouncing. He\npursued the theme no further; for Chuffey, somehow discovering, from\nhis old corner by the fireside, that Anthony was in the attitude of a\nlistener, and that Jonas appeared to be speaking, suddenly cried out,\nlike one inspired:\n\n\'He is your own son, Mr Chuzzlewit. Your own son, sir!\'\n\nOld Chuffey little suspected what depth of application these words had,\nor that, in the bitter satire which they bore, they might have sunk into\nthe old man\'s very soul, could he have known what words here hanging on\nhis own son\'s lips, or what was passing in his thoughts. But the voice\ndiverted the current of Anthony\'s reflections, and roused him.\n\n\'Yes, yes, Chuffey, Jonas is a chip of the old block. It is a very\nold block, now, Chuffey,\' said the old man, with a strange look of\ndiscomposure.\n\n\'Precious old,\' assented Jonas\n\n\'No, no, no,\' said Chuffey. \'No, Mr Chuzzlewit. Not old at all, sir.\'\n\n\'Oh! He\'s worse than ever, you know!\' cried Jonas, quite disgusted.\n\'Upon my soul, father, he\'s getting too bad. Hold your tongue, will\nyou?\'\n\n\'He says you\'re wrong!\' cried Anthony to the old clerk.\n\n\'Tut, tut!\' was Chuffey\'s answer. \'I know better. I say HE\'S wrong.\nI say HE\'S wrong. He\'s a boy. That\'s what he is. So are you, Mr\nChuzzlewit--a kind of boy. Ha! ha! ha! You\'re quite a boy to many I have\nknown; you\'re a boy to me; you\'re a boy to hundreds of us. Don\'t mind\nhim!\'\n\nWith which extraordinary speech--for in the case of Chuffey this was a\nburst of eloquence without a parallel--the poor old shadow drew through\nhis palsied arm his master\'s hand, and held it there, with his own\nfolded upon it, as if he would defend him.\n\n\'I grow deafer every day, Chuff,\' said Anthony, with as much softness of\nmanner, or, to describe it more correctly, with as little hardness as he\nwas capable of expressing.\n\n\'No, no,\' cried Chuffey. \'No, you don\'t. What if you did? I\'ve been deaf\nthis twenty year.\'\n\n\'I grow blinder, too,\' said the old man, shaking his head.\n\n\'That\'s a good sign!\' cried Chuffey. \'Ha! ha! The best sign in the\nworld! You saw too well before.\'\n\nHe patted Anthony upon the hand as one might comfort a child, and\ndrawing the old man\'s arm still further through his own, shook his\ntrembling fingers towards the spot where Jonas sat, as though he would\nwave him off. But, Anthony remaining quite still and silent, he relaxed\nhis hold by slow degrees and lapsed into his usual niche in the corner;\nmerely putting forth his hand at intervals and touching his old employer\ngently on the coat, as with the design of assuring himself that he was\nyet beside him.\n\nMr Jonas was so very much amazed by these proceedings that he could do\nnothing but stare at the two old men, until Chuffey had fallen into his\nusual state, and Anthony had sunk into a doze; when he gave some vent\nto his emotions by going close up to the former personage, and making as\nthough he would, in vulgar parlance, \'punch his head.\'\n\n\'They\'ve been carrying on this game,\' thought Jonas in a brown study,\n\'for the last two or three weeks. I never saw my father take so much\nnotice of him as he has in that time. What! You\'re legacy hunting, are\nyou, Mister Chuff? Eh?\'\n\nBut Chuffey was as little conscious of the thought as of the bodily\nadvance of Mr Jonas\'s clenched fist, which hovered fondly about his ear.\nWhen he had scowled at him to his heart\'s content, Jonas took the candle\nfrom the table, and walking into the glass office, produced a bunch of\nkeys from his pocket. With one of these he opened a secret drawer in the\ndesk; peeping stealthily out, as he did so, to be certain that the two\nold men were still before the fire.\n\n\'All as right as ever,\' said Jonas, propping the lid of the desk open\nwith his forehead, and unfolding a paper. \'Here\'s the will, Mister\nChuff. Thirty pound a year for your maintenance, old boy, and all the\nrest to his only son, Jonas. You needn\'t trouble yourself to be too\naffectionate. You won\'t get anything by it. What\'s that?\'\n\nIt WAS startling, certainly. A face on the other side of the glass\npartition looking curiously in; and not at him but at the paper in his\nhand. For the eyes were attentively cast down upon the writing, and were\nswiftly raised when he cried out. Then they met his own, and were as the\neyes of Mr Pecksniff.\n\nSuffering the lid of the desk to fall with a loud noise, but not\nforgetting even then to lock it, Jonas, pale and breathless, gazed upon\nthis phantom. It moved, opened the door, and walked in.\n\n\'What\'s the matter?\' cried Jonas, falling back. \'Who is it? Where do you\ncome from? What do you want?\'\n\n\'Matter!\' cried the voice of Mr Pecksniff, as Pecksniff in the flesh\nsmiled amiably upon him. \'The matter, Mr Jonas!\'\n\n\'What are you prying and peering about here for?\' said Jonas, angrily.\n\'What do you mean by coming up to town in this way, and taking one\nunawares? It\'s precious odd a man can\'t read the--the newspaper--in his\nown office without being startled out of his wits by people coming in\nwithout notice. Why didn\'t you knock at the door?\'\n\n\'So I did, Mr Jonas,\' answered Pecksniff, \'but no one heard me. I was\ncurious,\' he added in his gentle way as he laid his hand upon the young\nman\'s shoulder, \'to find out what part of the newspaper interested you\nso much; but the glass was too dim and dirty.\'\n\nJonas glanced in haste at the partition. Well. It wasn\'t very clean. So\nfar he spoke the truth.\n\n\'Was it poetry now?\' said Mr Pecksniff, shaking the forefinger of his\nright hand with an air of cheerful banter. \'Or was it politics? Or was\nit the price of stock? The main chance, Mr Jonas, the main chance, I\nsuspect.\'\n\n\'You ain\'t far from the truth,\' answered Jonas, recovering himself and\nsnuffing the candle; \'but how the deuce do you come to be in London\nagain? Ecod! it\'s enough to make a man stare, to see a fellow looking at\nhim all of a sudden, who he thought was sixty or seventy mile away.\'\n\n\'So it is,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'No doubt of it, my dear Mr Jonas. For\nwhile the human mind is constituted as it is--\'\n\n\'Oh, bother the human mind,\' interrupted Jonas with impatience \'what\nhave you come up for?\'\n\n\'A little matter of business,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'which has arisen\nquite unexpectedly.\'\n\n\'Oh!\' cried Jonas, \'is that all? Well. Here\'s father in the next room.\nHallo father, here\'s Pecksniff! He gets more addle-pated every day\nhe lives, I do believe,\' muttered Jonas, shaking his honoured parent\nroundly. \'Don\'t I tell you Pecksniff\'s here, stupid-head?\'\n\nThe combined effects of the shaking and this loving remonstrance soon\nawoke the old man, who gave Mr Pecksniff a chuckling welcome which was\nattributable in part to his being glad to see that gentleman, and in\npart to his unfading delight in the recollection of having called him a\nhypocrite. As Mr Pecksniff had not yet taken tea (indeed he had, but an\nhour before, arrived in London) the remains of the late collation, with\na rasher of bacon, were served up for his entertainment; and as Mr Jonas\nhad a business appointment in the next street, he stepped out to keep\nit; promising to return before Mr Pecksniff could finish his repast.\n\n\'And now, my good sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff to Anthony; \'now that we\nare alone, pray tell me what I can do for you. I say alone, because I\nbelieve that our dear friend Mr Chuffey is, metaphysically speaking,\na--shall I say a dummy?\' asked Mr Pecksniff with his sweetest smile, and\nhis head very much on one side.\n\n\'He neither hears us,\' replied Anthony, \'nor sees us.\'\n\n\'Why, then,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'I will be bold to say, with the utmost\nsympathy for his afflictions, and the greatest admiration of those\nexcellent qualities which do equal honour to his head and to his heart,\nthat he is what is playfully termed a dummy. You were going to observe,\nmy dear sir--?\'\n\n\'I was not going to make any observation that I know of,\' replied the\nold man.\n\n\'I was,\' said Mr Pecksniff, mildly.\n\n\'Oh! YOU were? What was it?\'\n\n\'That I never,\' said Mr Pecksniff, previously rising to see that the\ndoor was shut, and arranging his chair when he came back, so that it\ncould not be opened in the least without his immediately becoming aware\nof the circumstance; \'that I never in my life was so astonished as by\nthe receipt of your letter yesterday. That you should do me the honour\nto wish to take counsel with me on any matter, amazed me; but that you\nshould desire to do so, to the exclusion even of Mr Jonas, showed an\namount of confidence in one to whom you had done a verbal injury--merely\na verbal injury, you were anxious to repair--which gratified, which\nmoved, which overcame me.\'\n\nHe was always a glib speaker, but he delivered this short address very\nglibly; having been at some pains to compose it outside the coach.\n\nAlthough he paused for a reply, and truly said that he was there at\nAnthony\'s request, the old man sat gazing at him in profound silence and\nwith a perfectly blank face. Nor did he seem to have the least desire or\nimpulse to pursue the conversation, though Mr Pecksniff looked towards\nthe door, and pulled out his watch, and gave him many other hints that\ntheir time was short, and Jonas, if he kept his word, would soon return.\nBut the strangest incident in all this strange behaviour was, that of a\nsudden, in a moment, so swiftly that it was impossible to trace how,\nor to observe any process of change, his features fell into their old\nexpression, and he cried, striking his hand passionately upon the table\nas if no interval at all had taken place:\n\n\'Will you hold your tongue, sir, and let me speak?\'\n\nMr Pecksniff deferred to him with a submissive bow; and said within\nhimself, \'I knew his hand was changed, and that his writing staggered. I\nsaid so yesterday. Ahem! Dear me!\'\n\n\'Jonas is sweet upon your daughter, Pecksniff,\' said the old man, in his\nusual tone.\n\n\'We spoke of that, if you remember, sir, at Mrs Todgers\'s,\' replied the\ncourteous architect.\n\n\'You needn\'t speak so loud,\' retorted Anthony. \'I\'m not so deaf as\nthat.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff had certainly raised his voice pretty high; not so much\nbecause he thought Anthony was deaf, as because he felt convinced that\nhis perceptive faculties were waxing dim; but this quick resentment of\nhis considerate behaviour greatly disconcerted him, and, not knowing\nwhat tack to shape his course upon, he made another inclination of the\nhead, yet more submissive that the last.\n\n\'I have said,\' repeated the old man, \'that Jonas is sweet upon your\ndaughter.\'\n\n\'A charming girl, sir,\' murmured Mr Pecksniff, seeing that he waited\nfor an answer. \'A dear girl, Mr Chuzzlewit, though I say it, who should\nnot.\'\n\n\'You know better,\' cried the old man, advancing his weazen face at least\na yard, and starting forward in his chair to do it. \'You lie! What, you\nWILL be a hypocrite, will you?\'\n\n\'My good sir,\' Mr Pecksniff began.\n\n\'Don\'t call me a good sir,\' retorted Anthony, \'and don\'t claim to be\none yourself. If your daughter was what you would have me believe, she\nwouldn\'t do for Jonas. Being what she is, I think she will. He might be\ndeceived in a wife. She might run riot, contract debts, and waste his\nsubstance. Now when I am dead--\'\n\nHis face altered so horribly as he said the word, that Mr Pecksniff\nreally was fain to look another way.\n\n\'--It will be worse for me to know of such doings, than if I was alive;\nfor to be tormented for getting that together, which even while I suffer\nfor its acquisition, is flung into the very kennels of the streets,\nwould be insupportable torture. No,\' said the old man, hoarsely, \'let\nthat be saved at least; let there be something gained, and kept fast\nhold of, when so much is lost.\'\n\n\'My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,\' said Pecksniff, \'these are unwholesome fancies;\nquite unnecessary, sir, quite uncalled for, I am sure. The truth is, my\ndear sir, that you are not well!\'\n\n\'Not dying though!\' cried Anthony, with something like the snarl of a\nwild animal. \'Not yet! There are years of life in me. Why, look at him,\'\npointing to his feeble clerk. \'Death has no right to leave him standing,\nand to mow me down!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff was so much afraid of the old man, and so completely taken\naback by the state in which he found him, that he had not even presence\nof mind enough to call up a scrap of morality from the great storehouse\nwithin his own breast. Therefore he stammered out that no doubt it was,\nin fairness and decency, Mr Chuffey\'s turn to expire; and that from\nall he had heard of Mr Chuffey, and the little he had the pleasure of\nknowing of that gentleman, personally, he felt convinced in his own\nmind that he would see the propriety of expiring with as little delay as\npossible.\n\n\'Come here!\' said the old man, beckoning him to draw nearer. \'Jonas\nwill be my heir, Jonas will be rich, and a great catch for you. You know\nthat. Jonas is sweet upon your daughter.\'\n\n\'I know that too,\' thought Mr Pecksniff, \'for you have said it often\nenough.\'\n\n\'He might get more money than with her,\' said the old man, \'but she\nwill help him to take care of what they have. She is not too young or\nheedless, and comes of a good hard griping stock. But don\'t you play\ntoo fine a game. She only holds him by a thread; and if you draw it too\ntight (I know his temper) it\'ll snap. Bind him when he\'s in the mood,\nPecksniff; bind him. You\'re too deep. In your way of leading him on,\nyou\'ll leave him miles behind. Bah, you man of oil, have I no eyes to\nsee how you have angled with him from the first?\'\n\n\'Now I wonder,\' thought Mr Pecksniff, looking at him with a wistful\nface, \'whether this is all he has to say?\'\n\nOld Anthony rubbed his hands and muttered to himself; complained again\nthat he was cold; drew his chair before the fire; and, sitting with his\nback to Mr Pecksniff, and his chin sunk down upon his breast, was, in\nanother minute, quite regardless or forgetful of his presence.\n\nUncouth and unsatisfactory as this short interview had been, it had\nfurnished Mr Pecksniff with a hint which, supposing nothing further\nwere imparted to him, repaid the journey up and home again. For the good\ngentleman had never (for want of an opportunity) dived into the depths\nof Mr Jonas\'s nature; and any recipe for catching such a son-in-law\n(much more one written on a leaf out of his own father\'s book) was worth\nthe having. In order that he might lose no chance of improving so fair\nan opportunity by allowing Anthony to fall asleep before he had finished\nall he had to say, Mr Pecksniff, in the disposal of the refreshments on\nthe table, a work to which he now applied himself in earnest, resorted\nto many ingenious contrivances for attracting his attention; such as\ncoughing, sneezing, clattering the teacups, sharpening the knives,\ndropping the loaf, and so forth. But all in vain, for Mr Jonas returned,\nand Anthony had said no more.\n\n\'What! My father asleep again?\' he cried, as he hung up his hat, and\ncast a look at him. \'Ah! and snoring. Only hear!\'\n\n\'He snores very deep,\' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'Snores deep?\' repeated Jonas. \'Yes; let him alone for that. He\'ll snore\nfor six, at any time.\'\n\n\'Do you know, Mr Jonas,\' said Pecksniff, \'that I think your father\nis--don\'t let me alarm you--breaking?\'\n\n\'Oh, is he though?\' replied Jonas, with a shake of the head which\nexpressed the closeness of his dutiful observation. \'Ecod, you don\'t\nknow how tough he is. He ain\'t upon the move yet.\'\n\n\'It struck me that he was changed, both in his appearance and manner,\'\nsaid Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'That\'s all you know about it,\' returned Jonas, seating himself with a\nmelancholy air. \'He never was better than he is now. How are they all at\nhome? How\'s Charity?\'\n\n\'Blooming, Mr Jonas, blooming.\'\n\n\'And the other one; how\'s she?\'\n\n\'Volatile trifler!\' said Mr Pecksniff, fondly musing. \'She is well, she\nis well. Roving from parlour to bedroom, Mr Jonas, like a bee, skimming\nfrom post to pillar, like the butterfly; dipping her young beak into our\ncurrant wine, like the humming-bird! Ah! were she a little less giddy\nthan she is; and had she but the sterling qualities of Cherry, my young\nfriend!\'\n\n\'Is she so very giddy, then?\' asked Jonas.\n\n\'Well, well!\' said Mr Pecksniff, with great feeling; \'let me not be hard\nupon my child. Beside her sister Cherry she appears so. A strange noise\nthat, Mr Jonas!\'\n\n\'Something wrong in the clock, I suppose,\' said Jonas, glancing towards\nit. \'So the other one ain\'t your favourite, ain\'t she?\'\n\nThe fond father was about to reply, and had already summoned into his\nface a look of most intense sensibility, when the sound he had already\nnoticed was repeated.\n\n\'Upon my word, Mr Jonas, that is a very extraordinary clock,\' said\nPecksniff.\n\nIt would have been, if it had made the noise which startled them; but\nanother kind of time-piece was fast running down, and from that the\nsound proceeded. A scream from Chuffey, rendered a hundred times more\nloud and formidable by his silent habits, made the house ring from roof\nto cellar; and, looking round, they saw Anthony Chuzzlewit extended on\nthe floor, with the old clerk upon his knees beside him.\n\nHe had fallen from his chair in a fit, and lay there, battling for each\ngasp of breath, with every shrivelled vein and sinew starting in its\nplace, as if it were bent on bearing witness to his age, and sternly\npleading with Nature against his recovery. It was frightful to see how\nthe principle of life, shut up within his withered frame, fought like a\nstrong devil, mad to be released, and rent its ancient prison-house.\nA young man in the fullness of his vigour, struggling with so much\nstrength of desperation, would have been a dismal sight; but an old,\nold, shrunken body, endowed with preternatural might, and giving the lie\nin every motion of its every limb and joint to its enfeebled aspect, was\na hideous spectacle indeed.\n\nThey raised him up, and fetched a surgeon with all haste, who bled the\npatient and applied some remedies; but the fits held him so long that\nit was past midnight when they got him--quiet now, but quite unconscious\nand exhausted--into bed.\n\n\'Don\'t go,\' said Jonas, putting his ashy lips to Mr Pecksniff\'s ear and\nwhispered across the bed. \'It was a mercy you were present when he was\ntaken ill. Some one might have said it was my doing.\'\n\n\'YOUR doing!\' cried Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'I don\'t know but they might,\' he replied, wiping the moisture from his\nwhite face. \'People say such things. How does he look now?\'\n\nMr Pecksniff shook his head.\n\n\'I used to joke, you know,\' said. Jonas: \'but I--I never wished him\ndead. Do you think he\'s very bad?\'\n\n\'The doctor said he was. You heard,\' was Mr Pecksniff\'s answer.\n\n\'Ah! but he might say that to charge us more, in case of his getting\nwell\' said Jonas. \'You mustn\'t go away, Pecksniff. Now it\'s come to\nthis, I wouldn\'t be without a witness for a thousand pound.\'\n\nChuffey said not a word, and heard not a word. He had sat himself down\nin a chair at the bedside, and there he remained, motionless; except\nthat he sometimes bent his head over the pillow, and seemed to listen.\nHe never changed in this. Though once in the dreary night Mr Pecksniff,\nhaving dozed, awoke with a confused impression that he had heard\nhim praying, and strangely mingling figures--not of speech, but\narithmetic--with his broken prayers.\n\nJonas sat there, too, all night; not where his father could have seen\nhim, had his consciousness returned, but hiding, as it were, behind him,\nand only reading how he looked, in Mr Pecksniff\'s eyes. HE, the coarse\nupstart, who had ruled the house so long--that craven cur, who was\nafraid to move, and shook so, that his very shadow fluttered on the\nwall!\n\nIt was broad, bright, stirring day when, leaving the old clerk to watch\nhim, they went down to breakfast. People hurried up and down the street;\nwindows and doors were opened; thieves and beggars took their usual\nposts; workmen bestirred themselves; tradesmen set forth their shops;\nbailiffs and constables were on the watch; all kinds of human creatures\nstrove, in their several ways, as hard to live, as the one sick old\nman who combated for every grain of sand in his fast-emptying glass, as\neagerly as if it were an empire.\n\n\'If anything happens Pecksniff,\' said Jonas, \'you must promise me to\nstop here till it\'s all over. You shall see that I do what\'s right.\'\n\n\'I know that you will do what\'s right, Mr Jonas,\' said Pecksniff.\n\n\'Yes, yes, but I won\'t be doubted. No one shall have it in his power to\nsay a syllable against me,\' he returned. \'I know how people will talk.\nJust as if he wasn\'t old, or I had the secret of keeping him alive!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff promised that he would remain, if circumstances should\nrender it, in his esteemed friend\'s opinion, desirable; they were\nfinishing their meal in silence, when suddenly an apparition stood\nbefore them, so ghastly to the view that Jonas shrieked aloud, and both\nrecoiled in horror.\n\nOld Anthony, dressed in his usual clothes, was in the room--beside the\ntable. He leaned upon the shoulder of his solitary friend; and on his\nlivid face, and on his horny hands, and in his glassy eyes, and traced\nby an eternal finger in the very drops of sweat upon his brow, was one\nword--Death.\n\nHe spoke to them--in something of his own voice too, but sharpened and\nmade hollow, like a dead man\'s face. What he would have said, God knows.\nHe seemed to utter words, but they were such as man had never heard.\nAnd this was the most fearful circumstance of all, to see him standing\nthere, gabbling in an unearthly tongue.\n\n\'He\'s better now,\' said Chuffey. \'Better now. Let him sit in his old\nchair, and he\'ll be well again. I told him not to mind. I said so,\nyesterday.\'\n\nThey put him in his easy-chair, and wheeled it near the window; then,\nswinging open the door, exposed him to the free current of morning air.\nBut not all the air that is, nor all the winds that ever blew \'twixt\nHeaven and Earth, could have brought new life to him.\n\nPlunge him to the throat in golden pieces now, and his heavy fingers\nshall not close on one!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINETEEN\n\nTHE READER IS BROUGHT INTO COMMUNICATION WITH SOME PROFESSIONAL PERSONS,\nAND SHEDS A TEAR OVER THE FILIAL PIETY OF GOOD MR JONAS\n\n\nMr Pecksniff was in a hackney cabriolet, for Jonas Chuzzlewit had said\n\'Spare no expense.\' Mankind is evil in its thoughts and in its base\nconstructions, and Jonas was resolved it should not have an inch to\nstretch into an ell against him. It never should be charged upon his\nfather\'s son that he had grudged the money for his father\'s funeral.\nHence, until the obsequies should be concluded, Jonas had taken for his\nmotto \'Spend, and spare not!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff had been to the undertaker, and was now upon his way to\nanother officer in the train of mourning--a female functionary, a nurse,\nand watcher, and performer of nameless offices about the persons of the\ndead--whom he had recommended. Her name, as Mr Pecksniff gathered from\na scrap of writing in his hand, was Gamp; her residence in Kingsgate\nStreet, High Holborn. So Mr Pecksniff, in a hackney cab, was rattling\nover Holborn stones, in quest of Mrs Gamp.\n\nThis lady lodged at a bird-fancier\'s, next door but one to the\ncelebrated mutton-pie shop, and directly opposite to the original\ncat\'s-meat warehouse; the renown of which establishments was duly\nheralded on their respective fronts. It was a little house, and this was\nthe more convenient; for Mrs Gamp being, in her highest walk of art,\na monthly nurse, or, as her sign-board boldly had it, \'Midwife,\' and\nlodging in the first-floor front, was easily assailable at night by\npebbles, walking-sticks, and fragments of tobacco-pipe; all much more\nefficacious than the street-door knocker, which was so constructed as\nto wake the street with ease, and even spread alarms of fire in Holborn,\nwithout making the smallest impression on the premises to which it was\naddressed.\n\nIt chanced on this particular occasion, that Mrs Gamp had been up all\nthe previous night, in attendance upon a ceremony to which the usage of\ngossips has given that name which expresses, in two syllables, the curse\npronounced on Adam. It chanced that Mrs Gamp had not been regularly\nengaged, but had been called in at a crisis, in consequence of her great\nrepute, to assist another professional lady with her advice; and thus it\nhappened that, all points of interest in the case being over, Mrs Gamp\nhad come home again to the bird-fancier\'s and gone to bed. So when Mr\nPecksniff drove up in the hackney cab, Mrs Gamp\'s curtains were drawn\nclose, and Mrs Gamp was fast asleep behind them.\n\nIf the bird-fancier had been at home, as he ought to have been, there\nwould have been no great harm in this; but he was out, and his shop was\nclosed. The shutters were down certainly; and in every pane of glass\nthere was at least one tiny bird in a tiny bird-cage, twittering and\nhopping his little ballet of despair, and knocking his head against the\nroof; while one unhappy goldfinch who lived outside a red villa with\nhis name on the door, drew the water for his own drinking, and mutely\nappealed to some good man to drop a farthing\'s-worth of poison in it.\nStill, the door was shut. Mr Pecksniff tried the latch, and shook it,\ncausing a cracked bell inside to ring most mournfully; but no one came.\nThe bird-fancier was an easy shaver also, and a fashionable hair-dresser\nalso, and perhaps he had been sent for, express, from the court end of\nthe town, to trim a lord, or cut and curl a lady; but however that\nmight be, there, upon his own ground, he was not; nor was there any more\ndistinct trace of him to assist the imagination of an inquirer, than\na professional print or emblem of his calling (much favoured in the\ntrade), representing a hair-dresser of easy manners curling a lady\nof distinguished fashion, in the presence of a patent upright grand\npianoforte.\n\nNoting these circumstances, Mr Pecksniff, in the innocence of his heart,\napplied himself to the knocker; but at the first double knock every\nwindow in the street became alive with female heads; and before he could\nrepeat the performance whole troops of married ladies (some about to\ntrouble Mrs Gamp themselves very shortly) came flocking round the steps,\nall crying out with one accord, and with uncommon interest, \'Knock at\nthe winder, sir, knock at the winder. Lord bless you, don\'t lose no more\ntime than you can help--knock at the winder!\'\n\nActing upon this suggestion, and borrowing the driver\'s whip for the\npurpose, Mr Pecksniff soon made a commotion among the first floor\nflower-pots, and roused Mrs Gamp, whose voice--to the great satisfaction\nof the matrons--was heard to say, \'I\'m coming.\'\n\n\'He\'s as pale as a muffin,\' said one lady, in allusion to Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'So he ought to be, if he\'s the feelings of a man,\' observed another.\n\nA third lady (with her arms folded) said she wished he had chosen any\nother time for fetching Mrs Gamp, but it always happened so with HER.\n\nIt gave Mr Pecksniff much uneasiness to find, from these remarks, that\nhe was supposed to have come to Mrs Gamp upon an errand touching--not\nthe close of life, but the other end. Mrs Gamp herself was under the\nsame impression, for, throwing open the window, she cried behind the\ncurtains, as she hastily attired herself--\n\n\'Is it Mrs Perkins?\'\n\n\'No!\' returned Mr Pecksniff, sharply. \'Nothing of the sort.\'\n\n\'What, Mr Whilks!\' cried Mrs Gamp. \'Don\'t say it\'s you, Mr Whilks, and\nthat poor creetur Mrs Whilks with not even a pincushion ready. Don\'t say\nit\'s you, Mr Whilks!\'\n\n\'It isn\'t Mr Whilks,\' said Pecksniff. \'I don\'t know the man. Nothing\nof the kind. A gentleman is dead; and some person being wanted in the\nhouse, you have been recommended by Mr Mould the undertaker.\'\n\nAs she was by this time in a condition to appear, Mrs Gamp, who had\na face for all occasions, looked out of the window with her mourning\ncountenance, and said she would be down directly. But the matrons took\nit very ill that Mr Pecksniff\'s mission was of so unimportant a kind;\nand the lady with her arms folded rated him in good round terms,\nsignifying that she would be glad to know what he meant by terrifying\ndelicate females \'with his corpses;\' and giving it as her opinion that\nhe was quite ugly enough to know better. The other ladies were not at\nall behind-hand in expressing similar sentiments; and the children, of\nwhom some scores had now collected, hooted and defied Mr Pecksniff quite\nsavagely. So when Mrs Gamp appeared, the unoffending gentleman was glad\nto hustle her with very little ceremony into the cabriolet, and drive\noff, overwhelmed with popular execration.\n\nMrs Gamp had a large bundle with her, a pair of pattens, and a species\nof gig umbrella; the latter article in colour like a faded leaf, except\nwhere a circular patch of a lively blue had been dexterously let in at\nthe top. She was much flurried by the haste she had made, and laboured\nunder the most erroneous views of cabriolets, which she appeared\nto confound with mail-coaches or stage-wagons, inasmuch as she was\nconstantly endeavouring for the first half mile to force her luggage\nthrough the little front window, and clamouring to the driver to \'put\nit in the boot.\' When she was disabused of this idea, her whole being\nresolved itself into an absorbing anxiety about her pattens, with which\nshe played innumerable games at quoits on Mr Pecksniff\'s legs. It was\nnot until they were close upon the house of mourning that she had enough\ncomposure to observe--\n\n\'And so the gentleman\'s dead, sir! Ah! The more\'s the pity.\' She didn\'t\neven know his name. \'But it\'s what we must all come to. It\'s as certain\nas being born, except that we can\'t make our calculations as exact. Ah!\nPoor dear!\'\n\nShe was a fat old woman, this Mrs Gamp, with a husky voice and a moist\neye, which she had a remarkable power of turning up, and only showing\nthe white of it. Having very little neck, it cost her some trouble to\nlook over herself, if one may say so, at those to whom she talked. She\nwore a very rusty black gown, rather the worse for snuff, and a shawl\nand bonnet to correspond. In these dilapidated articles of dress she\nhad, on principle, arrayed herself, time out of mind, on such occasions\nas the present; for this at once expressed a decent amount of veneration\nfor the deceased, and invited the next of kin to present her with a\nfresher suit of weeds; an appeal so frequently successful, that the very\nfetch and ghost of Mrs Gamp, bonnet and all, might be seen hanging up,\nany hour in the day, in at least a dozen of the second-hand clothes\nshops about Holborn. The face of Mrs Gamp--the nose in particular--was\nsomewhat red and swollen, and it was difficult to enjoy her society\nwithout becoming conscious of a smell of spirits. Like most persons who\nhave attained to great eminence in their profession, she took to hers\nvery kindly; insomuch that, setting aside her natural predilections as\na woman, she went to a lying-in or a laying-out with equal zest and\nrelish.\n\n\'Ah!\' repeated Mrs Gamp; for it was always a safe sentiment in cases of\nmourning. \'Ah dear! When Gamp was summoned to his long home, and I see\nhim a-lying in Guy\'s Hospital with a penny-piece on each eye, and his\nwooden leg under his left arm, I thought I should have fainted away. But\nI bore up.\'\n\nIf certain whispers current in the Kingsgate Street circles had any\ntruth in them, she had indeed borne up surprisingly; and had exerted\nsuch uncommon fortitude as to dispose of Mr Gamp\'s remains for the\nbenefit of science. But it should be added, in fairness, that this had\nhappened twenty years before; and that Mr and Mrs Gamp had long been\nseparated on the ground of incompatibility of temper in their drink.\n\n\'You have become indifferent since then, I suppose?\' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\'Use is second nature, Mrs Gamp.\'\n\n\'You may well say second nater, sir,\' returned that lady. \'One\'s first\nways is to find sich things a trial to the feelings, and so is one\'s\nlasting custom. If it wasn\'t for the nerve a little sip of liquor gives\nme (I never was able to do more than taste it), I never could go through\nwith what I sometimes has to do. \"Mrs Harris,\" I says, at the very last\ncase as ever I acted in, which it was but a young person, \"Mrs Harris,\"\nI says, \"leave the bottle on the chimley-piece, and don\'t ask me to take\nnone, but let me put my lips to it when I am so dispoged, and then I\nwill do what I\'m engaged to do, according to the best of my ability.\"\n\"Mrs Gamp,\" she says, in answer, \"if ever there was a sober creetur to\nbe got at eighteen pence a day for working people, and three and six for\ngentlefolks--night watching,\"\' said Mrs Gamp with emphasis, \'\"being a\nextra charge--you are that inwallable person.\" \"Mrs Harris,\" I says to\nher, \"don\'t name the charge, for if I could afford to lay all my feller\ncreeturs out for nothink, I would gladly do it, sich is the love I bears\n\'em. But what I always says to them as has the management of matters,\nMrs Harris\"\'--here she kept her eye on Mr Pecksniff--\'\"be they gents or\nbe they ladies, is, don\'t ask me whether I won\'t take none, or whether I\nwill, but leave the bottle on the chimley-piece, and let me put my lips\nto it when I am so dispoged.\"\'\n\nThe conclusion of this affecting narrative brought them to the house. In\nthe passage they encountered Mr Mould the undertaker; a little elderly\ngentleman, bald, and in a suit of black; with a notebook in his hand,\na massive gold watch-chain dangling from his fob, and a face in which a\nqueer attempt at melancholy was at odds with a smirk of satisfaction; so\nthat he looked as a man might, who, in the very act of smacking his lips\nover choice old wine, tried to make believe it was physic.\n\n\'Well, Mrs Gamp, and how are YOU, Mrs Gamp?\' said this gentleman, in a\nvoice as soft as his step.\n\n\'Pretty well, I thank you, sir,\' dropping a curtsey.\n\n\'You\'ll be very particular here, Mrs Gamp. This is not a common case,\nMrs Gamp. Let everything be very nice and comfortable, Mrs Gamp, if you\nplease,\' said the undertaker, shaking his head with a solemn air.\n\n\'It shall be, sir,\' she replied, curtseying again. \'You knows me of old,\nsir, I hope.\'\n\n\'I hope so, too, Mrs Gamp,\' said the undertaker, \'and I think so also.\'\nMrs Gamp curtseyed again. \'This is one of the most impressive cases,\nsir,\' he continued, addressing Mr Pecksniff, \'that I have seen in the\nwhole course of my professional experience.\'\n\n\'Indeed, Mr Mould!\' cried that gentleman.\n\n\'Such affectionate regret, sir, I never saw. There is no limitation,\nthere is positively NO limitation\'--opening his eyes wide, and standing\non tiptoe--\'in point of expense! I have orders, sir, to put on my whole\nestablishment of mutes; and mutes come very dear, Mr Pecksniff; not to\nmention their drink. To provide silver-plated handles of the very best\ndescription, ornamented with angels\' heads from the most expensive\ndies. To be perfectly profuse in feathers. In short, sir, to turn out\nsomething absolutely gorgeous.\'\n\n\'My friend Mr Jonas is an excellent man,\' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'I have seen a good deal of what is filial in my time, sir,\' retorted\nMould, \'and what is unfilial too. It is our lot. We come into the\nknowledge of those secrets. But anything so filial as this; anything so\nhonourable to human nature; so calculated to reconcile all of us to the\nworld we live in; never yet came under my observation. It only\nproves, sir, what was so forcibly observed by the lamented theatrical\npoet--buried at Stratford--that there is good in everything.\'\n\n\'It is very pleasant to hear you say so, Mr Mould,\' observed Pecksniff.\n\n\'You are very kind, sir. And what a man Mr Chuzzlewit was, sir! Ah! what\na man he was. You may talk of your lord mayors,\' said Mould, waving his\nhand at the public in general, \'your sheriffs, your common councilmen,\nyour trumpery; but show me a man in this city who is worthy to walk\nin the shoes of the departed Mr Chuzzlewit. No, no,\' cried Mould, with\nbitter sarcasm. \'Hang \'em up, hang \'em up; sole \'em and heel \'em, and\nhave \'em ready for his son against he\'s old enough to wear \'em; but\ndon\'t try \'em on yourselves, for they won\'t fit you. We knew him,\' said\nMould, in the same biting vein, as he pocketed his note-book; \'we\nknew him, and are not to be caught with chaff. Mr Pecksniff, sir, good\nmorning.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff returned the compliment; and Mould, sensible of having\ndistinguished himself, was going away with a brisk smile, when he\nfortunately remembered the occasion. Quickly becoming depressed again,\nhe sighed; looked into the crown of his hat, as if for comfort; put it\non without finding any; and slowly departed.\n\nMrs Gamp and Mr Pecksniff then ascended the staircase; and the former,\nhaving been shown to the chamber in which all that remained of Anthony\nChuzzlewit lay covered up, with but one loving heart, and that a halting\none, to mourn it, left the latter free to enter the darkened room below,\nand rejoin Mr Jonas, from whom he had now been absent nearly two hours.\n\nHe found that example to bereaved sons, and pattern in the eyes of all\nperformers of funerals, musing over a fragment of writing-paper on the\ndesk, and scratching figures on it with a pen. The old man\'s chair, and\nhat, and walking-stick, were removed from their accustomed places, and\nput out of sight; the window-blinds as yellow as November fogs, were\ndrawn down close; Jonas himself was so subdued, that he could scarcely\nbe heard to speak, and only seen to walk across the room.\n\n\'Pecksniff,\' he said, in a whisper, \'you shall have the regulation of\nit all, mind! You shall be able to tell anybody who talks about it that\neverything was correctly and nicely done. There isn\'t any one you\'d like\nto ask to the funeral, is there?\'\n\n\'No, Mr Jonas, I think not.\'\n\n\'Because if there is, you know,\' said Jonas, \'ask him. We don\'t want to\nmake a secret of it.\'\n\n\'No,\' repeated Mr Pecksniff, after a little reflection. \'I am not\nthe less obliged to you on that account, Mr Jonas, for your liberal\nhospitality; but there really is no one.\'\n\n\'Very well,\' said Jonas; \'then you, and I, and Chuffey, and the doctor,\nwill be just a coachful. We\'ll have the doctor, Pecksniff, because he\nknows what was the matter with him, and that it couldn\'t be helped.\'\n\n\'Where is our dear friend, Mr Chuffey?\' asked Pecksniff, looking round\nthe chamber, and winking both his eyes at once--for he was overcome by\nhis feelings.\n\nBut here he was interrupted by Mrs Gamp, who, divested of her bonnet and\nshawl, came sidling and bridling into the room; and with some sharpness\ndemanded a conference outside the door with Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'You may say whatever you wish to say here, Mrs Gamp,\' said that\ngentleman, shaking his head with a melancholy expression.\n\n\'It is not much as I have to say when people is a-mourning for the dead\nand gone,\' said Mrs Gamp; \'but what I have to say is TO the pint and\npurpose, and no offence intended, must be so considered. I have been at\na many places in my time, gentlemen, and I hope I knows what my duties\nis, and how the same should be performed; in course, if I did not, it\nwould be very strange, and very wrong in sich a gentleman as Mr Mould,\nwhich has undertook the highest families in this land, and given every\nsatisfaction, so to recommend me as he does. I have seen a deal of\ntrouble my own self,\' said Mrs Gamp, laying greater and greater stress\nupon her words, \'and I can feel for them as has their feelings tried,\nbut I am not a Rooshan or a Prooshan, and consequently cannot suffer\nSpies to be set over me.\'\n\nBefore it was possible that an answer could be returned, Mrs Gamp,\ngrowing redder in the face, went on to say:\n\n\'It is not a easy matter, gentlemen, to live when you are left a widder\nwoman; particular when your feelings works upon you to that extent that\nyou often find yourself a-going out on terms which is a certain loss,\nand never can repay. But in whatever way you earns your bread, you may\nhave rules and regulations of your own which cannot be broke through.\nSome people,\' said Mrs Gamp, again entrenching herself behind her\nstrong point, as if it were not assailable by human ingenuity, \'may be\nRooshans, and others may be Prooshans; they are born so, and will please\nthemselves. Them which is of other naturs thinks different.\'\n\n\'If I understand this good lady,\' said Mr Pecksniff, turning to Jonas,\n\'Mr Chuffey is troublesome to her. Shall I fetch him down?\'\n\n\'Do,\' said Jonas. \'I was going to tell you he was up there, when she\ncame in. I\'d go myself and bring him down, only--only I\'d rather you\nwent, if you don\'t mind.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff promptly departed, followed by Mrs Gamp, who, seeing that\nhe took a bottle and glass from the cupboard, and carried it in his\nhand, was much softened.\n\n\'I am sure,\' she said, \'that if it wasn\'t for his own happiness, I\nshould no more mind him being there, poor dear, than if he was a\nfly. But them as isn\'t used to these things, thinks so much of \'em\nafterwards, that it\'s a kindness to \'em not to let \'em have their wish.\nAnd even,\' said Mrs Gamp, probably in reference to some flowers of\nspeech she had already strewn on Mr Chuffey, \'even if one calls \'em\nnames, it\'s only done to rouse \'em.\'\n\nWhatever epithets she had bestowed on the old clerk, they had not\nroused HIM. He sat beside the bed, in the chair he had occupied all the\nprevious night, with his hands folded before him, and his head bowed\ndown; and neither looked up, on their entrance, nor gave any sign of\nconsciousness, until Mr Pecksniff took him by the arm, when he meekly\nrose.\n\n\'Three score and ten,\' said Chuffey, \'ought and carry seven. Some men\nare so strong that they live to four score--four times ought\'s an ought,\nfour times two\'s an eight--eighty. Oh! why--why--why didn\'t he live to\nfour times ought\'s an ought, and four times two\'s an eight, eighty?\'\n\n\'Ah! what a wale of grief!\' cried Mrs Gamp, possessing herself of the\nbottle and glass.\n\n\'Why did he die before his poor old crazy servant?\' said Chuffey,\nclasping his hands and looking up in anguish. \'Take him from me, and\nwhat remains?\'\n\n\'Mr Jonas,\' returned Pecksniff, \'Mr Jonas, my good friend.\'\n\n\'I loved him,\' cried the old man, weeping. \'He was good to me. We learnt\nTare and Tret together at school. I took him down once, six boys in the\narithmetic class. God forgive me! Had I the heart to take him down!\'\n\n\'Come, Mr Chuffey,\' said Pecksniff. \'Come with me. Summon up your\nfortitude, Mr Chuffey.\'\n\n\'Yes, I will,\' returned the old clerk. \'Yes. I\'ll sum up my forty--How\nmany times forty--Oh, Chuzzlewit and Son--Your own son Mr Chuzzlewit;\nyour own son, sir!\'\n\nHe yielded to the hand that guided him, as he lapsed into this familiar\nexpression, and submitted to be led away. Mrs Gamp, with the bottle on\none knee, and the glass on the other, sat upon a stool, shaking her head\nfor a long time, until, in a moment of abstraction, she poured out\na dram of spirits, and raised it to her lips. It was succeeded by a\nsecond, and by a third, and then her eyes--either in the sadness of\nher reflections upon life and death, or in her admiration of the\nliquor--were so turned up, as to be quite invisible. But she shook her\nhead still.\n\nPoor Chuffey was conducted to his accustomed corner, and there he\nremained, silent and quiet, save at long intervals, when he would rise,\nand walk about the room, and wring his hands, or raise some strange and\nsudden cry. For a whole week they all three sat about the hearth and\nnever stirred abroad. Mr Pecksniff would have walked out in the evening\ntime, but Mr Jonas was so averse to his being absent for a minute, that\nhe abandoned the idea, and so, from morning until night, they brooded\ntogether in the dark room, without relief or occupation.\n\nThe weight of that which was stretched out, stiff and stark, in the\nawful chamber above-stairs, so crushed and bore down Jonas, that he bent\nbeneath the load. During the whole long seven days and nights, he was\nalways oppressed and haunted by a dreadful sense of its presence in the\nhouse. Did the door move, he looked towards it with a livid face and\nstarting eye, as if he fully believed that ghostly fingers clutched the\nhandle. Did the fire flicker in a draught of air, he glanced over his\nshoulder, as almost dreading to behold some shrouded figure fanning and\nflapping at it with its fearful dress. The lightest noise disturbed him;\nand once, in the night, at the sound of a footstep overhead, he cried\nout that the dead man was walking--tramp, tramp, tramp--about his\ncoffin.\n\nHe lay at night upon a mattress on the floor of the sitting-room; his\nown chamber having been assigned to Mrs Gamp; and Mr Pecksniff was\nsimilarly accommodated. The howling of a dog before the house, filled\nhim with a terror he could not disguise. He avoided the reflection in\nthe opposite windows of the light that burned above, as though it had\nbeen an angry eye. He often, in every night, rose up from his fitful\nsleep, and looked and longed for dawn; all directions and arrangements,\neven to the ordering of their daily meals, he abandoned to Mr Pecksniff.\nThat excellent gentleman, deeming that the mourner wanted comfort, and\nthat high feeding was likely to do him infinite service, availed himself\nof these opportunities to such good purpose, that they kept quite a\ndainty table during this melancholy season; with sweetbreads, stewed\nkidneys, oysters, and other such light viands for supper every night;\nover which, and sundry jorums of hot punch, Mr Pecksniff delivered such\nmoral reflections and spiritual consolation as might have converted a\nHeathen--especially if he had had but an imperfect acquaintance with the\nEnglish tongue.\n\nNor did Mr Pecksniff alone indulge in the creature comforts during\nthis sad time. Mrs Gamp proved to be very choice in her eating, and\nrepudiated hashed mutton with scorn. In her drinking too, she was very\npunctual and particular, requiring a pint of mild porter at lunch, a\npint at dinner, half-a-pint as a species of stay or holdfast between\ndinner and tea, and a pint of the celebrated staggering ale, or Real Old\nBrighton Tipper, at supper; besides the bottle on the chimney-piece,\nand such casual invitations to refresh herself with wine as the good\nbreeding of her employers might prompt them to offer. In like manner, Mr\nMould\'s men found it necessary to drown their grief, like a young kitten\nin the morning of its existence, for which reason they generally fuddled\nthemselves before they began to do anything, lest it should make head\nand get the better of them. In short, the whole of that strange week was\na round of dismal joviality and grim enjoyment; and every one, except\npoor Chuffey, who came within the shadow of Anthony Chuzzlewit\'s grave,\nfeasted like a Ghoul.\n\nAt length the day of the funeral, pious and truthful ceremony that it\nwas, arrived. Mr Mould, with a glass of generous port between his eye\nand the light, leaned against the desk in the little glass office with\nhis gold watch in his unoccupied hand, and conversed with Mrs Gamp; two\nmutes were at the house-door, looking as mournful as could be reasonably\nexpected of men with such a thriving job in hand; the whole of Mr\nMould\'s establishment were on duty within the house or without; feathers\nwaved, horses snorted, silk and velvets fluttered; in a word, as Mr\nMould emphatically said, \'Everything that money could do was done.\'\n\n\'And what can do more, Mrs Gamp?\' exclaimed the undertaker as he emptied\nhis glass and smacked his lips.\n\n\'Nothing in the world, sir.\'\n\n\'Nothing in the world,\' repeated Mr Mould. \'You are right, Mrs Gamp.\nWhy do people spend more money\'--here he filled his glass again--\'upon a\ndeath, Mrs Gamp, than upon a birth? Come, that\'s in your way; you ought\nto know. How do you account for that now?\'\n\n\'Perhaps it is because an undertaker\'s charges comes dearer than a\nnurse\'s charges, sir,\' said Mrs Gamp, tittering, and smoothing down her\nnew black dress with her hands.\n\n\'Ha, ha!\' laughed Mr Mould. \'You have been breakfasting at somebody\'s\nexpense this morning, Mrs Gamp.\' But seeing, by the aid of a little\nshaving-glass which hung opposite, that he looked merry, he composed his\nfeatures and became sorrowful.\n\n\'Many\'s the time that I\'ve not breakfasted at my own expense along of\nyour recommending, sir; and many\'s the time I hope to do the same in\ntime to come,\' said Mrs Gamp, with an apologetic curtsey.\n\n\'So be it,\' replied Mr Mould, \'please Providence. No, Mrs Gamp;\nI\'ll tell you why it is. It\'s because the laying out of money with a\nwell-conducted establishment, where the thing is performed upon the\nvery best scale, binds the broken heart, and sheds balm upon the wounded\nspirit. Hearts want binding, and spirits want balming when people die;\nnot when people are born. Look at this gentleman to-day; look at him.\'\n\n\'An open-handed gentleman?\' cried Mrs Gamp, with enthusiasm.\n\n\'No, no,\' said the undertaker; \'not an open-handed gentleman in general,\nby any means. There you mistake him; but an afflicted gentleman, an\naffectionate gentleman, who knows what it is in the power of money to\ndo, in giving him relief, and in testifying his love and veneration for\nthe departed. It can give him,\' said Mr Mould, waving his watch-chain\nslowly round and round, so that he described one circle after every\nitem; \'it can give him four horses to each vehicle; it can give him\nvelvet trappings; it can give him drivers in cloth cloaks and top-boots;\nit can give him the plumage of the ostrich, dyed black; it can give him\nany number of walking attendants, dressed in the first style of funeral\nfashion, and carrying batons tipped with brass; it can give him a\nhandsome tomb; it can give him a place in Westminster Abbey itself, if\nhe choose to invest it in such a purchase. Oh! do not let us say that\ngold is dross, when it can buy such things as these, Mrs Gamp.\'\n\n\'But what a blessing, sir,\' said Mrs Gamp, \'that there are such as you,\nto sell or let \'em out on hire!\'\n\n\'Aye, Mrs Gamp, you are right,\' rejoined the undertaker. \'We should\nbe an honoured calling. We do good by stealth, and blush to have it\nmentioned in our little bills. How much consolation may I--even I,\'\ncried Mr Mould, \'have diffused among my fellow-creatures by means of my\nfour long-tailed prancers, never harnessed under ten pund ten!\'\n\nMrs Gamp had begun to make a suitable reply, when she was interrupted\nby the appearance of one of Mr Mould\'s assistants--his chief mourner in\nfact--an obese person, with his waistcoat in closer connection with his\nlegs than is quite reconcilable with the established ideas of grace;\nwith that cast of feature which is figuratively called a bottle nose;\nand with a face covered all over with pimples. He had been a tender\nplant once upon a time, but from constant blowing in the fat atmosphere\nof funerals, had run to seed.\n\n\'Well, Tacker,\' said Mr Mould, \'is all ready below?\'\n\n\'A beautiful show, sir,\' rejoined Tacker. \'The horses are prouder and\nfresher than ever I see \'em; and toss their heads, they do, as if they\nknowed how much their plumes cost. One, two, three, four,\' said Mr\nTacker, heaping that number of black cloaks upon his left arm.\n\n\'Is Tom there, with the cake and wine?\' asked Mr Mould.\n\n\'Ready to come in at a moment\'s notice, sir,\' said Tacker.\n\n\'Then,\' rejoined Mr Mould, putting up his watch, and glancing at himself\nin the little shaving-glass, that he might be sure his face had the\nright expression on it; \'then I think we may proceed to business. Give\nme the paper of gloves, Tacker. Ah, what a man he was! Ah, Tacker,\nTacker, what a man he was!\'\n\nMr Tacker, who from his great experience in the performance of funerals,\nwould have made an excellent pantomime actor, winked at Mrs Gamp without\nat all disturbing the gravity of his countenance, and followed his\nmaster into the next room.\n\nIt was a great point with Mr Mould, and a part of his professional\ntact, not to seem to know the doctor; though in reality they were near\nneighbours, and very often, as in the present instance, worked together.\nSo he advanced to fit on his black kid gloves as if he had never seen\nhim in all his life; while the doctor, on his part, looked as distant\nand unconscious as if he had heard and read of undertakers, and had\npassed their shops, but had never before been brought into communication\nwith one.\n\n\'Gloves, eh?\' said the doctor. \'Mr Pecksniff after you.\'\n\n\'I couldn\'t think of it,\' returned Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'You are very good,\' said the doctor, taking a pair. \'Well, sir, as I\nwas saying--I was called up to attend that case at about half-past one\no\'clock. Cake and wine, eh? Which is port? Thank you.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff took some also.\n\n\'At about half-past one o\'clock in the morning, sir,\' resumed the\ndoctor, \'I was called up to attend that case. At the first pull of\nthe night-bell I turned out, threw up the window, and put out my head.\nCloak, eh? Don\'t tie it too tight. That\'ll do.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff having been likewise inducted into a similar garment, the\ndoctor resumed.\n\n\'And put out my head--hat, eh? My good friend, that is not mine. Mr\nPecksniff, I beg your pardon, but I think we have unintentionally made\nan exchange. Thank you. Well, sir, I was going to tell you--\'\n\n\'We are quite ready,\' interrupted Mould in a low voice.\n\n\'Ready, eh?\' said the doctor. \'Very good, Mr Pecksniff, I\'ll take an\nopportunity of relating the rest in the coach. It\'s rather curious.\nReady, eh? No rain, I hope?\'\n\n\'Quite fair, sir,\' returned Mould.\n\n\'I was afraid the ground would have been wet,\' said the doctor, \'for\nmy glass fell yesterday. We may congratulate ourselves upon our good\nfortune.\' But seeing by this time that Mr Jonas and Chuffey were going\nout at the door, he put a white pocket-handkerchief to his face as if a\nviolent burst of grief had suddenly come upon him, and walked down side\nby side with Mr Pecksniff.\n\nMr Mould and his men had not exaggerated the grandeur of the\narrangements. They were splendid. The four hearse-horses, especially,\nreared and pranced, and showed their highest action, as if they knew a\nman was dead, and triumphed in it. \'They break us, drive us, ride us;\nill-treat, abuse, and maim us for their pleasure--But they die; Hurrah,\nthey die!\'\n\nSo through the narrow streets and winding city ways, went Anthony\nChuzzlewit\'s funeral; Mr Jonas glancing stealthily out of the\ncoach-window now and then, to observe its effect upon the crowd;\nMr Mould as he walked along, listening with a sober pride to the\nexclamations of the bystanders; the doctor whispering his story to Mr\nPecksniff, without appearing to come any nearer the end of it; and\npoor old Chuffey sobbing unregarded in a corner. But he had greatly\nscandalized Mr Mould at an early stage of the ceremony by carrying his\nhandkerchief in his hat in a perfectly informal manner, and wiping his\neyes with his knuckles. And as Mr Mould himself had said already, his\nbehaviour was indecent, and quite unworthy of such an occasion; and he\nnever ought to have been there.\n\nThere he was, however; and in the churchyard there he was, also,\nconducting himself in a no less unbecoming manner, and leaning for\nsupport on Tacker, who plainly told him that he was fit for nothing\nbetter than a walking funeral. But Chuffey, Heaven help him! heard no\nsound but the echoes, lingering in his own heart, of a voice for ever\nsilent.\n\n\'I loved him,\' cried the old man, sinking down upon the grave when all\nwas done. \'He was very good to me. Oh, my dear old friend and master!\'\n\n\'Come, come, Mr Chuffey,\' said the doctor, \'this won\'t do; it\'s a clayey\nsoil, Mr Chuffey. You mustn\'t, really.\'\n\n\'If it had been the commonest thing we do, and Mr Chuffey had been a\nBearer, gentlemen,\' said Mould, casting an imploring glance upon them,\nas he helped to raise him, \'he couldn\'t have gone on worse than this.\'\n\n\'Be a man, Mr Chuffey,\' said Pecksniff.\n\n\'Be a gentleman, Mr Chuffey,\' said Mould.\n\n\'Upon my word, my good friend,\' murmured the doctor, in a tone of\nstately reproof, as he stepped up to the old man\'s side, \'this is worse\nthan weakness. This is bad, selfish, very wrong, Mr Chuffey. You should\ntake example from others, my good sir. You forget that you were not\nconnected by ties of blood with our deceased friend; and that he had a\nvery near and very dear relation, Mr Chuffey.\'\n\n\'Aye, his own son!\' cried the old man, clasping his hands with\nremarkable passion. \'His own, own, only son!\'\n\n\'He\'s not right in his head, you know,\' said Jonas, turning pale.\n\'You\'re not to mind anything he says. I shouldn\'t wonder if he was\nto talk some precious nonsense. But don\'t you mind him, any of you. I\ndon\'t. My father left him to my charge; and whatever he says or does,\nthat\'s enough. I\'ll take care of him.\'\n\nA hum of admiration rose from the mourners (including Mr Mould and his\nmerry men) at this new instance of magnanimity and kind feeling on the\npart of Jonas. But Chuffey put it to the test no farther. He said not\na word more, and being left to himself for a little while, crept back\nagain to the coach.\n\nIt has been said that Mr Jonas turned pale when the behaviour of the old\nclerk attracted general attention; his discomposure, however, was but\nmomentary, and he soon recovered. But these were not the only changes\nhe had exhibited that day. The curious eyes of Mr Pecksniff had observed\nthat as soon as they left the house upon their mournful errand, he began\nto mend; that as the ceremonies proceeded he gradually, by little and\nlittle, recovered his old condition, his old looks, his old bearing, his\nold agreeable characteristics of speech and manner, and became, in all\nrespects, his old pleasant self. And now that they were seated in the\ncoach on their return home; and more when they got there, and found the\nwindows open, the light and air admitted, and all traces of the late\nevent removed; he felt so well convinced that Jonas was again the Jonas\nhe had known a week ago, and not the Jonas of the intervening time, that\nhe voluntarily gave up his recently-acquired power without one faint\nattempt to exercise it, and at once fell back into his former position\nof mild and deferential guest.\n\nMrs Gamp went home to the bird-fancier\'s, and was knocked up again that\nvery night for a birth of twins; Mr Mould dined gayly in the bosom of\nhis family, and passed the evening facetiously at his club; the hearse,\nafter standing for a long time at the door of a roistering public-house,\nrepaired to its stables with the feathers inside and twelve red-nosed\nundertakers on the roof, each holding on by a dingy peg, to which, in\ntimes of state, a waving plume was fitted; the various trappings of\nsorrow were carefully laid by in presses for the next hirer; the fiery\nsteeds were quenched and quiet in their stalls; the doctor got merry\nwith wine at a wedding-dinner, and forgot the middle of the story which\nhad no end to it; the pageant of a few short hours ago was written\nnowhere half so legibly as in the undertaker\'s books.\n\nNot in the churchyard? Not even there. The gates were closed; the night\nwas dark and wet; the rain fell silently, among the stagnant weeds and\nnettles. One new mound was there which had not been there last night.\nTime, burrowing like a mole below the ground, had marked his track by\nthrowing up another heap of earth. And that was all.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY\n\nIS A CHAPTER OF LOVE\n\n\n\'Pecksniff,\' said Jonas, taking off his hat, to see that the black\ncrape band was all right; and finding that it was, putting it on again,\ncomplacently; \'what do you mean to give your daughters when they marry?\'\n\n\'My dear Mr Jonas,\' cried the affectionate parent, with an ingenuous\nsmile, \'what a very singular inquiry!\'\n\n\'Now, don\'t you mind whether it\'s a singular inquiry or a plural one,\'\nretorted Jonas, eyeing Mr Pecksniff with no great favour, \'but answer\nit, or let it alone. One or the other.\'\n\n\'Hum! The question, my dear friend,\' said Mr Pecksniff, laying his hand\ntenderly upon his kinsman\'s knee, \'is involved with many considerations.\nWhat would I give them? Eh?\'\n\n\'Ah! what would you give \'em?\' repeated Jonas.\n\n\'Why, that, \'said Mr Pecksniff, \'would naturally depend in a great\nmeasure upon the kind of husbands they might choose, my dear young\nfriend.\'\n\nMr Jonas was evidently disconcerted, and at a loss how to proceed.\nIt was a good answer. It seemed a deep one, but such is the wisdom of\nsimplicity!\'\n\n\'My standard for the merits I would require in a son-in-law,\' said Mr\nPecksniff, after a short silence, \'is a high one. Forgive me, my dear Mr\nJonas,\' he added, greatly moved, \'if I say that you have spoiled me, and\nmade it a fanciful one; an imaginative one; a prismatically tinged one,\nif I may be permitted to call it so.\'\n\n\'What do you mean by that?\' growled Jonas, looking at him with increased\ndisfavour.\n\n\'Indeed, my dear friend,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'you may well inquire.\nThe heart is not always a royal mint, with patent machinery to work its\nmetal into current coin. Sometimes it throws it out in strange forms,\nnot easily recognized as coin at all. But it is sterling gold. It has at\nleast that merit. It is sterling gold.\'\n\n\'Is it?\' grumbled Jonas, with a doubtful shake of the head.\n\n\'Aye!\' said Mr Pecksniff, warming with his subject \'it is. To be plain\nwith you, Mr Jonas, if I could find two such sons-in-law as you will one\nday make to some deserving man, capable of appreciating a nature such as\nyours, I would--forgetful of myself--bestow upon my daughters portions\nreaching to the very utmost limit of my means.\'\n\nThis was strong language, and it was earnestly delivered. But who can\nwonder that such a man as Mr Pecksniff, after all he had seen and heard\nof Mr Jonas, should be strong and earnest upon such a theme; a theme\nthat touched even the worldly lips of undertakers with the honey of\neloquence!\n\nMr Jonas was silent, and looked thoughtfully at the landscape. For\nthey were seated on the outside of the coach, at the back, and were\ntravelling down into the country. He accompanied Mr Pecksniff home for a\nfew days\' change of air and scene after his recent trials.\n\n\'Well,\' he said, at last, with captivating bluntness, \'suppose you got\none such son-in-law as me, what then?\'\n\nMr Pecksniff regarded him at first with inexpressible surprise; then\ngradually breaking into a sort of dejected vivacity, said:\n\n\'Then well I know whose husband he would be!\'\n\n\'Whose?\' asked Jonas, drily.\n\n\'My eldest girl\'s, Mr Jonas,\' replied Pecksniff, with moistening eyes.\n\'My dear Cherry\'s; my staff, my scrip, my treasure, Mr Jonas. A hard\nstruggle, but it is in the nature of things! I must one day part with\nher to a husband. I know it, my dear friend. I am prepared for it.\'\n\n\'Ecod! you\'ve been prepared for that a pretty long time, I should\nthink,\' said Jonas.\n\n\'Many have sought to bear her from me,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'All have\nfailed. \"I never will give my hand, papa\"--those were her words--\"unless\nmy heart is won.\" She has not been quite so happy as she used to be, of\nlate. I don\'t know why.\'\n\nAgain Mr Jonas looked at the landscape; then at the coachman; then at\nthe luggage on the roof; finally at Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'I suppose you\'ll have to part with the other one, some of these days?\'\nhe observed, as he caught that gentleman\'s eye.\n\n\'Probably,\' said the parent. \'Years will tame down the wildness of my\nfoolish bird, and then it will be caged. But Cherry, Mr Jonas, Cherry--\'\n\n\'Oh, ah!\' interrupted Jonas. \'Years have made her all right enough.\nNobody doubts that. But you haven\'t answered what I asked you. Of\ncourse, you\'re not obliged to do it, you know, if you don\'t like. You\'re\nthe best judge.\'\n\nThere was a warning sulkiness in the manner of this speech, which\nadmonished Mr Pecksniff that his dear friend was not to be trifled with\nor fenced off, and that he must either return a straight-forward reply\nto his question, or plainly give him to understand that he declined to\nenlighten him upon the subject to which it referred. Mindful in this\ndilemma of the caution old Anthony had given him almost with his\nlatest breath, he resolved to speak to the point, and so told Mr Jonas\n(enlarging upon the communication as a proof of his great attachment and\nconfidence), that in the case he had put; to wit, in the event of such\na man as he proposing for his daughter\'s hand, he would endow her with a\nfortune of four thousand pounds.\n\n\'I should sadly pinch and cramp myself to do so,\' was his fatherly\nremark; \'but that would be my duty, and my conscience would reward me.\nFor myself, my conscience is my bank. I have a trifle invested there--a\nmere trifle, Mr Jonas--but I prize it as a store of value, I assure\nyou.\'\n\nThe good man\'s enemies would have divided upon this question into two\nparties. One would have asserted without scruple that if Mr Pecksniff\'s\nconscience were his bank, and he kept a running account there, he must\nhave overdrawn it beyond all mortal means of computation. The other\nwould have contended that it was a mere fictitious form; a perfectly\nblank book; or one in which entries were only made with a peculiar kind\nof invisible ink to become legible at some indefinite time; and that he\nnever troubled it at all.\n\n\'It would sadly pinch and cramp me, my dear friend,\' repeated Mr\nPecksniff, \'but Providence--perhaps I may be permitted to say a special\nProvidence--has blessed my endeavours, and I could guarantee to make the\nsacrifice.\'\n\nA question of philosophy arises here, whether Mr Pecksniff had or had\nnot good reason to say that he was specially patronized and encouraged\nin his undertakings. All his life long he had been walking up and down\nthe narrow ways and by-places, with a hook in one hand and a crook in\nthe other, scraping all sorts of valuable odds and ends into his pouch.\nNow, there being a special Providence in the fall of a sparrow, it\nfollows (so Mr Pecksniff, and only such admirable men, would have\nreasoned), that there must also be a special Providence in the alighting\nof the stone or stick, or other substance which is aimed at the sparrow.\nAnd Mr Pecksniff\'s hook, or crook, having invariably knocked the sparrow\non the head and brought him down, that gentleman may have been led to\nconsider himself as specially licensed to bag sparrows, and as being\nspecially seized and possessed of all the birds he had got together.\nThat many undertakings, national as well as individual--but especially\nthe former--are held to be specially brought to a glorious and\nsuccessful issue, which never could be so regarded on any other process\nof reasoning, must be clear to all men. Therefore the precedents would\nseem to show that Mr Pecksniff had (as things go) good argument for\nwhat he said and might be permitted to say it, and did not say it\npresumptuously, vainly, or arrogantly, but in a spirit of high faith and\ngreat wisdom.\n\nMr Jonas, not being much accustomed to perplex his mind with theories of\nthis nature, expressed no opinion on the subject. Nor did he receive\nhis companion\'s announcement with one solitary syllable, good, bad, or\nindifferent. He preserved this taciturnity for a quarter of an hour at\nleast, and during the whole of that time appeared to be steadily engaged\nin subjecting some given amount to the operation of every known rule in\nfigures; adding to it, taking from it, multiplying it, reducing it by\nlong and short division; working it by the rule-of-three direct and\ninversed; exchange or barter; practice; simple interest; compound\ninterest; and other means of arithmetical calculation. The result\nof these labours appeared to be satisfactory, for when he did break\nsilence, it was as one who had arrived at some specific result, and\nfreed himself from a state of distressing uncertainty.\n\n\'Come, old Pecksniff!\'--Such was his jocose address, as he slapped that\ngentleman on the back, at the end of the stage--\'let\'s have something!\'\n\n\'With all my heart,\' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'Let\'s treat the driver,\' cried Jonas.\n\n\'If you think it won\'t hurt the man, or render him discontented with his\nstation--certainly,\' faltered Mr Pecksniff.\n\nJonas only laughed at this, and getting down from the coach-top with\ngreat alacrity, cut a cumbersome kind of caper in the road. After which,\nhe went into the public-house, and there ordered spirituous drink to\nsuch an extent, that Mr Pecksniff had some doubts of his perfect sanity,\nuntil Jonas set them quite at rest by saying, when the coach could wait\nno longer:\n\n\'I\'ve been standing treat for a whole week and more, and letting\nyou have all the delicacies of the season. YOU shall pay for this\nPecksniff.\' It was not a joke either, as Mr Pecksniff at first supposed;\nfor he went off to the coach without further ceremony, and left his\nrespected victim to settle the bill.\n\nBut Mr Pecksniff was a man of meek endurance, and Mr Jonas was his\nfriend. Moreover, his regard for that gentleman was founded, as we know,\non pure esteem, and a knowledge of the excellence of his character. He\ncame out from the tavern with a smiling face, and even went so far as\nto repeat the performance, on a less expensive scale, at the next\nale-house. There was a certain wildness in the spirits of Mr Jonas (not\nusually a part of his character) which was far from being subdued\nby these means, and, for the rest of the journey, he was so very\nbuoyant--it may be said, boisterous--that Mr Pecksniff had some\ndifficulty in keeping pace with him.\n\nThey were not expected--oh dear, no! Mr Pecksniff had proposed in London\nto give the girls a surprise, and had said he wouldn\'t write a word to\nprepare them on any account, in order that he and Mr Jonas might take\nthem unawares, and just see what they were doing, when they thought\ntheir dear papa was miles and miles away. As a consequence of this\nplayful device, there was nobody to meet them at the finger-post, but\nthat was of small consequence, for they had come down by the day\ncoach, and Mr Pecksniff had only a carpetbag, while Mr Jonas had only\na portmanteau. They took the portmanteau between them, put the bag upon\nit, and walked off up the lane without delay; Mr Pecksniff already going\non tiptoe as if, without this precaution, his fond children, being then\nat a distance of a couple of miles or so, would have some filial sense\nof his approach.\n\nIt was a lovely evening in the spring-time of the year; and in the soft\nstillness of the twilight, all nature was very calm and beautiful. The\nday had been fine and warm; but at the coming on of night, the air grew\ncool, and in the mellowing distance smoke was rising gently from the\ncottage chimneys. There were a thousand pleasant scents diffused around,\nfrom young leaves and fresh buds; the cuckoo had been singing all day\nlong, and was but just now hushed; the smell of earth newly-upturned,\nfirst breath of hope to the first labourer after his garden withered,\nwas fragrant in the evening breeze. It was a time when most men cherish\ngood resolves, and sorrow for the wasted past; when most men, looking\non the shadows as they gather, think of that evening which must close on\nall, and that to-morrow which has none beyond.\n\n\'Precious dull,\' said Mr Jonas, looking about. \'It\'s enough to make a\nman go melancholy mad.\'\n\n\'We shall have lights and a fire soon,\' observed Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'We shall need \'em by the time we get there,\' said Jonas. \'Why the devil\ndon\'t you talk? What are you thinking of?\'\n\n\'To tell you the truth, Mr Jonas,\' said Pecksniff with great solemnity,\n\'my mind was running at that moment on our late dear friend, your\ndeparted father.\'\n\nMr Jonas immediately let his burden fall, and said, threatening him with\nhis hand:\n\n\'Drop that, Pecksniff!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff not exactly knowing whether allusion was made to the\nsubject or the portmanteau, stared at his friend in unaffected surprise.\n\n\'Drop it, I say!\' cried Jonas, fiercely. \'Do you hear? Drop it, now and\nfor ever. You had better, I give you notice!\'\n\n\'It was quite a mistake,\' urged Mr Pecksniff, very much dismayed;\n\'though I admit it was foolish. I might have known it was a tender\nstring.\'\n\n\'Don\'t talk to me about tender strings,\' said Jonas, wiping his forehead\nwith the cuff of his coat. \'I\'m not going to be crowed over by you,\nbecause I don\'t like dead company.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff had got out the words \'Crowed over, Mr Jonas!\' when that\nyoung man, with a dark expression in his countenance, cut him short once\nmore:\n\n\'Mind!\' he said. \'I won\'t have it. I advise you not to revive the\nsubject, neither to me nor anybody else. You can take a hint, if you\nchoose as well as another man. There\'s enough said about it. Come\nalong!\'\n\nTaking up his part of the load again, when he had said these words,\nhe hurried on so fast that Mr Pecksniff, at the other end of the\nportmanteau, found himself dragged forward, in a very inconvenient and\nungraceful manner, to the great detriment of what is called by fancy\ngentlemen \'the bark\' upon his shins, which were most unmercifully bumped\nagainst the hard leather and the iron buckles. In the course of a few\nminutes, however, Mr Jonas relaxed his speed, and suffered his companion\nto come up with him, and to bring the portmanteau into a tolerably\nstraight position.\n\nIt was pretty clear that he regretted his late outbreak, and that he\nmistrusted its effect on Mr Pecksniff; for as often as that gentleman\nglanced towards Mr Jonas, he found Mr Jonas glancing at him, which was\na new source of embarrassment. It was but a short-lived one, though, for\nMr Jonas soon began to whistle, whereupon Mr Pecksniff, taking his cue\nfrom his friend, began to hum a tune melodiously.\n\n\'Pretty nearly there, ain\'t we?\' said Jonas, when this had lasted some\ntime.\n\n\'Close, my dear friend,\' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'What\'ll they be doing, do you suppose?\' asked Jonas.\n\n\'Impossible to say,\' cried Mr Pecksniff. \'Giddy truants! They may be\naway from home, perhaps. I was going to--he! he! he!--I was going to\npropose,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'that we should enter by the back way, and\ncome upon them like a clap of thunder, Mr Jonas.\'\n\nIt might not have been easy to decide in respect of which of their\nmanifold properties, Jonas, Mr Pecksniff, the carpet-bag, and the\nportmanteau, could be likened to a clap of thunder. But Mr Jonas giving\nhis assent to this proposal, they stole round into the back yard, and\nsoftly advanced towards the kitchen window, through which the mingled\nlight of fire and candle shone upon the darkening night.\n\nTruly Mr Pecksniff is blessed in his children--in one of them, at any\nrate. The prudent Cherry--staff and scrip, and treasure of her doting\nfather--there she sits, at a little table white as driven snow, before\nthe kitchen fire, making up accounts! See the neat maiden, as with pen\nin hand, and calculating look addressed towards the ceiling and bunch\nof keys within a little basket at her side, she checks the housekeeping\nexpenditure! From flat-iron, dish-cover, and warming-pan; from pot and\nkettle, face of brass footman, and black-leaded stove; bright glances\nof approbation wink and glow upon her. The very onions dangling from the\nbeam, mantle and shine like cherubs\' cheeks. Something of the influence\nof those vegetables sinks into Mr Pecksniff\'s nature. He weeps.\n\nIt is but for a moment, and he hides it from the observation of\nhis friend--very carefully--by a somewhat elaborate use of his\npocket-handkerchief, in fact; for he would not have his weakness known.\n\n\'Pleasant,\' he murmured, \'pleasant to a father\'s feelings! My dear girl!\nShall we let her know we are here, Mr Jonas?\'\n\n\'Why, I suppose you don\'t mean to spend the evening in the stable, or\nthe coach-house,\' he returned.\n\n\'That, indeed, is not such hospitality as I would show to YOU, my\nfriend,\' cried Mr Pecksniff, pressing his hand. And then he took a long\nbreath, and tapping at the window, shouted with stentorian blandness:\n\n\'Boh!\'\n\nCherry dropped her pen and screamed. But innocence is ever bold, or\nshould be. As they opened the door, the valiant girl exclaimed in a firm\nvoice, and with a presence of mind which even in that trying moment did\nnot desert her, \'Who are you? What do you want? Speak! or I will call my\nPa.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff held out his arms. She knew him instantly, and rushed into\nhis fond embrace.\n\n\'It was thoughtless of us, Mr Jonas, it was very thoughtless,\' said\nPecksniff, smoothing his daugther\'s hair. \'My darling, do you see that I\nam not alone!\'\n\nNot she. She had seen nothing but her father until now. She saw Mr\nJonas now, though; and blushed, and hung her head down, as she gave him\nwelcome.\n\nBut where was Merry? Mr Pecksniff didn\'t ask the question in reproach,\nbut in a vein of mildness touched with a gentle sorrow. She was\nupstairs, reading on the parlour couch. Ah! Domestic details had no\ncharms for HER. \'But call her down,\' said Mr Pecksniff, with a placid\nresignation. \'Call her down, my love.\'\n\nShe was called and came, all flushed and tumbled from reposing on the\nsofa; but none the worse for that. No, not at all. Rather the better, if\nanything.\n\n\'Oh my goodness me!\' cried the arch girl, turning to her cousin when she\nhad kissed her father on both cheeks, and in her frolicsome nature had\nbestowed a supernumerary salute upon the tip of his nose, \'YOU here,\nfright! Well, I\'m very thankful that you won\'t trouble ME much!\'\n\n\'What! you\'re as lively as ever, are you?\' said Jonas. \'Oh! You\'re a\nwicked one!\'\n\n\'There, go along!\' retorted Merry, pushing him away. \'I\'m sure I don\'t\nknow what I shall ever do, if I have to see much of you. Go along, for\ngracious\' sake!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff striking in here, with a request that Mr Jonas would\nimmediately walk upstairs, he so far complied with the young lady\'s\nadjuration as to go at once. But though he had the fair Cherry on his\narm, he could not help looking back at her sister, and exchanging some\nfurther dialogue of the same bantering description, as they all four\nascended to the parlour; where--for the young ladies happened, by good\nfortune, to be a little later than usual that night--the tea-board was\nat that moment being set out.\n\nMr Pinch was not at home, so they had it all to themselves, and were\nvery snug and talkative, Jonas sitting between the two sisters, and\ndisplaying his gallantry in that engaging manner which was peculiar\nto him. It was a hard thing, Mr Pecksniff said, when tea was done,\nand cleared away, to leave so pleasant a little party, but having some\nimportant papers to examine in his own apartment, he must beg them to\nexcuse him for half an hour. With this apology he withdrew, singing\na careless strain as he went. He had not been gone five minutes, when\nMerry, who had been sitting in the window, apart from Jonas and her\nsister, burst into a half-smothered laugh, and skipped towards the door.\n\n\'Hallo!\' cried Jonas. \'Don\'t go.\'\n\n\'Oh, I dare say!\' rejoined Merry, looking back. \'You\'re very anxious I\nshould stay, fright, ain\'t you?\'\n\n\'Yes, I am,\' said Jonas. \'Upon my word I am. I want to speak to you.\'\nBut as she left the room notwithstanding, he ran out after her,\nand brought her back, after a short struggle in the passage which\nscandalized Miss Cherry very much.\n\n\'Upon my word, Merry,\' urged that young lady, \'I wonder at you! There\nare bounds even to absurdity, my dear.\'\n\n\'Thank you, my sweet,\' said Merry, pursing up her rosy Lips. \'Much\nobliged to it for its advice. Oh! do leave me alone, you monster, do!\'\nThis entreaty was wrung from her by a new proceeding on the part of\nMr Jonas, who pulled her down, all breathless as she was, into a seat\nbeside him on the sofa, having at the same time Miss Cherry upon the\nother side.\n\n\'Now,\' said Jonas, clasping the waist of each; \'I have got both arms\nfull, haven\'t I?\'\n\n\'One of them will be black and blue to-morrow, if you don\'t let me go,\'\ncried the playful Merry.\n\n\'Ah! I don\'t mind YOUR pinching,\' grinned Jonas, \'a bit.\'\n\n\'Pinch him for me, Cherry, pray,\' said Mercy. \'I never did hate anybody\nso much as I hate this creature, I declare!\'\n\n\'No, no, don\'t say that,\' urged Jonas, \'and don\'t pinch either, because\nI want to be serious. I say--Cousin Charity--\'\n\n\'Well! what?\' she answered sharply.\n\n\'I want to have some sober talk,\' said Jonas; \'I want to prevent any\nmistakes, you know, and to put everything upon a pleasant understanding.\nThat\'s desirable and proper, ain\'t it?\'\n\nNeither of the sisters spoke a word. Mr Jonas paused and cleared his\nthroat, which was very dry.\n\n\'She\'ll not believe what I am going to say, will she, cousin?\' said\nJonas, timidly squeezing Miss Charity.\n\n\'Really, Mr Jonas, I don\'t know, until I hear what it is. It\'s quite\nimpossible!\'\n\n\'Why, you see,\' said Jonas, \'her way always being to make game of\npeople, I know she\'ll laugh, or pretend to--I know that, beforehand. But\nyou can tell her I\'m in earnest, cousin; can\'t you? You\'ll confess you\nknow, won\'t you? You\'ll be honourable, I\'m sure,\' he added persuasively.\n\nNo answer. His throat seemed to grow hotter and hotter, and to be more\nand more difficult of control.\n\n\'You see, Cousin Charity,\' said Jonas, \'nobody but you can tell her\nwhat pains I took to get into her company when you were both at the\nboarding-house in the city, because nobody\'s so well aware of it, you\nknow. Nobody else can tell her how hard I tried to get to know you\nbetter, in order that I might get to know her without seeming to wish\nit; can they? I always asked you about her, and said where had she gone,\nand when would she come, and how lively she was, and all that; didn\'t I,\ncousin? I know you\'ll tell her so, if you haven\'t told her so already,\nand--and--I dare say you have, because I\'m sure you\'re honourable, ain\'t\nyou?\'\n\nStill not a word. The right arm of Mr Jonas--the elder sister sat upon\nhis right--may have been sensible of some tumultuous throbbing which was\nnot within itself; but nothing else apprised him that his words had had\nthe least effect.\n\n\'Even if you kept it to yourself, and haven\'t told her,\' resumed Jonas,\n\'it don\'t much matter, because you\'ll bear honest witness now; won\'t\nyou? We\'ve been very good friends from the first; haven\'t we? and of\ncourse we shall be quite friends in future, and so I don\'t mind speaking\nbefore you a bit. Cousin Mercy, you\'ve heard what I\'ve been saying.\nShe\'ll confirm it, every word; she must. Will you have me for your\nhusband? Eh?\'\n\nAs he released his hold of Charity, to put this question with better\neffect, she started up and hurried away to her own room, marking her\nprogress as she went by such a train of passionate and incoherent sound,\nas nothing but a slighted woman in her anger could produce.\n\n\'Let me go away. Let me go after her,\' said Merry, pushing him off,\nand giving him--to tell the truth--more than one sounding slap upon his\noutstretched face.\n\n\'Not till you say yes. You haven\'t told me. Will you have me for your\nhusband?\'\n\n\'No, I won\'t. I can\'t bear the sight of you. I have told you so a\nhundred times. You are a fright. Besides, I always thought you liked my\nsister best. We all thought so.\'\n\n\'But that wasn\'t my fault,\' said Jonas.\n\n\'Yes it was; you know it was.\'\n\n\'Any trick is fair in love,\' said Jonas. \'She may have thought I liked\nher best, but you didn\'t.\'\n\n\'I did!\'\n\n\'No, you didn\'t. You never could have thought I liked her best, when you\nwere by.\'\n\n\'There\'s no accounting for tastes,\' said Merry; \'at least I didn\'t mean\nto say that. I don\'t know what I mean. Let me go to her.\'\n\n\'Say \"Yes,\" and then I will.\'\n\n\'If I ever brought myself to say so, it should only be that I might hate\nand tease you all my life.\'\n\n\'That\'s as good,\' cried Jonas, \'as saying it right out. It\'s a bargain,\ncousin. We\'re a pair, if ever there was one.\'\n\nThis gallant speech was succeeded by a confused noise of kissing and\nslapping; and then the fair but much dishevelled Merry broke away, and\nfollowed in the footsteps of her sister.\n\nNow whether Mr Pecksniff had been listening--which in one of his\ncharacter appears impossible; or divined almost by inspiration what the\nmatter was--which, in a man of his sagacity is far more probable; or\nhappened by sheer good fortune to find himself in exactly the\nright place, at precisely the right time--which, under the special\nguardianship in which he lived might very reasonably happen; it is quite\ncertain that at the moment when the sisters came together in their own\nroom, he appeared at the chamber door. And a marvellous contrast it\nwas--they so heated, noisy, and vehement; he so calm, so self-possessed,\nso cool and full of peace, that not a hair upon his head was stirred.\n\n\'Children!\' said Mr Pecksniff, spreading out his hands in wonder, but\nnot before he had shut the door, and set his back against it. \'Girls!\nDaughters! What is this?\'\n\n\'The wretch; the apostate; the false, mean, odious villain; has before\nmy very face proposed to Mercy!\' was his eldest daughter\'s answer.\n\n\'Who has proposed to Mercy!\' asked Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'HE has. That thing, Jonas, downstairs.\'\n\n\'Jonas proposed to Mercy?\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Aye, aye! Indeed!\'\n\n\'Have you nothing else to say?\' cried Charity. \'Am I to be driven mad,\npapa? He has proposed to Mercy, not to me.\'\n\n\'Oh, fie! For shame!\' said Mr Pecksniff, gravely. \'Oh, for shame! Can\nthe triumph of a sister move you to this terrible display, my child? Oh,\nreally this is very sad! I am sorry; I am surprised and hurt to see\nyou so. Mercy, my girl, bless you! See to her. Ah, envy, envy, what a\npassion you are!\'\n\nUttering this apostrophe in a tone full of grief and lamentation, Mr\nPecksniff left the room (taking care to shut the door behind him),\nand walked downstairs into the parlour. There he found his intended\nson-in-law, whom he seized by both hands.\n\n\'Jonas!\' cried Mr Pecksniff. \'Jonas! the dearest wish of my heart is now\nfulfilled!\'\n\n\'Very well; I\'m glad to hear it,\' said Jonas. \'That\'ll do. I say! As\nit ain\'t the one you\'re so fond of, you must come down with another\nthousand, Pecksniff. You must make it up five. It\'s worth that, to keep\nyour treasure to yourself, you know. You get off very cheap that way,\nand haven\'t a sacrifice to make.\'\n\nThe grin with which he accompanied this, set off his other attractions\nto such unspeakable advantage, that even Mr Pecksniff lost his presence\nof mind for a moment, and looked at the young man as if he were quite\nstupefied with wonder and admiration. But he quickly regained his\ncomposure, and was in the very act of changing the subject, when a hasty\nstep was heard without, and Tom Pinch, in a state of great excitement,\ncame darting into the room.\n\nOn seeing a stranger there, apparently engaged with Mr Pecksniff in\nprivate conversation, Tom was very much abashed, though he still looked\nas if he had something of great importance to communicate, which would\nbe a sufficient apology for his intrusion.\n\n\'Mr Pinch,\' said Pecksniff, \'this is hardly decent. You will excuse my\nsaying that I think your conduct scarcely decent, Mr Pinch.\'\n\n\'I beg your pardon, sir,\' replied Tom, \'for not knocking at the door.\'\n\n\'Rather beg this gentleman\'s pardon, Mr Pinch,\' said Pecksniff. \'I know\nyou; he does not.--My young man, Mr Jonas.\'\n\nThe son-in-law that was to be gave him a slight nod--not actively\ndisdainful or contemptuous, only passively; for he was in a good humour.\n\n\'Could I speak a word with you, sir, if you please?\' said Tom. \'It\'s\nrather pressing.\'\n\n\'It should be very pressing to justify this strange behaviour, Mr\nPinch,\' returned his master. \'Excuse me for one moment, my dear friend.\nNow, sir, what is the reason of this rough intrusion?\'\n\n\'I am very sorry, sir, I am sure,\' said Tom, standing, cap in hand,\nbefore his patron in the passage; \'and I know it must have a very rude\nappearance--\'\n\n\'It HAS a very rude appearance, Mr Pinch.\'\n\n\'Yes, I feel that, sir; but the truth is, I was so surprised to see\nthem, and knew you would be too, that I ran home very fast indeed, and\nreally hadn\'t enough command over myself to know what I was doing very\nwell. I was in the church just now, sir, touching the organ for my own\namusement, when I happened to look round, and saw a gentleman and lady\nstanding in the aisle listening. They seemed to be strangers, sir, as\nwell as I could make out in the dusk; and I thought I didn\'t know\nthem; so presently I left off, and said, would they walk up into the\norgan-loft, or take a seat? No, they said, they wouldn\'t do that; but\nthey thanked me for the music they had heard. In fact,\' observed Tom,\nblushing, \'they said, \"Delicious music!\" at least, SHE did; and I am\nsure that was a greater pleasure and honour to me than any compliment I\ncould have had. I--I--beg your pardon sir;\' he was all in a tremble, and\ndropped his hat for the second time \'but I--I\'m rather flurried, and I\nfear I\'ve wandered from the point.\'\n\n\'If you will come back to it, Thomas,\' said Mr Pecksniff, with an icy\nlook, \'I shall feel obliged.\'\n\n\'Yes, sir,\' returned Tom, \'certainly. They had a posting carriage at the\nporch, sir, and had stopped to hear the organ, they said. And then they\nsaid--SHE said, I mean, \"I believe you live with Mr Pecksniff, sir?\" I\nsaid I had that honour, and I took the liberty, sir,\' added Tom, raising\nhis eyes to his benefactor\'s face, \'of saying, as I always will and\nmust, with your permission, that I was under great obligations to you,\nand never could express my sense of them sufficiently.\'\n\n\'That,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'was very, very wrong. Take your time, Mr\nPinch.\'\n\n\'Thank you, sir,\' cried Tom. \'On that they asked me--she asked, I\nmean--\"Wasn\'t there a bridle road to Mr Pecksniff\'s house?\"\'\n\nMr Pecksniff suddenly became full of interest.\n\n\'\"Without going by the Dragon?\" When I said there was, and said how\nhappy I should be to show it \'em, they sent the carriage on by the road,\nand came with me across the meadows. I left \'em at the turnstile to run\nforward and tell you they were coming, and they\'ll be here, sir, in--in\nless than a minute\'s time, I should say,\' added Tom, fetching his breath\nwith difficulty.\n\n\'Now, who,\' said Mr Pecksniff, pondering, \'who may these people be?\'\n\n\'Bless my soul, sir!\' cried Tom, \'I meant to mention that at first, I\nthought I had. I knew them--her, I mean--directly. The gentleman who\nwas ill at the Dragon, sir, last winter; and the young lady who attended\nhim.\'\n\nTom\'s teeth chattered in his head, and he positively staggered with\namazement, at witnessing the extraordinary effect produced on Mr\nPecksniff by these simple words. The dread of losing the old man\'s\nfavour almost as soon as they were reconciled, through the mere fact\nof having Jonas in the house; the impossibility of dismissing Jonas,\nor shutting him up, or tying him hand and foot and putting him in\nthe coal-cellar, without offending him beyond recall; the horrible\ndiscordance prevailing in the establishment, and the impossibility of\nreducing it to decent harmony with Charity in loud hysterics, Mercy in\nthe utmost disorder, Jonas in the parlour, and Martin Chuzzlewit and his\nyoung charge upon the very doorsteps; the total hopelessness of being\nable to disguise or feasibly explain this state of rampant confusion;\nthe sudden accumulation over his devoted head of every complicated\nperplexity and entanglement for his extrication from which he had\ntrusted to time, good fortune, chance, and his own plotting, so filled\nthe entrapped architect with dismay, that if Tom could have been a\nGorgon staring at Mr Pecksniff, and Mr Pecksniff could have been a\nGorgon staring at Tom, they could not have horrified each other half so\nmuch as in their own bewildered persons.\n\n\'Dear, dear!\' cried Tom, \'what have I done? I hoped it would be a\npleasant surprise, sir. I thought you would like to know.\'\n\nBut at that moment a loud knocking was heard at the hall door.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\n\nMORE AMERICAN EXPERIENCES, MARTIN TAKES A PARTNER, AND MAKES A PURCHASE.\nSOME ACCOUNT OF EDEN, AS IT APPEARED ON PAPER. ALSO OF THE BRITISH LION.\nALSO OF THE KIND OF SYMPATHY PROFESSED AND ENTERTAINED BY THE WATERTOAST\nASSOCIATION OF UNITED SYMPATHISERS\n\n\nThe knocking at Mr Pecksniff\'s door, though loud enough, bore no\nresemblance whatever to the noise of an American railway train at full\nspeed. It may be well to begin the present chapter with this frank\nadmission, lest the reader should imagine that the sounds now deafening\nthis history\'s ears have any connection with the knocker on Mr\nPecksniff\'s door, or with the great amount of agitation pretty equally\ndivided between that worthy man and Mr Pinch, of which its strong\nperformance was the cause.\n\nMr Pecksniff\'s house is more than a thousand leagues away; and again\nthis happy chronicle has Liberty and Moral Sensibility for its high\ncompanions. Again it breathes the blessed air of Independence; again it\ncontemplates with pious awe that moral sense which renders unto Ceasar\nnothing that is his; again inhales that sacred atmosphere which was\nthe life of him--oh noble patriot, with many followers!--who dreamed of\nFreedom in a slave\'s embrace, and waking sold her offspring and his own\nin public markets.\n\nHow the wheels clank and rattle, and the tram-road shakes, as the train\nrushes on! And now the engine yells, as it were lashed and tortured like\na living labourer, and writhed in agony. A poor fancy; for steel and\niron are of infinitely greater account, in this commonwealth, than\nflesh and blood. If the cunning work of man be urged beyond its power of\nendurance, it has within it the elements of its own revenge; whereas\nthe wretched mechanism of the Divine Hand is dangerous with no such\nproperty, but may be tampered with, and crushed, and broken, at the\ndriver\'s pleasure. Look at that engine! It shall cost a man more dollars\nin the way of penalty and fine, and satisfaction of the outraged law,\nto deface in wantonness that senseless mass of metal, than to take the\nlives of twenty human creatures! Thus the stars wink upon the bloody\nstripes; and Liberty pulls down her cap upon her eyes, and owns\nOppression in its vilest aspect, for her sister.\n\nThe engine-driver of the train whose noise awoke us to the present\nchapter was certainly troubled with no such reflections as these; nor is\nit very probable that his mind was disturbed by any reflections at all.\nHe leaned with folded arms and crossed legs against the side of the\ncarriage, smoking; and, except when he expressed, by a grunt as short as\nhis pipe, his approval of some particularly dexterous aim on the part of\nhis colleague, the fireman, who beguiled his leisure by throwing logs\nof wood from the tender at the numerous stray cattle on the line, he\npreserved a composure so immovable, and an indifference so complete,\nthat if the locomotive had been a sucking-pig, he could not have been\nmore perfectly indifferent to its doings. Notwithstanding the tranquil\nstate of this officer, and his unbroken peace of mind, the train was\nproceeding with tolerable rapidity; and the rails being but poorly laid,\nthe jolts and bumps it met with in its progress were neither slight nor\nfew.\n\nThere were three great caravans or cars attached. The ladies\' car, the\ngentlemen\'s car, and the car for negroes; the latter painted black, as\nan appropriate compliment to its company. Martin and Mark Tapley were\nin the first, as it was the most comfortable; and, being far from full,\nreceived other gentlemen who, like them, were unblessed by the society\nof ladies of their own. They were seated side by side, and were engaged\nin earnest conversation.\n\n\'And so, Mark,\' said Martin, looking at him with an anxious expression,\n\'and so you are glad we have left New York far behind us, are you?\'\n\n\'Yes, sir,\' said Mark. \'I am. Precious glad.\'\n\n\'Were you not \"jolly\" there?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'On the contrairy, sir,\' returned Mark. \'The jolliest week as ever I\nspent in my life, was that there week at Pawkins\'s.\'\n\n\'What do you think of our prospects?\' inquired Martin, with an air that\nplainly said he had avoided the question for some time.\n\n\'Uncommon bright, sir,\' returned Mark. \'Impossible for a place to have\na better name, sir, than the Walley of Eden. No man couldn\'t think of\nsettling in a better place than the Walley of Eden. And I\'m told,\' added\nMark, after a pause, \'as there\'s lots of serpents there, so we shall\ncome out, quite complete and reg\'lar.\'\n\nSo far from dwelling upon this agreeable piece of information with the\nleast dismay, Mark\'s face grew radiant as he called it to mind; so very\nradiant, that a stranger might have supposed he had all his life been\nyearning for the society of serpents, and now hailed with delight the\napproaching consummation of his fondest wishes.\n\n\'Who told you that?\' asked Martin, sternly.\n\n\'A military officer,\' said Mark.\n\n\'Confound you for a ridiculous fellow!\' cried Martin, laughing heartily\nin spite of himself. \'What military officer? You know they spring up in\nevery field.\'\n\n\'As thick as scarecrows in England, sir,\' interposed Mark, \'which is a\nsort of milita themselves, being entirely coat and wescoat, with a stick\ninside. Ha, ha!--Don\'t mind me, sir; it\'s my way sometimes. I can\'t help\nbeing jolly. Why it was one of them inwading conquerors at Pawkins\'s, as\ntold me. \"Am I rightly informed,\" he says--not exactly through his nose,\nbut as if he\'d got a stoppage in it, very high up--\"that you\'re a-going\nto the Walley of Eden?\" \"I heard some talk on it,\" I told him. \"Oh!\"\nsays he, \"if you should ever happen to go to bed there--you MAY, you\nknow,\" he says, \"in course of time as civilisation progresses--don\'t\nforget to take a axe with you.\" I looks at him tolerable hard. \"Fleas?\"\nsays I. \"And more,\" says he. \"Wampires?\" says I. \"And more,\" says he.\n\"Musquitoes, perhaps?\" says I. \"And more,\" says he. \"What more?\" says\nI. \"Snakes more,\" says he; \"rattle-snakes. You\'re right to a certain\nextent, stranger. There air some catawampous chawers in the small way\ntoo, as graze upon a human pretty strong; but don\'t mind THEM--they\'re\ncompany. It\'s snakes,\" he says, \"as you\'ll object to; and whenever you\nwake and see one in a upright poster on your bed,\" he says, \"like a\ncorkscrew with the handle off a-sittin\' on its bottom ring, cut him\ndown, for he means wenom.\"\'\n\n\'Why didn\'t you tell me this before!\' cried Martin, with an expression\nof face which set off the cheerfulness of Mark\'s visage to great\nadvantage.\n\n\'I never thought on it, sir,\' said Mark. \'It come in at one ear, and\nwent out at the other. But Lord love us, he was one of another Company,\nI dare say, and only made up the story that we might go to his Eden, and\nnot the opposition one.\'\n\n\'There\'s some probability in that,\' observed Martin. \'I can honestly say\nthat I hope so, with all my heart.\'\n\n\'I\'ve not a doubt about it, sir,\' returned Mark, who, full of the\ninspiriting influence of the anecodote upon himself, had for the moment\nforgotten its probable effect upon his master; \'anyhow, we must live,\nyou know, sir.\'\n\n\'Live!\' cried Martin. \'Yes, it\'s easy to say live; but if we should\nhappen not to wake when rattlesnakes are making corkscrews of themselves\nupon our beds, it may be not so easy to do it.\'\n\n\'And that\'s a fact,\' said a voice so close in his ear that it tickled\nhim. \'That\'s dreadful true.\'\n\nMartin looked round, and found that a gentleman, on the seat behind, had\nthrust his head between himself and Mark, and sat with his chin resting\non the back rail of their little bench, entertaining himself with their\nconversation. He was as languid and listless in his looks as most of the\ngentlemen they had seen; his cheeks were so hollow that he seemed to be\nalways sucking them in; and the sun had burnt him, not a wholesome red\nor brown, but dirty yellow. He had bright dark eyes, which he kept half\nclosed; only peeping out of the corners, and even then with a glance\nthat seemed to say, \'Now you won\'t overreach me; you want to, but you\nwon\'t.\' His arms rested carelessly on his knees as he leant forward;\nin the palm of his left hand, as English rustics have their slice of\ncheese, he had a cake of tobacco; in his right a penknife. He struck\ninto the dialogue with as little reserve as if he had been specially\ncalled in, days before, to hear the arguments on both sides, and favour\nthem with his opinion; and he no more contemplated or cared for the\npossibility of their not desiring the honour of his acquaintance or\ninterference in their private affairs than if he had been a bear or a\nbuffalo.\n\n\'That,\' he repeated, nodding condescendingly to Martin, as to an outer\nbarbarian and foreigner, \'is dreadful true. Darn all manner of vermin.\'\n\nMartin could not help frowning for a moment, as if he were disposed to\ninsinuate that the gentleman had unconsciously \'darned\' himself. But\nremembering the wisdom of doing at Rome as Romans do, he smiled with the\npleasantest expression he could assume upon so short a notice.\n\nTheir new friend said no more just then, being busily employed in\ncutting a quid or plug from his cake of tobacco, and whistling softly to\nhimself the while. When he had shaped it to his liking, he took out his\nold plug, and deposited the same on the back of the seat between Mark\nand Martin, while he thrust the new one into the hollow of his cheek,\nwhere it looked like a large walnut, or tolerable pippin. Finding it\nquite satisfactory, he stuck the point of his knife into the old plug,\nand holding it out for their inspection, remarked with the air of a man\nwho had not lived in vain, that it was \'used up considerable.\' Then\nhe tossed it away; put his knife into one pocket and his tobacco into\nanother; rested his chin upon the rail as before; and approving of the\npattern on Martin\'s waistcoat, reached out his hand to feel the texture\nof that garment.\n\n\'What do you call this now?\' he asked.\n\n\'Upon my word\' said Martin, \'I don\'t know what it\'s called.\'\n\n\'It\'ll cost a dollar or more a yard, I reckon?\'\n\n\'I really don\'t know.\'\n\n\'In my country,\' said the gentleman, \'we know the cost of our own\npro-duce.\'\n\nMartin not discussing the question, there was a pause.\n\n\'Well!\' resumed their new friend, after staring at them intently during\nthe whole interval of silence; \'how\'s the unnat\'ral old parent by this\ntime?\'\n\nMr Tapley regarding this inquiry as only another version of the\nimpertinent English question, \'How\'s your mother?\' would have resented\nit instantly, but for Martin\'s prompt interposition.\n\n\'You mean the old country?\' he said.\n\n\'Ah!\' was the reply. \'How\'s she? Progressing back\'ards, I expect, as\nusual? Well! How\'s Queen Victoria?\'\n\n\'In good health, I believe,\' said Martin.\n\n\'Queen Victoria won\'t shake in her royal shoes at all, when she hears\nto-morrow named,\' observed the stranger, \'No.\'\n\n\'Not that I am aware of. Why should she?\'\n\n\'She won\'t be taken with a cold chill, when she realises what is being\ndone in these diggings,\' said the stranger. \'No.\'\n\n\'No,\' said Martin. \'I think I could take my oath of that.\'\n\nThe strange gentleman looked at him as if in pity for his ignorance or\nprejudice, and said:\n\n\'Well, sir, I tell you this--there ain\'t a engine with its biler\nbust, in God A\'mighty\'s free U-nited States, so fixed, and nipped,\nand frizzled to a most e-tarnal smash, as that young critter, in her\nluxurious location in the Tower of London will be, when she reads the\nnext double-extra Watertoast Gazette.\'\n\nSeveral other gentlemen had left their seats and gathered round during\nthe foregoing dialogue. They were highly delighted with this speech. One\nvery lank gentleman, in a loose limp white cravat, long white waistcoat,\nand a black great-coat, who seemed to be in authority among them, felt\ncalled upon to acknowledge it.\n\n\'Hem! Mr La Fayette Kettle,\' he said, taking off his hat.\n\nThere was a grave murmur of \'Hush!\'\n\n\'Mr La Fayette Kettle! Sir!\'\n\nMr Kettle bowed.\n\n\'In the name of this company, sir, and in the name of our common\ncountry, and in the name of that righteous cause of holy sympathy in\nwhich we are engaged, I thank you. I thank you, sir, in the name of\nthe Watertoast Sympathisers; and I thank you, sir, in the name of\nthe Watertoast Gazette; and I thank you, sir, in the name of the\nstar-spangled banner of the Great United States, for your eloquent and\ncategorical exposition. And if, sir,\' said the speaker, poking Martin\nwith the handle of his umbrella to bespeak his attention, for he was\nlistening to a whisper from Mark; \'if, sir, in such a place, and at such\na time, I might venture to con-clude with a sentiment, glancing--however\nslantin\'dicularly--at the subject in hand, I would say, sir, may\nthe British Lion have his talons eradicated by the noble bill of the\nAmerican Eagle, and be taught to play upon the Irish Harp and the Scotch\nFiddle that music which is breathed in every empty shell that lies upon\nthe shores of green Co-lumbia!\'\n\nHere the lank gentleman sat down again, amidst a great sensation; and\nevery one looked very grave.\n\n\'General Choke,\' said Mr La Fayette Kettle, \'you warm my heart; sir, you\nwarm my heart. But the British Lion is not unrepresented here, sir; and\nI should be glad to hear his answer to those remarks.\'\n\n\'Upon my word,\' cried Martin, laughing, \'since you do me the honour to\nconsider me his representative, I have only to say that I never heard\nof Queen Victoria reading the What\'s-his-name Gazette and that I should\nscarcely think it probable.\'\n\nGeneral Choke smiled upon the rest, and said, in patient and benignant\nexplanation:\n\n\'It is sent to her, sir. It is sent to her. Her mail.\'\n\n\'But if it is addressed to the Tower of London, it would hardly come to\nhand, I fear,\' returned Martin; \'for she don\'t live there.\'\n\n\'The Queen of England, gentlemen,\' observed Mr Tapley, affecting the\ngreatest politeness, and regarding them with an immovable face, \'usually\nlives in the Mint to take care of the money. She HAS lodgings, in virtue\nof her office, with the Lord Mayor at the Mansion House; but don\'t often\noccupy them, in consequence of the parlour chimney smoking.\'\n\n\'Mark,\' said Martin, \'I shall be very much obliged to you if you\'ll\nhave the goodness not to interfere with preposterous statements, however\njocose they may appear to you. I was merely remarking gentlemen--though\nit\'s a point of very little import--that the Queen of England does not\nhappen to live in the Tower of London.\'\n\n\'General!\' cried Mr La Fayette Kettle. \'You hear?\'\n\n\'General!\' echoed several others. \'General!\'\n\n\'Hush! Pray, silence!\' said General Choke, holding up his hand, and\nspeaking with a patient and complacent benevolence that was quite\ntouching. \'I have always remarked it as a very extraordinary\ncircumstance, which I impute to the natur\' of British Institutions and\ntheir tendency to suppress that popular inquiry and information which\nair so widely diffused even in the trackless forests of this vast\nContinent of the Western Ocean; that the knowledge of Britishers\nthemselves on such points is not to be compared with that possessed\nby our intelligent and locomotive citizens. This is interesting, and\nconfirms my observation. When you say, sir,\' he continued, addressing\nMartin, \'that your Queen does not reside in the Tower of London, you\nfall into an error, not uncommon to your countrymen, even when their\nabilities and moral elements air such as to command respect. But, sir,\nyou air wrong. She DOES live there--\'\n\n\'When she is at the Court of Saint James\'s,\' interposed Kettle.\n\n\'When she is at the Court of Saint James\'s, of course,\' returned the\nGeneral, in the same benignant way; \'for if her location was in Windsor\nPavilion it couldn\'t be in London at the same time. Your Tower of\nLondon, sir,\' pursued the General, smiling with a mild consciousness of\nhis knowledge, \'is nat\'rally your royal residence. Being located in\nthe immediate neighbourhood of your Parks, your Drives, your Triumphant\nArches, your Opera, and your Royal Almacks, it nat\'rally suggests\nitself as the place for holding a luxurious and thoughtless court.\nAnd, consequently,\' said the General, \'consequently, the court is held\nthere.\'\n\n\'Have you been in England?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'In print I have, sir,\' said the General, \'not otherwise. We air a\nreading people here, sir. You will meet with much information among us\nthat will surprise you, sir.\'\n\n\'I have not the least doubt of it,\' returned Martin. But here he was\ninterrupted by Mr La Fayette Kettle, who whispered in his ear:\n\n\'You know General Choke?\'\n\n\'No,\' returned Martin, in the same tone.\n\n\'You know what he is considered?\'\n\n\'One of the most remarkable men in the country?\' said Martin, at a\nventure.\n\n\'That\'s a fact,\' rejoined Kettle. \'I was sure you must have heard of\nhim!\'\n\n\'I think,\' said Martin, addressing himself to the General again, \'that\nI have the pleasure of being the bearer of a letter of introduction to\nyou, sir. From Mr Bevan, of Massachusetts,\' he added, giving it to him.\n\nThe General took it and read it attentively; now and then stopping to\nglance at the two strangers. When he had finished the note, he came over\nto Martin, sat down by him, and shook hands.\n\n\'Well!\' he said, \'and you think of settling in Eden?\'\n\n\'Subject to your opinion, and the agent\'s advice,\' replied Martin. \'I am\ntold there is nothing to be done in the old towns.\'\n\n\'I can introduce you to the agent, sir,\' said the General. \'I know him.\nIn fact, I am a member of the Eden Land Corporation myself.\'\n\nThis was serious news to Martin, for his friend had laid great stress\nupon the General\'s having no connection, as he thought, with any land\ncompany, and therefore being likely to give him disinterested advice.\nThe General explained that he had joined the Corporation only a few\nweeks ago, and that no communication had passed between himself and Mr\nBevan since.\n\n\'We have very little to venture,\' said Martin anxiously--\'only a\nfew pounds--but it is our all. Now, do you think that for one of my\nprofession, this would be a speculation with any hope or chance in it?\'\n\n\'Well,\' observed the General, gravely, \'if there wasn\'t any hope or\nchance in the speculation, it wouldn\'t have engaged my dollars, I\nopinionate.\'\n\n\'I don\'t mean for the sellers,\' said Martin. \'For the buyers--for the\nbuyers!\'\n\n\'For the buyers, sir?\' observed the General, in a most impressive\nmanner. \'Well! you come from an old country; from a country, sir, that\nhas piled up golden calves as high as Babel, and worshipped \'em for\nages. We are a new country, sir; man is in a more primeval state here,\nsir; we have not the excuse of having lapsed in the slow course of time\ninto degenerate practices; we have no false gods; man, sir, here, is man\nin all his dignity. We fought for that or nothing. Here am I, sir,\'\nsaid the General, setting up his umbrella to represent himself, and a\nvillanous-looking umbrella it was; a very bad counter to stand for the\nsterling coin of his benevolence, \'here am I with grey hairs sir, and\na moral sense. Would I, with my principles, invest capital in this\nspeculation if I didn\'t think it full of hopes and chances for my\nbrother man?\'\n\nMartin tried to look convinced, but he thought of New York, and found it\ndifficult.\n\n\'What are the Great United States for, sir,\' pursued the General \'if not\nfor the regeneration of man? But it is nat\'ral in you to make such an\nenquerry, for you come from England, and you do not know my country.\'\n\n\'Then you think,\' said Martin, \'that allowing for the hardships we are\nprepared to undergo, there is a reasonable--Heaven knows we don\'t expect\nmuch--a reasonable opening in this place?\'\n\n\'A reasonable opening in Eden, sir! But see the agent, see the agent;\nsee the maps and plans, sir; and conclude to go or stay, according to\nthe natur\' of the settlement. Eden hadn\'t need to go a-begging yet,\nsir,\' remarked the General.\n\n\'It is an awful lovely place, sure-ly. And frightful wholesome,\nlikewise!\' said Mr Kettle, who had made himself a party to this\nconversation as a matter of course.\n\nMartin felt that to dispute such testimony, for no better reason\nthan because he had his secret misgivings on the subject, would be\nungentlemanly and indecent. So he thanked the General for his promise to\nput him in personal communication with the agent; and \'concluded\' to see\nthat officer next morning. He then begged the General to inform him who\nthe Watertoast Sympathisers were, of whom he had spoken in addressing Mr\nLa Fayette Kettle, and on what grievances they bestowed their Sympathy.\nTo which the General, looking very serious, made answer, that he might\nfully enlighten himself on those points to-morrow by attending a Great\nMeeting of the Body, which would then be held at the town to which\nthey were travelling; \'over which, sir,\' said the General, \'my\nfellow-citizens have called on me to preside.\'\n\nThey came to their journey\'s end late in the evening. Close to the\nrailway was an immense white edifice, like an ugly hospital, on which\nwas painted \'NATIONAL HOTEL.\' There was a wooden gallery or verandah\nin front, in which it was rather startling, when the train stopped, to\nbehold a great many pairs of boots and shoes, and the smoke of a\ngreat many cigars, but no other evidences of human habitation. By slow\ndegrees, however, some heads and shoulders appeared, and connecting\nthemselves with the boots and shoes, led to the discovery that certain\ngentlemen boarders, who had a fancy for putting their heels where the\ngentlemen boarders in other countries usually put their heads, were\nenjoying themselves after their own manner in the cool of the evening.\n\nThere was a great bar-room in this hotel, and a great public room\nin which the general table was being set out for supper. There were\ninterminable whitewashed staircases, long whitewashed galleries upstairs\nand downstairs, scores of little whitewashed bedrooms, and a four-sided\nverandah to every story in the house, which formed a large brick square\nwith an uncomfortable courtyard in the centre, where some clothes were\ndrying. Here and there, some yawning gentlemen lounged up and down with\ntheir hands in their pockets; but within the house and without, wherever\nhalf a dozen people were collected together, there, in their looks,\ndress, morals, manners, habits, intellect, and conversation, were Mr\nJefferson Brick, Colonel Diver, Major Pawkins, General Choke, and Mr\nLa Fayette Kettle, over, and over, and over again. They did the same\nthings; said the same things; judged all subjects by, and reduced all\nsubjects to, the same standard. Observing how they lived, and how they\nwere always in the enchanting company of each other, Martin even began\nto comprehend their being the social, cheerful, winning, airy men they\nwere.\n\nAt the sounding of a dismal gong, this pleasant company went trooping\ndown from all parts of the house to the public room; while from the\nneighbouring stores other guests came flocking in, in shoals; for half\nthe town, married folks as well as single, resided at the National\nHotel. Tea, coffee, dried meats, tongue, ham, pickles, cake, toast,\npreserves, and bread and butter, were swallowed with the usual ravaging\nspeed; and then, as before, the company dropped off by degrees, and\nlounged away to the desk, the counter, or the bar-room. The ladies had a\nsmaller ordinary of their own, to which their husbands and brothers\nwere admitted if they chose; and in all other respects they enjoyed\nthemselves as at Pawkins\'s.\n\n\'Now, Mark, my good fellow, said Martin, closing the door of his\nlittle chamber, \'we must hold a solemn council, for our fate is decided\nto-morrow morning. You are determined to invest these savings of yours\nin the common stock, are you?\'\n\n\'If I hadn\'t been determined to make that wentur, sir,\' answered Mr\nTapley, \'I shouldn\'t have come.\'\n\n\'How much is there here, did you say\' asked Martin, holding up a little\nbag.\n\n\'Thirty-seven pound ten and sixpence. The Savings\' Bank said so at\nleast. I never counted it. But THEY know, bless you!\' said Mark, with a\nshake of the head expressive of his unbounded confidence in the wisdom\nand arithmetic of those Institutions.\n\n\'The money we brought with us,\' said Martin, \'is reduced to a few\nshillings less than eight pounds.\'\n\nMr Tapley smiled, and looked all manner of ways, that he might not be\nsupposed to attach any importance to this fact.\n\n\'Upon the ring--HER ring, Mark,\' said Martin, looking ruefully at his\nempty finger--\n\n\'Ah!\' sighed Mr Tapley. \'Beg your pardon, sir.\'\n\n\'--We raised, in English money, fourteen pounds. So, even with that,\nyour share of the stock is still very much the larger of the two you\nsee. Now, Mark,\' said Martin, in his old way, just as he might have\nspoken to Tom Pinch, \'I have thought of a means of making this up\nto you--more than making it up to you, I hope--and very materially\nelevating your prospects in life.\'\n\n\'Oh! don\'t talk of that, you know, sir,\' returned Mark. \'I don\'t want no\nelevating, sir. I\'m all right enough, sir, I am.\'\n\n\'No, but hear me,\' said Martin, \'because this is very important to you,\nand a great satisfaction to me. Mark, you shall be a partner in the\nbusiness; an equal partner with myself. I will put in, as my additional\ncapital, my professional knowledge and ability; and half the annual\nprofits, as long as it is carried on, shall be yours.\'\n\nPoor Martin! For ever building castles in the air. For ever, in his very\nselfishness, forgetful of all but his own teeming hopes and sanguine\nplans. Swelling, at that instant, with the consciousness of patronizing\nand most munificently rewarding Mark!\n\n\'I don\'t know, sir,\' Mark rejoined, much more sadly than his custom was,\nthough from a very different cause than Martin supposed, \'what I can say\nto this, in the way of thanking you. I\'ll stand by you, sir, to the best\nof my ability, and to the last. That\'s all.\'\n\n\'We quite understand each other, my good fellow,\' said Martin rising in\nself-approval and condescension. \'We are no longer master and servant,\nbut friends and partners; and are mutually gratified. If we determine on\nEden, the business shall be commenced as soon as we get there. Under the\nname,\' said Martin, who never hammered upon an idea that wasn\'t red hot,\n\'under the name of Chuzzlewit and Tapley.\'\n\n\'Lord love you, sir,\' cried Mark, \'don\'t have my name in it. I ain\'t\nacquainted with the business, sir. I must be Co., I must. I\'ve often\nthought,\' he added, in a low voice, \'as I should like to know a Co.; but\nI little thought as ever I should live to be one.\'\n\n\'You shall have your own way, Mark.\'\n\n\'Thank\'ee, sir. If any country gentleman thereabouts, in the public way,\nor otherwise, wanted such a thing as a skittle-ground made, I could take\nthat part of the bis\'ness, sir.\'\n\n\'Against any architect in the States,\' said Martin. \'Get a couple of\nsherry-cobblers, Mark, and we\'ll drink success to the firm.\'\n\nEither he forgot already (and often afterwards), that they were no\nlonger master and servant, or considered this kind of duty to be among\nthe legitimate functions of the Co. But Mark obeyed with his usual\nalacrity; and before they parted for the night, it was agreed between\nthem that they should go together to the agent\'s in the morning, but\nthat Martin should decide the Eden question, on his own sound judgment.\nAnd Mark made no merit, even to himself in his jollity, of this\nconcession; perfectly well knowing that the matter would come to that in\nthe end, any way.\n\nThe General was one of the party at the public table next day, and after\nbreakfast suggested that they should wait upon the agent without loss of\ntime. They, desiring nothing more, agreed; so off they all four\nstarted for the office of the Eden Settlement, which was almost within\nrifle-shot of the National Hotel.\n\nIt was a small place--something like a turnpike. But a great deal of\nland may be got into a dice-box, and why may not a whole territory be\nbargained for in a shed? It was but a temporary office too; for the\nEdeners were \'going\' to build a superb establishment for the transaction\nof their business, and had already got so far as to mark out the site.\nWhich is a great way in America. The office-door was wide open, and in\nthe doorway was the agent; no doubt a tremendous fellow to get through\nhis work, for he seemed to have no arrears, but was swinging backwards\nand forwards in a rocking-chair, with one of his legs planted high up\nagainst the door-post, and the other doubled up under him, as if he were\nhatching his foot.\n\nHe was a gaunt man in a huge straw hat, and a coat of green stuff. The\nweather being hot, he had no cravat, and wore his shirt collar wide\nopen; so that every time he spoke something was seen to twitch and jerk\nup in his throat, like the little hammers in a harpsichord when the\nnotes are struck. Perhaps it was the Truth feebly endeavouring to leap\nto his lips. If so, it never reached them.\n\nTwo grey eyes lurked deep within this agent\'s head, but one of them had\nno sight in it, and stood stock still. With that side of his face he\nseemed to listen to what the other side was doing. Thus each profile had\na distinct expression; and when the movable side was most in action, the\nrigid one was in its coldest state of watchfulness. It was like\nturning the man inside out, to pass to that view of his features in his\nliveliest mood, and see how calculating and intent they were.\n\nEach long black hair upon his head hung down as straight as any plummet\nline; but rumpled tufts were on the arches of his eyes, as if the crow\nwhose foot was deeply printed in the corners had pecked and torn them in\na savage recognition of his kindred nature as a bird of prey.\n\nSuch was the man whom they now approached, and whom the General saluted\nby the name of Scadder.\n\n\'Well, Gen\'ral,\' he returned, \'and how are you?\'\n\n\'Ac-tive and spry, sir, in my country\'s service and the sympathetic\ncause. Two gentlemen on business, Mr Scadder.\'\n\nHe shook hands with each of them--nothing is done in America without\nshaking hands--then went on rocking.\n\n\'I think I know what bis\'ness you have brought these strangers here\nupon, then, Gen\'ral?\'\n\n\'Well, sir. I expect you may.\'\n\n\'You air a tongue-y person, Gen\'ral. For you talk too much, and that\'s\nfact,\' said Scadder. \'You speak a-larming well in public, but you didn\'t\nought to go ahead so fast in private. Now!\'\n\n\'If I can realise your meaning, ride me on a rail!\' returned the\nGeneral, after pausing for consideration.\n\n\'You know we didn\'t wish to sell the lots off right away to any loafer\nas might bid,\' said Scadder; \'but had con-cluded to reserve \'em for\nAristocrats of Natur\'. Yes!\'\n\n\'And they are here, sir!\' cried the General with warmth. \'They are here,\nsir!\'\n\n\'If they air here,\' returned the agent, in reproachful accents, \'that\'s\nenough. But you didn\'t ought to have your dander ris with ME, Gen\'ral.\'\n\nThe General whispered Martin that Scadder was the honestest fellow in\nthe world, and that he wouldn\'t have given him offence designedly, for\nten thousand dollars.\n\n\'I do my duty; and I raise the dander of my feller critters, as I\nwish to serve,\' said Scadder in a low voice, looking down the road\nand rocking still. \'They rile up rough, along of my objecting to their\nselling Eden off too cheap. That\'s human natur\'! Well!\'\n\n\'Mr Scadder,\' said the General, assuming his oratorical deportment.\n\'Sir! Here is my hand, and here my heart. I esteem you, sir, and ask\nyour pardon. These gentlemen air friends of mine, or I would not have\nbrought \'em here, sir, being well aware, sir, that the lots at present\ngo entirely too cheap. But these air friends, sir; these air partick\'ler\nfriends.\'\n\nMr Scadder was so satisfied by this explanation, that he shook the\nGeneral warmly by the hand, and got out of the rocking-chair to do it.\nHe then invited the General\'s particular friends to accompany him into\nthe office. As to the General, he observed, with his usual benevolence,\nthat being one of the company, he wouldn\'t interfere in the transaction\non any account; so he appropriated the rocking-chair to himself, and\nlooked at the prospect, like a good Samaritan waiting for a traveller.\n\n\'Heyday!\' cried Martin, as his eye rested on a great plan which occupied\none whole side of the office. Indeed, the office had little else in it,\nbut some geological and botanical specimens, one or two rusty ledgers, a\nhomely desk, and a stool. \'Heyday! what\'s that?\'\n\n\'That\'s Eden,\' said Scadder, picking his teeth with a sort of young\nbayonet that flew out of his knife when he touched a spring.\n\n\'Why, I had no idea it was a city.\'\n\n\'Hadn\'t you? Oh, it\'s a city.\'\n\nA flourishing city, too! An architectural city! There were banks,\nchurches, cathedrals, market-places, factories, hotels, stores,\nmansions, wharves; an exchange, a theatre; public buildings of all\nkinds, down to the office of the Eden Stinger, a daily journal; all\nfaithfully depicted in the view before them.\n\n\'Dear me! It\'s really a most important place!\' cried Martin turning\nround.\n\n\'Oh! it\'s very important,\' observed the agent.\n\n\'But, I am afraid,\' said Martin, glancing again at the Public Buildings,\n\'that there\'s nothing left for me to do.\'\n\n\'Well! it ain\'t all built,\' replied the agent. \'Not quite.\'\n\nThis was a great relief.\n\n\'The market-place, now,\' said Martin. \'Is that built?\'\n\n\'That?\' said the agent, sticking his toothpick into the weathercock on\nthe top. \'Let me see. No; that ain\'t built.\'\n\n\'Rather a good job to begin with--eh, Mark?\' whispered Martin nudging\nhim with his elbow.\n\nMark, who, with a very stolid countenance had been eyeing the plan and\nthe agent by turns, merely rejoined \'Uncommon!\'\n\nA dead silence ensued, Mr Scadder in some short recesses or vacations of\nhis toothpick, whistled a few bars of Yankee Doodle, and blew the dust\noff the roof of the Theatre.\n\n\'I suppose,\' said Martin, feigning to look more narrowly at the plan,\nbut showing by his tremulous voice how much depended, in his mind, upon\nthe answer; \'I suppose there are--several architects there?\'\n\n\'There ain\'t a single one,\' said Scadder.\n\n\'Mark,\' whispered Martin, pulling him by the sleeve, \'do you hear that?\nBut whose work is all this before us, then?\' he asked aloud.\n\n\'The soil being very fruitful, public buildings grows spontaneous,\nperhaps,\' said Mark.\n\nHe was on the agent\'s dark side as he said it; but Scadder instantly\nchanged his place, and brought his active eye to bear upon him.\n\n\'Feel of my hands, young man,\' he said.\n\n\'What for?\' asked Mark, declining.\n\n\'Air they dirty, or air they clean, sir?\' said Scadder, holding them\nout.\n\nIn a physical point of view they were decidedly dirty. But it being\nobvious that Mr Scadder offered them for examination in a figurative\nsense, as emblems of his moral character, Martin hastened to pronounce\nthem pure as the driven snow.\n\n\'I entreat, Mark,\' he said, with some irritation, \'that you will\nnot obtrude remarks of that nature, which, however harmless and\nwell-intentioned, are quite out of place, and cannot be expected to be\nvery agreeable to strangers. I am quite surprised.\'\n\n\'The Co.\'s a-putting his foot in it already,\' thought Mark. \'He must be\na sleeping partner--fast asleep and snoring--Co. must; I see.\'\n\nMr Scadder said nothing, but he set his back against the plan, and\nthrust his toothpick into the desk some twenty times; looking at Mark\nall the while as if he were stabbing him in effigy.\n\n\'You haven\'t said whose work it is,\' Martin ventured to observe at\nlength, in a tone of mild propitiation.\n\n\'Well, never mind whose work it is, or isn\'t,\' said the agent sulkily.\n\'No matter how it did eventuate. P\'raps he cleared off, handsome, with a\nheap of dollars; p\'raps he wasn\'t worth a cent. P\'raps he was a loafin\'\nrowdy; p\'raps a ring-tailed roarer. Now!\'\n\n\'All your doing, Mark!\' said Martin.\n\n\'P\'raps,\' pursued the agent, \'them ain\'t plants of Eden\'s raising. No!\nP\'raps that desk and stool ain\'t made from Eden lumber. No! P\'raps no\nend of squatters ain\'t gone out there. No! P\'raps there ain\'t no such\nlocation in the territoary of the Great U-nited States. Oh, no!\'\n\n\'I hope you\'re satisfied with the success of your joke, Mark,\' said\nMartin.\n\nBut here, at a most opportune and happy time, the General interposed,\nand called out to Scadder from the doorway to give his friends the\nparticulars of that little lot of fifty acres with the house upon it;\nwhich, having belonged to the company formerly, had lately lapsed again\ninto their hands.\n\n\'You air a deal too open-handed, Gen\'ral,\' was the answer. \'It is a lot\nas should be rose in price. It is.\'\n\nHe grumblingly opened his books notwithstanding, and always keeping his\nbright side towards Mark, no matter at what amount of inconvenience\nto himself, displayed a certain leaf for their perusal. Martin read it\ngreedily, and then inquired:\n\n\'Now where upon the plan may this place be?\'\n\n\'Upon the plan?\' said Scadder.\n\n\'Yes.\'\n\nHe turned towards it, and reflected for a short time, as if, having\nbeen put upon his mettle, he was resolved to be particular to the\nvery minutest hair\'s breadth of a shade. At length, after wheeling his\ntoothpick slowly round and round in the air, as if it were a carrier\npigeon just thrown up, he suddenly made a dart at the drawing, and\npierced the very centre of the main wharf, through and through.\n\n\'There!\' he said, leaving his knife quivering in the wall; \'that\'s where\nit is!\'\n\nMartin glanced with sparkling eyes upon his Co., and his Co. saw that\nthe thing was done.\n\nThe bargain was not concluded as easily as might have been expected\nthough, for Scadder was caustic and ill-humoured, and cast much\nunnecessary opposition in the way; at one time requesting them to think\nof it, and call again in a week or a fortnight; at another, predicting\nthat they wouldn\'t like it; at another, offering to retract and let them\noff, and muttering strong imprecations upon the folly of the General.\nBut the whole of the astoundingly small sum total of purchase-money--it\nwas only one hundred and fifty dollars, or something more than thirty\npounds of the capital brought by Co. into the architectural concern--was\nultimately paid down; and Martin\'s head was two inches nearer the roof\nof the little wooden office, with the consciousness of being a landed\nproprietor in the thriving city of Eden.\n\n\'If it shouldn\'t happen to fit,\' said Scadder, as he gave Martin the\nnecessary credentials on recepit of his money, \'don\'t blame me.\'\n\n\'No, no,\' he replied merrily. \'We\'ll not blame you. General, are you\ngoing?\'\n\n\'I am at your service, sir; and I wish you,\' said the General, giving\nhim his hand with grave cordiality, \'joy of your po-ssession. You air\nnow, sir, a denizen of the most powerful and highly-civilised dominion\nthat has ever graced the world; a do-minion, sir, where man is bound to\nman in one vast bond of equal love and truth. May you, sir, be worthy of\nyour a-dopted country!\'\n\nMartin thanked him, and took leave of Mr Scadder; who had resumed his\npost in the rocking-chair, immediately on the General\'s rising from it,\nand was once more swinging away as if he had never been disturbed.\nMark looked back several times as they went down the road towards the\nNational Hotel, but now his blighted profile was towards them, and\nnothing but attentive thoughtfulness was written on it. Strangely\ndifferent to the other side! He was not a man much given to laughing,\nand never laughed outright; but every line in the print of the crow\'s\nfoot, and every little wiry vein in that division of his head, was\nwrinkled up into a grin! The compound figure of Death and the Lady at\nthe top of the old ballad was not divided with a greater nicety, and\nhadn\'t halves more monstrously unlike each other, than the two profiles\nof Zephaniah Scadder.\n\nThe General posted along at a great rate, for the clock was on the\nstroke of twelve; and at that hour precisely, the Great Meeting of\nthe Watertoast Sympathisers was to be holden in the public room of the\nNational Hotel. Being very curious to witness the demonstration, and\nknow what it was all about, Martin kept close to the General; and,\nkeeping closer than ever when they entered the Hall, got by that means\nupon a little platform of tables at the upper end; where an armchair was\nset for the General, and Mr La Fayette Kettle, as secretary, was making\na great display of some foolscap documents. Screamers, no doubt.\n\n\'Well, sir!\' he said, as he shook hands with Martin, \'here is a\nspectacle calc\'lated to make the British Lion put his tail between his\nlegs, and howl with anguish, I expect!\'\n\nMartin certainly thought it possible that the British Lion might have\nbeen rather out of his element in that Ark; but he kept the idea to\nhimself. The General was then voted to the chair, on the motion of a\npallid lad of the Jefferson Brick school; who forthwith set in for a\nhigh-spiced speech, with a good deal about hearths and homes in it, and\nunriveting the chains of Tyranny.\n\nOh but it was a clincher for the British Lion, it was! The indignation\nof the glowing young Columbian knew no bounds. If he could only have\nbeen one of his own forefathers, he said, wouldn\'t he have peppered\nthat same Lion, and been to him as another Brute Tamer with a wire whip,\nteaching him lessons not easily forgotten. \'Lion! (cried that young\nColumbian) where is he? Who is he? What is he? Show him to me. Let me\nhave him here. Here!\' said the young Columbian, in a wrestling attitude,\n\'upon this sacred altar. Here!\' cried the young Columbian, idealising\nthe dining-table, \'upon ancestral ashes, cemented with the glorious\nblood poured out like water on our native plains of Chickabiddy Lick!\nBring forth that Lion!\' said the young Columbian. \'Alone, I dare him! I\ntaunt that Lion. I tell that Lion, that Freedom\'s hand once twisted\nin his mane, he rolls a corse before me, and the Eagles of the Great\nRepublic laugh ha, ha!\'\n\nWhen it was found that the Lion didn\'t come, but kept out of the way;\nthat the young Columbian stood there, with folded arms, alone in his\nglory; and consequently that the Eagles were no doubt laughing wildly on\nthe mountain tops; such cheers arose as might have shaken the hands upon\nthe Horse-Guards\' clock, and changed the very mean time of the day in\nEngland\'s capital.\n\n\'Who is this?\' Martin telegraphed to La Fayette.\n\nThe Secretary wrote something, very gravely, on a piece of paper,\ntwisted it up, and had it passed to him from hand to hand. It was an\nimprovement on the old sentiment: \'Perhaps as remarkable a man as any in\nour country.\'\n\nThis young Columbian was succeeded by another, to the full as eloquent\nas he, who drew down storms of cheers. But both remarkable youths,\nin their great excitement (for your true poetry can never stoop to\ndetails), forgot to say with whom or what the Watertoasters sympathized,\nand likewise why or wherefore they were sympathetic. Thus Martin\nremained for a long time as completely in the dark as ever; until\nat length a ray of light broke in upon him through the medium of the\nSecretary, who, by reading the minutes of their past proceedings,\nmade the matter somewhat clearer. He then learned that the Watertoast\nAssociation sympathized with a certain Public Man in Ireland, who held a\ncontest upon certain points with England; and that they did so, because\nthey didn\'t love England at all--not by any means because they loved\nIreland much; being indeed horribly jealous and distrustful of its\npeople always, and only tolerating them because of their working hard,\nwhich made them very useful; labour being held in greater indignity in\nthe simple republic than in any other country upon earth. This\nrendered Martin curious to see what grounds of sympathy the Watertoast\nAssociation put forth; nor was he long in suspense, for the General\nrose to read a letter to the Public Man, which with his own hands he had\nwritten.\n\n\'Thus,\' said the General, \'thus, my friends and fellow-citizens, it\nruns:\n\n\n\'\"SIR--I address you on behalf of the Watertoast Association of United\nSympathisers. It is founded, sir, in the great republic of America! and\nnow holds its breath, and swells the blue veins in its forehead nigh to\nbursting, as it watches, sir, with feverish intensity and sympathetic\nardour, your noble efforts in the cause of Freedom.\"\'\n\n\nAt the name of Freedom, and at every repetition of that name, all the\nSympathisers roared aloud; cheering with nine times nine, and nine times\nover.\n\n\n\'\"In Freedom\'s name, sir--holy Freedom--I address you. In Freedom\'s\nname, I send herewith a contribution to the funds of your society.\nIn Freedom\'s name, sir, I advert with indignation and disgust to that\naccursed animal, with gore-stained whiskers, whose rampant cruelty and\nfiery lust have ever been a scourge, a torment to the world. The naked\nvisitors to Crusoe\'s Island, sir; the flying wives of Peter Wilkins; the\nfruit-smeared children of the tangled bush; nay, even the men of large\nstature, anciently bred in the mining districts of Cornwall; alike\nbear witness to its savage nature. Where, sir, are the Cormorans,\nthe Blunderbores, the Great Feefofums, named in History? All, all,\nexterminated by its destroying hand.\n\n\'\"I allude, sir, to the British Lion.\n\n\'\"Devoted, mind and body, heart and soul, to Freedom, sir--to Freedom,\nblessed solace to the snail upon the cellar-door, the oyster in his\npearly bed, the still mite in his home of cheese, the very winkle of\nyour country in his shelly lair--in her unsullied name, we offer you our\nsympathy. Oh, sir, in this our cherished and our happy land, her fires\nburn bright and clear and smokeless; once lighted up in yours, the lion\nshall be roasted whole.\n\n\'\"I am, sir, in Freedom\'s name,\n\n\'\"Your affectionate friend and faithful Sympathiser,\n\n\'\"CYRUS CHOKE,\n\n\'\"General, U.S.M.\"\'\n\n\nIt happened that just as the General began to read this letter, the\nrailroad train arrived, bringing a new mail from England; and a packet\nhad been handed in to the Secretary, which during its perusal and\nthe frequent cheerings in homage to freedom, he had opened. Now, its\ncontents disturbed him very much, and the moment the General sat down,\nhe hurried to his side, and placed in his hand a letter and several\nprinted extracts from English newspapers; to which, in a state of\ninfinite excitement, he called his immediate attention.\n\nThe General, being greatly heated by his own composition, was in a\nfit state to receive any inflammable influence; but he had no sooner\npossessed himself of the contents of these documents, than a change came\nover his face, involving such a huge amount of choler and passion, that\nthe noisy concourse were silent in a moment, in very wonder at the sight\nof him.\n\n\'My friends!\' cried the General, rising; \'my friends and fellow\ncitizens, we have been mistaken in this man.\'\n\n\'In what man?\' was the cry.\n\n\'In this,\' panted the General, holding up the letter he had read aloud\na few minutes before. \'I find that he has been, and is, the\nadvocate--consistent in it always too--of Nigger emancipation!\'\n\nIf anything beneath the sky be real, those Sons of Freedom would have\npistolled, stabbed--in some way slain--that man by coward hands and\nmurderous violence, if he had stood among them at that time. The most\nconfiding of their own countrymen would not have wagered then--no, nor\nwould they ever peril--one dunghill straw, upon the life of any man in\nsuch a strait. They tore the letter, cast the fragments in the air, trod\ndown the pieces as they fell; and yelled, and groaned, and hissed, till\nthey could cry no longer.\n\n\'I shall move,\' said the General, when he could make himself heard,\n\'that the Watertoast Association of United Sympathisers be immediately\ndissolved!\'\n\nDown with it! Away with it! Don\'t hear of it! Burn its records! Pull the\nroom down! Blot it out of human memory!\n\n\'But, my fellow-countrymen!\' said the General, \'the contributions. We\nhave funds. What is to be done with the funds?\'\n\nIt was hastily resolved that a piece of plate should be presented to a\ncertain constitutional Judge, who had laid down from the Bench the noble\nprinciple that it was lawful for any white mob to murder any black man;\nand that another piece of plate, of similar value should be presented\nto a certain Patriot, who had declared from his high place in the\nLegislature, that he and his friends would hang without trial, any\nAbolitionist who might pay them a visit. For the surplus, it was agreed\nthat it should be devoted to aiding the enforcement of those free and\nequal laws, which render it incalculably more criminal and dangerous\nto teach a negro to read and write than to roast him alive in a public\ncity. These points adjusted, the meeting broke up in great disorder, and\nthere was an end of the Watertoast Sympathy.\n\nAs Martin ascended to his bedroom, his eye was attracted by the\nRepublican banner, which had been hoisted from the house-top in honour\nof the occasion, and was fluttering before a window which he passed.\n\n\'Tut!\' said Martin. \'You\'re a gay flag in the distance. But let a man\nbe near enough to get the light upon the other side and see through you;\nand you are but sorry fustian!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n\nFROM WHICH IT WILL BE SEEN THAT MARTIN BECAME A LION OF HIS OWN ACCOUNT.\nTOGETHER WITH THE REASON WHY\n\n\nAs soon as it was generally known in the National Hotel, that the young\nEnglishman, Mr Chuzzlewit, had purchased a \'lo-cation\' in the Valley\nof Eden, and intended to betake himself to that earthly Paradise by the\nnext steamboat, he became a popular character. Why this should be, or\nhow it had come to pass, Martin no more knew than Mrs Gamp, of Kingsgate\nStreet, High Holborn, did; but that he was for the time being the lion,\nby popular election, of the Watertoast community, and that his society\nwas in rather inconvenient request there could be no kind of doubt.\n\nThe first notification he received of this change in his position, was\nthe following epistle, written in a thin running hand--with here and\nthere a fat letter or two, to make the general effect more striking--on\na sheet of paper, ruled with blue lines.\n\n\n\'NATIONAL HOTEL,\n\n\'MONDAY MORNING.\n\n\'Dear Sir--\'When I had the privillidge of being your fellow-traveller\nin the cars, the day before yesterday, you offered some remarks upon the\nsubject of the tower of London, which (in common with my fellow-citizens\ngenerally) I could wish to hear repeated to a public audience.\n\n\'As secretary to the Young Men\'s Watertoast Association of this town,\nI am requested to inform you that the Society will be proud to hear\nyou deliver a lecture upon the Tower of London, at their Hall to-morrow\nevening, at seven o\'clock; and as a large issue of quarter-dollar\ntickets may be expected, your answer and consent by bearer will be\nconsidered obliging.\n\n\'Dear Sir,\n\n\'Yours truly,\n\n\'LA FAYETTE KETTLE.\n\n\'The Honourable M. Chuzzlewit.\n\n\'P.S.--The Society would not be particular in limiting you to the Tower\nof London. Permit me to suggest that any remarks upon the Elements of\nGeology, or (if more convenient) upon the Writings of your talented and\nwitty countryman, the honourable Mr Miller, would be well received.\'\n\n\nVery much aghast at this invitation, Martin wrote back, civilly\ndeclining it; and had scarcely done so, when he received another letter.\n\n\n\'No. 47, Bunker Hill Street,\n\n\'Monday Morning.\n\n\'(Private).\n\n\'Sir--I was raised in those interminable solitudes where our mighty\nMississippi (or Father of Waters) rolls his turbid flood.\n\n\'I am young, and ardent. For there is a poetry in wildness, and every\nalligator basking in the slime is in himself an Epic, self-contained. I\naspirate for fame. It is my yearning and my thirst.\n\n\'Are you, sir, aware of any member of Congress in England, who would\nundertake to pay my expenses to that country, and for six months after\nmy arrival?\n\n\'There is something within me which gives me the assurance that this\nenlightened patronage would not be thrown away. In literature or art;\nthe bar, the pulpit, or the stage; in one or other, if not all, I feel\nthat I am certain to succeed.\n\n\'If too much engaged to write to any such yourself, please let me have\na list of three or four of those most likely to respond, and I will\naddress them through the Post Office. May I also ask you to favour me\nwith any critical observations that have ever presented themselves to\nyour reflective faculties, on \"Cain, a Mystery,\" by the Right Honourable\nLord Byron?\n\n\'I am, Sir,\n\n\'Yours (forgive me if I add, soaringly),\n\n\'PUTNAM SMIF\n\n\'P.S.--Address your answer to America Junior, Messrs. Hancock & Floby,\nDry Goods Store, as above.\'\n\n\nBoth of which letters, together with Martin\'s reply to each, were,\naccording to a laudable custom, much tending to the promotion of\ngentlemanly feeling and social confidence, published in the next number\nof the Watertoast Gazette.\n\nHe had scarcely got through this correspondence when Captain Kedgick,\nthe landlord, kindly came upstairs to see how he was getting on. The\nCaptain sat down upon the bed before he spoke; and finding it rather\nhard, moved to the pillow.\n\n\'Well, sir!\' said the Captain, putting his hat a little more on one\nside, for it was rather tight in the crown: \'You\'re quite a public man I\ncalc\'late.\'\n\n\'So it seems,\' retorted Martin, who was very tired.\n\n\'Our citizens, sir,\' pursued the Captain, \'intend to pay their respects\nto you. You will have to hold a sort of le-vee, sir, while you\'re here.\'\n\n\'Powers above!\' cried Martin, \'I couldn\'t do that, my good fellow!\'\n\n\'I reckon you MUST then,\' said the Captain.\n\n\'Must is not a pleasant word, Captain,\' urged Martin.\n\n\'Well! I didn\'t fix the mother language, and I can\'t unfix it,\' said the\nCaptain coolly; \'else I\'d make it pleasant. You must re-ceive. That\'s\nall.\'\n\n\'But why should I receive people who care as much for me as I care for\nthem?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'Well! because I have had a muniment put up in the bar,\' returned the\nCaptain.\n\n\'A what?\' cried Martin.\n\n\'A muniment,\' rejoined the Captain.\n\nMartin looked despairingly at Mark, who informed him that the\nCaptain meant a written notice that Mr Chuzzlewit would receive the\nWatertoasters that day, at and after two o\'clock which was in effect\nthen hanging in the bar, as Mark, from ocular inspection of the same,\ncould testify.\n\n\'You wouldn\'t be unpop\'lar, I know,\' said the Captain, paring his nails.\n\'Our citizens an\'t long of riling up, I tell you; and our Gazette could\nflay you like a wild cat.\'\n\nMartin was going to be very wroth, but he thought better of it, and\nsaid:\n\n\'In Heaven\'s name let them come, then.\'\n\n\'Oh, THEY\'ll come,\' returned the Captain. \'I have seen the big room\nfixed a\'purpose, with my eyes.\'\n\n\'But will you,\' said Martin, seeing that the Captain was about to go;\n\'will you at least tell me this? What do they want to see me for? what\nhave I done? and how do they happen to have such a sudden interest in\nme?\'\n\nCaptain Kedgick put a thumb and three fingers to each side of the\nbrim of his hat; lifted it a little way off his head; put it on again\ncarefully; passed one hand all down his face, beginning at the forehead\nand ending at the chin; looked at Martin; then at Mark; then at Martin\nagain; winked, and walked out.\n\n\'Upon my life, now!\' said Martin, bringing his hand heavily upon the\ntable; \'such a perfectly unaccountable fellow as that, I never saw.\nMark, what do you say to this?\'\n\n\'Why, sir,\' returned his partner, \'my opinion is that we must have got\nto the MOST remarkable man in the country at last. So I hope there\'s an\nend to the breed, sir.\'\n\nAlthough this made Martin laugh, it couldn\'t keep off two o\'clock.\nPunctually, as the hour struck, Captain Kedgick returned to hand him\nto the room of state; and he had no sooner got him safe there, than\nhe bawled down the staircase to his fellow-citizens below, that Mr\nChuzzlewit was \'receiving.\'\n\nUp they came with a rush. Up they came until the room was full, and,\nthrough the open door, a dismal perspective of more to come, was shown\nupon the stairs. One after another, one after another, dozen after\ndozen, score after score, more, more, more, up they came; all shaking\nhands with Martin. Such varieties of hands, the thick, the thin,\nthe short, the long, the fat, the lean, the coarse, the fine; such\ndifferences of temperature, the hot, the cold, the dry, the moist,\nthe flabby; such diversities of grasp, the tight, the loose, the\nshort-lived, and the lingering! Still up, up, up, more, more, more; and\never and anon the Captain\'s voice was heard above the crowd--\'There\'s\nmore below! there\'s more below. Now, gentlemen you that have been\nintroduced to Mr Chuzzlewit, will you clear gentlemen? Will you clear?\nWill you be so good as clear, gentlemen, and make a little room for\nmore?\'\n\nRegardless of the Captain\'s cries, they didn\'t clear at all, but stood\nthere, bolt upright and staring. Two gentlemen connected with the\nWatertoast Gazette had come express to get the matter for an article on\nMartin. They had agreed to divide the labour. One of them took him below\nthe waistcoat. One above. Each stood directly in front of his subject\nwith his head a little on one side, intent on his department. If Martin\nput one boot before the other, the lower gentleman was down upon him;\nhe rubbed a pimple on his nose, and the upper gentleman booked it. He\nopened his mouth to speak, and the same gentleman was on one knee before\nhim, looking in at his teeth, with the nice scrutiny of a dentist.\nAmateurs in the physiognomical and phrenological sciences roved about\nhim with watchful eyes and itching fingers, and sometimes one, more\ndaring than the rest, made a mad grasp at the back of his head, and\nvanished in the crowd. They had him in all points of view: in front, in\nprofile, three-quarter face, and behind. Those who were not professional\nor scientific, audibly exchanged opinions on his looks. New lights shone\nin upon him, in respect of his nose. Contradictory rumours were abroad\non the subject of his hair. And still the Captain\'s voice was heard--so\nstifled by the concourse, that he seemed to speak from underneath a\nfeather-bed--exclaiming--\'Gentlemen, you that have been introduced to Mr\nChuzzlewit, WILL you clear?\'\n\nEven when they began to clear it was no better; for then a stream of\ngentlemen, every one with a lady on each arm (exactly like the chorus\nto the National Anthem when Royalty goes in state to the play), came\ngliding in--every new group fresher than the last, and bent on staying\nto the latest moment. If they spoke to him, which was not often, they\ninvariably asked the same questions, in the same tone; with no more\nremorse, or delicacy, or consideration, than if he had been a figure of\nstone, purchased, and paid for, and set up there for their delight. Even\nwhen, in the slow course of time, these died off, it was as bad as ever,\nif not worse; for then the boys grew bold, and came in as a class\nof themselves, and did everything that the grown-up people had done.\nUncouth stragglers, too, appeared; men of a ghostly kind, who being in,\ndidn\'t know how to get out again; insomuch that one silent gentleman\nwith glazed and fishy eyes and only one button on his waistcoat (which\nwas a very large metal one, and shone prodigiously), got behind the\ndoor, and stood there, like a clock, long after everybody else was gone.\n\nMartin felt, from pure fatigue, and heat, and worry, as if he could have\nfallen on the ground and willingly remained there, if they would but\nhave had the mercy to leave him alone. But as letters and messages,\nthreatening his public denouncement if he didn\'t see the senders, poured\nin like hail; and as more visitors came while he took his coffee by\nhimself; and as Mark, with all his vigilance, was unable to keep them\nfrom the door; he resolved to go to bed--not that he felt at all sure\nof bed being any protection, but that he might not leave a forlorn hope\nuntried.\n\nHe had communicated this design to Mark, and was on the eve of escaping,\nwhen the door was thrown open in a great hurry, and an elderly gentleman\nentered; bringing with him a lady who certainly could not be considered\nyoung--that was matter of fact; and probably could not be considered\nhandsome--but that was matter of opinion. She was very straight, very\ntall, and not at all flexible in face or figure. On her head she wore a\ngreat straw bonnet, with trimmings of the same, in which she looked as\nif she had been thatched by an unskillful labourer; and in her hand she\nheld a most enormous fan.\n\n\'Mr Chuzzlewit, I believe?\' said the gentleman.\n\n\'That is my name.\'\n\n\'Sir,\' said the gentleman, \'I am pressed for time.\'\n\n\'Thank God!\' thought Martin.\n\n\'I go back Toe my home, sir,\' pursued the gentleman, \'by the return\ntrain, which starts immediate. Start is not a word you use in your\ncountry, sir.\'\n\n\'Oh yes, it is,\' said Martin.\n\n\'You air mistaken, sir,\' returned the gentleman, with great decision:\n\'but we will not pursue the subject, lest it should awake your\npreju--dice. Sir, Mrs Hominy.\'\n\nMartin bowed.\n\n\'Mrs Hominy, sir, is the lady of Major Hominy, one of our chicest\nspirits; and belongs Toe one of our most aristocratic families. You air,\np\'raps, acquainted, sir, with Mrs Hominy\'s writings.\'\n\nMartin couldn\'t say he was.\n\n\'You have much Toe learn, and Toe enjoy, sir,\' said the gentleman.\n\'Mrs Hominy is going Toe stay until the end of the Fall, sir, with her\nmarried daughter at the settlement of New Thermopylae, three days this\nside of Eden. Any attention, sir, that you can show Toe Mrs Hominy\nupon the journey, will be very grateful Toe the Major and our\nfellow-citizens. Mrs Hominy, I wish you good night, ma\'am, and a\npleasant pro-gress on your route!\'\n\nMartin could scarcely believe it; but he had gone, and Mrs Hominy was\ndrinking the milk.\n\n\'A\'most used-up I am, I do declare!\' she observed. \'The jolting in\nthe cars is pretty nigh as bad as if the rail was full of snags and\nsawyers.\'\n\n\'Snags and sawyers, ma\'am?\' said Martin.\n\n\'Well, then, I do suppose you\'ll hardly realise my meaning, sir,\' said\nMrs Hominy. \'My! Only think! DO tell!\'\n\nIt did not appear that these expressions, although they seemed to\nconclude with an urgent entreaty, stood in need of any answer; for Mrs\nHominy, untying her bonnet-strings, observed that she would withdraw to\nlay that article of dress aside, and would return immediately.\n\n\'Mark!\' said Martin. \'Touch me, will you. Am I awake?\'\n\n\'Hominy is, sir,\' returned his partner--\'Broad awake! Just the sort of\nwoman, sir, as would be discovered with her eyes wide open, and her mind\na-working for her country\'s good, at any hour of the day or night.\'\n\nThey had no opportunity of saying more, for Mrs Hominy stalked in\nagain--very erect, in proof of her aristocratic blood; and holding in\nher clasped hands a red cotton pocket-handkerchief, perhaps a parting\ngift from that choice spirit, the Major. She had laid aside her bonnet,\nand now appeared in a highly aristocratic and classical cap, meeting\nbeneath her chin: a style of headdress so admirably adapted to her\ncountenance, that if the late Mr Grimaldi had appeared in the lappets of\nMrs Siddons, a more complete effect could not have been produced.\n\nMartin handed her to a chair. Her first words arrested him before he\ncould get back to his own seat.\n\n\'Pray, sir!\' said Mrs Hominy, \'where do you hail from?\'\n\n\'I am afraid I am dull of comprehension,\' answered Martin, \'being\nextremely tired; but upon my word I don\'t understand you.\'\n\nMrs Hominy shook her head with a melancholy smile that said, not\ninexpressively, \'They corrupt even the language in that old country!\'\nand added then, as coming down a step or two to meet his low capacity,\n\'Where was you rose?\'\n\n\'Oh!\' said Martin \'I was born in Kent.\'\n\n\'And how do you like our country, sir?\' asked Mrs Hominy.\n\n\'Very much indeed,\' said Martin, half asleep. \'At least--that is--pretty\nwell, ma\'am.\'\n\n\'Most strangers--and partick\'larly Britishers--are much surprised by\nwhat they see in the U-nited States,\' remarked Mrs Hominy.\n\n\'They have excellent reason to be so, ma\'am,\' said Martin. \'I never was\nso much surprised in all my life.\'\n\n\'Our institutions make our people smart much, sir,\' Mrs Hominy remarked.\n\n\'The most short-sighted man could see that at a glance, with his naked\neye,\' said Martin.\n\nMrs Hominy was a philosopher and an authoress, and consequently had a\npretty strong digestion; but this coarse, this indecorous phrase,\nwas almost too much for her. For a gentleman sitting alone with a\nlady--although the door WAS open--to talk about a naked eye!\n\nA long interval elapsed before even she--woman of masculine and towering\nintellect though she was--could call up fortitude enough to resume the\nconversation. But Mrs Hominy was a traveller. Mrs Hominy was a writer\nof reviews and analytical disquisitions. Mrs Hominy had had her letters\nfrom abroad, beginning \'My ever dearest blank,\' and signed \'The Mother\nof the Modern Gracchi\' (meaning the married Miss Hominy), regularly\nprinted in a public journal, with all the indignation in capitals, and\nall the sarcasm in italics. Mrs Hominy had looked on foreign countries\nwith the eye of a perfect republican hot from the model oven; and Mrs\nHominy could talk (or write) about them by the hour together. So Mrs\nHominy at last came down on Martin heavily, and as he was fast asleep,\nshe had it all her own way, and bruised him to her heart\'s content.\n\nIt is no great matter what Mrs Hominy said, save that she had learnt it\nfrom the cant of a class, and a large class, of her fellow countrymen,\nwho in their every word, avow themselves to be as senseless to the high\nprinciples on which America sprang, a nation, into life, as any Orson in\nher legislative halls. Who are no more capable of feeling, or of caring\nif they did feel, that by reducing their own country to the ebb of\nhonest men\'s contempt, they put in hazard the rights of nations yet\nunborn, and very progress of the human race, than are the swine who\nwallow in their streets. Who think that crying out to other nations,\nold in their iniquity, \'We are no worse than you!\' (No worse!) is high\ndefence and \'vantage-ground enough for that Republic, but yesterday let\nloose upon her noble course, and but to-day so maimed and lame, so full\nof sores and ulcers, foul to the eye and almost hopeless to the sense,\nthat her best friends turn from the loathsome creature with disgust.\nWho, having by their ancestors declared and won their Independence,\nbecause they would not bend the knee to certain Public vices and\ncorruptions, and would not abrogate the truth, run riot in the Bad,\nand turn their backs upon the Good; and lying down contented with the\nwretched boast that other Temples also are of glass, and stones which\nbatter theirs may be flung back; show themselves, in that alone, as\nimmeasurably behind the import of the trust they hold, and as unworthy\nto possess it as if the sordid hucksterings of all their little\ngovernments--each one a kingdom in its small depravity--were brought\ninto a heap for evidence against them.\n\nMartin by degrees became so far awake, that he had a sense of a terrible\noppression on his mind; an imperfect dream that he had murdered a\nparticular friend, and couldn\'t get rid of the body. When his eyes\nopened it was staring him full in the face. There was the horrible\nHominy talking deep truths in a melodious snuffle, and pouring forth her\nmental endowments to such an extent that the Major\'s bitterest enemy,\nhearing her, would have forgiven him from the bottom of his heart.\nMartin might have done something desperate if the gong had not sounded\nfor supper; but sound it did most opportunely; and having stationed Mrs\nHominy at the upper end of the table he took refuge at the lower end\nhimself; whence, after a hasty meal he stole away, while the lady was\nyet busied with dried beef and a saucer-full of pickled fixings.\n\nIt would be difficult to give an adequate idea of Mrs Hominy\'s freshness\nnext day, or of the avidity with which she went headlong into moral\nphilosophy at breakfast. Some little additional degree of asperity,\nperhaps, was visible in her features, but not more than the pickles\nwould have naturally produced. All that day she clung to Martin. She\nsat beside him while he received his friends (for there was another\nReception, yet more numerous than the former), propounded theories, and\nanswered imaginary objections, so that Martin really began to think he\nmust be dreaming, and speaking for two; she quoted interminable passages\nfrom certain essays on government, written by herself; used the Major\'s\npocket-handkerchief as if the snuffle were a temporary malady, of which\nshe was determined to rid herself by some means or other; and, in short,\nwas such a remarkable companion, that Martin quite settled it between\nhimself and his conscience, that in any new settlement it would be\nabsolutely necessary to have such a person knocked on the head for the\ngeneral peace of society.\n\nIn the meantime Mark was busy, from early in the morning until late\nat night, in getting on board the steamboat such provisions, tools and\nother necessaries, as they had been forewarned it would be wise to take.\nThe purchase of these things, and the settlement of their bill at the\nNational, reduced their finances to so low an ebb, that if the captain\nhad delayed his departure any longer, they would have been in almost as\nbad a plight as the unfortunate poorer emigrants, who (seduced on board\nby solemn advertisement) had been living on the lower deck a whole week,\nand exhausting their miserable stock of provisions before the voyage\ncommenced. There they were, all huddled together with the engine and the\nfires. Farmers who had never seen a plough; woodmen who had never used\nan axe; builders who couldn\'t make a box; cast out of their own land,\nwith not a hand to aid them: newly come into an unknown world, children\nin helplessness, but men in wants--with younger children at their backs,\nto live or die as it might happen!\n\nThe morning came, and they would start at noon. Noon came, and they\nwould start at night. But nothing is eternal in this world; not even the\nprocrastination of an American skipper; and at night all was ready.\n\nDispirited and weary to the last degree, but a greater lion than\never (he had done nothing all the afternoon but answer letters from\nstrangers; half of them about nothing; half about borrowing money, and\nall requiring an instantaneous reply), Martin walked down to the wharf,\nthrough a concourse of people, with Mrs Hominy upon his arm; and went on\nboard. But Mark was bent on solving the riddle of this lionship, if he\ncould; and so, not without the risk of being left behind, ran back to\nthe hotel.\n\nCaptain Kedgick was sitting in the colonnade, with a julep on his knee,\nand a cigar in his mouth. He caught Mark\'s eye, and said:\n\n\'Why, what the \'Tarnal brings you here?\'\n\n\'I\'ll tell you plainly what it is, Captain,\' said Mark. \'I want to ask\nyou a question.\'\n\n\'A man may ASK a question, so he may,\' returned Kedgick; strongly\nimplying that another man might not answer a question, so he mightn\'t.\n\n\'What have they been making so much of him for, now?\' said Mark, slyly.\n\'Come!\'\n\n\'Our people like ex-citement,\' answered Kedgick, sucking his cigar.\n\n\'But how has he excited \'em?\' asked Mark.\n\nThe Captain looked at him as if he were half inclined to unburden his\nmind of a capital joke.\n\n\'You air a-going?\' he said.\n\n\'Going!\' cried Mark. \'Ain\'t every moment precious?\'\n\n\'Our people like ex-citement,\' said the Captain, whispering. \'He ain\'t\nlike emigrants in gin\'ral; and he excited \'em along of this;\' he winked\nand burst into a smothered laugh; \'along of this. Scadder is a smart\nman, and--and--nobody as goes to Eden ever comes back alive!\'\n\nThe wharf was close at hand, and at that instant Mark could hear them\nshouting out his name; could even hear Martin calling to him to make\nhaste, or they would be separated. It was too late to mend the matter,\nor put any face upon it but the best. He gave the Captain a parting\nbenediction, and ran off like a race-horse.\n\n\'Mark! Mark!\' cried Martin.\n\n\'Here am I, sir!\' shouted Mark, suddenly replying from the edge of the\nquay, and leaping at a bound on board. \'Never was half so jolly, sir.\nAll right. Haul in! Go ahead!\'\n\nThe sparks from the wood fire streamed upward from the two chimneys, as\nif the vessel were a great firework just lighted; and they roared away\nupon the dark water.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-THREE\n\nMARTIN AND HIS PARTNER TAKE POSSESSION OF THEIR ESTATE. THE JOYFUL\nOCCASION INVOLVES SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF EDEN\n\n\nThere happened to be on board the steamboat several gentlemen\npassengers, of the same stamp as Martin\'s New York friend Mr Bevan; and\nin their society he was cheerful and happy. They released him as well\nas they could from the intellectual entanglements of Mrs Hominy;\nand exhibited, in all they said and did, so much good sense and high\nfeeling, that he could not like them too well. \'If this were a republic\nof Intellect and Worth,\' he said, \'instead of vapouring and jobbing,\nthey would not want the levers to keep it in motion.\'\n\n\'Having good tools, and using bad ones,\' returned Mr Tapley, \'would look\nas if they was rather a poor sort of carpenters, sir, wouldn\'t it?\'\n\nMartin nodded. \'As if their work were infinitely above their powers and\npurpose, Mark; and they botched it in consequence.\'\n\n\'The best on it is,\' said Mark, \'that when they do happen to make a\ndecent stroke; such as better workmen, with no such opportunities, make\nevery day of their lives and think nothing of--they begin to sing out\nso surprising loud. Take notice of my words, sir. If ever the defaulting\npart of this here country pays its debts--along of finding that not\npaying \'em won\'t do in a commercial point of view, you see, and is\ninconvenient in its consequences--they\'ll take such a shine out of it,\nand make such bragging speeches, that a man might suppose no borrowed\nmoney had ever been paid afore, since the world was first begun. That\'s\nthe way they gammon each other, sir. Bless you, I know \'em. Take notice\nof my words, now!\'\n\n\'You seem to be growing profoundly sagacious!\' cried Martin, laughing.\n\n\'Whether that is,\' thought Mark, \'because I\'m a day\'s journey nearer\nEden, and am brightening up afore I die, I can\'t say. P\'rhaps by the\ntime I get there I shall have growed into a prophet.\'\n\nHe gave no utterance to these sentiments; but the excessive joviality\nthey inspired within him, and the merriment they brought upon his\nshining face, were quite enough for Martin. Although he might sometimes\nprofess to make light of his partner\'s inexhaustible cheerfulness,\nand might sometimes, as in the case of Zephaniah Scadder, find him\ntoo jocose a commentator, he was always sensible of the effect of his\nexample in rousing him to hopefulness and courage. Whether he were in\nthe humour to profit by it, mattered not a jot. It was contagious, and\nhe could not choose but be affected.\n\nAt first they parted with some of their passengers once or twice a day,\nand took in others to replace them. But by degrees, the towns upon their\nroute became more thinly scattered; and for many hours together they\nwould see no other habitations than the huts of the wood-cutters, where\nthe vessel stopped for fuel. Sky, wood, and water all the livelong day;\nand heat that blistered everything it touched.\n\nOn they toiled through great solitudes, where the trees upon the banks\ngrew thick and close; and floated in the stream; and held up shrivelled\narms from out the river\'s depths; and slid down from the margin of the\nland, half growing, half decaying, in the miry water. On through the\nweary day and melancholy night; beneath the burning sun, and in the mist\nand vapour of the evening; on, until return appeared impossible, and\nrestoration to their home a miserable dream.\n\nThey had now but few people on board, and these few were as flat, as\ndull, and stagnant, as the vegetation that oppressed their eyes. No\nsound of cheerfulness or hope was heard; no pleasant talk beguiled\nthe tardy time; no little group made common cause against the full\ndepression of the scene. But that, at certain periods, they swallowed\nfood together from a common trough, it might have been old Charon\'s\nboat, conveying melancholy shades to judgment.\n\nAt length they drew near New Thermopylae; where, that same evening, Mrs\nHominy would disembark. A gleam of comfort sunk into Martin\'s bosom when\nshe told him this. Mark needed none; but he was not displeased.\n\nIt was almost night when they came alongside the landing-place. A steep\nbank with an hotel like a barn on the top of it; a wooden store or two;\nand a few scattered sheds.\n\n\'You sleep here to-night, and go on in the morning, I suppose, ma\'am?\'\nsaid Martin.\n\n\'Where should I go on to?\' cried the mother of the modern Gracchi.\n\n\'To New Thermopylae.\'\n\n\'My! ain\'t I there?\' said Mrs Hominy.\n\nMartin looked for it all round the darkening panorama; but he couldn\'t\nsee it, and was obliged to say so.\n\n\'Why that\'s it!\' cried Mrs Hominy, pointing to the sheds just mentioned.\n\n\'THAT!\' exclaimed Martin.\n\n\'Ah! that; and work it which way you will, it whips Eden,\' said Mrs\nHominy, nodding her head with great expression.\n\nThe married Miss Hominy, who had come on board with her husband, gave to\nthis statement her most unqualified support, as did that gentleman also.\nMartin gratefully declined their invitation to regale himself at their\nhouse during the half hour of the vessel\'s stay; and having escorted\nMrs Hominy and the red pocket-handkerchief (which was still on active\nservice) safely across the gangway, returned in a thoughtful mood to\nwatch the emigrants as they removed their goods ashore.\n\nMark, as he stood beside him, glanced in his face from time to time;\nanxious to discover what effect this dialogue had had upon him, and\nnot unwilling that his hopes should be dashed before they reached their\ndestination, so that the blow he feared might be broken in its fall. But\nsaving that he sometimes looked up quickly at the poor erections on the\nhill, he gave him no clue to what was passing in his mind, until they\nwere again upon their way.\n\n\'Mark,\' he said then, \'are there really none but ourselves on board this\nboat who are bound for Eden?\'\n\n\'None at all, sir. Most of \'em, as you know, have stopped short; and\nthe few that are left are going further on. What matters that! More room\nthere for us, sir.\'\n\n\'Oh, to be sure!\' said Martin. \'But I was thinking--\' and there he\npaused.\n\n\'Yes, sir?\' observed Mark.\n\n\'How odd it was that the people should have arranged to try their\nfortune at a wretched hole like that, for instance, when there is such\na much better, and such a very different kind of place, near at hand, as\none may say.\'\n\nHe spoke in a tone so very different from his usual confidence, and with\nsuch an obvious dread of Mark\'s reply, that the good-natured fellow was\nfull of pity.\n\n\'Why, you know, sir,\' said Mark, as gently as he could by any means\ninsinuate the observation, \'we must guard against being too sanguine.\nThere\'s no occasion for it, either, because we\'re determined to make the\nbest of everything, after we know the worst of it. Ain\'t we, sir?\'\n\nMartin looked at him, but answered not a word.\n\n\'Even Eden, you know, ain\'t all built,\' said Mark.\n\n\'In the name of Heaven, man,\' cried Martin angrily, \'don\'t talk of Eden\nin the same breath with that place. Are you mad? There--God forgive\nme!--don\'t think harshly of me for my temper!\'\n\nAfter that, he turned away, and walked to and fro upon the deck full two\nhours. Nor did he speak again, except to say \'Good night,\' until next\nday; nor even then upon this subject, but on other topics quite foreign\nto the purpose.\n\nAs they proceeded further on their track, and came more and more towards\ntheir journey\'s end, the monotonous desolation of the scene increased to\nthat degree, that for any redeeming feature it presented to their eyes,\nthey might have entered, in the body, on the grim domains of Giant\nDespair. A flat morass, bestrewn with fallen timber; a marsh on which\nthe good growth of the earth seemed to have been wrecked and cast away,\nthat from its decomposing ashes vile and ugly things might rise; where\nthe very trees took the aspect of huge weeds, begotten of the slime\nfrom which they sprung, by the hot sun that burnt them up; where fatal\nmaladies, seeking whom they might infect, came forth at night in misty\nshapes, and creeping out upon the water, hunted them like spectres until\nday; where even the blessed sun, shining down on festering elements\nof corruption and disease, became a horror; this was the realm of Hope\nthrough which they moved.\n\nAt last they stopped. At Eden too. The waters of the Deluge might have\nleft it but a week before; so choked with slime and matted growth was\nthe hideous swamp which bore that name.\n\nThere being no depth of water close in shore, they landed from the\nvessel\'s boat, with all their goods beside them. There were a few\nlog-houses visible among the dark trees; the best, a cow-shed or a rude\nstable; but for the wharves, the market-place, the public buildings--\n\n\'Here comes an Edener,\' said Mark. \'He\'ll get us help to carry these\nthings up. Keep a good heart, sir. Hallo there!\'\n\nThe man advanced toward them through the thickening gloom, very slowly;\nleaning on a stick. As he drew nearer, they observed that he was pale\nand worn, and that his anxious eyes were deeply sunken in his head. His\ndress of homespun blue hung about him in rags; his feet and head were\nbare. He sat down on a stump half-way, and beckoned them to come to him.\nWhen they complied, he put his hand upon his side as if in pain, and\nwhile he fetched his breath stared at them, wondering.\n\n\'Strangers!\' he exclaimed, as soon as he could speak.\n\n\'The very same,\' said Mark. \'How are you, sir?\'\n\n\'I\'ve had the fever very bad,\' he answered faintly. \'I haven\'t stood\nupright these many weeks. Those are your notions I see,\' pointing to\ntheir property.\n\n\'Yes, sir,\' said Mark, \'they are. You couldn\'t recommend us some one as\nwould lend a hand to help carry \'em up to the--to the town, could you,\nsir?\'\n\n\'My eldest son would do it if he could,\' replied the man; \'but today\nhe has his chill upon him, and is lying wrapped up in the blankets. My\nyoungest died last week.\'\n\n\'I\'m sorry for it, governor, with all my heart,\' said Mark, shaking him\nby the hand. \'Don\'t mind us. Come along with me, and I\'ll give you an\narm back. The goods is safe enough, sir\'--to Martin--\'there ain\'t many\npeople about, to make away with \'em. What a comfort that is!\'\n\n\'No,\' cried the man. \'You must look for such folk here,\' knocking his\nstick upon the ground, \'or yonder in the bush, towards the north. We\'ve\nburied most of \'em. The rest have gone away. Them that we have here,\ndon\'t come out at night.\'\n\n\'The night air ain\'t quite wholesome, I suppose?\' said Mark.\n\n\'It\'s deadly poison,\' was the settler\'s answer.\n\nMark showed no more uneasiness than if it had been commended to him as\nambrosia; but he gave the man his arm, and as they went along explained\nto him the nature of their purchase, and inquired where it lay. Close to\nhis own log-house, he said; so close that he had used their dwelling\nas a store-house for some corn; they must excuse it that night, but he\nwould endeavour to get it taken out upon the morrow. He then gave them\nto understand, as an additional scrap of local chit-chat, that he had\nburied the last proprietor with his own hands; a piece of information\nwhich Mark also received without the least abatement of his equanimity.\n\nIn a word, he conducted them to a miserable cabin, rudely constructed\nof the trunks of trees; the door of which had either fallen down or\nbeen carried away long ago; and which was consequently open to the\nwild landscape and the dark night. Saving for the little store he had\nmentioned, it was perfectly bare of all furniture; but they had left a\nchest upon the landing-place, and he gave them a rude torch in lieu\nof candle. This latter acquisition Mark planted in the earth, and then\ndeclaring that the mansion \'looked quite comfortable,\' hurried\nMartin off again to help bring up the chest. And all the way to the\nlanding-place and back, Mark talked incessantly; as if he would infuse\ninto his partner\'s breast some faint belief that they had arrived under\nthe most auspicious and cheerful of all imaginable circumstances.\n\nBut many a man who would have stood within a home dismantled, strong in\nhis passion and design of vengeance, has had the firmness of his\nnature conquered by the razing of an air-built castle. When the log-hut\nreceived them for the second time, Martin laid down upon the ground, and\nwept aloud.\n\n\'Lord love you, sir!\' cried Mr Tapley, in great terror; \'Don\'t do that!\nDon\'t do that, sir! Anything but that! It never helped man, woman, or\nchild, over the lowest fence yet, sir, and it never will. Besides its\nbeing of no use to you, it\'s worse than of no use to me, for the least\nsound of it will knock me flat down. I can\'t stand up agin it, sir.\nAnything but that!\'\n\nThere is no doubt he spoke the truth, for the extraordinary alarm with\nwhich he looked at Martin as he paused upon his knees before the chest,\nin the act of unlocking it, to say these words, sufficiently confirmed\nhim.\n\n\'I ask your forgiveness a thousand times, my dear fellow,\' said Martin.\n\'I couldn\'t have helped it, if death had been the penalty.\'\n\n\'Ask my forgiveness!\' said Mark, with his accustomed cheerfulness, as he\nproceeded to unpack the chest. \'The head partner a-asking forgiveness of\nCo., eh? There must be something wrong in the firm when that happens. I\nmust have the books inspected and the accounts gone over immediate. Here\nwe are. Everything in its proper place. Here\'s the salt pork. Here\'s the\nbiscuit. Here\'s the whiskey. Uncommon good it smells too. Here\'s the\ntin pot. This tin pot\'s a small fortun\' in itself! Here\'s the blankets.\nHere\'s the axe. Who says we ain\'t got a first-rate fit out? I feel as if\nI was a cadet gone out to Indy, and my noble father was chairman of the\nBoard of Directors. Now, when I\'ve got some water from the stream afore\nthe door and mixed the grog,\' cried Mark, running out to suit the action\nto the word, \'there\'s a supper ready, comprising every delicacy of\nthe season. Here we are, sir, all complete. For what we are going to\nreceive, et cetrer. Lord bless you, sir, it\'s very like a gipsy party!\'\n\nIt was impossible not to take heart, in the company of such a man as\nthis. Martin sat upon the ground beside the box; took out his knife; and\nate and drank sturdily.\n\n\'Now you see,\' said Mark, when they had made a hearty meal; \'with your\nknife and mine, I sticks this blanket right afore the door. Or where, in\na state of high civilization, the door would be. And very neat it looks.\nThen I stops the aperture below, by putting the chest agin it. And very\nneat THAT looks. Then there\'s your blanket, sir. Then here\'s mine. And\nwhat\'s to hinder our passing a good night?\'\n\nFor all his light-hearted speaking, it was long before he slept himself.\nHe wrapped his blanket round him, put the axe ready to his hand, and lay\nacross the threshold of the door; too anxious and too watchful to close\nhis eyes. The novelty of their dreary situation, the dread of some\nrapacious animal or human enemy, the terrible uncertainty of their means\nof subsistence, the apprehension of death, the immense distance and the\nhosts of obstacles between themselves and England, were fruitful sources\nof disquiet in the deep silence of the night. Though Martin would have\nhad him think otherwise, Mark felt that he was waking also, and a prey\nto the same reflections. This was almost worse than all, for if he began\nto brood over their miseries instead of trying to make head against them\nthere could be little doubt that such a state of mind would powerfully\nassist the influence of the pestilent climate. Never had the light of\nday been half so welcome to his eyes, as when awaking from a fitful\ndoze, Mark saw it shining through the blanket in the doorway.\n\nHe stole out gently, for his companion was sleeping now; and having\nrefreshed himself by washing in the river, where it snowed before the\ndoor, took a rough survey of the settlement. There were not above a\nscore of cabins in the whole; half of these appeared untenanted; all\nwere rotten and decayed. The most tottering, abject, and forlorn among\nthem was called, with great propriety, the Bank, and National Credit\nOffice. It had some feeble props about it, but was settling deep down in\nthe mud, past all recovery.\n\nHere and there an effort had been made to clear the land, and something\nlike a field had been marked out, where, among the stumps and ashes of\nburnt trees, a scanty crop of Indian corn was growing. In some quarters,\na snake or zigzag fence had been begun, but in no instance had it been\ncompleted; and the felled logs, half hidden in the soil, lay mouldering\naway. Three or four meagre dogs, wasted and vexed with hunger; some\nlong-legged pigs, wandering away into the woods in search of food; some\nchildren, nearly naked, gazing at him from the huts; were all the living\nthings he saw. A fetid vapour, hot and sickening as the breath of an\noven, rose up from the earth, and hung on everything around; and as his\nfoot-prints sunk into the marshy ground, a black ooze started forth to\nblot them out.\n\nTheir own land was mere forest. The trees had grown so think and close\nthat they shouldered one another out of their places, and the weakest,\nforced into shapes of strange distortion, languished like cripples.\nThe best were stunted, from the pressure and the want of room; and high\nabout the stems of all grew long rank grass, dank weeds, and frowsy\nunderwood; not divisible into their separate kinds, but tangled all\ntogether in a heap; a jungle deep and dark, with neither earth nor water\nat its roots, but putrid matter, formed of the pulpy offal of the two,\nand of their own corruption.\n\nHe went down to the landing-place where they had left their goods last\nnight; and there he found some half-dozen men--wan and forlorn to look\nat, but ready enough to assist--who helped him to carry them to the\nlog-house. They shook their heads in speaking of the settlement, and had\nno comfort to give him. Those who had the means of going away had all\ndeserted it. They who were left had lost their wives, their children,\nfriends, or brothers there, and suffered much themselves. Most of\nthem were ill then; none were the men they had been once. They frankly\noffered their assistance and advice, and, leaving him for that time,\nwent sadly off upon their several tasks.\n\nMartin was by this time stirring; but he had greatly changed, even in\none night. He was very pale and languid; he spoke of pains and weakness\nin his limbs, and complained that his sight was dim, and his voice\nfeeble. Increasing in his own briskness as the prospect grew more and\nmore dismal, Mark brought away a door from one of the deserted houses,\nand fitted it to their own habitation; then went back again for a rude\nbench he had observed, with which he presently returned in triumph;\nand having put this piece of furniture outside the house, arranged the\nnotable tin pot and other such movables upon it, that it might represent\na dresser or a sideboard. Greatly satisfied with this arrangement, he\nnext rolled their cask of flour into the house and set it up on end in\none corner, where it served for a side-table. No better dining-table\ncould be required than the chest, which he solemnly devoted to that\nuseful service thenceforth. Their blankets, clothes, and the like, he\nhung on pegs and nails. And lastly, he brought forth a great placard\n(which Martin in the exultation of his heart had prepared with his own\nhands at the National Hotel) bearing the inscription, CHUZZLEWIT & CO.,\nARCHITECTS AND SURVEYORS, which he displayed upon the most conspicuous\npart of the premises, with as much gravity as if the thriving city of\nEden had a real existence, and they expected to be overwhelmed with\nbusiness.\n\n\'These here tools,\' said Mark, bringing forward Martin\'s case of\ninstruments and sticking the compasses upright in a stump before the\ndoor, \'shall be set out in the open air to show that we come provided.\nAnd now, if any gentleman wants a house built, he\'d better give his\norders, afore we\'re other ways bespoke.\'\n\nConsidering the intense heat of the weather, this was not a bad\nmorning\'s work; but without pausing for a moment, though he was\nstreaming at every pore, Mark vanished into the house again, and\npresently reappeared with a hatchet; intent on performing some\nimpossibilities with that implement.\n\n\'Here\'s ugly old tree in the way, sir,\' he observed, \'which\'ll be all\nthe better down. We can build the oven in the afternoon. There never was\nsuch a handy spot for clay as Eden is. That\'s convenient, anyhow.\'\n\nBut Martin gave him no answer. He had sat the whole time with his head\nupon his hands, gazing at the current as it rolled swiftly by; thinking,\nperhaps, how fast it moved towards the open sea, the high road to the\nhome he never would behold again.\n\nNot even the vigorous strokes which Mark dealt at the tree awoke him\nfrom his mournful meditation. Finding all his endeavours to rouse him of\nno use, Mark stopped in his work and came towards him.\n\n\'Don\'t give in, sir,\' said Mr Tapley.\n\n\'Oh, Mark,\' returned his friend, \'what have I done in all my life that\nhas deserved this heavy fate?\'\n\n\'Why, sir,\' returned Mark, \'for the matter of that, everybody as is here\nmight say the same thing; many of \'em with better reason p\'raps than\nyou or me. Hold up, sir. Do something. Couldn\'t you ease your mind, now,\ndon\'t you think, by making some personal obserwations in a letter to\nScadder?\'\n\n\'No,\' said Martin, shaking his head sorrowfully: \'I am past that.\'\n\n\'But if you\'re past that already,\' returned Mark, \'you must be ill, and\nought to be attended to.\'\n\n\'Don\'t mind me,\' said Martin. \'Do the best you can for yourself. You\'ll\nsoon have only yourself to consider. And then God speed you home, and\nforgive me for bringing you here! I am destined to die in this place. I\nfelt it the instant I set foot upon the shore. Sleeping or waking, Mark,\nI dreamed it all last night.\'\n\n\'I said you must be ill,\' returned Mark, tenderly, \'and now I\'m sure of\nit. A touch of fever and ague caught on these rivers, I dare say; but\nbless you, THAT\'S nothing. It\'s only a seasoning, and we must all be\nseasoned, one way or another. That\'s religion that is, you know,\' said\nMark.\n\nHe only sighed and shook his head.\n\n\'Wait half a minute,\' said Mark cheerily, \'till I run up to one of our\nneighbours and ask what\'s best to be took, and borrow a little of it to\ngive you; and to-morrow you\'ll find yourself as strong as ever again. I\nwon\'t be gone a minute. Don\'t give in while I\'m away, whatever you do!\'\n\nThrowing down his hatchet, he sped away immediately, but stopped when he\nhad got a little distance, and looked back; then hurried on again.\n\n\'Now, Mr Tapley,\' said Mark, giving himself a tremendous blow in the\nchest by way of reviver, \'just you attend to what I\'ve got to say.\nThings is looking about as bad as they CAN look, young man. You\'ll not\nhave such another opportunity for showing your jolly disposition, my\nfine fellow, as long as you live. And therefore, Tapley, Now\'s your time\nto come out strong; or Never!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR\n\nREPORTS PROGRESS IN CERTAIN HOMELY MATTERS OF LOVE, HATRED, JEALOUSY,\nAND REVENGE\n\n\n\'Hallo, Pecksniff!\' cried Mr Jonas from the parlour. \'Isn\'t somebody\na-going to open that precious old door of yours?\'\n\n\'Immediately, Mr Jonas. Immediately.\'\n\n\'Ecod,\' muttered the orphan, \'not before it\'s time neither. Whoever it\nis, has knocked three times, and each one loud enough to wake the--\' he\nhad such a repugnance to the idea of waking the Dead, that he stopped\neven then with the words upon his tongue, and said, instead, \'the Seven\nSleepers.\'\n\n\'Immediately, Mr Jonas; immediately,\' repeated Pecksniff. \'Thomas\nPinch\'--he couldn\'t make up his mind, in his great agitation, whether to\ncall Tom his dear friend or a villain, so he shook his fist at him\nPRO TEM--\'go up to my daughters\' room, and tell them who is here. Say,\nSilence. Silence! Do you hear me, sir?\n\n\'Directly, sir!\' cried Tom, departing, in a state of much amazement, on\nhis errand.\n\n\'You\'ll--ha, ha, ha!--you\'ll excuse me, Mr Jonas, if I close this door\na moment, will you?\' said Pecksniff. \'This may be a professional call.\nIndeed I am pretty sure it is. Thank you.\' Then Mr Pecksniff, gently\nwarbling a rustic stave, put on his garden hat, seized a spade, and\nopened the street door; calmly appearing on the threshold, as if he\nthought he had, from his vineyard, heard a modest rap, but was not quite\ncertain.\n\nSeeing a gentleman and lady before him, he started back in as much\nconfusion as a good man with a crystal conscience might betray in mere\nsurprise. Recognition came upon him the next moment, and he cried:\n\n\'Mr Chuzzlewit! Can I believe my eyes! My dear sir; my good sir! A\njoyful hour, a happy hour indeed. Pray, my dear sir, walk in. You find\nme in my garden-dress. You will excuse it, I know. It is an ancient\npursuit, gardening. Primitive, my dear sir. Or, if I am not mistaken,\nAdam was the first of our calling. MY Eve, I grieve to say is no more,\nsir; but\'--here he pointed to his spade, and shook his head as if he\nwere not cheerful without an effort--\'but I do a little bit of Adam\nstill.\'\n\nHe had by this time got them into the best parlour, where the portrait\nby Spiller, and the bust by Spoker, were.\n\n\'My daughters,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'will be overjoyed. If I could feel\nweary upon such a theme, I should have been worn out long ago, my dear\nsir, by their constant anticipation of this happiness and their repeated\nallusions to our meeting at Mrs Todgers\'s. Their fair young friend,\ntoo,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'whom they so desire to know and love--indeed\nto know her, is to love--I hope I see her well. I hope in saying,\n\"Welcome to my humble roof!\" I find some echo in her own sentiments.\nIf features are an index to the heart, I have no fears of that. An\nextremely engaging expression of countenance, Mr Chuzzlewit, my dear\nsir--very much so!\'\n\n\'Mary,\' said the old man, \'Mr Pecksniff flatters you. But flattery from\nhim is worth the having. He is not a dealer in it, and it comes from his\nheart. We thought Mr--\'\n\n\'Pinch,\' said Mary.\n\n\'Mr Pinch would have arrived before us, Pecksniff.\'\n\n\'He did arrive before you, my dear sir,\' retorted Pecksniff, raising his\nvoice for the edification of Tom upon the stairs, \'and was about, I dare\nsay, to tell me of your coming, when I begged him first to knock at my\ndaughters\' chamber, and inquire after Charity, my dear child, who is not\nso well as I could wish. No,\' said Mr Pecksniff, answering their looks,\n\'I am sorry to say, she is not. It is merely an hysterical affection;\nnothing more, I am not uneasy. Mr Pinch! Thomas!\' exclaimed Pecksniff,\nin his kindest accents. \'Pray come in. I shall make no stranger of you.\nThomas is a friend of mine, of rather long-standing, Mr Chuzzlewit, you\nmust know.\'\n\n\'Thank you, sir,\' said Tom. \'You introduce me very kindly, and speak of\nme in terms of which I am very proud.\'\n\n\'Old Thomas!\' cried his master, pleasantly \'God bless you!\'\n\nTom reported that the young ladies would appear directly, and that\nthe best refreshments which the house afforded were even then in\npreparation, under their joint superintendence. While he was speaking,\nthe old man looked at him intently, though with less harshness than was\ncommon to him; nor did the mutual embarrassment of Tom and the\nyoung lady, to whatever cause he attributed it, seem to escape his\nobservation.\n\n\'Pecksniff,\' he said after a pause, rising and taking him aside towards\nthe window, \'I was much shocked on hearing of my brother\'s death. We\nhad been strangers for many years. My only comfort is that he must\nhave lived the happier and better man for having associated no hopes or\nschemes with me. Peace to his memory! We were play-fellows once; and it\nwould have been better for us both if we had died then.\'\n\nFinding him in this gentle mood, Mr Pecksniff began to see another way\nout of his difficulties, besides the casting overboard of Jonas.\n\n\'That any man, my dear sir, could possibly be the happier for not\nknowing you,\' he returned, \'you will excuse my doubting. But that Mr\nAnthony, in the evening of his life, was happier in the affection of his\nexcellent son--a pattern, my dear sir, a pattern to all sons--and in the\ncare of a distant relation who, however lowly in his means of serving\nhim, had no bounds to his inclination; I can inform you.\'\n\n\'How\'s this?\' said the old man. \'You are not a legatee?\'\n\n\'You don\'t,\' said Mr Pecksniff, with a melancholy pressure of his hand,\n\'quite understand my nature yet, I find. No, sir, I am not a legatee. I\nam proud to say I am not a legatee. I am proud to say that neither of my\nchildren is a legatee. And yet, sir, I was with him at his own request.\nHE understood me somewhat better, sir. He wrote and said, \"I am sick. I\nam sinking. Come to me!\" I went to him. I sat beside his bed, sir, and\nI stood beside his grave. Yes, at the risk of offending even you, I did\nit, sir. Though the avowal should lead to our instant separation, and\nto the severing of those tender ties between us which have recently been\nformed, I make it. But I am not a legatee,\' said Mr Pecksniff, smiling\ndispassionately; \'and I never expected to be a legatee. I knew better!\'\n\n\'His son a pattern!\' cried old Martin. \'How can you tell me that? My\nbrother had in his wealth the usual doom of wealth, and root of misery.\nHe carried his corrupting influence with him, go where he would; and\nshed it round him, even on his hearth. It made of his own child a\ngreedy expectant, who measured every day and hour the lessening distance\nbetween his father and the grave, and cursed his tardy progress on that\ndismal road.\'\n\n\'No!\' cried Mr Pecksniff, boldly. \'Not at all, sir!\'\n\n\'But I saw that shadow in his house,\' said Martin Chuzzlewit, \'the last\ntime we met, and warned him of its presence. I know it when I see it, do\nI not? I, who have lived within it all these years!\'\n\n\'I deny it,\' Mr Pecksniff answered, warmly. \'I deny it altogether. That\nbereaved young man is now in this house, sir, seeking in change of scene\nthe peace of mind he has lost. Shall I be backward in doing justice to\nthat young man, when even undertakers and coffin-makers have been moved\nby the conduct he has exhibited; when even mutes have spoken in his\npraise, and the medical man hasn\'t known what to do with himself in\nthe excitement of his feelings! There is a person of the name of Gamp,\nsir--Mrs Gamp--ask her. She saw Mr Jonas in a trying time. Ask HER, sir.\nShe is respectable, but not sentimental, and will state the fact. A line\naddressed to Mrs Gamp, at the Bird Shop, Kingsgate Street, High Holborn,\nLondon, will meet with every attention, I have no doubt. Let her be\nexamined, my good sir. Strike, but hear! Leap, Mr Chuzzlewit, but look!\nForgive me, my dear sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff, taking both his hands, \'if\nI am warm; but I am honest, and must state the truth.\'\n\nIn proof of the character he gave himself, Mr Pecksniff suffered tears\nof honesty to ooze out of his eyes.\n\nThe old man gazed at him for a moment with a look of wonder, repeating\nto himself, \'Here now! In this house!\' But he mastered his surprise, and\nsaid, after a pause:\n\n\'Let me see him.\'\n\n\'In a friendly spirit, I hope?\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Forgive me, sir but\nhe is in the receipt of my humble hospitality.\'\n\n\'I said,\' replied the old man, \'let me see him. If I were disposed to\nregard him in any other than a friendly spirit, I should have said keep\nus apart.\'\n\n\'Certainly, my dear sir. So you would. You are frankness itself, I know.\nI will break this happiness to him,\' said Mr Pecksniff, as he left the\nroom, \'if you will excuse me for a minute--gently.\'\n\nHe paved the way to the disclosure so very gently, that a quarter of an\nhour elapsed before he returned with Mr Jonas. In the meantime the young\nladies had made their appearance, and the table had been set out for the\nrefreshment of the travellers.\n\nNow, however well Mr Pecksniff, in his morality, had taught Jonas the\nlesson of dutiful behaviour to his uncle, and however perfectly Jonas,\nin the cunning of his nature, had learnt it, that young man\'s bearing,\nwhen presented to his father\'s brother, was anything but manly or\nengaging. Perhaps, indeed, so singular a mixture of defiance and\nobsequiousness, of fear and hardihood, of dogged sullenness and an\nattempt at enraging and propitiation, never was expressed in any one\nhuman figure as in that of Jonas, when, having raised his downcast\neyes to Martin\'s face, he let them fall again, and uneasily closing\nand unclosing his hands without a moment\'s intermission, stood swinging\nhimself from side to side, waiting to be addressed.\n\n\'Nephew,\' said the old man. \'You have been a dutiful son, I hear.\'\n\n\'As dutiful as sons in general, I suppose,\' returned Jonas, looking up\nand down once more. \'I don\'t brag to have been any better than other\nsons; but I haven\'t been any worse, I dare say.\'\n\n\'A pattern to all sons, I am told,\' said the old man, glancing towards\nMr Pecksniff.\n\n\'Ecod!\' said Jonas, looking up again for a moment, and shaking his head,\n\'I\'ve been as good a son as ever you were a brother. It\'s the pot and\nthe kettle, if you come to that.\'\n\n\'You speak bitterly, in the violence of your regret,\' said Martin, after\na pause. \'Give me your hand.\'\n\nJonas did so, and was almost at his ease. \'Pecksniff,\' he whispered,\nas they drew their chairs about the table; \'I gave him as good as he\nbrought, eh? He had better look at home, before he looks out of window,\nI think?\'\n\nMr Pecksniff only answered by a nudge of the elbow, which might either\nbe construed into an indignant remonstrance or a cordial assent; but\nwhich, in any case, was an emphatic admonition to his chosen son-in-law\nto be silent. He then proceeded to do the honours of the house with his\naccustomed ease and amiability.\n\nBut not even Mr Pecksniff\'s guileless merriment could set such a\nparty at their ease, or reconcile materials so utterly discordant\nand conflicting as those with which he had to deal. The unspeakable\njealously and hatred which that night\'s explanation had sown in\nCharity\'s breast, was not to be so easily kept down; and more than\nonce it showed itself in such intensity, as seemed to render a full\ndisclosure of all the circumstances then and there, impossible to be\navoided. The beauteous Merry, too, with all the glory of her conquest\nfresh upon her, so probed and lanced the rankling disappointment of her\nsister by her capricious airs and thousand little trials of Mr Jonas\'s\nobedience, that she almost goaded her into a fit of madness, and obliged\nher to retire from table in a burst of passion, hardly less vehement\nthan that to which she had abandoned herself in the first tumult of her\nwrath. The constraint imposed upon the family by the presence among\nthem for the first time of Mary Graham (for by that name old Martin\nChuzzlewit had introduced her) did not at all improve this state of\nthings; gentle and quiet though her manner was. Mr Pecksniff\'s situation\nwas peculiarly trying; for, what with having constantly to keep the\npeace between his daughters; to maintain a reasonable show of affection\nand unity in his household; to curb the growing ease and gaiety of\nJonas, which vented itself in sundry insolences towards Mr Pinch, and\nan indefinable coarseness of manner in reference to Mary (they being the\ntwo dependants); to make no mention at all of his having perpetually to\nconciliate his rich old relative, and to smooth down, or explain\naway, some of the ten thousand bad appearances and combinations of bad\nappearances, by which they were surrounded on that unlucky evening--what\nwith having to do this, and it would be difficult to sum up how much\nmore, without the least relief or assistance from anybody, it may be\neasily imagined that Mr Pecksniff had in his enjoyment something more\nthan that usual portion of alloy which is mixed up with the best of\nmen\'s delights. Perhaps he had never in his life felt such relief as\nwhen old Martin, looking at his watch, announced that it was time to go.\n\n\'We have rooms,\' he said, \'at the Dragon, for the present. I have a\nfancy for the evening walk. The nights are dark just now; perhaps Mr\nPinch would not object to light us home?\'\n\n\'My dear sir!\' cried Pecksniff, \'I shall be delighted. Merry, my child,\nthe lantern.\'\n\n\'The lantern, if you please, my dear,\' said Martin; \'but I couldn\'t\nthink of taking your father out of doors to-night; and, to be brief, I\nwon\'t.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff already had his hat in his hand, but it was so emphatically\nsaid that he paused.\n\n\'I take Mr Pinch, or go alone,\' said Martin. \'Which shall it be?\'\n\n\'It shall be Thomas, sir,\' cried Pecksniff, \'since you are so resolute\nupon it. Thomas, my friend, be very careful, if you please.\'\n\nTom was in some need of this injunction, for he felt so nervous, and\ntrembled to such a degree, that he found it difficult to hold the\nlantern. How much more difficult when, at the old man\'s bidding she drew\nher hand through his--Tom Pinch\'s--arm!\n\n\'And so, Mr Pinch,\' said Martin, on the way, \'you are very comfortably\nsituated here; are you?\'\n\nTom answered, with even more than his usual enthusiasm, that he was\nunder obligations to Mr Pecksniff which the devotion of a lifetime would\nbut imperfectly repay.\n\n\'How long have you known my nephew?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'Your nephew, sir?\' faltered Tom.\n\n\'Mr Jonas Chuzzlewit,\' said Mary.\n\n\'Oh dear, yes,\' cried Tom, greatly relieved, for his mind was running\nupon Martin. \'Certainly. I never spoke to him before to-night, sir!\'\n\n\'Perhaps half a lifetime will suffice for the acknowledgment of HIS\nkindness,\' observed the old man.\n\nTom felt that this was a rebuff for him, and could not but understand it\nas a left-handed hit at his employer. So he was silent. Mary felt that\nMr Pinch was not remarkable for presence of mind, and that he could not\nsay too little under existing circumstances. So SHE was silent. The\nold man, disgusted by what in his suspicious nature he considered a\nshameless and fulsome puff of Mr Pecksniff, which was a part of Tom\'s\nhired service and in which he was determined to persevere, set him down\nat once for a deceitful, servile, miserable fawner. So HE was silent.\nAnd though they were all sufficiently uncomfortable, it is fair to say\nthat Martin was perhaps the most so; for he had felt kindly towards Tom\nat first, and had been interested by his seeming simplicity.\n\n\'You\'re like the rest,\' he thought, glancing at the face of the\nunconscious Tom. \'You had nearly imposed upon me, but you have lost\nyour labour. You are too zealous a toad-eater, and betray yourself, Mr\nPinch.\'\n\nDuring the whole remainder of the walk, not another word was spoken.\nFirst among the meetings to which Tom had long looked forward with\na beating heart, it was memorable for nothing but embarrassment\nand confusion. They parted at the Dragon door; and sighing as he\nextinguished the candle in the lantern, Tom turned back again over the\ngloomy fields.\n\nAs he approached the first stile, which was in a lonely part, made very\ndark by a plantation of young firs, a man slipped past him and went on\nbefore. Coming to the stile he stopped, and took his seat upon it.\nTom was rather startled, and for a moment stood still, but he stepped\nforward again immediately, and went close up to him.\n\nIt was Jonas; swinging his legs to and fro, sucking the head of a stick,\nand looking with a sneer at Tom.\n\n\'Good gracious me!\' cried Tom, \'who would have thought of its being you!\nYou followed us, then?\'\n\n\'What\'s that to you?\' said Jonas. \'Go to the devil!\'\n\n\'You are not very civil, I think,\' remarked Tom.\n\n\'Civil enough for YOU,\' retorted Jonas. \'Who are you?\'\n\n\'One who has as good a right to common consideration as another,\' said\nTom mildly.\n\n\'You\'re a liar,\' said Jonas. \'You haven\'t a right to any consideration.\nYou haven\'t a right to anything. You\'re a pretty sort of fellow to talk\nabout your rights, upon my soul! Ha, ha!--Rights, too!\'\n\n\'If you proceed in this way,\' returned Tom, reddening, \'you will oblige\nme to talk about my wrongs. But I hope your joke is over.\'\n\n\'It\'s the way with you curs,\' said Mr Jonas, \'that when you know a man\'s\nin real earnest, you pretend to think he\'s joking, so that you may turn\nit off. But that won\'t do with me. It\'s too stale. Now just attend to me\nfor a bit, Mr Pitch, or Witch, or Stitch, or whatever your name is.\'\n\n\'My name is Pinch,\' observed Tom. \'Have the goodness to call me by it.\'\n\n\'What! You mustn\'t even be called out of your name, mustn\'t you!\' cried\nJonas. \'Pauper\' prentices are looking up, I think. Ecod, we manage \'em a\nlittle better in the city!\'\n\n\'Never mind what you do in the city,\' said Tom. \'What have you got to\nsay to me?\'\n\n\'Just this, Mister Pinch,\' retorted Jonas, thrusting his face so close\nto Tom\'s that Tom was obliged to retreat a step. \'I advise you to keep\nyour own counsel, and to avoid title-tattle, and not to cut in where\nyou\'re not wanted. I\'ve heard something of you, my friend, and your\nmeek ways; and I recommend you to forget \'em till I am married to one\nof Pecksniff\'s gals, and not to curry favour among my relations, but\nto leave the course clear. You know, when curs won\'t leave the course\nclear, they\'re whipped off; so this is kind advice. Do you understand?\nEh? Damme, who are you,\' cried Jonas, with increased contempt, \'that\nyou should walk home with THEM, unless it was behind \'em, like any other\nservant out of livery?\'\n\n\'Come!\' cried Tom, \'I see that you had better get off the stile, and let\nme pursue my way home. Make room for me, if you please.\'\n\n\'Don\'t think it!\' said Jonas, spreading out his legs. \'Not till I\nchoose. And I don\'t choose now. What! You\'re afraid of my making you\nsplit upon some of your babbling just now, are you, Sneak?\'\n\n\'I am not afraid of many things, I hope,\' said Tom; \'and certainly not\nof anything that you will do. I am not a tale-bearer, and I despise all\nmeanness. You quite mistake me. Ah!\' cried Tom, indignantly. \'Is this\nmanly from one in your position to one in mine? Please to make room for\nme to pass. The less I say, the better.\'\n\n\'The less you say!\' retorted Jonas, dangling his legs the more, and\ntaking no heed of this request. \'You say very little, don\'t you? Ecod, I\nshould like to know what goes on between you and a vagabond member of my\nfamily. There\'s very little in that too, I dare say!\'\n\n\'I know no vagabond member of your family,\' cried Tom, stoutly.\n\n\'You do!\' said Jonas.\n\n\'I don\'t,\' said Tom. \'Your uncle\'s namesake, if you mean him, is no\nvagabond. Any comparison between you and him\'--Tom snapped his fingers\nat him, for he was rising fast in wrath--\'is immeasurably to your\ndisadvantage.\'\n\n\'Oh indeed!\' sneered Jonas. \'And what do you think of his deary--his\nbeggarly leavings, eh, Mister Pinch?\'\n\n\'I don\'t mean to say another word, or stay here another instant,\'\nreplied Tom.\n\n\'As I told you before, you\'re a liar,\' said Jonas, coolly. \'You\'ll stay\nhere till I give you leave to go. Now, keep where you are, will you?\'\n\nHe flourished his stick over Tom\'s head; but in a moment it was spinning\nharmlessly in the air, and Jonas himself lay sprawling in the ditch. In\nthe momentary struggle for the stick, Tom had brought it into violent\ncontact with his opponent\'s forehead; and the blood welled out profusely\nfrom a deep cut on the temple. Tom was first apprised of this by seeing\nthat he pressed his handkerchief to the wounded part, and staggered as\nhe rose, being stunned.\n\n\'Are you hurt?\' said Tom. \'I am very sorry. Lean on me for a moment.\nYou can do that without forgiving me, if you still bear me malice. But I\ndon\'t know why; for I never offended you before we met on this spot.\'\n\nHe made him no answer; not appearing at first to understand him, or even\nto know that he was hurt, though he several times took his handkerchief\nfrom the cut to look vacantly at the blood upon it. After one of these\nexaminations, he looked at Tom, and then there was an expression in\nhis features, which showed that he understood what had taken place, and\nwould remember it.\n\nNothing more passed between them as they went home. Jonas kept a little\nin advance, and Tom Pinch sadly followed, thinking of the grief which\nthe knowledge of this quarrel must occasion his excellent benefactor.\nWhen Jonas knocked at the door, Tom\'s heart beat high; higher when Miss\nMercy answered it, and seeing her wounded lover, shireked aloud; higher,\nwhen he followed them into the family parlour; higher than at any other\ntime, when Jonas spoke.\n\n\'Don\'t make a noise about it,\' he said. \'It\'s nothing worth mentioning.\nI didn\'t know the road; the night\'s very dark; and just as I came up\nwith Mr Pinch\'--he turned his face towards Tom, but not his eyes--\'I ran\nagainst a tree. It\'s only skin deep.\'\n\n\'Cold water, Merry, my child!\' cried Mr Pecksniff. \'Brown paper!\nScissors! A piece of old linen! Charity, my dear, make a bandage. Bless\nme, Mr Jonas!\'\n\n\'Oh, bother YOUR nonsense,\' returned the gracious son-in-law elect. \'Be\nof some use if you can. If you can\'t, get out!\'\n\nMiss Charity, though called upon to lend her aid, sat upright in one\ncorner, with a smile upon her face, and didn\'t move a finger. Though\nMercy laved the wound herself; and Mr Pecksniff held the patient\'s head\nbetween his two hands, as if without that assistance it must inevitably\ncome in half; and Tom Pinch, in his guilty agitation, shook a bottle of\nDutch Drops until they were nothing but English Froth, and in his other\nhand sustained a formidable carving-knife, really intended to reduce the\nswelling, but apparently designed for the ruthless infliction of another\nwound as soon as that was dressed; Charity rendered not the least\nassistance, nor uttered a word. But when Mr Jonas\'s head was bound up,\nand he had gone to bed, and everybody else had retired, and the house\nwas quiet, Mr Pinch, as he sat mournfully on his bedstead, ruminating,\nheard a gentle tap at his door; and opening it, saw her, to his great\nastonishment, standing before him with her finger on her lip.\n\n\'Mr Pinch,\' she whispered. \'Dear Mr Pinch! Tell me the truth! You did\nthat? There was some quarrel between you, and you struck him? I am sure\nof it!\'\n\nIt was the first time she had ever spoken kindly to Tom, in all the many\nyears they had passed together. He was stupefied with amazement.\n\n\'Was it so, or not?\' she eagerly demanded.\n\n\'I was very much provoked,\' said Tom.\n\n\'Then it was?\' cried Charity, with sparkling eyes.\n\n\'Ye-yes. We had a struggle for the path,\' said Tom. \'But I didn\'t mean\nto hurt him so much.\'\n\n\'Not so much!\' she repeated, clenching her hand and stamping her foot,\nto Tom\'s great wonder. \'Don\'t say that. It was brave of you. I honour\nyou for it. If you should ever quarrel again, don\'t spare him for the\nworld, but beat him down and set your shoe upon him. Not a word of this\nto anybody. Dear Mr Pinch, I am your friend from tonight. I am always\nyour friend from this time.\'\n\nShe turned her flushed face upon Tom to confirm her words by its\nkindling expression; and seizing his right hand, pressed it to her\nbreast, and kissed it. And there was nothing personal in this to render\nit at all embarrassing, for even Tom, whose power of observation was by\nno means remarkable, knew from the energy with which she did it that she\nwould have fondled any hand, no matter how bedaubed or dyed, that had\nbroken the head of Jonas Chuzzlewit.\n\nTom went into his room, and went to bed, full of uncomfortable thoughts.\nThat there should be any such tremendous division in the family as he\nknew must have taken place to convert Charity Pecksniff into his friend,\nfor any reason, but, above all, for that which was clearly the real one;\nthat Jonas, who had assailed him with such exceeding coarseness, should\nhave been sufficiently magnanimous to keep the secret of their quarrel;\nand that any train of circumstances should have led to the commission of\nan assault and battery by Thomas Pinch upon any man calling himself\nthe friend of Seth Pecksniff; were matters of such deep and painful\ncogitation that he could not close his eyes. His own violence, in\nparticular, so preyed upon the generous mind of Tom, that coupling it\nwith the many former occasions on which he had given Mr Pecksniff pain\nand anxiety (occasions of which that gentleman often reminded him), he\nreally began to regard himself as destined by a mysterious fate to be\nthe evil genius and bad angel of his patron. But he fell asleep at last,\nand dreamed--new source of waking uneasiness--that he had betrayed his\ntrust, and run away with Mary Graham.\n\nIt must be acknowledged that, asleep or awake, Tom\'s position in\nreference to this young lady was full of uneasiness. The more he saw\nof her, the more he admired her beauty, her intelligence, the amiable\nqualities that even won on the divided house of Pecksniff, and in a\nfew days restored, at all events, the semblance of harmony and kindness\nbetween the angry sisters. When she spoke, Tom held his breath, so\neagerly he listened; when she sang, he sat like one entranced. She\ntouched his organ, and from that bright epoch even it, the old companion\nof his happiest hours, incapable as he had thought of elevation, began a\nnew and deified existence.\n\nGod\'s love upon thy patience, Tom! Who, that had beheld thee, for three\nsummer weeks, poring through half the deadlong night over the jingling\nanatomy of that inscrutable old harpsichord in the back parlour, could\nhave missed the entrance to thy secret heart: albeit it was dimly known\nto thee? Who that had seen the glow upon thy cheek when leaning down to\nlisten, after hours of labour, for the sound of one incorrigible note,\nthou foundest that it had a voice at last, and wheezed out a flat\nsomething, distantly akin to what it ought to be, would not have known\nthat it was destined for no common touch, but one that smote, though\ngently as an angel\'s hand, upon the deepest chord within thee! And if\na friendly glance--aye, even though it were as guileless as thine own,\nDear Tom--could have but pierced the twilight of that evening, when, in\na voice well tempered to the time, sad, sweet, and low, yet hopeful, she\nfirst sang to the altered instrument, and wondered at the change;\nand thou, sitting apart at the open window, kept a glad silence and a\nswelling heart--must not that glance have read perforce the dawning of a\nstory, Tom, that it were well for thee had never been begun!\n\nTom Pinch\'s situation was not made the less dangerous or difficult by\nthe fact of no one word passing between them in reference to Martin.\nHonourably mindful of his promise, Tom gave her opportunities of all\nkinds. Early and late he was in the church; in her favourite walks; in\nthe village, in the garden, in the meadows; and in any or all of these\nplaces he might have spoken freely. But no; at all such times she\ncarefully avoided him, or never came in his way unaccompanied. It could\nnot be that she disliked or distrusted him, for by a thousand little\ndelicate means, too slight for any notice but his own, she singled\nhim out when others were present, and showed herself the very soul of\nkindness. Could it be that she had broken with Martin, or had never\nreturned his affection, save in his own bold and heightened fancy? Tom\'s\ncheek grew red with self-reproach as he dismissed the thought.\n\nAll this time old Martin came and went in his own strange manner, or sat\namong the rest absorbed within himself, and holding little intercourse\nwith any one. Although he was unsocial, he was not willful in other\nthings, or troublesome, or morose; being never better pleased than\nwhen they left him quite unnoticed at his book, and pursued their own\namusements in his presence, unreserved. It was impossible to discern in\nwhom he took an interest, or whether he had an interest in any of them.\nUnless they spoke to him directly, he never showed that he had ears or\neyes for anything that passed.\n\nOne day the lively Merry, sitting with downcast eyes under a shady tree\nin the churchyard, whither she had retired after fatiguing herself by\nthe imposition of sundry trials on the temper of Mr Jonas, felt that\na new shadow came between her and the sun. Raising her eyes in the\nexpectation of seeing her betrothed, she was not a little surprised to\nsee old Martin instead. Her surprise was not diminished when he took his\nseat upon the turf beside her, and opened a conversation thus:\n\n\'When are you to be married?\'\n\n\'Oh! dear Mr Chuzzlewit, my goodness me! I\'m sure I don\'t know. Not yet\nawhile, I hope.\'\n\n\'You hope?\' said the old man.\n\nIt was very gravely said, but she took it for banter, and giggled\nexcessively.\n\n\'Come!\' said the old man, with unusual kindness, \'you are young,\ngood-looking, and I think good-natured! Frivolous you are, and love to\nbe, undoubtedly; but you must have some heart.\'\n\n\'I have not given it all away, I can tell you,\' said Merry, nodding her\nhead shrewdly, and plucking up the grass.\n\n\'Have you parted with any of it?\'\n\nShe threw the grass about, and looked another way, but said nothing.\n\nMartin repeated his question.\n\n\'Lor, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit! really you must excuse me! How very odd you\nare.\'\n\n\'If it be odd in me to desire to know whether you love the young man\nwhom I understand you are to marry, I AM very odd,\' said Martin. \'For\nthat is certainly my wish.\'\n\n\'He\'s such a monster, you know,\' said Merry, pouting.\n\n\'Then you don\'t love him?\' returned the old man. \'Is that your meaning?\'\n\n\'Why, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I\'m sure I tell him a hundred times a day\nthat I hate him. You must have heard me tell him that.\'\n\n\'Often,\' said Martin.\n\n\'And so I do,\' cried Merry. \'I do positively.\'\n\n\'Being at the same time engaged to marry him,\' observed the old man.\n\n\'Oh yes,\' said Merry. \'But I told the wretch--my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I\ntold him when he asked me--that if I ever did marry him, it should only\nbe that I might hate and tease him all my life.\'\n\nShe had a suspicion that the old man regarded Jonas with anything but\nfavour, and intended these remarks to be extremely captivating. He did\nnot appear, however, to regard them in that light by any means; for when\nhe spoke again, it was in a tone of severity.\n\n\'Look about you,\' he said, pointing to the graves; \'and remember that\nfrom your bridal hour to the day which sees you brought as low as these,\nand laid in such a bed, there will be no appeal against him. Think, and\nspeak, and act, for once, like an accountable creature. Is any control\nput upon your inclinations? Are you forced into this match? Are you\ninsidiously advised or tempted to contract it, by any one? I will not\nask by whom; by any one?\'\n\n\'No,\' said Merry, shrugging her shoulders. \'I don\'t know that I am.\'\n\n\'Don\'t know that you are! Are you?\'\n\n\'No,\' replied Merry. \'Nobody ever said anything to me about it. If any\none had tried to make me have him, I wouldn\'t have had him at all.\'\n\n\'I am told that he was at first supposed to be your sister\'s admirer,\'\nsaid Martin.\n\n\'Oh, good gracious! My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, it would be very hard to make\nhim, though he IS a monster, accountable for other people\'s vanity,\'\nsaid Merry. \'And poor dear Cherry is the vainest darling!\'\n\n\'It was her mistake, then?\'\n\n\'I hope it was,\' cried Merry; \'but, all along, the dear child has been\nso dreadfully jealous, and SO cross, that, upon my word and honour, it\'s\nimpossible to please her, and it\'s of no use trying.\'\n\n\'Not forced, persuaded, or controlled,\' said Martin, thoughtfully. \'And\nthat\'s true, I see. There is one chance yet. You may have lapsed into\nthis engagement in very giddiness. It may have been the wanton act of a\nlight head. Is that so?\'\n\n\'My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,\' simpered Merry, \'as to light-headedness, there\nnever was such a feather of a head as mine. It\'s perfect balloon, I\ndeclare! You never DID, you know!\'\n\nHe waited quietly till she had finished, and then said, steadily\nand slowly, and in a softened voice, as if he would still invite her\nconfidence:\n\n\'Have you any wish--or is there anything within your breast that\nwhispers you may form the wish, if you have time to think--to be\nreleased from this engagement?\'\n\nAgain Miss Merry pouted, and looked down, and plucked the grass, and\nshrugged her shoulders. No. She didn\'t know that she had. She was pretty\nsure she hadn\'t. Quite sure, she might say. She \'didn\'t mind it.\'\n\n\'Has it ever occurred to you,\' said Martin, \'that your married life may\nperhaps be miserable, full of bitterness, and most unhappy?\'\n\nMerry looked down again; and now she tore the grass up by the roots.\n\n\'My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, what shocking words! Of course, I shall quarrel\nwith him. I should quarrel with any husband. Married people always\nquarrel, I believe. But as to being miserable, and bitter, and all those\ndreadful things, you know, why I couldn\'t be absolutely that, unless he\nalways had the best of it; and I mean to have the best of it myself. I\nalways do now,\' cried Merry, nodding her head and giggling very much;\n\'for I make a perfect slave of the creature.\'\n\n\'Let it go on,\' said Martin, rising. \'Let it go on! I sought to know\nyour mind, my dear, and you have shown it me. I wish you joy. Joy!\' he\nrepeated, looking full upon her, and pointing to the wicket-gate where\nJonas entered at the moment. And then, without waiting for his nephew,\nhe passed out at another gate, and went away.\n\n\'Oh, you terrible old man!\' cried the facetious Merry to herself. \'What\na perfectly hideous monster to be wandering about churchyards in the\nbroad daylight, frightening people out of their wits! Don\'t come here,\nGriffin, or I\'ll go away directly.\'\n\nMr Jonas was the Griffin. He sat down upon the grass at her side, in\nspite of this warning, and sulkily inquired:\n\n\'What\'s my uncle been a-talking about?\'\n\n\'About you,\' rejoined Merry. \'He says you\'re not half good enough for\nme.\'\n\n\'Oh, yes, I dare say! We all know that. He means to give you some\npresent worth having, I hope. Did he say anything that looked like it?\'\n\n\'THAT he didn\'t!\' cried Merry, most decisively.\n\n\'A stingy old dog he is,\' said Jonas. \'Well?\'\n\n\'Griffin!\' cried Miss Mercy, in counterfeit amazement; \'what are you\ndoing, Griffin?\'\n\n\'Only giving you a squeeze,\' said the discomfited Jonas. \'There\'s no\nharm in that, I suppose?\'\n\n\'But there is great deal of harm in it, if I don\'t consider it\nagreeable,\' returned his cousin. \'Do go along, will you? You make me so\nhot!\'\n\nMr Jonas withdrew his arm, and for a moment looked at her more like a\nmurderer than a lover. But he cleared his brow by degrees, and broke\nsilence with:\n\n\'I say, Mel!\'\n\n\'What do you say, you vulgar thing--you low savage?\' cried his fair\nbetrothed.\n\n\'When is it to be? I can\'t afford to go on dawdling about here half\nmy life, I needn\'t tell you, and Pecksniff says that father\'s being so\nlately dead makes very little odds; for we can be married as quiet as we\nplease down here, and my being lonely is a good reason to the neighbours\nfor taking a wife home so soon, especially one that he knew. As to\ncrossbones (my uncle, I mean), he\'s sure not to put a spoke in the\nwheel, whatever we settle on, for he told Pecksniff only this morning,\nthat if YOU liked it he\'d nothing at all to say. So, Mel,\' said Jonas,\nventuring on another squeeze; \'when shall it be?\'\n\n\'Upon my word!\' cried Merry.\n\n\'Upon my soul, if you like,\' said Jonas. \'What do you say to next week,\nnow?\'\n\n\'To next week! If you had said next quarter, I should have wondered at\nyour impudence.\'\n\n\'But I didn\'t say next quarter,\' retorted Jonas. \'I said next week.\'\n\n\'Then, Griffin,\' cried Miss Merry, pushing him off, and rising. \'I say\nno! not next week. It shan\'t be till I choose, and I may not choose it\nto be for months. There!\'\n\nHe glanced up at her from the ground, almost as darkly as he had looked\nat Tom Pinch; but held his peace.\n\n\'No fright of a Griffin with a patch over his eye shall dictate to me or\nhave a voice in the matter,\' said Merry. \'There!\'\n\nStill Mr Jonas held his peace.\n\n\'If it\'s next month, that shall be the very earliest; but I won\'t say\nwhen it shall be till to-morrow; and if you don\'t like that, it shall\nnever be at all,\' said Merry; \'and if you follow me about and won\'t\nleave me alone, it shall never be at all. There! And if you don\'t do\neverything I order you to do, it shall never be at all. So don\'t follow\nme. There, Griffin!\'\n\nAnd with that, she skipped away, among the trees.\n\n\'Ecod, my lady!\' said Jonas, looking after her, and biting a piece\nof straw, almost to powder; \'you\'ll catch it for this, when you ARE\nmarried. It\'s all very well now--it keeps one on, somehow, and you know\nit--but I\'ll pay you off scot and lot by-and-bye. This is a plaguey dull\nsort of a place for a man to be sitting by himself in. I never could\nabide a mouldy old churchyard.\'\n\nAs he turned into the avenue himself, Miss Merry, who was far ahead,\nhappened to look back.\n\n\'Ah!\' said Jonas, with a sullen smile, and a nod that was not addressed\nto her. \'Make the most of it while it lasts. Get in your hay while the\nsun shines. Take your own way as long as it\'s in your power, my lady!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE\n\nIS IN PART PROFESSIONAL, AND FURNISHES THE READER WITH SOME VALUABLE\nHINTS IN RELATION TO THE MANAGEMENT OF A SICK CHAMBER\n\n\nMr Mould was surrounded by his household gods. He was enjoying the\nsweets of domestic repose, and gazing on them with a calm delight. The\nday being sultry, and the window open, the legs of Mr Mould were on the\nwindow-seat, and his back reclined against the shutter. Over his shining\nhead a handkerchief was drawn, to guard his baldness from the flies. The\nroom was fragrant with the smell of punch, a tumbler of which grateful\ncompound stood upon a small round table, convenient to the hand of\nMr Mould; so deftly mixed that as his eye looked down into the cool\ntransparent drink, another eye, peering brightly from behind the crisp\nlemon-peel, looked up at him, and twinkled like a star.\n\nDeep in the City, and within the ward of Cheap, stood Mr Mould\'s\nestablishment. His Harem, or, in other words, the common sitting room\nof Mrs Mould and family, was at the back, over the little counting-house\nbehind the shop; abutting on a churchyard small and shady. In this\ndomestic chamber Mr Mould now sat; gazing, a placid man, upon his punch\nand home. If, for a moment at a time, he sought a wider prospect, whence\nhe might return with freshened zest to these enjoyments, his moist\nglance wandered like a sunbeam through a rural screen of scarlet\nrunners, trained on strings before the window, and he looked down, with\nan artist\'s eye, upon the graves.\n\nThe partner of his life, and daughters twain, were Mr Mould\'s\ncompanions. Plump as any partridge was each Miss Mould, and Mrs M.\nwas plumper than the two together. So round and chubby were their fair\nproportions, that they might have been the bodies once belonging to the\nangels\' faces in the shop below, grown up, with other heads attached\nto make them mortal. Even their peachy cheeks were puffed out and\ndistended, as though they ought of right to be performing on celestial\ntrumpets. The bodiless cherubs in the shop, who were depicted as\nconstantly blowing those instruments for ever and ever without any\nlungs, played, it is to be presumed, entirely by ear.\n\nMr Mould looked lovingly at Mrs Mould, who sat hard by, and was a\nhelpmate to him in his punch as in all other things. Each seraph\ndaughter, too, enjoyed her share of his regards, and smiled upon him in\nreturn. So bountiful were Mr Mould\'s possessions, and so large his\nstock in trade, that even there, within his household sanctuary, stood\na cumbrous press, whose mahogany maw was filled with shrouds, and\nwinding-sheets, and other furniture of funerals. But, though the Misses\nMould had been brought up, as one may say, beneath his eye, it had cast\nno shadow on their timid infancy or blooming youth. Sporting behind\nthe scenes of death and burial from cradlehood, the Misses Mould knew\nbetter. Hat-bands, to them, were but so many yards of silk or crape; the\nfinal robe but such a quantity of linen. The Misses Mould could idealise\na player\'s habit, or a court-lady\'s petticoat, or even an act of\nparliament. But they were not to be taken in by palls. They made them\nsometimes.\n\nThe premises of Mr Mould were hard of hearing to the boisterous noises\nin the great main streets, and nestled in a quiet corner, where the City\nstrife became a drowsy hum, that sometimes rose and sometimes fell and\nsometimes altogether ceased; suggesting to a thoughtful mind a stoppage\nin Cheapside. The light came sparkling in among the scarlet runners,\nas if the churchyard winked at Mr Mould, and said, \'We understand\neach other;\' and from the distant shop a pleasant sound arose of\ncoffin-making with a low melodious hammer, rat, tat, tat, tat, alike\npromoting slumber and digestion.\n\n\'Quite the buzz of insects,\' said Mr Mould, closing his eyes in a\nperfect luxury. \'It puts one in mind of the sound of animated nature in\nthe agricultural districts. It\'s exactly like the woodpecker tapping.\'\n\n\'The woodpecker tapping the hollow ELM tree,\' observed Mrs Mould,\nadapting the words of the popular melody to the description of wood\ncommonly used in the trade.\n\n\'Ha, ha!\' laughed Mr Mould. \'Not at all bad, my dear. We shall be glad\nto hear from you again, Mrs M. Hollow elm tree, eh! Ha, ha! Very good\nindeed. I\'ve seen worse than that in the Sunday papers, my love.\'\n\nMrs Mould, thus encouraged, took a little more of the punch, and handed\nit to her daughters, who dutifully followed the example of their mother.\n\n\'Hollow ELM tree, eh?\' said Mr Mould, making a slight motion with his\nlegs in his enjoyment of the joke. \'It\'s beech in the song. Elm, eh?\nYes, to be sure. Ha, ha, ha! Upon my soul, that\'s one of the best things\nI know?\' He was so excessively tickled by the jest that he couldn\'t\nforget it, but repeated twenty times, \'Elm, eh? Yes, to be sure. Elm,\nof course. Ha, ha, ha! Upon my life, you know, that ought to be sent to\nsomebody who could make use of it. It\'s one of the smartest things that\never was said. Hollow ELM tree, eh? of course. Very hollow. Ha, ha, ha!\'\n\nHere a knock was heard at the room door.\n\n\'That\'s Tacker, I know,\' said Mrs Mould, \'by the wheezing he makes. Who\nthat hears him now, would suppose he\'d ever had wind enough to carry the\nfeathers on his head! Come in, Tacker.\'\n\n\'Beg your pardon, ma\'am,\' said Tacker, looking in a little way. \'I\nthought our Governor was here.\'\n\n\'Well! so he is,\' cried Mould.\n\n\'Oh! I didn\'t see you, I\'m sure,\' said Tacker, looking in a little\nfarther. \'You wouldn\'t be inclined to take a walking one of two, with\nthe plain wood and a tin plate, I suppose?\'\n\n\'Certainly not,\' replied Mr Mould, \'much too common. Nothing to say to\nit.\'\n\n\'I told \'em it was precious low,\' observed Mr Tacker.\n\n\'Tell \'em to go somewhere else. We don\'t do that style of business\nhere,\' said Mr Mould. \'Like their impudence to propose it. Who is it?\'\n\n\'Why,\' returned Tacker, pausing, \'that\'s where it is, you see. It\'s the\nbeadle\'s son-in-law.\'\n\n\'The beadle\'s son-in-law, eh?\' said Mould. \'Well! I\'ll do it if the\nbeadle follows in his cocked hat; not else. We carry it off that way, by\nlooking official, but it\'ll be low enough, then. His cocked hat, mind!\'\n\n\'I\'ll take care, sir,\' rejoined Tacker. \'Oh! Mrs Gamp\'s below, and wants\nto speak to you.\'\n\n\'Tell Mrs Gamp to come upstairs,\' said Mould. \'Now Mrs Gamp, what\'s YOUR\nnews?\'\n\nThe lady in question was by this time in the doorway, curtseying to\nMrs Mould. At the same moment a peculiar fragrance was borne upon the\nbreeze, as if a passing fairy had hiccoughed, and had previously been to\na wine-vaults.\n\nMrs Gamp made no response to Mr Mould, but curtseyed to Mrs Mould again,\nand held up her hands and eyes, as in a devout thanksgiving that she\nlooked so well. She was neatly, but not gaudily attired, in the\nweeds she had worn when Mr Pecksniff had the pleasure of making her\nacquaintance; and was perhaps the turning of a scale more snuffy.\n\n\'There are some happy creeturs,\' Mrs Gamp observed, \'as time runs\nback\'ards with, and you are one, Mrs Mould; not that he need do nothing\nexcept use you in his most owldacious way for years to come, I\'m\nsure; for young you are and will be. I says to Mrs Harris,\' Mrs Gamp\ncontinued, \'only t\'other day; the last Monday evening fortnight as\never dawned upon this Piljian\'s Projiss of a mortal wale; I says to Mrs\nHarris when she says to me, \"Years and our trials, Mrs Gamp, sets marks\nupon us all.\"--\"Say not the words, Mrs Harris, if you and me is to be\ncontinual friends, for sech is not the case. Mrs Mould,\" I says, making\nso free, I will confess, as use the name,\' (she curtseyed here), \'\"is\none of them that goes agen the obserwation straight; and never, Mrs\nHarris, whilst I\'ve a drop of breath to draw, will I set by, and not\nstand up, don\'t think it.\"--\"I ast your pardon, ma\'am,\" says Mrs Harris,\n\"and I humbly grant your grace; for if ever a woman lived as would see\nher feller creeturs into fits to serve her friends, well do I know that\nwoman\'s name is Sairey Gamp.\"\'\n\nAt this point she was fain to stop for breath; and advantage may be\ntaken of the circumstance, to state that a fearful mystery surrounded\nthis lady of the name of Harris, whom no one in the circle of Mrs Gamp\'s\nacquaintance had ever seen; neither did any human being know her place\nof residence, though Mrs Gamp appeared on her own showing to be in\nconstant communication with her. There were conflicting rumours on the\nsubject; but the prevalent opinion was that she was a phantom of Mrs\nGamp\'s brain--as Messrs. Doe and Roe are fictions of the law--created\nfor the express purpose of holding visionary dialogues with her on all\nmanner of subjects, and invariably winding up with a compliment to the\nexcellence of her nature.\n\n\'And likeways what a pleasure,\' said Mrs Gamp, turning with a tearful\nsmile towards the daughters, \'to see them two young ladies as I know\'d\nafore a tooth in their pretty heads was cut, and have many a day\nseen--ah, the sweet creeturs!--playing at berryins down in the shop, and\nfollerin\' the order-book to its long home in the iron safe! But that\'s\nall past and over, Mr Mould;\' as she thus got in a carefully regulated\nroutine to that gentleman, she shook her head waggishly; \'That\'s all\npast and over now, sir, an\'t it?\'\n\n\'Changes, Mrs Gamp, changes!\' returned the undertaker.\n\n\'More changes too, to come, afore we\'ve done with changes, sir,\' said\nMrs Gamp, nodding yet more waggishly than before. \'Young ladies with\nsuch faces thinks of something else besides berryins, don\'t they, sir?\'\n\n\'I am sure I don\'t know, Mrs Gamp,\' said Mould, with a chuckle--\'Not bad\nin Mrs Gamp, my dear?\'\n\n\'Oh yes, you do know, sir!\' said Mrs Gamp, \'and so does Mrs Mould,\nyour \'ansome pardner too, sir; and so do I, although the blessing of a\ndaughter was deniged me; which, if we had had one, Gamp would certainly\nhave drunk its little shoes right off its feet, as with our precious boy\nhe did, and arterward send the child a errand to sell his wooden leg for\nany money it would fetch as matches in the rough, and bring it home\nin liquor; which was truly done beyond his years, for ev\'ry individgle\npenny that child lost at toss or buy for kidney ones; and come home\narterwards quite bold, to break the news, and offering to drown himself\nif sech would be a satisfaction to his parents.--Oh yes, you do know,\nsir,\' said Mrs Gamp, wiping her eye with her shawl, and resuming the\nthread of her discourse. \'There\'s something besides births and berryins\nin the newspapers, an\'t there, Mr Mould?\'\n\nMr Mould winked at Mrs Mould, whom he had by this time taken on his\nknee, and said: \'No doubt. A good deal more, Mrs Gamp. Upon my life, Mrs\nGamp is very far from bad, my dear!\'\n\n\'There\'s marryings, an\'t there, sir?\' said Mrs Gamp, while both the\ndaughters blushed and tittered. \'Bless their precious hearts, and well\nthey knows it! Well you know\'d it too, and well did Mrs Mould, when you\nwas at their time of life! But my opinion is, you\'re all of one age now.\nFor as to you and Mrs Mould, sir, ever having grandchildren--\'\n\n\'Oh! Fie, fie! Nonsense, Mrs Gamp,\' replied the undertaker. \'Devilish\nsmart, though. Ca-pi-tal!\'--this was in a whisper. \'My dear\'--aloud\nagain--\'Mrs Gamp can drink a glass of rum, I dare say. Sit down, Mrs\nGamp, sit down.\'\n\nMrs Gamp took the chair that was nearest the door, and casting up her\neyes towards the ceiling, feigned to be wholly insensible to the fact of\na glass of rum being in preparation, until it was placed in her hand by\none of the young ladies, when she exhibited the greatest surprise.\n\n\'A thing,\' she said, \'as hardly ever, Mrs Mould, occurs with me unless\nit is when I am indispoged, and find my half a pint of porter settling\nheavy on the chest. Mrs Harris often and often says to me, \"Sairey\nGamp,\" she says, \"you raly do amaze me!\" \"Mrs Harris,\" I says to her,\n\"why so? Give it a name, I beg.\" \"Telling the truth then, ma\'am,\" says\nMrs Harris, \"and shaming him as shall be nameless betwixt you and me,\nnever did I think till I know\'d you, as any woman could sick-nurse and\nmonthly likeways, on the little that you takes to drink.\" \"Mrs Harris,\"\nI says to her, \"none on us knows what we can do till we tries; and\nwunst, when me and Gamp kept \'ouse, I thought so too. But now,\" I says,\n\"my half a pint of porter fully satisfies; perwisin\', Mrs Harris, that\nit is brought reg\'lar, and draw\'d mild. Whether I sicks or monthlies,\nma\'am, I hope I does my duty, but I am but a poor woman, and I earns my\nliving hard; therefore I DO require it, which I makes confession, to be\nbrought reg\'lar and draw\'d mild.\"\'\n\nThe precise connection between these observations and the glass of rum,\ndid not appear; for Mrs Gamp proposing as a toast \'The best of lucks\nto all!\' took off the dram in quite a scientific manner, without any\nfurther remarks.\n\n\'And what\'s your news, Mrs Gamp?\' asked Mould again, as that lady wiped\nher lips upon her shawl, and nibbled a corner off a soft biscuit, which\nshe appeared to carry in her pocket as a provision against contingent\ndrams. \'How\'s Mr Chuffey?\'\n\n\'Mr Chuffey, sir,\' she replied, \'is jest as usual; he an\'t no better and\nhe an\'t no worse. I take it very kind in the gentleman to have wrote up\nto you and said, \"let Mrs Gamp take care of him till I come home;\" but\nev\'rythink he does is kind. There an\'t a many like him. If there was, we\nshouldn\'t want no churches.\'\n\n\'What do you want to speak to me about, Mrs Gamp?\' said Mould, coming to\nthe point.\n\n\'Jest this, sir,\' Mrs Gamp returned, \'with thanks to you for asking.\nThere IS a gent, sir, at the Bull in Holborn, as has been took ill\nthere, and is bad abed. They have a day nurse as was recommended from\nBartholomew\'s; and well I knows her, Mr Mould, her name bein\' Mrs Prig,\nthe best of creeturs. But she is otherways engaged at night, and they\nare in wants of night-watching; consequent she says to them, having\nreposed the greatest friendliness in me for twenty year, \"The soberest\nperson going, and the best of blessings in a sick room, is Mrs Gamp.\nSend a boy to Kingsgate Street,\" she says, \"and snap her up at any\nprice, for Mrs Gamp is worth her weight and more in goldian guineas.\"\nMy landlord brings the message down to me, and says, \"bein\' in a light\nplace where you are, and this job promising so well, why not unite the\ntwo?\" \"No, sir,\" I says, \"not unbeknown to Mr Mould, and therefore do\nnot think it. But I will go to Mr Mould,\" I says, \"and ast him, if you\nlike.\"\' Here she looked sideways at the undertaker, and came to a stop.\n\n\'Night-watching, eh?\' said Mould, rubbing his chin.\n\n\'From eight o\'clock till eight, sir. I will not deceive you,\' Mrs Gamp\nrejoined.\n\n\'And then go back, eh?\' said would.\n\n\'Quite free, then, sir, to attend to Mr Chuffey. His ways bein\' quiet,\nand his hours early, he\'d be abed, sir, nearly all the time. I will not\ndeny,\' said Mrs Gamp with meekness, \'that I am but a poor woman, and\nthat the money is a object; but do not let that act upon you, Mr Mould.\nRich folks may ride on camels, but it an\'t so easy for \'em to see out of\na needle\'s eye. That is my comfort, and I hope I knows it.\'\n\n\'Well, Mrs Gamp,\' observed Mould, \'I don\'t see any particular objection\nto your earning an honest penny under such circumstances. I should keep\nit quiet, I think, Mrs Gamp. I wouldn\'t mention it to Mr Chuzzlewit\non his return, for instance, unless it were necessary, or he asked you\npointblank.\'\n\n\'The very words was on my lips, sir,\' Mrs Gamp rejoined. \'Suppoging\nthat the gent should die, I hope I might take the liberty of saying as I\nknow\'d some one in the undertaking line, and yet give no offence to you,\nsir?\'\n\n\'Certainly, Mrs Gamp,\' said Mould, with much condescension. \'You may\ncasually remark, in such a case, that we do the thing pleasantly and in\na great variety of styles, and are generally considered to make it\nas agreeable as possible to the feelings of the survivors. But don\'t\nobtrude it, don\'t obtrude it. Easy, easy! My dear, you may as well give\nMrs Gamp a card or two, if you please.\'\n\nMrs Gamp received them, and scenting no more rum in the wind (for the\nbottle was locked up again) rose to take her departure.\n\n\'Wishing ev\'ry happiness to this happy family,\' said Mrs Gamp \'with\nall my heart. Good arternoon, Mrs Mould! If I was Mr would I should be\njealous of you, ma\'am; and I\'m sure, if I was you, I should be jealous\nof Mr Mould.\'\n\n\'Tut, tut! Bah, bah! Go along, Mrs Gamp!\' cried the delighted\nundertaker.\n\n\'As to the young ladies,\' said Mrs Gamp, dropping a curtsey, \'bless\ntheir sweet looks--how they can ever reconsize it with their duties to\nbe so grown up with such young parents, it an\'t for sech as me to give a\nguess at.\'\n\n\'Nonsense, nonsense. Be off, Mrs Gamp!\' cried Mould. But in the height\nof his gratification he actually pinched Mrs Mould as he said it.\n\n\'I\'ll tell you what, my dear,\' he observed, when Mrs Gamp had at last\nwithdrawn and shut the door, \'that\'s a ve-ry shrewd woman. That\'s a\nwoman whose intellect is immensely superior to her station in life.\nThat\'s a woman who observes and reflects in an uncommon manner. She\'s\nthe sort of woman now,\' said Mould, drawing his silk handkerchief over\nhis head again, and composing himself for a nap \'one would almost feel\ndisposed to bury for nothing; and do it neatly, too!\'\n\nMrs Mould and her daughters fully concurred in these remarks; the\nsubject of which had by this time reached the street, where she\nexperienced so much inconvenience from the air, that she was obliged to\nstand under an archway for a short time, to recover herself. Even\nafter this precaution, she walked so unsteadily as to attract the\ncompassionate regards of divers kind-hearted boys, who took the\nliveliest interest in her disorder; and in their simple language bade\nher be of good cheer, for she was \'only a little screwed.\'\n\nWhatever she was, or whatever name the vocabulary of medical science\nwould have bestowed upon her malady, Mrs Gamp was perfectly acquainted\nwith the way home again; and arriving at the house of Anthony Chuzzlewit\n& Son, lay down to rest. Remaining there until seven o\'clock in the\nevening, and then persuading poor old Chuffey to betake himself to\nbed, she sallied forth upon her new engagement. First, she went to\nher private lodgings in Kingsgate Street, for a bundle of robes and\nwrappings comfortable in the night season; and then repaired to the Bull\nin Holborn, which she reached as the clocks were striking eight.\n\nAs she turned into the yard, she stopped; for the landlord, landlady,\nand head chambermaid, were all on the threshold together talking\nearnestly with a young gentleman who seemed to have just come or to\nbe just going away. The first words that struck upon Mrs Gamp\'s ear\nobviously bore reference to the patient; and it being expedient that all\ngood attendants should know as much as possible about the case on which\ntheir skill is brought to bear, Mrs Gamp listened as a matter of duty.\n\n\'No better, then?\' observed the gentleman.\n\n\'Worse!\' said the landlord.\n\n\'Much worse,\' added the landlady.\n\n\'Oh! a deal badder,\' cried the chambermaid from the background, opening\nher eyes very wide, and shaking her head.\n\n\'Poor fellow!\' said the gentleman, \'I am sorry to hear it. The worst of\nit is, that I have no idea what friends or relations he has, or where\nthey live, except that it certainly is not in London.\'\n\nThe landlord looked at the landlady; the landlady looked at the\nlandlord; and the chambermaid remarked, hysterically, \'that of all the\nmany wague directions she had ever seen or heerd of (and they wasn\'t few\nin an hotel), THAT was the waguest.\'\n\n\'The fact is, you see,\' pursued the gentleman, \'as I told you yesterday\nwhen you sent to me, I really know very little about him. We were\nschool-fellows together; but since that time I have only met him twice.\nOn both occasions I was in London for a boy\'s holiday (having come up\nfor a week or so from Wiltshire), and lost sight of him again directly.\nThe letter bearing my name and address which you found upon his table,\nand which led to your applying to me, is in answer, you will observe,\nto one he wrote from this house the very day he was taken ill, making an\nappointment with him at his own request. Here is his letter, if you wish\nto see it.\'\n\nThe landlord read it; the landlady looked over him. The chambermaid, in\nthe background, made out as much of it as she could, and invented the\nrest; believing it all from that time forth as a positive piece of\nevidence.\n\n\'He has very little luggage, you say?\' observed the gentleman, who was\nno other than our old friend, John Westlock.\n\n\'Nothing but a portmanteau,\' said the landlord; \'and very little in it.\'\n\n\'A few pounds in his purse, though?\'\n\n\'Yes. It\'s sealed up, and in the cash-box. I made a memorandum of the\namount, which you\'re welcome to see.\'\n\n\'Well!\' said John, \'as the medical gentleman says the fever must take\nits course, and nothing can be done just now beyond giving him his\ndrinks regularly and having him carefully attended to, nothing more\ncan be said that I know of, until he is in a condition to give us some\ninformation. Can you suggest anything else?\'\n\n\'N-no,\' replied the landlord, \'except--\'\n\n\'Except, who\'s to pay, I suppose?\' said John.\n\n\'Why,\' hesitated the landlord, \'it would be as well.\'\n\n\'Quite as well,\' said the landlady.\n\n\'Not forgetting to remember the servants,\' said the chambermaid in a\nbland whisper.\n\n\'It is but reasonable, I fully admit,\' said John Westlock. \'At all\nevents, you have the stock in hand to go upon for the present; and I\nwill readily undertake to pay the doctor and the nurses.\'\n\n\'Ah!\' cried Mrs Gamp. \'A rayal gentleman!\'\n\nShe groaned her admiration so audibly, that they all turned round. Mrs\nGamp felt the necessity of advancing, bundle in hand, and introducing\nherself.\n\n\'The night-nurse,\' she observed, \'from Kingsgate Street, well beknown to\nMrs Prig the day-nurse, and the best of creeturs. How is the poor dear\ngentleman to-night? If he an\'t no better yet, still that is what must\nbe expected and prepared for. It an\'t the fust time by a many score,\nma\'am,\' dropping a curtsey to the landlady, \'that Mrs Prig and me has\nnussed together, turn and turn about, one off, one on. We knows each\nother\'s ways, and often gives relief when others fail. Our charges\nis but low, sir\'--Mrs Gamp addressed herself to John on this\nhead--\'considerin\' the nater of our painful dooty. If they wos made\naccordin\' to our wishes, they would be easy paid.\'\n\nRegarding herself as having now delivered her inauguration address, Mrs\nGamp curtseyed all round, and signified her wish to be conducted to the\nscene of her official duties. The chambermaid led her, through a variety\nof intricate passages, to the top of the house; and pointing at length\nto a solitary door at the end of a gallery, informed her that yonder was\nthe chamber where the patient lay. That done, she hurried off with all\nthe speed she could make.\n\nMrs Gamp traversed the gallery in a great heat from having carried\nher large bundle up so many stairs, and tapped at the door which was\nimmediately opened by Mrs Prig, bonneted and shawled and all impatience\nto be gone. Mrs Prig was of the Gamp build, but not so fat; and her\nvoice was deeper and more like a man\'s. She had also a beard.\n\n\'I began to think you warn\'t a-coming!\' Mrs Prig observed, in some\ndispleasure.\n\n\'It shall be made good to-morrow night,\' said Mrs Gamp \'Honorable. I had\nto go and fetch my things.\' She had begun to make signs of inquiry in\nreference to the position of the patient and his overhearing them--for\nthere was a screen before the door--when Mrs Prig settled that point\neasily.\n\n\'Oh!\' she said aloud, \'he\'s quiet, but his wits is gone. It an\'t no\nmatter wot you say.\'\n\n\'Anythin\' to tell afore you goes, my dear?\' asked Mrs Gamp, setting her\nbundle down inside the door, and looking affectionately at her partner.\n\n\'The pickled salmon,\' Mrs Prig replied, \'is quite delicious. I can\npartlck\'ler recommend it. Don\'t have nothink to say to the cold meat,\nfor it tastes of the stable. The drinks is all good.\'\n\nMrs Gamp expressed herself much gratified.\n\n\'The physic and them things is on the drawers and mankleshelf,\' said\nMrs Prig, cursorily. \'He took his last slime draught at seven. The\neasy-chair an\'t soft enough. You\'ll want his piller.\'\n\nMrs Gamp thanked her for these hints, and giving her a friendly good\nnight, held the door open until she had disappeared at the other end\nof the gallery. Having thus performed the hospitable duty of seeing her\nsafely off, she shut it, locked it on the inside, took up her bundle,\nwalked round the screen, and entered on her occupation of the sick\nchamber.\n\n\'A little dull, but not so bad as might be,\' Mrs Gamp remarked.\n\'I\'m glad to see a parapidge, in case of fire, and lots of roofs and\nchimley-pots to walk upon.\'\n\nIt will be seen from these remarks that Mrs Gamp was looking out of\nwindow. When she had exhausted the prospect, she tried the easy-chair,\nwhich she indignantly declared was \'harder than a brickbadge.\' Next\nshe pursued her researches among the physic-bottles, glasses, jugs, and\ntea-cups; and when she had entirely satisfied her curiosity on all these\nsubjects of investigation, she untied her bonnet-strings and strolled up\nto the bedside to take a look at the patient.\n\nA young man--dark and not ill-looking--with long black hair, that seemed\nthe blacker for the whiteness of the bed-clothes. His eyes were partly\nopen, and he never ceased to roll his head from side to side upon the\npillow, keeping his body almost quiet. He did not utter words; but\nevery now and then gave vent to an expression of impatience or fatigue,\nsometimes of surprise; and still his restless head--oh, weary, weary\nhour!--went to and fro without a moment\'s intermission.\n\nMrs Gamp solaced herself with a pinch of snuff, and stood looking at him\nwith her head inclined a little sideways, as a connoisseur might gaze\nupon a doubtful work of art. By degrees, a horrible remembrance of one\nbranch of her calling took possession of the woman; and stooping down,\nshe pinned his wandering arms against his sides, to see how he would\nlook if laid out as a dead man. Her fingers itched to compose his limbs\nin that last marble attitude.\n\n\'Ah!\' said Mrs Gamp, walking away from the bed, \'he\'d make a lovely\ncorpse.\'\n\nShe now proceeded to unpack her bundle; lighted a candle with the aid\nof a fire-box on the drawers; filled a small kettle, as a preliminary\nto refreshing herself with a cup of tea in the course of the night;\nlaid what she called \'a little bit of fire,\' for the same philanthropic\npurpose; and also set forth a small tea-board, that nothing might be\nwanting for her comfortable enjoyment. These preparations occupied so\nlong, that when they were brought to a conclusion it was high time to\nthink about supper; so she rang the bell and ordered it.\n\n\'I think, young woman,\' said Mrs Gamp to the assistant chambermaid, in a\ntone expressive of weakness, \'that I could pick a little bit of pickled\nsalmon, with a nice little sprig of fennel, and a sprinkling of white\npepper. I takes new bread, my dear, with just a little pat of fresh\nbutter, and a mossel of cheese. In case there should be such a thing\nas a cowcumber in the \'ouse, will you be so kind as bring it, for I\'m\nrather partial to \'em, and they does a world of good in a sick room. If\nthey draws the Brighton Old Tipper here, I takes THAT ale at night, my\nlove, it bein\' considered wakeful by the doctors. And whatever you\ndo, young woman, don\'t bring more than a shilling\'s-worth of gin and\nwater-warm when I rings the bell a second time; for that is always my\nallowance, and I never takes a drop beyond!\'\n\nHaving preferred these moderate requests, Mrs Gamp observed that she\nwould stand at the door until the order was executed, to the end that\nthe patient might not be disturbed by her opening it a second time; and\ntherefore she would thank the young woman to \'look sharp.\'\n\nA tray was brought with everything upon it, even to the cucumber and\nMrs Gamp accordingly sat down to eat and drink in high good humour. The\nextent to which she availed herself of the vinegar, and supped up that\nrefreshing fluid with the blade of her knife, can scarcely be expressed\nin narrative.\n\n\'Ah!\' sighed Mrs Gamp, as she meditated over the warm shilling\'s-worth,\n\'what a blessed thing it is--living in a wale--to be contented! What a\nblessed thing it is to make sick people happy in their beds, and never\nmind one\'s self as long as one can do a service! I don\'t believe a finer\ncowcumber was ever grow\'d. I\'m sure I never see one!\'\n\nShe moralised in the same vein until her glass was empty, and then\nadministered the patient\'s medicine, by the simple process of clutching\nhis windpipe to make him gasp, and immediately pouring it down his\nthroat.\n\n\'I a\'most forgot the piller, I declare!\' said Mrs Gamp, drawing it away.\n\'There! Now he\'s comfortable as he can be, I\'m sure! I must try to make\nmyself as much so as I can.\'\n\nWith this view, she went about the construction of an extemporaneous bed\nin the easy-chair, with the addition of the next easy one for her feet.\nHaving formed the best couch that the circumstances admitted of, she\ntook out of her bundle a yellow night-cap, of prodigious size, in shape\nresembling a cabbage; which article of dress she fixed and tied on with\nthe utmost care, previously divesting herself of a row of bald old\ncurls that could scarcely be called false, they were so very innocent of\nanything approaching to deception. From the same repository she brought\nforth a night-jacket, in which she also attired herself. Finally, she\nproduced a watchman\'s coat which she tied round her neck by the sleeves,\nso that she become two people; and looked, behind, as if she were in the\nact of being embraced by one of the old patrol.\n\nAll these arrangements made, she lighted the rush-light, coiled herself\nup on her couch, and went to sleep. Ghostly and dark the room became,\nand full of lowering shadows. The distant noises in the streets were\ngradually hushed; the house was quiet as a sepulchre; the dead of night\nwas coffined in the silent city.\n\nOh, weary, weary hour! Oh, haggard mind, groping darkly through the\npast; incapable of detaching itself from the miserable present; dragging\nits heavy chain of care through imaginary feasts and revels, and scenes\nof awful pomp; seeking but a moment\'s rest among the long-forgotten\nhaunts of childhood, and the resorts of yesterday; and dimly finding\nfear and horror everywhere! Oh, weary, weary hour! What were the\nwanderings of Cain, to these!\n\nStill, without a moment\'s interval, the burning head tossed to and fro.\nStill, from time to time, fatigue, impatience, suffering, and surprise,\nfound utterance upon that rack, and plainly too, though never once in\nwords. At length, in the solemn hour of midnight, he began to talk;\nwaiting awfully for answers sometimes; as though invisible companions\nwere about his bed; and so replying to their speech and questioning\nagain.\n\nMrs Gamp awoke, and sat up in her bed; presenting on the wall the shadow\nof a gigantic night constable, struggling with a prisoner.\n\n\'Come! Hold your tongue!\' she cried, in sharp reproof. \'Don\'t make none\nof that noise here.\'\n\nThere was no alteration in the face, or in the incessant motion of the\nhead, but he talked on wildly.\n\n\'Ah!\' said Mrs Gamp, coming out of the chair with an impatient shiver;\n\'I thought I was a-sleepin\' too pleasant to last! The devil\'s in the\nnight, I think, it\'s turned so chilly!\'\n\n\'Don\'t drink so much!\' cried the sick man. \'You\'ll ruin us all. Don\'t\nyou see how the fountain sinks? Look at the mark where the sparkling\nwater was just now!\'\n\n\'Sparkling water, indeed!\' said Mrs Gamp. \'I\'ll have a sparkling cup o\'\ntea, I think. I wish you\'d hold your noise!\'\n\nHe burst into a laugh, which, being prolonged, fell off into a dismal\nwail. Checking himself, with fierce inconstancy he began to count--fast.\n\n\'One--two--three--four--five--six.\'\n\n\"One, two, buckle my shoe,\"\' said Mrs Gamp, who was now on her knees,\nlighting the fire, \"three, four, shut the door,\"--I wish you\'d shut\nyour mouth, young man--\"five, six, picking up sticks.\" If I\'d got a few\nhandy, I should have the kettle boiling all the sooner.\'\n\nAwaiting this desirable consummation, she sat down so close to the\nfender (which was a high one) that her nose rested upon it; and for some\ntime she drowsily amused herself by sliding that feature backwards and\nforwards along the brass top, as far as she could, without changing her\nposition to do it. She maintained, all the while, a running commentary\nupon the wanderings of the man in bed.\n\n\'That makes five hundred and twenty-one men, all dressed alike, and with\nthe same distortion on their faces, that have passed in at the window,\nand out at the door,\' he cried, anxiously. \'Look there! Five hundred and\ntwenty-two--twenty-three--twenty-four. Do you see them?\'\n\n\'Ah! I see \'em,\' said Mrs Gamp; \'all the whole kit of \'em numbered like\nhackney-coaches, an\'t they?\'\n\n\'Touch me! Let me be sure of this. Touch me!\'\n\n\'You\'ll take your next draught when I\'ve made the kettle bile,\' retorted\nMrs Gamp, composedly, \'and you\'ll be touched then. You\'ll be touched up,\ntoo, if you don\'t take it quiet.\'\n\n\'Five hundred and twenty-eight, five hundred and twenty-nine, five\nhundred and thirty.--Look here!\'\n\n\'What\'s the matter now?\' said Mrs Gamp.\n\n\'They\'re coming four abreast, each man with his arm entwined in the next\nman\'s, and his hand upon his shoulder. What\'s that upon the arm of every\nman, and on the flag?\'\n\n\'Spiders, p\'raps,\' said Mrs Gamp.\n\n\'Crape! Black crape! Good God! why do they wear it outside?\'\n\n\'Would you have \'em carry black crape in their insides?\' Mrs Gamp\nretorted. \'Hold your noise, hold your noise.\'\n\nThe fire beginning by this time to impart a grateful warmth, Mrs Gamp\nbecame silent; gradually rubbed her nose more and more slowly along the\ntop of the fender; and fell into a heavy doze. She was awakened by the\nroom ringing (as she fancied) with a name she knew:\n\n\'Chuzzlewit!\'\n\nThe sound was so distinct and real, and so full of agonised entreaty,\nthat Mrs Gamp jumped up in terror, and ran to the door. She expected to\nfind the passage filled with people, come to tell her that the house in\nthe city had taken fire. But the place was empty; not a soul was there.\nShe opened the window, and looked out. Dark, dull, dingy, and desolate\nhouse-tops. As she passed to her seat again, she glanced at the patient.\nJust the same; but silent. Mrs Gamp was so warm now, that she threw off\nthe watchman\'s coat, and fanned herself.\n\n\'It seemed to make the wery bottles ring,\' she said. \'What could I have\nbeen a-dreaming of? That dratted Chuffey, I\'ll be bound.\'\n\nThe supposition was probable enough. At any rate, a pinch of snuff, and\nthe song of the steaming kettle, quite restored the tone of Mrs Gamp\'s\nnerves, which were none of the weakest. She brewed her tea; made some\nbuttered toast; and sat down at the tea-board, with her face to the\nfire.\n\nWhen once again, in a tone more terrible than that which had vibrated in\nher slumbering ear, these words were shrieked out:\n\n\'Chuzzlewit! Jonas! No!\'\n\nMrs Gamp dropped the cup she was in the act of raising to her lips, and\nturned round with a start that made the little tea-board leap. The cry\nhad come from the bed.\n\n\nIt was bright morning the next time Mrs Gamp looked out of the window,\nand the sun was rising cheerfully. Lighter and lighter grew the sky, and\nnoisier the streets; and high into the summer air uprose the smoke of\nnewly kindled fires, until the busy day was broad awake.\n\nMrs Prig relieved punctually, having passed a good night at her other\npatient\'s. Mr Westlock came at the same time, but he was not admitted,\nthe disorder being infectious. The doctor came too. The doctor shook\nhis head. It was all he could do, under the circumstances, and he did it\nwell.\n\n\'What sort of a night, nurse?\'\n\n\'Restless, sir,\' said Mrs Gamp.\n\n\'Talk much?\'\n\n\'Middling, sir,\' said Mrs Gamp.\n\n\'Nothing to the purpose, I suppose?\'\n\n\'Oh bless you, no, sir. Only jargon.\'\n\n\'Well!\' said the doctor, \'we must keep him quiet; keep the room cool;\ngive him his draughts regularly; and see that he\'s carefully looked to.\nThat\'s all!\'\n\n\'And as long as Mrs Prig and me waits upon him, sir, no fear of that,\'\nsaid Mrs Gamp.\n\n\'I suppose,\' observed Mrs Prig, when they had curtseyed the doctor out;\n\'there\'s nothin\' new?\'\n\n\'Nothin\' at all, my dear,\' said Mrs Gamp. \'He\'s rather wearin\' in his\ntalk from making up a lot of names; elseways you needn\'t mind him.\'\n\n\'Oh, I shan\'t mind him,\' Mrs Prig returned. \'I have somethin\' else to\nthink of.\'\n\n\'I pays my debts to-night, you know, my dear, and comes afore my time,\'\nsaid Mrs Gamp. \'But, Betsy Prig\'--speaking with great feeling, and\nlaying her hand upon her arm--\'try the cowcumbers, God bless you!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SIX\n\nAN UNEXPECTED MEETING, AND A PROMISING PROSPECT\n\n\nThe laws of sympathy between beards and birds, and the secret source\nof that attraction which frequently impels a shaver of the one to be\na dealer in the other, are questions for the subtle reasoning of\nscientific bodies; not the less so, because their investigation would\nseem calculated to lead to no particular result. It is enough to know\nthat the artist who had the honour of entertaining Mrs Gamp as\nhis first-floor lodger, united the two pursuits of barbering and\nbird-fancying; and that it was not an original idea of his, but one in\nwhich he had, dispersed about the by-streets and suburbs of the town, a\nhost of rivals.\n\nThe name of the householder was Paul Sweedlepipe. But he was commonly\ncalled Poll Sweedlepipe; and was not uncommonly believed to have been so\nchristened, among his friends and neighbours.\n\nWith the exception of the staircase, and his lodger\'s private apartment,\nPoll Sweedlepipe\'s house was one great bird\'s nest. Gamecocks resided in\nthe kitchen; pheasants wasted the brightness of their golden plumage on\nthe garret; bantams roosted in the cellar; owls had possession of the\nbedroom; and specimens of all the smaller fry of birds chirrupped and\ntwittered in the shop. The staircase was sacred to rabbits. There in\nhutches of all shapes and kinds, made from old packing-cases, boxes,\ndrawers, and tea-chests, they increased in a prodigious degree, and\ncontributed their share towards that complicated whiff which, quite\nimpartially, and without distinction of persons, saluted every nose that\nwas put into Sweedlepipe\'s easy shaving-shop.\n\nMany noses found their way there, for all that, especially on Sunday\nmorning, before church-time. Even archbishops shave, or must be shaved,\non a Sunday, and beards WILL grow after twelve o\'clock on Saturday\nnight, though it be upon the chins of base mechanics; who, not being\nable to engage their valets by the quarter, hire them by the job, and\npay them--oh, the wickedness of copper coin!--in dirty pence. Poll\nSweedlepipe, the sinner, shaved all comers at a penny each, and cut the\nhair of any customer for twopence; and being a lone unmarried man, and\nhaving some connection in the bird line, Poll got on tolerably well.\n\nHe was a little elderly man, with a clammy cold right hand, from which\neven rabbits and birds could not remove the smell of shaving-soap. Poll\nhad something of the bird in his nature; not of the hawk or eagle, but\nof the sparrow, that builds in chimney-stacks and inclines to human\ncompany. He was not quarrelsome, though, like the sparrow; but peaceful,\nlike the dove. In his walk he strutted; and, in this respect, he bore\na faint resemblance to the pigeon, as well as in a certain prosiness of\nspeech, which might, in its monotony, be likened to the cooing of that\nbird. He was very inquisitive; and when he stood at his shop-door in the\nevening-tide, watching the neighbours, with his head on one side, and\nhis eye cocked knowingly, there was a dash of the raven in him. Yet\nthere was no more wickedness in Poll than in a robin. Happily, too, when\nany of his ornithological properties were on the verge of going too\nfar, they were quenched, dissolved, melted down, and neutralised in\nthe barber; just as his bald head--otherwise, as the head of a shaved\nmagpie--lost itself in a wig of curly black ringlets, parted on one\nside, and cut away almost to the crown, to indicate immense capacity of\nintellect.\n\nPoll had a very small, shrill treble voice, which might have led\nthe wags of Kingsgate Street to insist the more upon his feminine\ndesignation. He had a tender heart, too; for, when he had a good\ncommission to provide three or four score sparrows for a shooting-match,\nhe would observe, in a compassionate tone, how singular it was that\nsparrows should have been made expressly for such purposes. The\nquestion, whether men were made to shoot them, never entered into Poll\'s\nphilosophy.\n\nPoll wore, in his sporting character, a velveteen coat, a great deal of\nblue stocking, ankle boots, a neckerchief of some bright colour, and\na very tall hat. Pursuing his more quiet occupation of barber, he\ngenerally subsided into an apron not over-clean, a flannel jacket, and\ncorduroy knee-shorts. It was in this latter costume, but with his apron\ngirded round his waist, as a token of his having shut up shop for\nthe night, that he closed the door one evening, some weeks after the\noccurrences detailed in the last chapter, and stood upon the steps in\nKingsgate Street, listening until the little cracked bell within\nshould leave off ringing. For until it did--this was Mr Sweedlepipe\'s\nreflection--the place never seemed quiet enough to be left to itself.\n\n\'It\'s the greediest little bell to ring,\' said Poll, \'that ever was. But\nit\'s quiet at last.\'\n\nHe rolled his apron up a little tighter as he said these words, and\nhastened down the street. Just as he was turning into Holborn, he ran\nagainst a young gentleman in a livery. This youth was bold, though\nsmall, and with several lively expressions of displeasure, turned upon\nhim instantly.\n\n\'Now, STOO-PID!\' cried the young gentleman. \'Can\'t you look where you\'re\na-going to--eh? Can\'t you mind where you\'re a-coming to--eh? What do you\nthink your eyes was made for--eh? Ah! Yes. Oh! Now then!\'\n\nThe young gentleman pronounced the two last words in a very loud tone\nand with frightful emphasis, as though they contained within themselves\nthe essence of the direst aggravation. But he had scarcely done so, when\nhis anger yielded to surprise, and he cried, in a milder tone:\n\n\'What! Polly!\'\n\n\'Why, it an\'t you, sure!\' cried Poll. \'It can\'t be you!\'\n\n\'No. It an\'t me,\' returned the youth. \'It\'s my son, my oldest one. He\'s\na credit to his father, an\'t he, Polly?\' With this delicate little\npiece of banter, he halted on the pavement, and went round and round\nin circles, for the better exhibition of his figure; rather to the\ninconvenience of the passengers generally, who were not in an equal\nstate of spirits with himself.\n\n\'I wouldn\'t have believed it,\' said Poll. \'What! You\'ve left your old\nplace, then? Have you?\'\n\n\'Have I!\' returned his young friend, who had by this time stuck his\nhands into the pockets of his white cord breeches, and was swaggering\nalong at the barber\'s side. \'D\'ye know a pair of top-boots when you see\n\'em, Polly?--look here!\'\n\n\'Beau-ti-ful\' cried Mr Sweedlepipe.\n\n\'D\'ye know a slap-up sort of button, when you see it?\' said the youth.\n\'Don\'t look at mine, if you ain\'t a judge, because these lions\' heads\nwas made for men of taste; not snobs.\'\n\n\'Beau-ti-ful!\' cried the barber again. \'A grass-green frock-coat, too,\nbound with gold; and a cockade in your hat!\'\n\n\'I should hope so,\' replied the youth. \'Blow the cockade, though; for,\nexcept that it don\'t turn round, it\'s like the wentilator that used to\nbe in the kitchen winder at Todgers\'s. You ain\'t seen the old lady\'s\nname in the Gazette, have you?\'\n\n\'No,\' returned the barber. \'Is she a bankrupt?\'\n\n\'If she ain\'t, she will be,\' retorted Bailey. \'That bis\'ness never can\nbe carried on without ME. Well! How are you?\'\n\n\'Oh! I\'m pretty well,\' said Poll. \'Are you living at this end of the\ntown, or were you coming to see me? Was that the bis\'ness that brought\nyou to Holborn?\'\n\n\'I haven\'t got no bis\'ness in Holborn,\' returned Bailey, with some\ndispleasure. \'All my bis\'ness lays at the West End. I\'ve got the right\nsort of governor now. You can\'t see his face for his whiskers, and can\'t\nsee his whiskers for the dye upon \'em. That\'s a gentleman ain\'t it? You\nwouldn\'t like a ride in a cab, would you? Why, it wouldn\'t be safe to\noffer it. You\'d faint away, only to see me a-comin\' at a mild trot round\nthe corner.\'\n\nTo convey a slight idea of the effect of this approach, Mr Bailey\ncounterfeited in his own person the action of a high-trotting horse and\nthrew up his head so high, in backing against a pump, that he shook his\nhat off.\n\n\'Why, he\'s own uncle to Capricorn,\' said Bailey, \'and brother to\nCauliflower. He\'s been through the winders of two chaney shops since\nwe\'ve had him, and was sold for killin\' his missis. That\'s a horse, I\nhope?\'\n\n\'Ah! you\'ll never want to buy any more red polls, now,\' observed Poll,\nlooking on his young friend with an air of melancholy. \'You\'ll never\nwant to buy any more red polls now, to hang up over the sink, will you?\'\n\n\'I should think not,\' replied Bailey. \'Reether so. I wouldn\'t have\nnothin\' to say to any bird below a Peacock; and HE\'d be wulgar. Well,\nhow are you?\'\n\n\'Oh! I\'m pretty well,\' said Poll. He answered the question again because\nMr Bailey asked it again; Mr Bailey asked it again, because--accompanied\nwith a straddling action of the white cords, a bend of the knees, and a\nstriking forth of the top-boots--it was an easy horse-fleshy, turfy sort\nof thing to do.\n\n\'Wot are you up to, old feller?\' added Mr Bailey, with the same graceful\nrakishness. He was quite the man-about-town of the conversation, while\nthe easy-shaver was the child.\n\n\'Why, I am going to fetch my lodger home,\' said Paul.\n\n\'A woman!\' cried Mr Bailey, \'for a twenty-pun\' note!\'\n\nThe little barber hastened to explain that she was neither a young\nwoman, nor a handsome woman, but a nurse, who had been acting as a kind\nof house-keeper to a gentleman for some weeks past, and left her place\nthat night, in consequence of being superseded by another and a more\nlegitimate house-keeper--to wit, the gentleman\'s bride.\n\n\'He\'s newly married, and he brings his young wife home to-night,\' said\nthe barber. \'So I\'m going to fetch my lodger away--Mr Chuzzlewit\'s,\nclose behind the Post Office--and carry her box for her.\'\n\n\'Jonas Chuzzlewit\'s?\' said Bailey.\n\n\'Ah!\' returned Paul: \'that\'s the name sure enough. Do you know him?\'\n\n\'Oh, no!\' cried Mr Bailey; \'not at all. And I don\'t know her! Not\nneither! Why, they first kept company through me, a\'most.\'\n\n\'Ah?\' said Paul.\n\n\'Ah!\' said Mr Bailey, with a wink; \'and she ain\'t bad looking mind you.\nBut her sister was the best. SHE was the merry one. I often used to have\na bit of fun with her, in the hold times!\'\n\nMr Bailey spoke as if he already had a leg and three-quarters in\nthe grave, and this had happened twenty or thirty years ago. Paul\nSweedlepipe, the meek, was so perfectly confounded by his precocious\nself-possession, and his patronizing manner, as well as by his boots,\ncockade, and livery, that a mist swam before his eyes, and he saw--not\nthe Bailey of acknowledged juvenility from Todgers\'s Commercial\nBoarding House, who had made his acquaintance within a twelvemonth,\nby purchasing, at sundry times, small birds at twopence each--but a\nhighly-condensed embodiment of all the sporting grooms in London; an\nabstract of all the stable-knowledge of the time; a something at a\nhigh-pressure that must have had existence many years, and was fraught\nwith terrible experiences. And truly, though in the cloudy atmosphere\nof Todgers\'s, Mr Bailey\'s genius had ever shone out brightly in this\nparticular respect, it now eclipsed both time and space, cheated\nbeholders of their senses, and worked on their belief in defiance of all\nnatural laws. He walked along the tangible and real stones of Holborn\nHill, an undersized boy; and yet he winked the winks, and thought the\nthoughts, and did the deeds, and said the sayings of an ancient man.\nThere was an old principle within him, and a young surface without. He\nbecame an inexplicable creature; a breeched and booted Sphinx. There was\nno course open to the barber, but to go distracted himself, or to take\nBailey for granted; and he wisely chose the latter.\n\nMr Bailey was good enough to continue to bear him company, and to\nentertain him, as they went, with easy conversation on various sporting\ntopics; especially on the comparative merits, as a general principle, of\nhorses with white stockings, and horses without. In regard to the style\nof tail to be preferred, Mr Bailey had opinions of his own, which he\nexplained, but begged they might by no means influence his friend\'s,\nas here he knew he had the misfortune to differ from some excellent\nauthorities. He treated Mr Sweedlepipe to a dram, compounded agreeably\nto his own directions, which he informed him had been invented by a\nmember of the Jockey Club; and, as they were by this time near the\nbarber\'s destination, he observed that, as he had an hour to spare, and\nknew the parties, he would, if quite agreeable, be introduced to Mrs\nGamp.\n\nPaul knocked at Jonas Chuzzlewit\'s; and, on the door being opened by\nthat lady, made the two distinguished persons known to one another. It\nwas a happy feature in Mrs Gamp\'s twofold profession, that it gave her\nan interest in everything that was young as well as in everything that\nwas old. She received Mr Bailey with much kindness.\n\n\'It\'s very good, I\'m sure, of you to come,\' she said to her landlord,\n\'as well as bring so nice a friend. But I\'m afraid that I must trouble\nyou so far as to step in, for the young couple has not yet made\nappearance.\'\n\n\'They\'re late, ain\'t they?\' inquired her landlord, when she had\nconducted them downstairs into the kitchen.\n\n\'Well, sir, considern\' the Wings of Love, they are,\' said Mrs Gamp.\n\nMr Bailey inquired whether the Wings of Love had ever won a plate, or\ncould be backed to do anything remarkable; and being informed that it\nwas not a horse, but merely a poetical or figurative expression, evinced\nconsiderable disgust. Mrs Gamp was so very much astonished by his\naffable manners and great ease, that she was about to propound to her\nlandlord in a whisper the staggering inquiry, whether he was a man or\na boy, when Mr Sweedlepipe, anticipating her design, made a timely\ndiversion.\n\n\'He knows Mrs Chuzzlewit,\' said Paul aloud.\n\n\'There\'s nothin\' he don\'t know; that\'s my opinion,\' observed Mrs Gamp.\n\'All the wickedness of the world is Print to him.\'\n\nMr Bailey received this as a compliment, and said, adjusting his cravat,\n\'reether so.\'\n\n\'As you knows Mrs Chuzzlewit, you knows, p\'raps, what her chris\'en name\nis?\' Mrs Gamp observed.\n\n\'Charity,\' said Bailey.\n\n\'That it ain\'t!\' cried Mrs Gamp.\n\n\'Cherry, then,\' said Bailey. \'Cherry\'s short for it. It\'s all the same.\'\n\n\'It don\'t begin with a C at all,\' retorted Mrs Gamp, shaking her head.\n\'It begins with a M.\'\n\n\'Whew!\' cried Mr Bailey, slapping a little cloud of pipe-clay out of his\nleft leg, \'then he\'s been and married the merry one!\'\n\nAs these words were mysterious, Mrs Gamp called upon him to explain,\nwhich Mr Bailey proceeded to do; that lady listening greedily to\neverything he said. He was yet in the fullness of his narrative when the\nsound of wheels, and a double knock at the street door, announced the\narrival of the newly married couple. Begging him to reserve what more he\nhad to say for her hearing on the way home, Mrs Gamp took up the candle,\nand hurried away to receive and welcome the young mistress of the house.\n\n\'Wishing you appiness and joy with all my art,\' said Mrs Gamp, dropping\na curtsey as they entered the hall; \'and you, too, sir. Your lady looks\na little tired with the journey, Mr Chuzzlewit, a pretty dear!\'\n\n\'She has bothered enough about it,\' grumbled Mr Jonas. \'Now, show a\nlight, will you?\'\n\n\'This way, ma\'am, if you please,\' said Mrs Gamp, going upstairs before\nthem. \'Things has been made as comfortable as they could be, but there\'s\nmany things you\'ll have to alter your own self when you gets time\nto look about you! Ah! sweet thing! But you don\'t,\' added Mrs Gamp,\ninternally, \'you don\'t look much like a merry one, I must say!\'\n\nIt was true; she did not. The death that had gone before the bridal\nseemed to have left its shade upon the house. The air was heavy and\noppressive; the rooms were dark; a deep gloom filled up every chink and\ncorner. Upon the hearthstone, like a creature of ill omen, sat the aged\nclerk, with his eyes fixed on some withered branches in the stove. He\nrose and looked at her.\n\n\'So there you are, Mr Chuff,\' said Jonas carelessly, as he dusted his\nboots; \'still in the land of the living, eh?\'\n\n\'Still in the land of the living, sir,\' retorted Mrs Gamp. \'And Mr\nChuffey may thank you for it, as many and many a time I\'ve told him.\'\n\nMr Jonas was not in the best of humours, for he merely said, as he\nlooked round, \'We don\'t want you any more, you know, Mrs Gamp.\'\n\n\'I\'m a-going immediate, sir,\' returned the nurse; \'unless there\'s\nnothink I can do for you, ma\'am. Ain\'t there,\' said Mrs Gamp, with\na look of great sweetness, and rummaging all the time in her pocket;\n\'ain\'t there nothink I can do for you, my little bird?\'\n\n\'No,\' said Merry, almost crying. \'You had better go away, please!\'\n\nWith a leer of mingled sweetness and slyness; with one eye on the\nfuture, one on the bride, and an arch expression in her face, partly\nspiritual, partly spirituous, and wholly professional and peculiar\nto her art; Mrs Gamp rummaged in her pocket again, and took from it a\nprinted card, whereon was an inscription copied from her signboard.\n\n\'Would you be so good, my darling dovey of a dear young married lady,\'\nMrs Gamp observed, in a low voice, \'as put that somewheres where you can\nkeep it in your mind? I\'m well beknown to many ladies, and it\'s my card.\nGamp is my name, and Gamp my nater. Livin\' quite handy, I will make\nso bold as call in now and then, and make inquiry how your health and\nspirits is, my precious chick!\'\n\nAnd with innumerable leers, winks, coughs, nods, smiles, and curtseys,\nall leading to the establishment of a mysterious and confidential\nunderstanding between herself and the bride, Mrs Gamp, invoking a\nblessing upon the house, leered, winked, coughed, nodded, smiled, and\ncurtseyed herself out of the room.\n\n\'But I will say, and I would if I was led a Martha to the Stakes for\nit,\' Mrs Gamp remarked below stairs, in a whisper, \'that she don\'t look\nmuch like a merry one at this present moment of time.\'\n\n\'Ah! wait till you hear her laugh!\' said Bailey.\n\n\'Hem!\' cried Mrs Gamp, in a kind of groan. \'I will, child.\'\n\nThey said no more in the house, for Mrs Gamp put on her bonnet, Mr\nSweedlepipe took up her box; and Mr Bailey accompanied them towards\nKingsgate Street; recounting to Mrs Gamp as they went along, the origin\nand progress of his acquaintance with Mrs Chuzzlewit and her sister. It\nwas a pleasant instance of this youth\'s precocity, that he fancied Mrs\nGamp had conceived a tenderness for him, and was much tickled by her\nmisplaced attachment.\n\nAs the door closed heavily behind them, Mrs Jonas sat down in a chair,\nand felt a strange chill creep upon her, whilst she looked about the\nroom. It was pretty much as she had known it, but appeared more dreary.\nShe had thought to see it brightened to receive her.\n\n\'It ain\'t good enough for you, I suppose?\' said Jonas, watching her\nlooks.\n\n\'Why, it IS dull,\' said Merry, trying to be more herself.\n\n\'It\'ll be duller before you\'re done with it,\' retorted Jonas, \'if you\ngive me any of your airs. You\'re a nice article, to turn sulky on first\ncoming home! Ecod, you used to have life enough, when you could plague\nme with it. The gal\'s downstairs. Ring the bell for supper, while I take\nmy boots off!\'\n\nShe roused herself from looking after him as he left the room, to do\nwhat he had desired; when the old man Chuffey laid his hand softly on\nher arm.\n\n\'You are not married?\' he said eagerly. \'Not married?\'\n\n\'Yes. A month ago. Good Heaven, what is the matter?\'\n\nHe answered nothing was the matter; and turned from her. But in her fear\nand wonder, turning also, she saw him raise his trembling hands above\nhis head, and heard him say:\n\n\'Oh! woe, woe, woe, upon this wicked house!\'\n\nIt was her welcome--HOME.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN\n\nSHOWING THAT OLD FRIENDS MAY NOT ONLY APPEAR WITH NEW FACES, BUT IN\nFALSE COLOURS. THAT PEOPLE ARE PRONE TO BITE, AND THAT BITERS MAY\nSOMETIMES BE BITTEN.\n\n\nMr Bailey, Junior--for the sporting character, whilom of general utility\nat Todgers\'s, had now regularly set up in life under that name, without\ntroubling himself to obtain from the legislature a direct licence in\nthe form of a Private Bill, which of all kinds and classes of bills\nis without exception the most unreasonable in its charges--Mr Bailey,\nJunior, just tall enough to be seen by an inquiring eye, gazing\nindolently at society from beneath the apron of his master\'s cab, drove\nslowly up and down Pall Mall, about the hour of noon, in waiting for his\n\'Governor.\' The horse of distinguished family, who had Capricorn for his\nnephew, and Cauliflower for his brother, showed himself worthy of his\nhigh relations by champing at the bit until his chest was white with\nfoam, and rearing like a horse in heraldry; the plated harness and the\npatent leather glittered in the sun; pedestrians admired; Mr Bailey was\ncomplacent, but unmoved. He seemed to say, \'A barrow, good people, a\nmere barrow; nothing to what we could do, if we chose!\' and on he went,\nsquaring his short green arms outside the apron, as if he were hooked on\nto it by his armpits.\n\nMr Bailey had a great opinion of Brother to Cauliflower, and estimated\nhis powers highly. But he never told him so. On the contrary, it was his\npractice, in driving that animal, to assail him with disrespectful,\nif not injurious, expressions, as, \'Ah! would you!\' \'Did you think\nit, then?\' \'Where are you going to now?\' \'No, you won\'t, my lad!\' and\nsimilar fragmentary remarks. These being usually accompanied by a jerk\nof the rein, or a crack of the whip, led to many trials of strength\nbetween them, and to many contentions for the upper-hand, terminating,\nnow and then, in china-shops, and other unusual goals, as Mr Bailey had\nalready hinted to his friend Poll Sweedlepipe.\n\nOn the present occasion Mr Bailey, being in spirits, was more than\ncommonly hard upon his charge; in consequence of which that fiery animal\nconfined himself almost entirely to his hind legs in displaying his\npaces, and constantly got himself into positions with reference to the\ncabriolet that very much amazed the passengers in the street. But Mr\nBailey, not at all disturbed, had still a shower of pleasantries to\nbestow on any one who crossed his path; as, calling to a full-grown\ncoal-heaver in a wagon, who for a moment blocked the way, \'Now, young\n\'un, who trusted YOU with a cart?\' inquiring of elderly ladies who\nwanted to cross, and ran back again, \'Why they didn\'t go to the\nworkhouse and get an order to be buried?\' tempting boys, with friendly\nwords, to get up behind, and immediately afterwards cutting them down;\nand the like flashes of a cheerful humour, which he would occasionally\nrelieve by going round St. James\'s Square at a hand gallop, and coming\nslowly into Pall Mall by another entry, as if, in the interval, his pace\nhad been a perfect crawl.\n\nIt was not until these amusements had been very often repeated, and the\napple-stall at the corner had sustained so many miraculous escapes as to\nappear impregnable, that Mr Bailey was summoned to the door of a certain\nhouse in Pall Mall, and turning short, obeyed the call and jumped out.\nIt was not until he had held the bridle for some minutes longer, every\njerk of Cauliflower\'s brother\'s head, and every twitch of Cauliflower\'s\nbrother\'s nostril, taking him off his legs in the meanwhile, that\ntwo persons entered the vehicle, one of whom took the reins and drove\nrapidly off. Nor was it until Mr Bailey had run after it some hundreds\nof yards in vain, that he managed to lift his short leg into the iron\nstep, and finally to get his boots upon the little footboard behind.\nThen, indeed, he became a sight to see; and--standing now on one foot\nand now upon the other, now trying to look round the cab on this side,\nnow on that, and now endeavouring to peep over the top of it, as it went\ndashing in among the carts and coaches--was from head to heel Newmarket.\n\nThe appearance of Mr Bailey\'s governor as he drove along fully justified\nthat enthusiastic youth\'s description of him to the wondering Poll. He\nhad a world of jet-black shining hair upon his head, upon his cheeks,\nupon his chin, upon his upper lip. His clothes, symmetrically made, were\nof the newest fashion and the costliest kind. Flowers of gold and blue,\nand green and blushing red, were on his waistcoat; precious chains\nand jewels sparkled on his breast; his fingers, clogged with brilliant\nrings, were as unwieldly as summer flies but newly rescued from a\nhoney-pot. The daylight mantled in his gleaming hat and boots as in\na polished glass. And yet, though changed his name, and changed his\noutward surface, it was Tigg. Though turned and twisted upside down,\nand inside out, as great men have been sometimes known to be; though\nno longer Montague Tigg, but Tigg Montague; still it was Tigg; the same\nSatanic, gallant, military Tigg. The brass was burnished, lacquered,\nnewly stamped; yet it was the true Tigg metal notwithstanding.\n\nBeside him sat a smiling gentleman, of less pretensions and of business\nlooks, whom he addressed as David. Surely not the David of the--how\nshall it be phrased?--the triumvirate of golden balls? Not David,\ntapster at the Lombards\' Arms? Yes. The very man.\n\n\'The secretary\'s salary, David,\' said Mr Montague, \'the office being\nnow established, is eight hundred pounds per annum, with his house-rent,\ncoals, and candles free. His five-and-twenty shares he holds, of course.\nIs that enough?\'\n\nDavid smiled and nodded, and coughed behind a little locked portfolio\nwhich he carried; with an air that proclaimed him to be the secretary in\nquestion.\n\n\'If that\'s enough,\' said Montague, \'I will propose it at the Board\nto-day, in my capacity as chairman.\'\n\nThe secretary smiled again; laughed, indeed, this time; and said,\nrubbing his nose slily with one end of the portfolio:\n\n\'It was a capital thought, wasn\'t it?\'\n\n\'What was a capital thought, David?\' Mr Montague inquired.\n\n\'The Anglo-Bengalee,\' tittered the secretary.\n\n\'The Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company is\nrather a capital concern, I hope, David,\' said Montague.\n\n\'Capital indeed!\' cried the secretary, with another laugh--\' in one\nsense.\'\n\n\'In the only important one,\' observed the chairman; \'which is number\none, David.\'\n\n\'What,\' asked the secretary, bursting into another laugh, \'what will be\nthe paid up capital, according to the next prospectus?\'\n\n\'A figure of two, and as many oughts after it as the printer can get\ninto the same line,\' replied his friend. \'Ha, ha!\'\n\nAt this they both laughed; the secretary so vehemently, that in kicking\nup his feet, he kicked the apron open, and nearly started Cauliflower\'s\nbrother into an oyster shop; not to mention Mr Bailey\'s receiving such\na sudden swing, that he held on for a moment quite a young Fame, by one\nstrap and no legs.\n\n\'What a chap you are!\' exclaimed David admiringly, when this little\nalarm had subsided.\n\n\'Say, genius, David, genius.\'\n\n\'Well, upon my soul, you ARE a genius then,\' said David. \'I always knew\nyou had the gift of the gab, of course; but I never believed you were\nhalf the man you are. How could I?\'\n\n\'I rise with circumstances, David. That\'s a point of genius in itself,\'\nsaid Tigg. \'If you were to lose a hundred pound wager to me at\nthis minute David, and were to pay it (which is most confoundedly\nimprobable), I should rise, in a mental point of view, directly.\'\n\nIt is due to Mr Tigg to say that he had really risen with his\nopportunities; and, peculating on a grander scale, he had become a\ngrander man altogether.\n\n\'Ha, ha,\' cried the secretary, laying his hand, with growing\nfamiliarity, upon the chairman\'s arm. \'When I look at you, and think of\nyour property in Bengal being--ha, ha, ha!--\'\n\nThe half-expressed idea seemed no less ludicrous to Mr Tigg than to his\nfriend, for he laughed too, heartily.\n\n\'--Being,\' resumed David, \'being amenable--your property in Bengal being\namenable--to all claims upon the company; when I look at you and think\nof that, you might tickle me into fits by waving the feather of a pen at\nme. Upon my soul you might!\'\n\n\'It a devilish fine property,\' said Tigg Montague, \'to be amenable\nto any claims. The preserve of tigers alone is worth a mint of money,\nDavid.\'\n\nDavid could only reply in the intervals of his laughter, \'Oh, what a\nchap you are!\' and so continued to laugh, and hold his sides, and wipe\nhis eyes, for some time, without offering any other observation.\n\n\'A capital idea?\' said Tigg, returning after a time to his companion\'s\nfirst remark; \'no doubt it was a capital idea. It was my idea.\'\n\n\'No, no. It was my idea,\' said David. \'Hang it, let a man have some\ncredit. Didn\'t I say to you that I\'d saved a few pounds?--\'\n\n\'You said! Didn\'t I say to you,\' interposed Tigg, \'that I had come into\na few pounds?\'\n\n\'Certainly you did,\' returned David, warmly, \'but that\'s not the idea.\nWho said, that if we put the money together we could furnish an office,\nand make a show?\'\n\n\'And who said,\' retorted Mr Tigg, \'that, provided we did it on a\nsufficiently large scale, we could furnish an office and make a show,\nwithout any money at all? Be rational, and just, and calm, and tell me\nwhose idea was that.\'\n\n\'Why, there,\' David was obliged to confess, \'you had the advantage of\nme, I admit. But I don\'t put myself on a level with you. I only want a\nlittle credit in the business.\'\n\n\'All the credit you deserve to have,\' said Tigg.\n\n\'The plain work of the company, David--figures, books, circulars,\nadvertisements, pen, ink, and paper, sealing-wax and wafers--is\nadmirably done by you. You are a first-rate groveller. I don\'t dispute\nit. But the ornamental department, David; the inventive and poetical\ndepartment--\'\n\n\'Is entirely yours,\' said his friend. \'No question of it. But with such\na swell turnout as this, and all the handsome things you\'ve got about\nyou, and the life you lead, I mean to say it\'s a precious comfortable\ndepartment too.\'\n\n\'Does it gain the purpose? Is it Anglo-Bengalee?\' asked Tigg.\n\n\'Yes,\' said David.\n\n\'Could you undertake it yourself?\' demanded Tigg.\n\n\'No,\' said David.\n\n\'Ha, ha!\' laughed Tigg. \'Then be contented with your station and\nyour profits, David, my fine fellow, and bless the day that made us\nacquainted across the counter of our common uncle, for it was a golden\nday to you.\'\n\nIt will have been already gathered from the conversation of these\nworthies, that they were embarked in an enterprise of some magnitude, in\nwhich they addressed the public in general from the strong position of\nhaving everything to gain and nothing at all to lose; and which, based\nupon this great principle, was thriving pretty comfortably.\n\nThe Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company started\ninto existence one morning, not an Infant Institution, but a Grown-up\nCompany running alone at a great pace, and doing business right and\nleft: with a \'branch\' in a first floor over a tailor\'s at the west-end\nof the town, and main offices in a new street in the City, comprising\nthe upper part of a spacious house resplendent in stucco and\nplate-glass, with wire-blinds in all the windows, and \'Anglo-Bengalee\'\nworked into the pattern of every one of them. On the doorpost was\npainted again in large letters, \'offices of the Anglo-Bengalee\nDisinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company,\' and on the door was a\nlarge brass plate with the same inscription; always kept very bright, as\ncourting inquiry; staring the City out of countenance after office hours\non working days, and all day long on Sundays; and looking bolder than\nthe Bank. Within, the offices were newly plastered, newly painted,\nnewly papered, newly countered, newly floor-clothed, newly tabled, newly\nchaired, newly fitted up in every way, with goods that were substantial\nand expensive, and designed (like the company) to last. Business! Look\nat the green ledgers with red backs, like strong cricket-balls beaten\nflat; the court-guides directories, day-books, almanacks, letter-boxes,\nweighing-machines for letters, rows of fire-buckets for dashing out a\nconflagration in its first spark, and saving the immense wealth in notes\nand bonds belonging to the company; look at the iron safes, the clock,\nthe office seal--in its capacious self, security for anything. Solidity!\nLook at the massive blocks of marble in the chimney-pieces, and the\ngorgeous parapet on the top of the house! Publicity! Why, Anglo-Bengalee\nDisinterested Loan and Life Assurance company is painted on the very\ncoal-scuttles. It is repeated at every turn until the eyes are dazzled\nwith it, and the head is giddy. It is engraved upon the top of all the\nletter paper, and it makes a scroll-work round the seal, and it shines\nout of the porter\'s buttons, and it is repeated twenty times in every\ncircular and public notice wherein one David Crimple, Esquire, Secretary\nand resident Director, takes the liberty of inviting your attention\nto the accompanying statement of the advantages offered by the\nAnglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company; and fully\nproves to you that any connection on your part with that establishment\nmust result in a perpetual Christmas Box and constantly increasing Bonus\nto yourself, and that nobody can run any risk by the transaction except\nthe office, which, in its great liberality is pretty sure to lose. And\nthis, David Crimple, Esquire, submits to you (and the odds are heavy you\nbelieve him), is the best guarantee that can reasonably be suggested by\nthe Board of Management for its permanence and stability.\n\nThis gentleman\'s name, by the way, had been originally Crimp; but as\nthe word was susceptible of an awkward construction and might be\nmisrepresented, he had altered it to Crimple.\n\nLest with all these proofs and confirmations, any man should be\nsuspicious of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance\ncompany; should doubt in tiger, cab, or person, Tigg Montague, Esquire,\n(of Pall Mall and Bengal), or any other name in the imaginative List of\nDirectors; there was a porter on the premises--a wonderful creature,\nin a vast red waistcoat and a short-tailed pepper-and-salt coat--who\ncarried more conviction to the minds of sceptics than the whole\nestablishment without him. No confidences existed between him and the\nDirectorship; nobody knew where he had served last; no character or\nexplanation had been given or required. No questions had been asked on\neither side. This mysterious being, relying solely on his figure, had\napplied for the situation, and had been instantly engaged on his own\nterms. They were high; but he knew, doubtless, that no man could carry\nsuch an extent of waistcoat as himself, and felt the full value of his\ncapacity to such an institution. When he sat upon a seat erected for him\nin a corner of the office, with his glazed hat hanging on a peg over his\nhead, it was impossible to doubt the respectability of the concern.\nIt went on doubling itself with every square inch of his red waistcoat\nuntil, like the problem of the nails in the horse\'s shoes, the total\nbecame enormous. People had been known to apply to effect an insurance\non their lives for a thousand pounds, and looking at him, to beg, before\nthe form of proposal was filled up, that it might be made two. And yet\nhe was not a giant. His coat was rather small than otherwise. The whole\ncharm was in his waistcoat. Respectability, competence, property in\nBengal or anywhere else, responsibility to any amount on the part of the\ncompany that employed him, were all expressed in that one garment.\n\nRival offices had endeavoured to lure him away; Lombard Street itself\nhad beckoned to him; rich companies had whispered \'Be a Beadle!\' but he\nstill continued faithful to the Anglo-Bengalee. Whether he was a deep\nrogue, or a stately simpleton, it was impossible to make out, but he\nappeared to believe in the Anglo-Bengalee. He was grave with imaginary\ncares of office; and having nothing whatever to do, and something less\nto take care of, would look as if the pressure of his numerous duties,\nand a sense of the treasure in the company\'s strong-room, made him a\nsolemn and a thoughtful man.\n\nAs the cabriolet drove up to the door, this officer appeared bare-headed\non the pavement, crying aloud \'Room for the chairman, room for the\nchairman, if you please!\' much to the admiration of the bystanders,\nwho, it is needless to say, had their attention directed to the\nAnglo-Bengalee Company thenceforth, by that means. Mr Tigg leaped\ngracefully out, followed by the Managing Director (who was by this time\nvery distant and respectful), and ascended the stairs, still preceded by\nthe porter, who cried as he went, \'By your leave there! by your leave!\nThe Chairman of the Board, Gentle--MEN! In like manner, but in a still\nmore stentorian voice, he ushered the chairman through the public\noffice, where some humble clients were transacting business, into\nan awful chamber, labelled Board-room; the door of which sanctuary\nimmediately closed, and screened the great capitalist from vulgar eyes.\n\nThe board-room had a Turkey carpet in it, a sideboard, a portrait of\nTigg Montague, Esquire, as chairman; a very imposing chair of office,\ngarnished with an ivory hammer and a little hand-bell; and a long table,\nset out at intervals with sheets of blotting-paper, foolscap, clean\npens, and inkstands. The chairman having taken his seat with great\nsolemnity, the secretary supported him on his right hand, and the porter\nstood bolt upright behind them, forming a warm background of waistcoat.\nThis was the board: everything else being a light-hearted little\nfiction.\n\n\'Bullamy!\' said Mr Tigg.\n\n\'Sir!\' replied the porter.\n\n\'Let the Medical Officer know, with my compliments, that I wish to see\nhim.\'\n\nBullamy cleared his throat, and bustled out into the office, crying \'The\nChairman of the Board wishes to see the Medical Officer. By your leave\nthere! By your leave!\' He soon returned with the gentleman in question;\nand at both openings of the board-room door--at his coming in and at\nhis going out--simple clients were seen to stretch their necks and\nstand upon their toes, thirsting to catch the slightest glimpse of that\nmysterious chamber.\n\n\'Jobling, my dear friend!\' said Mr Tigg, \'how are you? Bullamy, wait\noutside. Crimple, don\'t leave us. Jobling, my good fellow, I am glad to\nsee you.\'\n\n\'And how are you, Mr Montague, eh?\' said the Medical Officer, throwing\nhimself luxuriously into an easy-chair (they were all easy-chairs in the\nboard-room), and taking a handsome gold snuff-box from the pocket of his\nblack satin waistcoat. \'How are you? A little worn with business, eh? If\nso, rest. A little feverish from wine, humph? If so, water. Nothing\nat all the matter, and quite comfortable? Then take some lunch. A very\nwholesome thing at this time of day to strengthen the gastric juices\nwith lunch, Mr Montague.\'\n\nThe Medical Officer (he was the same medical officer who had followed\npoor old Anthony Chuzzlewit to the grave, and who had attended Mrs\nGamp\'s patient at the Bull) smiled in saying these words; and casually\nadded, as he brushed some grains of snuff from his shirt-frill, \'I\nalways take it myself about this time of day, do you know!\'\n\n\'Bullamy!\' said the Chairman, ringing the little bell.\n\n\'Sir!\'\n\n\'Lunch.\'\n\n\'Not on my account, I hope?\' said the doctor. \'You are very good. Thank\nyou. I\'m quite ashamed. Ha, ha! if I had been a sharp practitioner,\nMr Montague, I shouldn\'t have mentioned it without a fee; for you may\ndepend upon it, my dear sir, that if you don\'t make a point of taking\nlunch, you\'ll very soon come under my hands. Allow me to illustrate\nthis. In Mr Crimple\'s leg--\'\n\nThe resident Director gave an involuntary start, for the doctor, in the\nheat of his demonstration, caught it up and laid it across his own, as\nif he were going to take it off, then and there.\n\n\'In Mr Crimple\'s leg, you\'ll observe,\' pursued the doctor, turning back\nhis cuffs and spanning the limb with both hands, \'where Mr Crimple\'s\nknee fits into the socket, here, there is--that is to say, between the\nbone and the socket--a certain quantity of animal oil.\'\n\n\'What do you pick MY leg out for?\' said Mr Crimple, looking with\nsomething of an anxious expression at his limb. \'It\'s the same with\nother legs, ain\'t it?\'\n\n\'Never you mind, my good sir,\' returned the doctor, shaking his head,\n\'whether it is the same with other legs, or not the same.\'\n\n\'But I do mind,\' said David.\n\n\'I take a particular case, Mr Montague,\' returned the doctor, \'as\nillustrating my remark, you observe. In this portion of Mr Crimple\'s\nleg, sir, there is a certain amount of animal oil. In every one of Mr\nCrimple\'s joints, sir, there is more or less of the same deposit. Very\ngood. If Mr Crimple neglects his meals, or fails to take his proper\nquantity of rest, that oil wanes, and becomes exhausted. What is the\nconsequence? Mr Crimple\'s bones sink down into their sockets, sir, and\nMr Crimple becomes a weazen, puny, stunted, miserable man!\'\n\nThe doctor let Mr Crimple\'s leg fall suddenly, as if he were already in\nthat agreeable condition; turned down his wristbands again, and looked\ntriumphantly at the chairman.\n\n\'We know a few secrets of nature in our profession, sir,\' said the\ndoctor. \'Of course we do. We study for that; we pass the Hall and the\nCollege for that; and we take our station in society BY that. It\'s\nextraordinary how little is known on these subjects generally. Where\ndo you suppose, now\'--the doctor closed one eye, as he leaned back\nsmilingly in his chair, and formed a triangle with his hands, of which\nhis two thumbs composed the base--\'where do you suppose Mr Crimple\'s\nstomach is?\'\n\nMr Crimple, more agitated than before, clapped his hand immediately\nbelow his waistcoat.\n\n\'Not at all,\' cried the doctor; \'not at all. Quite a popular mistake! My\ngood sir, you\'re altogether deceived.\'\n\n\'I feel it there, when it\'s out of order; that\'s all I know,\' said\nCrimple.\n\n\'You think you do,\' replied the doctor; \'but science knows better. There\nwas a patient of mine once,\' touching one of the many mourning rings\nupon his fingers, and slightly bowing his head, \'a gentleman who did\nme the honour to make a very handsome mention of me in his will--\"in\ntestimony,\" as he was pleased to say, \"of the unremitting zeal, talent,\nand attention of my friend and medical attendant, John Jobling, Esquire,\nM.R.C.S.,\"--who was so overcome by the idea of having all his life\nlaboured under an erroneous view of the locality of this important\norgan, that when I assured him on my professional reputation, he was\nmistaken, he burst into tears, put out his hand, and said, \"Jobling,\nGod bless you!\" Immediately afterwards he became speechless, and was\nultimately buried at Brixton.\'\n\n\'By your leave there!\' cried Bullamy, without. \'By your leave!\nRefreshment for the Board-room!\'\n\n\'Ha!\' said the doctor, jocularly, as he rubbed his hands, and drew his\nchair nearer to the table. \'The true Life Assurance, Mr Montague. The\nbest Policy in the world, my dear sir. We should be provident, and eat\nand drink whenever we can. Eh, Mr Crimple?\'\n\nThe resident Director acquiesced rather sulkily, as if the gratification\nof replenishing his stomach had been impaired by the unsettlement of his\npreconceived opinions in reference to its situation. But the appearance\nof the porter and under-porter with a tray covered with a snow-white\ncloth, which, being thrown back, displayed a pair of cold roast fowls,\nflanked by some potted meats and a cool salad, quickly restored his\ngood humour. It was enhanced still further by the arrival of a bottle\nof excellent madeira, and another of champagne; and he soon attacked\nthe repast with an appetite scarcely inferior to that of the medical\nofficer.\n\nThe lunch was handsomely served, with a profusion of rich glass plate,\nand china; which seemed to denote that eating and drinking on a showy\nscale formed no unimportant item in the business of the Anglo-Bengalee\nDirectorship. As it proceeded, the Medical Officer grew more and more\njoyous and red-faced, insomuch that every mouthful he ate, and every\ndrop of wine he swallowed, seemed to impart new lustre to his eyes, and\nto light up new sparks in his nose and forehead.\n\nIn certain quarters of the City and its neighbourhood, Mr Jobling was,\nas we have already seen in some measure, a very popular character. He\nhad a portentously sagacious chin, and a pompous voice, with a rich\nhuskiness in some of its tones that went directly to the heart, like a\nray of light shining through the ruddy medium of choice old burgundy.\nHis neckerchief and shirt-frill were ever of the whitest, his clothes of\nthe blackest and sleekest, his gold watch-chain of the heaviest, and\nhis seals of the largest. His boots, which were always of the brightest,\ncreaked as he walked. Perhaps he could shake his head, rub his hands,\nor warm himself before a fire, better than any man alive; and he had a\npeculiar way of smacking his lips and saying, \'Ah!\' at intervals while\npatients detailed their symptoms, which inspired great confidence. It\nseemed to express, \'I know what you\'re going to say better than you do;\nbut go on, go on.\' As he talked on all occasions whether he had anything\nto say or not, it was unanimously observed of him that he was \'full of\nanecdote;\' and his experience and profit from it were considered, for\nthe same reason, to be something much too extensive for description. His\nfemale patients could never praise him too highly; and the coldest of\nhis male admirers would always say this for him to their friends, \'that\nwhatever Jobling\'s professional skill might be (and it could not be\ndenied that he had a very high reputation), he was one of the most\ncomfortable fellows you ever saw in your life!\'\n\nJobling was for many reasons, and not last in the list because his\nconnection lay principally among tradesmen and their families, exactly\nthe sort of person whom the Anglo-Bengalee Company wanted for a medical\nofficer. But Jobling was far too knowing to connect himself with the\ncompany in any closer ties than as a paid (and well paid) functionary,\nor to allow his connection to be misunderstood abroad, if he could help\nit. Hence he always stated the case to an inquiring patient, after this\nmanner:\n\n\'Why, my dear sir, with regard to the Anglo-Bengalee, my information,\nyou see, is limited; very limited. I am the medical officer, in\nconsideration of a certain monthly payment. The labourer is worthy of\nhis hire; BIS DAT QUI CITO DAT\'--(\'classical scholar, Jobling!\' thinks\nthe patient, \'well-read man!\')--\'and I receive it regularly. Therefore\nI am bound, so far as my own knowledge goes, to speak well of the\nestablishment.\' (\'Nothing can be fairer than Jobling\'s conduct,\' thinks\nthe patient, who has just paid Jobling\'s bill himself.) \'If you put\nany question to me, my dear friend,\' says the doctor, \'touching the\nresponsibility or capital of the company, there I am at fault; for I\nhave no head for figures, and not being a shareholder, am delicate of\nshowing any curiosity whatever on the subject. Delicacy--your\namiable lady will agree with me I am sure--should be one of the first\ncharacteristics of a medical man.\' (\'Nothing can be finer or more\ngentlemanly than Jobling\'s feeling,\' thinks the patient.) \'Very good,\nmy dear sir, so the matter stands. You don\'t know Mr Montague? I\'m sorry\nfor it. A remarkably handsome man, and quite the gentleman in every\nrespect. Property, I am told, in India. House and everything belonging\nto him, beautiful. Costly furniture on the most elegant and lavish\nscale. And pictures, which, even in an anatomical point of view, are\nperfection. In case you should ever think of doing anything with the\ncompany, I\'ll pass you, you may depend upon it. I can conscientiously\nreport you a healthy subject. If I understand any man\'s constitution, it\nis yours; and this little indisposition has done him more good,\nma\'am,\' says the doctor, turning to the patient\'s wife, \'than if he had\nswallowed the contents of half the nonsensical bottles in my surgery.\nFor they ARE nonsense--to tell the honest truth, one half of them are\nnonsense--compared with such a constitution as his!\' (\'Jobling is the\nmost friendly creature I ever met with in my life,\' thinks the patient;\n\'and upon my word and honour, I\'ll consider of it!\')\n\n\'Commission to you, doctor, on four new policies, and a loan this\nmorning, eh?\' said Crimple, looking, when they had finished lunch, over\nsome papers brought in by the porter. \'Well done!\'\n\n\'Jobling, my dear friend,\' said Tigg, \'long life to you.\'\n\n\'No, no. Nonsense. Upon my word I\'ve no right to draw the commission,\'\nsaid the doctor, \'I haven\'t really. It\'s picking your pocket. I don\'t\nrecommend anybody here. I only say what I know. My patients ask me what\nI know, and I tell \'em what I know. Nothing else. Caution is my weak\nside, that\'s the truth; and always was from a boy. That is,\' said the\ndoctor, filling his glass, \'caution in behalf of other people. Whether I\nwould repose confidence in this company myself, if I had not been paying\nmoney elsewhere for many years--that\'s quite another question.\'\n\nHe tried to look as if there were no doubt about it; but feeling that he\ndid it but indifferently, changed the theme and praised the wine.\n\n\'Talking of wine,\' said the doctor, \'reminds me of one of the finest\nglasses of light old port I ever drank in my life; and that was at a\nfuneral. You have not seen anything of--of THAT party, Mr Montague, have\nyou?\' handing him a card.\n\n\'He is not buried, I hope?\' said Tigg, as he took it. \'The honour of his\ncompany is not requested if he is.\'\n\n\'Ha, ha!\' laughed the doctor. \'No; not quite. He was honourably\nconnected with that very occasion though.\'\n\n\'Oh!\' said Tigg, smoothing his moustache, as he cast his eyes upon the\nname. \'I recollect. No. He has not been here.\'\n\nThe words were on his lips, when Bullamy entered, and presented a card\nto the Medical Officer.\n\n\'Talk of the what\'s his name--\' observed the doctor rising.\n\n\'And he\'s sure to appear, eh?\' said Tigg.\n\n\'Why, no, Mr Montague, no,\' returned the doctor. \'We will not say that\nin the present case, for this gentleman is very far from it.\'\n\n\'So much the better,\' retorted Tigg. \'So much the more adaptable to the\nAnglo-Bengalee. Bullamy, clear the table and take the things out by the\nother door. Mr Crimple, business.\'\n\n\'Shall I introduce him?\' asked Jobling.\n\n\'I shall be eternally delighted,\' answered Tigg, kissing his hand and\nsmiling sweetly.\n\nThe doctor disappeared into the outer office, and immediately returned\nwith Jonas Chuzzlewit.\n\n\'Mr Montague,\' said Jobling. \'Allow me. My friend Mr Chuzzlewit. My dear\nfriend--our chairman. Now do you know,\' he added checking himself with\ninfinite policy, and looking round with a smile; \'that\'s a very singular\ninstance of the force of example. It really is a very remarkable\ninstance of the force of example. I say OUR chairman. Why do I say our\nchairman? Because he is not MY chairman, you know. I have no connection\nwith the company, farther than giving them, for a certain fee and\nreward, my poor opinion as a medical man, precisely as I may give it any\nday to Jack Noakes or Tom Styles. Then why do I say our chairman? Simply\nbecause I hear the phrase constantly repeated about me. Such is the\ninvoluntary operation of the mental faculty in the imitative biped man.\nMr Crimple, I believe you never take snuff? Injudicious. You should.\'\n\nPending these remarks on the part of the doctor, and the lengthened and\nsonorous pinch with which he followed them up, Jonas took a seat at\nthe board; as ungainly a man as ever he has been within the reader\'s\nknowledge. It is too common with all of us, but it is especially in\nthe nature of a mean mind, to be overawed by fine clothes and fine\nfurniture. They had a very decided influence on Jonas.\n\n\'Now you two gentlemen have business to discuss, I know,\' said the\ndoctor, \'and your time is precious. So is mine; for several lives are\nwaiting for me in the next room, and I have a round of visits to make\nafter--after I have taken \'em. Having had the happiness to introduce you\nto each other, I may go about my business. Good-bye. But allow me, Mr\nMontague, before I go, to say this of my friend who sits beside you:\nThat gentleman has done more, sir,\' rapping his snuff-box solemnly, \'to\nreconcile me to human nature, than any man alive or dead. Good-bye!\'\n\nWith these words Jobling bolted abruptly out of the room, and proceeded\nin his own official department, to impress the lives in waiting with a\nsense of his keen conscientiousness in the discharge of his duty, and\nthe great difficulty of getting into the Anglo-Bengalee; by feeling\ntheir pulses, looking at their tongues, listening at their ribs,\npoking them in the chest, and so forth; though, if he didn\'t well know\nbeforehand that whatever kind of lives they were, the Anglo-Bengalee\nwould accept them readily, he was far from being the Jobling that his\nfriend considered him; and was not the original Jobling, but a spurious\nimitation.\n\nMr Crimple also departed on the business of the morning; and Jonas\nChuzzlewit and Tigg were left alone.\n\n\'I learn from our friend,\' said Tigg, drawing his chair towards Jonas\nwith a winning ease of manner, \'that you have been thinking--\'\n\n\'Oh! Ecod then he\'d no right to say so,\' cried Jonas, interrupting.\n\'I didn\'t tell HIM my thoughts. If he took it into his head that I was\ncoming here for such or such a purpose, why, that\'s his lookout. I don\'t\nstand committed by that.\'\n\nJonas said this offensively enough; for over and above the habitual\ndistrust of his character, it was in his nature to seek to revenge\nhimself on the fine clothes and the fine furniture, in exact proportion\nas he had been unable to withstand their influence.\n\n\'If I come here to ask a question or two, and get a document or two to\nconsider of, I don\'t bind myself to anything. Let\'s understand that, you\nknow,\' said Jonas.\n\n\'My dear fellow!\' cried Tigg, clapping him on the shoulder, \'I applaud\nyour frankness. If men like you and I speak openly at first, all\npossible misunderstanding is avoided. Why should I disguise what you\nknow so well, but what the crowd never dream of? We companies are all\nbirds of prey; mere birds of prey. The only question is, whether in\nserving our own turn, we can serve yours too; whether in double-lining\nour own nest, we can put a single living into yours. Oh, you\'re in our\nsecret. You\'re behind the scenes. We\'ll make a merit of dealing plainly\nwith you, when we know we can\'t help it.\'\n\nIt was remarked, on the first introduction of Mr Jonas into these pages,\nthat there is a simplicity of cunning no less than a simplicity of\ninnocence, and that in all matters involving a faith in knavery, he was\nthe most credulous of men. If Mr Tigg had preferred any claim to high\nand honourable dealing, Jonas would have suspected him though he had\nbeen a very model of probity; but when he gave utterance to Jonas\'s own\nthoughts of everything and everybody, Jonas began to feel that he was a\npleasant fellow, and one to be talked to freely.\n\nHe changed his position in the chair, not for a less awkward, but for a\nmore boastful attitude; and smiling in his miserable conceit rejoined:\n\n\'You an\'t a bad man of business, Mr Montague. You know how to set about\nit, I WILL say.\'\n\n\'Tut, tut,\' said Tigg, nodding confidentially, and showing his white\nteeth; \'we are not children, Mr Chuzzlewit; we are grown men, I hope.\'\n\nJonas assented, and said after a short silence, first spreading out his\nlegs, and sticking one arm akimbo to show how perfectly at home he was,\n\n\'The truth is--\'\n\n\'Don\'t say, the truth,\' interposed Tigg, with another grin. \'It\'s so\nlike humbug.\'\n\nGreatly charmed by this, Jonas began again.\n\n\'The long and the short of it is--\'\n\n\'Better,\' muttered Tigg. \'Much better!\'\n\n\'--That I didn\'t consider myself very well used by one or two of the old\ncompanies in some negotiations I have had with \'em--once had, I mean.\nThey started objections they had no right to start, and put questions\nthey had no right to put, and carried things much too high for my\ntaste.\'\n\nAs he made these observations he cast down his eyes, and looked\ncuriously at the carpet. Mr Tigg looked curiously at him.\n\nHe made so long a pause, that Tigg came to the rescue, and said, in his\npleasantest manner:\n\n\'Take a glass of wine.\'\n\n\'No, no,\' returned Jonas, with a cunning shake of the head; \'none of\nthat, thankee. No wine over business. All very well for you, but it\nwouldn\'t do for me.\'\n\n\'What an old hand you are, Mr Chuzzlewit!\' said Tigg, leaning back in\nhis chair, and leering at him through his half-shut eyes.\n\nJonas shook his head again, as much as to say, \'You\'re right there;\' And\nthen resumed, jocosely:\n\n\'Not such an old hand, either, but that I\'ve been and got married.\nThat\'s rather green, you\'ll say. Perhaps it is, especially as she\'s\nyoung. But one never knows what may happen to these women, so I\'m\nthinking of insuring her life. It is but fair, you know, that a man\nshould secure some consolation in case of meeting with such a loss.\'\n\n\'If anything can console him under such heart-breaking circumstances,\'\nmurmured Tigg, with his eyes shut up as before.\n\n\'Exactly,\' returned Jonas; \'if anything can. Now, supposing I did it\nhere, I should do it cheap, I know, and easy, without bothering her\nabout it; which I\'d much rather not do, for it\'s just in a woman\'s way\nto take it into her head, if you talk to her about such things, that\nshe\'s going to die directly.\'\n\n\'So it is,\' cried Tigg, kissing his hand in honour of the sex. \'You\'re\nquite right. Sweet, silly, fluttering little simpletons!\'\n\n\'Well,\' said Jonas, \'on that account, you know, and because offence\nhas been given me in other quarters, I wouldn\'t mind patronizing this\nCompany. But I want to know what sort of security there is for the\nCompany\'s going on. That\'s the--\'\n\n\'Not the truth?\' cried Tigg, holding up his jewelled hand. \'Don\'t use\nthat Sunday School expression, please!\'\n\n\'The long and the short of it,\' said Jonas. \'The long and the short of\nit is, what\'s the security?\'\n\n\'The paid-up capital, my dear sir,\' said Tigg, referring to some papers\non the table, \'is, at this present moment--\'\n\n\'Oh! I understand all about paid-up capitals, you know,\' said Jonas.\n\n\'You do?\' cried Tigg, stopping short.\n\n\'I should hope so.\'\n\nHe turned the papers down again, and moving nearer to him, said in his\near:\n\n\'I know you do. I know you do. Look at me!\'\n\nIt was not much in Jonas\'s way to look straight at anybody; but thus\nrequested, he made shift to take a tolerable survey of the chairman\'s\nfeatures. The chairman fell back a little, to give him the better\nopportunity.\n\n\'You know me?\' he inquired, elevating his eyebrows. \'You recollect?\nYou\'ve seen me before?\'\n\n\'Why, I thought I remembered your face when I first came in,\' said\nJonas, gazing at it; \'but I couldn\'t call to mind where I had seen it.\nNo. I don\'t remember, even now. Was it in the street?\'\n\n\'Was it in Pecksniff\'s parlour?\' said Tigg\n\n\'In Pecksniff\'s parlour!\' echoed Jonas, fetching a long breath. \'You\ndon\'t mean when--\'\n\n\'Yes,\' cried Tigg, \'when there was a very charming and delightful little\nfamily party, at which yourself and your respected father assisted.\'\n\n\'Well, never mind HIM,\' said Jonas. \'He\'s dead, and there\'s no help for\nit.\'\n\n\'Dead, is he!\' cried Tigg, \'Venerable old gentleman, is he dead! You\'re\nvery like him.\'\n\nJonas received this compliment with anything but a good grace, perhaps\nbecause of his own private sentiments in reference to the personal\nappearance of his deceased parent; perhaps because he was not best\npleased to find that Montague and Tigg were one. That gentleman\nperceived it, and tapping him familiarly on the sleeve, beckoned him\nto the window. From this moment, Mr Montague\'s jocularity and flow of\nspirits were remarkable.\n\n\'Do you find me at all changed since that time?\' he asked. \'Speak\nplainly.\'\n\nJonas looked hard at his waistcoat and jewels; and said \'Rather, ecod!\'\n\n\'Was I at all seedy in those days?\' asked Montague.\n\n\'Precious seedy,\' said Jonas.\n\nMr Montague pointed down into the street, where Bailey and the cab were\nin attendance.\n\n\'Neat; perhaps dashing. Do you know whose it is?\'\n\n\'No.\'\n\n\'Mine. Do you like this room?\'\n\n\'It must have cost a lot of money,\' said Jonas.\n\n\'You\'re right. Mine too. Why don\'t you\'--he whispered this, and nudged\nhim in the side with his elbow--\'why don\'t you take premiums, instead of\npaying \'em? That\'s what a man like you should do. Join us!\'\n\nJonas stared at him in amazement.\n\n\'Is that a crowded street?\' asked Montague, calling his attention to the\nmultitude without.\n\n\'Very,\' said Jonas, only glancing at it, and immediately afterwards\nlooking at him again.\n\n\'There are printed calculations,\' said his companion, \'which will\ntell you pretty nearly how many people will pass up and down that\nthoroughfare in the course of a day. I can tell you how many of \'em will\ncome in here, merely because they find this office here; knowing no more\nabout it than they do of the Pyramids. Ha, ha! Join us. You shall come\nin cheap.\'\n\nJonas looked at him harder and harder.\n\n\'I can tell you,\' said Tigg in his ear, \'how many of \'em will buy\nannuities, effect insurances, bring us their money in a hundred shapes\nand ways, force it upon us, trust us as if we were the Mint; yet know no\nmore about us than you do of that crossing-sweeper at the corner. Not so\nmuch. Ha, ha!\'\n\nJonas gradually broke into a smile.\n\n\'Yah!\' said Montague, giving him a pleasant thrust in the breast;\n\'you\'re too deep for us, you dog, or I wouldn\'t have told you. Dine with\nme to-morrow, in Pall Mall!\'\n\n\'I will\' said Jonas.\n\n\'Done!\' cried Montague. \'Wait a bit. Take these papers with you and look\n\'em over. See,\' he said, snatching some printed forms from the table. \'B\nis a little tradesman, clerk, parson, artist, author, any common thing\nyou like.\'\n\n\'Yes,\' said Jonas, looking greedily over his shoulder. \'Well!\'\n\n\'B wants a loan. Say fifty or a hundred pound; perhaps more; no matter.\nB proposes self and two securities. B is accepted. Two securities give\na bond. B assures his own life for double the amount, and brings two\nfriends\' lives also--just to patronize the office. Ha ha, ha! Is that a\ngood notion?\'\n\n\'Ecod, that\'s a capital notion!\' cried Jonas. \'But does he really do\nit?\'\n\n\'Do it!\' repeated the chairman. \'B\'s hard up, my good fellow, and will\ndo anything. Don\'t you see? It\'s my idea.\'\n\n\'It does you honour. I\'m blest if it don\'t,\' said Jonas.\n\n\'I think it does,\' replied the chairman, \'and I\'m proud to hear you say\nso. B pays the highest lawful interest--\'\n\n\'That an\'t much,\' interrupted Jonas.\n\n\'Right! quite right!\' retorted Tigg. \'And hard it is upon the part\nof the law that it should be so confoundedly down upon us unfortunate\nvictims; when it takes such amazing good interest for itself from all\nits clients. But charity begins at home, and justice begins next door.\nWell! The law being hard upon us, we\'re not exactly soft upon B; for\nbesides charging B the regular interest, we get B\'s premium, and B\'s\nfriends\' premiums, and we charge B for the bond, and, whether we accept\nhim or not, we charge B for \"inquiries\" (we keep a man, at a pound a\nweek, to make \'em), and we charge B a trifle for the secretary; and in\nshort, my good fellow, we stick it into B, up hill and down dale, and\nmake a devilish comfortable little property out of him. Ha, ha, ha! I\ndrive B, in point of fact,\' said Tigg, pointing to the cabriolet, \'and a\nthoroughbred horse he is. Ha, ha, ha!\'\n\nJonas enjoyed this joke very much indeed. It was quite in his peculiar\nvein of humour.\n\n\'Then,\' said Tigg Montague, \'we grant annuities on the very lowest and\nmost advantageous terms known in the money market; and the old ladies\nand gentlemen down in the country buy \'em. Ha, ha, ha! And we pay \'em\ntoo--perhaps. Ha, ha, ha!\'\n\n\'But there\'s responsibility in that,\' said Jonas, looking doubtful.\n\n\'I take it all myself,\' said Tigg Montague. \'Here I am responsible for\neverything. The only responsible person in the establishment! Ha,\nha, ha! Then there are the Life Assurances without loans; the common\npolicies. Very profitable, very comfortable. Money down, you know;\nrepeated every year; capital fun!\'\n\n\'But when they begin to fall in,\' observed Jonas. \'It\'s all very well,\nwhile the office is young, but when the policies begin to die--that\'s\nwhat I am thinking of.\'\n\n\'At the first start, my dear fellow,\' said Montague, \'to show you how\ncorrect your judgment is, we had a couple of unlucky deaths that brought\nus down to a grand piano.\'\n\n\'Brought you down where?\' cried Jonas.\n\n\'I give you my sacred word of honour,\' said Tigg Montague, \'that I\nraised money on every other individual piece of property, and was left\nalone in the world with a grand piano. And it was an upright-grand too,\nso that I couldn\'t even sit upon it. But, my dear fellow, we got over\nit. We granted a great many new policies that week (liberal allowance\nto solicitors, by the bye), and got over it in no time. Whenever they\nshould chance to fall in heavily, as you very justly observe they may,\none of these days; then--\' he finished the sentence in so low a whisper,\nthat only one disconnected word was audible, and that imperfectly. But\nit sounded like \'Bolt.\'\n\n\'Why, you\'re as bold as brass!\' said Jonas, in the utmost admiration.\n\n\'A man can well afford to be as bold as brass, my good fellow, when he\ngets gold in exchange!\' cried the chairman, with a laugh that shook him\nfrom head to foot. \'You\'ll dine with me to-morrow?\'\n\n\'At what time?\' asked Jonas.\n\n\'Seven. Here\'s my card. Take the documents. I see you\'ll join us!\'\n\n\'I don\'t know about that,\' said Jonas. \'There\'s a good deal to be looked\ninto first.\'\n\n\'You shall look,\' said Montague, slapping him on the back, \'into\nanything and everything you please. But you\'ll join us, I am convinced.\nYou were made for it. Bullamy!\'\n\nObedient to the summons and the little bell, the waistcoat appeared.\nBeing charged to show Jonas out, it went before; and the voice within it\ncried, as usual, \'By your leave there, by your leave! Gentleman from the\nboard-room, by your leave!\'\n\nMr Montague being left alone, pondered for some moments, and then said,\nraising his voice:\n\n\'Is Nadgett in the office there?\'\n\n\'Here he is, sir.\' And he promptly entered; shutting the board-room door\nafter him, as carefully as if he were about to plot a murder.\n\nHe was the man at a pound a week who made the inquiries. It was no\nvirtue or merit in Nadgett that he transacted all his Anglo-Bengalee\nbusiness secretly and in the closest confidence; for he was born to be\na secret. He was a short, dried-up, withered old man, who seemed to have\nsecreted his very blood; for nobody would have given him credit for the\npossession of six ounces of it in his whole body. How he lived was a\nsecret; where he lived was a secret; and even what he was, was a secret.\nIn his musty old pocket-book he carried contradictory cards, in some of\nwhich he called himself a coal-merchant, in others a wine-merchant,\nin others a commission-agent, in others a collector, in others an\naccountant; as if he really didn\'t know the secret himself. He was\nalways keeping appointments in the City, and the other man never seemed\nto come. He would sit on \'Change for hours, looking at everybody who\nwalked in and out, and would do the like at Garraway\'s, and in other\nbusiness coffee-rooms, in some of which he would be occasionally seen\ndrying a very damp pocket-handkerchief before the fire, and still\nlooking over his shoulder for the man who never appeared. He was\nmildewed, threadbare, shabby; always had flue upon his legs and back;\nand kept his linen so secretly buttoning up and wrapping over, that he\nmight have had none--perhaps he hadn\'t. He carried one stained beaver\nglove, which he dangled before him by the forefinger as he walked or\nsat; but even its fellow was a secret. Some people said he had been a\nbankrupt, others that he had gone an infant into an ancient Chancery\nsuit which was still depending, but it was all a secret. He carried bits\nof sealing-wax and a hieroglyphical old copper seal in his pocket, and\noften secretly indited letters in corner boxes of the trysting-places\nbefore mentioned; but they never appeared to go to anybody, for he would\nput them into a secret place in his coat, and deliver them to himself\nweeks afterwards, very much to his own surprise, quite yellow. He was\nthat sort of man that if he had died worth a million of money, or had\ndied worth twopence halfpenny, everybody would have been perfectly\nsatisfied, and would have said it was just as they expected. And yet\nhe belonged to a class; a race peculiar to the City; who are secrets as\nprofound to one another, as they are to the rest of mankind.\n\n\'Mr Nadgett,\' said Montague, copying Jonas Chuzzlewit\'s address upon a\npiece of paper, from the card which was still lying on the table, \'any\ninformation about this name, I shall be glad to have myself. Don\'t you\nmind what it is. Any you can scrape together, bring me. Bring it to me,\nMr Nadgett.\'\n\nNadgett put on his spectacles, and read the name attentively; then\nlooked at the chairman over his glasses, and bowed; then took them off,\nand put them in their case; and then put the case in his pocket. When he\nhad done so, he looked, without his spectacles, at the paper as it lay\nbefore him, and at the same time produced his pocket-book from somewhere\nabout the middle of his spine. Large as it was, it was very full of\ndocuments, but he found a place for this one; and having clasped it\ncarefully, passed it by a kind of solemn legerdemain into the same\nregion as before.\n\nHe withdrew with another bow and without a word; opening the door\nno wider than was sufficient for his passage out; and shutting it as\ncarefully as before. The chairman of the board employed the rest of the\nmorning in affixing his sign-manual of gracious acceptance to various\nnew proposals of annuity-purchase and assurance. The Company was looking\nup, for they flowed in gayly.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT\n\nMR MONTAGUE AT HOME. AND MR JONAS CHUZZLEWIT AT HOME\n\n\nThere were many powerful reasons for Jonas Chuzzlewit being strongly\nprepossessed in favour of the scheme which its great originator had so\nboldly laid open to him; but three among them stood prominently forward.\nFirstly, there was money to be made by it. Secondly, the money had the\npeculiar charm of being sagaciously obtained at other people\'s cost.\nThirdly, it involved much outward show of homage and distinction: a\nboard being an awful institution in its own sphere, and a director a\nmighty man. \'To make a swingeing profit, have a lot of chaps to order\nabout, and get into regular good society by one and the same means, and\nthem so easy to one\'s hand, ain\'t such a bad look-out,\' thought\nJonas. The latter considerations were only second to his avarice; for,\nconscious that there was nothing in his person, conduct, character, or\naccomplishments, to command respect, he was greedy of power, and was, in\nhis heart, as much a tyrant as any laureled conqueror on record.\n\nBut he determined to proceed with cunning and caution, and to be very\nkeen on his observation of the gentility of Mr Montague\'s private\nestablishment. For it no more occurred to this shallow knave that\nMontague wanted him to be so, or he wouldn\'t have invited him while his\ndecision was yet in abeyance, than the possibility of that genius being\nable to overreach him in any way, pierced through his self-deceit by the\ninlet of a needle\'s point. He had said, in the outset, that Jonas\nwas too sharp for him; and Jonas, who would have been sharp enough to\nbelieve him in nothing else, though he had solemnly sworn it, believed\nhim in that, instantly.\n\nIt was with a faltering hand, and yet with an imbecile attempt at a\nswagger, that he knocked at his new friend\'s door in Pall Mall when the\nappointed hour arrived. Mr Bailey quickly answered to the summons. He\nwas not proud and was kindly disposed to take notice of Jonas; but Jonas\nhad forgotten him.\n\n\'Mr Montague at home?\'\n\n\'I should hope he wos at home, and waiting dinner, too,\' said Bailey,\nwith the ease of an old acquaintance. \'Will you take your hat up along\nwith you, or leave it here?\'\n\nMr Jonas preferred leaving it there.\n\n\'The hold name, I suppose?\' said Bailey, with a grin.\n\nMr Jonas stared at him in mute indignation.\n\n\'What, don\'t you remember hold mother Todgers\'s?\' said Mr Bailey, with\nhis favourite action of the knees and boots. \'Don\'t you remember my\ntaking your name up to the young ladies, when you came a-courting there?\nA reg\'lar scaly old shop, warn\'t it? Times is changed ain\'t they. I say\nhow you\'ve growed!\'\n\nWithout pausing for any acknowledgement of this compliment, he ushered\nthe visitor upstairs, and having announced him, retired with a private\nwink.\n\nThe lower story of the house was occupied by a wealthy tradesman, but\nMr Montague had all the upper portion, and splendid lodging it was. The\nroom in which he received Jonas was a spacious and elegant apartment,\nfurnished with extreme magnificence; decorated with pictures, copies\nfrom the antique in alabaster and marble, china vases, lofty mirrors,\ncrimson hangings of the richest silk, gilded carvings, luxurious\ncouches, glistening cabinets inlaid with precious woods; costly toys of\nevery sort in negligent abundance. The only guests besides Jonas\nwere the doctor, the resident Director, and two other gentlemen, whom\nMontague presented in due form.\n\n\'My dear friend, I am delighted to see you. Jobling you know, I\nbelieve?\'\n\n\'I think so,\' said the doctor pleasantly, as he stepped out of the\ncircle to shake hands. \'I trust I have the honour. I hope so. My dear\nsir, I see you well. Quite well? THAT\'S well!\'\n\n\'Mr Wolf,\' said Montague, as soon as the doctor would allow him to\nintroduce the two others, \'Mr Chuzzlewit. Mr Pip, Mr Chuzzlewit.\'\n\nBoth gentlemen were exceedingly happy to have the honour of making Mr\nChuzzlewit\'s acquaintance. The doctor drew Jonas a little apart, and\nwhispered behind his hand:\n\n\'Men of the world, my dear sir--men of the world. Hem! Mr Wolf--literary\ncharacter--you needn\'t mention it--remarkably clever weekly paper--oh,\nremarkably clever! Mr Pip--theatrical man--capital man to know--oh,\ncapital man!\'\n\n\'Well!\' said Wolf, folding his arms and resuming a conversation which\nthe arrival of Jonas had interrupted. \'And what did Lord Nobley say to\nthat?\'\n\n\'Why,\' returned Pip, with an oath. \'He didn\'t know what to say. Same,\nsir, if he wasn\'t as mute as a poker. But you know what a good fellow\nNobley is!\'\n\n\'The best fellow in the world!\' cried Wolf. \'It as only last week that\nNobley said to me, \"By Gad, Wolf, I\'ve got a living to bestow, and if\nyou had but been brought up at the University, strike me blind if I\nwouldn\'t have made a parson of you!\"\'\n\n\'Just like him,\' said Pip with another oath. \'And he\'d have done it!\'\n\n\'Not a doubt of it,\' said Wolf. \'But you were going to tell us--\'\n\n\'Oh, yes!\' cried Pip. \'To be sure. So I was. At first he was dumb--sewn\nup, dead, sir--but after a minute he said to the Duke, \"Here\'s Pip.\nAsk Pip. Pip\'s our mutual friend. Ask Pip. He knows.\" \"Damme!\" said the\nDuke, \"I appeal to Pip then. Come, Pip. Bandy or not bandy? Speak out!\"\n\"Bandy, your Grace, by the Lord Harry!\" said I. \"Ha, ha!\" laughed the\nDuke. \"To be sure she is. Bravo, Pip. Well said Pip. I wish I may die\nif you\'re not a trump, Pip. Pop me down among your fashionable visitors\nwhenever I\'m in town, Pip.\" And so I do, to this day.\'\n\nThe conclusion of this story gave immense satisfaction, which was in\nno degree lessened by the announcement of dinner. Jonas repaired to the\ndining room, along with his distinguished host, and took his seat at the\nboard between that individual and his friend the doctor. The rest fell\ninto their places like men who were well accustomed to the house; and\ndinner was done full justice to, by all parties.\n\nIt was a good a one as money (or credit, no matter which) could produce.\nThe dishes, wines, and fruits were of the choicest kind. Everything was\nelegantly served. The plate was gorgeous. Mr Jonas was in the midst of\na calculation of the value of this item alone, when his host disturbed\nhim.\n\n\'A glass of wine?\'\n\n\'Oh!\' said Jonas, who had had several glasses already. \'As much of that\nas you like! It\'s too good to refuse.\'\n\n\'Well said, Mr Chuzzlewit!\' cried Wolf.\n\n\'Tom Gag, upon my soul!\' said Pip.\n\n\'Positively, you know, that\'s--ha, ha, ha!\' observed the doctor, laying\ndown his knife and fork for one instant, and then going to work again,\npell-mell--\'that\'s epigrammatic; quite!\'\n\n\'You\'re tolerably comfortable, I hope?\' said Tigg, apart to Jonas.\n\n\'Oh! You needn\'t trouble your head about ME,\' he replied, \'Famous!\'\n\n\'I thought it best not to have a party,\' said Tigg. \'You feel that?\'\n\n\'Why, what do you call this?\' retorted Jonas. \'You don\'t mean to say you\ndo this every day, do you?\'\n\n\'My dear fellow,\' said Montague, shrugging his shoulders, \'every day of\nmy life, when I dine at home. This is my common style. It was of no use\nhaving anything uncommon for you. You\'d have seen through it. \"You\'ll\nhave a party?\" said Crimple. \"No, I won\'t,\" I said, \"he shall take us in\nthe rough!\"\n\n\'And pretty smooth, too, ecod!\' said Jonas, glancing round the table.\n\'This don\'t cost a trifle.\'\n\n\'Why, to be candid with you, it does not,\' returned the other. \'But I\nlike this sort of thing. It\'s the way I spend my money.\'\n\nJonas thrust his tongue into his cheek, and said, \'Was it?\'\n\n\'When you join us, you won\'t get rid of your share of the profits in the\nsame way?\' said Tigg.\n\n\'Quite different,\' retorted Jonas.\n\n\'Well, and you\'re right,\' said Tigg, with friendly candour. \'You\nneedn\'t. It\'s not necessary. One of a Company must do it to hold\nthe connection together; but, as I take a pleasure in it, that\'s my\ndepartment. You don\'t mind dining expensively at another man\'s expense,\nI hope?\'\n\n\'Not a bit,\' said Jonas.\n\n\'Then I hope you\'ll often dine with me?\'\n\n\'Ah!\' said Jonas, \'I don\'t mind. On the contrary.\'\n\n\'And I\'ll never attempt to talk business to you over wine, I take my\noath,\' said Tigg. \'Oh deep, deep, deep of you this morning! I must tell\n\'em that. They\'re the very men to enjoy it. Pip, my good fellow, I\'ve\na splendid little trait to tell you of my friend Chuzzlewit who is\nthe deepest dog I know; I give you my sacred word of honour he is the\ndeepest dog I know, Pip!\'\n\nPip swore a frightful oath that he was sure of it already; and\nthe anecdote, being told, was received with loud applause, as an\nincontestable proof of Mr Jonas\'s greatness. Pip, in a natural spirit of\nemulation, then related some instances of his own depth; and Wolf not\nto be left behind-hand, recited the leading points of one or two vastly\nhumorous articles he was then preparing. These lucubrations being of\nwhat he called \'a warm complexion,\' were highly approved; and all the\ncompany agreed that they were full of point.\n\n\'Men of the world, my dear sir,\' Jobling whispered to Jonas; \'thorough\nmen of the world! To a professional person like myself it\'s\nquite refreshing to come into this kind of society. It\'s not only\nagreeable--and nothing CAN be more agreeable--but it\'s philosophically\nimproving. It\'s character, my dear sir; character!\'\n\nIt is so pleasant to find real merit appreciated, whatever its\nparticular walk in life may be, that the general harmony of the company\nwas doubtless much promoted by their knowing that the two men of the\nworld were held in great esteem by the upper classes of society, and\nby the gallant defenders of their country in the army and navy, but\nparticularly the former. The least of their stories had a colonel in it;\nlords were as plentiful as oaths; and even the Blood Royal ran in the\nmuddy channel of their personal recollections.\n\n\'Mr Chuzzlewit didn\'t know him, I\'m afraid,\' said Wolf, in reference to\na certain personage of illustrious descent, who had previously figured\nin a reminiscence.\n\n\'No,\' said Tigg. \'But we must bring him into contact with this sort of\nfellows.\'\n\n\'He was very fond of literature,\' observed Wolf.\n\n\'Was he?\' said Tigg.\n\n\'Oh, yes; he took my paper regularly for many years. Do you know he\nsaid some good things now and then? He asked a certain Viscount, who\'s\na friend of mine--Pip knows him--\"What\'s the editor\'s name, what\'s the\neditor\'s name?\" \"Wolf.\" \"Wolf, eh? Sharp biter, Wolf. We must keep the\nWolf from the door, as the proverb says.\" It was very well. And being\ncomplimentary, I printed it.\'\n\n\'But the Viscount\'s the boy!\' cried Pip, who invented a new oath for\nthe introduction of everything he said. \'The Viscount\'s the boy! He came\ninto our place one night to take Her home; rather slued, but not much;\nand said, \"Where\'s Pip? I want to see Pip. Produce Pip!\"--\"What\'s the\nrow, my lord?\"--\"Shakspeare\'s an infernal humbug, Pip! What\'s the good\nof Shakspeare, Pip? I never read him. What the devil is it all about,\nPip? There\'s a lot of feet in Shakspeare\'s verse, but there an\'t any\nlegs worth mentioning in Shakspeare\'s plays, are there, Pip? Juliet,\nDesdemona, Lady Macbeth, and all the rest of \'em, whatever their names\nare, might as well have no legs at all, for anything the audience know\nabout it, Pip. Why, in that respect they\'re all Miss Biffins to the\naudience, Pip. I\'ll tell you what it is. What the people call dramatic\npoetry is a collection of sermons. Do I go to the theatre to be\nlectured? No, Pip. If I wanted that, I\'d go to church. What\'s the\nlegitimate object of the drama, Pip? Human nature. What are legs? Human\nnature. Then let us have plenty of leg pieces, Pip, and I\'ll stand by\nyou, my buck!\" and I am proud to say,\' added Pip, \'that he DID stand by\nme, handsomely.\'\n\nThe conversation now becoming general, Mr Jonas\'s opinion was requested\non this subject; and as it was in full accordance with the sentiments of\nMr Pip, that gentleman was extremely gratified. Indeed, both himself and\nWolf had so much in common with Jonas, that they became very amicable;\nand between their increasing friendship and the fumes of wine, Jonas\ngrew talkative.\n\nIt does not follow in the case of such a person that the more talkative\nhe becomes, the more agreeable he is; on the contrary, his merits show\nto most advantage, perhaps, in silence. Having no means, as he thought,\nof putting himself on an equality with the rest, but by the assertion\nof that depth and sharpness on which he had been complimented, Jonas\nexhibited that faculty to the utmost; and was so deep and sharp that\nhe lost himself in his own profundity, and cut his fingers with his own\nedge-tools.\n\nIt was especially in his way and character to exhibit his quality at his\nentertainer\'s expense; and while he drank of his sparkling wines, and\npartook of his monstrous profusion, to ridicule the extravagance which\nhad set such costly fare before him. Even at such a wanton board, and in\nsuch more than doubtful company, this might have proved a disagreeable\nexperiment, but that Tigg and Crimple, studying to understand their man\nthoroughly, gave him what license he chose: knowing that the more\nhe took, the better for their purpose. And thus while the blundering\ncheat--gull that he was, for all his cunning--thought himself rolled\nup hedgehog fashion, with his sharpest points towards them, he was,\nin fact, betraying all his vulnerable parts to their unwinking\nwatchfulness.\n\nWhether the two gentlemen who contributed so much to the doctor\'s\nphilosophical knowledge (by the way, the doctor slipped off quietly,\nafter swallowing his usual amount of wine) had had their cue distinctly\nfrom the host, or took it from what they saw and heard, they acted\ntheir parts very well. They solicited the honour of Jonas\'s better\nacquaintance; trusted that they would have the pleasure of introducing\nhim into that elevated society in which he was so well qualified to\nshine; and informed him, in the most friendly manner that the advantages\nof their respective establishments were entirely at his control. In a\nword, they said \'Be one of us!\' And Jonas said he was infinitely obliged\nto them, and he would be; adding within himself, that so long as they\n\'stood treat,\' there was nothing he would like better.\n\nAfter coffee, which was served in the drawing-room, there was a short\ninterval (mainly sustained by Pip and Wolf) of conversation; rather\nhighly spiced and strongly seasoned. When it flagged, Jonas took it up\nand showed considerable humour in appraising the furniture; inquiring\nwhether such an article was paid for; what it had originally cost, and\nthe like. In all of this, he was, as he considered, desperately hard on\nMontague, and very demonstrative of his own brilliant parts.\n\nSome Champagne Punch gave a new though temporary fillip to the\nentertainments of the evening. For after leading to some noisy\nproceedings, which were not intelligible, it ended in the unsteady\ndeparture of the two gentlemen of the world, and the slumber of Mr Jonas\nupon one of the sofas.\n\nAs he could not be made to understand where he was, Mr Bailey received\norders to call a hackney-coach, and take him home; which that young\ngentleman roused himself from an uneasy sleep in the hall to do. It\nbeing now almost three o\'clock in the morning.\n\n\'Is he hooked, do you think?\' whispered Crimple, as himself and partner\nstood in a distant part of the room observing him as he lay.\n\n\'Aye!\' said Tigg, in the same tone. \'With a strong iron, perhaps. Has\nNadgett been here to-night?\'\n\n\'Yes. I went out to him. Hearing you had company, he went away.\'\n\n\'Why did he do that?\'\n\n\'He said he would come back early in the morning, before you were out of\nbed.\'\n\n\'Tell them to be sure and send him up to my bedside. Hush! Here\'s the\nboy! Now Mr Bailey, take this gentleman home, and see him safely in.\nHallo, here! Why Chuzzlewit, halloa!\'\n\nThey got him upright with some difficulty, and assisted him downstairs,\nwhere they put his hat upon his head, and tumbled him into the coach.\nMr Bailey, having shut him in, mounted the box beside the coachman, and\nsmoked his cigar with an air of particular satisfaction; the undertaking\nin which he was engaged having a free and sporting character about it,\nwhich was quite congenial to his taste.\n\nArriving in due time at the house in the City, Mr Bailey jumped down,\nand expressed the lively nature of his feelings in a knock the like of\nwhich had probably not been heard in that quarter since the great fire\nof London. Going out into the road to observe the effect of this feat,\nhe saw that a dim light, previously visible at an upper window, had been\nalready removed and was travelling downstairs. To obtain a foreknowledge\nof the bearer of this taper, Mr Bailey skipped back to the door again,\nand put his eye to the keyhole.\n\nIt was the merry one herself. But sadly, strangely altered! So careworn\nand dejected, so faltering and full of fear; so fallen, humbled,\nbroken; that to have seen her quiet in her coffin would have been a less\nsurprise.\n\nShe set the light upon a bracket in the hall, and laid her hand upon her\nheart; upon her eyes; upon her burning head. Then she came on towards\nthe door with such a wild and hurried step that Mr Bailey lost his\nself-possession, and still had his eye where the keyhole had been, when\nshe opened it.\n\n\'Aha!\' said Mr Bailey, with an effort. \'There you are, are you? What\'s\nthe matter? Ain\'t you well, though?\'\n\nIn the midst of her astonishment as she recognized him in his altered\ndress, so much of her old smile came back to her face that Bailey was\nglad. But next moment he was sorry again, for he saw tears standing in\nher poor dim eyes.\n\n\'Don\'t be frightened,\' said Bailey. \'There ain\'t nothing the matter.\nI\'ve brought home Mr Chuzzlewit. He ain\'t ill. He\'s only a little\nswipey, you know.\' Mr Bailey reeled in his boots, to express\nintoxication.\n\n\'Have you come from Mrs Todgers\'s?\' asked Merry, trembling.\n\n\'Todgers\'s, bless you! No!\' cried Mr Bailey. \'I haven\'t got nothin, to\ndo with Todgers\'s. I cut that connection long ago. He\'s been a-dining\nwith my governor at the west-end. Didn\'t you know he was a-coming to see\nus?\'\n\n\'No,\' she said, faintly.\n\n\'Oh yes! We\'re heavy swells too, and so I tell you. Don\'t you come out,\na-catching cold in your head. I\'ll wake him!\' Mr Bailey expressing in\nhis demeanour a perfect confidence that he could carry him in with ease,\nif necessary, opened the coach door, let down the steps, and giving\nJonas a shake, cried \'We\'ve got home, my flower! Tumble up, then!\'\n\nHe was so far recovered as to be able to respond to this appeal, and\nto come stumbling out of the coach in a heap, to the great hazard of Mr\nBailey\'s person. When he got upon the pavement, Mr Bailey first butted\nat him in front, and then dexterously propped him up behind; and having\nsteadied him by these means, he assisted him into the house.\n\n\'You go up first with the light,\' said Bailey to Mr Jonas, \'and we\'ll\nfoller. Don\'t tremble so. He won\'t hurt you. When I\'ve had a drop too\nmuch, I\'m full of good natur myself.\'\n\nShe went on before; and her husband and Bailey, by dint of tumbling\nover each other, and knocking themselves about, got at last into the\nsitting-room above stairs, where Jonas staggered into a seat.\n\n\'There!\' said Mr Bailey. \'He\'s all right now. You ain\'t got nothing to\ncry for, bless you! He\'s righter than a trivet!\'\n\nThe ill-favoured brute, with dress awry, and sodden face, and rumpled\nhair, sat blinking and drooping, and rolling his idiotic eyes about,\nuntil, becoming conscious by degrees, he recognized his wife, and shook\nhis fist at her.\n\n\'Ah!\' cried Mr Bailey, squaring his arms with a sudden emotion. \'What,\nyou\'re wicious, are you? Would you though! You\'d better not!\'\n\n\'Pray, go away!\' said Merry. \'Bailey, my good boy, go home. Jonas!\' she\nsaid; timidly laying her hand upon his shoulder, and bending her head\ndown over him. \'Jonas!\'\n\n\'Look at her!\' cried Jonas, pushing her off with his extended arm. \'Look\nhere! Look at her! Here\'s a bargain for a man!\'\n\n\'Dear Jonas!\'\n\n\'Dear Devil!\' he replied, with a fierce gesture. \'You\'re a pretty clog\nto be tied to a man for life, you mewling, white-faced cat! Get out of\nmy sight!\'\n\n\'I know you don\'t mean it, Jonas. You wouldn\'t say it if you were\nsober.\'\n\nWith affected gayety she gave Bailey a piece of money, and again\nimplored him to be gone. Her entreaty was so earnest, that the boy had\nnot the heart to stay there. But he stopped at the bottom of the stairs,\nand listened.\n\n\'I wouldn\'t say it if I was sober!\' retorted Jonas. \'You know better.\nHave I never said it when I was sober?\'\n\n\'Often, indeed!\' she answered through her tears.\n\n\'Hark ye!\' cried Jonas, stamping his foot upon the ground. \'You made me\nbear your pretty humours once, and ecod I\'ll make you bear mine now. I\nalways promised myself I would. I married you that I might. I\'ll know\nwho\'s master, and who\'s slave!\'\n\n\'Heaven knows I am obedient!\' said the sobbing girl. \'Much more so than\nI ever thought to be!\'\n\nJonas laughed in his drunken exultation. \'What! you\'re finding it out,\nare you! Patience, and you will in time! Griffins have claws, my girl.\nThere\'s not a pretty slight you ever put upon me, nor a pretty trick you\never played me, nor a pretty insolence you ever showed me, that I won\'t\npay back a hundred-fold. What else did I marry you for? YOU, too!\' he\nsaid, with coarse contempt.\n\nIt might have softened him--indeed it might--to hear her turn a little\nfragment of a song he used to say he liked; trying, with a heart so\nfull, to win him back.\n\n\'Oho!\' he said, \'you\'re deaf, are you? You don\'t hear me, eh? So much\nthe better for you. I hate you. I hate myself, for having, been fool\nenough to strap a pack upon my back for the pleasure of treading on it\nwhenever I choose. Why, things have opened to me, now, so that I might\nmarry almost where I liked. But I wouldn\'t; I\'d keep single. I ought to\nbe single, among the friends I know. Instead of that, here I am, tied\nlike a log to you. Pah! Why do you show your pale face when I come home?\nAm I never to forget you?\'\n\n\'How late it is!\' she said cheerfully, opening the shutter after an\ninterval of silence. \'Broad day, Jonas!\'\n\n\'Broad day or black night, what do I care!\' was the kind rejoinder.\n\n\'The night passed quickly, too. I don\'t mind sitting up, at all.\'\n\n\'Sit up for me again, if you dare!\' growled Jonas.\n\n\'I was reading,\' she proceeded, \'all night long. I began when you went\nout, and read till you came home again. The strangest story, Jonas! And\ntrue, the book says. I\'ll tell it you to-morrow.\'\n\n\'True, was it?\' said Jonas, doggedly.\n\n\'So the book says.\'\n\n\'Was there anything in it, about a man\'s being determined to conquer his\nwife, break her spirit, bend her temper, crush all her humours like so\nmany nut-shells--kill her, for aught I know?\' said Jonas.\n\n\'No. Not a word,\' she answered quickly.\n\n\'Oh!\' he returned. \'That\'ll be a true story though, before long; for all\nthe book says nothing about it. It\'s a lying book, I see. A fit book for\na lying reader. But you\'re deaf. I forgot that.\'\n\nThere was another interval of silence; and the boy was stealing away,\nwhen he heard her footstep on the floor, and stopped. She went up to\nhim, as it seemed, and spoke lovingly; saying that she would defer to\nhim in everything and would consult his wishes and obey them, and they\nmight be very happy if he would be gentle with her. He answered with an\nimprecation, and--\n\nNot with a blow? Yes. Stern truth against the base-souled villain; with\na blow.\n\nNo angry cries; no loud reproaches. Even her weeping and her sobs were\nstifled by her clinging round him. She only said, repeating it in agony\nof heart, how could he, could he, could he--and lost utterance in tears.\n\nOh woman, God beloved in old Jerusalem! The best among us need deal\nlightly with thy faults, if only for the punishment thy nature will\nendure, in bearing heavy evidence against us, on the Day of Judgment!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-NINE\n\nIN WHICH SOME PEOPLE ARE PRECOCIOUS, OTHERS PROFESSIONAL, AND OTHERS\nMYSTERIOUS; ALL IN THEIR SEVERAL WAYS\n\n\nIt may have been the restless remembrance of what he had seen and heard\novernight, or it may have been no deeper mental operation than the\ndiscovery that he had nothing to do, which caused Mr Bailey, on the\nfollowing afternoon, to feel particularly disposed for agreeable\nsociety, and prompted him to pay a visit to his friend Poll Sweedlepipe.\n\nOn the little bell giving clamorous notice of a visitor\'s approach (for\nMr Bailey came in at the door with a lunge, to get as much sound out of\nthe bell as possible), Poll Sweedlepipe desisted from the contemplation\nof a favourite owl, and gave his young friend hearty welcome.\n\n\'Why, you look smarter by day,\' said Poll, \'than you do by candle-light.\nI never see such a tight young dasher.\'\n\n\'Reether so, Polly. How\'s our fair friend, Sairah?\'\n\n\'Oh, she\'s pretty well,\' said Poll. \'She\'s at home.\'\n\n\'There\'s the remains of a fine woman about Sairah, Poll,\' observed Mr\nBailey, with genteel indifference.\n\n\'Oh!\' thought Poll, \'he\'s old. He must be very old!\'\n\n\'Too much crumb, you know,\' said Mr Bailey; \'too fat, Poll. But there\'s\nmany worse at her time of life.\'\n\n\'The very owl\'s a-opening his eyes!\' thought Poll. \'I don\'t wonder at it\nin a bird of his opinions.\'\n\nHe happened to have been sharpening his razors, which were lying open\nin a row, while a huge strop dangled from the wall. Glancing at these\npreparations, Mr Bailey stroked his chin, and a thought appeared to\noccur to him.\n\n\'Poll,\' he said, \'I ain\'t as neat as I could wish about the gills. Being\nhere, I may as well have a shave, and get trimmed close.\'\n\nThe barber stood aghast; but Mr Bailey divested himself of his\nneck-cloth, and sat down in the easy shaving chair with all the dignity\nand confidence in life. There was no resisting his manner. The evidence\nof sight and touch became as nothing. His chin was as smooth as a\nnew-laid egg or a scraped Dutch cheese; but Poll Sweedlepipe wouldn\'t\nhave ventured to deny, on affidavit, that he had the beard of a Jewish\nrabbi.\n\n\'Go WITH the grain, Poll, all round, please,\' said Mr Bailey, screwing\nup his face for the reception of the lather. \'You may do wot you like\nwith the bits of whisker. I don\'t care for \'em.\'\n\nThe meek little barber stood gazing at him with the brush and soap-dish\nin his hand, stirring them round and round in a ludicrous uncertainty,\nas if he were disabled by some fascination from beginning. At last he\nmade a dash at Mr Bailey\'s cheek. Then he stopped again, as if the\nghost of a beard had suddenly receded from his touch; but receiving mild\nencouragement from Mr Bailey, in the form of an adjuration to \'Go in and\nwin,\' he lathered him bountifully. Mr Bailey smiled through the suds in\nhis satisfaction. \'Gently over the stones, Poll. Go a tip-toe over the\npimples!\'\n\nPoll Sweedlepipe obeyed, and scraped the lather off again with\nparticular care. Mr Bailey squinted at every successive dab, as it\nwas deposited on a cloth on his left shoulder, and seemed, with a\nmicroscopic eye, to detect some bristles in it; for he murmured more\nthan once \'Reether redder than I could wish, Poll.\' The operation being\nconcluded, Poll fell back and stared at him again, while Mr Bailey,\nwiping his face on the jack-towel, remarked, \'that arter late hours\nnothing freshened up a man so much as a easy shave.\'\n\nHe was in the act of tying his cravat at the glass, without his coat,\nand Poll had wiped his razor, ready for the next customer, when Mrs\nGamp, coming downstairs, looked in at the shop-door to give the barber\nneighbourly good day. Feeling for her unfortunate situation, in having\nconceived a regard for himself which it was not in the nature of things\nthat he could return, Mr Bailey hastened to soothe her with words of\nkindness.\n\n\'Hallo!\' he said, \'Sairah! I needn\'t ask you how you\'ve been this long\ntime, for you\'re in full bloom. All a-blowin and a-growin; ain\'t she,\nPolly?\'\n\n\'Why, drat the Bragian boldness of that boy!\' cried Mrs Gamp, though\nnot displeased. \'What a imperent young sparrow it is! I wouldn\'t be that\ncreetur\'s mother not for fifty pound!\'\n\nMr Bailey regarded this as a delicate confession of her attachment,\nand a hint that no pecuniary gain could recompense her for its being\nrendered hopeless. He felt flattered. Disinterested affection is always\nflattering.\n\n\'Ah, dear!\' moaned Mrs Gamp, sinking into the shaving chair, \'that there\nblessed Bull, Mr Sweedlepipe, has done his wery best to conker me. Of\nall the trying inwalieges in this walley of the shadder, that one beats\n\'em black and blue.\'\n\nIt was the practice of Mrs Gamp and her friends in the profession, to\nsay this of all the easy customers; as having at once the effect of\ndiscouraging competitors for office, and accounting for the necessity of\nhigh living on the part of the nurses.\n\n\'Talk of constitooshun!\' Mrs Gamp observed. \'A person\'s constitooshun\nneed be made of bricks to stand it. Mrs Harris jestly says to me, but\nt\'other day, \"Oh! Sairey Gamp,\" she says, \"how is it done?\" \"Mrs Harris,\nma\'am,\" I says to her, \"we gives no trust ourselves, and puts a deal\no\'trust elsevere; these is our religious feelins, and we finds \'em\nanswer.\" \"Sairey,\" says Mrs Harris, \"sech is life. Vich likeways is the\nhend of all things!\"\'\n\nThe barber gave a soft murmur, as much as to say that Mrs Harris\'s\nremark, though perhaps not quite so intelligible as could be desired\nfrom such an authority, did equal honour to her head and to her heart.\n\n\'And here,\' continued Mrs Gamp, \'and here am I a-goin twenty mile in\ndistant, on as wentersome a chance as ever any one as monthlied ever\nrun, I do believe. Says Mrs Harris, with a woman\'s and a mother\'s\nart a-beatin in her human breast, she says to me, \"You\'re not a-goin,\nSairey, Lord forgive you!\" \"Why am I not a-goin, Mrs Harris?\" I replies.\n\"Mrs Gill,\" I says, \"wos never wrong with six; and is it likely,\nma\'am--I ast you as a mother--that she will begin to be unreg\'lar now?\nOften and often have I heerd him say,\" I says to Mrs Harris, meaning Mr\nGill, \"that he would back his wife agen Moore\'s almanack, to name the\nvery day and hour, for ninepence farden. IS it likely, ma\'am,\" I says,\n\"as she will fail this once?\" Says Mrs Harris \"No, ma\'am, not in the\ncourse of natur. But,\" she says, the tears a-fillin in her eyes, \"you\nknows much betterer than me, with your experienge, how little puts us\nout. A Punch\'s show,\" she says, \"a chimbley sweep, a newfundlan dog, or\na drunkin man a-comin round the corner sharp may do it.\" So it may, Mr\nSweedlepipes,\' said Mrs Gamp, \'there\'s no deniging of it; and though my\nbooks is clear for a full week, I takes a anxious art along with me, I\ndo assure you, sir.\'\n\n\'You\'re so full of zeal, you see!\' said Poll. \'You worrit yourself so.\'\n\n\'Worrit myself!\' cried Mrs Gamp, raising her hands and turning up her\neyes. \'You speak truth in that, sir, if you never speaks no more \'twixt\nthis and when two Sundays jines together. I feels the sufferins of other\npeople more than I feels my own, though no one mayn\'t suppoge it. The\nfamilies I\'ve had,\' said Mrs Gamp, \'if all was knowd and credit done\nwhere credit\'s doo, would take a week to chris\'en at Saint Polge\'s\nfontin!\'\n\n\'Where\'s the patient goin?\' asked Sweedlepipe.\n\n\'Into Har\'fordshire, which is his native air. But native airs nor native\ngraces neither,\' Mrs Gamp observed, \'won\'t bring HIM round.\'\n\n\'So bad as that?\' inquired the wistful barber. \'Indeed!\'\n\nMrs Gamp shook her head mysteriously, and pursed up her lips. \'There\'s\nfevers of the mind,\' she said, \'as well as body. You may take your slime\ndrafts till you flies into the air with efferwescence; but you won\'t\ncure that.\'\n\n\'Ah!\' said the barber, opening his eyes, and putting on his raven\naspect; \'Lor!\'\n\n\'No. You may make yourself as light as any gash balloon,\' said Mrs Gamp.\n\'But talk, when you\'re wrong in your head and when you\'re in your sleep,\nof certain things; and you\'ll be heavy in your mind.\'\n\n\'Of what kind of things now?\' inquired Poll, greedily biting his nails\nin his great interest. \'Ghosts?\'\n\nMrs Gamp, who perhaps had been already tempted further than she had\nintended to go, by the barber\'s stimulating curiosity, gave a sniff of\nuncommon significance, and said, it didn\'t signify.\n\n\'I\'m a-goin down with my patient in the coach this arternoon,\' she\nproceeded. \'I\'m a-goin to stop with him a day or so, till he gets a\ncountry nuss (drat them country nusses, much the orkard hussies knows\nabout their bis\'ness); and then I\'m a-comin back; and that\'s my trouble,\nMr Sweedlepipes. But I hope that everythink\'ll only go on right and\ncomfortable as long as I\'m away; perwisin which, as Mrs Harris says, Mrs\nGill is welcome to choose her own time; all times of the day and night\nbein\' equally the same to me.\'\n\nDuring the progress of the foregoing remarks, which Mrs Gamp had\naddressed exclusively to the barber, Mr Bailey had been tying his\ncravat, getting on his coat, and making hideous faces at himself in the\nglass. Being now personally addressed by Mrs Gamp, he turned round, and\nmingled in the conversation.\n\n\'You ain\'t been in the City, I suppose, sir, since we was all three\nthere together,\' said Mrs Gamp, \'at Mr Chuzzlewit\'s?\'\n\n\'Yes, I have, Sairah. I was there last night.\'\n\n\'Last night!\' cried the barber.\n\n\'Yes, Poll, reether so. You can call it this morning, if you like to be\nparticular. He dined with us.\'\n\n\'Who does that young Limb mean by \"hus?\"\' said Mrs Gamp, with most\nimpatient emphasis.\n\n\'Me and my Governor, Sairah. He dined at our house. We wos very merry,\nSairah. So much so, that I was obliged to see him home in a hackney\ncoach at three o\'clock in the morning.\' It was on the tip of the boy\'s\ntongue to relate what had followed; but remembering how easily it might\nbe carried to his master\'s ears, and the repeated cautions he had had\nfrom Mr Crimple \'not to chatter,\' he checked himself; adding, only, \'She\nwas sitting up, expecting him.\'\n\n\'And all things considered,\' said Mrs Gamp sharply, \'she might have\nknow\'d better than to go a-tirin herself out, by doin\' anythink of the\nsort. Did they seem pretty pleasant together, sir?\'\n\n\'Oh, yes,\' answered Bailey, \'pleasant enough.\'\n\n\'I\'m glad on it,\' said Mrs Gamp, with a second sniff of significance.\n\n\'They haven\'t been married so long,\' observed Poll, rubbing his hands,\n\'that they need be anything but pleasant yet awhile.\'\n\n\'No,\' said Mrs Gamp, with a third significant signal.\n\n\'Especially,\' pursued the barber, \'when the gentleman bears such a\ncharacter as you gave him.\'\n\n\'I speak; as I find, Mr Sweedlepipes,\' said Mrs Gamp. \'Forbid it should\nbe otherways! But we never knows wot\'s hidden in each other\'s hearts;\nand if we had glass winders there, we\'d need keep the shetters up, some\non us, I do assure you!\'\n\n\'But you don\'t mean to say--\' Poll Sweedlepipe began.\n\n\'No,\' said Mrs Gamp, cutting him very short, \'I don\'t. Don\'t think I do.\nThe torters of the Imposition shouldn\'t make me own I did. All I says\nis,\' added the good woman, rising and folding her shawl about her, \'that\nthe Bull\'s a-waitin, and the precious moments is a-flyin\' fast.\'\n\nThe little barber having in his eager curiosity a great desire to see\nMrs Gamp\'s patient, proposed to Mr Bailey that they should accompany\nher to the Bull, and witness the departure of the coach. That young\ngentleman assenting, they all went out together.\n\nArriving at the tavern, Mrs Gamp (who was full-dressed for the journey,\nin her latest suit of mourning) left her friends to entertain\nthemselves in the yard, while she ascended to the sick room, where her\nfellow-labourer Mrs Prig was dressing the invalid.\n\nHe was so wasted, that it seemed as if his bones would rattle when they\nmoved him. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes unnaturally large. He\nlay back in the easy-chair like one more dead than living; and rolled\nhis languid eyes towards the door when Mrs Gamp appeared, as painfully\nas if their weight alone were burdensome to move.\n\n\'And how are we by this time?\' Mrs Gamp observed. \'We looks charming.\'\n\n\'We looks a deal charminger than we are, then,\' returned Mrs Prig, a\nlittle chafed in her temper. \'We got out of bed back\'ards, I think, for\nwe\'re as cross as two sticks. I never see sich a man. He wouldn\'t have\nbeen washed, if he\'d had his own way.\'\n\n\'She put the soap in my mouth,\' said the unfortunate patient feebly.\n\n\'Couldn\'t you keep it shut then?\' retorted Mrs Prig. \'Who do you think\'s\nto wash one feater, and miss another, and wear one\'s eyes out with all\nmanner of fine work of that description, for half-a-crown a day! If you\nwants to be tittivated, you must pay accordin\'.\'\n\n\'Oh dear me!\' cried the patient, \'oh dear, dear!\'\n\n\'There!\' said Mrs Prig, \'that\'s the way he\'s been a-conductin of\nhimself, Sarah, ever since I got him out of bed, if you\'ll believe it.\'\n\n\'Instead of being grateful,\' Mrs Gamp observed, \'for all our little\nways. Oh, fie for shame, sir, fie for shame!\'\n\nHere Mrs Prig seized the patient by the chin, and began to rasp his\nunhappy head with a hair-brush.\n\n\'I suppose you don\'t like that, neither!\' she observed, stopping to look\nat him.\n\nIt was just possible that he didn\'t for the brush was a specimen of\nthe hardest kind of instrument producible by modern art; and his very\neyelids were red with the friction. Mrs Prig was gratified to observe\nthe correctness of her supposition, and said triumphantly \'she know\'d as\nmuch.\'\n\nWhen his hair was smoothed down comfortably into his eyes, Mrs Prig and\nMrs Gamp put on his neckerchief; adjusting his shirt collar with great\nnicety, so that the starched points should also invade those organs, and\nafflict them with an artificial ophthalmia. His waistcoat and coat\nwere next arranged; and as every button was wrenched into a wrong\nbutton-hole, and the order of his boots was reversed, he presented on\nthe whole rather a melancholy appearance.\n\n\'I don\'t think it\'s right,\' said the poor weak invalid. \'I feel as if I\nwas in somebody else\'s clothes. I\'m all on one side; and you\'ve made one\nof my legs shorter than the other. There\'s a bottle in my pocket too.\nWhat do you make me sit upon a bottle for?\'\n\n\'Deuce take the man!\' cried Mrs Gamp, drawing it forth. \'If he ain\'t\nbeen and got my night-bottle here. I made a little cupboard of his coat\nwhen it hung behind the door, and quite forgot it, Betsey. You\'ll find a\ningun or two, and a little tea and sugar in his t\'other pocket, my dear,\nif you\'ll just be good enough to take \'em out.\'\n\nBetsey produced the property in question, together with some other\narticles of general chandlery; and Mrs Gamp transferred them to her own\npocket, which was a species of nankeen pannier. Refreshment then arrived\nin the form of chops and strong ale for the ladies, and a basin of\nbeef-tea for the patient; which refection was barely at an end when John\nWestlock appeared.\n\n\'Up and dressed!\' cried John, sitting down beside him. \'That\'s brave.\nHow do you feel?\'\n\n\'Much better. But very weak.\'\n\n\'No wonder. You have had a hard bout of it. But country air, and change\nof scene,\' said John, \'will make another man of you! Why, Mrs Gamp,\'\nhe added, laughing, as he kindly arranged the sick man\'s garments, \'you\nhave odd notions of a gentleman\'s dress!\'\n\n\'Mr Lewsome an\'t a easy gent to get into his clothes, sir,\' Mrs Gamp\nreplied with dignity; \'as me and Betsey Prig can certify afore the Lord\nMayor and Uncommon Counsellors, if needful!\'\n\nJohn at that moment was standing close in front of the sick man, in the\nact of releasing him from the torture of the collars before mentioned,\nwhen he said in a whisper:\n\n\'Mr Westlock! I don\'t wish to be overheard. I have something very\nparticular and strange to say to you; something that has been a dreadful\nweight on my mind, through this long illness.\'\n\nQuick in all his motions, John was turning round to desire the women to\nleave the room; when the sick man held him by the sleeve.\n\n\'Not now. I\'ve not the strength. I\'ve not the courage. May I tell it\nwhen I have? May I write it, if I find that easier and better?\'\n\n\'May you!\' cried John. \'Why, Lewsome, what is this!\'\n\n\'Don\'t ask me what it is. It\'s unnatural and cruel. Frightful to think\nof. Frightful to tell. Frightful to know. Frightful to have helped in.\nLet me kiss your hand for all your goodness to me. Be kinder still, and\ndon\'t ask me what it is!\'\n\nAt first, John gazed at him in great surprise; but remembering how very\nmuch reduced he was, and how recently his brain had been on fire with\nfever, believed that he was labouring under some imaginary horror or\ndespondent fancy. For farther information on this point, he took an\nopportunity of drawing Mrs Gamp aside, while Betsey Prig was wrapping\nhim in cloaks and shawls, and asked her whether he was quite collected\nin his mind.\n\n\'Oh bless you, no!\' said Mrs Gamp. \'He hates his nusses to this hour.\nThey always does it, sir. It\'s a certain sign. If you could have heerd\nthe poor dear soul a-findin fault with me and Betsey Prig, not half an\nhour ago, you would have wondered how it is we don\'t get fretted to the\ntomb.\'\n\nThis almost confirmed John in his suspicion; so, not taking what had\npassed into any serious account, he resumed his former cheerful manner,\nand assisted by Mrs Gamp and Betsey Prig, conducted Lewsome downstairs\nto the coach; just then upon the point of starting. Poll Sweedlepipe\nwas at the door with his arms tight folded and his eyes wide open, and\nlooked on with absorbing interest, while the sick man was slowly\nmoved into the vehicle. His bony hands and haggard face impressed Poll\nwonderfully; and he informed Mr Bailey in confidence, that he wouldn\'t\nhave missed seeing him for a pound. Mr Bailey, who was of a different\nconstitution, remarked that he would have stayed away for five\nshillings.\n\nIt was a troublesome matter to adjust Mrs Gamp\'s luggage to her\nsatisfaction; for every package belonging to that lady had the\ninconvenient property of requiring to be put in a boot by itself, and\nto have no other luggage near it, on pain of actions at law for heavy\ndamages against the proprietors of the coach. The umbrella with the\ncircular patch was particularly hard to be got rid of, and several times\nthrust out its battered brass nozzle from improper crevices and chinks,\nto the great terror of the other passengers. Indeed, in her intense\nanxiety to find a haven of refuge for this chattel, Mrs Gamp so often\nmoved it, in the course of five minutes, that it seemed not one umbrella\nbut fifty. At length it was lost, or said to be; and for the next five\nminutes she was face to face with the coachman, go wherever he might,\nprotesting that it should be \'made good,\' though she took the question\nto the House of Commons.\n\nAt last, her bundle, and her pattens, and her basket, and everything\nelse, being disposed of, she took a friendly leave of Poll and Mr\nBailey, dropped a curtsey to John Westlock, and parted as from a\ncherished member of the sisterhood with Betsey Prig.\n\n\'Wishin you lots of sickness, my darlin creetur,\' Mrs Gamp observed,\n\'and good places. It won\'t be long, I hope, afore we works together, off\nand on, again, Betsey; and may our next meetin\' be at a large family\'s,\nwhere they all takes it reg\'lar, one from another, turn and turn about,\nand has it business-like.\'\n\n\'I don\'t care how soon it is,\' said Mrs Prig; \'nor how many weeks it\nlasts.\'\n\nMrs Gamp with a reply in a congenial spirit was backing to the coach,\nwhen she came in contact with a lady and gentleman who were passing\nalong the footway.\n\n\'Take care, take care here!\' cried the gentleman. \'Halloo! My dear! Why,\nit\'s Mrs Gamp!\'\n\n\'What, Mr Mould!\' exclaimed the nurse. \'And Mrs Mould! who would have\nthought as we should ever have a meetin\' here, I\'m sure!\'\n\n\'Going out of town, Mrs Gamp?\' cried Mould. \'That\'s unusual, isn\'t it?\'\n\n\'It IS unusual, sir,\' said Mrs Gamp. \'But only for a day or two at most.\nThe gent,\' she whispered, \'as I spoke about.\'\n\n\'What, in the coach!\' cried Mould. \'The one you thought of recommending?\nVery odd. My dear, this will interest you. The gentleman that Mrs Gamp\nthought likely to suit us is in the coach, my love.\'\n\nMrs Mould was greatly interested.\n\n\'Here, my dear. You can stand upon the door-step,\' said Mould, \'and take\na look at him. Ha! There he is. Where\'s my glass? Oh! all right. I\'ve\ngot it. Do you see him, my dear?\'\n\n\'Quite plain,\' said Mrs Mould.\n\n\'Upon my life, you know, this is a very singular circumstance,\' said\nMould, quite delighted. \'This is the sort of thing, my dear, I wouldn\'t\nhave missed on any account. It tickles one. It\'s interesting. It\'s\nalmost a little play, you know. Ah! There he is! To be sure. Looks\npoorly, Mrs M., don\'t he?\'\n\nMrs Mould assented.\n\n\'He\'s coming our way, perhaps, after all,\' said Mould. \'Who knows! I\nfeel as if I ought to show him some little attention, really. He don\'t\nseem a stranger to me. I\'m very much inclined to move my hat, my dear.\'\n\n\'He\'s looking hard this way,\' said Mrs Mould.\n\n\'Then I will!\' cried Mould. \'How d\'ye do, sir! I wish you good day. Ha!\nHe bows too. Very gentlemanly. Mrs Gamp has the cards in her pocket, I\nhave no doubt. This is very singular, my dear--and very pleasant. I am\nnot superstitious, but it really seems as if one was destined to pay him\nthose little melancholy civilities which belong to our peculiar line of\nbusiness. There can be no kind of objection to your kissing your hand to\nhim, my dear.\'\n\nMrs Mould did so.\n\n\'Ha!\' said Mould. \'He\'s evidently gratified. Poor fellow! I am quite\nglad you did it, my love. Bye bye, Mrs Gamp!\' waving his hand. \'There he\ngoes; there he goes!\'\n\nSo he did; for the coach rolled off as the words were spoken. Mr and Mrs\nMould, in high good humour, went their merry way. Mr Bailey retired\nwith Poll Sweedlepipe as soon as possible; but some little time\nelapsed before he could remove his friend from the ground, owing to\nthe impression wrought upon the barber\'s nerves by Mrs Prig, whom he\npronounced, in admiration of her beard, to be a woman of transcendent\ncharms.\n\nWhen the light cloud of bustle hanging round the coach was thus\ndispersed, Nadgett was seen in the darkest box of the Bull coffee-room,\nlooking wistfully up at the clock--as if the man who never appeared were\na little behind his time.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY\n\nPROVES THAT CHANGES MAY BE RUNG IN THE BEST-REGULATED FAMILIES, AND THAT\nMR PECKNIFF WAS A SPECIAL HAND AT A TRIPLE-BOB-MAJOR\n\n\nAs the surgeon\'s first care after amputating a limb, is to take up the\narteries the cruel knife has severed, so it is the duty of this history,\nwhich in its remorseless course has cut from the Pecksniffian trunk its\nright arm, Mercy, to look to the parent stem, and see how in all its\nvarious ramifications it got on without her.\n\nAnd first of Mr Pecksniff it may be observed, that having provided for\nhis youngest daughter that choicest of blessings, a tender and indulgent\nhusband; and having gratified the dearest wish of his parental heart by\nestablishing her in life so happily; he renewed his youth, and spreading\nthe plumage of his own bright conscience, felt himself equal to all\nkinds of flights. It is customary with fathers in stage-plays, after\ngiving their daughters to the men of their hearts, to congratulate\nthemselves on having no other business on their hands but to die\nimmediately; though it is rarely found that they are in a hurry to do\nit. Mr Pecksniff, being a father of a more sage and practical class,\nappeared to think that his immediate business was to live; and having\ndeprived himself of one comfort, to surround himself with others.\n\nBut however much inclined the good man was to be jocose and playful, and\nin the garden of his fancy to disport himself (if one may say so) like\nan architectural kitten, he had one impediment constantly opposed to\nhim. The gentle Cherry, stung by a sense of slight and injury, which\nfar from softening down or wearing out, rankled and festered in her\nheart--the gentle Cherry was in flat rebellion. She waged fierce war\nagainst her dear papa, she led her parent what is usually called, for\nwant of a better figure of speech, the life of a dog. But never did that\ndog live, in kennel, stable-yard, or house, whose life was half as hard\nas Mr Pecksniff\'s with his gentle child.\n\nThe father and daughter were sitting at their breakfast. Tom had\nretired, and they were alone. Mr Pecksniff frowned at first; but having\ncleared his brow, looked stealthily at his child. Her nose was very red\nindeed, and screwed up tight, with hostile preparation.\n\n\'Cherry,\' cried Mr Pecksniff, \'what is amiss between us? My child, why\nare we disunited?\'\n\nMiss Pecksniff\'s answer was scarcely a response to this gush of\naffection, for it was simply, \'Bother, Pa!\'\n\n\'Bother!\' repeated Mr Pecksniff, in a tone of anguish.\n\n\'Oh! \'tis too late, Pa,\' said his daughter, calmly \'to talk to me like\nthis. I know what it means, and what its value is.\'\n\n\'This is hard!\' cried Mr Pecksniff, addressing his breakfast-cup. \'This\nis very hard! She is my child. I carried her in my arms when she wore\nshapeless worsted shoes--I might say, mufflers--many years ago!\'\n\n\'You needn\'t taunt me with that, Pa,\' retorted Cherry, with a spiteful\nlook. \'I am not so many years older than my sister, either, though she\nIS married to your friend!\'\n\n\'Ah, human nature, human nature! Poor human nature!\' said Mr Pecksniff,\nshaking his head at human nature, as if he didn\'t belong to it. \'To\nthink that this discord should arise from such a cause! oh dear, oh\ndear!\'\n\n\'From such a cause indeed!\' cried Cherry. \'State the real cause, Pa, or\nI\'ll state it myself. Mind! I will!\'\n\nPerhaps the energy with which she said this was infectious. However that\nmay be, Mr Pecksniff changed his tone and the expression of his face for\none of anger, if not downright violence, when he said:\n\n\'You will! you have. You did yesterday. You do always. You have no\ndecency; you make no secret of your temper; you have exposed yourself to\nMr Chuzzlewit a hundred times.\'\n\n\'Myself!\' cried Cherry, with a bitter smile. \'Oh indeed! I don\'t mind\nthat.\'\n\n\'Me, too, then,\' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\nHis daughter answered with a scornful laugh.\n\n\'And since we have come to an explanation, Charity,\' said Mr Pecksniff,\nrolling his head portentously, \'let me tell you that I won\'t allow it.\nNone of your nonsense, Miss! I won\'t permit it to be done.\'\n\n\'I shall do,\' said Charity, rocking her chair backwards and forwards,\nand raising her voice to a high pitch, \'I shall do, Pa, what I please\nand what I have done. I am not going to be crushed in everything, depend\nupon it. I\'ve been more shamefully used than anybody ever was in\nthis world,\' here she began to cry and sob, \'and may expect the worse\ntreatment from you, I know. But I don\'t care for that. No, I don\'t!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff was made so desperate by the loud tone in which she spoke,\nthat, after looking about him in frantic uncertainty for some means of\nsoftening it, he rose and shook her until the ornamental bow of hair\nupon her head nodded like a plume. She was so very much astonished by\nthis assault, that it really had the desired effect.\n\n\'I\'ll do it again!\' cried Mr Pecksniff, as he resumed his seat and\nfetched his breath, \'if you dare to talk in that loud manner. How do\nyou mean about being shamefully used? If Mr Jonas chose your sister in\npreference to you, who could help it, I should wish to know? What have I\nto do with it?\'\n\n\'Wasn\'t I made a convenience of? Weren\'t my feelings trifled with?\nDidn\'t he address himself to me first?\' sobbed Cherry, clasping her\nhands; \'and oh, good gracious, that I should live to be shook!\'\n\n\'You\'ll live to be shaken again,\' returned her parent, \'if you drive\nme to that means of maintaining the decorum of this humble roof. You\nsurprise me. I wonder you have not more spirit. If Mr Jonas didn\'t care\nfor you, how could you wish to have him?\'\n\n\'I wish to have him!\' exclaimed Cherry. \'I wish to have him, Pa!\'\n\n\'Then what are you making all this piece of work for,\' retorted her\nfather, \'if you didn\'t wish to have him?\'\n\n\'Because I was treated with duplicity,\' said Cherry; \'and because my own\nsister and my own father conspired against me. I am not angry with HER,\'\nsaid Cherry; looking much more angry than ever. \'I pity her. I\'m sorry\nfor her. I know the fate that\'s in store for her, with that Wretch.\'\n\n\'Mr Jonas will survive your calling him a wretch, my child, I dare say,\'\nsaid Mr Pecksniff, with returning resignation; \'but call him what you\nlike and make an end of it.\'\n\n\'Not an end, Pa,\' said Charity. \'No, not an end. That\'s not the only\npoint on which we\'re not agreed. I won\'t submit to it. It\'s better you\nshould know that at once. No; I won\'t submit to it indeed, Pa! I am\nnot quite a fool, and I am not blind. All I have got to say is, I won\'t\nsubmit to it.\'\n\nWhatever she meant, she shook Mr Pecksniff now; for his lame attempt to\nseem composed was melancholy in the last degree. His anger changed to\nmeekness, and his words were mild and fawning.\n\n\'My dear,\' he said; \'if in the short excitement of an angry moment I\nresorted to an unjustifiable means of suppressing a little outbreak\ncalculated to injure you as well as myself--it\'s possible I may have\ndone so; perhaps I did--I ask your pardon. A father asking pardon of\nhis child,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'is, I believe, a spectacle to soften the\nmost rugged nature.\'\n\nBut it didn\'t at all soften Miss Pecksniff; perhaps because her nature\nwas not rugged enough. On the contrary, she persisted in saying, over\nand over again, that she wasn\'t quite a fool, and wasn\'t blind, and\nwouldn\'t submit to it.\n\n\'You labour under some mistake, my child!\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'but\nI will not ask you what it is; I don\'t desire to know. No, pray!\' he\nadded, holding out his hand and colouring again, \'let us avoid the\nsubject, my dear, whatever it is!\'\n\n\'It\'s quite right that the subject should be avoided between us,\nsir,\' said Cherry. \'But I wish to be able to avoid it altogether, and\nconsequently must beg you to provide me with a home.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff looked about the room, and said, \'A home, my child!\'\n\n\'Another home, papa,\' said Cherry, with increasing stateliness \'Place me\nat Mrs Todgers\'s or somewhere, on an independent footing; but I will not\nlive here, if such is to be the case.\'\n\nIt is possible that Miss Pecksniff saw in Mrs Todgers\'s a vision\nof enthusiastic men, pining to fall in adoration at her feet. It is\npossible that Mr Pecksniff, in his new-born juvenility, saw, in the\nsuggestion of that same establishment, an easy means of relieving\nhimself from an irksome charge in the way of temper and watchfulness.\nIt is undoubtedly a fact that in the attentive ears of Mr Pecksniff, the\nproposition did not sound quite like the dismal knell of all his hopes.\n\nBut he was a man of great feeling and acute sensibility; and he squeezed\nhis pocket-handkerchief against his eyes with both hands--as such men\nalways do, especially when they are observed. \'One of my birds,\' Mr\nPecksniff said, \'has left me for the stranger\'s breast; the other would\ntake wing to Todgers\'s! Well, well, what am I? I don\'t know what I am,\nexactly. Never mind!\'\n\nEven this remark, made more pathetic perhaps by his breaking down in\nthe middle of it, had no effect upon Charity. She was grim, rigid, and\ninflexible.\n\n\'But I have ever,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'sacrificed my children\'s\nhappiness to my own--I mean my own happiness to my children\'s--and I\nwill not begin to regulate my life by other rules of conduct now. If you\ncan be happier at Mrs Todgers\'s than in your father\'s house, my dear, go\nto Mrs Todgers\'s! Do not think of me, my girl!\' said Mr Pecksniff with\nemotion; \'I shall get on pretty well, no doubt.\'\n\nMiss Charity, who knew he had a secret pleasure in the contemplation of\nthe proposed change, suppressed her own, and went on to negotiate the\nterms. His views upon this subject were at first so very limited that\nanother difference, involving possibly another shaking, threatened to\nensue; but by degrees they came to something like an understanding, and\nthe storm blew over. Indeed, Miss Charity\'s idea was so agreeable\nto both, that it would have been strange if they had not come to an\namicable agreement. It was soon arranged between them that the project\nshould be tried, and that immediately; and that Cherry\'s not being well,\nand needing change of scene, and wishing to be near her sister, should\nform the excuse for her departure to Mr Chuzzlewit and Mary, to both of\nwhom she had pleaded indisposition for some time past. These premises\nagreed on, Mr Pecksniff gave her his blessing, with all the dignity of\na self-denying man who had made a hard sacrifice, but comforted himself\nwith the reflection that virtue is its own reward. Thus they were\nreconciled for the first time since that not easily forgiven night,\nwhen Mr Jonas, repudiating the elder, had confessed his passion for the\nyounger sister, and Mr Pecksniff had abetted him on moral grounds.\n\nBut how happened it--in the name of an unexpected addition to that small\nfamily, the Seven Wonders of the World, whatever and wherever they may\nbe, how happened it--that Mr Pecksniff and his daughter were about\nto part? How happened it that their mutual relations were so greatly\naltered? Why was Miss Pecksniff so clamorous to have it understood that\nshe was neither blind nor foolish, and she wouldn\'t bear it? It is not\npossible that Mr Pecksniff had any thoughts of marrying again; or that\nhis daughter, with the sharp eye of a single woman, fathomed his design!\n\nLet us inquire into this.\n\nMr Pecksniff, as a man without reproach, from whom the breath of slander\npassed like common breath from any other polished surface, could afford\nto do what common men could not. He knew the purity of his own motives;\nand when he had a motive worked at it as only a very good man (or a very\nbad one) can. Did he set before himself any strong and palpable motives\nfor taking a second wife? Yes; and not one or two of them, but a\ncombination of very many.\n\nOld Martin Chuzzlewit had gradually undergone an important change. Even\nupon the night when he made such an ill-timed arrival at Mr Pecksniff\'s\nhouse, he was comparatively subdued and easy to deal with. This Mr\nPecksniff attributed, at the time, to the effect his brother\'s death had\nhad upon him. But from that hour his character seemed to have modified\nby regular degrees, and to have softened down into a dull indifference\nfor almost every one but Mr Pecksniff. His looks were much the same as\never, but his mind was singularly altered. It was not that this or that\npassion stood out in brighter or in dimmer hues; but that the colour of\nthe whole man was faded. As one trait disappeared, no other trait sprung\nup to take its place. His senses dwindled too. He was less keen of\nsight; was deaf sometimes; took little notice of what passed before him;\nand would be profoundly taciturn for days together. The process of this\nalteration was so easy that almost as soon as it began to be observed\nit was complete. But Mr Pecksniff saw it first, and having Anthony\nChuzzlewit fresh in his recollection, saw in his brother Martin the same\nprocess of decay.\n\nTo a gentleman of Mr Pecksniff\'s tenderness, this was a very mournful\nsight. He could not but foresee the probability of his respected\nrelative being made the victim of designing persons, and of his riches\nfalling into worthless hands. It gave him so much pain that he resolved\nto secure the property to himself; to keep bad testamentary suitors at a\ndistance; to wall up the old gentleman, as it were, for his own use. By\nlittle and little, therefore, he began to try whether Mr Chuzzlewit gave\nany promise of becoming an instrument in his hands, and finding that he\ndid, and indeed that he was very supple in his plastic fingers, he made\nit the business of his life--kind soul!--to establish an ascendancy over\nhim; and every little test he durst apply meeting with a success beyond\nhis hopes, he began to think he heard old Martin\'s cash already chinking\nin his own unworldly pockets.\n\nBut when Mr Pecksniff pondered on this subject (as, in his zealous\nway, he often did), and thought with an uplifted heart of the train of\ncircumstances which had delivered the old gentleman into his hands for\nthe confusion of evil-doers and the triumph of a righteous nature, he\nalways felt that Mary Graham was his stumbling-block. Let the old man\nsay what he would, Mr Pecksniff knew he had a strong affection for her.\nHe knew that he showed it in a thousand little ways; that he liked to\nhave her near him, and was never quite at ease when she was absent\nlong. That he had ever really sworn to leave her nothing in his will, Mr\nPecksniff greatly doubted. That even if he had, there were many ways by\nwhich he could evade the oath and satisfy his conscience, Mr Pecksniff\nknew. That her unprotected state was no light burden on the old man\'s\nmind, he also knew, for Mr Chuzzlewit had plainly told him so. \'Then,\'\nsaid Mr Pecksniff \'what if I married her! What,\' repeated Mr Pecksniff,\nsticking up his hair and glancing at his bust by Spoker; \'what\nif, making sure of his approval first--he is nearly imbecile, poor\ngentleman--I married her!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff had a lively sense of the Beautiful; especially in women.\nHis manner towards the sex was remarkable for its insinuating character.\nIt is recorded of him in another part of these pages, that he embraced\nMrs Todgers on the smallest provocation; and it was a way he had; it was\na part of the gentle placidity of his disposition. Before any thought of\nmatrimony was in his mind, he had bestowed on Mary many little tokens of\nhis spiritual admiration. They had been indignantly received, but that\nwas nothing. True, as the idea expanded within him, these had become\ntoo ardent to escape the piercing eye of Cherry, who read his scheme at\nonce; but he had always felt the power of Mary\'s charms. So Interest and\nInclination made a pair, and drew the curricle of Mr Pecksniff\'s plan.\n\nAs to any thought of revenging himself on young Martin for his insolent\nexpressions when they parted, and of shutting him out still more\neffectually from any hope of reconciliation with his grandfather, Mr\nPecksniff was much too meek and forgiving to be suspected of harbouring\nit. As to being refused by Mary, Mr Pecksniff was quite satisfied that\nin her position she could never hold out if he and Mr Chuzzlewit were\nboth against her. As to consulting the wishes of her heart in such a\ncase, it formed no part of Mr Pecksniff\'s moral code; for he knew what a\ngood man he was, and what a blessing he must be to anybody. His daughter\nhaving broken the ice, and the murder being out between them, Mr\nPecksniff had now only to pursue his design as cleverly as he could, and\nby the craftiest approaches.\n\n\'Well, my good sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff, meeting old Martin in the\ngarden, for it was his habit to walk in and out by that way, as the\nfancy took him; \'and how is my dear friend this delicious morning?\'\n\n\'Do you mean me?\' asked the old man.\n\n\'Ah!\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'one of his deaf days, I see. Could I mean any\none else, my dear sir?\'\n\n\'You might have meant Mary,\' said the old man.\n\n\'Indeed I might. Quite true. I might speak of her as a dear, dear\nfriend, I hope?\' observed Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'I hope so,\' returned old Martin. \'I think she deserves it.\'\n\n\'Think!\' cried Pecksniff, \'think, Mr Chuzzlewit!\'\n\n\'You are speaking, I know,\' returned Martin, \'but I don\'t catch what you\nsay. Speak up!\'\n\n\'He\'s getting deafer than a flint,\' said Pecksniff. \'I was saying, my\ndear sir, that I am afraid I must make up my mind to part with Cherry.\'\n\n\'What has SHE been doing?\' asked the old man.\n\n\'He puts the most ridiculous questions I ever heard!\' muttered Mr\nPecksniff. \'He\'s a child to-day.\' After which he added, in a mild roar:\n\'She hasn\'t been doing anything, my dear friend.\'\n\n\'What are you going to part with her for?\' demanded Martin.\n\n\'She hasn\'t her health by any means,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'She misses\nher sister, my dear sir; they doted on each other from the cradle. And I\nthink of giving her a run in London for a change. A good long run, sir,\nif I find she likes it.\'\n\n\'Quite right,\' cried Martin. \'It\'s judicious.\'\n\n\'I am glad to hear you say so. I hope you mean to bear me company in\nthis dull part, while she\'s away?\' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'I have no intention of removing from it,\' was Martin\'s answer.\n\n\'Then why,\' said Mr Pecksniff, taking the old man\'s arm in his, and\nwalking slowly on; \'Why, my good sir, can\'t you come and stay with me?\nI am sure I could surround you with more comforts--lowly as is my\nCot--than you can obtain at a village house of entertainment. And pardon\nme, Mr Chuzzlewit, pardon me if I say that such a place as the Dragon,\nhowever well-conducted (and, as far as I know, Mrs Lupin is one of the\nworthiest creatures in this county), is hardly a home for Miss Graham.\'\n\nMartin mused a moment; and then said, as he shook him by the hand:\n\n\'No. You\'re quite right; it is not.\'\n\n\'The very sight of skittles,\' Mr Pecksniff eloquently pursued, \'is far\nfrom being congenial to a delicate mind.\'\n\n\'It\'s an amusement of the vulgar,\' said old Martin, \'certainly.\'\n\n\'Of the very vulgar,\' Mr Pecksniff answered. \'Then why not bring Miss\nGraham here, sir? Here is the house. Here am I alone in it, for Thomas\nPinch I do not count as any one. Our lovely friend shall occupy my\ndaughter\'s chamber; you shall choose your own; we shall not quarrel, I\nhope!\'\n\n\'We are not likely to do that,\' said Martin.\n\nMr Pecksniff pressed his hand. \'We understand each other, my dear sir,\nI see!--I can wind him,\' he thought, with exultation, \'round my little\nfinger.\'\n\n\'You leave the recompense to me?\' said the old man, after a minute\'s\nsilence.\n\n\'Oh! do not speak of recompense!\' cried Pecksniff.\n\n\'I say,\' repeated Martin, with a glimmer of his old obstinacy, \'you\nleave the recompense to me. Do you?\'\n\n\'Since you desire it, my good sir.\'\n\n\'I always desire it,\' said the old man. \'You know I always desire it. I\nwish to pay as I go, even when I buy of you. Not that I do not leave a\nbalance to be settled one day, Pecksniff.\'\n\nThe architect was too much overcome to speak. He tried to drop a tear\nupon his patron\'s hand, but couldn\'t find one in his dry distillery.\n\n\'May that day be very distant!\' was his pious exclamation. \'Ah, sir! If\nI could say how deep an interest I have in you and yours! I allude to\nour beautiful young friend.\'\n\n\'True,\' he answered. \'True. She need have some one interested in her.\nI did her wrong to train her as I did. Orphan though she was, she would\nhave found some one to protect her whom she might have loved again. When\nshe was a child, I pleased myself with the thought that in gratifying my\nwhim of placing her between me and false-hearted knaves, I had done\nher a kindness. Now she is a woman, I have no such comfort. She has no\nprotector but herself. I have put her at such odds with the world, that\nany dog may bark or fawn upon her at his pleasure. Indeed she stands in\nneed of delicate consideration. Yes; indeed she does!\'\n\n\'If her position could be altered and defined, sir?\' Mr Pecksniff\nhinted.\n\n\'How can that be done? Should I make a seamstress of her, or a\ngoverness?\'\n\n\'Heaven forbid!\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'My dear sir, there are other ways.\nThere are indeed. But I am much excited and embarrassed at present, and\nwould rather not pursue the subject. I scarcely know what I mean. Permit\nme to resume it at another time.\'\n\n\'You are not unwell?\' asked Martin anxiously.\n\n\'No, no!\' cried Pecksniff. \'No. Permit me to resume it at another time.\nI\'ll walk a little. Bless you!\'\n\nOld Martin blessed him in return, and squeezed his hand. As he turned\naway, and slowly walked towards the house, Mr Pecksniff stood gazing\nafter him; being pretty well recovered from his late emotion, which, in\nany other man, one might have thought had been assumed as a machinery\nfor feeling Martin\'s pulse. The change in the old man found such a\nslight expression in his figure, that Mr Pecksniff, looking after him,\ncould not help saying to himself:\n\n\'And I can wind him round my little finger! Only think!\'\n\nOld Martin happening to turn his head, saluted him affectionately. Mr\nPecksniff returned the gesture.\n\n\'Why, the time was,\' said Mr Pecksniff; \'and not long ago, when he\nwouldn\'t look at me! How soothing is this change. Such is the delicate\ntexture of the human heart; so complicated is the process of its being\nsoftened! Externally he looks the same, and I can wind him round my\nlittle finger. Only think!\'\n\nIn sober truth, there did appear to be nothing on which Mr Pecksniff\nmight not have ventured with Martin Chuzzlewit; for whatever Mr\nPecksniff said or did was right, and whatever he advised was done.\nMartin had escaped so many snares from needy fortune-hunters, and had\nwithered in the shell of his suspicion and distrust for so many years,\nbut to become the good man\'s tool and plaything. With the happiness of\nthis conviction painted on his face, the architect went forth upon his\nmorning walk.\n\nThe summer weather in his bosom was reflected in the breast of Nature.\nThrough deep green vistas where the boughs arched overhead, and showed\nthe sunlight flashing in the beautiful perspective; through dewy fern\nfrom which the startled hares leaped up, and fled at his approach; by\nmantled pools, and fallen trees, and down in hollow places, rustling\namong last year\'s leaves whose scent woke memory of the past; the placid\nPecksniff strolled. By meadow gates and hedges fragrant with wild roses;\nand by thatched-roof cottages whose inmates humbly bowed before him as\na man both good and wise; the worthy Pecksniff walked in tranquil\nmeditation. The bee passed onward, humming of the work he had to do;\nthe idle gnats for ever going round and round in one contracting and\nexpanding ring, yet always going on as fast as he, danced merrily before\nhim; the colour of the long grass came and went, as if the light clouds\nmade it timid as they floated through the distant air. The birds,\nso many Pecksniff consciences, sang gayly upon every branch; and Mr\nPecksniff paid HIS homage to the day by ruminating on his projects as he\nwalked along.\n\nChancing to trip, in his abstraction, over the spreading root of an old\ntree, he raised his pious eyes to take a survey of the ground before\nhim. It startled him to see the embodied image of his thoughts not far\nahead. Mary herself. And alone.\n\nAt first Mr Pecksniff stopped as if with the intention of avoiding\nher; but his next impulse was to advance, which he did at a brisk pace;\ncaroling as he went so sweetly and with so much innocence that he only\nwanted feathers and wings to be a bird.\n\nHearing notes behind her, not belonging to the songsters of the grove,\nshe looked round. Mr Pecksniff kissed his hand, and was at her side\nimmediately.\n\n\'Communing with nature?\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'So am I.\'\n\nShe said the morning was so beautiful that she had walked further than\nshe intended, and would return. Mr Pecksniff said it was exactly his\ncase, and he would return with her.\n\n\'Take my arm, sweet girl,\' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\nMary declined it, and walked so very fast that he remonstrated. \'You\nwere loitering when I came upon you,\' Mr Pecksniff said. \'Why be so\ncruel as to hurry now? You would not shun me, would you?\'\n\n\'Yes, I would,\' she answered, turning her glowing cheek indignantly\nupon him, \'you know I would. Release me, Mr Pecksniff. Your touch is\ndisagreeable to me.\'\n\nHis touch! What? That chaste patriarchal touch which Mrs Todgers--surely\na discreet lady--had endured, not only without complaint, but with\napparent satisfaction! This was positively wrong. Mr Pecksniff was sorry\nto hear her say it.\n\n\'If you have not observed,\' said Mary, \'that it is so, pray take\nassurance from my lips, and do not, as you are a gentleman, continue to\noffend me.\'\n\n\'Well, well!\' said Mr Pecksniff, mildly, \'I feel that I might consider\nthis becoming in a daughter of my own, and why should I object to it\nin one so beautiful! It\'s harsh. It cuts me to the soul,\' said Mr\nPecksniff; \'but I cannot quarrel with you, Mary.\'\n\nShe tried to say she was sorry to hear it, but burst into tears. Mr\nPecksniff now repeated the Todgers performance on a comfortable scale,\nas if he intended it to last some time; and in his disengaged hand,\ncatching hers, employed himself in separating the fingers with his own,\nand sometimes kissing them, as he pursued the conversation thus:\n\n\'I am glad we met. I am very glad we met. I am able now to ease my\nbosom of a heavy load, and speak to you in confidence. Mary,\' said Mr\nPecksniff in his tenderest tones, indeed they were so very tender that\nhe almost squeaked: \'My soul! I love you!\'\n\nA fantastic thing, that maiden affectation! She made believe to shudder.\n\n\'I love you,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'my gentle life, with a devotion which\nis quite surprising, even to myself. I did suppose that the sensation\nwas buried in the silent tomb of a lady, only second to you in qualities\nof the mind and form; but I find I am mistaken.\'\n\nShe tried to disengage her hand, but might as well have tried to free\nherself from the embrace of an affectionate boa-constrictor; if anything\nso wily may be brought into comparison with Pecksniff.\n\n\'Although I am a widower,\' said Mr Pecksniff, examining the rings upon\nher fingers, and tracing the course of one delicate blue vein with his\nfat thumb, \'a widower with two daughters, still I am not encumbered,\nmy love. One of them, as you know, is married. The other, by her own\ndesire, but with a view, I will confess--why not?--to my altering my\ncondition, is about to leave her father\'s house. I have a character,\nI hope. People are pleased to speak well of me, I think. My person\nand manner are not absolutely those of a monster, I trust. Ah! naughty\nHand!\' said Mr Pecksniff, apostrophizing the reluctant prize, \'why did\nyou take me prisoner? Go, go!\'\n\nHe slapped the hand to punish it; but relenting, folded it in his\nwaistcoat to comfort it again.\n\n\'Blessed in each other, and in the society of our venerable friend, my\ndarling,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'we shall be happy. When he is wafted to a\nhaven of rest, we will console each other. My pretty primrose, what do\nyou say?\'\n\n\'It is possible,\' Mary answered, in a hurried manner, \'that I ought to\nfeel grateful for this mark of your confidence. I cannot say that I do,\nbut I am willing to suppose you may deserve my thanks. Take them; and\npray leave me, Mr Pecksniff.\'\n\nThe good man smiled a greasy smile; and drew her closer to him.\n\n\'Pray, pray release me, Mr Pecksniff. I cannot listen to your proposal.\nI cannot receive it. There are many to whom it may be acceptable, but it\nis not so to me. As an act of kindness and an act of pity, leave me!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff walked on with his arm round her waist, and her hand in\nhis, as contentedly as if they had been all in all to each other, and\nwere joined in the bonds of truest love.\n\n\'If you force me by your superior strength,\' said Mary, who finding that\ngood words had not the least effect upon him, made no further effort to\nsuppress her indignation; \'if you force me by your superior strength\nto accompany you back, and to be the subject of your insolence upon the\nway, you cannot constrain the expression of my thoughts. I hold you in\nthe deepest abhorrence. I know your real nature and despise it.\'\n\n\'No, no,\' said Mr Pecksniff, sweetly. \'No, no, no!\'\n\n\'By what arts or unhappy chances you have gained your influence over\nMr Chuzzlewit, I do not know,\' said Mary; \'it may be strong enough to\nsoften even this, but he shall know of this, trust me, sir.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff raised his heavy eyelids languidly, and let them fall\nagain. It was saying with perfect coolness, \'Aye, aye! Indeed!\'\n\n\'Is it not enough,\' said Mary, \'that you warp and change his nature,\nadapt his every prejudice to your bad ends, and harden a heart naturally\nkind by shutting out the truth and allowing none but false and distorted\nviews to reach it; is it not enough that you have the power of doing\nthis, and that you exercise it, but must you also be so coarse, so\ncruel, and so cowardly to me?\'\n\nStill Mr Pecksniff led her calmly on, and looked as mild as any lamb\nthat ever pastured in the fields.\n\n\'Will nothing move you, sir?\' cried Mary.\n\n\'My dear,\' observed Mr Pecksniff, with a placid leer, \'a habit of\nself-examination, and the practice of--shall I say of virtue?\'\n\n\'Of hypocrisy,\' said Mary.\n\n\'No, no,\' resumed Mr Pecksniff, chafing the captive hand reproachfully,\n\'of virtue--have enabled me to set such guards upon myself, that it\nis really difficult to ruffle me. It is a curious fact, but it is\ndifficult, do you know, for any one to ruffle me. And did she think,\'\nsaid Mr Pecksniff, with a playful tightening of his grasp \'that SHE\ncould! How little did she know his heart!\'\n\nLittle, indeed! Her mind was so strangely constituted that she would\nhave preferred the caresses of a toad, an adder, or a serpent--nay, the\nhug of a bear--to the endearments of Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'Come, come,\' said that good gentleman, \'a word or two will set this\nmatter right, and establish a pleasant understanding between us. I am\nnot angry, my love.\'\n\n\'YOU angry!\'\n\n\'No,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'I am not. I say so. Neither are you.\'\n\nThere was a beating heart beneath his hand that told another story\nthough.\n\n\'I am sure you are not,\' said Mr Pecksniff: \'and I will tell you why.\nThere are two Martin Chuzzlewits, my dear; and your carrying your anger\nto one might have a serious effect--who knows!--upon the other. You\nwouldn\'t wish to hurt him, would you?\'\n\nShe trembled violently, and looked at him with such a proud disdain that\nhe turned his eyes away. No doubt lest he should be offended with her in\nspite of his better self.\n\n\'A passive quarrel, my love,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'may be changed into\nan active one, remember. It would be sad to blight even a disinherited\nyoung man in his already blighted prospects; but how easy to do it.\nAh, how easy! HAVE I influence with our venerable friend, do you think?\nWell, perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.\'\n\nHe raised his eyes to hers; and nodded with an air of banter that was\ncharming.\n\n\'No,\' he continued, thoughtfully. \'Upon the whole, my sweet, if I were\nyou I\'d keep my secret to myself. I am not at all sure--very far from\nit--that it would surprise our friend in any way, for he and I have had\nsome conversation together only this morning, and he is anxious, very\nanxious, to establish you in some more settled manner. But whether he\nwas surprised or not surprised, the consequence of your imparting\nit might be the same. Martin junior might suffer severely. I\'d have\ncompassion on Martin junior, do you know?\' said Mr Pecksniff, with a\npersuasive smile. \'Yes. He don\'t deserve it, but I would.\'\n\nShe wept so bitterly now, and was so much distressed, that he thought it\nprudent to unclasp her waist, and hold her only by the hand.\n\n\'As to our own share in the precious little mystery,\' said Mr Pecksniff,\n\'we will keep it to ourselves, and talk of it between ourselves, and\nyou shall think it over. You will consent, my love; you will consent,\nI know. Whatever you may think; you will. I seem to remember to have\nheard--I really don\'t know where, or how\'--he added, with bewitching\nfrankness, \'that you and Martin junior, when you were children, had a\nsort of childish fondness for each other. When we are married, you shall\nhave the satisfaction of thinking that it didn\'t last to ruin him, but\npassed away to do him good; for we\'ll see then what we can do to put\nsome trifling help in Martin junior\'s way. HAVE I any influence with our\nvenerable friend? Well! Perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.\'\n\nThe outlet from the wood in which these tender passages occurred, was\nclose to Mr Pecksniff\'s house. They were now so near it that he stopped,\nand holding up her little finger, said in playful accents, as a parting\nfancy:\n\n\'Shall I bite it?\'\n\nReceiving no reply he kissed it instead; and then stooping down,\ninclined his flabby face to hers--he had a flabby face, although he\nWAS a good man--and with a blessing, which from such a source was quite\nenough to set her up in life, and prosper her from that time forth\npermitted her to leave him.\n\nGallantry in its true sense is supposed to ennoble and dignify a\nman; and love has shed refinements on innumerable Cymons. But Mr\nPecksniff--perhaps because to one of his exalted nature these were mere\ngrossnesses--certainly did not appear to any unusual advantage, now that\nhe was left alone. On the contrary, he seemed to be shrunk and reduced;\nto be trying to hide himself within himself; and to be wretched at not\nhaving the power to do it. His shoes looked too large; his sleeve looked\ntoo long; his hair looked too limp; his features looked too mean; his\nexposed throat looked as if a halter would have done it good. For a\nminute or two, in fact, he was hot, and pale, and mean, and shy, and\nslinking, and consequently not at all Pecksniffian. But after that, he\nrecovered himself, and went home with as beneficent an air as if he had\nbeen the High Priest of the summer weather.\n\n\'I have arranged to go, Papa,\' said Charity, \'to-morrow.\'\n\n\'So soon, my child!\'\n\n\'I can\'t go too soon,\' said Charity, \'under the circumstances. I have\nwritten to Mrs Todgers to propose an arrangement, and have requested her\nto meet me at the coach, at all events. You\'ll be quite your own master\nnow, Mr Pinch!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff had just gone out of the room, and Tom had just come into\nit.\n\n\'My own master!\' repeated Tom.\n\n\'Yes, you\'ll have nobody to interfere with you,\' said Charity. \'At least\nI hope you won\'t. Hem! It\'s a changing world.\'\n\n\'What! are YOU going to be married, Miss Pecksniff?\' asked Tom in great\nsurprise.\n\n\'Not exactly,\' faltered Cherry. \'I haven\'t made up my mind to be. I\nbelieve I could be, if I chose, Mr Pinch.\'\n\n\'Of course you could!\' said Tom. And he said it in perfect good faith.\nHe believed it from the bottom of his heart.\n\n\'No,\' said Cherry, \'I am not going to be married. Nobody is, that I know\nof. Hem! But I am not going to live with Papa. I have my reasons, but\nit\'s all a secret. I shall always feel very kindly towards you, I assure\nyou, for the boldness you showed that night. As to you and me, Mr Pinch,\nWE part the best friends possible!\'\n\nTom thanked her for her confidence, and for her friendship, but there\nwas a mystery in the former which perfectly bewildered him. In his\nextravagant devotion to the family, he had felt the loss of Merry more\nthan any one but those who knew that for all the slights he underwent he\nthought his own demerits were to blame, could possibly have understood.\nHe had scarcely reconciled himself to that when here was Charity about\nto leave them. She had grown up, as it were, under Tom\'s eye.\nThe sisters were a part of Pecksniff, and a part of Tom; items in\nPecksniff\'s goodness, and in Tom\'s service. He couldn\'t bear it; not two\nhours\' sleep had Tom that night, through dwelling in his bed upon these\ndreadful changes.\n\nWhen morning dawned he thought he must have dreamed this piece of\nambiguity; but no, on going downstairs he found them packing trunks\nand cording boxes, and making other preparations for Miss Charity\'s\ndeparture, which lasted all day long. In good time for the evening\ncoach, Miss Charity deposited her housekeeping keys with much ceremony\nupon the parlour table; took a gracious leave of all the house; and\nquitted her paternal roof--a blessing for which the Pecksniffian servant\nwas observed by some profane persons to be particularly active in the\nthanksgiving at church next Sunday.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-ONE\n\nMR PINCH IS DISCHARGED OF A DUTY WHICH HE NEVER OWED TO ANYBODY, AND MR\nPECKSNIFF DISCHARGES A DUTY WHICH HE OWES TO SOCIETY\n\n\nThe closing words of the last chapter lead naturally to the commencement\nof this, its successor; for it has to do with a church. With the church,\nso often mentioned heretofore, in which Tom Pinch played the organ for\nnothing.\n\nOne sultry afternoon, about a week after Miss Charity\'s departure for\nLondon, Mr Pecksniff being out walking by himself, took it into his head\nto stray into the churchyard. As he was lingering among the tombstones,\nendeavouring to extract an available sentiment or two from the\nepitaphs--for he never lost an opportunity of making up a few moral\ncrackers, to be let off as occasion served--Tom Pinch began to practice.\nTom could run down to the church and do so whenever he had time to\nspare; for it was a simple little organ, provided with wind by the\naction of the musician\'s feet; and he was independent, even of a\nbellows-blower. Though if Tom had wanted one at any time, there was\nnot a man or boy in all the village, and away to the turnpike (tollman\nincluded), but would have blown away for him till he was black in the\nface.\n\nMr Pecksniff had no objection to music; not the least. He was tolerant\nof everything; he often said so. He considered it a vagabond kind of\ntrifling, in general, just suited to Tom\'s capacity. But in regard\nto Tom\'s performance upon this same organ, he was remarkably lenient,\nsingularly amiable; for when Tom played it on Sundays, Mr Pecksniff\nin his unbounded sympathy felt as if he played it himself, and were a\nbenefactor to the congregation. So whenever it was impossible to devise\nany other means of taking the value of Tom\'s wages out of him, Mr\nPecksniff gave him leave to cultivate this instrument. For which mark of\nhis consideration Tom was very grateful.\n\nThe afternoon was remarkably warm, and Mr Pecksniff had been strolling\na long way. He had not what may be called a fine ear for music, but he\nknew when it had a tranquilizing influence on his soul; and that was the\ncase now, for it sounded to him like a melodious snore. He approached\nthe church, and looking through the diamond lattice of a window near the\nporch, saw Tom, with the curtains in the loft drawn back, playing away\nwith great expression and tenderness.\n\nThe church had an inviting air of coolness. The old oak roof supported\nby cross-beams, the hoary walls, the marble tablets, and the cracked\nstone pavement, were refreshing to look at. There were leaves of ivy\ntapping gently at the opposite windows; and the sun poured in through\nonly one; leaving the body of the church in tempting shade. But the\nmost tempting spot of all, was one red-curtained and soft-cushioned pew,\nwherein the official dignitaries of the place (of whom Mr Pecksniff was\nthe head and chief) enshrined themselves on Sundays. Mr Pecksniff\'s seat\nwas in the corner; a remarkably comfortable corner; where his very large\nPrayer-Book was at that minute making the most of its quarto self upon\nthe desk. He determined to go in and rest.\n\nHe entered very softly; in part because it was a church; in part because\nhis tread was always soft; in part because Tom played a solemn tune; in\npart because he thought he would surprise him when he stopped. Unbolting\nthe door of the high pew of state, he glided in and shut it after him;\nthen sitting in his usual place, and stretching out his legs upon the\nhassocks, he composed himself to listen to the music.\n\nIt is an unaccountable circumstance that he should have felt drowsy\nthere, where the force of association might surely have been enough\nto keep him wide awake; but he did. He had not been in the snug little\ncorner five minutes before he began to nod. He had not recovered himself\none minute before he began to nod again. In the very act of opening his\neyes indolently, he nodded again. In the very act of shutting them, he\nnodded again. So he fell out of one nod into another until at last he\nceased to nod at all, and was as fast as the church itself.\n\nHe had a consciousness of the organ, long after he fell asleep, though\nas to its being an organ he had no more idea of that than he had of\nits being a bull. After a while he began to have at intervals the same\ndreamy impressions of voices; and awakening to an indolent curiosity\nupon the subject, opened his eyes.\n\nHe was so indolent, that after glancing at the hassocks and the pew, he\nwas already half-way off to sleep again, when it occurred to him that\nthere really were voices in the church; low voices, talking earnestly\nhard by; while the echoes seemed to mutter responses. He roused himself,\nand listened.\n\nBefore he had listened half a dozen seconds, he became as broad awake as\never he had been in all his life. With eyes, and ears, and mouth,\nwide open, he moved himself a very little with the utmost caution, and\ngathering the curtain in his hand, peeped out.\n\nTom Pinch and Mary. Of course. He had recognized their voices, and\nalready knew the topic they discussed. Looking like the small end of a\nguillotined man, with his chin on a level with the top of the pew, so\nthat he might duck down immediately in case of either of them turning\nround, he listened. Listened with such concentrated eagerness, that his\nvery hair and shirt-collar stood bristling up to help him.\n\n\'No,\' cried Tom. \'No letters have ever reached me, except that one from\nNew York. But don\'t be uneasy on that account, for it\'s very likely\nthey have gone away to some far-off place, where the posts are neither\nregular nor frequent. He said in that very letter that it might be so,\neven in that city to which they thought of travelling--Eden, you know.\'\n\n\'It is a great weight upon my mind,\' said Mary.\n\n\'Oh, but you mustn\'t let it be,\' said Tom. \'There\'s a true saying that\nnothing travels so fast as ill news; and if the slightest harm had\nhappened to Martin, you may be sure you would have heard of it long\nago. I have often wished to say this to you,\' Tom continued with an\nembarrassment that became him very well, \'but you have never given me an\nopportunity.\'\n\n\'I have sometimes been almost afraid,\' said Mary, \'that you might\nsuppose I hesitated to confide in you, Mr Pinch.\'\n\n\'No,\' Tom stammered, \'I--I am not aware that I ever supposed that. I\nam sure that if I have, I have checked the thought directly, as an\ninjustice to you. I feel the delicacy of your situation in having to\nconfide in me at all,\' said Tom, \'but I would risk my life to save you\nfrom one day\'s uneasiness; indeed I would!\'\n\nPoor Tom!\n\n\'I have dreaded sometimes,\' Tom continued, \'that I might have displeased\nyou by--by having the boldness to try and anticipate your wishes now and\nthen. At other times I have fancied that your kindness prompted you to\nkeep aloof from me.\'\n\n\'Indeed!\'\n\n\'It was very foolish; very presumptuous and ridiculous, to think\nso,\' Tom pursued; \'but I feared you might suppose it possible that\nI--I--should admire you too much for my own peace; and so denied\nyourself the slight assistance you would otherwise have accepted from\nme. If such an idea has ever presented itself to you,\' faltered Tom,\n\'pray dismiss it. I am easily made happy; and I shall live contented\nhere long after you and Martin have forgotten me. I am a poor, shy,\nawkward creature; not at all a man of the world; and you should think no\nmore of me, bless you, than if I were an old friar!\'\n\nIf friars bear such hearts as thine, Tom, let friars multiply; though\nthey have no such rule in all their stern arithmetic.\n\n\'Dear Mr Pinch!\' said Mary, giving him her hand; \'I cannot tell you how\nyour kindness moves me. I have never wronged you by the lightest doubt,\nand have never for an instant ceased to feel that you were all--much\nmore than all--that Martin found you. Without the silent care and\nfriendship I have experienced from you, my life here would have been\nunhappy. But you have been a good angel to me; filling me with gratitude\nof heart, hope, and courage.\'\n\n\'I am as little like an angel, I am afraid,\' replied Tom, shaking his\nhead, \'as any stone cherubim among the grave-stones; and I don\'t think\nthere are many real angels of THAT pattern. But I should like to know\n(if you will tell me) why you have been so very silent about Martin.\'\n\n\'Because I have been afraid,\' said Mary, \'of injuring you.\'\n\n\'Of injuring me!\' cried Tom.\n\n\'Of doing you an injury with your employer.\'\n\nThe gentleman in question dived.\n\n\'With Pecksniff!\' rejoined Tom, with cheerful confidence. \'Oh dear, he\'d\nnever think of us! He\'s the best of men. The more at ease you were, the\nhappier he would be. Oh dear, you needn\'t be afraid of Pecksniff. He is\nnot a spy.\'\n\nMany a man in Mr Pecksniff\'s place, if he could have dived through the\nfloor of the pew of state and come out at Calcutta or any inhabited\nregion on the other side of the earth, would have done it instantly. Mr\nPecksniff sat down upon a hassock, and listening more attentively than\never, smiled.\n\nMary seemed to have expressed some dissent in the meanwhile, for Tom\nwent on to say, with honest energy:\n\n\'Well, I don\'t know how it is, but it always happens, whenever I express\nmyself in this way to anybody almost, that I find they won\'t do justice\nto Pecksniff. It is one of the most extraordinary circumstances that\never came within my knowledge, but it is so. There\'s John Westlock, who\nused to be a pupil here, one of the best-hearted young men in the world,\nin all other matters--I really believe John would have Pecksniff flogged\nat the cart\'s tail if he could. And John is not a solitary case,\nfor every pupil we have had in my time has gone away with the same\ninveterate hatred of him. There was Mark Tapley, too, quite in another\nstation of life,\' said Tom; \'the mockery he used to make of Pecksniff\nwhen he was at the Dragon was shocking. Martin too: Martin was worse\nthan any of \'em. But I forgot. He prepared you to dislike Pecksniff, of\ncourse. So you came with a prejudice, you know, Miss Graham, and are not\na fair witness.\'\n\nTom triumphed very much in this discovery, and rubbed his hands with\ngreat satisfaction.\n\n\'Mr Pinch,\' said Mary, \'you mistake him.\'\n\n\'No, no!\' cried Tom. \'YOU mistake him. But,\' he added, with a rapid\nchange in his tone, \'what is the matter? Miss Graham, what is the\nmatter?\'\n\nMr Pecksniff brought up to the top of the pew, by slow degrees, his\nhair, his forehead, his eyebrow, his eye. She was sitting on a bench\nbeside the door with her hands before her face; and Tom was bending over\nher.\n\n\'What is the matter?\' cried Tom. \'Have I said anything to hurt you? Has\nany one said anything to hurt you? Don\'t cry. Pray tell me what it is.\nI cannot bear to see you so distressed. Mercy on us, I never was so\nsurprised and grieved in all my life!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff kept his eye in the same place. He could have moved it now\nfor nothing short of a gimlet or a red-hot wire.\n\n\'I wouldn\'t have told you, Mr Pinch,\' said Mary, \'if I could have helped\nit; but your delusion is so absorbing, and it is so necessary that we\nshould be upon our guard; that you should not be compromised; and to\nthat end that you should know by whom I am beset; that no alternative\nis left me. I came here purposely to tell you, but I think I should\nhave wanted courage if you had not chanced to lead me so directly to the\nobject of my coming.\'\n\nTom gazed at her steadfastly, and seemed to say, \'What else?\' But he\nsaid not a word.\n\n\'That person whom you think the best of men,\' said Mary, looking up, and\nspeaking with a quivering lip and flashing eye.\n\n\'Lord bless me!\' muttered Tom, staggering back. \'Wait a moment. That\nperson whom I think the best of men! You mean Pecksniff, of course.\nYes, I see you mean Pecksniff. Good gracious me, don\'t speak without\nauthority. What has he done? If he is not the best of men, what is he?\'\n\n\'The worst. The falsest, craftiest, meanest, cruellest, most\nsordid, most shameless,\' said the trembling girl--trembling with her\nindignation.\n\nTom sat down on a seat, and clasped his hands.\n\n\'What is he,\' said Mary, \'who receiving me in his house as his guest;\nhis unwilling guest; knowing my history, and how defenceless and alone\nI am, presumes before his daughters to affront me so, that if I had a\nbrother but a child, who saw it, he would instinctively have helped me?\'\n\n\'He is a scoundrel!\' exclaimed Tom. \'Whoever he may be, he is a\nscoundrel.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff dived again.\n\n\'What is he,\' said Mary, \'who, when my only friend--a dear and kind one,\ntoo--was in full health of mind, humbled himself before him, but was\nspurned away (for he knew him then) like a dog. Who, in his forgiving\nspirit, now that that friend is sunk into a failing state, can crawl\nabout him again, and use the influence he basely gains for every base\nand wicked purpose, and not for one--not one--that\'s true or good?\'\n\n\'I say he is a scoundrel!\' answered Tom.\n\n\'But what is he--oh, Mr Pinch, what IS he--who, thinking he could\ncompass these designs the better if I were his wife, assails me with the\ncoward\'s argument that if I marry him, Martin, on whom I have brought so\nmuch misfortune, shall be restored to something of his former hopes; and\nif I do not, shall be plunged in deeper ruin? What is he who makes my\nvery constancy to one I love with all my heart a torture to myself and\nwrong to him; who makes me, do what I will, the instrument to hurt a\nhead I would heap blessings on! What is he who, winding all these cruel\nsnares about me, explains their purpose to me, with a smooth tongue and\na smiling face, in the broad light of day; dragging me on, the while, in\nhis embrace, and holding to his lips a hand,\' pursued the agitated girl,\nextending it, \'which I would have struck off, if with it I could lose\nthe shame and degradation of his touch?\'\n\n\'I say,\' cried Tom, in great excitement, \'he is a scoundrel and a\nvillain! I don\'t care who he is, I say he is a double-dyed and most\nintolerable villain!\'\n\nCovering her face with her hands again, as if the passion which had\nsustained her through these disclosures lost itself in an overwhelming\nsense of shame and grief, she abandoned herself to tears.\n\nAny sight of distress was sure to move the tenderness of Tom, but this\nespecially. Tears and sobs from her were arrows in his heart. He tried\nto comfort her; sat down beside her; expended all his store of homely\neloquence; and spoke in words of praise and hope of Martin. Aye, though\nhe loved her from his soul with such a self-denying love as woman seldom\nwins; he spoke from first to last of Martin. Not the wealth of the rich\nIndies would have tempted Tom to shirk one mention of her lover\'s name.\n\nWhen she was more composed, she impressed upon Tom that this man she\nhad described, was Pecksniff in his real colours; and word by word and\nphrase by phrase, as well as she remembered it, related what had\npassed between them in the wood: which was no doubt a source of high\ngratification to that gentleman himself, who in his desire to see and\nhis dread of being seen, was constantly diving down into the state pew,\nand coming up again like the intelligent householder in Punch\'s Show,\nwho avoids being knocked on the head with a cudgel. When she had\nconcluded her account, and had besought Tom to be very distant and\nunconscious in his manner towards her after this explanation, and had\nthanked him very much, they parted on the alarm of footsteps in the\nburial-ground; and Tom was left alone in the church again.\n\nAnd now the full agitation and misery of the disclosure came rushing\nupon Tom indeed. The star of his whole life from boyhood had become, in\na moment, putrid vapour. It was not that Pecksniff, Tom\'s Pecksniff, had\nceased to exist, but that he never had existed. In his death Tom would\nhave had the comfort of remembering what he used to be, but in this\ndiscovery, he had the anguish of recollecting what he never was. For,\nas Tom\'s blindness in this matter had been total and not partial, so was\nhis restored sight. HIS Pecksniff could never have worked the wickedness\nof which he had just now heard, but any other Pecksniff could; and the\nPecksniff who could do that could do anything, and no doubt had been\ndoing anything and everything except the right thing, all through his\ncareer. From the lofty height on which poor Tom had placed his idol it\nwas tumbled down headlong, and\n\n Not all the king\'s horses, nor all the king\'s men,\n Could have set Mr Pecksniff up again.\n\nLegions of Titans couldn\'t have got him out of the mud; and serve him\nright! But it was not he who suffered; it was Tom. His compass was\nbroken, his chart destroyed, his chronometer had stopped, his masts were\ngone by the board; his anchor was adrift, ten thousand leagues away.\n\nMr Pecksniff watched him with a lively interest, for he divined the\npurpose of Tom\'s ruminations, and was curious to see how he conducted\nhimself. For some time, Tom wandered up and down the aisle like a man\ndemented, stopping occasionally to lean against a pew and think it over;\nthen he stood staring at a blank old monument bordered tastefully with\nskulls and cross-bones, as if it were the finest work of Art he had ever\nseen, although at other times he held it in unspeakable contempt; then\nhe sat down; then walked to and fro again; then went wandering up into\nthe organ-loft, and touched the keys. But their minstrelsy was changed,\ntheir music gone; and sounding one long melancholy chord, Tom drooped\nhis head upon his hands and gave it up as hopeless.\n\n\'I wouldn\'t have cared,\' said Tom Pinch, rising from his stool and\nlooking down into the church as if he had been the Clergyman, \'I\nwouldn\'t have cared for anything he might have done to Me, for I have\ntried his patience often, and have lived upon his sufferance and have\nnever been the help to him that others could have been. I wouldn\'t have\nminded, Pecksniff,\' Tom continued, little thinking who heard him, \'if\nyou had done Me any wrong; I could have found plenty of excuses for\nthat; and though you might have hurt me, could have still gone on\nrespecting you. But why did you ever fall so low as this in my esteem!\nOh Pecksniff, Pecksniff, there is nothing I would not have given, to\nhave had you deserve my old opinion of you; nothing!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff sat upon the hassock pulling up his shirt-collar, while\nTom, touched to the quick, delivered this apostrophe. After a pause he\nheard Tom coming down the stairs, jingling the church keys; and bringing\nhis eye to the top of the pew again, saw him go slowly out and lock the\ndoor.\n\nMr Pecksniff durst not issue from his place of concealment; for through\nthe windows of the church he saw Tom passing on among the graves, and\nsometimes stopping at a stone, and leaning there as if he were a\nmourner who had lost a friend. Even when he had left the churchyard, Mr\nPecksniff still remained shut up; not being at all secure but that in\nhis restless state of mind Tom might come wandering back. At length he\nissued forth, and walked with a pleasant countenance into the vestry;\nwhere he knew there was a window near the ground, by which he could\nrelease himself by merely stepping out.\n\nHe was in a curious frame of mind, Mr Pecksniff; being in no hurry to\ngo, but rather inclining to a dilatory trifling with the time, which\nprompted him to open the vestry cupboard, and look at himself in the\nparson\'s little glass that hung within the door. Seeing that his hair\nwas rumpled, he took the liberty of borrowing the canonical brush and\narranging it. He also took the liberty of opening another cupboard; but\nhe shut it up again quickly, being rather startled by the sight of a\nblack and a white surplice dangling against the wall; which had very\nmuch the appearance of two curates who had committed suicide by hanging\nthemselves. Remembering that he had seen in the first cupboard a\nport-wine bottle and some biscuits, he peeped into it again, and helped\nhimself with much deliberation; cogitating all the time though, in\na very deep and weighty manner, as if his thoughts were otherwise\nemployed.\n\nHe soon made up his mind, if it had ever been in doubt; and putting\nback the bottle and biscuits, opened the casement. He got out into the\nchurchyard without any difficulty; shut the window after him; and walked\nstraight home.\n\n\'Is Mr Pinch indoors?\' asked Mr Pecksniff of his serving-maid.\n\n\'Just come in, sir.\'\n\n\'Just come in, eh?\' repeated Mr Pecksniff, cheerfully. \'And gone\nupstairs, I suppose?\'\n\n\'Yes sir. Gone upstairs. Shall I call him, sir?\'\n\n\'No,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'no. You needn\'t call him, Jane. Thank you,\nJane. How are your relations, Jane?\'\n\n\'Pretty well, I thank you, sir.\'\n\n\'I am glad to hear it. Let them know I asked about them, Jane. Is Mr\nChuzzlewit in the way, Jane?\'\n\n\'Yes, sir. He\'s in the parlour, reading.\'\n\n\'He\'s in the parlour, reading, is he, Jane?\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Very\nwell. Then I think I\'ll go and see him, Jane.\'\n\nNever had Mr Pecksniff been beheld in a more pleasant humour!\n\nBut when he walked into the parlour where the old man was engaged as\nJane had said; with pen and ink and paper on a table close at hand (for\nMr Pecksniff was always very particular to have him well supplied with\nwriting materials), he became less cheerful. He was not angry, he was\nnot vindictive, he was not cross, he was not moody, but he was grieved;\nhe was sorely grieved. As he sat down by the old man\'s side, two\ntears--not tears like those with which recording angels blot their\nentries out, but drops so precious that they use them for their\nink--stole down his meritorious cheeks.\n\n\'What is the matter?\' asked old Martin. \'Pecksniff, what ails you, man?\'\n\n\'I am sorry to interrupt you, my dear sir, and I am still more sorry for\nthe cause. My good, my worthy friend, I am deceived.\'\n\n\'You are deceived!\'\n\n\'Ah!\' cried Mr Pecksniff, in an agony, \'deceived in the tenderest\npoint. Cruelly deceived in that quarter, sir, in which I placed the most\nunbounded confidence. Deceived, Mr Chuzzlewit, by Thomas Pinch.\'\n\n\'Oh! bad, bad, bad!\' said Martin, laying down his book. \'Very bad! I\nhope not. Are you certain?\'\n\n\'Certain, my good sir! My eyes and ears are witnesses. I wouldn\'t have\nbelieved it otherwise. I wouldn\'t have believed it, Mr Chuzzlewit, if a\nFiery Serpent had proclaimed it from the top of Salisbury Cathedral. I\nwould have said,\' cried Mr Pecksniff, \'that the Serpent lied. Such was\nmy faith in Thomas Pinch, that I would have cast the falsehood back into\nthe Serpent\'s teeth, and would have taken Thomas to my heart. But I am\nnot a Serpent, sir, myself, I grieve to say, and no excuse or hope is\nleft me.\'\n\nMartin was greatly disturbed to see him so much agitated, and to hear\nsuch unexpected news. He begged him to compose himself, and asked upon\nwhat subject Mr Pinch\'s treachery had been developed.\n\n\'That is almost the worst of all, sir,\' Mr Pecksniff answered, \'on a\nsubject nearly concerning YOU. Oh! is it not enough,\' said Mr Pecksniff,\nlooking upward, \'that these blows must fall on me, but must they also\nhit my friends!\'\n\n\'You alarm me,\' cried the old man, changing colour. \'I am not so strong\nas I was. You terrify me, Pecksniff!\'\n\n\'Cheer up, my noble sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff, taking courage, \'and we\nwill do what is required of us. You shall know all, sir, and shall\nbe righted. But first excuse me, sir, excuse me. I have a duty to\ndischarge, which I owe to society.\'\n\nHe rang the bell, and Jane appeared. \'Send Mr Pinch here, if you please,\nJane.\'\n\nTom came. Constrained and altered in his manner, downcast and dejected,\nvisibly confused; not liking to look Pecksniff in the face.\n\nThe honest man bestowed a glance on Mr Chuzzlewit, as who should say\n\'You see!\' and addressed himself to Tom in these terms:\n\n\'Mr Pinch, I have left the vestry-window unfastened. Will you do me the\nfavour to go and secure it; then bring the keys of the sacred edifice to\nme!\'\n\n\'The vestry-window, sir?\' cried Tom.\n\n\'You understand me, Mr Pinch, I think,\' returned his patron. \'Yes, Mr\nPinch, the vestry-window. I grieve to say that sleeping in the church\nafter a fatiguing ramble, I overheard just now some fragments,\' he\nemphasised that word, \'of a dialogue between two parties; and one of\nthem locking the church when he went out, I was obliged to leave\nit myself by the vestry-window. Do me the favour to secure that\nvestry-window, Mr Pinch, and then come back to me.\'\n\nNo physiognomist that ever dwelt on earth could have construed Tom\'s\nface when he heard these words. Wonder was in it, and a mild look of\nreproach, but certainly no fear or guilt, although a host of strong\nemotions struggled to display themselves. He bowed, and without saying\none word, good or bad, withdrew.\n\n\'Pecksniff,\' cried Martin, in a tremble, \'what does all this mean? You\nare not going to do anything in haste, you may regret!\'\n\n\'No, my good sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff, firmly, \'No. But I have a duty to\ndischarge which I owe to society; and it shall be discharged, my friend,\nat any cost!\'\n\nOh, late-remembered, much-forgotten, mouthing, braggart duty, always\nowed, and seldom paid in any other coin than punishment and wrath, when\nwill mankind begin to know thee! When will men acknowledge thee in thy\nneglected cradle, and thy stunted youth, and not begin their recognition\nin thy sinful manhood and thy desolate old age! Oh, ermined Judge whose\nduty to society is, now, to doom the ragged criminal to punishment and\ndeath, hadst thou never, Man, a duty to discharge in barring up the\nhundred open gates that wooed him to the felon\'s dock, and throwing but\najar the portals to a decent life! Oh, prelate, prelate, whose duty to\nsociety it is to mourn in melancholy phrase the sad degeneracy of these\nbad times in which thy lot of honours has been cast, did nothing go\nbefore thy elevation to the lofty seat, from which thou dealest out thy\nhomilies to other tarriers for dead men\'s shoes, whose duty to society\nhas not begun! Oh! magistrate, so rare a country gentleman and brave a\nsquire, had you no duty to society, before the ricks were blazing and\nthe mob were mad; or did it spring up, armed and booted from the earth,\na corps of yeomanry full-grown!\n\nMr Pecksniff\'s duty to society could not be paid till Tom came back. The\ninterval which preceded the return of that young man, he occupied in a\nclose conference with his friend; so that when Tom did arrive, he found\nthe two quite ready to receive him. Mary was in her own room above,\nwhither Mr Pecksniff, always considerate, had besought old Martin to\nentreat her to remain some half-hour longer, that her feelings might be\nspared.\n\nWhen Tom came back, he found old Martin sitting by the window, and Mr\nPecksniff in an imposing attitude at the table. On one side of him was\nhis pocket-handkerchief; and on the other a little heap (a very little\nheap) of gold and silver, and odd pence. Tom saw, at a glance, that it\nwas his own salary for the current quarter.\n\n\'Have you fastened the vestry-window, Mr Pinch?\' said Pecksniff.\n\n\'Yes, sir.\'\n\n\'Thank you. Put down the keys if you please, Mr Pinch.\'\n\nTom placed them on the table. He held the bunch by the key of the\norgan-loft (though it was one of the smallest), and looked hard at it\nas he laid it down. It had been an old, old friend of Tom\'s; a kind\ncompanion to him, many and many a day.\n\n\'Mr Pinch,\' said Pecksniff, shaking his head; \'oh, Mr Pinch! I wonder\nyou can look me in the face!\'\n\nTom did it though; and notwithstanding that he has been described as\nstooping generally, he stood as upright then as man could stand.\n\n\'Mr Pinch,\' said Pecksniff, taking up his handkerchief, as if he felt\nthat he should want it soon, \'I will not dwell upon the past. I will\nspare you, and I will spare myself, that pain at least.\'\n\nTom\'s was not a very bright eye, but it was a very expressive one when\nhe looked at Mr Pecksniff, and said:\n\n\'Thank you, sir. I am very glad you will not refer to the past.\'\n\n\'The present is enough,\' said Mr Pecksniff, dropping a penny, \'and\nthe sooner THAT is past, the better. Mr Pinch, I will not dismiss\nyou without a word of explanation. Even such a course would be quite\njustifiable under the circumstances; but it might wear an appearance of\nhurry, and I will not do it; for I am,\' said Mr Pecksniff, knocking down\nanother penny, \'perfectly self-possessed. Therefore I will say to you,\nwhat I have already said to Mr Chuzzlewit.\'\n\nTom glanced at the old gentleman, who nodded now and then as approving\nof Mr Pecksniff\'s sentences and sentiments, but interposed between them\nin no other way.\n\n\'From fragments of a conversation which I overheard in the church, just\nnow, Mr Pinch,\' said Pecksniff, \'between yourself and Miss Graham--I say\nfragments, because I was slumbering at a considerable distance from you,\nwhen I was roused by your voices--and from what I saw, I ascertained (I\nwould have given a great deal not to have ascertained, Mr Pinch) that\nyou, forgetful of all ties of duty and of honour, sir; regardless of the\nsacred laws of hospitality, to which you were pledged as an inmate\nof this house; have presumed to address Miss Graham with unreturned\nprofessions of attachment and proposals of love.\'\n\nTom looked at him steadily.\n\n\'Do you deny it, sir?\' asked Mr Pecksniff, dropping one pound two and\nfourpence, and making a great business of picking it up again.\n\n\'No, sir,\' replied Tom. \'I do not.\'\n\n\'You do not,\' said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the old gentleman. \'Oblige\nme by counting this money, Mr Pinch, and putting your name to this\nreceipt. You do not?\'\n\nNo, Tom did not. He scorned to deny it. He saw that Mr Pecksniff having\noverheard his own disgrace, cared not a jot for sinking lower yet in his\ncontempt. He saw that he had devised this fiction as the readiest means\nof getting rid of him at once, but that it must end in that any way. He\nsaw that Mr Pecksniff reckoned on his not denying it, because his doing\nso and explaining would incense the old man more than ever against\nMartin and against Mary; while Pecksniff himself would only have been\nmistaken in his \'fragments.\' Deny it! No.\n\n\'You find the amount correct, do you, Mr Pinch?\' said Pecksniff.\n\n\'Quite correct, sir,\' answered Tom.\n\n\'A person is waiting in the kitchen,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'to carry\nyour luggage wherever you please. We part, Mr Pinch, at once, and are\nstrangers from this time.\'\n\nSomething without a name; compassion, sorrow, old tenderness, mistaken\ngratitude, habit; none of these, and yet all of them; smote upon Tom\'s\ngentle heart at parting. There was no such soul as Pecksniff\'s in\nthat carcase; and yet, though his speaking out had not involved the\ncompromise of one he loved, he couldn\'t have denounced the very shape\nand figure of the man. Not even then.\n\n\'I will not say,\' cried Mr Pecksniff, shedding tears, \'what a blow this\nis. I will not say how much it tries me; how it works upon my nature;\nhow it grates upon my feelings. I do not care for that. I can endure as\nwell as another man. But what I have to hope, and what you have to hope,\nMr Pinch (otherwise a great responsibility rests upon you), is, that\nthis deception may not alter my ideas of humanity; that it may not\nimpair my freshness, or contract, if I may use the expression, my\nPinions. I hope it will not; I don\'t think it will. It may be a comfort\nto you, if not now, at some future time, to know that I shall endeavour\nnot to think the worse of my fellow-creatures in general, for what has\npassed between us. Farewell!\'\n\nTom had meant to spare him one little puncturation with a lancet, which\nhe had it in his power to administer, but he changed his mind on hearing\nthis, and said:\n\n\'I think you left something in the church, sir.\'\n\n\'Thank you, Mr Pinch,\' said Pecksniff. \'I am not aware that I did.\'\n\n\'This is your double eye-glass, I believe?\' said Tom.\n\n\'Oh!\' cried Pecksniff, with some degree of confusion. \'I am obliged to\nyou. Put it down, if you please.\'\n\n\'I found it,\' said Tom, slowly--\'when I went to bolt the\nvestry-window--in the pew.\'\n\nSo he had. Mr Pecksniff had taken it off when he was bobbing up and\ndown, lest it should strike against the panelling; and had forgotten it.\nGoing back to the church with his mind full of having been watched, and\nwondering very much from what part, Tom\'s attention was caught by the\ndoor of the state pew standing open. Looking into it he found the glass.\nAnd thus he knew, and by returning it gave Mr Pecksniff the information\nthat he knew, where the listener had been; and that instead of\noverhearing fragments of the conversation, he must have rejoiced in\nevery word of it.\n\n\'I am glad he\'s gone,\' said Martin, drawing a long breath when Tom had\nleft the room.\n\n\'It IS a relief,\' assented Mr Pecksniff. \'It is a great relief. But\nhaving discharged--I hope with tolerable firmness--the duty which I owed\nto society, I will now, my dear sir, if you will give me leave, retire\nto shed a few tears in the back garden, as an humble individual.\'\n\nTom went upstairs; cleared his shelf of books; packed them up with his\nmusic and an old fiddle in his trunk; got out his clothes (they were not\nso many that they made his head ache); put them on the top of his books;\nand went into the workroom for his case of instruments. There was a\nragged stool there, with the horsehair all sticking out of the top like\na wig: a very Beast of a stool in itself; on which he had taken up his\ndaily seat, year after year, during the whole period of his service.\nThey had grown older and shabbier in company. Pupils had served their\ntime; seasons had come and gone. Tom and the worn-out stool had held\ntogether through it all. That part of the room was traditionally called\n\'Tom\'s Corner.\' It had been assigned to him at first because of its\nbeing situated in a strong draught, and a great way from the fire; and\nhe had occupied it ever since. There were portraits of him on the walls,\nwith all his weak points monstrously portrayed. Diabolical sentiments,\nforeign to his character, were represented as issuing from his mouth in\nfat balloons. Every pupil had added something, even unto fancy portraits\nof his father with one eye, and of his mother with a disproportionate\nnose, and especially of his sister; who always being presented as\nextremely beautiful, made full amends to Tom for any other jokes. Under\nless uncommon circumstances, it would have cut Tom to the heart to leave\nthese things and think that he saw them for the last time; but it didn\'t\nnow. There was no Pecksniff; there never had been a Pecksniff; and all\nhis other griefs were swallowed up in that.\n\nSo, when he returned into the bedroom, and, having fastened his box and\na carpet-bag, put on his walking gaiters, and his great-coat, and his\nhat, and taken his stick in his hand, looked round it for the last time.\nEarly on summer mornings, and by the light of private candle-ends on\nwinter nights, he had read himself half blind in this same room. He had\ntried in this same room to learn the fiddle under the bedclothes, but\nyielding to objections from the other pupils, had reluctantly abandoned\nthe design. At any other time he would have parted from it with a pang,\nthinking of all he had learned there, of the many hours he had passed\nthere; for the love of his very dreams. But there was no Pecksniff;\nthere never had been a Pecksniff, and the unreality of Pecksniff\nextended itself to the chamber, in which, sitting on one particular\nbed, the thing supposed to be that Great Abstraction had often preached\nmorality with such effect that Tom had felt a moisture in his eyes,\nwhile hanging breathless on the words.\n\nThe man engaged to bear his box--Tom knew him well: a Dragon man--came\nstamping up the stairs, and made a roughish bow to Tom (to whom in\ncommon times he would have nodded with a grin) as though he were aware\nof what had happened, and wished him to perceive it made no difference\nto HIM. It was clumsily done; he was a mere waterer of horses; but Tom\nliked the man for it, and felt it more than going away.\n\nTom would have helped him with the box, but he made no more of it,\nthough it was a heavy one, than an elephant would have made of a\ncastle; just swinging it on his back and bowling downstairs as if, being\nnaturally a heavy sort of fellow, he could carry a box infinitely better\nthan he could go alone. Tom took the carpet-bag, and went downstairs\nalong with him. At the outer door stood Jane, crying with all her might;\nand on the steps was Mrs Lupin, sobbing bitterly, and putting out her\nhand for Tom to shake.\n\n\'You\'re coming to the Dragon, Mr Pinch?\'\n\n\'No,\' said Tom, \'no. I shall walk to Salisbury to-night. I couldn\'t stay\nhere. For goodness\' sake, don\'t make me so unhappy, Mrs Lupin.\'\n\n\'But you\'ll come to the Dragon, Mr Pinch. If it\'s only for tonight. To\nsee me, you know; not as a traveller.\'\n\n\'God bless my soul!\' said Tom, wiping his eyes. \'The kindness of people\nis enough to break one\'s heart! I mean to go to Salisbury to-night, my\ndear good creature. If you\'ll take care of my box for me till I write\nfor it, I shall consider it the greatest kindness you can do me.\'\n\n\'I wish,\' cried Mrs Lupin, \'there were twenty boxes, Mr Pinch, that I\nmight have \'em all.\'\n\n\'Thank\'ee,\' said Tom. \'It\'s like you. Good-bye. Good-bye.\'\n\nThere were several people, young and old, standing about the door, some\nof whom cried with Mrs Lupin; while others tried to keep up a stout\nheart, as Tom did; and others were absorbed in admiration of Mr\nPecksniff--a man who could build a church, as one may say, by squinting\nat a sheet of paper; and others were divided between that feeling and\nsympathy with Tom. Mr Pecksniff had appeared on the top of the steps,\nsimultaneously with his old pupil, and while Tom was talking with Mrs\nLupin kept his hand stretched out, as though he said \'Go forth!\' When\nTom went forth, and had turned the corner Mr Pecksniff shook his head,\nshut his eyes, and heaving a deep sigh, shut the door. On which, the\nbest of Tom\'s supporters said he must have done some dreadful deed, or\nsuch a man as Mr Pecksniff never could have felt like that. If it had\nbeen a common quarrel (they observed), he would have said something, but\nwhen he didn\'t, Mr Pinch must have shocked him dreadfully.\n\nTom was out of hearing of their shrewd opinions, and plodded on as\nsteadily as he could go, until he came within sight of the turnpike\nwhere the tollman\'s family had cried out \'Mr Pinch!\' that frosty\nmorning, when he went to meet young Martin. He had got through the\nvillage, and this toll-bar was his last trial; but when the infant\ntoll-takers came screeching out, he had half a mind to run for it, and\nmake a bolt across the country.\n\n\'Why, deary Mr Pinch! oh, deary sir!\' cried the tollman\'s wife. \'What an\nunlikely time for you to be a-going this way with a bag!\'\n\n\'I am going to Salisbury,\' said Tom.\n\n\'Why, goodness, where\'s the gig, then?\' cried the tollman\'s wife,\nlooking down the road, as if she thought Tom might have been upset\nwithout observing it.\n\n\'I haven\'t got it,\' said Tom. \'I--\' he couldn\'t evade it; he felt she\nwould have him in the next question, if he got over this one. \'I have\nleft Mr Pecksniff.\'\n\nThe tollman--a crusty customer, always smoking solitary pipes in a\nWindsor chair, inside, set artfully between two little windows that\nlooked up and down the road, so that when he saw anything coming up he\nmight hug himself on having toll to take, and when he saw it going down,\nmight hug himself on having taken it--the tollman was out in an instant.\n\n\'Left Mr Pecksniff!\' cried the tollman.\n\n\'Yes,\' said Tom, \'left him.\'\n\nThe tollman looked at his wife, uncertain whether to ask her if she had\nanything to suggest, or to order her to mind the children. Astonishment\nmaking him surly, he preferred the latter, and sent her into the\ntoll-house with a flea in her ear.\n\n\'You left Mr Pecksniff!\' cried the tollman, folding his arms, and\nspreading his legs. \'I should as soon have thought of his head leaving\nhim.\'\n\n\'Aye!\' said Tom, \'so should I, yesterday. Good night!\'\n\nIf a heavy drove of oxen hadn\'t come by immediately, the tollman would\nhave gone down to the village straight, to inquire into it. As\nthings turned out, he smoked another pipe, and took his wife into his\nconfidence. But their united sagacity could make nothing of it, and they\nwent to bed--metaphorically--in the dark. But several times that night,\nwhen a waggon or other vehicle came through, and the driver asked\nthe tollkeeper \'What news?\' he looked at the man by the light of his\nlantern, to assure himself that he had an interest in the subject, and\nthen said, wrapping his watch-coat round his legs:\n\n\'You\'ve heerd of Mr Pecksniff down yonder?\'\n\n\'Ah! sure-ly!\'\n\n\'And of his young man Mr Pinch, p\'raps?\'\n\n\'Ah!\'\n\n\'They\'ve parted.\'\n\nAfter every one of these disclosures, the tollman plunged into his\nhouse again, and was seen no more, while the other side went on in great\namazement.\n\nBut this was long after Tom was abed, and Tom was now with his face\ntowards Salisbury, doing his best to get there. The evening was\nbeautiful at first, but it became cloudy and dull at sunset, and the\nrain fell heavily soon afterwards. For ten long miles he plodded on, wet\nthrough, until at last the lights appeared, and he came into the welcome\nprecincts of the city.\n\nHe went to the inn where he had waited for Martin, and briefly answering\ntheir inquiries after Mr Pecksniff, ordered a bed. He had no heart for\ntea or supper, meat or drink of any kind, but sat by himself before\nan empty table in the public room while the bed was getting ready,\nrevolving in his mind all that had happened that eventful day, and\nwondering what he could or should do for the future. It was a great\nrelief when the chambermaid came in, and said the bed was ready.\n\nIt was a low four-poster, shelving downward in the centre like a trough,\nand the room was crowded with impracticable tables and exploded chests\nof drawers, full of damp linen. A graphic representation in oil of a\nremarkably fat ox hung over the fireplace, and the portrait of some\nformer landlord (who might have been the ox\'s brother, he was so like\nhim) stared roundly in, at the foot of the bed. A variety of queer\nsmells were partially quenched in the prevailing scent of very old\nlavender; and the window had not been opened for such a long space of\ntime that it pleaded immemorial usage, and wouldn\'t come open now.\n\nThese were trifles in themselves, but they added to the strangeness of\nthe place, and did not induce Tom to forget his new position. Pecksniff\nhad gone out of the world--had never been in it--and it was as much\nas Tom could do to say his prayers without him. But he felt happier\nafterwards, and went to sleep, and dreamed about him as he Never Was.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-TWO\n\nTREATS OF TODGER\'S AGAIN; AND OF ANOTHER BLIGHTED PLANT BESIDES THE\nPLANTS UPON THE LEADS\n\n\nEarly on the day next after that on which she bade adieu to the halls\nof her youth and the scenes of her childhood, Miss Pecksniff, arriving\nsafely at the coach-office in London, was there received, and conducted\nto her peaceful home beneath the shadow of the Monument, by Mrs Todgers.\nM. Todgers looked a little worn by cares of gravy and other such\nsolicitudes arising out of her establishment, but displayed her usual\nearnestness and warmth of manner.\n\n\'And how, my sweet Miss Pecksniff,\' said she, \'how is your princely pa?\'\n\nMiss Pecksniff signified (in confidence) that he contemplated the\nintroduction of a princely ma; and repeated the sentiment that she\nwasn\'t blind, and wasn\'t quite a fool, and wouldn\'t bear it.\n\nMrs Todgers was more shocked by the intelligence than any one could have\nexpected. She was quite bitter. She said there was no truth in man and\nthat the warmer he expressed himself, as a general principle, the falser\nand more treacherous he was. She foresaw with astonishing clearness that\nthe object of Mr Pecksniff\'s attachment was designing, worthless, and\nwicked; and receiving from Charity the fullest confirmation of these\nviews, protested with tears in her eyes that she loved Miss Pecksniff\nlike a sister, and felt her injuries as if they were her own.\n\n\'Your real darling sister, I have not seen her more than once since her\nmarriage,\' said Mrs Todgers, \'and then I thought her looking poorly. My\nsweet Miss Pecksniff, I always thought that you was to be the lady?\'\n\n\'Oh dear no!\' cried Cherry, shaking her head. \'Oh no, Mrs Todgers. Thank\nyou. No! not for any consideration he could offer.\'\n\n\'I dare say you are right,\' said Mrs Todgers with a sigh. \'I feared\nit all along. But the misery we have had from that match, here among\nourselves, in this house, my dear Miss Pecksniff, nobody would believe.\'\n\n\'Lor, Mrs Todgers!\'\n\n\'Awful, awful!\' repeated Mrs Todgers, with strong emphasis. \'You\nrecollect our youngest gentleman, my dear?\'\n\n\'Of course I do,\' said Cherry.\n\n\'You might have observed,\' said Mrs Todgers, \'how he used to watch your\nsister; and that a kind of stony dumbness came over him whenever she was\nin company?\'\n\n\'I am sure I never saw anything of the sort,\' said Cherry, in a peevish\nmanner. \'What nonsense, Mrs Todgers!\'\n\n\'My dear,\' returned that lady in a hollow voice, \'I have seen him again\nand again, sitting over his pie at dinner, with his spoon a perfect\nfixture in his mouth, looking at your sister. I have seen him standing\nin a corner of our drawing-room, gazing at her, in such a lonely,\nmelancholy state, that he was more like a Pump than a man, and might\nhave drawed tears.\'\n\n\'I never saw it!\' cried Cherry; \'that\'s all I can say.\'\n\n\'But when the marriage took place,\' said Mrs Todgers, proceeding\nwith her subject, \'when it was in the paper, and was read out here at\nbreakfast, I thought he had taken leave of his senses, I did indeed.\nThe violence of that young man, my dear Miss Pecksniff; the frightful\nopinions he expressed upon the subject of self-destruction; the\nextraordinary actions he performed with his tea; the clenching way in\nwhich he bit his bread and butter; the manner in which he taunted Mr\nJinkins; all combined to form a picture never to be forgotten.\'\n\n\'It\'s a pity he didn\'t destroy himself, I think,\' observed Miss\nPecksniff.\n\n\'Himself!\' said Mrs Todgers, \'it took another turn at night. He was for\ndestroying other people then. There was a little chaffing going on--I\nhope you don\'t consider that a low expression, Miss Pecksniff; it is\nalways in our gentlemen\'s mouths--a little chaffing going on, my dear,\namong \'em, all in good nature, when suddenly he rose up, foaming with\nhis fury, and but for being held by three would have had Mr Jinkins\'s\nlife with a bootjack.\'\n\nMiss Pecksniff\'s face expressed supreme indifference.\n\n\'And now,\' said Mrs Todgers, \'now he is the meekest of men. You can\nalmost bring the tears into his eyes by looking at him. He sits with me\nthe whole day long on Sundays, talking in such a dismal way that I find\nit next to impossible to keep my spirits up equal to the accommodation\nof the boarders. His only comfort is in female society. He takes me\nhalf-price to the play, to an extent which I sometimes fear is beyond\nhis means; and I see the tears a-standing in his eyes during the whole\nperformance--particularly if it is anything of a comic nature. The turn\nI experienced only yesterday,\' said Mrs Todgers putting her hand to her\nside, \'when the house-maid threw his bedside carpet out of the window of\nhis room, while I was sitting here, no one can imagine. I thought it was\nhim, and that he had done it at last!\'\n\nThe contempt with which Miss Charity received this pathetic account of\nthe state to which the youngest gentleman in company was reduced,\ndid not say much for her power of sympathising with that unfortunate\ncharacter. She treated it with great levity, and went on to inform\nherself, then and afterwards, whether any other changes had occurred in\nthe commercial boarding-house.\n\nMr Bailey was gone, and had been succeeded (such is the decay of human\ngreatness!) by an old woman whose name was reported to be Tamaroo--which\nseemed an impossibility. Indeed it appeared in the fullness of time that\nthe jocular boarders had appropriated the word from an English ballad,\nin which it is supposed to express the bold and fiery nature of a\ncertain hackney coachman; and that it was bestowed upon Mr Bailey\'s\nsuccessor by reason of her having nothing fiery about her, except an\noccasional attack of that fire which is called St. Anthony\'s. This\nancient female had been engaged, in fulfillment of a vow, registered by\nMrs Todgers, that no more boys should darken the commercial doors; and\nshe was chiefly remarkable for a total absence of all comprehension upon\nevery subject whatever. She was a perfect Tomb for messages and small\nparcels; and when dispatched to the Post Office with letters, had been\nfrequently seen endeavouring to insinuate them into casual chinks in\nprivate doors, under the delusion that any door with a hole in it would\nanswer the purpose. She was a very little old woman, and always wore\na very coarse apron with a bib before and a loop behind, together\nwith bandages on her wrists, which appeared to be afflicted with an\neverlasting sprain. She was on all occasions chary of opening the street\ndoor, and ardent to shut it again; and she waited at table in a bonnet.\n\nThis was the only great change over and above the change which had\nfallen on the youngest gentleman. As for him, he more than corroborated\nthe account of Mrs Todgers; possessing greater sensibility than even\nshe had given him credit for. He entertained some terrible notions of\nDestiny, among other matters, and talked much about people\'s \'Missions\';\nupon which he seemed to have some private information not generally\nattainable, as he knew it had been poor Merry\'s mission to crush him\nin the bud. He was very frail and tearful; for being aware that a\nshepherd\'s mission was to pipe to his flocks, and that a boatswain\'s\nmission was to pipe all hands, and that one man\'s mission was to be a\npaid piper, and another man\'s mission was to pay the piper, so he had\ngot it into his head that his own peculiar mission was to pipe his eye.\nWhich he did perpetually.\n\nHe often informed Mrs Todgers that the sun had set upon him; that the\nbillows had rolled over him; that the car of Juggernaut had crushed him,\nand also that the deadly Upas tree of Java had blighted him. His name\nwas Moddle.\n\nTowards this most unhappy Moddle, Miss Pecksniff conducted herself at\nfirst with distant haughtiness, being in no humour to be entertained\nwith dirges in honour of her married sister. The poor young gentleman\nwas additionally crushed by this, and remonstrated with Mrs Todgers on\nthe subject.\n\n\'Even she turns from me, Mrs Todgers,\' said Moddle.\n\n\'Then why don\'t you try and be a little bit more cheerful, sir?\'\nretorted Mrs Todgers.\n\n\'Cheerful, Mrs Todgers! cheerful!\' cried the youngest gentleman; \'when\nshe reminds me of days for ever fled, Mrs Todgers!\'\n\n\'Then you had better avoid her for a short time, if she does,\' said Mrs\nTodgers, \'and come to know her again, by degrees. That\'s my advice.\'\n\n\'But I can\'t avoid her,\' replied Moddle, \'I haven\'t strength of mind to\ndo it. Oh, Mrs Todgers, if you knew what a comfort her nose is to me!\'\n\n\'Her nose, sir!\' Mrs Todgers cried.\n\n\'Her profile, in general,\' said the youngest gentleman, \'but\nparticularly her nose. It\'s so like;\' here he yielded to a burst of\ngrief. \'It\'s so like hers who is Another\'s, Mrs Todgers!\'\n\nThe observant matron did not fail to report this conversation to\nCharity, who laughed at the time, but treated Mr Moddle that very\nevening with increased consideration, and presented her side face to him\nas much as possible. Mr Moddle was not less sentimental than usual;\nwas rather more so, if anything; but he sat and stared at her with\nglistening eyes, and seemed grateful.\n\n\'Well, sir!\' said the lady of the Boarding-House next day. \'You held up\nyour head last night. You\'re coming round, I think.\'\n\n\'Only because she\'s so like her who is Another\'s, Mrs Todgers,\' rejoined\nthe youth. \'When she talks, and when she smiles, I think I\'m looking on\nHER brow again, Mrs Todgers.\'\n\nThis was likewise carried to Charity, who talked and smiled next evening\nin her most engaging manner, and rallying Mr Moddle on the lowness of\nhis spirits, challenged him to play a rubber at cribbage. Mr Moddle\ntaking up the gauntlet, they played several rubbers for sixpences, and\nCharity won them all. This may have been partially attributable to the\ngallantry of the youngest gentleman, but it was certainly referable to\nthe state of his feelings also; for his eyes being frequently dimmed by\ntears, he thought that aces were tens, and knaves queens, which at times\noccasioned some confusion in his play.\n\nOn the seventh night of cribbage, when Mrs Todgers, sitting by, proposed\nthat instead of gambling they should play for \'love,\' Mr Moddle was seen\nto change colour. On the fourteenth night, he kissed Miss Pecksniff\'s\nsnuffers, in the passage, when she went upstairs to bed; meaning to have\nkissed her hand, but missing it.\n\nIn short, Mr Moddle began to be impressed with the idea that Miss\nPecksniff\'s mission was to comfort him; and Miss Pecksniff began\nto speculate on the probability of its being her mission to become\nultimately Mrs Moddle. He was a young gentleman (Miss Pecksniff was not\na very young lady) with rising prospects, and \'almost\' enough to live\non. Really it looked very well.\n\nBesides--besides--he had been regarded as devoted to Merry. Merry had\njoked about him, and had once spoken of it to her sister as a conquest.\nHe was better looking, better shaped, better spoken, better tempered,\nbetter mannered than Jonas. He was easy to manage, could be made to\nconsult the humours of his Betrothed, and could be shown off like a lamb\nwhen Jonas was a bear. There was the rub!\n\nIn the meantime the cribbage went on, and Mrs Todgers went off; for the\nyoungest gentleman, dropping her society, began to take Miss Pecksniff\nto the play. He also began, as Mrs Todgers said, to slip home \'in his\ndinner-times,\' and to get away from \'the office\' at unholy seasons;\nand twice, as he informed Mrs Todgers himself, he received anonymous\nletters, enclosing cards from Furniture Warehouses--clearly the act of\nthat ungentlemanly ruffian Jinkins; only he hadn\'t evidence enough to\ncall him out upon. All of which, so Mrs Todgers told Miss Pecksniff,\nspoke as plain English as the shining sun.\n\n\'My dear Miss Pecksniff, you may depend upon it,\' said Mrs Todgers,\n\'that he is burning to propose.\'\n\n\'My goodness me, why don\'t he then?\' cried Cherry.\n\n\'Men are so much more timid than we think \'em, my dear,\' returned\nMrs Todgers. \'They baulk themselves continually. I saw the words on\nTodgers\'s lips for months and months and months, before he said \'em.\'\n\nMiss Pecksniff submitted that Todgers might not have been a fair\nspecimen.\n\n\'Oh yes, he was. Oh bless you, yes, my dear. I was very particular in\nthose days, I assure you,\' said Mrs Todgers, bridling. \'No, no. You give\nMr Moddle a little encouragement, Miss Pecksniff, if you wish him to\nspeak; and he\'ll speak fast enough, depend upon it.\'\n\n\'I am sure I don\'t know what encouragement he would have, Mrs Todgers,\'\nreturned Charity. \'He walks with me, and plays cards with me, and he\ncomes and sits alone with me.\'\n\n\'Quite right,\' said Mrs Todgers. \'That\'s indispensable, my dear.\'\n\n\'And he sits very close to me.\'\n\n\'Also quite correct,\' said Mrs Todgers.\n\n\'And he looks at me.\'\n\n\'To be sure he does,\' said Mrs Todgers.\n\n\'And he has his arm upon the back of the chair or sofa, or whatever it\nis--behind me, you know.\'\n\n\'I should think so,\' said Mrs Todgers.\n\n\'And then he begins to cry!\'\n\nMrs Todgers admitted that he might do better than that; and might\nundoubtedly profit by the recollection of the great Lord Nelson\'s signal\nat the battle of Trafalgar. Still, she said, he would come round, or,\nnot to mince the matter, would be brought round, if Miss Pecksniff took\nup a decided position, and plainly showed him that it must be done.\n\nDetermining to regulate her conduct by this opinion, the young lady\nreceived Mr Moddle, on the earliest subsequent occasion, with an air of\nconstraint; and gradually leading him to inquire, in a dejected manner,\nwhy she was so changed, confessed to him that she felt it necessary for\ntheir mutual peace and happiness to take a decided step. They had been\nmuch together lately, she observed, much together, and had tasted the\nsweets of a genuine reciprocity of sentiment. She never could forget\nhim, nor could she ever cease to think of him with feelings of the\nliveliest friendship, but people had begun to talk, the thing had been\nobserved, and it was necessary that they should be nothing more to each\nother, than any gentleman and lady in society usually are. She was glad\nshe had had the resolution to say thus much before her feelings had been\ntried too far; they had been greatly tried, she would admit; but though\nshe was weak and silly, she would soon get the better of it, she hoped.\n\nModdle, who had by this time become in the last degree maudlin, and wept\nabundantly, inferred from the foregoing avowal, that it was his mission\nto communicate to others the blight which had fallen on himself; and\nthat, being a kind of unintentional Vampire, he had had Miss Pecksniff\nassigned to him by the Fates, as Victim Number One. Miss Pecksniff\ncontroverting this opinion as sinful, Moddle was goaded on to ask\nwhether she could be contented with a blighted heart; and it appearing\non further examination that she could be, plighted his dismal troth,\nwhich was accepted and returned.\n\nHe bore his good fortune with the utmost moderation. Instead of being\ntriumphant, he shed more tears than he had ever been known to shed\nbefore; and, sobbing, said:\n\n\'Oh! what a day this has been! I can\'t go back to the office this\nafternoon. Oh, what a trying day this has been! Good Gracious!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-THREE\n\nFURTHER PROCEEDINGS IN EDEN, AND A PROCEEDING OUT OF IT. MARTIN MAKES A\nDISCOVERY OF SOME IMPORTANCE\n\n\nFrom Mr Moddle to Eden is an easy and natural transition. Mr Moddle,\nliving in the atmosphere of Miss Pecksniff\'s love, dwelt (if he had but\nknown it) in a terrestrial Paradise. The thriving city of Eden was\nalso a terrestrial Paradise, upon the showing of its proprietors. The\nbeautiful Miss Pecksniff might have been poetically described as a\nsomething too good for man in his fallen and degraded state. That\nwas exactly the character of the thriving city of Eden, as poetically\nheightened by Zephaniah Scadder, General Choke, and other worthies; part\nand parcel of the talons of that great American Eagle, which is always\nairing itself sky-high in purest aether, and never, no never, never,\ntumbles down with draggled wings into the mud.\n\nWhen Mark Tapley, leaving Martin in the architectural and surveying\noffices, had effectually strengthened and encouraged his own spirits\nby the contemplation of their joint misfortunes, he proceeded, with\nnew cheerfulness, in search of help; congratulating himself, as he went\nalong, on the enviable position to which he had at last attained.\n\n\'I used to think, sometimes,\' said Mr Tapley, \'as a desolate island\nwould suit me, but I should only have had myself to provide for there,\nand being naturally a easy man to manage, there wouldn\'t have been much\ncredit in THAT. Now here I\'ve got my partner to take care on, and he\'s\nsomething like the sort of man for the purpose. I want a man as is\nalways a-sliding off his legs when he ought to be on \'em. I want a\nman as is so low down in the school of life that he\'s always a-making\nfigures of one in his copy-book, and can\'t get no further. I want a man\nas is his own great coat and cloak, and is always a-wrapping himself up\nin himself. And I have got him too,\' said Mr Tapley, after a moment\'s\nsilence. \'What a happiness!\'\n\nHe paused to look round, uncertain to which of the log-houses he should\nrepair.\n\n\'I don\'t know which to take,\' he observed; \'that\'s the truth. They\'re\nequally prepossessing outside, and equally commodious, no doubt, within;\nbeing fitted up with every convenience that a Alligator, in a state of\nnatur\', could possibly require. Let me see! The citizen as turned out\nlast night, lives under water, in the right hand dog-kennel at the\ncorner. I don\'t want to trouble him if I can help it, poor man, for\nhe is a melancholy object; a reg\'lar Settler in every respect. There\'s\nhouse with a winder, but I am afraid of their being proud. I don\'t know\nwhether a door ain\'t too aristocratic; but here goes for the first one!\'\n\nHe went up to the nearest cabin, and knocked with his hand. Being\ndesired to enter, he complied.\n\n\'Neighbour,\' said Mark; \'for I AM a neighbour, though you don\'t know me;\nI\'ve come a-begging. Hallo! hal--lo! Am I a-bed, and dreaming!\'\n\nHe made this exclamation on hearing his own name pronounced, and finding\nhimself clasped about the skirts by two little boys, whose faces he had\noften washed, and whose suppers he had often cooked, on board of that\nnoble and fast-sailing line-of-packet ship, the Screw.\n\n\'My eyes is wrong!\' said Mark. \'I don\'t believe \'em. That ain\'t my\nfellow-passenger younder, a-nursing her little girl, who, I am sorry to\nsee, is so delicate; and that ain\'t her husband as come to New York to\nfetch her. Nor these,\' he added, looking down upon the boys, \'ain\'t them\ntwo young shavers as was so familiar to me; though they are uncommon\nlike \'em. That I must confess.\'\n\nThe woman shed tears, in very joy to see him; the man shook both his\nhands and would not let them go; the two boys hugged his legs; the sick\nchild in the mother\'s arms stretched out her burning little fingers, and\nmuttered, in her hoarse, dry throat, his well-remembered name.\n\nIt was the same family, sure enough. Altered by the salubrious air of\nEden. But the same.\n\n\'This is a new sort of a morning call,\' said Mark, drawing a long\nbreath. \'It strikes one all of a heap. Wait a little bit! I\'m a-coming\nround fast. That\'ll do! These gentlemen ain\'t my friends. Are they on\nthe visiting list of the house?\'\n\nThe inquiry referred to certain gaunt pigs, who had walked in after him,\nand were much interested in the heels of the family. As they did not\nbelong to the mansion, they were expelled by the two little boys.\n\n\'I ain\'t superstitious about toads,\' said Mark, looking round the room,\n\'but if you could prevail upon the two or three I see in company, to\nstep out at the same time, my young friends, I think they\'d find the\nopen air refreshing. Not that I at all object to \'em. A very handsome\nanimal is a toad,\' said Mr Tapley, sitting down upon a stool; \'very\nspotted; very like a partickler style of old gentleman about the throat;\nvery bright-eyed, very cool, and very slippy. But one sees \'em to the\nbest advantage out of doors perhaps.\'\n\nWhile pretending, with such talk as this, to be perfectly at his ease,\nand to be the most indifferent and careless of men, Mark Tapley had\nan eye on all around him. The wan and meagre aspect of the family, the\nchanged looks of the poor mother, the fevered child she held in her lap,\nthe air of great despondency and little hope on everything, were plain\nto him, and made a deep impression on his mind. He saw it all as\nclearly and as quickly, as with his bodily eyes he saw the rough shelves\nsupported by pegs driven between the logs, of which the house was made;\nthe flour-cask in the corner, serving also for a table; the blankets,\nspades, and other articles against the walls; the damp that blotched the\nground; or the crop of vegetable rottenness in every crevice of the hut.\n\n\'How is it that you have come here?\' asked the man, when their first\nexpressions of surprise were over.\n\n\'Why, we come by the steamer last night,\' replied Mark. \'Our intention\nis to make our fortuns with punctuality and dispatch; and to retire upon\nour property as soon as ever it\'s realised. But how are you all? You\'re\nlooking noble!\'\n\n\'We are but sickly now,\' said the poor woman, bending over her child.\n\'But we shall do better when we are seasoned to the place.\'\n\n\'There are some here,\' thought Mark \'whose seasoning will last for\never.\'\n\nBut he said cheerfully, \'Do better! To be sure you will. We shall all\ndo better. What we\'ve got to do is, to keep up our spirits, and be\nneighbourly. We shall come all right in the end, never fear. That\nreminds me, by the bye, that my partner\'s all wrong just at present;\nand that I looked in to beg for him. I wish you\'d come and give me your\nopinion of him, master.\'\n\nThat must have been a very unreasonable request on the part of Mark\nTapley, with which, in their gratitude for his kind offices on board the\nship, they would not have complied instantly. The man rose to accompany\nhim without a moment\'s delay. Before they went, Mark took the sick child\nin his arms, and tried to comfort the mother; but the hand of death was\non it then, he saw.\n\nThey found Martin in the house, lying wrapped up in his blanket on\nthe ground. He was, to all appearance, very ill indeed, and shook and\nshivered horribly; not as people do from cold, but in a frightful\nkind of spasm or convulsion, that racked his whole body. Mark\'s friend\npronounced his disease an aggravated kind of fever, accompanied with\nague; which was very common in those parts, and which he predicted would\nbe worse to-morrow, and for many more to-morrows. He had had it himself\noff and on, he said, for a couple of years or so; but he was thankful\nthat, while so many he had known had died about him, he had escaped with\nlife.\n\n\'And with not too much of that,\' thought Mark, surveying his emaciated\nform. \'Eden for ever!\'\n\nThey had some medicine in their chest; and this man of sad experience\nshowed Mark how and when to administer it, and how he could best\nalleviate the sufferings of Martin. His attentions did not stop there;\nfor he was backwards and forwards constantly, and rendered Mark\ngood service in all his brisk attempts to make their situation more\nendurable. Hope or comfort for the future he could not bestow. The\nseason was a sickly one; the settlement a grave. His child died that\nnight; and Mark, keeping the secret from Martin, helped to bury it,\nbeneath a tree, next day.\n\nWith all his various duties of attendance upon Martin (who became the\nmore exacting in his claims, the worse he grew), Mark worked out of\ndoors, early and late; and with the assistance of his friend and others,\nlaboured to do something with their land. Not that he had the least\nstrength of heart or hope, or steady purpose in so doing, beyond the\nhabitual cheerfulness of his disposition, and his amazing power of\nself-sustainment; for within himself, he looked on their condition\nas beyond all hope, and, in his own words, \'came out strong\' in\nconsequence.\n\n\'As to coming out as strong as I could wish, sir,\' he confided to Martin\nin a leisure moment; that is to say, one evening, while he was washing\nthe linen of the establishment, after a hard day\'s work, \'that I give\nup. It\'s a piece of good fortune as never is to happen to me, I see!\'\n\n\'Would you wish for circumstances stronger than these?\' Martin retorted\nwith a groan, from underneath his blanket.\n\n\'Why, only see how easy they might have been stronger, sir,\' said Mark,\n\'if it wasn\'t for the envy of that uncommon fortun of mine, which is\nalways after me, and tripping me up. The night we landed here, I thought\nthings did look pretty jolly. I won\'t deny it. I thought they did look\npretty jolly.\'\n\n\'How do they look now?\' groaned Martin.\n\n\'Ah!\' said Mark, \'Ah, to be sure. That\'s the question. How do they look\nnow? On the very first morning of my going out, what do I do? Stumble\non a family I know, who are constantly assisting of us in all sorts of\nways, from that time to this! That won\'t do, you know; that ain\'t what\nI\'d a right to expect. If I had stumbled on a serpent and got bit; or\nstumbled on a first-rate patriot, and got bowie-knifed, or stumbled on a\nlot of Sympathisers with inverted shirt-collars, and got made a lion of;\nI might have distinguished myself, and earned some credit. As it is,\nthe great object of my voyage is knocked on the head. So it would be,\nwherever I went. How do you feel to-night, sir?\'\n\n\'Worse than ever,\' said poor Martin.\n\n\'That\'s something,\' returned Mark, \'but not enough. Nothing but being\nvery bad myself, and jolly to the last, will ever do me justice.\'\n\n\'In Heaven\'s name, don\'t talk of that,\' said Martin with a thrill of\nterror. \'What should I do, Mark, if you were taken ill!\'\n\nMr Tapley\'s spirits appeared to be stimulated by this remark, although\nit was not a very flattering one. He proceeded with his washing in a\nbrighter mood; and observed \'that his glass was arising.\'\n\n\'There\'s one good thing in this place, sir,\' said Mr Tapley, scrubbing\naway at the linen, \'as disposes me to be jolly; and that is that it\'s\na reg\'lar little United States in itself. There\'s two or three American\nsettlers left; and they coolly comes over one, even here, sir, as if it\nwas the wholesomest and loveliest spot in the world. But they\'re like\nthe cock that went and hid himself to save his life, and was found out\nby the noise he made. They can\'t help crowing. They was born to do it,\nand do it they must, whatever comes of it.\'\n\nGlancing from his work out at the door as he said these words, Mark\'s\neyes encountered a lean person in a blue frock and a straw hat, with\na short black pipe in his mouth, and a great hickory stick studded all\nover with knots, in his hand; who smoking and chewing as he came along,\nand spitting frequently, recorded his progress by a train of decomposed\ntobacco on the ground.\n\n\'Here\'s one on \'em,\' cried Mark, \'Hannibal Chollop.\'\n\n\'Don\'t let him in,\' said Martin, feebly.\n\n\'He won\'t want any letting in,\' replied Mark. \'He\'ll come in, sir.\'\nWhich turned out to be quite true, for he did. His face was almost as\nhard and knobby as his stick; and so were his hands. His head was like\nan old black hearth-broom. He sat down on the chest with his hat on;\nand crossing his legs and looking up at Mark, said, without removing his\npipe:\n\n\'Well, Mr Co.! and how do you git along, sir?\'\n\nIt may be necessary to observe that Mr Tapley had gravely introduced\nhimself to all strangers, by that name.\n\n\'Pretty well, sir; pretty well,\' said Mark.\n\n\'If this ain\'t Mr Chuzzlewit, ain\'t it!\' exclaimed the visitor \'How do\nYOU git along, sir?\'\n\nMartin shook his head, and drew the blanket over it involuntarily; for\nhe felt that Hannibal was going to spit; and his eye, as the song says,\nwas upon him.\n\n\'You need not regard me, sir,\' observed Mr Chollop, complacently. \'I am\nfever-proof, and likewise agur.\'\n\n\'Mine was a more selfish motive,\' said Martin, looking out again. \'I was\nafraid you were going to--\'\n\n\'I can calc\'late my distance, sir,\' returned Mr Chollop, \'to an inch.\'\n\nWith a proof of which happy faculty he immediately favoured him.\n\n\'I re-quire, sir,\' said Hannibal, \'two foot clear in a circ\'lar\ndi-rection, and can engage my-self toe keep within it. I HAVE gone ten\nfoot, in a circ\'lar di-rection, but that was for a wager.\'\n\n\'I hope you won it, sir,\' said Mark.\n\n\'Well, sir, I realised the stakes,\' said Chollop. \'Yes, sir.\'\n\nHe was silent for a time, during which he was actively engaged in the\nformation of a magic circle round the chest on which he sat. When it was\ncompleted, he began to talk again.\n\n\'How do you like our country, sir?\' he inquired, looking at Martin.\n\n\'Not at all,\' was the invalid\'s reply.\n\nChollop continued to smoke without the least appearance of emotion,\nuntil he felt disposed to speak again. That time at length arriving, he\ntook his pipe from his mouth, and said:\n\n\'I am not surprised to hear you say so. It re-quires An elevation, and\nA preparation of the intellect. The mind of man must be prepared for\nFreedom, Mr Co.\'\n\nHe addressed himself to Mark; because he saw that Martin, who wished\nhim to go, being already half-mad with feverish irritation, which the\ndroning voice of this new horror rendered almost insupportable, had\nclosed his eyes, and turned on his uneasy bed.\n\n\'A little bodily preparation wouldn\'t be amiss, either, would it, sir,\'\nsaid Mark, \'in the case of a blessed old swamp like this?\'\n\n\'Do you con-sider this a swamp, sir?\' inquired Chollop gravely.\n\n\'Why yes, sir,\' returned Mark. \'I haven\'t a doubt about it myself.\'\n\n\'The sentiment is quite Europian,\' said the major, \'and does not\nsurprise me; what would your English millions say to such a swamp in\nEngland, sir?\'\n\n\'They\'d say it was an uncommon nasty one, I should think, said Mark;\n\'and that they would rather be inoculated for fever in some other way.\'\n\n\'Europian!\' remarked Chollop, with sardonic pity. \'Quite Europian!\'\n\nAnd there he sat. Silent and cool, as if the house were his; smoking\naway like a factory chimney.\n\nMr Chollop was, of course, one of the most remarkable men in the\ncountry; but he really was a notorious person besides. He was usually\ndescribed by his friends, in the South and West, as \'a splendid sample\nof our na-tive raw material, sir,\' and was much esteemed for his\ndevotion to rational Liberty; for the better propagation whereof he\nusually carried a brace of revolving pistols in his coat pocket, with\nseven barrels a-piece. He also carried, amongst other trinkets, a\nsword-stick, which he called his \'Tickler.\' and a great knife, which\n(for he was a man of a pleasant turn of humour) he called \'Ripper,\' in\nallusion to its usefulness as a means of ventilating the stomach of\nany adversary in a close contest. He had used these weapons with\ndistinguished effect in several instances, all duly chronicled in the\nnewspapers; and was greatly beloved for the gallant manner in which\nhe had \'jobbed out\' the eye of one gentleman, as he was in the act of\nknocking at his own street-door.\n\nMr Chollop was a man of a roving disposition; and, in any less advanced\ncommunity, might have been mistaken for a violent vagabond. But his fine\nqualities being perfectly understood and appreciated in those regions\nwhere his lot was cast, and where he had many kindred spirits to consort\nwith, he may be regarded as having been born under a fortunate star,\nwhich is not always the case with a man so much before the age in which\nhe lives. Preferring, with a view to the gratification of his tickling\nand ripping fancies, to dwell upon the outskirts of society, and in the\nmore remote towns and cities, he was in the habit of emigrating from\nplace to place, and establishing in each some business--usually a\nnewspaper--which he presently sold; for the most part closing the\nbargain by challenging, stabbing, pistolling, or gouging the new editor,\nbefore he had quite taken possession of the property.\n\nHe had come to Eden on a speculation of this kind, but had abandoned it,\nand was about to leave. He always introduced himself to strangers as\na worshipper of Freedom; was the consistent advocate of Lynch law,\nand slavery; and invariably recommended, both in print and speech,\nthe \'tarring and feathering\' of any unpopular person who differed from\nhimself. He called this \'planting the standard of civilization in the\nwilder gardens of My country.\'\n\nThere is little doubt that Chollop would have planted this standard in\nEden at Mark\'s expense, in return for his plainness of speech (for the\ngenuine Freedom is dumb, save when she vaunts herself), but for the\nutter desolation and decay prevailing in the settlement, and his own\napproaching departure from it. As it was, he contented himself with\nshowing Mark one of the revolving-pistols, and asking him what he\nthought of that weapon.\n\n\'It ain\'t long since I shot a man down with that, sir, in the State of\nIllinOY,\' observed Chollop.\n\n\'Did you, indeed!\' said Mark, without the smallest agitation. \'Very free\nof you. And very independent!\'\n\n\'I shot him down, sir,\' pursued Chollop, \'for asserting in the Spartan\nPortico, a tri-weekly journal, that the ancient Athenians went a-head of\nthe present Locofoco Ticket.\'\n\n\'And what\'s that?\' asked Mark.\n\n\'Europian not to know,\' said Chollop, smoking placidly. \'Europian\nquite!\'\n\nAfter a short devotion to the interests of the magic circle, he resumed\nthe conversation by observing:\n\n\'You won\'t half feel yourself at home in Eden, now?\'\n\n\'No,\' said Mark, \'I don\'t.\'\n\n\'You miss the imposts of your country. You miss the house dues?\'\nobserved Chollop.\n\n\'And the houses--rather,\' said Mark.\n\n\'No window dues here, sir,\' observed Chollop.\n\n\'And no windows to put \'em on,\' said Mark.\n\n\'No stakes, no dungeons, no blocks, no racks, no scaffolds, no\nthumbscrews, no pikes, no pillories,\' said Chollop.\n\n\'Nothing but rewolwers and bowie-knives,\' returned Mark. \'And what are\nthey? Not worth mentioning!\'\n\nThe man who had met them on the night of their arrival came crawling up\nat this juncture, and looked in at the door.\n\n\'Well, sir,\' said Chollop. \'How do YOU git along?\'\n\nHe had considerable difficulty in getting along at all, and said as much\nin reply.\n\n\'Mr Co. And me, sir,\' observed Chollop, \'are disputating a piece. He\nought to be slicked up pretty smart to disputate between the Old World\nand the New, I do expect?\'\n\n\'Well!\' returned the miserable shadow. \'So he had.\'\n\n\'I was merely observing, sir,\' said Mark, addressing this new visitor,\n\'that I looked upon the city in which we have the honour to live, as\nbeing swampy. What\'s your sentiments?\'\n\n\'I opinionate it\'s moist perhaps, at certain times,\' returned the man.\n\n\'But not as moist as England, sir?\' cried Chollop, with a fierce\nexpression in his face.\n\n\'Oh! Not as moist as England; let alone its Institutions,\' said the man.\n\n\'I should hope there ain\'t a swamp in all Americay, as don\'t whip THAT\nsmall island into mush and molasses,\' observed Chollop, decisively. \'You\nbought slick, straight, and right away, of Scadder, sir?\' to Mark.\n\nHe answered in the affirmative. Mr Chollop winked at the other citizen.\n\n\'Scadder is a smart man, sir? He is a rising man? He is a man as will\ncome up\'ards, right side up, sir?\' Mr Chollop winked again at the other\ncitizen.\n\n\'He should have his right side very high up, if I had my way,\' said\nMark. \'As high up as the top of a good tall gallows, perhaps.\'\n\nMr Chollop was so delighted at the smartness of his excellent countryman\nhaving been too much for the Britisher, and at the Britisher\'s resenting\nit, that he could contain himself no longer, and broke forth in a shout\nof delight. But the strangest exposition of this ruling passion was\nin the other--the pestilence-stricken, broken, miserable shadow of a\nman--who derived so much entertainment from the circumstance that he\nseemed to forget his own ruin in thinking of it, and laughed outright\nwhen he said \'that Scadder was a smart man, and had draw\'d a lot of\nBritish capital that way, as sure as sun-up.\'\n\nAfter a full enjoyment of this joke, Mr Hannibal Chollop sat smoking and\nimproving the circle, without making any attempts either to converse or\nto take leave; apparently labouring under the not uncommon delusion\nthat for a free and enlightened citizen of the United States to convert\nanother man\'s house into a spittoon for two or three hours together, was\na delicate attention, full of interest and politeness, of which nobody\ncould ever tire. At last he rose.\n\n\'I am a-going easy,\' he observed.\n\nMark entreated him to take particular care of himself.\n\n\'Afore I go,\' he said sternly, \'I have got a leetle word to say to you.\nYou are darnation \'cute, you are.\'\n\nMark thanked him for the compliment.\n\n\'But you are much too \'cute to last. I can\'t con-ceive of any spotted\nPainter in the bush, as ever was so riddled through and through as you\nwill be, I bet.\'\n\n\'What for?\' asked Mark.\n\n\'We must be cracked up, sir,\' retorted Chollop, in a tone of menace.\n\'You are not now in A despotic land. We are a model to the airth, and\nmust be jist cracked-up, I tell you.\'\n\n\'What! I speak too free, do I?\' cried Mark.\n\n\'I have draw\'d upon A man, and fired upon A man for less,\' said Chollop,\nfrowning. \'I have know\'d strong men obleeged to make themselves uncommon\nskase for less. I have know\'d men Lynched for less, and beaten into\npunkin\'-sarse for less, by an enlightened people. We are the intellect\nand virtue of the airth, the cream of human natur\', and the flower\nOf moral force. Our backs is easy ris. We must be cracked-up, or they\nrises, and we snarls. We shows our teeth, I tell you, fierce. You\'d\nbetter crack us up, you had!\'\n\nAfter the delivery of this caution, Mr Chollop departed; with Ripper,\nTickler, and the revolvers, all ready for action on the shortest notice.\n\n\'Come out from under the blanket, sir,\' said Mark, \'he\'s gone. What\'s\nthis!\' he added softly; kneeling down to look into his partner\'s\nface, and taking his hot hand. \'What\'s come of all that chattering and\nswaggering? He\'s wandering in his mind to-night, and don\'t know me!\'\n\nMartin indeed was dangerously ill; very near his death. He lay in that\nstate many days, during which time Mark\'s poor friends, regardless of\nthemselves, attended him. Mark, fatigued in mind and body; working\nall the day and sitting up at night; worn with hard living and the\nunaccustomed toil of his new life; surrounded by dismal and discouraging\ncircumstances of every kind; never complained or yielded in the least\ndegree. If ever he had thought Martin selfish or inconsiderate, or had\ndeemed him energetic only by fits and starts, and then too passive for\ntheir desperate fortunes, he now forgot it all. He remembered nothing\nbut the better qualities of his fellow-wanderer, and was devoted to him,\nheart and hand.\n\nMany weeks elapsed before Martin was strong enough to move about with\nthe help of a stick and Mark\'s arm; and even then his recovery, for want\nof wholesome air and proper nourishment, was very slow. He was yet in a\nfeeble and weak condition, when the misfourtune he had so much dreaded\nfell upon them. Mark was taken ill.\n\nMark fought against it; but the malady fought harder, and his efforts\nwere in vain.\n\n\'Floored for the present, sir,\' he said one morning, sinking back upon\nhis bed; \'but jolly!\'\n\nFloored indeed, and by a heavy blow! As any one but Martin might have\nknown beforehand.\n\nIf Mark\'s friends had been kind to Martin (and they had been very), they\nwere twenty times kinder to Mark. And now it was Martin\'s turn to work,\nand sit beside the bed and watch, and listen through the long, long\nnights, to every sound in the gloomy wilderness; and hear poor Mr\nTapley, in his wandering fancy, playing at skittles in the Dragon,\nmaking love-remonstrances to Mrs Lupin, getting his sea-legs on board\nthe Screw, travelling with old Tom Pinch on English roads, and burning\nstumps of trees in Eden, all at once.\n\nBut whenever Martin gave him drink or medicine, or tended him in any\nway, or came into the house returning from some drudgery without, the\npatient Mr Tapley brightened up and cried: \'I\'m jolly, sir; \'I\'m jolly!\'\n\nNow, when Martin began to think of this, and to look at Mark as he lay\nthere; never reproaching him by so much as an expression of regret;\nnever murmuring; always striving to be manful and staunch; he began to\nthink, how was it that this man who had had so few advantages, was so\nmuch better than he who had had so many? And attendance upon a sick bed,\nbut especially the sick bed of one whom we have been accustomed to see\nin full activity and vigour, being a great breeder of reflection, he\nbegan to ask himself in what they differed.\n\nHe was assisted in coming to a conclusion on this head by the frequent\npresence of Mark\'s friend, their fellow-passenger across the ocean,\nwhich suggested to him that in regard to having aided her, for example,\nthey had differed very much. Somehow he coupled Tom Pinch with this\ntrain of reflection; and thinking that Tom would be very likely to have\nstruck up the same sort of acquaintance under similar circumstances,\nbegan to think in what respects two people so extremely different were\nlike each other, and were unlike him. At first sight there was nothing\nvery distressing in these meditations, but they did undoubtedly distress\nhim for all that.\n\nMartin\'s nature was a frank and generous one; but he had been bred up\nin his grandfather\'s house; and it will usually be found that the\nmeaner domestic vices propagate themselves to be their own antagonists.\nSelfishness does this especially; so do suspicion, cunning, stealth, and\ncovetous propensities. Martin had unconsciously reasoned as a child, \'My\nguardian takes so much thought of himself, that unless I do the like by\nMYself, I shall be forgotten.\' So he had grown selfish.\n\nBut he had never known it. If any one had taxed him with the vice, he\nwould have indignantly repelled the accusation, and conceived himself\nunworthily aspersed. He never would have known it, but that being newly\nrisen from a bed of dangerous sickness, to watch by such another couch,\nhe felt how nearly Self had dropped into the grave, and what a poor\ndependent, miserable thing it was.\n\nIt was natural for him to reflect--he had months to do it in--upon his\nown escape, and Mark\'s extremity. This led him to consider which of them\ncould be the better spared, and why? Then the curtain slowly rose a very\nlittle way; and Self, Self, Self, was shown below.\n\nHe asked himself, besides, when dreading Mark\'s decease (as all men do\nand must, at such a time), whether he had done his duty by him, and had\ndeserved and made a good response to his fidelity and zeal. No. Short\nas their companionship had been, he felt in many, many instances, that\nthere was blame against himself; and still inquiring why, the curtain\nslowly rose a little more, and Self, Self, Self, dilated on the scene.\n\nIt was long before he fixed the knowledge of himself so firmly in his\nmind that he could thoroughly discern the truth; but in the hideous\nsolitude of that most hideous place, with Hope so far removed, Ambition\nquenched, and Death beside him rattling at the very door, reflection\ncame, as in a plague-beleaguered town; and so he felt and knew the\nfailing of his life, and saw distinctly what an ugly spot it was.\n\nEden was a hard school to learn so hard a lesson in; but there were\nteachers in the swamp and thicket, and the pestilential air, who had a\nsearching method of their own.\n\nHe made a solemn resolution that when his strength returned he would not\ndispute the point or resist the conviction, but would look upon it as an\nestablished fact, that selfishness was in his breast, and must be rooted\nout. He was so doubtful (and with justice) of his own character, that he\ndetermined not to say one word of vain regret or good resolve to Mark,\nbut steadily to keep his purpose before his own eyes solely; and there\nwas not a jot of pride in this; nothing but humility and steadfastness;\nthe best armour he could wear. So low had Eden brought him down. So high\nhad Eden raised him up.\n\nAfter a long and lingering illness (in certain forlorn stages of which,\nwhen too far gone to speak, he had feebly written \'jolly!\' on a slate),\nMark showed some symptoms of returning health. They came and went, and\nflickered for a time; but he began to mend at last decidedly; and after\nthat continued to improve from day to day.\n\nAs soon as he was well enough to talk without fatigue, Martin consulted\nhim upon a project he had in his mind, and which a few months back he\nwould have carried into execution without troubling anybody\'s head but\nhis own.\n\n\'Ours is a desperate case,\' said Martin. \'Plainly. The place is\ndeserted; its failure must have become known; and selling what we have\nbought to any one, for anything, is hopeless, even if it were honest. We\nleft home on a mad enterprise, and have failed. The only hope left\nus, the only one end for which we have now to try, is to quit this\nsettlement for ever, and get back to England. Anyhow! by any means! only\nto get back there, Mark.\'\n\n\'That\'s all, sir,\' returned Mr Tapley, with a significant stress upon\nthe words; \'only that!\'\n\n\'Now, upon this side of the water,\' said Martin, \'we have but one friend\nwho can help us, and that is Mr Bevan.\'\n\n\'I thought of him when you was ill,\' said Mark.\n\n\'But for the time that would be lost, I would even write to my\ngrandfather,\' Martin went on to say, \'and implore him for money to free\nus from this trap into which we were so cruelly decoyed. Shall I try Mr\nBevan first?\'\n\n\'He\'s a very pleasant sort of a gentleman,\' said Mark. \'I think so.\'\n\n\'The few goods we brought here, and in which we spent our money, would\nproduce something if sold,\' resumed Martin; \'and whatever they realise\nshall be paid him instantly. But they can\'t be sold here.\'\n\n\'There\'s nobody but corpses to buy \'em,\' said Mr Tapley, shaking his\nhead with a rueful air, \'and pigs.\'\n\n\'Shall I tell him so, and only ask him for money enough to enable us by\nthe cheapest means to reach New York, or any port from which we may hope\nto get a passage home, by serving in any capacity? Explaining to him\nat the same time how I am connected, and that I will endeavour to\nrepay him, even through my grandfather, immediately on our arrival in\nEngland?\'\n\n\'Why to be sure,\' said Mark: \'he can only say no, and he may say yes. If\nyou don\'t mind trying him, sir--\'\n\n\'Mind!\' exclaimed Martin. \'I am to blame for coming here, and I would do\nanything to get away. I grieve to think of the past. If I had taken your\nopinion sooner, Mark, we never should have been here, I am certain.\'\n\nMr Tapley was very much surprised at this admission, but protested, with\ngreat vehemence, that they would have been there all the same; and that\nhe had set his heart upon coming to Eden, from the first word he had\never heard of it.\n\nMartin then read him a letter to Mr Bevan, which he had already\nprepared. It was frankly and ingenuously written, and described their\nsituation without the least concealment; plainly stated the miseries\nthey had undergone; and preferred their request in modest but\nstraightforward terms. Mark highly commended it; and they determined to\ndispatch it by the next steamboat going the right way, that might call\nto take in wood at Eden--where there was plenty of wood to spare.\nNot knowing how to address Mr Bevan at his own place of abode, Martin\nsuperscribed it to the care of the memorable Mr Norris of New York,\nand wrote upon the cover an entreaty that it might be forwarded without\ndelay.\n\nMore than a week elapsed before a boat appeared; but at length they were\nawakened very early one morning by the high-pressure snorting of\nthe \'Esau Slodge;\' named after one of the most remarkable men in the\ncountry, who had been very eminent somewhere. Hurrying down to the\nlanding-place, they got it safe on board; and waiting anxiously to see\nthe boat depart, stopped up the gangway; an instance of neglect which\ncaused the \'Capting\' of the Esau Slodge to \'wish he might be sifted fine\nas flour, and whittled small as chips; that if they didn\'t come off that\nthere fixing right smart too, he\'d spill \'em in the drink;\' whereby the\nCapting metaphorically said he\'d throw them in the river.\n\nThey were not likely to receive an answer for eight or ten weeks at the\nearliest. In the meantime they devoted such strength as they had to\nthe attempted improvement of their land; to clearing some of it, and\npreparing it for useful purposes. Monstrously defective as their farming\nwas, still it was better than their neighbours\'; for Mark had some\npractical knowledge of such matters, and Martin learned of him; whereas\nthe other settlers who remained upon the putrid swamp (a mere handful,\nand those withered by disease), appeared to have wandered there with\nthe idea that husbandry was the natural gift of all mankind. They helped\neach other after their own manner in these struggles, and in all others;\nbut they worked as hopelessly and sadly as a gang of convicts in a penal\nsettlement.\n\nOften at night when Mark and Martin were alone, and lying down to sleep,\nthey spoke of home, familiar places, houses, roads, and people whom they\nknew; sometimes in the lively hope of seeing them again, and sometimes\nwith a sorrowful tranquillity, as if that hope were dead. It was a\nsource of great amazement to Mark Tapley to find, pervading all these\nconversations, a singular alteration in Martin.\n\n\'I don\'t know what to make of him,\' he thought one night, \'he ain\'t what\nI supposed. He don\'t think of himself half as much. I\'ll try him again.\nAsleep, sir?\'\n\n\'No, Mark.\'\n\n\'Thinking of home, sir?\'\n\n\'Yes, Mark.\'\n\n\'So was I, sir. I was wondering how Mr Pinch and Mr Pecksniff gets on\nnow.\'\n\n\'Poor Tom!\' said Martin, thoughtfully.\n\n\'Weak-minded man, sir,\' observed Mr Tapley. \'Plays the organ for\nnothing, sir. Takes no care of himself?\'\n\n\'I wish he took a little more, indeed,\' said Martin. \'Though I don\'t\nknow why I should. We shouldn\'t like him half as well, perhaps.\'\n\n\'He gets put upon, sir,\' hinted Mark.\n\n\'Yes!\' said Martin, after a short silence. \'I know that, Mark.\'\n\nHe spoke so regretfully that his partner abandoned the theme, and was\nsilent for a short time until he had thought of another.\n\n\'Ah, sir!\' said Mark, with a sigh. \'Dear me! You\'ve ventured a good deal\nfor a young lady\'s love!\'\n\n\'I tell you what. I\'m not so sure of that, Mark,\' was the reply; so\nhastily and energetically spoken, that Martin sat up in his bed to give\nit. \'I begin to be far from clear upon it. You may depend upon it she is\nvery unhappy. She has sacrificed her peace of mind; she has endangered\nher interests very much; she can\'t run away from those who are jealous\nof her, and opposed to her, as I have done. She has to endure, Mark; to\nendure without the possibility of action, poor girl! I begin to think\nthat she has more to bear than ever I had. Upon my soul I do!\'\n\nMr Tapley opened his eyes wide in the dark; but did not interrupt.\n\n\'And I\'ll tell you a secret, Mark,\' said Martin, \'since we ARE upon this\nsubject. That ring--\'\n\n\'Which ring, sir?\' Mark inquired, opening his eyes still wider.\n\n\'That ring she gave me when we parted, Mark. She bought it; bought it;\nknowing I was poor and proud (Heaven help me! Proud!) and wanted money.\'\n\n\'Who says so, sir?\' asked Mark.\n\n\'I say so. I know it. I thought of it, my good fellow, hundreds of\ntimes, while you were lying ill. And like a beast, I took it from her\nhand, and wore it on my own, and never dreamed of this even at the\nmoment when I parted with it, when some faint glimmering of the truth\nmight surely have possessed me! But it\'s late,\' said Martin, checking\nhimself, \'and you are weak and tired, I know. You only talk to cheer me\nup. Good night! God bless you, Mark!\'\n\n\'God bless you, sir! But I\'m reg\'larly defrauded,\' thought Mr Tapley,\nturning round with a happy face. \'It\'s a swindle. I never entered for\nthis sort of service. There\'ll be no credit in being jolly with HIM!\'\n\nThe time wore on, and other steamboats coming from the point on which\ntheir hopes were fixed, arrived to take in wood; but still no answer\nto the letter. Rain, heat, foul slime, and noxious vapour, with all the\nills and filthy things they bred, prevailed. The earth, the air, the\nvegetation, and the water that they drank, all teemed with deadly\nproperties. Their fellow-passenger had lost two children long before;\nand buried now her last. Such things are much too common to be widely\nknown or cared for. Smart citizens grow rich, and friendless victims\nsmart and die, and are forgotten. That is all.\n\nAt last a boat came panting up the ugly river, and stopped at Eden. Mark\nwas waiting at the wood hut when it came, and had a letter handed to\nhim from on board. He bore it off to Martin. They looked at one another,\ntrembling.\n\n\'It feels heavy,\' faltered Martin. And opening it a little roll of\ndollar-notes fell out upon the ground.\n\nWhat either of them said, or did, or felt, at first, neither of them\nknew. All Mark could ever tell was, that he was at the river\'s bank\nagain out of breath, before the boat had gone, inquiring when it would\nretrace its track and put in there.\n\nThe answer was, in ten or twelve days; notwithstanding which they began\nto get their goods together and to tie them up that very night. When\nthis stage of excitement was passed, each of them believed (they found\nthis out, in talking of it afterwards) that he would surely die before\nthe boat returned.\n\nThey lived, however, and it came, after the lapse of three long crawling\nweeks. At sunrise, on an autumn day, they stood upon her deck.\n\n\'Courage! We shall meet again!\' cried Martin, waving his hand to two\nthin figures on the bank. \'In the Old World!\'\n\n\'Or in the next one,\' added Mark below his breath. \'To see them standing\nside by side, so quiet, is a\'most the worst of all!\'\n\nThey looked at one another as the vessel moved away, and then looked\nbackward at the spot from which it hurried fast. The log-house, with the\nopen door, and drooping trees about it; the stagnant morning mist, and\nred sun, dimly seen beyond; the vapour rising up from land and river;\nthe quick stream making the loathsome banks it washed more flat and\ndull; how often they returned in dreams! How often it was happiness to\nwake and find them Shadows that had vanished!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR\n\nIN WHICH THE TRAVELLERS MOVE HOMEWARD, AND ENCOUNTER SOME DISTINGUISHED\nCHARACTERS UPON THE WAY\n\n\nAmong the passengers on board the steamboat, there was a faint gentleman\nsitting on a low camp-stool, with his legs on a high barrel of flour, as\nif he were looking at the prospect with his ankles, who attracted their\nattention speedily.\n\nHe had straight black hair, parted up the middle of his head and hanging\ndown upon his coat; a little fringe of hair upon his chin; wore no\nneckcloth; a white hat; a suit of black, long in the sleeves and short\nin the legs; soiled brown stockings and laced shoes. His complexion,\nnaturally muddy, was rendered muddier by too strict an economy of soap\nand water; and the same observation will apply to the washable part\nof his attire, which he might have changed with comfort to himself and\ngratification to his friends. He was about five and thirty; was crushed\nand jammed up in a heap, under the shade of a large green cotton\numbrella; and ruminated over his tobacco-plug like a cow.\n\nHe was not singular, to be sure, in these respects; for every gentleman\non board appeared to have had a difference with his laundress and to\nhave left off washing himself in early youth. Every gentleman, too,\nwas perfectly stopped up with tight plugging, and was dislocated in\nthe greater part of his joints. But about this gentleman there was a\npeculiar air of sagacity and wisdom, which convinced Martin that he was\nno common character; and this turned out to be the case.\n\n\'How do you do sir?\' said a voice in Martin\'s ear\n\n\'How do you do sir?\' said Martin.\n\nIt was a tall thin gentleman who spoke to him, with a carpet-cap on,\nand a long loose coat of green baize, ornamented about the pockets with\nblack velvet.\n\n\'You air from Europe, sir?\'\n\n\'I am,\' said Martin.\n\n\'You air fortunate, sir.\'\n\nMartin thought so too; but he soon discovered that the gentleman and he\nattached different meanings to this remark.\n\n\'You air fortunate, sir, in having an opportunity of beholding our\nElijah Pogram, sir.\'\n\n\'Your Elijahpogram!\' said Martin, thinking it was all one word, and a\nbuilding of some sort.\n\n\'Yes sir.\'\n\nMartin tried to look as if he understood him, but he couldn\'t make it\nout.\n\n\'Yes, sir,\' repeated the gentleman, \'our Elijah Pogram, sir, is, at this\nminute, identically settin\' by the engine biler.\'\n\nThe gentleman under the umbrella put his right forefinger to his\neyebrow, as if he were revolving schemes of state.\n\n\'That is Elijah Pogram, is it?\' said Martin.\n\n\'Yes, sir,\' replied the other. \'That is Elijah Pogram.\'\n\n\'Dear me!\' said Martin. \'I am astonished.\' But he had not the least idea\nwho this Elijah Pogram was; having never heard the name in all his life.\n\n\'If the biler of this vessel was Toe bust, sir,\' said his new\nacquaintance, \'and Toe bust now, this would be a festival day in the\ncalendar of despotism; pretty nigh equallin\', sir, in its effects upon\nthe human race, our Fourth of glorious July. Yes, sir, that is the\nHonourable Elijah Pogram, Member of Congress; one of the master-minds of\nour country, sir. There is a brow, sir, there!\'\n\n\'Quite remarkable,\' said Martin.\n\n\'Yes, sir. Our own immortal Chiggle, sir, is said to have observed,\nwhen he made the celebrated Pogram statter in marble, which rose so much\ncon-test and preju-dice in Europe, that the brow was more than mortal.\nThis was before the Pogram Defiance, and was, therefore, a pre-diction,\ncruel smart.\'\n\n\'What is the Pogram Defiance?\' asked Martin, thinking, perhaps, it was\nthe sign of a public-house.\n\n\'An o-ration, sir,\' returned his friend.\n\n\'Oh! to be sure,\' cried Martin. \'What am I thinking of! It defied--\'\n\n\'It defied the world, sir,\' said the other, gravely. \'Defied the world\nin general to com-pete with our country upon any hook; and devellop\'d\nour internal resources for making war upon the universal airth. You\nwould like to know Elijah Pogram, sir?\'\n\n\'If you please,\' said Martin.\n\n\'Mr Pogram,\' said the stranger--Mr Pogram having overheard every word of\nthe dialogue--\'this is a gentleman from Europe, sir; from England, sir.\nBut gen\'rous ene-mies may meet upon the neutral sile of private life, I\nthink.\'\n\nThe languid Mr Pogram shook hands with Martin, like a clock-work figure\nthat was just running down. But he made amends by chewing like one that\nwas just wound up.\n\n\'Mr Pogram,\' said the introducer, \'is a public servant, sir. When\nCongress is recessed, he makes himself acquainted with those free United\nStates, of which he is the gifted son.\'\n\nIt occurred to Martin that if the Honourable Elijah Pogram had stayed at\nhome, and sent his shoes upon a tour, they would have answered the\nsame purpose; for they were the only part of him in a situation to see\nanything.\n\nIn course of time, however, Mr Pogram rose; and having ejected certain\nplugging consequences which would have impeded his articulation, took up\na position where there was something to lean against, and began to talk\nto Martin; shading himself with the green umbrella all the time.\n\nAs he began with the words, \'How do you like--?\' Martin took him up and\nsaid:\n\n\'The country, I presume?\'\n\n\'Yes, sir,\' said Elijah Pogram. A knot of passengers gathered round to\nhear what followed; and Martin heard his friend say, as he whispered\nto another friend, and rubbed his hands, \'Pogram will smash him into\nsky-blue fits, I know!\'\n\n\'Why,\' said Martin, after a moment\'s hesitation, \'I have learned by\nexperience, that you take an unfair advantage of a stranger, when you\nask that question. You don\'t mean it to be answered, except in one way.\nNow, I don\'t choose to answer it in that way, for I cannot honestly\nanswer it in that way. And therefore, I would rather not answer it at\nall.\'\n\nBut Mr Pogram was going to make a great speech in the next session\nabout foreign relations, and was going to write strong articles on the\nsubject; and as he greatly favoured the free and independent custom (a\nvery harmless and agreeable one) of procuring information of any sort\nin any kind of confidence, and afterwards perverting it publicly in any\nmanner that happened to suit him, he had determined to get at Martin\'s\nopinions somehow or other. For if he could have got nothing out of\nhim, he would have had to invent it for him, and that would have been\nlaborious. He made a mental note of his answer, and went in again.\n\n\'You are from Eden, sir? How did you like Eden?\'\n\nMartin said what he thought of that part of the country, in pretty\nstrong terms.\n\n\'It is strange,\' said Pogram, looking round upon the group, \'this hatred\nof our country, and her Institutions! This national antipathy is deeply\nrooted in the British mind!\'\n\n\'Good Heaven, sir,\' cried Martin. \'Is the Eden Land Corporation, with Mr\nScadder at its head, and all the misery it has worked, at its door, an\nInstitution of America? A part of any form of government that ever was\nknown or heard of?\'\n\n\'I con-sider the cause of this to be,\' said Pogram, looking round again\nand taking himself up where Martin had interrupted him, \'partly jealousy\nand pre-judice, and partly the nat\'ral unfitness of the British people\nto appreciate the ex-alted Institutions of our native land. I expect,\nsir,\' turning to Martin again, \'that a gentleman named Chollop happened\nin upon you during your lo-cation in the town of Eden?\'\n\n\'Yes,\' answered Martin; \'but my friend can answer this better than I\ncan, for I was very ill at the time. Mark! The gentleman is speaking of\nMr Chollop.\'\n\n\'Oh. Yes, sir. Yes. I see him,\' observed Mark.\n\n\'A splendid example of our na-tive raw material, sir?\' said Pogram,\ninterrogatively.\n\n\'Indeed, sir!\' cried Mark.\n\nThe Honourable Elijah Pogram glanced at his friends as though he would\nhave said, \'Observe this! See what follows!\' and they rendered tribute\nto the Pogram genius by a gentle murmur.\n\n\'Our fellow-countryman is a model of a man, quite fresh from Natur\'s\nmould!\' said Pogram, with enthusiasm. \'He is a true-born child of this\nfree hemisphere! Verdant as the mountains of our country; bright and\nflowing as our mineral Licks; unspiled by withering conventionalities\nas air our broad and boundless Perearers! Rough he may be. So air\nour Barrs. Wild he may be. So air our Buffalers. But he is a child of\nNatur\', and a child of Freedom; and his boastful answer to the Despot\nand the Tyrant is, that his bright home is in the Settin Sun.\'\n\nPart of this referred to Chollop, and part to a Western postmaster, who,\nbeing a public defaulter not very long before (a character not at all\nuncommon in America), had been removed from office; and on whose behalf\nMr Pogram (he voted for Pogram) had thundered the last sentence from\nhis seat in Congress, at the head of an unpopular President. It told\nbrilliantly; for the bystanders were delighted, and one of them said to\nMartin, \'that he guessed he had now seen something of the eloquential\naspect of our country, and was chawed up pritty small.\'\n\nMr Pogram waited until his hearers were calm again, before he said to\nMark:\n\n\'You do not seem to coincide, sir?\'\n\n\'Why,\' said Mark, \'I didn\'t like him much; and that\'s the truth, sir. I\nthought he was a bully; and I didn\'t admire his carryin\' them murderous\nlittle persuaders, and being so ready to use \'em.\'\n\n\'It\'s singler!\' said Pogram, lifting his umbrella high enough to\nlook all round from under it. \'It\'s strange! You observe the settled\nopposition to our Institutions which pervades the British mind!\'\n\n\'What an extraordinary people you are!\' cried Martin. \'Are Mr Chollop\nand the class he represents, an Institution here? Are pistols with\nrevolving barrels, sword-sticks, bowie-knives, and such things,\nInstitutions on which you pride yourselves? Are bloody duels, brutal\ncombats, savage assaults, shooting down and stabbing in the streets,\nyour Institutions! Why, I shall hear next that Dishonour and Fraud are\namong the Institutions of the great republic!\'\n\nThe moment the words passed his lips, the Honourable Elijah Pogram\nlooked round again.\n\n\'This morbid hatred of our Institutions,\' he observed, \'is quite a study\nfor the psychological observer. He\'s alludin\' to Repudiation now!\'\n\n\'Oh! you may make anything an Institution if you like,\' said Martin,\nlaughing, \'and I confess you had me there, for you certainly have made\nthat one. But the greater part of these things are one Institution with\nus, and we call it by the generic name of Old Bailey!\'\n\nThe bell being rung for dinner at this moment, everybody ran away\ninto the cabin, whither the Honourable Elijah Pogram fled with such\nprecipitation that he forgot his umbrella was up, and fixed it so\ntightly in the cabin door that it could neither be let down nor got out.\nFor a minute or so this accident created a perfect rebellion among the\nhungry passengers behind, who, seeing the dishes, and hearing the knives\nand forks at work, well knew what would happen unless they got there\ninstantly, and were nearly mad; while several virtuous citizens at the\ntable were in deadly peril of choking themselves in their unnatural\nefforts to get rid of all the meat before these others came.\n\nThey carried the umbrella by storm, however, and rushed in at the\nbreach. The Honourable Elijah Pogram and Martin found themselves, after\na severe struggle, side by side, as they might have come together in the\npit of a London theatre; and for four whole minutes afterwards, Pogram\nwas snapping up great blocks of everything he could get hold of, like a\nraven. When he had taken this unusually protracted dinner, he began\nto talk to Martin; and begged him not to have the least delicacy in\nspeaking with perfect freedom to him, for he was a calm philosopher.\nWhich Martin was extremely glad to hear; for he had begun to speculate\non Elijah being a disciple of that other school of republican\nphilosophy, whose noble sentiments are carved with knives upon a pupil\'s\nbody, and written, not with pen and ink, but tar and feathers.\n\n\'What do you think of my countrymen who are present, sir?\' inquired\nElijah Pogram.\n\n\'Oh! very pleasant,\' said Martin.\n\nThey were a very pleasant party. No man had spoken a word; every one had\nbeen intent, as usual, on his own private gorging; and the greater part\nof the company were decidedly dirty feeders.\n\nThe Honourable Elijah Pogram looked at Martin as if he thought \'You\ndon\'t mean that, I know!\' and he was soon confirmed in this opinion.\n\nSitting opposite to them was a gentleman in a high state of tobacco, who\nwore quite a little beard, composed of the overflowing of that weed, as\nthey had dried about his mouth and chin; so common an ornament that it\nwould scarcely have attracted Martin\'s observation, but that this good\ncitizen, burning to assert his equality against all comers, sucked his\nknife for some moments, and made a cut with it at the butter, just as\nMartin was in the act of taking some. There was a juiciness about the\ndeed that might have sickened a scavenger.\n\nWhen Elijah Pogram (to whom this was an every-day incident) saw that\nMartin put the plate away, and took no butter, he was quite delighted,\nand said,\n\n\'Well! The morbid hatred of you British to the Institutions of our\ncountry is as-TONishing!\'\n\n\'Upon my life!\' cried Martin, in his turn. \'This is the most wonderful\ncommunity that ever existed. A man deliberately makes a hog of himself,\nand THAT\'S an Institution!\'\n\n\'We have no time to ac-quire forms, sir,\' said Elijah Pogram.\n\n\'Acquire!\' cried Martin. \'But it\'s not a question of acquiring anything.\nIt\'s a question of losing the natural politeness of a savage, and that\ninstinctive good breeding which admonishes one man not to offend and\ndisgust another. Don\'t you think that man over the way, for instance,\nnaturally knows better, but considers it a very fine and independent\nthing to be a brute in small matters?\'\n\n\'He is a na-tive of our country, and is nat\'rally bright and spry, of\ncourse,\' said Mr Pogram.\n\n\'Now, observe what this comes to, Mr Pogram,\' pursued Martin. \'The\nmass of your countrymen begin by stubbornly neglecting little social\nobservances, which have nothing to do with gentility, custom, usage,\ngovernment, or country, but are acts of common, decent, natural, human\npoliteness. You abet them in this, by resenting all attacks upon their\nsocial offences as if they were a beautiful national feature. From\ndisregarding small obligations they come in regular course to disregard\ngreat ones; and so refuse to pay their debts. What they may do, or what\nthey may refuse to do next, I don\'t know; but any man may see if he\nwill, that it will be something following in natural succession, and a\npart of one great growth, which is rotten at the root.\'\n\nThe mind of Mr Pogram was too philosophical to see this; so they went on\ndeck again, where, resuming his former post, he chewed until he was in a\nlethargic state, amounting to insensibility.\n\nAfter a weary voyage of several days, they came again to that same wharf\nwhere Mark had been so nearly left behind, on the night of starting for\nEden. Captain Kedgick, the landlord, was standing there, and was greatly\nsurprised to see them coming from the boat.\n\n\'Why, what the \'tarnal!\' cried the Captain. \'Well! I do admire at this,\nI do!\'\n\n\'We can stay at your house until to-morrow, Captain, I suppose?\' said\nMartin.\n\n\'I reckon you can stay there for a twelvemonth if you like,\' retorted\nKedgick coolly. \'But our people won\'t best like your coming back.\'\n\n\'Won\'t like it, Captain Kedgick!\' said Martin.\n\n\'They did expect you was a-going to settle,\' Kedgick answered, as he\nshook his head. \'They\'ve been took in, you can\'t deny!\'\n\n\'What do you mean?\' cried Martin.\n\n\'You didn\'t ought to have received \'em,\' said the Captain. \'No you\ndidn\'t!\'\n\n\'My good friend,\' returned Martin, \'did I want to receive them? Was\nit any act of mine? Didn\'t you tell me they would rile up, and that I\nshould be flayed like a wild cat--and threaten all kinds of vengeance,\nif I didn\'t receive them?\'\n\n\'I don\'t know about that,\' returned the Captain. \'But when our people\'s\nfrills is out, they\'re starched up pretty stiff, I tell you!\'\n\nWith that, he fell into the rear to walk with Mark, while Martin and\nElijah Pogram went on to the National.\n\n\'We\'ve come back alive, you see!\' said Mark.\n\n\'It ain\'t the thing I did expect,\' the Captain grumbled. \'A man ain\'t\ngot no right to be a public man, unless he meets the public views. Our\nfashionable people wouldn\'t have attended his le-vee, if they had know\'d\nit.\'\n\nNothing mollified the Captain, who persisted in taking it very ill\nthat they had not both died in Eden. The boarders at the National felt\nstrongly on the subject too; but it happened by good fortune that they\nhad not much time to think about this grievance, for it was suddenly\ndetermined to pounce upon the Honourable Elijah Pogram, and give HIM a\nle-vee forthwith.\n\nAs the general evening meal of the house was over before the arrival of\nthe boat, Martin, Mark, and Pogram were taking tea and fixings at the\npublic table by themselves, when the deputation entered to announce this\nhonour; consisting of six gentlemen boarders and a very shrill boy.\n\n\'Sir!\' said the spokesman.\n\n\'Mr Pogram!\' cried the shrill boy.\n\nThe spokesman thus reminded of the shrill boy\'s presence, introduced\nhim. \'Doctor Ginery Dunkle, sir. A gentleman of great poetical elements.\nHe has recently jined us here, sir, and is an acquisition to us, sir,\nI do assure you. Yes, sir. Mr Jodd, sir. Mr Izzard, sir. Mr Julius Bib,\nsir.\'\n\n\'Julius Washington Merryweather Bib,\' said the gentleman himself TO\nhimself.\n\n\'I beg your pardon, sir. Excuse me. Mr Julius Washington Merryweather\nBib, sir; a gentleman in the lumber line, sir, and much esteemed.\nColonel Groper, sir. Pro-fessor Piper, sir. My own name, sir, is Oscar\nBuffum.\'\n\nEach man took one slide forward as he was named; butted at the\nHonourable Elijah Pogram with his head; shook hands, and slid back\nagain. The introductions being completed, the spokesman resumed.\n\n\'Sir!\'\n\n\'Mr Pogram!\' cried the shrill boy.\n\n\'Perhaps,\' said the spokesman, with a hopeless look, \'you will be so\ngood, Dr. Ginery Dunkle, as to charge yourself with the execution of our\nlittle office, sir?\'\n\nAs there was nothing the shrill boy desired more, he immediately stepped\nforward.\n\n\'Mr Pogram! Sir! A handful of your fellow-citizens, sir, hearing of your\narrival at the National Hotel, and feeling the patriotic character of\nyour public services, wish, sir, to have the gratification of beholding\nyou, and mixing with you, sir; and unbending with you, sir, in those\nmoments which--\'\n\n\'Air,\' suggested Buffum.\n\n\'Which air so peculiarly the lot, sir, of our great and happy country.\'\n\n\'Hear!\' cried Colonel Grouper, in a loud voice. \'Good! Hear him! Good!\'\n\n\'And therefore, sir,\' pursued the Doctor, \'they request; as A mark Of\ntheir respect; the honour of your company at a little le-Vee, sir, in\nthe ladies\' ordinary, at eight o\'clock.\'\n\nMr Pogram bowed, and said:\n\n\'Fellow countrymen!\'\n\n\'Good!\' cried the Colonel. \'Hear, him! Good!\'\n\nMr Pogram bowed to the Colonel individually, and then resumed.\n\n\'Your approbation of My labours in the common cause goes to My heart. At\nall times and in all places; in the ladies\' ordinary, My friends, and in\nthe Battle Field--\'\n\n\'Good, very good! Hear him! Hear him!\' said the Colonel.\n\n\'The name of Pogram will be proud to jine you. And may it, My friends,\nbe written on My tomb, \"He was a member of the Congress of our common\ncountry, and was ac-Tive in his trust.\"\'\n\n\'The Com-mittee, sir,\' said the shrill boy, \'will wait upon you at five\nminutes afore eight. I take My leave, sir!\'\n\nMr Pogram shook hands with him, and everybody else, once more; and when\nthey came back again at five minutes before eight, they said, one by\none, in a melancholy voice, \'How do you do, sir?\' and shook hands with\nMr Pogram all over again, as if he had been abroad for a twelvemonth in\nthe meantime, and they met, now, at a funeral.\n\nBut by this time Mr Pogram had freshened himself up, and had composed\nhis hair and features after the Pogram statue, so that any one with half\nan eye might cry out, \'There he is! as he delivered the Defiance!\'\nThe Committee were embellished also; and when they entered the ladies\'\nordinary in a body, there was much clapping of hands from ladies and\ngentlemen, accompanied by cries of \'Pogram! Pogram!\' and some standing\nup on chairs to see him.\n\nThe object of the popular caress looked round the room as he walked up\nit, and smiled; at the same time observing to the shrill boy, that he\nknew something of the beauty of the daughters of their common country,\nbut had never seen it in such lustre and perfection as at that moment.\nWhich the shrill boy put in the paper next day; to Elijah Pogram\'s great\nsurprise.\n\n\'We will re-quest you, sir, if you please,\' said Buffum, laying hands on\nMr Pogram as if he were taking his measure for a coat, \'to stand up with\nyour back agin the wall right in the furthest corner, that there may\nbe more room for our fellow citizens. If you could set your back right\nslap agin that curtain-peg, sir, keeping your left leg everlastingly\nbehind the stove, we should be fixed quite slick.\'\n\nMr Pogram did as he was told, and wedged himself into such a little\ncorner that the Pogram statue wouldn\'t have known him.\n\nThe entertainments of the evening then began. Gentlemen brought ladies\nup, and brought themselves up, and brought each other up; and asked\nElijah Pogram what he thought of this political question, and what\nhe thought of that; and looked at him, and looked at one another, and\nseemed very unhappy indeed. The ladies on the chairs looked at Elijah\nPogram through their glasses, and said audibly, \'I wish he\'d speak.\nWhy don\'t he speak? Oh, do ask him to speak!\' And Elijah Pogram looked\nsometimes at the ladies and sometimes elsewhere, delivering senatorial\nopinions, as he was asked for them. But the great end and object of the\nmeeting seemed to be, not to let Elijah Pogram out of the corner on any\naccount; so there they kept him, hard and fast.\n\nA great bustle at the door, in the course of the evening, announced the\narrival of some remarkable person; and immediately afterwards an elderly\ngentleman, much excited, was seen to precipitate himself upon the crowd,\nand battle his way towards the Honourable Elijah Pogram. Martin, who had\nfound a snug place of observation in a distant corner, where he\nstood with Mark beside him (for he did not so often forget him now\nas formerly, though he still did sometimes), thought he knew this\ngentleman, but had no doubt of it, when he cried as loud as he could,\nwith his eyes starting out of his head:\n\n\'Sir, Mrs Hominy!\'\n\n\'Lord bless that woman, Mark. She has turned up again!\'\n\n\'Here she comes, sir,\' answered Mr Tapley. \'Pogram knows her. A public\ncharacter! Always got her eye upon her country, sir! If that there\nlady\'s husband is of my opinion, what a jolly old gentleman he must be!\'\n\nA lane was made; and Mrs Hominy, with the aristocratic stalk, the pocket\nhandkerchief, the clasped hands, and the classical cap, came slowly up\nit, in a procession of one. Mr Pogram testified emotions of delight on\nseeing her, and a general hush prevailed. For it was known that when\na woman like Mrs Hominy encountered a man like Pogram, something\ninteresting must be said.\n\nTheir first salutations were exchanged in a voice too low to reach the\nimpatient ears of the throng; but they soon became audible, for Mrs\nHominy felt her position, and knew what was expected of her.\n\nMrs H. was hard upon him at first; and put him through a rigid catechism\nin reference to a certain vote he had given, which she had found it\nnecessary, as the mother of the modern Gracchi, to deprecate in a line\nby itself, set up expressly for the purpose in German text. But Mr\nPogram evading it by a well-timed allusion to the star-spangled banner,\nwhich, it appeared, had the remarkable peculiarity of flouting the\nbreeze whenever it was hoisted where the wind blew, she forgave him.\nThey now enlarged on certain questions of tariff, commercial treaty,\nboundary, importation and exportation with great effect. And Mrs Hominy\nnot only talked, as the saying is, like a book, but actually did talk\nher own books, word for word.\n\n\'My! what is this!\' cried Mrs Hominy, opening a little note which was\nhanded her by her excited gentleman-usher. \'Do tell! oh, well, now! on\'y\nthink!\'\n\nAnd then she read aloud, as follows:\n\n\'Two literary ladies present their compliments to the mother of the\nmodern Gracchi, and claim her kind introduction, as their talented\ncountrywoman, to the honourable (and distinguished) Elijah Pogram, whom\nthe two L. L.\'s have often contemplated in the speaking marble of the\nsoul-subduing Chiggle. On a verbal intimation from the mother of the M.\nG., that she will comply with the request of the two L. L.\'s, they will\nhave the immediate pleasure of joining the galaxy assembled to do honour\nto the patriotic conduct of a Pogram. It may be another bond of union\nbetween the two L. L.\'s and the mother of the M. G. to observe, that the\ntwo L. L.\'s are Transcendental.\'\n\nMrs Hominy promptly rose, and proceeded to the door, whence she\nreturned, after a minute\'s interval, with the two L. L.\'s, whom she led,\nthrough the lane in the crowd, with all that stateliness of deportment\nwhich was so remarkably her own, up to the great Elijah Pogram. It was\n(as the shrill boy cried out in an ecstasy) quite the Last Scene from\nCoriolanus. One of the L. L.\'s wore a brown wig of uncommon size.\nSticking on the forehead of the other, by invisible means, was a massive\ncameo, in size and shape like the raspberry tart which is ordinarily\nsold for a penny, representing on its front the Capitol at Washington.\n\n\'Miss Toppit, and Miss Codger!\' said Mrs Hominy.\n\n\'Codger\'s the lady so often mentioned in the English newspapers I should\nthink, sir,\' whispered Mark. \'The oldest inhabitant as never remembers\nanything.\'\n\n\'To be presented to a Pogram,\' said Miss Codger, \'by a Hominy, indeed,\na thrilling moment is it in its impressiveness on what we call our\nfeelings. But why we call them so, or why impressed they are, or if\nimpressed they are at all, or if at all we are, or if there really is,\noh gasping one! a Pogram or a Hominy, or any active principle to which\nwe give those titles, is a topic, Spirit searching, light abandoned,\nmuch too vast to enter on, at this unlooked-for crisis.\'\n\n\'Mind and matter,\' said the lady in the wig, \'glide swift into the\nvortex of immensity. Howls the sublime, and softly sleeps the calm\nIdeal, in the whispering chambers of Imagination. To hear it, sweet\nit is. But then, outlaughs the stern philosopher, and saith to the\nGrotesque, \"What ho! arrest for me that Agency. Go, bring it here!\" And\nso the vision fadeth.\'\n\nAfter this, they both took Mr Pogram by the hand, and pressed it to\ntheir lips, as a patriotic palm. That homage paid, the mother of the\nmodern Gracchi called for chairs, and the three literary ladies went to\nwork in earnest, to bring poor Pogram out, and make him show himself in\nall his brilliant colours.\n\nHow Pogram got out of his depth instantly, and how the three L. L.\'s\nwere never in theirs, is a piece of history not worth recording. Suffice\nit, that being all four out of their depths, and all unable to swim,\nthey splashed up words in all directions, and floundered about famously.\nOn the whole, it was considered to have been the severest mental\nexercise ever heard in the National Hotel. Tears stood in the shrill\nboy\'s eyes several times; and the whole company observed that their\nheads ached with the effort--as well they might.\n\nWhen it at last became necessary to release Elijah Pogram from the\ncorner, and the Committee saw him safely back again to the next room,\nthey were fervent in their admiration.\n\n\'Which,\' said Mr Buffum, \'must have vent, or it will bust. Toe you,\nMr Pogram, I am grateful. Toe-wards you, sir, I am inspired with lofty\nveneration, and with deep e-mo-tion. The sentiment Toe which I would\npropose to give ex-pression, sir, is this: \"May you ever be as firm,\nsir, as your marble statter! May it ever be as great a terror Toe its\nene-mies as you.\"\'\n\nThere is some reason to suppose that it was rather terrible to its\nfriends; being a statue of the Elevated or Goblin School, in which the\nHonourable Elijah Pogram was represented as in a very high wind, with\nhis hair all standing on end, and his nostrils blown wide open. But Mr\nPogram thanked his friend and countryman for the aspiration to which he\nhad given utterance, and the Committee, after another solemn shaking of\nhands, retired to bed, except the Doctor; who immediately repaired to\nthe newspaper-office, and there wrote a short poem suggested by the\nevents of the evening, beginning with fourteen stars, and headed, \'A\nFragment. Suggested by witnessing the Honourable Elijah Pogram engaged\nin a philosophical disputation with three of Columbia\'s fairest\ndaughters. By Doctor Ginery Dunkle. Of Troy.\'\n\nIf Pogram was as glad to get to bed as Martin was, he must have been\nwell rewarded for his labours. They started off again next day (Martin\nand Mark previously disposing of their goods to the storekeepers of whom\nthey had purchased them, for anything they would bring), and were fellow\ntravellers to within a short distance of New York. When Pogram was about\nto leave them he grew thoughtful, and after pondering for some time,\ntook Martin aside.\n\n\'We air going to part, sir,\' said Pogram.\n\n\'Pray don\'t distress yourself,\' said Martin; \'we must bear it.\'\n\n\'It ain\'t that, sir,\' returned Pogram, \'not at all. But I should wish\nyou to accept a copy of My oration.\'\n\n\'Thank you,\' said Martin, \'you are very good. I shall be most happy.\'\n\n\'It ain\'t quite that, sir, neither,\' resumed Pogram; \'air you bold\nenough to introduce a copy into your country?\'\n\n\'Certainly,\' said Martin. \'Why not?\'\n\n\'Its sentiments air strong, sir,\' hinted Pogram, darkly.\n\n\'That makes no difference,\' said Martin. \'I\'ll take a dozen if you\nlike.\'\n\n\'No, sir,\' retorted Pogram. \'Not A dozen. That is more than I require.\nIf you are content to run the hazard, sir, here is one for your Lord\nChancellor,\' producing it, \'and one for Your principal Secretary of\nState. I should wish them to see it, sir, as expressing what my opinions\nair. That they may not plead ignorance at a future time. But don\'t get\ninto danger, sir, on my account!\'\n\n\'There is not the least danger, I assure you,\' said Martin. So he put\nthe pamphlets in his pocket, and they parted.\n\nMr Bevan had written in his letter that, at a certain time, which fell\nout happily just then, he would be at a certain hotel in the city,\nanxiously expecting to see them. To this place they repaired without a\nmoment\'s delay. They had the satisfaction of finding him within; and of\nbeing received by their good friend, with his own warmth and heartiness.\n\n\'I am truly sorry and ashamed,\' said Martin, \'to have begged of you. But\nlook at us. See what we are, and judge to what we are reduced!\'\n\n\'So far from claiming to have done you any service,\' returned the other,\n\'I reproach myself with having been, unwittingly, the original cause\nof your misfortunes. I no more supposed you would go to Eden on such\nrepresentations as you received; or, indeed, that you would do anything\nbut be dispossessed, by the readiest means, of your idea that fortunes\nwere so easily made here; than I thought of going to Eden myself.\'\n\n\'The fact is, I closed with the thing in a mad and sanguine manner,\'\nsaid Martin, \'and the less said about it the better for me. Mark, here,\nhadn\'t a voice in the matter.\'\n\n\'Well! but he hadn\'t a voice in any other matter, had he?\' returned Mr\nBevan; laughing with an air that showed his understanding of Mark and\nMartin too.\n\n\'Not a very powerful one, I am afraid,\' said Martin with a blush. \'But\nlive and learn, Mr Bevan! Nearly die and learn; we learn the quicker.\'\n\n\'Now,\' said their friend, \'about your plans. You mean to return home at\nonce?\'\n\n\'Oh, I think so,\' returned Martin hastily, for he turned pale at the\nthought of any other suggestion. \'That is your opinion too, I hope?\'\n\n\'Unquestionably. For I don\'t know why you ever came here; though it\'s\nnot such an unusual case, I am sorry to say, that we need go any farther\ninto that. You don\'t know that the ship in which you came over with our\nfriend General Fladdock, is in port, of course?\'\n\n\'Indeed!\' said Martin.\n\n\'Yes. And is advertised to sail to-morrow.\'\n\nThis was tempting news, but tantalising too; for Martin knew that his\ngetting any employment on board a ship of that class was hopeless. The\nmoney in his pocket would not pay one-fourth of the sum he had already\nborrowed, and if it had been enough for their passage-money, he could\nhardly have resolved to spend it. He explained this to Mr Bevan, and\nstated what their project was.\n\n\'Why, that\'s as wild as Eden every bit,\' returned his friend. \'You must\ntake your passage like a Christian; at least, as like a Christian as a\nfore-cabin passenger can; and owe me a few more dollars than you intend.\nIf Mark will go down to the ship and see what passengers there are,\nand finds that you can go in her without being actually suffocated, my\nadvice is, go! You and I will look about us in the meantime (we won\'t\ncall at the Norris\'s unless you like), and we will all three dine\ntogether in the afternoon.\'\n\nMartin had nothing to express but gratitude, and so it was arranged.\nBut he went out of the room after Mark, and advised him to take their\npassage in the Screw, though they lay upon the bare deck; which Mr\nTapley, who needed no entreaty on the subject readily promised to do.\n\nWhen he and Martin met again, and were alone, he was in high spirits,\nand evidently had something to communicate, in which he gloried very\nmuch.\n\n\'I\'ve done Mr Bevan, sir,\' said Mark.\n\n\'Done Mr Bevan!\' repeated Martin.\n\n\'The cook of the Screw went and got married yesterday, sir,\' said Mr\nTapley.\n\nMartin looked at him for farther explanation.\n\n\'And when I got on board, and the word was passed that it was me,\' said\nMark, \'the mate he comes and asks me whether I\'d engage to take this\nsaid cook\'s place upon the passage home. \"For you\'re used to it,\" he\nsays; \"you were always a-cooking for everybody on your passage out.\"\nAnd so I was,\' said Mark, \'although I never cooked before, I\'ll take my\noath.\'\n\n\'What did you say?\' demanded Martin.\n\n\'Say!\' cried Mark. \'That I\'d take anything I could get. \"If that\'s\nso,\" says the mate, \"why, bring a glass of rum;\" which they brought\naccording. And my wages, sir,\' said Mark in high glee, \'pays your\npassage; and I\'ve put the rolling-pin in your berth to take it (it\'s\nthe easy one up in the corner); and there we are, Rule Britannia, and\nBritons strike home!\'\n\n\'There never was such a good fellow as you are!\' cried Martin seizing\nhim by the hand. \'But what do you mean by \"doing\" Mr Bevan, Mark?\'\n\n\'Why, don\'t you see?\' said Mark. \'We don\'t tell him, you know. We take\nhis money, but we don\'t spend it, and we don\'t keep it. What we do is,\nwrite him a little note, explaining this engagement, and roll it up,\nand leave it at the bar, to be given to him after we are gone. Don\'t you\nsee?\'\n\nMartin\'s delight in this idea was not inferior to Mark\'s. It was all\ndone as he proposed. They passed a cheerful evening; slept at the hotel;\nleft the letter as arranged; and went off to the ship betimes next\nmorning, with such light hearts as the weight of their past miseries\nengendered.\n\n\'Good-bye! a hundred thousand times good-bye!\' said Martin to their\nfriend. \'How shall I remember all your kindness! How shall I ever thank\nyou!\'\n\n\'If you ever become a rich man, or a powerful one,\' returned his friend,\n\'you shall try to make your Government more careful of its subjects when\nthey roam abroad to live. Tell it what you know of emigration in your\nown case, and impress upon it how much suffering may be prevented with a\nlittle pains!\'\n\nCheerily, lads, cheerily! Anchor weighed. Ship in full sail. Her sturdy\nbowsprit pointing true to England. America a cloud upon the sea behind\nthem!\n\n\'Why, Cook! what are you thinking of so steadily?\' said Martin.\n\n\'Why, I was a-thinking, sir,\' returned Mark, \'that if I was a painter\nand was called upon to paint the American Eagle, how should I do it?\'\n\n\'Paint it as like an Eagle as you could, I suppose.\'\n\n\'No,\' said Mark. \'That wouldn\'t do for me, sir. I should want to draw it\nlike a Bat, for its short-sightedness; like a Bantam, for its bragging;\nlike a Magpie, for its honesty; like a Peacock, for its vanity; like a\nostrich, for its putting its head in the mud, and thinking nobody sees\nit--\'\n\n\'And like a Phoenix, for its power of springing from the ashes of its\nfaults and vices, and soaring up anew into the sky!\' said Martin. \'Well,\nMark. Let us hope so.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE\n\nARRIVING IN ENGLAND, MARTIN WITNESSES A CEREMONY, FROM WHICH HE DERIVES\nTHE CHEERING INFORMATION THAT HE HAS NOT BEEN FORGOTTEN IN HIS ABSENCE\n\n\nIt was mid-day, and high water in the English port for which the Screw\nwas bound, when, borne in gallantly upon the fullness of the tide, she\nlet go her anchor in the river.\n\nBright as the scene was; fresh, and full of motion; airy, free, and\nsparkling; it was nothing to the life and exultation in the breasts of\nthe two travellers, at sight of the old churches, roofs, and darkened\nchimney stacks of Home. The distant roar that swelled up hoarsely from\nthe busy streets, was music in their ears; the lines of people gazing\nfrom the wharves, were friends held dear; the canopy of smoke that\noverhung the town was brighter and more beautiful to them than if the\nrichest silks of Persia had been waving in the air. And though the water\ngoing on its glistening track, turned, ever and again, aside to dance\nand sparkle round great ships, and heave them up; and leaped from off\nthe blades of oars, a shower of diving diamonds; and wantoned with\nthe idle boats, and swiftly passed, in many a sportive chase, through\nobdurate old iron rings, set deep into the stone-work of the quays;\nnot even it was half so buoyant, and so restless, as their fluttering\nhearts, when yearning to set foot, once more, on native ground.\n\nA year had passed since those same spires and roofs had faded from their\neyes. It seemed to them, a dozen years. Some trifling changes, here\nand there, they called to mind; and wondered that they were so few and\nslight. In health and fortune, prospect and resource, they came back\npoorer men than they had gone away. But it was home. And though home is\na name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke,\nor spirit answered to, in strongest conjuration.\n\nBeing set ashore, with very little money in their pockets, and no\ndefinite plan of operation in their heads, they sought out a cheap\ntavern, where they regaled upon a smoking steak, and certain flowing\nmugs of beer, as only men just landed from the sea can revel in\nthe generous dainties of the earth. When they had feasted, as two\ngrateful-tempered giants might have done, they stirred the fire, drew\nback the glowing curtain from the window, and making each a sofa for\nhimself, by union of the great unwieldy chairs, gazed blissfully into\nthe street.\n\nEven the street was made a fairy street, by being half hidden in an\natmosphere of steak, and strong, stout, stand-up English beer. For on\nthe window-glass hung such a mist, that Mr Tapley was obliged to rise\nand wipe it with his handkerchief, before the passengers appeared like\ncommon mortals. And even then, a spiral little cloud went curling up\nfrom their two glasses of hot grog, which nearly hid them from each\nother.\n\nIt was one of those unaccountable little rooms which are never seen\nanywhere but in a tavern, and are supposed to have got into taverns by\nreason of the facilities afforded to the architect for getting drunk\nwhile engaged in their construction. It had more corners in it than the\nbrain of an obstinate man; was full of mad closets, into which nothing\ncould be put that was not specially invented and made for that purpose;\nhad mysterious shelvings and bulkheads, and indications of staircases in\nthe ceiling; and was elaborately provided with a bell that rung in\nthe room itself, about two feet from the handle, and had no connection\nwhatever with any other part of the establishment. It was a little\nbelow the pavement, and abutted close upon it; so that passengers grated\nagainst the window-panes with their buttons, and scraped it with their\nbaskets; and fearful boys suddenly coming between a thoughtful guest\nand the light, derided him, or put out their tongues as if he were a\nphysician; or made white knobs on the ends of their noses by flattening\nthe same against the glass, and vanished awfully, like spectres.\n\nMartin and Mark sat looking at the people as they passed, debating every\nnow and then what their first step should be.\n\n\'We want to see Miss Mary, of course,\' said Mark.\n\n\'Of course,\' said Martin. \'But I don\'t know where she is. Not having had\nthe heart to write in our distress--you yourself thought silence most\nadvisable--and consequently, never having heard from her since we left\nNew York the first time, I don\'t know where she is, my good fellow.\'\n\n\'My opinion is, sir,\' returned Mark, \'that what we\'ve got to do is to\ntravel straight to the Dragon. There\'s no need for you to go there,\nwhere you\'re known, unless you like. You may stop ten mile short of it.\nI\'ll go on. Mrs Lupin will tell me all the news. Mr Pinch will give me\nevery information that we want; and right glad Mr Pinch will be to do\nit. My proposal is: To set off walking this afternoon. To stop when we\nare tired. To get a lift when we can. To walk when we can\'t. To do it at\nonce, and do it cheap.\'\n\n\'Unless we do it cheap, we shall have some difficulty in doing it at\nall,\' said Martin, pulling out the bank, and telling it over in his\nhand.\n\n\'The greater reason for losing no time, sir,\' replied Mark. \'Whereas,\nwhen you\'ve seen the young lady; and know what state of mind the old\ngentleman\'s in, and all about it; then you\'ll know what to do next.\'\n\n\'No doubt,\' said Martin. \'You are quite right.\'\n\nThey were raising their glasses to their lips, when their hands stopped\nmidway, and their gaze was arrested by a figure which slowly, very\nslowly, and reflectively, passed the window at that moment.\n\nMr Pecksniff. Placid, calm, but proud. Honestly proud. Dressed with\npeculiar care, smiling with even more than usual blandness, pondering\non the beauties of his art with a mild abstraction from all sordid\nthoughts, and gently travelling across the disc, as if he were a figure\nin a magic lantern.\n\nAs Mr Pecksniff passed, a person coming in the opposite direction\nstopped to look after him with great interest and respect, almost with\nveneration; and the landlord bouncing out of the house, as if he had\nseen him too, joined this person, and spoke to him, and shook his head\ngravely, and looked after Mr Pecksniff likewise.\n\nMartin and Mark sat staring at each other, as if they could not believe\nit; but there stood the landlord, and the other man still. In spite of\nthe indignation with which this glimpse of Mr Pecksniff had inspired\nhim, Martin could not help laughing heartily. Neither could Mark.\n\n\'We must inquire into this!\' said Martin. \'Ask the landlord in, Mark.\'\n\nMr Tapley retired for that purpose, and immediately returned with their\nlarge-headed host in safe convoy.\n\n\'Pray, landlord!\' said Martin, \'who is that gentleman who passed just\nnow, and whom you were looking after?\'\n\nThe landlord poked the fire as if, in his desire to make the most of\nhis answer, he had become indifferent even to the price of coals; and\nputting his hands in his pockets, said, after inflating himself to give\nstill further effect to his reply:\n\n\'That, gentlemen, is the great Mr Pecksniff! The celebrated architect,\ngentlemen!\'\n\nHe looked from one to the other while he said it, as if he were ready to\nassist the first man who might be overcome by the intelligence.\n\n\'The great Mr Pecksniff, the celebrated architect, gentlemen.\' said the\nlandlord, \'has come down here, to help to lay the first stone of a new\nand splendid public building.\'\n\n\'Is it to be built from his designs?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'The great Mr Pecksniff, the celebrated architect, gentlemen,\'\nreturned the landlord, who seemed to have an unspeakable delight in\nthe repetition of these words, \'carried off the First Premium, and will\nerect the building.\'\n\n\'Who lays the stone?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'Our member has come down express,\' returned the landlord. \'No scrubs\nwould do for no such a purpose. Nothing less would satisfy our Directors\nthan our member in the House of Commons, who is returned upon the\nGentlemanly Interest.\'\n\n\'Which interest is that?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'What, don\'t you know!\' returned the landlord.\n\nIt was quite clear the landlord didn\'t. They always told him at election\ntime, that it was the Gentlemanly side, and he immediately put on his\ntop-boots, and voted for it.\n\n\'When does the ceremony take place?\' asked Martin.\n\n\'This day,\' replied the landlord. Then pulling out his watch, he added,\nimpressively, \'almost this minute.\'\n\nMartin hastily inquired whether there was any possibility of getting\nin to witness it; and finding that there would be no objection to the\nadmittance of any decent person, unless indeed the ground were full,\nhurried off with Mark, as hard as they could go.\n\nThey were fortunate enough to squeeze themselves into a famous corner on\nthe ground, where they could see all that passed, without much dread of\nbeing beheld by Mr Pecksniff in return. They were not a minute too soon,\nfor as they were in the act of congratulating each other, a great noise\nwas heard at some distance, and everybody looked towards the gate.\nSeveral ladies prepared their pocket handkerchiefs for waving; and a\nstray teacher belonging to the charity school being much cheered by\nmistake, was immensely groaned at when detected.\n\n\'Perhaps he has Tom Pinch with him,\' Martin whispered Mr Tapley.\n\n\'It would be rather too much of a treat for him, wouldn\'t it, sir?\'\nwhispered Mr Tapley in return.\n\nThere was no time to discuss the probabilities either way, for the\ncharity school, in clean linen, came filing in two and two, so much to\nthe self-approval of all the people present who didn\'t subscribe to\nit, that many of them shed tears. A band of music followed, led by\na conscientious drummer who never left off. Then came a great many\ngentlemen with wands in their hands, and bows on their breasts, whose\nshare in the proceedings did not appear to be distinctly laid down, and\nwho trod upon each other, and blocked up the entry for a considerable\nperiod. These were followed by the Mayor and Corporation, all clustering\nround the member for the Gentlemanly Interest; who had the great Mr\nPecksniff, the celebrated architect on his right hand, and conversed\nwith him familiarly as they came along. Then the ladies waved their\nhandkerchiefs, and the gentlemen their hats, and the charity children\nshrieked, and the member for the Gentlemanly Interest bowed.\n\nSilence being restored, the member for the Gentlemanly Interest rubbed\nhis hands, and wagged his head, and looked about him pleasantly; and\nthere was nothing this member did, at which some lady or other did not\nburst into an ecstatic waving of her pocket handkerchief. When he looked\nup at the stone, they said how graceful! when he peeped into the hole,\nthey said how condescending! when he chatted with the Mayor, they\nsaid how easy! when he folded his arms they cried with one accord, how\nstatesman-like!\n\nMr Pecksniff was observed too, closely. When he talked to the Mayor,\nthey said, Oh, really, what a courtly man he was! When he laid his\nhand upon the mason\'s shoulder, giving him directions, how pleasant his\ndemeanour to the working classes; just the sort of man who made their\ntoil a pleasure to them, poor dear souls!\n\nBut now a silver trowel was brought; and when the member for the\nGentlemanly Interest, tucking up his coat-sleeve, did a little sleight\nof hand with the mortar, the air was rent, so loud was the applause.\nThe workman-like manner in which he did it was amazing. No one could\nconceive where such a gentlemanly creature could have picked the\nknowledge up.\n\nWhen he had made a kind of dirt-pie under the direction of the mason,\nthey brought a little vase containing coins, the which the member\nfor the Gentlemanly Interest jingled, as if he were going to conjure.\nWhereat they said how droll, how cheerful, what a flow of spirits! This\nput into its place, an ancient scholar read the inscription, which\nwas in Latin; not in English; that would never do. It gave great\nsatisfaction; especially every time there was a good long substantive\nin the third declension, ablative case, with an adjective to match; at\nwhich periods the assembly became very tender, and were much affected.\n\nAnd now the stone was lowered down into its place, amidst the shouting\nof the concourse. When it was firmly fixed, the member for the\nGentlemanly Interest struck upon it thrice with the handle of the\ntrowel, as if inquiring, with a touch of humour, whether anybody was at\nhome. Mr Pecksniff then unrolled his Plans (prodigious plans they were),\nand people gathered round to look at and admire them.\n\nMartin, who had been fretting himself--quite unnecessarily, as Mark\nthought--during the whole of these proceedings, could no longer restrain\nhis impatience; but stepping forward among several others, looked\nstraight over the shoulder of the unconscious Mr Pecksniff, at the\ndesigns and plans he had unrolled. He returned to Mark, boiling with\nrage.\n\n\'Why, what\'s the matter, sir?\' cried Mark.\n\n\'Matter! This is MY building.\'\n\n\'Your building, sir!\' said Mark.\n\n\'My grammar-school. I invented it. I did it all. He has only put four\nwindows in, the villain, and spoilt it!\'\n\nMark could hardly believe it at first, but being assured that it was\nreally so, actually held him to prevent his interference foolishly,\nuntil his temporary heat was past. In the meantime, the member addressed\nthe company on the gratifying deed which he had just performed.\n\nHe said that since he had sat in Parliament to represent the Gentlemanly\nInterest of that town; and he might add, the Lady Interest, he hoped,\nbesides (pocket handkerchiefs); it had been his pleasant duty to come\namong them, and to raise his voice on their behalf in Another Place\n(pocket handkerchiefs and laughter), often. But he had never come among\nthem, and had never raised his voice, with half such pure, such deep,\nsuch unalloyed delight, as now. \'The present occasion,\' he said, \'will\never be memorable to me; not only for the reasons I have assigned, but\nbecause it has afforded me an opportunity of becoming personally known\nto a gentleman--\'\n\nHere he pointed the trowel at Mr Pecksniff, who was greeted with\nvociferous cheering, and laid his hand upon his heart.\n\n\'To a gentleman who, I am happy to believe, will reap both distinction\nand profit from this field; whose fame had previously penetrated to\nme--as to whose ears has it not!--but whose intellectual countenance I\nnever had the distinguished honour to behold until this day, and whose\nintellectual conversation I had never before the improving pleasure to\nenjoy.\'\n\nEverybody seemed very glad of this, and applauded more than ever.\n\n\'But I hope my Honourable Friend,\' said the Gentlemanly member--of\ncourse he added \"if he will allow me to call him so,\" and of course Mr\nPecksniff bowed--\'will give me many opportunities of cultivating the\nknowledge of him; and that I may have the extraordinary gratification of\nreflecting in after-time that I laid on this day two first stones, both\nbelonging to structures which shall last my life!\'\n\nGreat cheering again. All this time, Martin was cursing Mr Pecksniff up\nhill and down dale.\n\n\'My friends!\' said Mr Pecksniff, in reply. \'My duty is to build, not\nspeak; to act, not talk; to deal with marble, stone, and brick; not\nlanguage. I am very much affected. God bless you!\'\n\nThis address, pumped out apparently from Mr Pecksniff\'s very heart,\nbrought the enthusiasm to its highest pitch. The pocket handkerchiefs\nwere waved again; the charity children were admonished to grow up\nPecksniffs, every boy among them; the Corporation, gentlemen with wands,\nmember for the Gentlemanly Interest, all cheered for Mr Pecksniff. Three\ncheers for Mr Pecksniff! Three more for Mr Pecksniff! Three more for\nMr Pecksniff, gentlemen, if you please! One more, gentlemen, for Mr\nPecksniff, and let it be a good one to finish with!\n\nIn short, Mr Pecksniff was supposed to have done a great work and was\nvery kindly, courteously, and generously rewarded. When the procession\nmoved away, and Martin and Mark were left almost alone upon the ground,\nhis merits and a desire to acknowledge them formed the common topic. He\nwas only second to the Gentlemanly member.\n\n\'Compare the fellow\'s situation to-day with ours!\' said Martin bitterly.\n\n\'Lord bless you, sir!\' cried Mark, \'what\'s the use? Some architects are\nclever at making foundations, and some architects are clever at building\non \'em when they\'re made. But it\'ll all come right in the end, sir;\nit\'ll all come right!\'\n\n\'And in the meantime--\' began Martin.\n\n\'In the meantime, as you say, sir, we have a deal to do, and far to go.\nSo sharp\'s the word, and Jolly!\'\n\n\'You are the best master in the world, Mark,\' said Martin, \'and I will\nnot be a bad scholar if I can help it, I am resolved! So come! Best foot\nforemost, old fellow!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-SIX\n\nTOM PINCH DEPARTS TO SEEK HIS FORTUNE. WHAT HE FINDS AT STARTING\n\n\nOh! What a different town Salisbury was in Tom Pinch\'s eyes to be sure,\nwhen the substantial Pecksniff of his heart melted away into an idle\ndream! He possessed the same faith in the wonderful shops, the same\nintensified appreciation of the mystery and wickedness of the place;\nmade the same exalted estimate of its wealth, population, and resources;\nand yet it was not the old city nor anything like it. He walked into the\nmarket while they were getting breakfast ready for him at the Inn; and\nthough it was the same market as of old, crowded by the same buyers and\nsellers; brisk with the same business; noisy with the same confusion of\ntongues and cluttering of fowls in coops; fair with the same display\nof rolls of butter, newly made, set forth in linen cloths of dazzling\nwhiteness; green with the same fresh show of dewy vegetables; dainty\nwith the same array in higglers\' baskets of small shaving-glasses,\nlaces, braces, trouser-straps, and hardware; savoury with the same\nunstinted show of delicate pigs\' feet, and pies made precious by the\npork that once had walked upon them; still it was strangely changed to\nTom. For, in the centre of the market-place, he missed a statue he\nhad set up there as in all other places of his personal resort; and it\nlooked cold and bare without that ornament.\n\nThe change lay no deeper than this, for Tom was far from being sage\nenough to know, that, having been disappointed in one man, it would have\nbeen a strictly rational and eminently wise proceeding to have revenged\nhimself upon mankind in general, by mistrusting them one and all. Indeed\nthis piece of justice, though it is upheld by the authority of divers\nprofound poets and honourable men, bears a nearer resemblance to the\njustice of that good Vizier in the Thousand-and-one Nights, who issues\norders for the destruction of all the Porters in Bagdad because one of\nthat unfortunate fraternity is supposed to have misconducted himself,\nthan to any logical, not to say Christian, system of conduct, known to\nthe world in later times.\n\nTom had so long been used to steep the Pecksniff of his fancy in his\ntea, and spread him out upon his toast, and take him as a relish with\nhis beer, that he made but a poor breakfast on the first morning after\nhis expulsion. Nor did he much improve his appetite for dinner by\nseriously considering his own affairs, and taking counsel thereon with\nhis friend the organist\'s assistant.\n\nThe organist\'s assistant gave it as his decided opinion that whatever\nTom did, he must go to London; for there was no place like it. Which\nmay be true in the main, though hardly, perhaps, in itself, a sufficient\nreason for Tom\'s going there.\n\nBut Tom had thought of London before, and had coupled with it thoughts\nof his sister, and of his old friend John Westlock, whose advice\nhe naturally felt disposed to seek in this important crisis of his\nfortunes. To London, therefore, he resolved to go; and he went away to\nthe coach-office at once, to secure his place. The coach being already\nfull, he was obliged to postpone his departure until the next night; but\neven this circumstance had its bright side as well as its dark one, for\nthough it threatened to reduce his poor purse with unexpected country\ncharges, it afforded him an opportunity of writing to Mrs Lupin and\nappointing his box to be brought to the old finger-post at the old time;\nwhich would enable him to take that treasure with him to the metropolis,\nand save the expense of its carriage. \'So,\' said Tom, comforting\nhimself, \'it\'s very nearly as broad as it\'s long.\'\n\nAnd it cannot be denied that, when he had made up his mind to even this\nextent, he felt an unaccustomed sense of freedom--a vague and indistinct\nimpression of holiday-making--which was very luxurious. He had his\nmoments of depression and anxiety, and they were, with good reason,\npretty numerous; but still, it was wonderfully pleasant to reflect that\nhe was his own master, and could plan and scheme for himself. It was\nstartling, thrilling, vast, difficult to understand; it was a stupendous\ntruth, teeming with responsibility and self-distrust; but in spite of\nall his cares, it gave a curious relish to the viands at the Inn, and\ninterposed a dreamy haze between him and his prospects, in which they\nsometimes showed to magical advantage.\n\nIn this unsettled state of mind, Tom went once more to bed in the low\nfour-poster, to the same immovable surprise of the effigies of the\nformer landlord and the fat ox; and in this condition, passed the whole\nof the succeeding day. When the coach came round at last with \'London\'\nblazoned in letters of gold upon the boot, it gave Tom such a turn, that\nhe was half disposed to run away. But he didn\'t do it; for he took his\nseat upon the box instead, and looking down upon the four greys, felt\nas if he were another grey himself, or, at all events, a part of the\nturn-out; and was quite confused by the novelty and splendour of his\nsituation.\n\nAnd really it might have confused a less modest man than Tom to find\nhimself sitting next that coachman; for of all the swells that ever\nflourished a whip professionally, he might have been elected emperor. He\ndidn\'t handle his gloves like another man, but put them on--even when he\nwas standing on the pavement, quite detached from the coach--as if the\nfour greys were, somehow or other, at the ends of the fingers. It was\nthe same with his hat. He did things with his hat, which nothing but an\nunlimited knowledge of horses and the wildest freedom of the road, could\never have made him perfect in. Valuable little parcels were brought to\nhim with particular instructions, and he pitched them into this hat, and\nstuck it on again; as if the laws of gravity did not admit of such\nan event as its being knocked off or blown off, and nothing like an\naccident could befall it. The guard, too! Seventy breezy miles a day\nwere written in his very whiskers. His manners were a canter; his\nconversation a round trot. He was a fast coach upon a down-hill turnpike\nroad; he was all pace. A waggon couldn\'t have moved slowly, with that\nguard and his key-bugle on the top of it.\n\nThese were all foreshadowings of London, Tom thought, as he sat upon\nthe box, and looked about him. Such a coachman, and such a guard, never\ncould have existed between Salisbury and any other place. The coach\nwas none of your steady-going, yokel coaches, but a swaggering, rakish,\ndissipated London coach; up all night, and lying by all day, and leading\na devil of a life. It cared no more for Salisbury than if it had been\na hamlet. It rattled noisily through the best streets, defied the\nCathedral, took the worst corners sharpest, went cutting in everywhere,\nmaking everything get out of its way; and spun along the open\ncountry-road, blowing a lively defiance out of its key-bugle, as its\nlast glad parting legacy.\n\nIt was a charming evening. Mild and bright. And even with the weight\nupon his mind which arose out of the immensity and uncertainty of\nLondon, Tom could not resist the captivating sense of rapid motion\nthrough the pleasant air. The four greys skimmed along, as if they liked\nit quite as well as Tom did; the bugle was in as high spirits as the\ngreys; the coachman chimed in sometimes with his voice; the wheels\nhummed cheerfully in unison; the brass work on the harness was an\norchestra of little bells; and thus, as they went clinking, jingling,\nrattling smoothly on, the whole concern, from the buckles of the\nleaders\' coupling-reins to the handle of the hind boot, was one great\ninstrument of music.\n\nYoho, past hedges, gates, and trees; past cottages and barns, and people\ngoing home from work. Yoho, past donkey-chaises, drawn aside into the\nditch, and empty carts with rampant horses, whipped up at a bound upon\nthe little watercourse, and held by struggling carters close to the\nfive-barred gate, until the coach had passed the narrow turning in the\nroad. Yoho, by churches dropped down by themselves in quiet nooks,\nwith rustic burial-grounds about them, where the graves are green, and\ndaisies sleep--for it is evening--on the bosoms of the dead. Yoho, past\nstreams, in which the cattle cool their feet, and where the rushes grow;\npast paddock-fences, farms, and rick-yards; past last year\'s stacks,\ncut, slice by slice, away, and showing, in the waning light, like ruined\ngables, old and brown. Yoho, down the pebbly dip, and through the merry\nwater-splash and up at a canter to the level road again. Yoho! Yoho!\n\nWas the box there, when they came up to the old finger-post? The box!\nWas Mrs Lupin herself? Had she turned out magnificently as a hostess\nshould, in her own chaise-cart, and was she sitting in a mahogany chair,\ndriving her own horse Dragon (who ought to have been called Dumpling),\nand looking lovely? Did the stage-coach pull up beside her, shaving her\nvery wheel, and even while the guard helped her man up with the trunk,\ndid he send the glad echoes of his bugle careering down the chimneys of\nthe distant Pecksniff, as if the coach expressed its exultation in the\nrescue of Tom Pinch?\n\n\'This is kind indeed!\' said Tom, bending down to shake hands with her.\n\'I didn\'t mean to give you this trouble.\'\n\n\'Trouble, Mr Pinch!\' cried the hostess of the Dragon.\n\n\'Well! It\'s a pleasure to you, I know,\' said Tom, squeezing her hand\nheartily. \'Is there any news?\'\n\nThe hostess shook her head.\n\n\'Say you saw me,\' said Tom, \'and that I was very bold and cheerful, and\nnot a bit down-hearted; and that I entreated her to be the same, for all\nis certain to come right at last. Good-bye!\'\n\n\'You\'ll write when you get settled, Mr Pinch?\' said Mrs Lupin.\n\n\'When I get settled!\' cried Tom, with an involuntary opening of his\neyes. \'Oh, yes, I\'ll write when I get settled. Perhaps I had better\nwrite before, because I may find that it takes a little time to settle\nmyself; not having too much money, and having only one friend. I shall\ngive your love to the friend, by the way. You were always great with Mr\nWestlock, you know. Good-bye!\'\n\n\'Good-bye!\' said Mrs Lupin, hastily producing a basket with a long\nbottle sticking out of it. \'Take this. Good-bye!\'\n\n\'Do you want me to carry it to London for you?\' cried Tom. She was\nalready turning the chaise-cart round.\n\n\'No, no,\' said Mrs Lupin. \'It\'s only a little something for refreshment\non the road. Sit fast, Jack. Drive on, sir. All right! Good-bye!\'\n\nShe was a quarter of a mile off, before Tom collected himself; and then\nhe was waving his hand lustily; and so was she.\n\n\'And that\'s the last of the old finger-post,\' thought Tom, straining\nhis eyes, \'where I have so often stood to see this very coach go by,\nand where I have parted with so many companions! I used to compare this\ncoach to some great monster that appeared at certain times to bear my\nfriends away into the world. And now it\'s bearing me away, to seek my\nfortune, Heaven knows where and how!\'\n\nIt made Tom melancholy to picture himself walking up the lane and back\nto Pecksniff\'s as of old; and being melancholy, he looked downwards at\nthe basket on his knee, which he had for the moment forgotten.\n\n\'She is the kindest and most considerate creature in the world,\' thought\nTom. \'Now I KNOW that she particularly told that man of hers not to look\nat me, on purpose to prevent my throwing him a shilling! I had it ready\nfor him all the time, and he never once looked towards me; whereas that\nman naturally, (for I know him very well,) would have done nothing but\ngrin and stare. Upon my word, the kindness of people perfectly melts\nme.\'\n\nHere he caught the coachman\'s eye. The coachman winked. \'Remarkable fine\nwoman for her time of life,\' said the coachman.\n\n\'I quite agree with you,\' returned Tom. \'So she is.\'\n\n\'Finer than many a young \'un, I mean to say,\' observed the coachman.\n\'Eh?\'\n\n\'Than many a young one,\' Tom assented.\n\n\'I don\'t care for \'em myself when they\'re too young,\' remarked the\ncoachman.\n\nThis was a matter of taste, which Tom did not feel himself called upon\nto discuss.\n\n\'You\'ll seldom find \'em possessing correct opinions about refreshment,\nfor instance, when they\'re too young, you know,\' said the coachman; \'a\nwoman must have arrived at maturity, before her mind\'s equal to coming\nprovided with a basket like that.\'\n\n\'Perhaps you would like to know what it contains?\' said Tom, smiling.\n\nAs the coachman only laughed, and as Tom was curious himself, he\nunpacked it, and put the articles, one by one, upon the footboard. A\ncold roast fowl, a packet of ham in slices, a crusty loaf, a piece of\ncheese, a paper of biscuits, half a dozen apples, a knife, some butter,\na screw of salt, and a bottle of old sherry. There was a letter besides,\nwhich Tom put in his pocket.\n\nThe coachman was so earnest in his approval of Mrs Lupin\'s provident\nhabits, and congratulated Torn so warmly on his good fortune, that Tom\nfelt it necessary, for the lady\'s sake, to explain that the basket was\na strictly Platonic basket, and had merely been presented to him in the\nway of friendship. When he had made the statement with perfect gravity;\nfor he felt it incumbent on him to disabuse the mind of this lax rover\nof any incorrect impressions on the subject; he signified that he would\nbe happy to share the gifts with him, and proposed that they should\nattack the basket in a spirit of good fellowship at any time in the\ncourse of the night which the coachman\'s experience and knowledge of the\nroad might suggest, as being best adapted to the purpose. From this time\nthey chatted so pleasantly together, that although Tom knew infinitely\nmore of unicorns than horses, the coachman informed his friend the guard\nat the end of the next stage, \'that rum as the box-seat looked, he was\nas good a one to go, in pint of conversation, as ever he\'d wish to sit\nby.\'\n\nYoho, among the gathering shades; making of no account the deep\nreflections of the trees, but scampering on through light and darkness,\nall the same, as if the light of London fifty miles away, were quite\nenough to travel by, and some to spare. Yoho, beside the village green,\nwhere cricket-players linger yet, and every little indentation made in\nthe fresh grass by bat or wicket, ball or player\'s foot, sheds out its\nperfume on the night. Away with four fresh horses from the Bald-faced\nStag, where topers congregate about the door admiring; and the last\nteam with traces hanging loose, go roaming off towards the pond, until\nobserved and shouted after by a dozen throats, while volunteering boys\npursue them. Now, with a clattering of hoofs and striking out of fiery\nsparks, across the old stone bridge, and down again into the shadowy\nroad, and through the open gate, and far away, away, into the wold.\nYoho!\n\nYoho, behind there, stop that bugle for a moment! Come creeping over to\nthe front, along the coach-roof, guard, and make one at this basket! Not\nthat we slacken in our pace the while, not we; we rather put the bits\nof blood upon their metal, for the greater glory of the snack. Ah! It\nis long since this bottle of old wine was brought into contact with the\nmellow breath of night, you may depend, and rare good stuff it is to wet\na bugler\'s whistle with. Only try it. Don\'t be afraid of turning up your\nfinger, Bill, another pull! Now, take your breath, and try the bugle,\nBill. There\'s music! There\'s a tone!\' over the hills and far away,\'\nindeed. Yoho! The skittish mare is all alive to-night. Yoho! Yoho!\n\nSee the bright moon! High up before we know it; making the earth reflect\nthe objects on its breast like water. Hedges, trees, low cottages,\nchurch steeples, blighted stumps and flourishing young slips, have\nall grown vain upon the sudden, and mean to contemplate their own fair\nimages till morning. The poplars yonder rustle that their quivering\nleaves may see themselves upon the ground. Not so the oak; trembling\ndoes not become HIM; and he watches himself in his stout old burly\nsteadfastness, without the motion of a twig. The moss-grown gate,\nill-poised upon its creaking hinges, crippled and decayed swings to and\nfro before its glass, like some fantastic dowager; while our own ghostly\nlikeness travels on, Yoho! Yoho! through ditch and brake, upon the\nploughed land and the smooth, along the steep hillside and steeper wall,\nas if it were a phantom-Hunter.\n\nClouds too! And a mist upon the Hollow! Not a dull fog that hides it,\nbut a light airy gauze-like mist, which in our eyes of modest admiration\ngives a new charm to the beauties it is spread before; as real gauze has\ndone ere now, and would again, so please you, though we were the Pope.\nYoho! Why now we travel like the Moon herself. Hiding this minute in a\ngrove of trees; next minute in a patch of vapour; emerging now upon our\nbroad clear course; withdrawing now, but always dashing on, our journey\nis a counter-part of hers. Yoho! A match against the Moon!\n\nThe beauty of the night is hardly felt, when Day comes rushing up. Yoho!\nTwo stages, and the country roads are almost changed to a continuous\nstreet. Yoho, past market-gardens, rows of houses, villas, crescents,\nterraces, and squares; past waggons, coaches, carts; past early workmen,\nlate stragglers, drunken men, and sober carriers of loads; past brick\nand mortar in its every shape; and in among the rattling pavements,\nwhere a jaunty-seat upon a coach is not so easy to preserve! Yoho,\ndown countless turnings, and through countless mazy ways, until an old\nInnyard is gained, and Tom Pinch, getting down quite stunned and giddy,\nis in London!\n\n\'Five minutes before the time, too!\' said the driver, as he received his\nfee of Tom.\n\n\'Upon my word,\' said Tom, \'I should not have minded very much, if we had\nbeen five hours after it; for at this early hour I don\'t know where to\ngo, or what to do with myself.\'\n\n\'Don\'t they expect you then?\' inquired the driver.\n\n\'Who?\' said Tom.\n\n\'Why them,\' returned the driver.\n\nHis mind was so clearly running on the assumption of Tom\'s having come\nto town to see an extensive circle of anxious relations and friends,\nthat it would have been pretty hard work to undeceive him. Tom did not\ntry. He cheerfully evaded the subject, and going into the Inn, fell fast\nasleep before a fire in one of the public rooms opening from the yard.\nWhen he awoke, the people in the house were all astir, so he washed and\ndressed himself; to his great refreshment after the journey; and, it\nbeing by that time eight o\'clock, went forth at once to see his old\nfriend John.\n\nJohn Westlock lived in Furnival\'s Inn, High Holborn, which was within a\nquarter of an hour\'s walk of Tom\'s starting-point, but seemed a long way\noff, by reason of his going two or three miles out of the straight road\nto make a short cut. When at last he arrived outside John\'s door, two\nstories up, he stood faltering with his hand upon the knocker, and\ntrembled from head to foot. For he was rendered very nervous by the\nthought of having to relate what had fallen out between himself and\nPecksniff; and he had a misgiving that John would exult fearfully in the\ndisclosure.\n\n\'But it must be made,\' thought Tom, \'sooner or later; and I had better\nget it over.\'\n\nRat tat.\n\n\'I am afraid that\'s not a London knock,\' thought Tom. \'It didn\'t sound\nbold. Perhaps that\'s the reason why nobody answers the door.\'\n\nIt is quite certain that nobody came, and that Tom stood looking at the\nknocker; wondering whereabouts in the neighbourhood a certain gentleman\nresided, who was roaring out to somebody \'Come in!\' with all his might.\n\n\'Bless my soul!\' thought Tom at last. \'Perhaps he lives here, and is\ncalling to me. I never thought of that. Can I open the door from the\noutside, I wonder. Yes, to be sure I can.\'\n\nTo be sure he could, by turning the handle; and to be sure when he did\nturn it the same voice came rushing out, crying \'Why don\'t you come\nin? Come in, do you hear? What are you standing there for?\'--quite\nviolently.\n\nTom stepped from the little passage into the room from which these\nsounds proceeded, and had barely caught a glimpse of a gentleman in a\ndressing-gown and slippers (with his boots beside him ready to put on),\nsitting at his breakfast with a newspaper in his hand, when the said\ngentleman, at the imminent hazard of oversetting his tea-table, made a\nplunge at Tom, and hugged him.\n\n\'Why, Tom, my boy!\' cried the gentleman. \'Tom!\'\n\n\'How glad I am to see you, Mr Westlock!\' said Tom Pinch, shaking both\nhis hands, and trembling more than ever. \'How kind you are!\'\n\n\'Mr Westlock!\' repeated John, \'what do you mean by that, Pinch? You have\nnot forgotten my Christian name, I suppose?\'\n\n\'No, John, no. I have not forgotten,\' said Thomas Pinch. \'Good gracious\nme, how kind you are!\'\n\n\'I never saw such a fellow in all my life!\' cried John. \'What do you\nmean by saying THAT over and over again? What did you expect me to be, I\nwonder! Here, sit down, Tom, and be a reasonable creature. How are you,\nmy boy? I am delighted to see you!\'\n\n\'And I am delighted to see YOU,\' said Tom.\n\n\'It\'s mutual, of course,\' returned John. \'It always was, I hope. If\nI had known you had been coming, Tom, I would have had something for\nbreakfast. I would rather have such a surprise than the best breakfast\nin the world, myself; but yours is another case, and I have no doubt you\nare as hungry as a hunter. You must make out as well as you can, Tom,\nand we\'ll recompense ourselves at dinner-time. You take sugar, I know;\nI recollect the sugar at Pecksniff\'s. Ha, ha, ha! How IS Pecksniff? When\ndid you come to town? DO begin at something or other, Tom. There are\nonly scraps here, but they are not at all bad. Boar\'s Head potted. Try\nit, Tom. Make a beginning whatever you do. What an old Blade you are! I\nam delighted to see you.\'\n\nWhile he delivered himself of these words in a state of great commotion,\nJohn was constantly running backwards and forwards to and from the\ncloset, bringing out all sorts of things in pots, scooping extraordinary\nquantities of tea out of the caddy, dropping French rolls into his\nboots, pouring hot water over the butter, and making a variety of\nsimilar mistakes without disconcerting himself in the least.\n\n\'There!\' said John, sitting down for the fiftieth time, and instantly\nstarting up again to make some other addition to the breakfast. \'Now we\nare as well off as we are likely to be till dinner. And now let us have\nthe news, Tom. Imprimis, how\'s Pecksniff?\'\n\n\'I don\'t know how he is,\' was Tom\'s grave answer.\n\nJohn Westlock put the teapot down, and looked at him, in astonishment.\n\n\'I don\'t know how he is,\' said Thomas Pinch; \'and, saving that I wish\nhim no ill, I don\'t care. I have left him, John. I have left him for\never.\'\n\n\'Voluntarily?\'\n\n\'Why, no, for he dismissed me. But I had first found out that I was\nmistaken in him; and I could not have remained with him under any\ncircumstances. I grieve to say that you were right in your estimate of\nhis character. It may be a ridiculous weakness, John, but it has been\nvery painful and bitter to me to find this out, I do assure you.\'\n\nTom had no need to direct that appealing look towards his friend, in\nmild and gentle deprecation of his answering with a laugh. John Westlock\nwould as soon have thought of striking him down upon the floor.\n\n\'It was all a dream of mine,\' said Tom, \'and it is over. I\'ll tell you\nhow it happened, at some other time. Bear with my folly, John. I do not,\njust now, like to think or speak about it.\'\n\n\'I swear to you, Tom,\' returned his friend, with great earnestness of\nmanner, after remaining silent for a few moments, \'that when I see, as\nI do now, how deeply you feel this, I don\'t know whether to be glad or\nsorry that you have made the discovery at last. I reproach myself with\nthe thought that I ever jested on the subject; I ought to have known\nbetter.\'\n\n\'My dear friend,\' said Tom, extending his hand, \'it is very generous and\ngallant in you to receive me and my disclosure in this spirit; it makes\nme blush to think that I should have felt a moment\'s uneasiness as I\ncame along. You can\'t think what a weight is lifted off my mind,\' said\nTom, taking up his knife and fork again, and looking very cheerful. \'I\nshall punish the Boar\'s Head dreadfully.\'\n\nThe host, thus reminded of his duties, instantly betook himself to\npiling up all kinds of irreconcilable and contradictory viands in Tom\'s\nplate, and a very capital breakfast Tom made, and very much the better\nfor it Tom felt.\n\n\'That\'s all right,\' said John, after contemplating his visitor\'s\nproceedings with infinite satisfaction. \'Now, about our plans. You are\ngoing to stay with me, of course. Where\'s your box?\'\n\n\'It\'s at the Inn,\' said Tom. \'I didn\'t intend--\'\n\n\'Never mind what you didn\'t intend,\' John Westlock interposed. \'What you\nDID intend is more to the purpose. You intended, in coming here, to ask\nmy advice, did you not, Tom?\'\n\n\'Certainly.\'\n\n\'And to take it when I gave it to you?\'\n\n\'Yes,\' rejoined Tom, smiling, \'if it were good advice, which, being\nyours, I have no doubt it will be.\'\n\n\'Very well. Then don\'t be an obstinate old humbug in the outset, Tom, or\nI shall shut up shop and dispense none of that invaluable commodity. You\nare on a visit to me. I wish I had an organ for you, Tom!\'\n\n\'So do the gentlemen downstairs, and the gentlemen overhead I have no\ndoubt,\' was Tom\'s reply.\n\n\'Let me see. In the first place, you will wish to see your sister this\nmorning,\' pursued his friend, \'and of course you will like to go there\nalone. I\'ll walk part of the way with you; and see about a little\nbusiness of my own, and meet you here again in the afternoon. Put that\nin your pocket, Tom. It\'s only the key of the door. If you come home\nfirst you\'ll want it.\'\n\n\'Really,\' said Tom, \'quartering one\'s self upon a friend in this way--\'\n\n\'Why, there are two keys,\' interposed John Westlock. \'I can\'t open the\ndoor with them both at once, can I? What a ridiculous fellow you are,\nTom? Nothing particular you\'d like for dinner, is there?\'\n\n\'Oh dear no,\' said Tom.\n\n\'Very well, then you may as well leave it to me. Have a glass of cherry\nbrandy, Tom?\'\n\n\'Not a drop! What remarkable chambers these are!\' said Pinch \'there\'s\neverything in \'em!\'\n\n\'Bless your soul, Tom, nothing but a few little bachelor contrivances!\nthe sort of impromptu arrangements that might have suggested themselves\nto Philip Quarll or Robinson Crusoe, that\'s all. What do you say? Shall\nwe walk?\'\n\n\'By all means,\' cried Tom. \'As soon as you like.\'\n\nAccordingly John Westlock took the French rolls out of his boots, and\nput his boots on, and dressed himself; giving Tom the paper to read in\nthe meanwhile. When he returned, equipped for walking, he found Tom in a\nbrown study, with the paper in his hand.\n\n\'Dreaming, Tom?\'\n\n\'No,\' said Mr Pinch, \'No. I have been looking over the advertising\nsheet, thinking there might be something in it which would be likely\nto suit me. But, as I often think, the strange thing seems to be that\nnobody is suited. Here are all kinds of employers wanting all sorts of\nservants, and all sorts of servants wanting all kinds of employers, and\nthey never seem to come together. Here is a gentleman in a public office\nin a position of temporary difficulty, who wants to borrow five hundred\npounds; and in the very next advertisement here is another gentleman who\nhas got exactly that sum to lend. But he\'ll never lend it to him, John,\nyou\'ll find! Here is a lady possessing a moderate independence, who\nwants to board and lodge with a quiet, cheerful family; and here is a\nfamily describing themselves in those very words, \"a quiet, cheerful\nfamily,\" who want exactly such a lady to come and live with them. But\nshe\'ll never go, John! Neither do any of these single gentlemen who want\nan airy bedroom, with the occasional use of a parlour, ever appear to\ncome to terms with these other people who live in a rural situation\nremarkable for its bracing atmosphere, within five minutes\' walk of\nthe Royal Exchange. Even those letters of the alphabet who are always\nrunning away from their friends and being entreated at the tops of\ncolumns to come back, never DO come back, if we may judge from the\nnumber of times they are asked to do it and don\'t. It really seems,\'\nsaid Tom, relinquishing the paper with a thoughtful sigh, \'as if people\nhad the same gratification in printing their complaints as in making\nthem known by word of mouth; as if they found it a comfort and\nconsolation to proclaim \"I want such and such a thing, and I can\'t get\nit, and I don\'t expect I ever shall!\"\'\n\nJohn Westlock laughed at the idea, and they went out together. So many\nyears had passed since Tom was last in London, and he had known so\nlittle of it then, that his interest in all he saw was very great. He\nwas particularly anxious, among other notorious localities, to have\nthose streets pointed out to him which were appropriated to the\nslaughter of countrymen; and was quite disappointed to find, after\nhalf-an-hour\'s walking, that he hadn\'t had his pocket picked. But\non John Westlock\'s inventing a pickpocket for his gratification, and\npointing out a highly respectable stranger as one of that fraternity, he\nwas much delighted.\n\nHis friend accompanied him to within a short distance of Camberwell\nand having put him beyond the possibility of mistaking the wealthy\nbrass-and-copper founder\'s, left him to make his visit. Arriving before\nthe great bell-handle, Tom gave it a gentle pull. The porter appeared.\n\n\'Pray does Miss Pinch live here?\' said Tom.\n\n\'Miss Pinch is governess here,\' replied the porter.\n\nAt the same time he looked at Tom from head to foot, as if he would have\nsaid, \'You are a nice man, YOU are; where did YOU come from?\'\n\n\'It\'s the same young lady,\' said Tom. \'It\'s quite right. Is she at\nhome?\'\n\n\'I don\'t know, I\'m sure,\' rejoined the porter.\n\n\'Do you think you could have the goodness to ascertain?\' said Tom. He\nhad quite a delicacy in offering the suggestion, for the possibility\nof such a step did not appear to present itself to the porter\'s mind at\nall.\n\nThe fact was that the porter in answering the gate-bell had, according\nto usage, rung the house-bell (for it is as well to do these things in\nthe Baronial style while you are about it), and that there the functions\nof his office had ceased. Being hired to open and shut the gate, and\nnot to explain himself to strangers, he left this little incident to be\ndeveloped by the footman with the tags, who, at this juncture, called\nout from the door steps:\n\n\'Hollo, there! wot are you up to? This way, young man!\'\n\n\'Oh!\' said Tom, hurrying towards him. \'I didn\'t observe that there was\nanybody else. Pray is Miss Pinch at home?\'\n\n\'She\'s IN,\' replied the footman. As much as to say to Tom: \'But if you\nthink she has anything to do with the proprietorship of this place you\nhad better abandon that idea.\'\n\n\'I wish to see her, if you please,\' said Tom.\n\nThe footman, being a lively young man, happened to have his attention\ncaught at that moment by the flight of a pigeon, in which he took so\nwarm an interest that his gaze was rivetted on the bird until it was\nquite out of sight. He then invited Tom to come in, and showed him into\na parlour.\n\n\'Hany neem?\' said the young man, pausing languidly at the door.\n\nIt was a good thought; because without providing the stranger, in case\nhe should happen to be of a warm temper, with a sufficient excuse for\nknocking him down, it implied this young man\'s estimate of his quality,\nand relieved his breast of the oppressive burden of rating him in secret\nas a nameless and obscure individual.\n\n\'Say her brother, if you please,\' said Tom.\n\n\'Mother?\' drawled the footman.\n\n\'Brother,\' repeated Tom, slightly raising his voice. \'And if you will\nsay, in the first instance, a gentleman, and then say her brother,\nI shall be obliged to you, as she does not expect me or know I am in\nLondon, and I do not wish to startle her.\'\n\nThe young man\'s interest in Tom\'s observations had ceased long before\nthis time, but he kindly waited until now; when, shutting the door, he\nwithdrew.\n\n\'Dear me!\' said Tom. \'This is very disrespectful and uncivil behaviour.\nI hope these are new servants here, and that Ruth is very differently\ntreated.\'\n\nHis cogitations were interrupted by the sound of voices in the adjoining\nroom. They seemed to be engaged in high dispute, or in indignant\nreprimand of some offender; and gathering strength occasionally, broke\nout into a perfect whirlwind. It was in one of these gusts, as it\nappeared to Tom, that the footman announced him; for an abrupt and\nunnatural calm took place, and then a dead silence. He was standing\nbefore the window, wondering what domestic quarrel might have caused\nthese sounds, and hoping Ruth had nothing to do with it, when the door\nopened, and his sister ran into his arms.\n\n\'Why, bless my soul!\' said Tom, looking at her with great pride, when\nthey had tenderly embraced each other, \'how altered you are Ruth! I\nshould scarcely have known you, my love, if I had seen you anywhere\nelse, I declare! You are so improved,\' said Tom, with inexpressible\ndelight; \'you are so womanly; you are so--positively, you know, you are\nso handsome!\'\n\n\'If YOU think so Tom--\'\n\n\'Oh, but everybody must think so, you know,\' said Tom, gently smoothing\ndown her hair. \'It\'s matter of fact; not opinion. But what\'s the\nmatter?\' said Tom, looking at her more intently, \'how flushed you are!\nand you have been crying.\'\n\n\'No, I have not, Tom.\'\n\n\'Nonsense,\' said her brother stoutly. \'That\'s a story. Don\'t tell me! I\nknow better. What is it, dear? I\'m not with Mr Pecksniff now. I am going\nto try and settle myself in London; and if you are not happy here (as I\nvery much fear you are not, for I begin to think you have been deceiving\nme with the kindest and most affectionate intention) you shall not\nremain here.\'\n\nOh! Tom\'s blood was rising; mind that! Perhaps the Boar\'s Head had\nsomething to do with it, but certainly the footman had. So had the sight\nof his pretty sister--a great deal to do with it. Tom could bear a good\ndeal himself, but he was proud of her, and pride is a sensitive thing.\nHe began to think, \'there are more Pecksniffs than one, perhaps,\' and by\nall the pins and needles that run up and down in angry veins, Tom was in\na most unusual tingle all at once!\n\n\'We will talk about it, Tom,\' said Ruth, giving him another kiss to\npacify him. \'I am afraid I cannot stay here.\'\n\n\'Cannot!\' replied Tom. \'Why then, you shall not, my love. Heyday! You\nare not an object of charity! Upon my word!\'\n\nTom was stopped in these exclamations by the footman, who brought a\nmessage from his master, importing that he wished to speak with him\nbefore he went, and with Miss Pinch also.\n\n\'Show the way,\' said Tom. \'I\'ll wait upon him at once.\'\n\nAccordingly they entered the adjoining room from which the noise of\naltercation had proceeded; and there they found a middle-aged gentleman,\nwith a pompous voice and manner, and a middle-aged lady, with what may\nbe termed an excisable face, or one in which starch and vinegar were\ndecidedly employed. There was likewise present that eldest pupil of Miss\nPinch, whom Mrs Todgers, on a previous occasion, had called a syrup, and\nwho was now weeping and sobbing spitefully.\n\n\'My brother, sir,\' said Ruth Pinch, timidly presenting Tom.\n\n\'Oh!\' cried the gentleman, surveying Tom attentively. \'You really are\nMiss Pinch\'s brother, I presume? You will excuse my asking. I don\'t\nobserve any resemblance.\'\n\n\'Miss Pinch has a brother, I know,\' observed the lady.\n\n\'Miss Pinch is always talking about her brother, when she ought to be\nengaged upon my education,\' sobbed the pupil.\n\n\'Sophia! Hold your tongue!\' observed the gentleman. \'Sit down, if you\nplease,\' addressing Tom.\n\nTom sat down, looking from one face to another, in mute surprise.\n\n\'Remain here, if you please, Miss Pinch,\' pursued the gentleman, looking\nslightly over his shoulder.\n\nTom interrupted him here, by rising to place a chair for his sister.\nHaving done which he sat down again.\n\n\'I am glad you chance to have called to see your sister to-day, sir,\'\nresumed the brass-and-copper founder. \'For although I do not approve, as\na principle, of any young person engaged in my family in the capacity\nof a governess, receiving visitors, it happens in this case to be well\ntimed. I am sorry to inform you that we are not at all satisfied with\nyour sister.\'\n\n\'We are very much DISsatisfied with her,\' observed the lady.\n\n\'I\'d never say another lesson to Miss Pinch if I was to be beat to death\nfor it!\' sobbed the pupil.\n\n\'Sophia!\' cried her father. \'Hold your tongue!\'\n\n\'Will you allow me to inquire what your ground of dissatisfaction is?\'\nasked Tom.\n\n\'Yes,\' said the gentleman, \'I will. I don\'t recognize it as a right;\nbut I will. Your sister has not the slightest innate power of commanding\nrespect. It has been a constant source of difference between us.\nAlthough she has been in this family for some time, and although the\nyoung lady who is now present has almost, as it were, grown up under\nher tuition, that young lady has no respect for her. Miss Pinch has\nbeen perfectly unable to command my daughter\'s respect, or to win my\ndaughter\'s confidence. Now,\' said the gentleman, allowing the palm of\nhis hand to fall gravely down upon the table: \'I maintain that there is\nsomething radically wrong in that! You, as her brother, may be disposed\nto deny it--\'\n\n\'I beg your pardon, sir,\' said Tom. \'I am not at all disposed to\ndeny it. I am sure that there is something radically wrong; radically\nmonstrous, in that.\'\n\n\'Good Heavens!\' cried the gentleman, looking round the room with\ndignity, \'what do I find to be the case! what results obtrude themselves\nupon me as flowing from this weakness of character on the part of\nMiss Pinch! What are my feelings as a father, when, after my desire\n(repeatedly expressed to Miss Pinch, as I think she will not venture to\ndeny) that my daughter should be choice in her expressions, genteel in\nher deportment, as becomes her station in life, and politely distant to\nher inferiors in society, I find her, only this very morning, addressing\nMiss Pinch herself as a beggar!\'\n\n\'A beggarly thing,\' observed the lady, in correction.\n\n\'Which is worse,\' said the gentleman, triumphantly; \'which is worse. A\nbeggarly thing. A low, coarse, despicable expression!\'\n\n\'Most despicable,\' cried Tom. \'I am glad to find that there is a just\nappreciation of it here.\'\n\n\'So just, sir,\' said the gentleman, lowering his voice to be the more\nimpressive. \'So just, that, but for my knowing Miss Pinch to be an\nunprotected young person, an orphan, and without friends, I would, as\nI assured Miss Pinch, upon my veracity and personal character, a few\nminutes ago, I would have severed the connection between us at that\nmoment and from that time.\'\n\n\'Bless my soul, sir!\' cried Tom, rising from his seat; for he was now\nunable to contain himself any longer; \'don\'t allow such considerations\nas those to influence you, pray. They don\'t exist, sir. She is not\nunprotected. She is ready to depart this instant. Ruth, my dear, get\nyour bonnet on!\'\n\n\'Oh, a pretty family!\' cried the lady. \'Oh, he\'s her brother! There\'s no\ndoubt about that!\'\n\n\'As little doubt, madam,\' said Tom, \'as that the young lady yonder is\nthe child of your teaching, and not my sister\'s. Ruth, my dear, get your\nbonnet on!\'\n\n\'When you say, young man,\' interposed the brass-and-copper founder,\nhaughtily, \'with that impertinence which is natural to you, and which I\ntherefore do not condescend to notice further, that the young lady, my\neldest daughter, has been educated by any one but Miss Pinch, you--I\nneedn\'t proceed. You comprehend me fully. I have no doubt you are used\nto it.\'\n\n\'Sir!\' cried Tom, after regarding him in silence for some little time.\n\'If you do not understand what I mean, I will tell you. If you do\nunderstand what I mean, I beg you not to repeat that mode of expressing\nyourself in answer to it. My meaning is, that no man can expect his\nchildren to respect what he degrades.\'\n\n\'Ha, ha, ha!\' laughed the gentleman. \'Cant! cant! The common cant!\'\n\n\'The common story, sir!\' said Tom; \'the story of a common mind. Your\ngoverness cannot win the confidence and respect of your children,\nforsooth! Let her begin by winning yours, and see what happens then.\'\n\n\'Miss Pinch is getting her bonnet on, I trust, my dear?\' said the\ngentleman.\n\n\'I trust she is,\' said Tom, forestalling the reply. \'I have no doubt\nshe is. In the meantime I address myself to you, sir. You made your\nstatement to me, sir; you required to see me for that purpose; and I\nhave a right to answer it. I am not loud or turbulent,\' said Tom, which\nwas quite true, \'though I can scarcely say as much for you, in your\nmanner of addressing yourself to me. And I wish, on my sister\'s behalf,\nto state the simple truth.\'\n\n\'You may state anything you like, young man,\' returned the gentleman,\naffecting to yawn. \'My dear, Miss Pinch\'s money.\'\n\n\'When you tell me,\' resumed Tom, who was not the less indignant for\nkeeping himself quiet, \'that my sister has no innate power of commanding\nthe respect of your children, I must tell you it is not so; and that she\nhas. She is as well bred, as well taught, as well qualified by nature\nto command respect, as any hirer of a governess you know. But when you\nplace her at a disadvantage in reference to every servant in your house,\nhow can you suppose, if you have the gift of common sense, that she is\nnot in a tenfold worse position in reference to your daughters?\'\n\n\'Pretty well! Upon my word,\' exclaimed the gentleman, \'this is pretty\nwell!\'\n\n\'It is very ill, sir,\' said Tom. \'It is very bad and mean, and wrong and\ncruel. Respect! I believe young people are quick enough to observe and\nimitate; and why or how should they respect whom no one else respects,\nand everybody slights? And very partial they must grow--oh, very\npartial!--to their studies, when they see to what a pass proficiency in\nthose same tasks has brought their governess! Respect! Put anything the\nmost deserving of respect before your daughters in the light in which\nyou place her, and you will bring it down as low, no matter what it is!\'\n\n\'You speak with extreme impertinence, young man,\' observed the\ngentleman.\n\n\'I speak without passion, but with extreme indignation and contempt\nfor such a course of treatment, and for all who practice it,\' said\nTom. \'Why, how can you, as an honest gentleman, profess displeasure or\nsurprise at your daughter telling my sister she is something beggarly\nand humble, when you are for ever telling her the same thing yourself in\nfifty plain, outspeaking ways, though not in words; and when your very\nporter and footman make the same delicate announcement to all comers? As\nto your suspicion and distrust of her; even of her word; if she is not\nabove their reach, you have no right to employ her.\'\n\n\'No right!\' cried the brass-and-copper founder.\n\n\'Distinctly not,\' Tom answered. \'If you imagine that the payment of an\nannual sum of money gives it to you, you immensely exaggerate its power\nand value. Your money is the least part of your bargain in such a case.\nYou may be punctual in that to half a second on the clock, and yet\nbe Bankrupt. I have nothing more to say,\' said Tom, much flushed and\nflustered, now that it was over, \'except to crave permission to stand in\nyour garden until my sister is ready.\'\n\nNot waiting to obtain it, Tom walked out.\n\nBefore he had well begun to cool, his sister joined him. She was crying;\nand Tom could not bear that any one about the house should see her doing\nthat.\n\n\'They will think you are sorry to go,\' said Tom. \'You are not sorry to\ngo?\'\n\n\'No, Tom, no. I have been anxious to go for a very long time.\'\n\n\'Very well, then! Don\'t cry!\' said Tom.\n\n\'I am so sorry for YOU, dear,\' sobbed Tom\'s sister.\n\n\'But you ought to be glad on my account,\' said Tom. \'I shall be twice as\nhappy with you for a companion. Hold up your head. There! Now we go\nout as we ought. Not blustering, you know, but firm and confident in\nourselves.\'\n\nThe idea of Tom and his sister blustering, under any circumstances, was\na splendid absurdity. But Tom was very far from feeling it to be so,\nin his excitement; and passed out at the gate with such severe\ndetermination written in his face that the porter hardly knew him again.\n\nIt was not until they had walked some short distance, and Tom found\nhimself getting cooler and more collected, that he was quite restored to\nhimself by an inquiry from his sister, who said in her pleasant little\nvoice:\n\n\'Where are we going, Tom?\'\n\n\'Dear me!\' said Tom, stopping, \'I don\'t know.\'\n\n\'Don\'t you--don\'t you live anywhere, dear?\' asked Tom\'s sister looking\nwistfully in his face.\n\n\'No,\' said Tom. \'Not at present. Not exactly. I only arrived this\nmorning. We must have some lodgings.\'\n\nHe didn\'t tell her that he had been going to stay with his friend John,\nand could on no account think of billeting two inmates upon him, of whom\none was a young lady; for he knew that would make her uncomfortable,\nand would cause her to regard herself as being an inconvenience to him.\nNeither did he like to leave her anywhere while he called on John, and\ntold him of this change in his arrangements; for he was delicate of\nseeming to encroach upon the generous and hospitable nature of his\nfriend. Therefore he said again, \'We must have some lodgings, of\ncourse;\' and said it as stoutly as if he had been a perfect Directory\nand Guide-Book to all the lodgings in London.\n\n\'Where shall we go and look for \'em?\' said Tom. \'What do you think?\'\n\nTom\'s sister was not much wiser on such a topic than he was. So she\nsqueezed her little purse into his coat-pocket, and folding the little\nhand with which she did so on the other little hand with which she\nclasped his arm, said nothing.\n\n\'It ought to be a cheap neighbourhood,\' said Tom, \'and not too far from\nLondon. Let me see. Should you think Islington a good place?\'\n\n\'I should think it was an excellent place, Tom.\'\n\n\'It used to be called Merry Islington, once upon a time,\' said Tom.\n\'Perhaps it\'s merry now; if so, it\'s all the better. Eh?\'\n\n\'If it\'s not too dear,\' said Tom\'s sister.\n\n\'Of course, if it\'s not too dear,\' assented Tom. \'Well, where IS\nIslington? We can\'t do better than go there, I should think. Let\'s go.\'\n\nTom\'s sister would have gone anywhere with him; so they walked off, arm\nin arm, as comfortably as possible. Finding, presently, that Islington\nwas not in that neighbourhood, Tom made inquiries respecting a public\nconveyance thither; which they soon obtained. As they rode along they\nwere very full of conversation indeed, Tom relating what had happened\nto him, and Tom\'s sister relating what had happened to her, and both\nfinding a great deal more to say than time to say it in; for they had\nonly just begun to talk, in comparison with what they had to tell each\nother, when they reached their journey\'s end.\n\n\'Now,\' said Tom, \'we must first look out for some very unpretending\nstreets, and then look out for bills in the windows.\'\n\nSo they walked off again, quite as happily as if they had just stepped\nout of a snug little house of their own, to look for lodgings on account\nof somebody else. Tom\'s simplicity was unabated, Heaven knows; but\nnow that he had somebody to rely upon him, he was stimulated to rely a\nlittle more upon himself, and was, in his own opinion, quite a desperate\nfellow.\n\nAfter roaming up and down for hours, looking at some scores of lodgings,\nthey began to find it rather fatiguing, especially as they saw none\nwhich were at all adapted to their purpose. At length, however, in a\nsingular little old-fashioned house, up a blind street, they discovered\ntwo small bedrooms and a triangular parlour, which promised to suit\nthem well enough. Their desiring to take possession immediately was a\nsuspicious circumstance, but even this was surmounted by the payment\nof their first week\'s rent, and a reference to John Westlock, Esquire,\nFurnival\'s Inn, High Holborn.\n\nAh! It was a goodly sight, when this important point was settled,\nto behold Tom and his sister trotting round to the baker\'s, and the\nbutcher\'s, and the grocer\'s, with a kind of dreadful delight in the\nunaccustomed cares of housekeeping; taking secret counsel together as\nthey gave their small orders, and distracted by the least suggestion\non the part of the shopkeeper! When they got back to the triangular\nparlour, and Tom\'s sister, bustling to and fro, busy about a thousand\npleasant nothings, stopped every now and then to give old Tom a kiss or\nsmile upon him, Tom rubbed his hands as if all Islington were his.\n\nIt was late in the afternoon now, though, and high time for Tom to\nkeep his appointment. So, after agreeing with his sister that\nin consideration of not having dined, they would venture on the\nextravagance of chops for supper at nine, he walked out again to narrate\nthese marvellous occurrences to John.\n\n\'I am quite a family man all at once,\' thought Tom. \'If I can only get\nsomething to do, how comfortable Ruth and I may be! Ah, that if!\nBut it\'s of no use to despond. I can but do that, when I have tried\neverything and failed; and even then it won\'t serve me much. Upon my\nword,\' thought Tom, quickening his pace, \'I don\'t know what John will\nthink has become of me. He\'ll begin to be afraid I have strayed into one\nof those streets where the countrymen are murdered; and that I have been\nmade meat pies of, or some such horrible thing.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN\n\nTOM PINCH, GOING ASTRAY, FINDS THAT HE IS NOT THE ONLY PERSON IN THAT\nPREDICAMENT. HE RETALIATES UPON A FALLEN FOE\n\n\nTom\'s evil genius did not lead him into the dens of any of those\npreparers of cannibalic pastry, who are represented in many standard\ncountry legends as doing a lively retail business in the Metropolis;\nnor did it mark him out as the prey of ring-droppers, pea and\nthimble-riggers, duffers, touters, or any of those bloodless sharpers,\nwho are, perhaps, a little better known to the Police. He fell into\nconversation with no gentleman who took him into a public-house, where\nthere happened to be another gentleman who swore he had more money than\nany gentleman, and very soon proved he had more money than one gentleman\nby taking his away from him; neither did he fall into any other of\nthe numerous man-traps which are set up without notice, in the public\ngrounds of this city. But he lost his way. He very soon did that; and in\ntrying to find it again he lost it more and more.\n\nNow, Tom, in his guileless distrust of London, thought himself very\nknowing in coming to the determination that he would not ask to be\ndirected to Furnival\'s Inn, if he could help it; unless, indeed, he\nshould happen to find himself near the Mint, or the Bank of England; in\nwhich case he would step in, and ask a civil question or two, confiding\nin the perfect respectability of the concern. So on he went, looking up\nall the streets he came near, and going up half of them; and thus,\nby dint of not being true to Goswell Street, and filing off into\nAldermanbury, and bewildering himself in Barbican, and being constant to\nthe wrong point of the compass in London Wall, and then getting himself\ncrosswise into Thames Street, by an instinct that would have been\nmarvellous if he had had the least desire or reason to go there, he\nfound himself, at last, hard by the Monument.\n\nThe Man in the Monument was quite as mysterious a being to Tom as the\nMan in the Moon. It immediately occurred to him that the lonely creature\nwho held himself aloof from all mankind in that pillar like some old\nhermit was the very man of whom to ask his way. Cold, he might be;\nlittle sympathy he had, perhaps, with human passion--the column seemed\ntoo tall for that; but if Truth didn\'t live in the base of the Monument,\nnotwithstanding Pope\'s couplet about the outside of it, where in London\n(thought Tom) was she likely to be found!\n\nComing close below the pillar, it was a great encouragement to Tom to\nfind that the Man in the Monument had simple tastes; that stony\nand artificial as his residence was, he still preserved some rustic\nrecollections; that he liked plants, hung up bird-cages, was not wholly\ncut off from fresh groundsel, and kept young trees in tubs. The Man in\nthe Monument, himself, was sitting outside the door--his own door: the\nMonument-door: what a grand idea!--and was actually yawning, as if there\nwere no Monument to stop his mouth, and give him a perpetual interest in\nhis own existence.\n\nTom was advancing towards this remarkable creature, to inquire the way\nto Furnival\'s Inn, when two people came to see the Monument. They were a\ngentleman and a lady; and the gentleman said, \'How much a-piece?\'\n\nThe Man in the Monument replied, \'A Tanner.\'\n\nIt seemed a low expression, compared with the Monument.\n\nThe gentleman put a shilling into his hand, and the Man in the Monument\nopened a dark little door. When the gentleman and lady had passed out of\nview, he shut it again, and came slowly back to his chair.\n\nHe sat down and laughed.\n\n\'They don\'t know what a many steps there is!\' he said. \'It\'s worth twice\nthe money to stop here. Oh, my eye!\'\n\nThe Man in the Monument was a Cynic; a worldly man! Tom couldn\'t ask his\nway of HIM. He was prepared to put no confidence in anything he said.\n\n\'My gracious!\' cried a well-known voice behind Mr Pinch. \'Why, to be\nsure it is!\'\n\nAt the same time he was poked in the back by a parasol. Turning round\nto inquire into this salute, he beheld the eldest daughter of his late\npatron.\n\n\'Miss Pecksniff!\' said Tom.\n\n\'Why, my goodness, Mr Pinch!\' cried Cherry. \'What are you doing here?\'\n\n\'I have rather wandered from my way,\' said Tom. \'I--\'\n\n\'I hope you have run away,\' said Charity. \'It would be quite spirited\nand proper if you had, when my Papa so far forgets himself.\'\n\n\'I have left him,\' returned Tom. \'But it was perfectly understood on\nboth sides. It was not done clandestinely.\'\n\n\'Is he married?\' asked Cherry, with a spasmodic shake of her chin.\n\n\'No, not yet,\' said Tom, colouring; \'to tell you the truth, I don\'t\nthink he is likely to be, if--if Miss Graham is the object of his\npassion.\'\n\n\'Tcha, Mr Pinch!\' cried Charity, with sharp impatience, \'you\'re very\neasily deceived. You don\'t know the arts of which such a creature is\ncapable. Oh! it\'s a wicked world.\'\n\n\'You are not married?\' Tom hinted, to divert the conversation.\n\n\'N--no!\' said Cherry, tracing out one particular paving-stone in\nMonument Yard with the end of her parasol. \'I--but really it\'s quite\nimpossible to explain. Won\'t you walk in?\'\n\n\'You live here, then?\' said Tom\n\n\'Yes,\' returned Miss Pecksniff, pointing with her parasol to Todgers\'s;\n\'I reside with this lady, AT PRESENT.\'\n\nThe great stress on the two last words suggested to Tom that he was\nexpected to say something in reference to them. So he said.\n\n\'Only at present! Are you going home again soon?\'\n\n\'No, Mr Pinch,\' returned Charity. \'No, thank you. No! A mother-in-law\nwho is younger than--I mean to say, who is as nearly as possible about\nthe same age as one\'s self, would not quite suit my spirit. Not quite!\'\nsaid Cherry, with a spiteful shiver.\n\n\'I thought from your saying \"at present\"\'--Tom observed.\n\n\'Really, upon my word! I had no idea you would press me so very closely\non the subject, Mr Pinch,\' said Charity, blushing, \'or I should not have\nbeen so foolish as to allude to--oh really!--won\'t you walk in?\'\n\nTom mentioned, to excuse himself, that he had an appointment in\nFurnival\'s Inn, and that coming from Islington he had taken a few wrong\nturnings, and arrived at the Monument instead. Miss Pecksniff simpered\nvery much when he asked her if she knew the way to Furnival\'s Inn, and\nat length found courage to reply.\n\n\'A gentleman who is a friend of mine, or at least who is not exactly a\nfriend so much as a sort of acquaintance--Oh upon my word, I hardly\nknow what I say, Mr Pinch; you mustn\'t suppose there is any engagement\nbetween us; or at least if there is, that it is at all a settled thing\nas yet--is going to Furnival\'s Inn immediately, I believe upon a little\nbusiness, and I am sure he would be very glad to accompany you, so as\nto prevent your going wrong again. You had better walk in. You will very\nlikely find my sister Merry here,\' she said with a curious toss of her\nhead, and anything but an agreeable smile.\n\n\'Then, I think, I\'ll endeavour to find my way alone,\' said Tom, \'for I\nfear she would not be very glad to see me. That unfortunate occurrence,\nin relation to which you and I had some amicable words together, in\nprivate, is not likely to have impressed her with any friendly feeling\ntowards me. Though it really was not my fault.\'\n\n\'She has never heard of that, you may depend,\' said Cherry, gathering up\nthe corners of her mouth, and nodding at Tom. \'I am far from sure that\nshe would bear you any mighty ill will for it, if she had.\'\n\n\'You don\'t say so?\' cried Tom, who was really concerned by this\ninsinuation.\n\n\'I say nothing,\' said Charity. \'If I had not already known what shocking\nthings treachery and deceit are in themselves, Mr Pinch, I might perhaps\nhave learnt it from the success they meet with--from the success they\nmeet with.\' Here she smiled as before. \'But I don\'t say anything. On the\ncontrary, I should scorn it. You had better walk in!\'\n\nThere was something hidden here, which piqued Tom\'s interest and\ntroubled his tender heart. When, in a moment\'s irresolution, he looked\nat Charity, he could not but observe a struggle in her face between\na sense of triumph and a sense of shame; nor could he but remark how,\nmeeting even his eyes, which she cared so little for, she turned away\nher own, for all the splenetic defiance in her manner.\n\nAn uneasy thought entered Tom\'s head; a shadowy misgiving that the\naltered relations between himself and Pecksniff were somehow to involve\nan altered knowledge on his part of other people, and were to give him\nan insight into much of which he had had no previous suspicion. And yet\nhe put no definite construction upon Charity\'s proceedings. He certainly\nhad no idea that as he had been the audience and spectator of her\nmortification, she grasped with eager delight at any opportunity of\nreproaching her sister with his presence in HER far deeper misery; for\nhe knew nothing of it, and only pictured that sister as the same giddy,\ncareless, trivial creature she always had been, with the same slight\nestimation of himself which she had never been at the least pains\nto conceal. In short, he had merely a confused impression that Miss\nPecksniff was not quite sisterly or kind; and being curious to set it\nright, accompanied her as she desired.\n\nThe house-door being opened, she went in before Tom, requesting him to\nfollow her; and led the way to the parlour door.\n\n\'Oh, Merry!\' she said, looking in, \'I am so glad you have not gone home.\nWho do you think I have met in the street, and brought to see you! Mr\nPinch! There. Now you ARE surprised, I am sure!\'\n\nNot more surprised than Tom was, when he looked upon her. Not so much.\nNot half so much.\n\n\'Mr Pinch has left Papa, my dear,\' said Cherry, \'and his prospects are\nquite flourishing. I have promised that Augustus, who is going that way,\nshall escort him to the place he wants. Augustus, my child, where are\nyou?\'\n\nWith these words Miss Pecksniff screamed her way out of the parlour,\ncalling on Augustus Moddle to appear; and left Tom Pinch alone with her\nsister.\n\nIf she had always been his kindest friend; if she had treated him\nthrough all his servitude with such consideration as was never yet\nreceived by struggling man; if she had lightened every moment of those\nmany years, and had ever spared and never wounded him; his honest heart\ncould not have swelled before her with a deeper pity, or a purer freedom\nfrom all base remembrance than it did then.\n\n\'My gracious me! You are really the last person in the world I should\nhave thought of seeing, I am sure!\'\n\nTom was sorry to hear her speaking in her old manner. He had not\nexpected that. Yet he did not feel it a contradiction that he should be\nsorry to see her so unlike her old self, and sorry at the same time\nto hear her speaking in her old manner. The two things seemed quite\nnatural.\n\n\'I wonder you find any gratification in coming to see me. I can\'t think\nwhat put it in your head. I never had much in seeing you. There was no\nlove lost between us, Mr Pinch, at any time, I think.\'\n\nHer bonnet lay beside her on the sofa, and she was very busy with the\nribbons as she spoke. Much too busy to be conscious of the work her\nfingers did.\n\n\'We never quarrelled,\' said Tom.--Tom was right in that, for one person\ncan no more quarrel without an adversary, than one person can play at\nchess, or fight a duel. \'I hoped you would be glad to shake hands with\nan old friend. Don\'t let us rake up bygones,\' said Tom. \'If I ever\noffended you, forgive me.\'\n\nShe looked at him for a moment; dropped her bonnet from her hands;\nspread them before her altered face, and burst into tears.\n\n\'Oh, Mr Pinch!\' she said, \'although I never used you well, I did believe\nyour nature was forgiving. I did not think you could be cruel.\'\n\nShe spoke as little like her old self now, for certain, as Tom\ncould possibly have wished. But she seemed to be appealing to him\nreproachfully, and he did not understand her.\n\n\'I seldom showed it--never--I know that. But I had that belief in you,\nthat if I had been asked to name the person in the world least likely to\nretort upon me, I would have named you, confidently.\'\n\n\'Would have named me!\' Tom repeated.\n\n\'Yes,\' she said with energy, \'and I have often thought so.\'\n\nAfter a moment\'s reflection, Tom sat himself upon a chair beside her.\n\n\'Do you believe,\' said Tom, \'oh, can you think, that what I said just\nnow, I said with any but the true and plain intention which my words\nprofessed? I mean it, in the spirit and the letter. If I ever offended\nyou, forgive me; I may have done so, many times. You never injured or\noffended me. How, then, could I possibly retort, if even I were stern\nand bad enough to wish to do it!\'\n\nAfter a little while she thanked him, through her tears and sobs, and\ntold him she had never been at once so sorry and so comforted, since she\nleft home. Still she wept bitterly; and it was the greater pain to Tom\nto see her weeping, from her standing in especial need, just then, of\nsympathy and tenderness.\n\n\'Come, come!\' said Tom, \'you used to be as cheerful as the day was\nlong.\'\n\n\'Ah! used!\' she cried, in such a tone as rent Tom\'s heart.\n\n\'And will be again,\' said Tom.\n\n\'No, never more. No, never, never more. If you should talk with old Mr\nChuzzlewit, at any time,\' she added, looking hurriedly into his face--\'I\nsometimes thought he liked you, but suppressed it--will you promise me\nto tell him that you saw me here, and that I said I bore in mind the\ntime we talked together in the churchyard?\'\n\nTom promised that he would.\n\n\'Many times since then, when I have wished I had been carried there\nbefore that day, I have recalled his words. I wish that he should know\nhow true they were, although the least acknowledgment to that effect has\nnever passed my lips and never will.\'\n\nTom promised this, conditionally too. He did not tell her how improbable\nit was that he and the old man would ever meet again, because he thought\nit might disturb her more.\n\n\'If he should ever know this, through your means, dear Mr Pinch,\' said\nMercy, \'tell him that I sent the message, not for myself, but that he\nmight be more forbearing and more patient, and more trustful to some\nother person, in some other time of need. Tell him that if he could know\nhow my heart trembled in the balance that day, and what a very little\nwould have turned the scale, his own would bleed with pity for me.\'\n\n\'Yes, yes,\' said Tom, \'I will.\'\n\n\'When I appeared to him the most unworthy of his help, I was--I know I\nwas, for I have often, often, thought about it since--the most inclined\nto yield to what he showed me. Oh! if he had relented but a little more;\nif he had thrown himself in my way for but one other quarter of an hour;\nif he had extended his compassion for a vain, unthinking, miserable\ngirl, in but the least degree; he might, and I believe he would, have\nsaved her! Tell him that I don\'t blame him, but am grateful for the\neffort that he made; but ask him for the love of God, and youth, and\nin merciful consideration for the struggle which an ill-advised and\nunwakened nature makes to hide the strength it thinks its weakness--ask\nhim never, never, to forget this, when he deals with one again!\'\n\nAlthough Tom did not hold the clue to her full meaning, he could guess\nit pretty nearly. Touched to the quick, he took her hand and said, or\nmeant to say, some words of consolation. She felt and understood them,\nwhether they were spoken or no. He was not quite certain, afterwards,\nbut that she had tried to kneel down at his feet, and bless him.\n\nHe found that he was not alone in the room when she had left it. Mrs\nTodgers was there, shaking her head. Tom had never seen Mrs Todgers, it\nis needless to say, but he had a perception of her being the lady of the\nhouse; and he saw some genuine compassion in her eyes, that won his good\nopinion.\n\n\'Ah, sir! You are an old friend, I see,\' said Mrs Todgers.\n\n\'Yes,\' said Tom.\n\n\'And yet,\' quoth Mrs Todgers, shutting the door softly, \'she hasn\'t told\nyou what her troubles are, I\'m certain.\'\n\nTom was struck by these words, for they were quite true. \'Indeed,\' he\nsaid, \'she has not.\'\n\n\'And never would,\' said Mrs Todgers, \'if you saw her daily. She never\nmakes the least complaint to me, or utters a single word of explanation\nor reproach. But I know,\' said Mrs Todgers, drawing in her breath, \'I\nknow!\'\n\nTom nodded sorrowfully, \'So do I.\'\n\n\'I fully believe,\' said Mrs Todgers, taking her pocket-handkerchief\nfrom the flat reticule, \'that nobody can tell one half of what that poor\nyoung creature has to undergo. But though she comes here, constantly,\nto ease her poor full heart without his knowing it; and saying, \"Mrs\nTodgers, I am very low to-day; I think that I shall soon be dead,\" sits\ncrying in my room until the fit is past; I know no more from her. And,\nI believe,\' said Mrs Todgers, putting back her handkerchief again, \'that\nshe considers me a good friend too.\'\n\nMrs Todgers might have said her best friend. Commercial gentlemen and\ngravy had tried Mrs Todgers\'s temper; the main chance--it was such a\nvery small one in her case, that she might have been excused for looking\nsharp after it, lest it should entirely vanish from her sight--had taken\na firm hold on Mrs Todgers\'s attention. But in some odd nook in Mrs\nTodgers\'s breast, up a great many steps, and in a corner easy to be\noverlooked, there was a secret door, with \'Woman\' written on the spring,\nwhich, at a touch from Mercy\'s hand, had flown wide open, and admitted\nher for shelter.\n\nWhen boarding-house accounts are balanced with all other ledgers, and\nthe books of the Recording Angel are made up for ever, perhaps there may\nbe seen an entry to thy credit, lean Mrs Todgers, which shall make thee\nbeautiful!\n\nShe was growing beautiful so rapidly in Tom\'s eyes; for he saw that she\nwas poor, and that this good had sprung up in her from among the sordid\nstrivings of her life; that she might have been a very Venus in a minute\nmore, if Miss Pecksniff had not entered with her friend.\n\n\'Mr Thomas Pinch!\' said Charity, performing the ceremony of introduction\nwith evident pride. \'Mr Moddle. Where\'s my sister?\'\n\n\'Gone, Miss Pecksniff,\' Mrs Todgers answered. \'She had appointed to be\nhome.\'\n\n\'Ah!\' said Charity, looking at Tom. \'Oh, dear me!\'\n\n\'She\'s greatly altered since she\'s been Anoth--since she\'s been married,\nMrs Todgers!\' observed Moddle.\n\n\'My dear Augustus!\' said Miss Pecksniff, in a low voice. \'I verily\nbelieve you have said that fifty thousand times, in my hearing. What a\nProse you are!\'\n\nThis was succeeded by some trifling love passages, which appeared to\noriginate with, if not to be wholly carried on by Miss Pecksniff. At any\nrate, Mr Moddle was much slower in his responses than is customary\nwith young lovers, and exhibited a lowness of spirits which was quite\noppressive.\n\nHe did not improve at all when Tom and he were in the streets, but\nsighed so dismally that it was dreadful to hear him. As a means of\ncheering him up, Tom told him that he wished him joy.\n\n\'Joy!\' cried Moddle. \'Ha, ha!\'\n\n\'What an extraordinary young man!\' thought Tom.\n\n\'The Scorner has not set his seal upon you. YOU care what becomes of\nyou?\' said Moddle.\n\nTom admitted that it was a subject in which he certainly felt some\ninterest.\n\n\'I don\'t,\' said Mr Moddle. \'The Elements may have me when they please.\nI\'m ready.\'\n\nTom inferred from these, and other expressions of the same nature, that\nhe was jealous. Therefore he allowed him to take his own course; which\nwas such a gloomy one, that he felt a load removed from his mind when\nthey parted company at the gate of Furnival\'s Inn.\n\nIt was now a couple of hours past John Westlock\'s dinner-time; and he\nwas walking up and down the room, quite anxious for Tom\'s safety. The\ntable was spread; the wine was carefully decanted; and the dinner smelt\ndelicious.\n\n\'Why, Tom, old boy, where on earth have you been? Your box is here. Get\nyour boots off instantly, and sit down!\'\n\n\'I am sorry to say I can\'t stay, John,\' replied Tom Pinch, who was\nbreathless with the haste he had made in running up the stairs.\n\n\'Can\'t stay!\'\n\n\'If you\'ll go on with your dinner,\' said Tom, \'I\'ll tell you my reason\nthe while. I mustn\'t eat myself, or I shall have no appetite for the\nchops.\'\n\n\'There are no chops here, my food fellow.\'\n\n\'No. But there are at Islington,\' said Tom.\n\nJohn Westlock was perfectly confounded by this reply, and vowed he would\nnot touch a morsel until Tom had explained himself fully. So Tom sat\ndown, and told him all; to which he listened with the greatest interest.\n\nHe knew Tom too well, and respected his delicacy too much, to ask him\nwhy he had taken these measures without communicating with him first. He\nquite concurred in the expediency of Tom\'s immediately returning to his\nsister, as he knew so little of the place in which he had left her, and\ngood-humouredly proposed to ride back with him in a cab, in which he\nmight convey his box. Tom\'s proposition that he should sup with them\nthat night, he flatly rejected, but made an appointment with him for the\nmorrow. \'And now Tom,\' he said, as they rode along, \'I have a question\nto ask you to which I expect a manly and straightforward answer. Do you\nwant any money? I am pretty sure you do.\'\n\n\'I don\'t indeed,\' said Tom.\n\n\'I believe you are deceiving me.\'\n\n\'No. With many thanks to you, I am quite in earnest,\' Tom replied. \'My\nsister has some money, and so have I. If I had nothing else, John, I\nhave a five-pound note, which that good creature, Mrs Lupin, of the\nDragon, handed up to me outside the coach, in a letter begging me to\nborrow it; and then drove off as hard as she could go.\'\n\n\'And a blessing on every dimple in her handsome face, say I!\' cried\nJohn, \'though why you should give her the preference over me, I don\'t\nknow. Never mind. I bide my time, Tom.\'\n\n\'And I hope you\'ll continue to bide it,\' returned Tom, gayly. \'For I\nowe you more, already, in a hundred other ways, than I can ever hope to\npay.\'\n\nThey parted at the door of Tom\'s new residence. John Westlock, sitting\nin the cab, and, catching a glimpse of a blooming little busy creature\ndarting out to kiss Tom and to help him with his box, would not have had\nthe least objection to change places with him.\n\nWell! she WAS a cheerful little thing; and had a quaint, bright\nquietness about her that was infinitely pleasant. Surely she was the\nbest sauce for chops ever invented. The potatoes seemed to take a\npleasure in sending up their grateful steam before her; the froth upon\nthe pint of porter pouted to attract her notice. But it was all in vain.\nShe saw nothing but Tom. Tom was the first and last thing in the world.\n\nAs she sat opposite to Tom at supper, fingering one of Tom\'s pet tunes\nupon the table-cloth, and smiling in his face, he had never been so\nhappy in his life.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT\n\nSECRET SERVICE\n\n\nIn walking from the city with his sentimental friend, Tom Pinch had\nlooked into the face, and brushed against the threadbare sleeve, of Mr\nNadgett, man of mystery to the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and\nLife Assurance Company. Mr Nadgett naturally passed away from Tom\'s\nremembrance as he passed out of his view; for he didn\'t know him, and\nhad never heard his name.\n\nAs there are a vast number of people in the huge metropolis of England\nwho rise up every morning not knowing where their heads will rest at\nnight, so there are a multitude who shooting arrows over houses as their\ndaily business, never know on whom they fall. Mr Nadgett might have\npassed Tom Pinch ten thousand times; might even have been quite familiar\nwith his face, his name, pursuits, and character; yet never once have\ndreamed that Tom had any interest in any act or mystery of his. Tom\nmight have done the like by him of course. But the same private man out\nof all the men alive, was in the mind of each at the same moment; was\nprominently connected though in a different manner, with the day\'s\nadventures of both; and formed, when they passed each other in the\nstreet, the one absorbing topic of their thoughts.\n\nWhy Tom had Jonas Chuzzlewit in his mind requires no explanation. Why Mr\nNadgett should have had Jonas Chuzzlewit in his, is quite another thing.\n\nBut, somehow or other, that amiable and worthy orphan had become a part\nof the mystery of Mr Nadgett\'s existence. Mr Nadgett took an interest\nin his lightest proceedings; and it never flagged or wavered. He watched\nhim in and out of the Assurance Office, where he was now formally\ninstalled as a Director; he dogged his footsteps in the streets; he\nstood listening when he talked; he sat in coffee-rooms entering his\nname in the great pocket-book, over and over again; he wrote letters to\nhimself about him constantly; and, when he found them in his pocket, put\nthem in the fire, with such distrust and caution that he would bend down\nto watch the crumpled tinder while it floated upwards, as if his mind\nmisgave him, that the mystery it had contained might come out at the\nchimney-pot.\n\nAnd yet all this was quite a secret. Mr Nadgett kept it to himself, and\nkept it close. Jonas had no more idea that Mr Nadgett\'s eyes were fixed\non him, than he had that he was living under the daily inspection and\nreport of a whole order of Jesuits. Indeed Mr Nadgett\'s eyes were seldom\nfixed on any other objects than the ground, the clock, or the fire; but\nevery button on his coat might have been an eye, he saw so much.\n\nThe secret manner of the man disarmed suspicion in this wise;\nsuggesting, not that he was watching any one, but that he thought\nsome other man was watching him. He went about so stealthily, and kept\nhimself so wrapped up in himself, that the whole object of his life\nappeared to be, to avoid notice and preserve his own mystery. Jonas\nsometimes saw him in the street, hovering in the outer office, waiting\nat the door for the man who never came, or slinking off with his\nimmovable face and drooping head, and the one beaver glove dangling\nbefore him; but he would as soon have thought of the cross upon the top\nof St. Paul\'s Cathedral taking note of what he did, or slowly winding\na great net about his feet, as of Nadgett\'s being engaged in such an\noccupation.\n\nMr Nadgett made a mysterious change about this time in his mysterious\nlife: for whereas he had, until now, been first seen every morning\ncoming down Cornhill, so exactly like the Nadgett of the day before\nas to occasion a popular belief that he never went to bed or took his\nclothes off, he was now first seen in Holborn, coming out of Kingsgate\nStreet; and it was soon discovered that he actually went every morning\nto a barber\'s shop in that street to get shaved; and that the barber\'s\nname was Sweedlepipe. He seemed to make appointments with the man who\nnever came, to meet him at this barber\'s; for he would frequently take\nlong spells of waiting in the shop, and would ask for pen and ink, and\npull out his pocket-book, and be very busy over it for an hour at a\ntime. Mrs Gamp and Mr Sweedlepipe had many deep discoursings on the\nsubject of this mysterious customer; but they usually agreed that he had\nspeculated too much and was keeping out of the way.\n\nHe must have appointed the man who never kept his word, to meet him at\nanother new place too; for one day he was found, for the first time,\nby the waiter at the Mourning Coach-Horse, the House-of-call for\nUndertakers, down in the City there, making figures with a pipe-stem in\nthe sawdust of a clean spittoon; and declining to call for anything, on\nthe ground of expecting a gentleman presently. As the gentleman was not\nhonourable enough to keep his engagement, he came again next day, with\nhis pocket-book in such a state of distention that he was regarded in\nthe bar as a man of large property. After that, he repeated his visits\nevery day, and had so much writing to do, that he made nothing of\nemptying a capacious leaden inkstand in two sittings. Although he never\ntalked much, still, by being there among the regular customers, he made\ntheir acquaintance, and in course of time became quite intimate with Mr\nTacker, Mr Mould\'s foreman; and even with Mr Mould himself, who openly\nsaid he was a long-headed man, a dry one, a salt fish, a deep file, a\nrasper; and made him the subject of many other flattering encomiums.\n\nAt the same time, too, he told the people at the Assurance Office, in\nhis own mysterious way, that there was something wrong (secretly wrong,\nof course) in his liver, and that he feared he must put himself\nunder the doctor\'s hands. He was delivered over to Jobling upon this\nrepresentation; and though Jobling could not find out where his liver\nwas wrong, wrong Mr Nadgett said it was; observing that it was his\nown liver, and he hoped he ought to know. Accordingly, he became Mr\nJobling\'s patient; and detailing his symptoms in his slow and secret\nway, was in and out of that gentleman\'s room a dozen times a day.\n\nAs he pursued all these occupations at once; and all steadily; and all\nsecretly; and never slackened in his watchfulness of everything that\nMr Jonas said and did, and left unsaid and undone; it is not improbable\nthat they were, secretly, essential parts of some great scheme which Mr\nNadgett had on foot.\n\nIt was on the morning of this very day on which so much had happened to\nTom Pinch, that Nadgett suddenly appeared before Mr Montague\'s house in\nPall Mall--he always made his appearance as if he had that moment come\nup a trap--when the clocks were striking nine. He rang the bell in a\ncovert under-handed way, as though it were a treasonable act; and passed\nin at the door, the moment it was opened wide enough to receive his\nbody. That done, he shut it immediately with his own hands.\n\nMr Bailey, taking up his name without delay, returned with a request\nthat he would follow him into his master\'s chamber. The chairman of the\nAnglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Board was dressing,\nand received him as a business person who was often backwards and\nforwards, and was received at all times for his business\' sake.\n\n\'Well, Mr Nadgett?\'\n\nMr Nadgett put his hat upon the ground and coughed. The boy having\nwithdrawn and shut the door, he went to it softly, examined the handle,\nand returned to within a pace or two of the chair in which Mr Montague\nsat.\n\n\'Any news, Mr Nadgett?\'\n\n\'I think we have some news at last, sir.\'\n\n\'I am happy to hear it. I began to fear you were off the scent, Mr\nNadgett.\'\n\n\'No, sir. It grows cold occasionally. It will sometimes. We can\'t help\nthat.\'\n\n\'You are truth itself, Mr Nadgett. Do you report a great success?\'\n\n\'That depends upon your judgment and construction of it,\' was his\nanswer, as he put on his spectacles.\n\n\'What do you think of it yourself? Have you pleased yourself?\'\n\nMr Nadgett rubbed his hands slowly, stroked his chin, looked round the\nroom, and said, \'Yes, yes, I think it\'s a good case. I am disposed to\nthink it\'s a good case. Will you go into it at once?\'\n\n\'By all means.\'\n\nMr Nadgett picked out a certain chair from among the rest, and having\nplanted it in a particular spot, as carefully as if he had been going to\nvault over it, placed another chair in front of it; leaving room for his\nown legs between them. He then sat down in chair number two, and laid\nhis pocket-book, very carefully, on chair number one. He then untied the\npocket-book, and hung the string over the back of chair number one. He\nthen drew both the chairs a little nearer Mr Montague, and opening\nthe pocket-book spread out its contents. Finally he selected a certain\nmemorandum from the rest, and held it out to his employer, who, during\nthe whole of these preliminary ceremonies, had been making violent\nefforts to conceal his impatience.\n\n\'I wish you wouldn\'t be so fond of making notes, my excellent friend,\'\nsaid Tigg Montague with a ghastly smile. \'I wish you would consent to\ngive me their purport by word of mouth.\'\n\n\'I don\'t like word of mouth,\' said Mr Nadgett gravely. \'We never know\nwho\'s listening.\'\n\nMr Montague was going to retort, when Nadgett handed him the paper, and\nsaid, with quiet exultation in his tone, \'We\'ll begin at the beginning,\nand take that one first, if you please, sir.\'\n\nThe chairman cast his eyes upon it, coldly, and with a smile which did\nnot render any great homage to the slow and methodical habits of his\nspy. But he had not read half-a-dozen lines when the expression of his\nface began to change, and before he had finished the perusal of the\npaper, it was full of grave and serious attention.\n\n\'Number Two,\' said Mr Nadgett, handing him another, and receiving back\nthe first. \'Read Number Two, sir, if you please. There is more interest\nas you go on.\'\n\nTigg Montague leaned backward in his chair, and cast upon his emissary\nsuch a look of vacant wonder (not unmingled with alarm), that Mr Nadgett\nconsidered it necessary to repeat the request he had already twice\npreferred; with the view to recalling his attention to the point in\nhand. Profiting by the hint, Mr Montague went on with Number Two, and\nafterwards with Numbers Three, and Four, and Five, and so on.\n\nThese documents were all in Mr Nadgett\'s writing, and were apparently a\nseries of memoranda, jotted down from time to time upon the backs of old\nletters, or any scrap of paper that came first to hand. Loose straggling\nscrawls they were, and of very uninviting exterior; but they had weighty\npurpose in them, if the chairman\'s face were any index to the character\nof their contents.\n\nThe progress of Mr Nadgett\'s secret satisfaction arising out of the\neffect they made, kept pace with the emotions of the reader. At first,\nMr Nadgett sat with his spectacles low down upon his nose, looking over\nthem at his employer, and nervously rubbing his hands. After a little\nwhile, he changed his posture in his chair for one of greater ease, and\nleisurely perused the next document he held ready as if an occasional\nglance at his employer\'s face were now enough and all occasion for\nanxiety or doubt were gone. And finally he rose and looked out of the\nwindow, where he stood with a triumphant air until Tigg Montague had\nfinished.\n\n\'And this is the last, Mr Nadgett!\' said that gentleman, drawing a long\nbreath.\n\n\'That, sir, is the last.\'\n\n\'You are a wonderful man, Mr Nadgett!\'\n\n\'I think it is a pretty good case,\' he returned as he gathered up his\npapers. \'It cost some trouble, sir.\'\n\n\'The trouble shall be well rewarded, Mr Nadgett.\' Nadgett bowed. \'There\nis a deeper impression of Somebody\'s Hoof here, than I had expected, Mr\nNadgett. I may congratulate myself upon your being such a good hand at a\nsecret.\'\n\n\'Oh! nothing has an interest to me that\'s not a secret,\' replied\nNadgett, as he tied the string about his pocket-book, and put it up. \'It\nalways takes away any pleasure I may have had in this inquiry even to\nmake it known to you.\'\n\n\'A most invaluable constitution,\' Tigg retorted. \'A great gift for a\ngentleman employed as you are, Mr Nadgett. Much better than discretion;\nthough you possess that quality also in an eminent degree. I think I\nheard a double knock. Will you put your head out of window, and tell me\nwhether there is anybody at the door?\'\n\nMr Nadgett softly raised the sash, and peered out from the very corner,\nas a man might who was looking down into a street from whence a brisk\ndischarge of musketry might be expected at any moment. Drawing in his\nhead with equal caution, he observed, not altering his voice or manner:\n\n\'Mr Jonas Chuzzlewit!\'\n\n\'I thought so,\' Tigg retorted.\n\n\'Shall I go?\'\n\n\'I think you had better. Stay though! No! remain here, Mr Nadgett, if\nyou please.\'\n\nIt was remarkable how pale and flurried he had become in an instant.\nThere was nothing to account for it. His eye had fallen on his razors;\nbut what of them!\n\nMr Chuzzlewit was announced.\n\n\'Show him up directly. Nadgett! don\'t you leave us alone together. Mind\nyou don\'t, now! By the Lord!\' he added in a whisper to himself: \'We\ndon\'t know what may happen.\'\n\nSaying this, he hurriedly took up a couple of hair-brushes, and began\nto exercise them on his own head, as if his toilet had not been\ninterrupted. Mr Nadgett withdrew to the stove, in which there was a\nsmall fire for the convenience of heating curling-irons; and\ntaking advantage of so favourable an opportunity for drying his\npocket-handkerchief, produced it without loss of time. There he stood,\nduring the whole interview, holding it before the bars, and sometimes,\nbut not often, glancing over his shoulder.\n\n\'My dear Chuzzlewit!\' cried Montague, as Jonas entered. \'You rise with\nthe lark. Though you go to bed with the nightingale, you rise with the\nlark. You have superhuman energy, my dear Chuzzlewit!\'\n\n\'Ecod!\' said Jonas, with an air of langour and ill-humour, as he took\na chair, \'I should be very glad not to get up with the lark, if I could\nhelp it. But I am a light sleeper; and it\'s better to be up than lying\nawake, counting the dismal old church-clocks, in bed.\'\n\n\'A light sleeper!\' cried his friend. \'Now, what is a light sleeper?\nI often hear the expression, but upon my life I have not the least\nconception what a light sleeper is.\'\n\n\'Hallo!\' said Jonas, \'Who\'s that? Oh, old what\'s-his-name: looking (as\nusual) as if he wanted to skulk up the chimney.\'\n\n\'Ha, ha! I have no doubt he does.\'\n\n\'Well! He\'s not wanted here, I suppose,\' said Jonas. \'He may go, mayn\'t\nhe?\'\n\n\'Oh, let him stay, let him stay!\' said Tigg. \'He\'s a mere piece of\nfurniture. He has been making his report, and is waiting for further\norders. He has been told,\' said Tigg, raising his voice, \'not to lose\nsight of certain friends of ours, or to think that he has done with them\nby any means. He understands his business.\'\n\n\'He need,\' replied Jonas; \'for of all the precious old dummies in\nappearance that I ever saw, he\'s about the worst. He\'s afraid of me, I\nthink.\'\n\n\'It\'s my belief,\' said Tigg, \'that you are Poison to him. Nadgett! give\nme that towel!\'\n\nHe had as little occasion for a towel as Jonas had for a start. But\nNadgett brought it quickly; and, having lingered for a moment, fell back\nupon his old post by the fire.\n\n\'You see, my dear fellow,\' resumed Tigg, \'you are too--what\'s the matter\nwith your lips? How white they are!\'\n\n\'I took some vinegar just now,\' said Jonas. \'I had oysters for my\nbreakfast. Where are they white?\' he added, muttering an oath, and\nrubbing them upon his handkerchief. \'I don\'t believe they ARE white.\'\n\n\'Now I look again, they are not,\' replied his friend. \'They are coming\nright again.\'\n\n\'Say what you were going to say,\' cried Jonas angrily, \'and let my face\nbe! As long as I can show my teeth when I want to (and I can do that\npretty well), the colour of my lips is not material.\'\n\n\'Quite true,\' said Tigg. \'I was only going to say that you are too quick\nand active for our friend. He is too shy to cope with such a man as you,\nbut does his duty well. Oh, very well! But what is a light sleeper?\'\n\n\'Hang a light sleeper!\' exclaimed Jonas pettishly.\n\n\'No, no,\' interrupted Tigg. \'No. We\'ll not do that.\'\n\n\'A light sleeper ain\'t a heavy one,\' said Jonas in his sulky way; \'don\'t\nsleep much, and don\'t sleep well, and don\'t sleep sound.\'\n\n\'And dreams,\' said Tigg, \'and cries out in an ugly manner; and when the\ncandle burns down in the night, is in an agony; and all that sort of\nthing. I see!\'\n\nThey were silent for a little time. Then Jonas spoke:\n\n\'Now we\'ve done with child\'s talk, I want to have a word with you. I\nwant to have a word with you before we meet up yonder to-day. I am not\nsatisfied with the state of affairs.\'\n\n\'Not satisfied!\' cried Tigg. \'The money comes in well.\'\n\n\'The money comes in well enough,\' retorted Jonas, \'but it don\'t come\nout well enough. It can\'t be got at easily enough. I haven\'t sufficient\npower; it is all in your hands. Ecod! what with one of your by-laws, and\nanother of your by-laws, and your votes in this capacity, and your votes\nin that capacity, and your official rights, and your individual rights,\nand other people\'s rights who are only you again, there are no rights\nleft for me. Everybody else\'s rights are my wrongs. What\'s the use of my\nhaving a voice if it\'s always drowned? I might as well be dumb, and\nit would be much less aggravating. I\'m not a-going to stand that, you\nknow.\'\n\n\'No!\' said Tigg in an insinuating tone.\n\n\'No!\' returned Jonas, \'I\'m not indeed. I\'ll play old Gooseberry with the\noffice, and make you glad to buy me out at a good high figure, if you\ntry any of your tricks with me.\'\n\n\'I give you my honour--\' Montague began.\n\n\'Oh! confound your honour,\' interrupted Jonas, who became more coarse\nand quarrelsome as the other remonstrated, which may have been a part of\nMr Montague\'s intention; \'I want a little more control over the money.\nYou may have all the honour, if you like; I\'ll never bring you to book\nfor that. But I\'m not a-going to stand it, as it is now. If you should\ntake it into your honourable head to go abroad with the bank, I don\'t\nsee much to prevent you. Well! That won\'t do. I\'ve had some very good\ndinners here, but they\'d come too dear on such terms; and therefore,\nthat won\'t do.\'\n\n\'I am unfortunate to find you in this humour,\' said Tigg, with a\nremarkable kind of smile; \'for I was going to propose to you--for your\nown advantage; solely for your own advantage--that you should venture a\nlittle more with us.\'\n\n\'Was you, by G--?\' said Jonas, with a short laugh.\n\n\'Yes. And to suggest,\' pursued Montague, \'that surely you have friends;\nindeed, I know you have; who would answer our purpose admirably, and\nwhom we should be delighted to receive.\'\n\n\'How kind of you! You\'d be delighted to receive \'em, would you?\' said\nJonas, bantering.\n\n\'I give you my sacred honour, quite transported. As your friends,\nobserve!\'\n\n\'Exactly,\' said Jonas; \'as my friends, of course. You\'ll be very much\ndelighted when you get \'em, I have no doubt. And it\'ll be all to my\nadvantage, won\'t it?\'\n\n\'It will be very much to your advantage,\' answered Montague poising a\nbrush in each hand, and looking steadily upon him. \'It will be very much\nto your advantage, I assure you.\'\n\n\'And you can tell me how,\' said Jonas, \'can\'t you?\'\n\n\'SHALL I tell you how?\' returned the other.\n\n\'I think you had better,\' said Jonas. \'Strange things have been done\nin the Assurance way before now, by strange sorts of men, and I mean to\ntake care of myself.\'\n\n\'Chuzzlewit!\' replied Montague, leaning forward, with his arms upon his\nknees, and looking full into his face. \'Strange things have been done,\nand are done every day; not only in our way, but in a variety of other\nways; and no one suspects them. But ours, as you say, my good friend,\nis a strange way; and we strangely happen, sometimes, to come into the\nknowledge of very strange events.\'\n\nHe beckoned to Jonas to bring his chair nearer; and looking slightly\nround, as if to remind him of the presence of Nadgett, whispered in his\near.\n\nFrom red to white; from white to red again; from red to yellow; then to\na cold, dull, awful, sweat-bedabbled blue. In that short whisper, all\nthese changes fell upon the face of Jonas Chuzzlewit; and when at last\nhe laid his hand upon the whisperer\'s mouth, appalled, lest any syllable\nof what he said should reach the ears of the third person present, it\nwas as bloodless and as heavy as the hand of Death.\n\nHe drew his chair away, and sat a spectacle of terror, misery, and\nrage. He was afraid to speak, or look, or move, or sit still. Abject,\ncrouching, and miserable, he was a greater degradation to the form he\nbore, than if he had been a loathsome wound from head to heel.\n\nHis companion leisurely resumed his dressing, and completed it, glancing\nsometimes with a smile at the transformation he had effected, but never\nspeaking once.\n\n\'You\'ll not object,\' he said, when he was quite equipped, \'to venture\nfurther with us, Chuzzlewit, my friend?\'\n\nHis pale lips faintly stammered out a \'No.\'\n\n\'Well said! That\'s like yourself. Do you know I was thinking yesterday\nthat your father-in-law, relying on your advice as a man of great\nsagacity in money matters, as no doubt you are, would join us, if the\nthing were well presented to him. He has money?\'\n\n\'Yes, he has money.\'\n\n\'Shall I leave Mr Pecksniff to you? Will you undertake for Mr\nPecksniff.\'\n\n\'I\'ll try. I\'ll do my best.\'\n\n\'A thousand thanks,\' replied the other, clapping him upon the shoulder.\n\'Shall we walk downstairs? Mr Nadgett! Follow us, if you please.\'\n\nThey went down in that order. Whatever Jonas felt in reference to\nMontague; whatever sense he had of being caged, and barred, and trapped,\nand having fallen down into a pit of deepest ruin; whatever thoughts\ncame crowding on his mind even at that early time, of one terrible\nchance of escape, of one red glimmer in a sky of blackness; he no more\nthought that the slinking figure half-a-dozen stairs behind him was\nhis pursuing Fate, than that the other figure at his side was his Good\nAngel.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-NINE\n\nCONTAINING SOME FURTHER PARTICULARS OF THE DOMESTIC ECONOMY OF THE\nPINCHES; WITH STRANGE NEWS FROM THE CITY, NARROWLY CONCERNING TOM\n\n\nPleasant little Ruth! Cheerful, tidy, bustling, quiet little Ruth! No\ndoll\'s house ever yielded greater delight to its young mistress, than\nlittle Ruth derived from her glorious dominion over the triangular\nparlour and the two small bedrooms.\n\nTo be Tom\'s housekeeper. What dignity! Housekeeping, upon the commonest\nterms, associated itself with elevated responsibilities of all sorts and\nkinds; but housekeeping for Tom implied the utmost complication of\ngrave trusts and mighty charges. Well might she take the keys out of\nthe little chiffonier which held the tea and sugar; and out of the\ntwo little damp cupboards down by the fireplace, where the very black\nbeetles got mouldy, and had the shine taken out of their backs by\nenvious mildew; and jingle them upon a ring before Tom\'s eyes when he\ncame down to breakfast! Well might she, laughing musically, put them\nup in that blessed little pocket of hers with a merry pride! For it was\nsuch a grand novelty to be mistress of anything, that if she had been\nthe most relentless and despotic of all little housekeepers, she might\nhave pleaded just that much for her excuse, and have been honourably\nacquitted.\n\nSo far from being despotic, however, there was a coyness about her very\nway of pouring out the tea, which Tom quite revelled in. And when\nshe asked him what he would like to have for dinner, and faltered\nout \'chops\' as a reasonably good suggestion after their last\nnight\'s successful supper, Tom grew quite facetious, and rallied her\ndesperately.\n\n\'I don\'t know, Tom,\' said his sister, blushing, \'I am not quite\nconfident, but I think I could make a beef-steak pudding, if I tried,\nTom.\'\n\n\'In the whole catalogue of cookery, there is nothing I should like so\nmuch as a beef-steak pudding!\' cried Tom, slapping his leg to give the\ngreater force to this reply.\n\n\'Yes, dear, that\'s excellent! But if it should happen not to come quite\nright the first time,\' his sister faltered; \'if it should happen not\nto be a pudding exactly, but should turn out a stew, or a soup, or\nsomething of that sort, you\'ll not be vexed, Tom, will you?\'\n\nThe serious way in which she looked at Tom; the way in which Tom looked\nat her; and the way in which she gradually broke into a merry laugh at\nher own expense, would have enchanted you.\n\n\'Why,\' said Tom \'this is capital. It gives us a new, and quite an\nuncommon interest in the dinner. We put into a lottery for a beefsteak\npudding, and it is impossible to say what we may get. We may make some\nwonderful discovery, perhaps, and produce such a dish as never was known\nbefore.\'\n\n\'I shall not be at all surprised if we do, Tom,\' returned his sister,\nstill laughing merrily, \'or if it should prove to be such a dish as we\nshall not feel very anxious to produce again; but the meat must come out\nof the saucepan at last, somehow or other, you know. We can\'t cook it\ninto nothing at all; that\'s a great comfort. So if you like to venture,\nI will.\'\n\n\'I have not the least doubt,\' rejoined Tom, \'that it will come out an\nexcellent pudding, or at all events, I am sure that I shall think it so.\nThere is naturally something so handy and brisk about you, Ruth, that\nif you said you could make a bowl of faultless turtle soup, I should\nbelieve you.\'\n\nAnd Tom was right. She was precisely that sort of person. Nobody ought\nto have been able to resist her coaxing manner; and nobody had any\nbusiness to try. Yet she never seemed to know it was her manner at all.\nThat was the best of it.\n\nWell! she washed up the breakfast cups, chatting away the whole time,\nand telling Tom all sorts of anecdotes about the brass-and-copper\nfounder; put everything in its place; made the room as neat as\nherself;--you must not suppose its shape was half as neat as hers\nthough, or anything like it--and brushed Tom\'s old hat round and\nround and round again, until it was as sleek as Mr Pecksniff. Then she\ndiscovered, all in a moment, that Tom\'s shirt-collar was frayed at the\nedge; and flying upstairs for a needle and thread, came flying down\nagain with her thimble on, and set it right with wonderful expertness;\nnever once sticking the needle into his face, although she was humming\nhis pet tune from first to last, and beating time with the fingers of\nher left hand upon his neckcloth. She had no sooner done this, than off\nshe was again; and there she stood once more, as brisk and busy as a\nbee, tying that compact little chin of hers into an equally compact\nlittle bonnet; intent on bustling out to the butcher\'s, without a\nminute\'s loss of time; and inviting Tom to come and see the steak cut,\nwith his own eyes. As to Tom, he was ready to go anywhere; so off they\ntrotted, arm-in-arm, as nimbly as you please; saying to each other what\na quiet street it was to lodge in, and how very cheap, and what an airy\nsituation.\n\nTo see the butcher slap the steak, before he laid it on the block, and\ngive his knife a sharpening, was to forget breakfast instantly. It was\nagreeable, too--it really was--to see him cut it off, so smooth and\njuicy. There was nothing savage in the act, although the knife was large\nand keen; it was a piece of art, high art; there was delicacy of touch,\nclearness of tone, skillful handling of the subject, fine shading. It\nwas the triumph of mind over matter; quite.\n\nPerhaps the greenest cabbage-leaf ever grown in a garden was wrapped\nabout this steak, before it was delivered over to Tom. But the butcher\nhad a sentiment for his business, and knew how to refine upon it. When\nhe saw Tom putting the cabbage-leaf into his pocket awkwardly, he begged\nto be allowed to do it for him; \'for meat,\' he said with some emotion,\n\'must be humoured, not drove.\'\n\nBack they went to the lodgings again, after they had bought some eggs,\nand flour, and such small matters; and Tom sat gravely down to write at\none end of the parlour table, while Ruth prepared to make the pudding at\nthe other end; for there was nobody in the house but an old woman (the\nlandlord being a mysterious sort of man, who went out early in the\nmorning, and was scarcely ever seen); and saving in mere household\ndrudgery, they waited on themselves.\n\n\'What are you writing, Tom?\' inquired his sister, laying her hand upon\nhis shoulder.\n\n\'Why, you see, my dear,\' said Tom, leaning back in his chair, and\nlooking up in her face, \'I am very anxious, of course, to obtain some\nsuitable employment; and before Mr Westlock comes this afternoon,\nI think I may as well prepare a little description of myself and my\nqualifications; such as he could show to any friend of his.\'\n\n\'You had better do the same for me, Tom, also,\' said his sister, casting\ndown her eyes. \'I should dearly like to keep house for you and take care\nof you always, Tom; but we are not rich enough for that.\'\n\n\'We are not rich,\' returned Tom, \'certainly; and we may be much poorer.\nBut we will not part if we can help it. No, no; we will make up our\nminds Ruth, that unless we are so very unfortunate as to render me quite\nsure that you would be better off away from me than with me, we will\nbattle it out together. I am certain we shall be happier if we can\nbattle it out together. Don\'t you think we shall?\'\n\n\'Think, Tom!\'\n\n\'Oh, tut, tut!\' interposed Tom, tenderly. \'You mustn\'t cry.\'\n\n\'No, no; I won\'t, Tom. But you can\'t afford it, dear. You can\'t,\nindeed.\'\n\n\'We don\'t know that,\' said Tom. \'How are we to know that, yet awhile,\nand without trying? Lord bless my soul!\'--Tom\'s energy became quite\ngrand--\'there is no knowing what may happen, if we try hard. And I am\nsure we can live contentedly upon a very little--if we can only get it.\'\n\n\'Yes; that I am sure we can, Tom.\'\n\n\'Why, then,\' said Tom, \'we must try for it. My friend, John Westlock, is\na capital fellow, and very shrewd and intelligent. I\'ll take his advice.\nWe\'ll talk it over with him--both of us together. You\'ll like John very\nmuch, when you come to know him, I am certain. Don\'t cry, don\'t cry. YOU\nmake a beef-steak pudding, indeed!\' said Tom, giving her a gentle push.\n\'Why, you haven\'t boldness enough for a dumpling!\'\n\n\'You WILL call it a pudding, Tom. Mind! I told you not!\'\n\n\'I may as well call it that, till it proves to be something else,\' said\nTom. \'Oh, you are going to work in earnest, are you?\'\n\nAye, aye! That she was. And in such pleasant earnest, moreover, that\nTom\'s attention wandered from his writing every moment. First, she\ntripped downstairs into the kitchen for the flour, then for the\npie-board, then for the eggs, then for the butter, then for a jug of\nwater, then for the rolling-pin, then for a pudding-basin, then for the\npepper, then for the salt; making a separate journey for everything, and\nlaughing every time she started off afresh. When all the materials were\ncollected she was horrified to find she had no apron on, and so ran\nUPstairs by way of variety, to fetch it. She didn\'t put it on upstairs,\nbut came dancing down with it in her hand; and being one of those little\nwomen to whom an apron is a most becoming little vanity, it took\nan immense time to arrange; having to be carefully smoothed down\nbeneath--Oh, heaven, what a wicked little stomacher!--and to be gathered\nup into little plaits by the strings before it could be tied, and to\nbe tapped, rebuked, and wheedled, at the pockets, before it would set\nright, which at last it did, and when it did--but never mind; this is\na sober chronicle. And then, there were her cuffs to be tucked up, for\nfear of flour; and she had a little ring to pull off her finger, which\nwouldn\'t come off (foolish little ring!); and during the whole of these\npreparations she looked demurely every now and then at Tom, from under\nher dark eyelashes, as if they were all a part of the pudding, and\nindispensable to its composition.\n\nFor the life and soul of him, Tom could get no further in his\nwriting than, \'A respectable young man, aged thirty-five,\' and this,\nnotwithstanding the show she made of being supernaturally quiet, and\ngoing about on tiptoe, lest she should disturb him; which only served\nas an additional means of distracting his attention, and keeping it upon\nher.\n\n\'Tom,\' she said at last, in high glee. \'Tom!\'\n\n\'What now?\' said Tom, repeating to himself, \'aged thirty-five!\'\n\n\'Will you look here a moment, please?\'\n\nAs if he hadn\'t been looking all the time!\n\n\'I am going to begin, Tom. Don\'t you wonder why I butter the inside of\nthe basin?\' said his busy little sister.\n\n\'Not more than you do, I dare say,\' replied Tom, laughing. \'For I\nbelieve you don\'t know anything about it.\'\n\n\'What an infidel you are, Tom! How else do you think it would turn out\neasily when it was done! For a civil-engineer and land-surveyor not to\nknow that! My goodness, Tom!\'\n\nIt was wholly out of the question to try to write. Tom lined out\n\'respectable young man, aged thirty-five;\' and sat looking on, pen in\nhand, with one of the most loving smiles imaginable.\n\nSuch a busy little woman as she was! So full of self-importance and\ntrying so hard not to smile, or seem uncertain about anything! It was a\nperfect treat to Tom to see her with her brows knit, and her rosy lips\npursed up, kneading away at the crust, rolling it out, cutting it up\ninto strips, lining the basin with it, shaving it off fine round the\nrim, chopping up the steak into small pieces, raining down pepper and\nsalt upon them, packing them into the basin, pouring in cold water for\ngravy, and never venturing to steal a look in his direction, lest her\ngravity should be disturbed; until, at last, the basin being quite full\nand only wanting the top crust, she clapped her hands all covered with\npaste and flour, at Tom, and burst out heartily into such a charming\nlittle laugh of triumph, that the pudding need have had no other\nseasoning to commend it to the taste of any reasonable man on earth.\n\n\'Where\'s the pudding?\' said Tom. For he was cutting his jokes, Tom was.\n\n\'Where!\' she answered, holding it up with both hands. \'Look at it!\'\n\n\'THAT a pudding!\' said Tom.\n\n\'It WILL be, you stupid fellow, when it\'s covered in,\' returned his\nsister. Tom still pretending to look incredulous, she gave him a tap on\nthe head with the rolling-pin, and still laughing merrily, had returned\nto the composition of the top crust, when she started and turned very\nred. Tom started, too, for following her eyes, he saw John Westlock in\nthe room.\n\n\'Why, my goodness, John! How did YOU come in?\'\n\n\'I beg pardon,\' said John--\' your sister\'s pardon especially--but I met\nan old lady at the street door, who requested me to enter here; and as\nyou didn\'t hear me knock, and the door was open, I made bold to do so.\nI hardly know,\' said John, with a smile, \'why any of us should be\ndisconcerted at my having accidentally intruded upon such an agreeable\ndomestic occupation, so very agreeably and skillfully pursued; but I\nmust confess that I am. Tom, will you kindly come to my relief?\'\n\n\'Mr John Westlock,\' said Tom. \'My sister.\'\n\n\'I hope that, as the sister of so old a friend,\' said John, laughing\n\'you will have the goodness to detach your first impressions of me from\nmy unfortunate entrance.\'\n\n\'My sister is not indisposed perhaps to say the same to you on her own\nbehalf,\' retorted Tom.\n\nJohn said, of course, that this was quite unnecessary, for he had been\ntransfixed in silent admiration; and he held out his hand to Miss Pinch;\nwho couldn\'t take it, however, by reason of the flour and paste upon her\nown. This, which might seem calculated to increase the general confusion\nand render matters worse, had in reality the best effect in the\nworld, for neither of them could help laughing; and so they both found\nthemselves on easy terms immediately.\n\n\'I am delighted to see you,\' said Tom. \'Sit down.\'\n\n\'I can only think of sitting down on one condition,\' returned his\nfriend; \'and that is, that your sister goes on with the pudding, as if\nyou were still alone.\'\n\n\'That I am sure she will,\' said Tom. \'On one other condition, and that\nis, that you stay and help us to eat it.\'\n\nPoor little Ruth was seized with a palpitation of the heart when Tom\ncommitted this appalling indiscretion, for she felt that if the dish\nturned out a failure, she never would be able to hold up her head\nbefore John Westlock again. Quite unconscious of her state of mind,\nJohn accepted the invitation with all imaginable heartiness; and after a\nlittle more pleasantry concerning this same pudding, and the tremendous\nexpectations he made believe to entertain of it, she blushingly resumed\nher occupation, and he took a chair.\n\n\'I am here much earlier than I intended, Tom; but I will tell you, what\nbrings me, and I think I can answer for your being glad to hear it. Is\nthat anything you wish to show me?\'\n\n\'Oh dear no!\' cried Tom, who had forgotten the blotted scrap of paper\nin his hand, until this inquiry brought it to his recollection. \'\"A\nrespectable young man, aged thirty-five\"--The beginning of a description\nof myself. That\'s all.\'\n\n\'I don\'t think you will have occasion to finish it, Tom. But how is it\nyou never told me you had friends in London?\'\n\nTom looked at his sister with all his might; and certainly his sister\nlooked with all her might at him.\n\n\'Friends in London!\' echoed Tom.\n\n\'Ah!\' said Westlock, \'to be sure.\'\n\n\'Have YOU any friends in London, Ruth, my dear!\' asked Tom.\n\n\'No, Tom.\'\n\n\'I am very happy to hear that I have,\' said Tom, \'but it\'s news to me. I\nnever knew it. They must be capital people to keep a secret, John.\'\n\n\'You shall judge for yourself,\' returned the other. \'Seriously, Tom,\nhere is the plain state of the case. As I was sitting at breakfast this\nmorning, there comes a knock at my door.\'\n\n\'On which you cried out, very loud, \"Come in!\"\' suggested Tom.\n\n\'So I did. And the person who knocked, not being a respectable young\nman, aged thirty-five, from the country, came in when he was invited,\ninstead of standing gaping and staring about him on the landing. Well!\nWhen he came in, I found he was a stranger; a grave, business-like,\nsedate-looking, stranger. \"Mr Westlock?\" said he. \"That is my name,\"\nsaid I. \"The favour of a few words with you?\" said he. \"Pray be seated,\nsir,\" said I.\'\n\nHere John stopped for an instant, to glance towards the table, where\nTom\'s sister, listening attentively, was still busy with the basin,\nwhich by this time made a noble appearance. Then he resumed:\n\n\'The pudding having taken a chair, Tom--\'\n\n\'What!\' cried Tom.\n\n\'Having taken a chair.\'\n\n\'You said a pudding.\'\n\n\'No, no,\' replied John, colouring rather; \'a chair. The idea of a\nstranger coming into my rooms at half-past eight o\'clock in the morning,\nand taking a pudding! Having taken a chair, Tom, a chair--amazed me by\nopening the conversation thus: \"I believe you are acquainted, sir, with\nMr Thomas Pinch?\"\n\n\'No!\' cried Tom.\n\n\'His very words, I assure you. I told him I was. Did I know where you\nwere at present residing? Yes. In London? Yes. He had casually heard,\nin a roundabout way, that you had left your situation with Mr Pecksniff.\nWas that the fact? Yes, it was. Did you want another? Yes, you did.\'\n\n\'Certainly,\' said Tom, nodding his head.\n\n\'Just what I impressed upon him. You may rest assured that I set that\npoint beyond the possibility of any mistake, and gave him distinctly to\nunderstand that he might make up his mind about it. Very well.\'\n\n\"Then,\" said he, \"I think I can accommodate him.\"\'\n\nTom\'s sister stopped short.\n\n\'Lord bless me!\' cried Tom. \'Ruth, my dear, \"think I can accommodate\nhim.\"\'\n\n\'Of course I begged him,\' pursued John Westlock, glancing at Tom\'s\nsister, who was not less eager in her interest than Tom himself, \'to\nproceed, and said that I would undertake to see you immediately. He\nreplied that he had very little to say, being a man of few words,\nbut such as it was, it was to the purpose--and so, indeed, it turned\nout--for he immediately went on to tell me that a friend of his was in\nwant of a kind of secretary and librarian; and that although the salary\nwas small, being only a hundred pounds a year, with neither board\nnor lodging, still the duties were not heavy, and there the post was.\nVacant, and ready for your acceptance.\'\n\n\'Good gracious me!\' cried Tom; \'a hundred pounds a year! My dear John!\nRuth, my love! A hundred pounds a year!\'\n\n\'But the strangest part of the story,\' resumed John Westlock, laying his\nhand on Tom\'s wrist, to bespeak his attention, and repress his ecstasies\nfor the moment; \'the strangest part of the story, Miss Pinch, is this. I\ndon\'t know this man from Adam; neither does this man know Tom.\'\n\n\'He can\'t,\' said Tom, in great perplexity, \'if he\'s a Londoner. I don\'t\nknow any one in London.\'\n\n\'And on my observing,\' John resumed, still keeping his hand upon Tom\'s\nwrist, \'that I had no doubt he would excuse the freedom I took in\ninquiring who directed him to me; how he came to know of the change\nwhich had taken place in my friend\'s position; and how he came to be\nacquainted with my friend\'s peculiar fitness for such an office as he\nhad described; he drily said that he was not at liberty to enter into\nany explanations.\'\n\n\'Not at liberty to enter into any explanations!\' repeated Tom, drawing a\nlong breath.\n\n\'\"I must be perfectly aware,\" he said,\' John added, \'\"that to any person\nwho had ever been in Mr Pecksniff\'s neighbourhood, Mr Thomas Pinch and\nhis acquirements were as well known as the Church steeple, or the Blue\nDragon.\"\'\n\n\'The Blue Dragon!\' repeated Tom, staring alternately at his friend and\nhis sister.\n\n\'Aye, think of that! He spoke as familiarly of the Blue Dragon, I give\nyou my word, as if he had been Mark Tapley. I opened my eyes, I can\ntell you, when he did so; but I could not fancy I had ever seen the man\nbefore, although he said with a smile, \"You know the Blue Dragon, Mr\nWestlock; you kept it up there, once or twice, yourself.\" Kept it up\nthere! So I did. You remember, Tom?\'\n\nTom nodded with great significance, and, falling into a state of deeper\nperplexity than before, observed that this was the most unaccountable\nand extraordinary circumstance he had ever heard of in his life.\n\n\'Unaccountable?\' his friend repeated. \'I became afraid of the man.\nThough it was broad day, and bright sunshine, I was positively afraid\nof him. I declare I half suspected him to be a supernatural visitor,\nand not a mortal, until he took out a common-place description of\npocket-book, and handed me this card.\'\n\n\'Mr Fips,\' said Tom, reading it aloud. \'Austin Friars. Austin Friars\nsounds ghostly, John.\'\n\n\'Fips don\'t, I think,\' was John\'s reply. \'But there he lives, Tom, and\nthere he expects us to call this morning. And now you know as much of\nthis strange incident as I do, upon my honour.\'\n\nTom\'s face, between his exultation in the hundred pounds a year, and\nhis wonder at this narration, was only to be equalled by the face of his\nsister, on which there sat the very best expression of blooming surprise\nthat any painter could have wished to see. What the beef-steak pudding\nwould have come to, if it had not been by this time finished, astrology\nitself could hardly determine.\n\n\'Tom,\' said Ruth, after a little hesitation, \'perhaps Mr Westlock, in\nhis friendship for you, knows more of this than he chooses to tell.\'\n\n\'No, indeed!\' cried John, eagerly. \'It is not so, I assure you. I wish\nit were. I cannot take credit to myself, Miss Pinch, for any such thing.\nAll that I know, or, so far as I can judge, am likely to know, I have\ntold you.\'\n\n\'Couldn\'t you know more, if you thought proper?\' said Ruth, scraping the\npie-board industriously.\n\n\'No,\' retorted John. \'Indeed, no. It is very ungenerous in you to be so\nsuspicious of me when I repose implicit faith in you. I have unbounded\nconfidence in the pudding, Miss Pinch.\'\n\nShe laughed at this, but they soon got back into a serious vein, and\ndiscussed the subject with profound gravity. Whatever else was obscure\nin the business, it appeared to be quite plain that Tom was offered a\nsalary of one hundred pounds a year; and this being the main point, the\nsurrounding obscurity rather set it off than otherwise.\n\nTom, being in a great flutter, wished to start for Austin Friars\ninstantly, but they waited nearly an hour, by John\'s advice, before they\ndeparted. Tom made himself as spruce as he could before leaving home,\nand when John Westlock, through the half-opened parlour door, had\nglimpses of that brave little sister brushing the collar of his coat in\nthe passage, taking up loose stitches in his gloves and hovering lightly\nabout and about him, touching him up here and there in the height of\nher quaint, little, old-fashioned tidiness, he called to mind the\nfancy-portraits of her on the wall of the Pecksniffian workroom, and\ndecided with uncommon indignation that they were gross libels, and not\nhalf pretty enough; though, as hath been mentioned in its place, the\nartists always made those sketches beautiful, and he had drawn at least\na score of them with his own hands.\n\n\'Tom,\' he said, as they were walking along, \'I begin to think you must\nbe somebody\'s son.\'\n\n\'I suppose I am,\' Tom answered in his quiet way.\n\n\'But I mean somebody\'s of consequence.\'\n\n\'Bless your heart,\' replied Tom, \'my poor father was of no consequence,\nnor my mother either.\'\n\n\'You remember them perfectly, then?\'\n\n\'Remember them? oh dear yes. My poor mother was the last. She died when\nRuth was a mere baby, and then we both became a charge upon the savings\nof that good old grandmother I used to tell you of. You remember! Oh!\nThere\'s nothing romantic in our history, John.\'\n\n\'Very well,\' said John in quiet despair. \'Then there is no way of\naccounting for my visitor of this morning. So we\'ll not try, Tom.\'\n\nThey did try, notwithstanding, and never left off trying until they\ngot to Austin Friars, where, in a very dark passage on the first floor,\noddly situated at the back of a house, across some leads, they found a\nlittle blear-eyed glass door up in one corner, with Mr FIPS painted on\nit in characters which were meant to be transparent. There was also a\nwicked old sideboard hiding in the gloom hard by, meditating designs\nupon the ribs of visitors; and an old mat, worn into lattice work,\nwhich, being useless as a mat (even if anybody could have seen it, which\nwas impossible), had for many years directed its industry into another\nchannel, and regularly tripped up every one of Mr Fips\'s clients.\n\nMr Fips, hearing a violent concussion between a human hat and his office\ndoor, was apprised, by the usual means of communication, that somebody\nhad come to call upon him, and giving that somebody admission, observed\nthat it was \'rather dark.\'\n\n\'Dark indeed,\' John whispered in Tom Pinch\'s ear. \'Not a bad place to\ndispose of a countryman in, I should think, Tom.\'\n\nTom had been already turning over in his mind the possibility of their\nhaving been tempted into that region to furnish forth a pie; but the\nsight of Mr Fips, who was small and spare, and looked peaceable, and\nwore black shorts and powder, dispelled his doubts.\n\n\'Walk in,\' said Mr Fips.\n\nThey walked in. And a mighty yellow-jaundiced little office Mr Fips\nhad of it; with a great, black, sprawling splash upon the floor in one\ncorner, as if some old clerk had cut his throat there, years ago, and\nhad let out ink instead of blood.\n\n\'I have brought my friend Mr Pinch, sir,\' said John Westlock.\n\n\'Be pleased to sit,\' said Mr Fips.\n\nThey occupied the two chairs, and Mr Fips took the office stool from the\nstuffing whereof he drew forth a piece of horse-hair of immense length,\nwhich he put into his mouth with a great appearance of appetite.\n\nHe looked at Tom Pinch curiously, but with an entire freedom from any\nsuch expression as could be reasonably construed into an unusual\ndisplay of interest. After a short silence, during which Mr Fips was\nso perfectly unembarrassed as to render it manifest that he could have\nbroken it sooner without hesitation, if he had felt inclined to do so,\nhe asked if Mr Westlock had made his offer fully known to Mr Pinch.\n\nJohn answered in the affirmative.\n\n\'And you think it worth your while, sir, do you?\' Mr Fips inquired of\nTom.\n\n\'I think it a piece of great good fortune, sir,\' said Tom. \'I am\nexceedingly obliged to you for the offer.\'\n\n\'Not to me,\' said Mr Fips. \'I act upon instructions.\'\n\n\'To your friend, sir, then,\' said Tom. \'To the gentleman with whom I am\nto engage, and whose confidence I shall endeavour to deserve. When he\nknows me better, sir, I hope he will not lose his good opinion of me.\nHe will find me punctual and vigilant, and anxious to do what is right.\nThat I think I can answer for, and so,\' looking towards him, \'can Mr\nWestlock.\'\n\n\'Most assuredly,\' said John.\n\nMr Fips appeared to have some little difficulty in resuming the\nconversation. To relieve himself, he took up the wafer-stamp, and began\nstamping capital F\'s all over his legs.\n\n\'The fact is,\' said Mr Fips, \'that my friend is not, at this present\nmoment, in town.\'\n\nTom\'s countenance fell; for he thought this equivalent to telling him\nthat his appearance did not answer; and that Fips must look out for\nsomebody else.\n\n\'When do you think he will be in town, sir?\' he asked.\n\n\'I can\'t say; it\'s impossible to tell. I really have no idea. But,\' said\nFips, taking off a very deep impression of the wafer-stamp upon the calf\nof his left leg, and looking steadily at Tom, \'I don\'t know that it\'s a\nmatter of much consequence.\'\n\nPoor Tom inclined his head deferentially, but appeared to doubt that.\n\n\'I say,\' repeated Mr Fips, \'that I don\'t know it\'s a matter of much\nconsequence. The business lies entirely between yourself and me, Mr\nPinch. With reference to your duties, I can set you going; and with\nreference to your salary, I can pay it. Weekly,\' said Mr Fips, putting\ndown the wafer-stamp, and looking at John Westlock and Tom Pinch by\nturns, \'weekly; in this office; at any time between the hours of four\nand five o\'clock in the afternoon.\' As Mr Fips said this, he made up his\nface as if he were going to whistle. But he didn\'t.\n\n\'You are very good,\' said Tom, whose countenance was now suffused with\npleasure; \'and nothing can be more satisfactory or straightforward. My\nattendance will be required--\'\n\n\'From half-past nine to four o\'clock or so, I should say,\' interrupted\nMr Fips. \'About that.\'\n\n\'I did not mean the hours of attendance,\' retorted Tom, \'which are light\nand easy, I am sure; but the place.\'\n\n\'Oh, the place! The place is in the Temple.\'\n\nTom was delighted.\n\n\'Perhaps,\' said Mr Fips, \'you would like to see the place?\'\n\n\'Oh, dear!\' cried Tom. \'I shall only be too glad to consider myself\nengaged, if you will allow me; without any further reference to the\nplace.\'\n\n\'You may consider yourself engaged, by all means,\' said Mr Fips; \'you\ncouldn\'t meet me at the Temple Gate in Fleet Street, in an hour from\nthis time, I suppose, could you?\'\n\nCertainly Tom could.\n\n\'Good,\' said Mr Fips, rising. \'Then I will show you the place; and you\ncan begin your attendance to-morrow morning. In an hour, therefore, I\nshall see you. You too, Mr Westlock? Very good. Take care how you go.\nIt\'s rather dark.\'\n\nWith this remark, which seemed superfluous, he shut them out upon\nthe staircase, and they groped their way into the street again. The\ninterview had done so little to remove the mystery in which Tom\'s\nnew engagement was involved, and had done so much to thicken it, that\nneither could help smiling at the puzzled looks of the other. They\nagreed, however, that the introduction of Tom to his new office and\noffice companions could hardly fail to throw a light upon the subject;\nand therefore postponed its further consideration until after the\nfulfillment of the appointment they had made with Mr Fips.\n\nAfter looking at John Westlock\'s chambers, and devoting a few spare\nminutes to the Boar\'s Head, they issued forth again to the place of\nmeeting. The time agreed upon had not quite come; but Mr Fips was\nalready at the Temple Gate, and expressed his satisfaction at their\npunctuality.\n\nHe led the way through sundry lanes and courts, into one more quiet and\nmore gloomy than the rest, and, singling out a certain house, ascended\na common staircase; taking from his pocket, as he went, a bunch of rusty\nkeys. Stopping before a door upon an upper story, which had nothing\nbut a yellow smear of paint where custom would have placed the\ntenant\'s name, he began to beat the dust out of one of these keys, very\ndeliberately, upon the great broad handrail of the balustrade.\n\n\'You had better have a little plug made,\' he said, looking round at Tom,\nafter blowing a shrill whistle into the barrel of the key. \'It\'s the\nonly way of preventing them from getting stopped up. You\'ll find the\nlock go the better, too, I dare say, for a little oil.\'\n\nTom thanked him; but was too much occupied with his own speculations,\nand John Westlock\'s looks, to be very talkative. In the meantime Mr Fips\nopened the door, which yielded to his hand very unwillingly, and with a\nhorribly discordant sound. He took the key out, when he had done so, and\ngave it to Tom.\n\n\'Aye, aye!\' said Mr Fips. \'The dust lies rather thick here.\'\n\nTruly, it did. Mr Fips might have gone so far as to say, very thick.\nIt had accumulated everywhere; lay deep on everything, and in one part,\nwhere a ray of sun shone through a crevice in the shutter and struck\nupon the opposite wall, it went twirling round and round, like a\ngigantic squirrel-cage.\n\nDust was the only thing in the place that had any motion about it. When\ntheir conductor admitted the light freely, and lifting up the heavy\nwindow-sash, let in the summer air, he showed the mouldering furniture,\ndiscoloured wainscoting and ceiling, rusty stove, and ashy hearth, in\nall their inert neglect. Close to the door there stood a candlestick,\nwith an extinguisher upon it; as if the last man who had been there\nhad paused, after securing a retreat, to take a parting look at\nthe dreariness he left behind, and then had shut out light and life\ntogether, and closed the place up like a tomb.\n\nThere were two rooms on that floor; and in the first or outer one a\nnarrow staircase, leading to two more above. These last were fitted\nup as bed-chambers. Neither in them, nor in the rooms below, was any\nscarcity of convenient furniture observable, although the fittings\nwere of a bygone fashion; but solitude and want of use seemed to have\nrendered it unfit for any purposes of comfort, and to have given it a\ngrisly, haunted air.\n\nMovables of every kind lay strewn about, without the least attempt at\norder, and were intermixed with boxes, hampers, and all sorts of lumber.\nOn all the floors were piles of books, to the amount, perhaps, of some\nthousands of volumes: these, still in bales; those, wrapped in paper,\nas they had been purchased; others scattered singly or in heaps; not one\nupon the shelves which lined the walls. To these Mr Fips called Tom\'s\nattention.\n\n\'Before anything else can be done, we must have them put in order,\ncatalogued, and ranged upon the book-shelves, Mr Pinch. That will do to\nbegin with, I think, sir.\'\n\nTom rubbed his hands in the pleasant anticipation of a task so congenial\nto his taste, and said:\n\n\'An occupation full of interest for me, I assure you. It will occupy me,\nperhaps, until Mr--\'\n\n\'Until Mr--\' repeated Fips; as much as to ask Tom what he was stopping\nfor.\n\n\'I forgot that you had not mentioned the gentleman\'s name,\' said Tom.\n\n\'Oh!\' cried Mr Fips, pulling on his glove, \'didn\'t I? No, by-the-bye,\nI don\'t think I did. Ah! I dare say he\'ll be here soon. You will get on\nvery well together, I have no doubt. I wish you success I am sure. You\nwon\'t forget to shut the door? It\'ll lock of itself if you slam it.\nHalf-past nine, you know. Let us say from half-past nine to four, or\nhalf-past four, or thereabouts; one day, perhaps, a little earlier,\nanother day, perhaps, a little later, according as you feel disposed,\nand as you arrange your work. Mr Fips, Austin Friars of course you\'ll\nremember? And you won\'t forget to slam the door, if you please!\'\n\nHe said all this in such a comfortable, easy manner, that Tom could only\nrub his hands, and nod his head, and smile in acquiescence which he was\nstill doing, when Mr Fips walked coolly out.\n\n\'Why, he\'s gone!\' cried Tom.\n\n\'And what\'s more, Tom,\' said John Westlock, seating himself upon a pile\nof books, and looking up at his astonished friend, \'he is evidently not\ncoming back again; so here you are, installed. Under rather singular\ncircumstances, Tom!\'\n\nIt was such an odd affair throughout, and Tom standing there among\nthe books with his hat in one hand and the key in the other, looked\nso prodigiously confounded, that his friend could not help laughing\nheartily. Tom himself was tickled; no less by the hilarity of his friend\nthan by the recollection of the sudden manner in which he had been\nbrought to a stop, in the very height of his urbane conference with\nMr Fips; so by degrees Tom burst out laughing too; and each making the\nother laugh more, they fairly roared.\n\nWhen they had had their laugh out, which did not happen very soon, for\ngive John an inch that way and he was sure to take several ells, being\na jovial, good-tempered fellow, they looked about them more closely,\ngroping among the lumber for any stray means of enlightenment that might\nturn up. But no scrap or shred of information could they find. The books\nwere marked with a variety of owner\'s names, having, no doubt, been\nbought at sales, and collected here and there at different times; but\nwhether any one of these names belonged to Tom\'s employer, and, if so,\nwhich of them, they had no means whatever of determining. It occurred to\nJohn as a very bright thought to make inquiry at the steward\'s office,\nto whom the chambers belonged, or by whom they were held; but he came\nback no wiser than he went, the answer being, \'Mr Fips, of Austin\nFriars.\'\n\n\'After all, Tom, I begin to think it lies no deeper than this. Fips\nis an eccentric man; has some knowledge of Pecksniff; despises him, of\ncourse; has heard or seen enough of you to know that you are the man he\nwants; and engages you in his own whimsical manner.\'\n\n\'But why in his own whimsical manner?\' asked Tom.\n\n\'Oh! why does any man entertain his own whimsical taste? Why does Mr\nFips wear shorts and powder, and Mr Fips\'s next-door neighbour boots and\na wig?\'\n\nTom, being in that state of mind in which any explanation is a great\nrelief, adopted this last one (which indeed was quite as feasible as any\nother) readily, and said he had no doubt of it. Nor was his faith at all\nshaken by his having said exactly the same thing to each suggestion of\nhis friend\'s in turn, and being perfectly ready to say it again if he\nhad any new solution to propose.\n\nAs he had not, Tom drew down the window-sash, and folded the shutter;\nand they left the rooms. He closed the door heavily, as Mr Fips had\ndesired him; tried it, found it all safe, and put the key in his pocket.\n\nThey made a pretty wide circuit in going back to Islington, as they had\ntime to spare, and Tom was never tired of looking about him. It was well\nhe had John Westlock for his companion, for most people would have\nbeen weary of his perpetual stoppages at shop-windows, and his frequent\ndashes into the crowded carriage-way at the peril of his life, to get\nthe better view of church steeples, and other public buildings. But John\nwas charmed to see him so much interested, and every time Tom came back\nwith a beaming face from among the wheels of carts and hackney-coaches,\nwholly unconscious of the personal congratulations addressed to him by\nthe drivers, John seemed to like him better than before.\n\nThere was no flour on Ruth\'s hands when she received them in the\ntriangular parlour, but there were pleasant smiles upon her face, and a\ncrowd of welcomes shining out of every smile, and gleaming in her bright\neyes. By the bye, how bright they were! Looking into them for but\na moment, when you took her hand, you saw, in each, such a capital\nminiature of yourself, representing you as such a restless, flashing,\neager, brilliant little fellow--\n\nAh! if you could only have kept them for your own miniature! But,\nwicked, roving, restless, too impartial eyes, it was enough for any one\nto stand before them, and, straightway, there he danced and sparkled\nquite as merrily as you!\n\nThe table was already spread for dinner; and though it was spread with\nnothing very choice in the way of glass or linen, and with green-handled\nknives, and very mountebanks of two-pronged forks, which seemed to be\ntrying how far asunder they could possibly stretch their legs without\nconverting themselves into double the number of iron toothpicks, it\nwanted neither damask, silver, gold, nor china; no, nor any other\ngarniture at all. There it was; and, being there, nothing else would\nhave done as well.\n\nThe success of that initiative dish; that first experiment of hers in\ncookery; was so entire, so unalloyed and perfect, that John Westlock and\nTom agreed she must have been studying the art in secret for a long time\npast; and urged her to make a full confession of the fact. They were\nexceedingly merry over this jest, and many smart things were said\nconcerning it; but John was not as fair in his behaviour as might\nhave been expected, for, after luring Tom Pinch on for a long time,\nhe suddenly went over to the enemy, and swore to everything his sister\nsaid. However, as Tom observed the same night before going to bed, it\nwas only in joke, and John had always been famous for being polite\nto ladies, even when he was quite a boy. Ruth said, \'Oh! indeed!\' She\ndidn\'t say anything else.\n\nIt is astonishing how much three people may find to talk about. They\nscarcely left off talking once. And it was not all lively chat which\noccupied them; for when Tom related how he had seen Mr Pecksniff\'s\ndaughters, and what a change had fallen on the younger, they were very\nserious.\n\nJohn Westlock became quite absorbed in her fortunes; asking many\nquestions of Tom Pinch about her marriage, inquiring whether her husband\nwas the gentleman whom Tom had brought to dine with him at Salisbury;\nin what degree of relationship they stood towards each other, being\ndifferent persons; and taking, in short, the greatest interest in the\nsubject. Tom then went into it, at full length; he told how Martin had\ngone abroad, and had not been heard of for a long time; how Dragon Mark\nhad borne him company; how Mr Pecksniff had got the poor old doting\ngrandfather into his power; and how he basely sought the hand of Mary\nGraham. But not a word said Tom of what lay hidden in his heart; his\nheart, so deep, and true, and full of honour, and yet with so much room\nfor every gentle and unselfish thought; not a word.\n\nTom, Tom! The man in all this world most confident in his sagacity and\nshrewdness; the man in all this world most proud of his distrust of\nother men, and having most to show in gold and silver as the gains\nbelonging to his creed; the meekest favourer of that wise doctrine,\nEvery man for himself, and God for us all (there being high wisdom in\nthe thought that the Eternal Majesty of Heaven ever was, or can be, on\nthe side of selfish lust and love!); shall never find, oh, never find,\nbe sure of that, the time come home to him, when all his wisdom is an\nidiot\'s folly, weighed against a simple heart!\n\nWell, well, Tom, it was simple too, though simple in a different way, to\nbe so eager touching that same theatre, of which John said, when tea was\ndone, he had the absolute command, so far as taking parties in without\nthe payment of a sixpence was concerned; and simpler yet, perhaps, never\nto suspect that when he went in first, alone, he paid the money! Simple\nin thee, dear Tom, to laugh and cry so heartily at such a sorry show,\nso poorly shown; simple to be so happy and loquacious trudging home\nwith Ruth; simple to be so surprised to find that merry present of\na cookery-book awaiting her in the parlour next morning, with the\nbeef-steak-pudding-leaf turned down and blotted out. There! Let\nthe record stand! Thy quality of soul was simple, simple, quite\ncontemptible, Tom Pinch!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY\n\nTHE PINCHES MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE, AND HAVE FRESH OCCASION FOR\nSURPRISE AND WONDER\n\n\nThere was a ghostly air about these uninhabited chambers in the Temple,\nand attending every circumstance of Tom\'s employment there, which had a\nstrange charm in it. Every morning when he shut his door at Islington,\nhe turned his face towards an atmosphere of unaccountable fascination,\nas surely as he turned it to the London smoke; and from that moment it\nthickened round and round him all day long, until the time arrived for\ngoing home again, and leaving it, like a motionless cloud, behind.\n\nIt seemed to Tom, every morning, that he approached this ghostly\nmist, and became enveloped in it, by the easiest succession of degrees\nimaginable. Passing from the roar and rattle of the streets into the\nquiet court-yards of the Temple, was the first preparation. Every echo\nof his footsteps sounded to him like a sound from the old walls and\npavements, wanting language to relate the histories of the dim, dismal\nrooms; to tell him what lost documents were decaying in forgotten\ncorners of the shut-up cellars, from whose lattices such mouldy sighs\ncame breathing forth as he went past; to whisper of dark bins of rare\nold wine, bricked up in vaults among the old foundations of the Halls;\nor mutter in a lower tone yet darker legends of the cross-legged\nknights, whose marble effigies were in the church. With the first\nplanting of his foot upon the staircase of his dusty office, all these\nmysteries increased; until, ascending step by step, as Tom ascended,\nthey attained their full growth in the solitary labours of the day.\n\nEvery day brought one recurring, never-failing source of speculation.\nThis employer; would he come to-day, and what would he be like? For\nTom could not stop short at Mr Fips; he quite believed that Mr Fips had\nspoken truly, when he said he acted for another; and what manner of man\nthat other was, became a full-blown flower of wonder in the garden of\nTom\'s fancy, which never faded or got trodden down.\n\nAt one time, he conceived that Mr Pecksniff, repenting of his falsehood,\nmight, by exertion of his influence with some third person have\ndevised these means of giving him employment. He found this idea so\ninsupportable after what had taken place between that good man and\nhimself, that he confided it to John Westlock on the very same day;\ninforming John that he would rather ply for hire as a porter, than fall\nso low in his own esteem as to accept the smallest obligation from the\nhands of Mr Pecksniff. But John assured him that he (Tom Pinch) was far\nfrom doing justice to the character of Mr Pecksniff yet, if he supposed\nthat gentleman capable of performing a generous action; and that he\nmight make his mind quite easy on that head until he saw the sun turn\ngreen and the moon black, and at the same time distinctly perceived with\nthe naked eye, twelve first-rate comets careering round those planets.\nIn which unusual state of things, he said (and not before), it might\nbecome not absolutely lunatic to suspect Mr Pecksniff of anything\nso monstrous. In short he laughed the idea down completely; and Tom,\nabandoning it, was thrown upon his beam-ends again, for some other\nsolution.\n\nIn the meantime Tom attended to his duties daily, and made considerable\nprogress with the books; which were already reduced to some sort of\norder, and made a great appearance in his fairly-written catalogue.\nDuring his business hours, he indulged himself occasionally with\nsnatches of reading; which were often, indeed, a necessary part of\nhis pursuit; and as he usually made bold to carry one of these goblin\nvolumes home at night (always bringing it back again next morning, in\ncase his strange employer should appear and ask what had become of it),\nhe led a happy, quiet, studious kind of life, after his own heart.\n\nBut though the books were never so interesting, and never so full of\nnovelty to Tom, they could not so enchain him, in those mysterious\nchambers, as to render him unconscious, for a moment, of the lightest\nsound. Any footstep on the flags without set him listening attentively\nand when it turned into that house, and came up, up, up the stairs, he\nalways thought with a beating heart, \'Now I am coming face to face with\nhim at last!\' But no footstep ever passed the floor immediately below:\nexcept his own.\n\nThis mystery and loneliness engendered fancies in Tom\'s mind, the folly\nof which his common sense could readily discover, but which his common\nsense was quite unable to keep away, notwithstanding; that quality being\nwith most of us, in such a case, like the old French Police--quick at\ndetection, but very weak as a preventive power. Misgivings, undefined,\nabsurd, inexplicable, that there was some one hiding in the inner\nroom--walking softly overhead, peeping in through the door-chink, doing\nsomething stealthy, anywhere where he was not--came over him a\nhundred times a day, making it pleasant to throw up the sash, and hold\ncommunication even with the sparrows who had built in the roof and\nwater-spout, and were twittering about the windows all day long.\n\nHe sat with the outer door wide open, at all times, that he might hear\nthe footsteps as they entered, and turned off into the chambers on the\nlower floor. He formed odd prepossessions too, regarding strangers in\nthe streets; and would say within himself of such or such a man, who\nstruck him as having anything uncommon in his dress or aspect, \'I\nshouldn\'t wonder, now, if that were he!\' But it never was. And though\nhe actually turned back and followed more than one of these suspected\nindividuals, in a singular belief that they were going to the place he\nwas then upon his way from, he never got any other satisfaction by it,\nthan the satisfaction of knowing it was not the case.\n\nMr Fips, of Austin Friars, rather deepened than illumined the obscurity\nof his position; for on the first occasion of Tom\'s waiting on him to\nreceive his weekly pay, he said:\n\n\'Oh! by the bye, Mr Pinch, you needn\'t mention it, if you please!\'\n\nTom thought he was going to tell him a secret; so he said that he\nwouldn\'t on any account, and that Mr Fips might entirely depend upon\nhim. But as Mr Fips said \'Very good,\' in reply, and nothing more, Tom\nprompted him:\n\n\'Not on any account,\' repeated Tom.\n\nMr Fips repeated: \'Very good.\'\n\n\'You were going to say\'--Tom hinted.\n\n\'Oh dear no!\' cried Fips. \'Not at all.\' However, seeing Tom confused, he\nadded, \'I mean that you needn\'t mention any particulars about your place\nof employment, to people generally. You\'ll find it better not.\'\n\n\'I have not had the pleasure of seeing my employer yet, sir,\' observed\nTom, putting his week\'s salary in his pocket.\n\n\'Haven\'t you?\' said Fips. \'No, I don\'t suppose you have though.\'\n\n\'I should like to thank him, and to know that what I have done so far,\nis done to his satisfaction,\' faltered Tom.\n\n\'Quite right,\' said Mr Fips, with a yawn. \'Highly creditable. Very\nproper.\'\n\nTom hastily resolved to try him on another tack.\n\n\'I shall soon have finished with the books,\' he said. \'I hope that will\nnot terminate my engagement, sir, or render me useless?\'\n\n\'Oh dear no!\' retorted Fips. \'Plenty to do; plen-ty to do! Be careful\nhow you go. It\'s rather dark.\'\n\nThis was the very utmost extent of information Tom could ever get out of\nHIM. So it was dark enough in all conscience; and if Mr Fips expressed\nhimself with a double meaning, he had good reason for doing so.\n\nBut now a circumstance occurred, which helped to divert Tom\'s thoughts\nfrom even this mystery, and to divide them between it and a new channel,\nwhich was a very Nile in itself.\n\nThe way it came about was this. Having always been an early riser and\nhaving now no organ to engage him in sweet converse every morning,\nit was his habit to take a long walk before going to the Temple; and\nnaturally inclining, as a stranger, towards those parts of the town\nwhich were conspicuous for the life and animation pervading them, he\nbecame a great frequenter of the market-places, bridges, quays, and\nespecially the steam-boat wharves; for it was very lively and fresh\nto see the people hurrying away upon their many schemes of business or\npleasure, and it made Tom glad to think that there was that much change\nand freedom in the monotonous routine of city lives.\n\nIn most of these morning excursions Ruth accompanied him. As their\nlandlord was always up and away at his business (whatever that might be,\nno one seemed to know) at a very early hour, the habits of the people\nof the house in which they lodged corresponded with their own. Thus they\nhad often finished their breakfast, and were out in the summer air, by\nseven o\'clock. After a two hours\' stroll they parted at some convenient\npoint; Tom going to the Temple, and his sister returning home, as\nmethodically as you please.\n\nMany and many a pleasant stroll they had in Covent Garden Market;\nsnuffing up the perfume of the fruits and flowers, wondering at the\nmagnificence of the pineapples and melons; catching glimpses down side\navenues, of rows and rows of old women, seated on inverted baskets,\nshelling peas; looking unutterable things at the fat bundles of\nasparagus with which the dainty shops were fortified as with a\nbreastwork; and, at the herbalist\'s doors, gratefully inhaling scents\nas of veal-stuffing yet uncooked, dreamily mixed up with capsicums,\nbrown-paper, seeds, even with hints of lusty snails and fine young curly\nleeches. Many and many a pleasant stroll they had among the poultry\nmarkets, where ducks and fowls, with necks unnaturally long, lay\nstretched out in pairs, ready for cooking; where there were speckled\neggs in mossy baskets, white country sausages beyond impeachment by\nsurviving cat or dog, or horse or donkey; new cheeses to any wild\nextent, live birds in coops and cages, looking much too big to be\nnatural, in consequence of those receptacles being much too little;\nrabbits, alive and dead, innumerable. Many a pleasant stroll they\nhad among the cool, refreshing, silvery fish-stalls, with a kind of\nmoonlight effect about their stock-in-trade, excepting always for\nthe ruddy lobsters. Many a pleasant stroll among the waggon-loads of\nfragrant hay, beneath which dogs and tired waggoners lay fast asleep,\noblivious of the pieman and the public-house. But never half so good a\nstroll as down among the steamboats on a bright morning.\n\nThere they lay, alongside of each other; hard and fast for ever, to all\nappearance, but designing to get out somehow, and quite confident of\ndoing it; and in that faith shoals of passengers, and heaps of luggage,\nwere proceeding hurriedly on board. Little steam-boats dashed up and\ndown the stream incessantly. Tiers upon tiers of vessels, scores\nof masts, labyrinths of tackle, idle sails, splashing oars, gliding\nrow-boats, lumbering barges, sunken piles, with ugly lodgings for\nthe water-rat within their mud-discoloured nooks; church steeples,\nwarehouses, house-roofs, arches, bridges, men and women, children,\ncasks, cranes, boxes, horses, coaches, idlers, and hard-labourers; there\nthey were, all jumbled up together, any summer morning, far beyond Tom\'s\npower of separation.\n\nIn the midst of all this turmoil there was an incessant roar from every\npacket\'s funnel, which quite expressed and carried out the uppermost\nemotion of the scene. They all appeared to be perspiring and bothering\nthemselves, exactly as their passengers did; they never left off\nfretting and chafing, in their own hoarse manner, once; but were always\npanting out, without any stops, \'Come along do make haste I\'m very\nnervous come along oh good gracious we shall never get there how late\nyou are do make haste I\'m off directly come along!\'\n\nEven when they had left off, and had got safely out into the current,\non the smallest provocation they began again; for the bravest packet\nof them all, being stopped by some entanglement in the river, would\nimmediately begin to fume and pant afresh, \'oh here\'s a stoppage what\'s\nthe matter do go on there I\'m in a hurry it\'s done on purpose did you\never oh my goodness DO go on here!\' and so, in a state of mind bordering\non distraction, would be last seen drifting slowly through the mist into\nthe summer light beyond, that made it red.\n\nTom\'s ship, however; or, at least, the packet-boat in which Tom and his\nsister took the greatest interest on one particular occasion; was not\noff yet, by any means; but was at the height of its disorder. The press\nof passengers was very great; another steam-boat lay on each side of\nher; the gangways were choked up; distracted women, obviously bound\nfor Gravesend, but turning a deaf ear to all representations that this\nparticular vessel was about to sail for Antwerp, persisted in secreting\nbaskets of refreshments behind bulk-heads, and water-casks, and under\nseats; and very great confusion prevailed.\n\nIt was so amusing, that Tom, with Ruth upon his arm, stood looking down\nfrom the wharf, as nearly regardless as it was in the nature of flesh\nand blood to be, of an elderly lady behind him, who had brought a large\numbrella with her, and didn\'t know what to do with it. This tremendous\ninstrument had a hooked handle; and its vicinity was first made known\nto him by a painful pressure on the windpipe, consequent upon its having\ncaught him round the throat. Soon after disengaging himself with perfect\ngood humour, he had a sensation of the ferule in his back; immediately\nafterwards, of the hook entangling his ankles; then of the umbrella\ngenerally, wandering about his hat, and flapping at it like a great\nbird; and, lastly, of a poke or thrust below the ribs, which give him\nsuch exceeding anguish, that he could not refrain from turning round to\noffer a mild remonstrance.\n\nUpon his turning round, he found the owner of the umbrella struggling\non tip-toe, with a countenance expressive of violent animosity, to look\ndown upon the steam-boats; from which he inferred that she had attacked\nhim, standing in the front row, by design, and as her natural enemy.\n\n\'What a very ill-natured person you must be!\' said Tom.\n\nThe lady cried out fiercely, \'Where\'s the pelisse!\'--meaning the\nconstabulary--and went on to say, shaking the handle of the umbrella\nat Tom, that but for them fellers never being in the way when they was\nwanted, she\'d have given him in charge, she would.\n\n\'If they greased their whiskers less, and minded the duties which\nthey\'re paid so heavy for, a little more,\' she observed, \'no one needn\'t\nbe drove mad by scrouding so!\'\n\nShe had been grievously knocked about, no doubt, for her bonnet was bent\ninto the shape of a cocked hat. Being a fat little woman, too, she was\nin a state of great exhaustion and intense heat. Instead of pursuing the\naltercation, therefore, Tom civilly inquired what boat she wanted to go\non board of?\n\n\'I suppose,\' returned the lady, \'as nobody but yourself can want to look\nat a steam package, without wanting to go a-boarding of it, can they!\nBooby!\'\n\n\'Which one do you want to look at then?\' said Tom. \'We\'ll make room for\nyou if we can. Don\'t be so ill-tempered.\'\n\n\'No blessed creetur as ever I was with in trying times,\' returned the\nlady, somewhat softened, \'and they\'re a many in their numbers, ever\nbrought it as a charge again myself that I was anythin\' but mild and\nequal in my spirits. Never mind a contradicting of me, if you seem\nto feel it does you good, ma\'am, I often says, for well you know that\nSairey may be trusted not to give it back again. But I will not denige\nthat I am worrited and wexed this day, and with good reagion, Lord\nforbid!\'\n\nBy this time, Mrs Gamp (for it was no other than that experienced\npractitioner) had, with Tom\'s assistance, squeezed and worked herself\ninto a small corner between Ruth and the rail; where, after breathing\nvery hard for some little time, and performing a short series of\ndangerous evolutions with her umbrella, she managed to establish herself\npretty comfortably.\n\n\'And which of all them smoking monsters is the Ankworks boat, I wonder.\nGoodness me!\' cried Mrs Gamp.\n\n\'What boat did you want?\' asked Ruth.\n\n\'The Ankworks package,\' Mrs Gamp replied. \'I will not deceive you, my\nsweet. Why should I?\'\n\n\'That is the Antwerp packet in the middle,\' said Ruth.\n\n\'And I wish it was in Jonadge\'s belly, I do,\' cried Mrs Gamp; appearing\nto confound the prophet with the whale in this miraculous aspiration.\n\nRuth said nothing in reply; but, as Mrs Gamp, laying her chin against\nthe cool iron of the rail, continued to look intently at the Antwerp\nboat, and every now and then to give a little groan, she inquired\nwhether any child of hers was going aboard that morning? Or perhaps her\nhusband, she said kindly.\n\n\'Which shows,\' said Mrs Gamp, casting up her eyes, \'what a little way\nyou\'ve travelled into this wale of life, my dear young creetur! As a\ngood friend of mine has frequent made remark to me, which her name,\nmy love, is Harris, Mrs Harris through the square and up the steps\na-turnin\' round by the tobacker shop, \"Oh Sairey, Sairey, little do we\nknow wot lays afore us!\" \"Mrs Harris, ma\'am,\" I says, \"not much, it\'s\ntrue, but more than you suppoge. Our calcilations, ma\'am,\" I says,\n\"respectin\' wot the number of a family will be, comes most times within\none, and oftener than you would suppoge, exact.\" \"Sairey,\" says Mrs\nHarris, in a awful way, \"Tell me wot is my indiwidgle number.\" \"No, Mrs\nHarris,\" I says to her, \"ex-cuge me, if you please. My own,\" I says,\n\"has fallen out of three-pair backs, and had damp doorsteps settled\non their lungs, and one was turned up smilin\' in a bedstead unbeknown.\nTherefore, ma\'am,\" I says, \"seek not to proticipate, but take \'em as\nthey come and as they go.\" Mine,\' says Mrs Gamp, \'mine is all gone, my\ndear young chick. And as to husbands, there\'s a wooden leg gone likeways\nhome to its account, which in its constancy of walkin\' into wine vaults,\nand never comin\' out again \'till fetched by force, was quite as weak as\nflesh, if not weaker.\'\n\nWhen she had delivered this oration, Mrs Gamp leaned her chin upon the\ncool iron again; and looking intently at the Antwerp packet, shook her\nhead and groaned.\n\n\'I wouldn\'t,\' said Mrs Gamp, \'I wouldn\'t be a man and have such a think\nupon my mind!--but nobody as owned the name of man, could do it!\'\n\nTom and his sister glanced at each other; and Ruth, after a moment\'s\nhesitation, asked Mrs Gamp what troubled her so much.\n\n\'My dear,\' returned that lady, dropping her voice, \'you are single,\nain\'t you?\'\n\nRuth laughed blushed, and said \'Yes.\'\n\n\'Worse luck,\' proceeded Mrs Gamp, \'for all parties! But others is\nmarried, and in the marriage state; and there is a dear young creetur\na-comin\' down this mornin\' to that very package, which is no more fit to\ntrust herself to sea, than nothin\' is!\'\n\nShe paused here to look over the deck of the packet in question, and on\nthe steps leading down to it, and on the gangways. Seeming to have\nthus assured herself that the object of her commiseration had not yet\narrived, she raised her eyes gradually up to the top of the escape-pipe,\nand indignantly apostrophised the vessel:\n\n\'Oh, drat you!\' said Mrs Gamp, shaking her umbrella at it, \'you\'re a\nnice spluttering nisy monster for a delicate young creetur to go and\nbe a passinger by; ain\'t you! YOU never do no harm in that way, do\nyou? With your hammering, and roaring, and hissing, and lamp-iling, you\nbrute! Them Confugion steamers,\' said Mrs Gamp, shaking her umbrella\nagain, \'has done more to throw us out of our reg\'lar work and bring\newents on at times when nobody counted on \'em (especially them\nscreeching railroad ones), than all the other frights that ever was\ntook. I have heerd of one young man, a guard upon a railway, only three\nyears opened--well does Mrs Harris know him, which indeed he is her own\nrelation by her sister\'s marriage with a master sawyer--as is godfather\nat this present time to six-and-twenty blessed little strangers, equally\nunexpected, and all on \'um named after the Ingeines as was the cause.\nUgh!\' said Mrs Gamp, resuming her apostrophe, \'one might easy know you\nwas a man\'s inwention, from your disregardlessness of the weakness of\nour naturs, so one might, you brute!\'\n\nIt would not have been unnatural to suppose, from the first part of Mrs\nGamp\'s lamentations, that she was connected with the stage-coaching or\npost-horsing trade. She had no means of judging of the effect of her\nconcluding remarks upon her young companion; for she interrupted herself\nat this point, and exclaimed:\n\n\'There she identically goes! Poor sweet young creetur, there she goes,\nlike a lamb to the sacrifige! If there\'s any illness when that wessel\ngets to sea,\' said Mrs Gamp, prophetically, \'it\'s murder, and I\'m the\nwitness for the persecution.\'\n\nShe was so very earnest on the subject, that Tom\'s sister (being as kind\nas Tom himself) could not help saying something to her in reply.\n\n\'Pray, which is the lady,\' she inquired, \'in whom you are so much\ninterested?\'\n\n\'There!\' groaned Mrs Gamp. \'There she goes! A-crossin\' the little wooden\nbridge at this minute. She\'s a-slippin\' on a bit of orangepeel!\' tightly\nclutching her umbrella. \'What a turn it give me.\'\n\n\'Do you mean the lady who is with that man wrapped up from head to foot\nin a large cloak, so that his face is almost hidden?\'\n\n\'Well he may hide it!\' Mrs Gamp replied. \'He\'s good call to be ashamed\nof himself. Did you see him a-jerking of her wrist, then?\'\n\n\'He seems to be hasty with her, indeed.\'\n\n\'Now he\'s a-taking of her down into the close cabin!\' said Mrs Gamp,\nimpatiently. \'What\'s the man about! The deuce is in him, I think. Why\ncan\'t he leave her in the open air?\'\n\nHe did not, whatever his reason was, but led her quickly down and\ndisappeared himself, without loosening his cloak, or pausing on the\ncrowded deck one moment longer than was necessary to clear their way to\nthat part of the vessel.\n\nTom had not heard this little dialogue; for his attention had been\nengaged in an unexpected manner. A hand upon his sleeve had caused\nhim to look round, just when Mrs Gamp concluded her apostrophe to the\nsteam-engine; and on his right arm, Ruth being on his left, he found\ntheir landlord, to his great surprise.\n\nHe was not so much surprised at the man\'s being there, as at his having\ngot close to him so quietly and swiftly; for another person had been\nat his elbow one instant before; and he had not in the meantime been\nconscious of any change or pressure in the knot of people among whom he\nstood. He and Ruth had frequently remarked how noiselessly this landlord\nof theirs came into and went out of his own house; but Tom was not the\nless amazed to see him at his elbow now.\n\n\'I beg your pardon, Mr Pinch,\' he said in his ear. \'I am rather infirm,\nand out of breath, and my eyes are not very good. I am not as young as I\nwas, sir. You don\'t see a gentleman in a large cloak down yonder, with a\nlady on his arm; a lady in a veil and a black shawl; do you?\'\n\nIf HE did not, it was curious that in speaking he should have singled\nout from all the crowd the very people whom he described; and should\nhave glanced hastily from them to Tom, as if he were burning to direct\nhis wandering eyes.\n\n\'A gentleman in a large cloak!\' said Tom, \'and a lady in a black shawl!\nLet me see!\'\n\n\'Yes, yes!\' replied the other, with keen impatience. \'A gentleman\nmuffled up from head to foot--strangely muffled up for such a morning\nas this--like an invalid, with his hand to his face at this minute,\nperhaps. No, no, no! not there,\' he added, following Tom\'s gaze; \'the\nother way; in that direction; down yonder.\' Again he indicated, but this\ntime in his hurry, with his outstretched finger, the very spot on which\nthe progress of these persons was checked at that moment.\n\n\'There are so many people, and so much motion, and so many objects,\'\nsaid Tom, \'that I find it difficult to--no, I really don\'t see a\ngentleman in a large cloak, and a lady in a black shawl. There\'s a lady\nin a red shawl over there!\'\n\n\'No, no, no!\' cried his landlord, pointing eagerly again, \'not there.\nThe other way; the other way. Look at the cabin steps. To the left. They\nmust be near the cabin steps. Do you see the cabin steps? There\'s the\nbell ringing already! DO you see the steps?\'\n\n\'Stay!\' said Tom, \'you\'re right. Look! there they go now. Is that the\ngentleman you mean? Descending at this minute, with the folds of a great\ncloak trailing down after him?\'\n\n\'The very man!\' returned the other, not looking at what Tom pointed out,\nhowever, but at Tom\'s own face. \'Will you do me a kindness, sir, a great\nkindness? Will you put that letter in his hand? Only give him that!\nHe expects it. I am charged to do it by my employers, but I am late in\nfinding him, and, not being as young as I have been, should never be\nable to make my way on board and off the deck again in time. Will you\npardon my boldness, and do me that great kindness?\'\n\nHis hands shook, and his face bespoke the utmost interest and agitation,\nas he pressed the letter upon Tom, and pointed to its destination, like\nthe Tempter in some grim old carving.\n\nTo hesitate in the performance of a good-natured or compassionate office\nwas not in Tom\'s way. He took the letter; whispered Ruth to wait till\nhe returned, which would be immediately; and ran down the steps with all\nthe expedition he could make. There were so many people going down, so\nmany others coming up, such heavy goods in course of transit to and\nfro, such a ringing of bell, blowing-off of steam, and shouting of men\'s\nvoices, that he had much ado to force his way, or keep in mind to which\nboat he was going. But he reached the right one with good speed, and\ngoing down the cabin-stairs immediately, described the object of his\nsearch standing at the upper end of the saloon, with his back towards\nhim, reading some notice which was hung against the wall. As Tom\nadvanced to give him the letter, he started, hearing footsteps, and\nturned round.\n\nWhat was Tom\'s astonishment to find in him the man with whom he had had\nthe conflict in the field--poor Mercy\'s husband. Jonas!\n\nTom understood him to say, what the devil did he want; but it was not\neasy to make out what he said; he spoke so indistinctly.\n\n\'I want nothing with you for myself,\' said Tom; \'I was asked, a moment\nsince, to give you this letter. You were pointed out to me, but I didn\'t\nknow you in your strange dress. Take it!\'\n\nHe did so, opened it, and read the writing on the inside. The contents\nwere evidently very brief; not more perhaps than one line; but they\nstruck upon him like a stone from a sling. He reeled back as he read.\n\nHis emotion was so different from any Tom had ever seen before that he\nstopped involuntarily. Momentary as his state of indecision was, the\nbell ceased while he stood there, and a hoarse voice calling down the\nsteps, inquired if there was any to go ashore?\n\n\'Yes,\' cried Jonas, \'I--I am coming. Give me time. Where\'s that woman!\nCome back; come back here.\'\n\nHe threw open another door as he spoke, and dragged, rather than led,\nher forth. She was pale and frightened, and amazed to see her old\nacquaintance; but had no time to speak, for they were making a great\nstir above; and Jonas drew her rapidly towards the deck.\n\n\'Where are we going? What is the matter?\'\n\n\'We are going back,\' said Jonas. \'I have changed my mind. I can\'t go.\nDon\'t question me, or I shall be the death of you, or some one else.\nStop there! Stop! We\'re for the shore. Do you hear? We\'re for the\nshore!\'\n\nHe turned, even in the madness of his hurry, and scowling darkly back\nat Tom, shook his clenched hand at him. There are not many human faces\ncapable of the expression with which he accompanied that gesture.\n\nHe dragged her up, and Tom followed them. Across the deck, over the\nside, along the crazy plank, and up the steps, he dragged her fiercely;\nnot bestowing any look on her, but gazing upwards all the while among\nthe faces on the wharf. Suddenly he turned again, and said to Tom with a\ntremendous oath:\n\n\'Where is he?\'\n\nBefore Tom, in his indignation and amazement, could return an answer to\na question he so little understood, a gentleman approached Tom behind,\nand saluted Jonas Chuzzlewit by name. He has a gentleman of foreign\nappearance, with a black moustache and whiskers; and addressed him with\na polite composure, strangely different from his own distracted and\ndesperate manner.\n\n\'Chuzzlewit, my good fellow!\' said the gentleman, raising his hat in\ncompliment to Mrs Chuzzlewit, \'I ask your pardon twenty thousand times.\nI am most unwilling to interfere between you and a domestic trip of this\nnature (always so very charming and refreshing, I know, although I\nhave not the happiness to be a domestic man myself, which is the great\ninfelicity of my existence); but the beehive, my dear friend, the\nbeehive--will you introduce me?\'\n\n\'This is Mr Montague,\' said Jonas, whom the words appeared to choke.\n\n\'The most unhappy and most penitent of men, Mrs Chuzzlewit,\' pursued\nthat gentleman, \'for having been the means of spoiling this excursion;\nbut as I tell my friend, the beehive, the beehive. You projected a short\nlittle continental trip, my dear friend, of course?\'\n\nJonas maintained a dogged silence.\n\n\'May I die,\' cried Montague, \'but I am shocked! Upon my soul I am\nshocked. But that confounded beehive of ours in the city must be\nparamount to every other consideration, when there is honey to be made;\nand that is my best excuse. Here is a very singular old female dropping\ncurtseys on my right,\' said Montague, breaking off in his discourse,\nand looking at Mrs Gamp, \'who is not a friend of mine. Does anybody know\nher?\'\n\n\'Ah! Well they knows me, bless their precious hearts!\' said Mrs Gamp,\n\'not forgettin\' your own merry one, sir, and long may it be so! Wishin\'\nas every one\' (she delivered this in the form of a toast or sentiment)\n\'was as merry, and as handsome-lookin\', as a little bird has whispered\nme a certain gent is, which I will not name for fear I give offence\nwhere none is doo! My precious lady,\' here she stopped short in her\nmerriment, for she had until now affected to be vastly entertained,\n\'you\'re too pale by half!\'\n\n\'YOU are here too, are you?\' muttered Jonas. \'Ecod, there are enough of\nyou.\'\n\n\'I hope, sir,\' returned Mrs Gamp, dropping an indignant curtsey, \'as no\nbones is broke by me and Mrs Harris a-walkin\' down upon a public wharf.\nWhich was the very words she says to me (although they was the last\nI ever had to speak) was these: \"Sairey,\" she says, \"is it a public\nwharf?\" \"Mrs Harris,\" I makes answer, \"can you doubt it? You have know\'d\nme now, ma\'am, eight and thirty year; and did you ever know me go, or\nwish to go, where I was not made welcome, say the words.\" \"No, Sairey,\"\nMrs Harris says, \"contrairy quite.\" And well she knows it too. I am but\na poor woman, but I\'ve been sought after, sir, though you may not think\nit. I\'ve been knocked up at all hours of the night, and warned out by\na many landlords, in consequence of being mistook for Fire. I goes out\nworkin\' for my bread, \'tis true, but I maintains my independency, with\nyour kind leave, and which I will till death. I has my feelins as a\nwoman, sir, and I have been a mother likeways; but touch a pipkin as\nbelongs to me, or make the least remarks on what I eats or drinks, and\nthough you was the favouritest young for\'ard hussy of a servant-gal as\never come into a house, either you leaves the place, or me. My earnins\nis not great, sir, but I will not be impoged upon. Bless the babe, and\nsave the mother, is my mortar, sir; but I makes so free as add to that,\nDon\'t try no impogician with the Nuss, for she will not abear it!\'\n\nMrs Gamp concluded by drawing her shawl tightly over herself with both\nhands, and, as usual, referring to Mrs Harris for full corroboration of\nthese particulars. She had that peculiar trembling of the head which,\nin ladies of her excitable nature, may be taken as a sure indication\nof their breaking out again very shortly; when Jonas made a timely\ninterposition.\n\n\'As you ARE here,\' he said, \'you had better see to her, and take her\nhome. I am otherwise engaged.\' He said nothing more; but looked at\nMontague as if to give him notice that he was ready to attend him.\n\n\'I am sorry to take you away,\' said Montague.\n\nJonas gave him a sinister look, which long lived in Tom\'s memory, and\nwhich he often recalled afterwards.\n\n\'I am, upon my life,\' said Montague. \'Why did you make it necessary?\'\n\nWith the same dark glance as before, Jonas replied, after a moment\'s\nsilence:\n\n\'The necessity is none of my making. You have brought it about\nyourself.\'\n\nHe said nothing more. He said even this as if he were bound, and in the\nother\'s power, but had a sullen and suppressed devil within him, which\nhe could not quite resist. His very gait, as they walked away together,\nwas like that of a fettered man; but, striving to work out at his\nclenched hands, knitted brows, and fast-set lips, was the same\nimprisoned devil still.\n\nThey got into a handsome cabriolet which was waiting for them and drove\naway.\n\nThe whole of this extraordinary scene had passed so rapidly and the\ntumult which prevailed around as so unconscious of any impression from\nit, that, although Tom had been one of the chief actors, it was like\na dream. No one had noticed him after they had left the packet. He had\nstood behind Jonas, and so near him, that he could not help hearing all\nthat passed. He had stood there, with his sister on his arm, expecting\nand hoping to have an opportunity of explaining his strange share in\nthis yet stranger business. But Jonas had not raised his eyes from the\nground; no one else had even looked towards him; and before he could\nresolve on any course of action, they were all gone.\n\nHe gazed round for his landlord. But he had done that more than once\nalready, and no such man was to be seen. He was still pursuing this\nsearch with his eyes, when he saw a hand beckoning to him from a\nhackney-coach; and hurrying towards it, found it was Merry\'s. She\naddressed him hurriedly, but bent out of the window, that she might not\nbe overheard by her companion, Mrs Gamp.\n\n\'What is it?\' she said. \'Good heaven, what is it? Why did he tell me\nlast night to prepare for a long journey, and why have you brought us\nback like criminals? Dear Mr Pinch!\' she clasped her hands distractedly,\n\'be merciful to us. Whatever this dreadful secret is, be merciful, and\nGod will bless you!\'\n\n\'If any power of mercy lay with me,\' cried Tom, \'trust me, you shouldn\'t\nask in vain. But I am far more ignorant and weak than you.\'\n\nShe withdrew into the coach again, and he saw the hand waving towards\nhim for a moment; but whether in reproachfulness or incredulity or\nmisery, or grief, or sad adieu, or what else, he could not, being so\nhurried, understand. SHE was gone now; and Ruth and he were left to walk\naway, and wonder.\n\nHad Mr Nadgett appointed the man who never came, to meet him upon London\nBridge that morning? He was certainly looking over the parapet, and\ndown upon the steamboat-wharf at that moment. It could not have been\nfor pleasure; he never took pleasure. No. He must have had some business\nthere.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-ONE\n\nMR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND, ARRIVING AT A PLEASANT UNDERSTANDING, SET FORTH\nUPON AN ENTERPRISE\n\n\nThe office of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance\nCompany being near at hand, and Mr Montague driving Jonas straight\nthere, they had very little way to go. But the journey might have been\none of several hours\' duration, without provoking a remark from either;\nfor it was clear that Jonas did not mean to break the silence which\nprevailed between them, and that it was not, as yet, his dear friend\'s\ncue to tempt them into conversation.\n\nHe had thrown aside his cloak, as having now no motive for concealment,\nand with that garment huddled on his knees, sat as far removed from his\ncompanion as the limited space in such a carriage would allow. There\nwas a striking difference in his manner, compared with what it had been,\nwithin a few minutes, when Tom encountered him so unexpectedly on board\nthe packet, or when the ugly change had fallen on him in Mr Montague\'s\ndressing-room. He had the aspect of a man found out and held at bay;\nof being baffled, hunted, and beset; but there was now a dawning and\nincreasing purpose in his face, which changed it very much. It was\ngloomy, distrustful, lowering; pale with anger and defeat; it still was\nhumbled, abject, cowardly and mean; but, let the conflict go on as it\nwould, there was one strong purpose wrestling with every emotion of his\nmind, and casting the whole series down as they arose.\n\nNot prepossessing in appearance at the best of times, it may be readily\nsupposed that he was not so now. He had left deep marks of his front\nteeth in his nether lip; and those tokens of the agitation he had lately\nundergone improved his looks as little as the heavy corrugations in his\nforehead. But he was self-possessed now; unnaturally self-possessed,\nindeed, as men quite otherwise than brave are known to be in desperate\nextremities; and when the carriage stopped, he waited for no invitation,\nbut leapt hardily out, and went upstairs.\n\nThe chairman followed him; and closing the board-room door as soon as\nthey had entered, threw himself upon a sofa. Jonas stood before the\nwindow, looking down into the street; and leaned against the sash,\nresting his head upon his arms.\n\n\'This is not handsome, Chuzzlewit!\' said Montague at length. \'Not\nhandsome upon my soul!\'\n\n\'What would you have me do?\' he answered, looking round abruptly; \'What\ndo you expect?\'\n\n\'Confidence, my good fellow. Some confidence!\' said Montague in an\ninjured tone.\n\n\'Ecod! You show great confidence in me,\' retorted Jonas. \'Don\'t you?\'\n\n\'Do I not?\' said his companion, raising his head, and looking at him,\nbut he had turned again. \'Do I not? Have I not confided to you the easy\nschemes I have formed for our advantage; OUR advantage, mind; not mine\nalone; and what is my return? Attempted flight!\'\n\n\'How do you know that? Who said I meant to fly?\'\n\n\'Who said? Come, come. A foreign boat, my friend, an early hour, a\nfigure wrapped up for disguise! Who said? If you didn\'t mean to jilt\nme, why were you there? If you didn\'t mean to jilt me, why did you come\nback?\'\n\n\'I came back,\' said Jonas, \'to avoid disturbance.\'\n\n\'You were wise,\' rejoined his friend.\n\nJonas stood quite silent; still looking down into the street, and\nresting his head upon his arms.\n\n\'Now, Chuzzlewit,\' said Montague, \'notwithstanding what has passed I\nwill be plain with you. Are you attending to me there? I only see your\nback.\'\n\n\'I hear you. Go on!\'\n\n\'I say that notwithstanding what has passed, I will be plain with you.\'\n\n\'You said that before. And I have told you once I heard you say it. Go\non.\'\n\n\'You are a little chafed, but I can make allowance for that, and am,\nfortunately, myself in the very best of tempers. Now, let us see how\ncircumstances stand. A day or two ago, I mentioned to you, my dear\nfellow, that I thought I had discovered--\'\n\n\'Will you hold your tongue?\' said Jonas, looking fiercely round, and\nglancing at the door.\n\n\'Well, well!\' said Montague. \'Judicious! Quite correct! My discoveries\nbeing published, would be like many other men\'s discoveries in this\nhonest world; of no further use to me. You see, Chuzzlewit, how\ningenuous and frank I am in showing you the weakness of my own position!\nTo return. I make, or think I make, a certain discovery which I take\nan early opportunity of mentioning in your ear, in that spirit of\nconfidence which I really hoped did prevail between us, and was\nreciprocated by you. Perhaps there is something in it; perhaps there is\nnothing. I have my knowledge and opinion on the subject. You have yours.\nWe will not discuss the question. But, my good fellow, you have been\nweak; what I wish to point out to you is, that you have been weak. I may\ndesire to turn this little incident to my account (indeed, I do--I\'ll\nnot deny it), but my account does not lie in probing it, or using it\nagainst you.\'\n\n\'What do you call using it against me?\' asked Jonas, who had not yet\nchanged his attitude.\n\n\'Oh!\' said Montague, with a laugh. \'We\'ll not enter into that.\'\n\n\'Using it to make a beggar of me. Is that the use you mean?\'\n\n\'No.\'\n\n\'Ecod,\' muttered Jonas, bitterly. \'That\'s the use in which your account\nDOES lie. You speak the truth there.\'\n\n\'I wish you to venture (it\'s a very safe venture) a little more with\nus, certainly, and to keep quiet,\' said Montague. \'You promised me you\nwould; and you must. I say it plainly, Chuzzlewit, you MUST. Reason the\nmatter. If you don\'t, my secret is worthless to me: and being so, it\nmay as well become the public property as mine; better, for I shall\ngain some credit, bringing it to light. I want you, besides, to act as a\ndecoy in a case I have already told you of. You don\'t mind that, I know.\nYou care nothing for the man (you care nothing for any man; you are\ntoo sharp; so am I, I hope); and could bear any loss of his with\npious fortitude. Ha, ha, ha! You have tried to escape from the first\nconsequence. You cannot escape it, I assure you. I have shown you that\nto-day. Now, I am not a moral man, you know. I am not the least in the\nworld affected by anything you may have done; by any little indiscretion\nyou may have committed; but I wish to profit by it if I can; and to a\nman of your intelligence I make that free confession. I am not at all\nsingular in that infirmity. Everybody profits by the indiscretion of his\nneighbour; and the people in the best repute, the most. Why do you give\nme this trouble? It must come to a friendly agreement, or an unfriendly\ncrash. It must. If the former, you are very little hurt. If the\nlatter--well! you know best what is likely to happen then.\'\n\nJonas left the window, and walked up close to him. He did not look\nhim in the face; it was not his habit to do that; but he kept his eyes\ntowards him--on his breast, or thereabouts--and was at great pains\nto speak slowly and distinctly in reply. Just as a man in a state of\nconscious drunkenness might be.\n\n\'Lying is of no use now,\' he said. \'I DID think of getting away this\nmorning, and making better terms with you from a distance.\'\n\n\'To be sure! to be sure!\' replied Montague. \'Nothing more natural. I\nforesaw that, and provided against it. But I am afraid I am interrupting\nyou.\'\n\n\'How the devil,\' pursued Jonas, with a still greater effort, \'you made\nchoice of your messenger, and where you found him, I\'ll not ask you. I\nowed him one good turn before to-day. If you are so careless of men in\ngeneral, as you said you were just now, you are quite indifferent to\nwhat becomes of such a crop-tailed cur as that, and will leave me to\nsettle my account with him in my own manner.\'\n\nIf he had raised his eyes to his companion\'s face, he would have seen\nthat Montague was evidently unable to comprehend his meaning. But\ncontinuing to stand before him, with his furtive gaze directed as\nbefore, and pausing here only to moisten his dry lips with his tongue,\nthe fact was lost upon him. It might have struck a close observer that\nthis fixed and steady glance of Jonas\'s was a part of the alteration\nwhich had taken place in his demeanour. He kept it riveted on one spot,\nwith which his thoughts had manifestly nothing to do; like as a juggler\nwalking on a cord or wire to any dangerous end, holds some object in his\nsight to steady him, and never wanders from it, lest he trip.\n\nMontague was quick in his rejoinder, though he made it at a venture.\nThere was no difference of opinion between him and his friend on THAT\npoint. Not the least.\n\n\'Your great discovery,\' Jonas proceeded, with a savage sneer that\ngot the better of him for the moment, \'may be true, and may be false.\nWhichever it is, I dare say I\'m no worse than other men.\'\n\n\'Not a bit,\' said Tigg. \'Not a bit. We\'re all alike--or nearly so.\'\n\n\'I want to know this,\' Jonas went on to say; \'is it your own? You\'ll not\nwonder at my asking the question.\'\n\n\'My own!\' repeated Montague.\n\n\'Aye!\' returned the other, gruffly. \'Is it known to anybody else? Come!\nDon\'t waver about that.\'\n\n\'No!\' said Montague, without the smallest hesitation. \'What would it be\nworth, do you think, unless I had the keeping of it?\'\n\nNow, for the first time, Jonas looked at him. After a pause, he put out\nhis hand, and said, with a laugh:\n\n\'Come! make things easy to me, and I\'m yours. I don\'t know that I may\nnot be better off here, after all, than if I had gone away this morning.\nBut here I am, and here I\'ll stay now. Take your oath!\'\n\nHe cleared his throat, for he was speaking hoarsely and said in a\nlighter tone:\n\n\'Shall I go to Pecksniff? When? Say when!\'\n\n\'Immediately!\' cried Montague. \'He cannot be enticed too soon.\'\n\n\'Ecod!\' cried Jonas, with a wild laugh. \'There\'s some fun in catching\nthat old hypocrite. I hate him. Shall I go to-night?\'\n\n\'Aye! This,\' said Montague, ecstatically, \'is like business! We\nunderstand each other now! To-night, my good fellow, by all means.\'\n\n\'Come with me,\' cried Jonas. \'We must make a dash; go down in state, and\ncarry documents, for he\'s a deep file to deal with, and must be drawn\non with an artful hand, or he\'ll not follow. I know him. As I can\'t\ntake your lodgings or your dinners down, I must take you. Will you come\nto-night?\'\n\nHis friend appeared to hesitate; and neither to have anticipated this\nproposal, nor to relish it very much.\n\n\'We can concert our plans upon the road,\' said Jonas. \'We must not go\ndirect to him, but cross over from some other place, and turn out of our\nway to see him. I may not want to introduce you, but I must have you on\nthe spot. I know the man, I tell you.\'\n\n\'But what if the man knows me?\' said Montague, shrugging his shoulders.\n\n\'He know!\' cried Jonas. \'Don\'t you run that risk with fifty men a day!\nWould your father know you? Did I know you? Ecod! You were another\nfigure when I saw you first. Ha, ha, ha! I see the rents and patches\nnow! No false hair then, no black dye! You were another sort of joker\nin those days, you were! You even spoke different then. You\'ve acted\nthe gentleman so seriously since, that you\'ve taken in yourself. If he\nshould know you, what does it matter? Such a change is a proof of your\nsuccess. You know that, or you would not have made yourself known to me.\nWill you come?\'\n\n\'My good fellow,\' said Montague, still hesitating, \'I can trust you\nalone.\'\n\n\'Trust me! Ecod, you may trust me now, far enough. I\'ll try to go away\nno more--no more!\' He stopped, and added in a more sober tone, \'I can\'t\nget on without you. Will you come?\'\n\n\'I will,\' said Montague, \'if that\'s your opinion.\' And they shook hands\nupon it.\n\nThe boisterous manner which Jonas had exhibited during the latter part\nof this conversation, and which had gone on rapidly increasing with\nalmost every word he had spoken, from the time when he looked his\nhonourable friend in the face until now, did not now subside, but,\nremaining at its height, abided by him. Most unusual with him at any\nperiod; most inconsistent with his temper and constitution; especially\nunnatural it would appear in one so darkly circumstanced; it abided by\nhim. It was not like the effect of wine, or any ardent drink, for he was\nperfectly coherent. It even made him proof against the usual influence\nof such means of excitement; for, although he drank deeply several times\nthat day, with no reserve or caution, he remained exactly the same man,\nand his spirits neither rose nor fell in the least observable degree.\n\nDeciding, after some discussion, to travel at night, in order that the\nday\'s business might not be broken in upon, they took counsel together\nin reference to the means. Mr Montague being of opinion that four horses\nwere advisable, at all events for the first stage, as throwing a great\ndeal of dust into people\'s eyes, in more senses than one, a travelling\nchariot and four lay under orders for nine o\'clock. Jonas did not go\nhome; observing, that his being obliged to leave town on business in\nso great a hurry, would be a good excuse for having turned back so\nunexpectedly in the morning. So he wrote a note for his portmanteau, and\nsent it by a messenger, who duly brought his luggage back, with a short\nnote from that other piece of luggage, his wife, expressive of her wish\nto be allowed to come and see him for a moment. To this request he sent\nfor answer, \'she had better;\' and one such threatening affirmative being\nsufficient, in defiance of the English grammar, to express a negative,\nshe kept away.\n\nMr Montague being much engaged in the course of the day, Jonas bestowed\nhis spirits chiefly on the doctor, with whom he lunched in the medical\nofficer\'s own room. On his way thither, encountering Mr Nadgett in the\nouter room, he bantered that stealthy gentleman on always appearing\nanxious to avoid him, and inquired if he were afraid of him. Mr Nadgett\nslyly answered, \'No, but he believed it must be his way as he had been\ncharged with much the same kind of thing before.\'\n\nMr Montague was listening to, or, to speak with greater elegance, he\noverheard, this dialogue. As soon as Jonas was gone he beckoned Nadgett\nto him with the feather of his pen, and whispered in his ear.\n\n\'Who gave him my letter this morning?\'\n\n\'My lodger, sir,\' said Nadgett, behind the palm of his hand.\n\n\'How came that about?\'\n\n\'I found him on the wharf, sir. Being so much hurried, and you not\narrived, it was necessary to do something. It fortunately occurred to\nme, that if I gave it him myself I could be of no further use. I should\nhave been blown upon immediately.\'\n\n\'Mr Nadgett, you are a jewel,\' said Montague, patting him on the back.\n\'What\'s your lodger\'s name?\'\n\n\'Pinch, sir. Thomas Pinch.\'\n\nMontague reflected for a little while, and then asked:\n\n\'From the country, do you know?\'\n\n\'From Wiltshire, sir, he told me.\'\n\nThey parted without another word. To see Mr Nadgett\'s bow when Montague\nand he next met, and to see Mr Montague acknowledge it, anybody might\nhave undertaken to swear that they had never spoken to each other\nconfidentially in all their lives.\n\nIn the meanwhile, Mr Jonas and the doctor made themselves very\ncomfortable upstairs, over a bottle of the old Madeira and some\nsandwiches; for the doctor having been already invited to dine below at\nsix o\'clock, preferred a light repast for lunch. It was advisable, he\nsaid, in two points of view: First, as being healthy in itself. Secondly\nas being the better preparation for dinner.\n\n\'And you are bound for all our sakes to take particular care of your\ndigestion, Mr Chuzzlewit, my dear sir,\' said the doctor smacking his\nlips after a glass of wine; \'for depend upon it, it is worth preserving.\nIt must be in admirable condition, sir; perfect chronometer-work.\nOtherwise your spirits could not be so remarkable. Your bosom\'s lord\nsits lightly on its throne, Mr Chuzzlewit, as what\'s-his-name says in\nthe play. I wish he said it in a play which did anything like common\njustice to our profession, by the bye. There is an apothecary in\nthat drama, sir, which is a low thing; vulgar, sir; out of nature\naltogether.\'\n\nMr Jobling pulled out his shirt-frill of fine linen, as though he would\nhave said, \'This is what I call nature in a medical man, sir;\' and\nlooked at Jonas for an observation.\n\nJonas not being in a condition to pursue the subject, took up a case of\nlancets that was lying on the table, and opened it.\n\n\'Ah!\' said the doctor, leaning back in his chair, \'I always take \'em out\nof my pocket before I eat. My pockets are rather tight. Ha, ha, ha!\'\n\nJonas had opened one of the shining little instruments; and was\nscrutinizing it with a look as sharp and eager as its own bright edge.\n\n\'Good steel, doctor. Good steel! Eh!\'\n\n\'Ye-es,\' replied the doctor, with the faltering modesty of ownership.\n\'One might open a vein pretty dexterously with that, Mr Chuzzlewit.\'\n\n\'It has opened a good many in its time, I suppose?\' said Jonas looking\nat it with a growing interest.\n\n\'Not a few, my dear sir, not a few. It has been engaged in a--in a\npretty good practice, I believe I may say,\' replied the doctor, coughing\nas if the matter-of-fact were so very dry and literal that he couldn\'t\nhelp it. \'In a pretty good practice,\' repeated the doctor, putting\nanother glass of wine to his lips.\n\n\'Now, could you cut a man\'s throat with such a thing as this?\' demanded\nJonas.\n\n\'Oh certainly, certainly, if you took him in the right place,\' returned\nthe doctor. \'It all depends upon that.\'\n\n\'Where you have your hand now, hey?\' cried Jonas, bending forward to\nlook at it.\n\n\'Yes,\' said the doctor; \'that\'s the jugular.\'\n\nJonas, in his vivacity, made a sudden sawing in the air, so close behind\nthe doctor\'s jugular that he turned quite red. Then Jonas (in the same\nstrange spirit of vivacity) burst into a loud discordant laugh.\n\n\'No, no,\' said the doctor, shaking his head; \'edge tools, edge tools;\nnever play with \'em. A very remarkable instance of the skillful use of\nedge-tools, by the way, occurs to me at this moment. It was a case of\nmurder. I am afraid it was a case of murder, committed by a member of\nour profession; it was so artistically done.\'\n\n\'Aye!\' said Jonas. \'How was that?\'\n\n\'Why, sir,\' returned Jobling, \'the thing lies in a nutshell. A certain\ngentleman was found, one morning, in an obscure street, lying in\nan angle of a doorway--I should rather say, leaning, in an upright\nposition, in the angle of a doorway, and supported consequently by the\ndoorway. Upon his waistcoat there was one solitary drop of blood. He was\ndead and cold; and had been murdered, sir.\'\n\n\'Only one drop of blood!\' said Jonas.\n\n\'Sir, that man,\' replied the doctor, \'had been stabbed to the heart.\nHad been stabbed to the heart with such dexterity, sir, that he had\ndied instantly, and had bled internally. It was supposed that a\nmedical friend of his (to whom suspicion attached) had engaged him in\nconversation on some pretence; had taken him, very likely, by the button\nin a conversational manner; had examined his ground at leisure with\nhis other hand; had marked the exact spot; drawn out the instrument,\nwhatever it was, when he was quite prepared; and--\'\n\n\'And done the trick,\' suggested Jonas.\n\n\'Exactly so,\' replied the doctor. \'It was quite an operation in its way,\nand very neat. The medical friend never turned up; and, as I tell you,\nhe had the credit of it. Whether he did it or not I can\'t say.\nBut, having had the honour to be called in with two or three of my\nprofessional brethren on the occasion, and having assisted to make a\ncareful examination of the wound, I have no hesitation in saying that\nit would have reflected credit on any medical man; and that in an\nunprofessional person it could not but be considered, either as an\nextraordinary work of art, or the result of a still more extraordinary,\nhappy, and favourable conjunction of circumstances.\'\n\nHis hearer was so much interested in this case, that the doctor went\non to elucidate it with the assistance of his own finger and thumb and\nwaistcoat; and at Jonas\'s request, he took the further trouble of going\ninto a corner of the room, and alternately representing the murdered\nman and the murderer; which he did with great effect. The bottle being\nemptied and the story done, Jonas was in precisely the same boisterous\nand unusual state as when they had sat down. If, as Jobling theorized,\nhis good digestion were the cause, he must have been a very ostrich.\n\nAt dinner it was just the same; and after dinner too; though wine was\ndrunk in abundance, and various rich meats eaten. At nine o\'clock it was\nstill the same. There being a lamp in the carriage, he swore they would\ntake a pack of cards, and a bottle of wine; and with these things under\nhis cloak, went down to the door.\n\n\'Out of the way, Tom Thumb, and get to bed!\'\n\nThis was the salutation he bestowed on Mr Bailey, who, booted and\nwrapped up, stood at the carriage door to help him in.\n\n\'To bed, sir! I\'m a-going, too,\' said Bailey.\n\nHe alighted quickly, and walked back into the hall, where Montague was\nlighting a cigar; conducting Mr Bailey with him, by the collar.\n\n\'You are not a-going to take this monkey of a boy, are you?\'\n\n\'Yes,\' said Montague.\n\nHe gave the boy a shake, and threw him roughly aside. There was more of\nhis familiar self in the action, than in anything he had done that day;\nbut he broke out laughing immediately afterwards, and making a thrust\nat the doctor with his hand, in imitation of his representation of the\nmedical friend, went out to the carriage again, and took his seat. His\ncompanion followed immediately. Mr Bailey climbed into the rumble. \'It\nwill be a stormy night!\' exclaimed the doctor, as they started.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-TWO\n\nCONTINUATION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND\n\n\nThe doctor\'s prognostication in reference to the weather was speedily\nverified. Although the weather was not a patient of his, and no third\nparty had required him to give an opinion on the case, the quick\nfulfilment of his prophecy may be taken as an instance of his\nprofessional tact; for, unless the threatening aspect of the night\nhad been perfectly plain and unmistakable, Mr Jobling would never have\ncompromised his reputation by delivering any sentiments on the subject.\nHe used this principle in Medicine with too much success to be unmindful\nof it in his commonest transactions.\n\nIt was one of those hot, silent nights, when people sit at windows\nlistening for the thunder which they know will shortly break; when\nthey recall dismal tales of hurricanes and earthquakes; and of lonely\ntravellers on open plains, and lonely ships at sea, struck by lightning.\nLightning flashed and quivered on the black horizon even now; and hollow\nmurmurings were in the wind, as though it had been blowing where the\nthunder rolled, and still was charged with its exhausted echoes. But the\nstorm, though gathering swiftly, had not yet come up; and the prevailing\nstillness was the more solemn, from the dull intelligence that seemed to\nhover in the air, of noise and conflict afar off.\n\nIt was very dark; but in the murky sky there were masses of cloud which\nshone with a lurid light, like monstrous heaps of copper that had been\nheated in a furnace, and were growing cold. These had been advancing\nsteadily and slowly, but they were now motionless, or nearly so. As the\ncarriage clattered round the corners of the streets, it passed at every\none a knot of persons who had come there--many from their houses close\nat hand, without hats--to look up at that quarter of the sky. And now a\nvery few large drops of rain began to fall, and thunder rumbled in the\ndistance.\n\nJonas sat in a corner of the carriage with his bottle resting on his\nknee, and gripped as tightly in his hand as if he would have ground its\nneck to powder if he could. Instinctively attracted by the night, he\nhad laid aside the pack of cards upon the cushion; and with the same\ninvoluntary impulse, so intelligible to both of them as not to occasion\na remark on either side, his companion had extinguished the lamp. The\nfront glasses were down; and they sat looking silently out upon the\ngloomy scene before them.\n\nThey were clear of London, or as clear of it as travellers can be whose\nway lies on the Western Road, within a stage of that enormous city.\nOccasionally they encountered a foot-passenger, hurrying to the nearest\nplace of shelter; or some unwieldy cart proceeding onward at a heavy\ntrot, with the same end in view. Little clusters of such vehicles were\ngathered round the stable-yard or baiting-place of every wayside tavern;\nwhile their drivers watched the weather from the doors and open windows,\nor made merry within. Everywhere the people were disposed to bear each\nother company rather than sit alone; so that groups of watchful faces\nseemed to be looking out upon the night AND THEM, from almost every\nhouse they passed.\n\nIt may appear strange that this should have disturbed Jonas, or rendered\nhim uneasy; but it did. After muttering to himself, and often changing\nhis position, he drew up the blind on his side of the carriage, and\nturned his shoulder sulkily towards it. But he neither looked at his\ncompanion, nor broke the silence which prevailed between them, and which\nhad fallen so suddenly upon himself, by addressing a word to him.\n\nThe thunder rolled, the lightning flashed; the rain poured down like\nHeaven\'s wrath. Surrounded at one moment by intolerable light, and\nat the next by pitchy darkness, they still pressed forward on their\njourney. Even when they arrived at the end of the stage, and might have\ntarried, they did not; but ordered horses out immediately. Nor had this\nany reference to some five minutes\' lull, which at that time seemed to\npromise a cessation of the storm. They held their course as if they were\nimpelled and driven by its fury. Although they had not exchanged a dozen\nwords, and might have tarried very well, they seemed to feel, by joint\nconsent, that onward they must go.\n\nLouder and louder the deep thunder rolled, as through the myriad\nhalls of some vast temple in the sky; fiercer and brighter became the\nlightning, more and more heavily the rain poured down. The horses (they\nwere travelling now with a single pair) plunged and started from the\nrills of quivering fire that seemed to wind along the ground before\nthem; but there these two men sat, and forward they went as if they were\nled on by an invisible attraction.\n\nThe eye, partaking of the quickness of the flashing light, saw in its\nevery gleam a multitude of objects which it could not see at steady noon\nin fifty times that period. Bells in steeples, with the rope and wheel\nthat moved them; ragged nests of birds in cornices and nooks; faces full\nof consternation in the tilted waggons that came tearing past; their\nfrightened teams ringing out a warning which the thunder drowned;\nharrows and ploughs left out in fields; miles upon miles of\nhedge-divided country, with the distant fringe of trees as obvious as\nthe scarecrow in the bean-field close at hand; in a trembling, vivid,\nflickering instant, everything was clear and plain; then came a flush\nof red into the yellow light; a change to blue; a brightness so\nintense that there was nothing else but light; and then the deepest and\nprofoundest darkness.\n\nThe lightning being very crooked and very dazzling may have presented\nor assisted a curious optical illusion, which suddenly rose before the\nstartled eyes of Montague in the carriage, and as rapidly disappeared.\nHe thought he saw Jonas with his hand lifted, and the bottle clenched in\nit like a hammer, making as if he would aim a blow at his head. At the\nsame time he observed (or so believed) an expression in his face--a\ncombination of the unnatural excitement he had shown all day, with a\nwild hatred and fear--which might have rendered a wolf a less terrible\ncompanion.\n\nHe uttered an involuntary exclamation, and called to the driver, who\nbrought his horses to a stop with all speed.\n\nIt could hardly have been as he supposed, for although he had not taken\nhis eyes off his companion, and had not seen him move, he sat reclining\nin his corner as before.\n\n\'What\'s the matter?\' said Jonas. \'Is that your general way of waking out\nof your sleep?\'\n\n\'I could swear,\' returned the other, \'that I have not closed my eyes!\'\n\n\'When you have sworn it,\' said Jonas, composedly, \'we had better go on\nagain, if you have only stopped for that.\'\n\nHe uncorked the bottle with the help of his teeth; and putting it to his\nlips, took a long draught.\n\n\'I wish we had never started on this journey. This is not,\' said\nMontague, recoiling instinctively, and speaking in a voice that betrayed\nhis agitation; \'this is not a night to travel in.\'\n\n\'Ecod! you\'re right there,\' returned Jonas, \'and we shouldn\'t be out\nin it but for you. If you hadn\'t kept me waiting all day, we might have\nbeen at Salisbury by this time; snug abed and fast asleep. What are we\nstopping for?\'\n\nHis companion put his head out of window for a moment, and drawing it in\nagain, observed (as if that were his cause of anxiety), that the boy was\ndrenched to the skin.\n\n\'Serve him right,\' said Jonas. \'I\'m glad of it. What the devil are we\nstopping for? Are you going to spread him out to dry?\'\n\n\'I have half a mind to take him inside,\' observed the other with some\nhesitation.\n\n\'Oh! thankee!\' said Jonas. \'We don\'t want any damp boys here; especially\na young imp like him. Let him be where he is. He ain\'t afraid of a\nlittle thunder and lightning, I dare say; whoever else is. Go on,\ndriver. We had better have HIM inside perhaps,\' he muttered with a\nlaugh; \'and the horses!\'\n\n\'Don\'t go too fast,\' cried Montague to the postillion; \'and take care\nhow you go. You were nearly in the ditch when I called to you.\'\n\nThis was not true; and Jonas bluntly said so, as they moved forward\nagain. Montague took little or no heed of what he said, but repeated\nthat it was not a night for travelling, and showed himself, both then\nand afterwards, unusually anxious.\n\nFrom this time Jonas recovered his former spirits, if such a term may be\nemployed to express the state in which he had left the city. He had his\nbottle often at his mouth; roared out snatches of songs, without the\nleast regard to time or tune or voice, or anything but loud discordance;\nand urged his silent friend to be merry with him.\n\n\'You\'re the best company in the world, my good fellow,\' said Montague\nwith an effort, \'and in general irresistible; but to-night--do you hear\nit?\'\n\n\'Ecod! I hear and see it too,\' cried Jonas, shading his eyes, for the\nmoment, from the lightning which was flashing, not in any one direction,\nbut all around them. \'What of that? It don\'t change you, nor me, nor our\naffairs. Chorus, chorus,\n\n It may lighten and storm,\n Till it hunt the red worm\n From the grass where the gibbet is driven;\n But it can\'t hurt the dead,\n And it won\'t save the head\n That is doom\'d to be rifled and riven.\n\nThat must be a precious old song,\' he added with an oath, as he stopped\nshort in a kind of wonder at himself. \'I haven\'t heard it since I was\na boy, and how it comes into my head now, unless the lightning put it\nthere, I don\'t know. \"Can\'t hurt the dead\"! No, no. \"And won\'t save the\nhead\"! No, no. No! Ha, ha, ha!\'\n\nHis mirth was of such a savage and extraordinary character, and was,\nin an inexplicable way, at once so suited to the night, and yet such\na coarse intrusion on its terrors, that his fellow-traveller, always\na coward, shrunk from him in positive fear. Instead of Jonas being his\ntool and instrument, their places seemed to be reversed. But there was\nreason for this too, Montague thought; since the sense of his debasement\nmight naturally inspire such a man with the wish to assert a noisy\nindependence, and in that licence to forget his real condition. Being\nquick enough, in reference to such subjects of contemplation, he was not\nlong in taking this argument into account and giving it its full weight.\nBut still, he felt a vague sense of alarm, and was depressed and uneasy.\n\nHe was certain he had not been asleep; but his eyes might have deceived\nhim; for, looking at Jonas now in any interval of darkness, he could\nrepresent his figure to himself in any attitude his state of mind\nsuggested. On the other hand, he knew full well that Jonas had no\nreason to love him; and even taking the piece of pantomime which had\nso impressed his mind to be a real gesture, and not the working of\nhis fancy, the most that could be said of it was, that it was quite in\nkeeping with the rest of his diabolical fun, and had the same impotent\nexpression of truth in it. \'If he could kill me with a wish,\' thought\nthe swindler, \'I should not live long.\'\n\nHe resolved that when he should have had his use of Jonas, he would\nrestrain him with an iron curb; in the meantime, that he could not do\nbetter than leave him to take his own way, and preserve his own peculiar\ndescription of good-humour, after his own uncommon manner. It was no\ngreat sacrifice to bear with him; \'for when all is got that can be got,\'\nthought Montague, \'I shall decamp across the water, and have the laugh\non my side--and the gains.\'\n\nSuch were his reflections from hour to hour; his state of mind being one\nin which the same thoughts constantly present themselves over and\nover again in wearisome repetition; while Jonas, who appeared to have\ndismissed reflection altogether, entertained himself as before.\nThey agreed that they would go to Salisbury, and would cross to Mr\nPecksniff\'s in the morning; and at the prospect of deluding that worthy\ngentleman, the spirits of his amiable son-in-law became more boisterous\nthan ever.\n\nAs the night wore on, the thunder died away, but still rolled\ngloomily and mournfully in the distance. The lightning too, though now\ncomparatively harmless, was yet bright and frequent. The rain was quite\nas violent as it had ever been.\n\nIt was their ill-fortune, at about the time of dawn and in the last\nstage of their journey, to have a restive pair of horses. These animals\nhad been greatly terrified in their stable by the tempest; and coming\nout into the dreary interval between night and morning, when the glare\nof the lightning was yet unsubdued by day, and the various objects in\ntheir view were presented in indistinct and exaggerated shapes which\nthey would not have worn by night, they gradually became less and less\ncapable of control; until, taking a sudden fright at something by the\nroadside, they dashed off wildly down a steep hill, flung the driver\nfrom his saddle, drew the carriage to the brink of a ditch, stumbled\nheadlong down, and threw it crashing over.\n\nThe travellers had opened the carriage door, and had either jumped or\nfallen out. Jonas was the first to stagger to his feet. He felt sick and\nweak, and very giddy, and reeling to a five-barred gate, stood holding\nby it; looking drowsily about as the whole landscape swam before his\neyes. But, by degrees, he grew more conscious, and presently observed\nthat Montague was lying senseless in the road, within a few feet of the\nhorses.\n\nIn an instant, as if his own faint body were suddenly animated by a\ndemon, he ran to the horses\' heads; and pulling at their bridles with\nall his force, set them struggling and plunging with such mad violence\nas brought their hoofs at every effort nearer to the skull of the\nprostrate man; and must have led in half a minute to his brains being\ndashed out on the highway.\n\nAs he did this, he fought and contended with them like a man possessed,\nmaking them wilder by his cries.\n\n\'Whoop!\' cried Jonas. \'Whoop! again! another! A little more, a little\nmore! Up, ye devils! Hillo!\'\n\nAs he heard the driver, who had risen and was hurrying up, crying to him\nto desist, his violence increased.\n\n\'Hiilo! Hillo!\' cried Jonas.\n\n\'For God\'s sake!\' cried the driver. \'The gentleman--in the road--he\'ll\nbe killed!\'\n\nThe same shouts and the same struggles were his only answer. But the man\ndarting in at the peril of his own life, saved Montague\'s, by dragging\nhim through the mire and water out of the reach of present harm. That\ndone, he ran to Jonas; and with the aid of his knife they very shortly\ndisengaged the horses from the broken chariot, and got them, cut and\nbleeding, on their legs again. The postillion and Jonas had now leisure\nto look at each other, which they had not had yet.\n\n\'Presence of mind, presence of mind!\' cried Jonas, throwing up his hands\nwildly. \'What would you have done without me?\'\n\n\'The other gentleman would have done badly without ME,\' returned the\nman, shaking his head. \'You should have moved him first. I gave him up\nfor dead.\'\n\n\'Presence of mind, you croaker, presence of mind\' cried Jonas with a\nharsh loud laugh. \'Was he struck, do you think?\'\n\nThey both turned to look at him. Jonas muttered something to himself,\nwhen he saw him sitting up beneath the hedge, looking vacantly around.\n\n\'What\'s the matter?\' asked Montague. \'Is anybody hurt?\'\n\n\'Ecod!\' said Jonas, \'it don\'t seem so. There are no bones broken, after\nall.\'\n\nThey raised him, and he tried to walk. He was a good deal shaken, and\ntrembled very much. But with the exception of a few cuts and bruises\nthis was all the damage he had sustained.\n\n\'Cuts and bruises, eh?\' said Jonas. \'We\'ve all got them. Only cuts and\nbruises, eh?\'\n\n\'I wouldn\'t have given sixpence for the gentleman\'s head in half-a-dozen\nseconds more, for all he\'s only cut and bruised,\' observed the post-boy.\n\'If ever you\'re in an accident of this sort again, sir; which I hope\nyou won\'t be; never you pull at the bridle of a horse that\'s down, when\nthere\'s a man\'s head in the way. That can\'t be done twice without there\nbeing a dead man in the case; it would have ended in that, this time, as\nsure as ever you were born, if I hadn\'t come up just when I did.\'\n\nJonas replied by advising him with a curse to hold his tongue, and to go\nsomewhere, whither he was not very likely to go of his own accord. But\nMontague, who had listened eagerly to every word, himself diverted the\nsubject, by exclaiming: \'Where\'s the boy?\'\n\n\'Ecod! I forgot that monkey,\' said Jonas. \'What\'s become of him?\' A very\nbrief search settled that question. The unfortunate Mr Bailey had been\nthrown sheer over the hedge or the five-barred gate; and was lying in\nthe neighbouring field, to all appearance dead.\n\n\'When I said to-night, that I wished I had never started on this\njourney,\' cried his master, \'I knew it was an ill-fated one. Look at\nthis boy!\'\n\n\'Is that all?\' growled Jonas. \'If you call THAT a sign of it--\'\n\n\'Why, what should I call a sign of it?\' asked Montague, hurriedly. \'What\ndo you mean?\'\n\n\'I mean,\' said Jonas, stooping down over the body, \'that I never heard\nyou were his father, or had any particular reason to care much about\nhim. Halloa. Hold up there!\'\n\nBut the boy was past holding up, or being held up, or giving any other\nsign of life than a faint and fitful beating of the heart. After some\ndiscussion the driver mounted the horse which had been least injured,\nand took the lad in his arms as well as he could; while Montague and\nJonas, leading the other horse, and carrying a trunk between them,\nwalked by his side towards Salisbury.\n\n\'You\'d get there in a few minutes, and be able to send assistance to\nmeet us, if you went forward, post-boy,\' said Jonas. \'Trot on!\'\n\n\'No, no,\' cried Montague; \'we\'ll keep together.\'\n\n\'Why, what a chicken you are! You are not afraid of being robbed; are\nyou?\' said Jonas.\n\n\'I am not afraid of anything,\' replied the other, whose looks and manner\nwere in flat contradiction to his words. \'But we\'ll keep together.\'\n\n\'You were mighty anxious about the boy, a minute ago,\' said Jonas. \'I\nsuppose you know that he may die in the meantime?\'\n\n\'Aye, aye. I know. But we\'ll keep together.\'\n\nAs it was clear that he was not to be moved from this determination,\nJonas made no other rejoinder than such as his face expressed; and they\nproceeded in company. They had three or four good miles to travel; and\nthe way was not made easier by the state of the road, the burden by\nwhich they were embarrassed, or their own stiff and sore condition.\nAfter a sufficiently long and painful walk, they arrived at the Inn; and\nhaving knocked the people up (it being yet very early in the morning),\nsent out messengers to see to the carriage and its contents, and roused\na surgeon from his bed to tend the chief sufferer. All the service he\ncould render, he rendered promptly and skillfully. But he gave it as\nhis opinion that the boy was labouring under a severe concussion of the\nbrain, and that Mr Bailey\'s mortal course was run.\n\nIf Montague\'s strong interest in the announcement could have been\nconsidered as unselfish in any degree, it might have been a redeeming\ntrait in a character that had no such lineaments to spare. But it was\nnot difficult to see that, for some unexpressed reason best appreciated\nby himself, he attached a strange value to the company and presence of\nthis mere child. When, after receiving some assistance from the surgeon\nhimself, he retired to the bedroom prepared for him, and it was broad\nday, his mind was still dwelling on this theme.\n\n\'I would rather have lost,\' he said, \'a thousand pounds than lost the\nboy just now. But I\'ll return home alone. I am resolved upon that.\nChuzzlewit shall go forward first, and I will follow in my own time.\nI\'ll have no more of this,\' he added, wiping his damp forehead.\n\'Twenty-four hours of this would turn my hair grey!\'\n\nAfter examining his chamber, and looking under the bed, and in the\ncupboards, and even behind the curtains, with unusual caution (although\nit was, as has been said, broad day), he double-locked the door by which\nhe had entered, and retired to rest. There was another door in the\nroom, but it was locked on the outer side; and with what place it\ncommunicated, he knew not.\n\nHis fears or evil conscience reproduced this door in all his dreams. He\ndreamed that a dreadful secret was connected with it; a secret which he\nknew, and yet did not know, for although he was heavily responsible\nfor it, and a party to it, he was harassed even in his vision by\na distracting uncertainty in reference to its import. Incoherently\nentwined with this dream was another, which represented it as the\nhiding-place of an enemy, a shadow, a phantom; and made it the business\nof his life to keep the terrible creature closed up, and prevent it\nfrom forcing its way in upon him. With this view Nadgett, and he, and a\nstrange man with a bloody smear upon his head (who told him that he\nhad been his playfellow, and told him, too, the real name of an old\nschoolmate, forgotten until then), worked with iron plates and nails to\nmake the door secure; but though they worked never so hard, it was all\nin vain, for the nails broke, or changed to soft twigs, or what was\nworse, to worms, between their fingers; the wood of the door splintered\nand crumbled, so that even nails would not remain in it; and the iron\nplates curled up like hot paper. All this time the creature on the other\nside--whether it was in the shape of man, or beast, he neither knew nor\nsought to know--was gaining on them. But his greatest terror was when\nthe man with the bloody smear upon his head demanded of him if he knew\nthis creatures name, and said that he would whisper it. At this the\ndreamer fell upon his knees, his whole blood thrilling with inexplicable\nfear, and held his ears. But looking at the speaker\'s lips, he saw that\nthey formed the utterance of the letter \'J\'; and crying out aloud that\nthe secret was discovered, and they were all lost, he awoke.\n\nAwoke to find Jonas standing at his bedside watching him. And that very\ndoor wide open.\n\nAs their eyes met, Jonas retreated a few paces, and Montague sprang out\nof bed.\n\n\'Heyday!\' said Jonas. \'You\'re all alive this morning.\'\n\n\'Alive!\' the other stammered, as he pulled the bell-rope violently.\n\'What are you doing here?\'\n\n\'It\'s your room to be sure,\' said Jonas; \'but I\'m almost inclined to ask\nyou what YOU are doing here? My room is on the other side of that\ndoor. No one told me last night not to open it. I thought it led into a\npassage, and was coming out to order breakfast. There\'s--there\'s no bell\nin my room.\'\n\nMontague had in the meantime admitted the man with his hot water and\nboots, who hearing this, said, yes, there was; and passed into the\nadjoining room to point it out, at the head of the bed.\n\n\'I couldn\'t find it, then,\' said Jonas; \'it\'s all the same. Shall I\norder breakfast?\'\n\nMontague answered in the affirmative. When Jonas had retired, whistling,\nthrough his own room, he opened the door of communication, to take out\nthe key and fasten it on the inner side. But it was taken out already.\n\nHe dragged a table against the door, and sat down to collect himself, as\nif his dreams still had some influence upon his mind.\n\n\'An evil journey,\' he repeated several times. \'An evil journey. But I\'ll\ntravel home alone. I\'ll have no more of this.\'\n\nHis presentiment, or superstition, that it was an evil journey, did\nnot at all deter him from doing the evil for which the journey was\nundertaken. With this in view, he dressed himself more carefully than\nusual to make a favourable impression on Mr Pecksniff; and, reassured by\nhis own appearance, the beauty of the morning, and the flashing of\nthe wet boughs outside his window in the merry sunshine, was soon\nsufficiently inspirited to swear a few round oaths, and hum the fag-end\nof a song.\n\nBut he still muttered to himself at intervals, for all that: \'I\'ll\ntravel home alone!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-THREE\n\nHAS AN INFLUENCE ON THE FORTUNES OF SEVERAL PEOPLE. MR PECKSNIFF IS\nEXHIBITED IN THE PLENITUDE OF POWER; AND WIELDS THE SAME WITH FORTITUDE\nAND MAGNANIMITY\n\n\nOn the night of the storm, Mrs Lupin, hostess of the Blue Dragon, sat by\nherself in her little bar. Her solitary condition, or the bad weather,\nor both united, made Mrs Lupin thoughtful, not to say sorrowful. As she\nsat with her chin upon her hand, looking out through a low back lattice,\nrendered dim in the brightest day-time by clustering vine-leaves, she\nshook her head very often, and said, \'Dear me! Oh, dear, dear me!\'\n\nIt was a melancholy time, even in the snugness of the Dragon bar.\nThe rich expanse of corn-field, pasture-land, green slope, and gentle\nundulation, with its sparkling brooks, its many hedgerows, and its\nclumps of beautiful trees, was black and dreary, from the diamond panes\nof the lattice away to the far horizon, where the thunder seemed to roll\nalong the hills. The heavy rain beat down the tender branches of vine\nand jessamine, and trampled on them in its fury; and when the lightning\ngleamed it showed the tearful leaves shivering and cowering together at\nthe window, and tapping at it urgently, as if beseeching to be sheltered\nfrom the dismal night.\n\nAs a mark of her respect for the lightning, Mrs Lupin had removed her\ncandle to the chimney-piece. Her basket of needle-work stood unheeded\nat her elbow; her supper, spread on a round table not far off, was\nuntasted; and the knives had been removed for fear of attraction. She\nhad sat for a long time with her chin upon her hand, saying to herself\nat intervals, \'Dear me! Ah, dear, dear me!\'\n\nShe was on the eve of saying so, once more, when the latch of the\nhouse-door (closed to keep the rain out), rattled on its well-worn\ncatch, and a traveller came in, who, shutting it after him, and walking\nstraight up to the half-door of the bar, said, rather gruffly:\n\n\'A pint of the best old beer here.\'\n\nHe had some reason to be gruff, for if he had passed the day in a\nwaterfall, he could scarcely have been wetter than he was. He was\nwrapped up to the eyes in a rough blue sailor\'s coat, and had an\noil-skin hat on, from the capacious brim of which the rain fell\ntrickling down upon his breast, and back, and shoulders. Judging from a\ncertain liveliness of chin--he had so pulled down his hat, and pulled up\nhis collar, to defend himself from the weather, that she could only\nsee his chin, and even across that he drew the wet sleeve of his shaggy\ncoat, as she looked at him--Mrs Lupin set him down for a good-natured\nfellow, too.\n\n\'A bad night!\' observed the hostess cheerfully.\n\nThe traveller shook himself like a Newfoundland dog, and said it was,\nrather.\n\n\'There\'s a fire in the kitchen,\' said Mrs Lupin, \'and very good company\nthere. Hadn\'t you better go and dry yourself?\'\n\n\'No, thankee,\' said the man, glancing towards the kitchen as he spoke;\nhe seemed to know the way.\n\n\'It\'s enough to give you your death of cold,\' observed the hostess.\n\n\'I don\'t take my death easy,\' returned the traveller; \'or I should most\nlikely have took it afore to-night. Your health, ma\'am!\'\n\nMrs Lupin thanked him; but in the act of lifting the tankard to his\nmouth, he changed his mind, and put it down again. Throwing his body\nback, and looking about him stiffly, as a man does who is wrapped up,\nand has his hat low down over his eyes, he said:\n\n\'What do you call this house? Not the Dragon, do you?\'\n\nMrs Lupin complacently made answer, \'Yes, the Dragon.\'\n\n\'Why, then, you\'ve got a sort of a relation of mine here, ma\'am,\' said\nthe traveller; \'a young man of the name of Tapley. What! Mark, my boy!\'\napostrophizing the premises, \'have I come upon you at last, old buck!\'\n\nThis was touching Mrs Lupin on a tender point. She turned to trim\nthe candle on the chimney-piece, and said, with her back towards the\ntraveller:\n\n\'Nobody should be made more welcome at the Dragon, master, than any one\nwho brought me news of Mark. But it\'s many and many a long day and month\nsince he left here and England. And whether he\'s alive or dead, poor\nfellow, Heaven above us only knows!\'\n\nShe shook her head, and her voice trembled; her hand must have done so\ntoo, for the light required a deal of trimming.\n\n\'Where did he go, ma\'am?\' asked the traveller, in a gentler voice.\n\n\'He went,\' said Mrs Lupin, with increased distress, \'to America. He was\nalways tender-hearted and kind, and perhaps at this moment may be lying\nin prison under sentence of death, for taking pity on some miserable\nblack, and helping the poor runaway creetur to escape. How could he ever\ngo to America! Why didn\'t he go to some of those countries where the\nsavages eat each other fairly, and give an equal chance to every one!\'\n\nQuite subdued by this time, Mrs Lupin sobbed, and was retiring to a\nchair to give her grief free vent, when the traveller caught her in his\narms, and she uttered a glad cry of recognition.\n\n\'Yes, I will!\' cried Mark, \'another--one more--twenty more! You\ndidn\'t know me in that hat and coat? I thought you would have known me\nanywheres! Ten more!\'\n\n\'So I should have known you, if I could have seen you; but I couldn\'t,\nand you spoke so gruff. I didn\'t think you could speak gruff to me,\nMark, at first coming back.\'\n\n\'Fifteen more!\' said Mr Tapley. \'How handsome and how young you look!\nSix more! The last half-dozen warn\'t a fair one, and must be done over\nagain. Lord bless you, what a treat it is to see you! One more! Well, I\nnever was so jolly. Just a few more, on account of there not being any\ncredit in it!\'\n\nWhen Mr Tapley stopped in these calculations in simple addition, he did\nit, not because he was at all tired of the exercise, but because he was\nout of breath. The pause reminded him of other duties.\n\n\'Mr Martin Chuzzlewit\'s outside,\' he said. \'I left him under the\ncartshed, while I came on to see if there was anybody here. We want to\nkeep quiet to-night, till we know the news from you, and what it\'s best\nfor us to do.\'\n\n\'There\'s not a soul in the house, except the kitchen company,\' returned\nthe hostess. \'If they were to know you had come back, Mark, they\'d have\na bonfire in the street, late as it is.\'\n\n\'But they mustn\'t know it to-night, my precious soul,\' said Mark; \'so\nhave the house shut, and the kitchen fire made up; and when it\'s all\nready, put a light in the winder, and we\'ll come in. One more! I long\nto hear about old friends. You\'ll tell me all about \'em, won\'t you; Mr\nPinch, and the butcher\'s dog down the street, and the terrier over the\nway, and the wheelwright\'s, and every one of \'em. When I first caught\nsight of the church to-night, I thought the steeple would have choked\nme, I did. One more! Won\'t you? Not a very little one to finish off\nwith?\'\n\n\'You have had plenty, I am sure,\' said the hostess. \'Go along with your\nforeign manners!\'\n\n\'That ain\'t foreign, bless you!\' cried Mark. \'Native as oysters, that\nis! One more, because it\'s native! As a mark of respect for the land we\nlive in! This don\'t count as between you and me, you understand,\' said\nMr Tapley. \'I ain\'t a-kissing you now, you\'ll observe. I have been among\nthe patriots; I\'m a-kissin\' my country.\'\n\nIt would have been very unreasonable to complain of the exhibition of\nhis patriotism with which he followed up this explanation, that it was\nat all lukewarm or indifferent. When he had given full expression to his\nnationality, he hurried off to Martin; while Mrs Lupin, in a state of\ngreat agitation and excitement, prepared for their reception.\n\nThe company soon came tumbling out; insisting to each other that the\nDragon clock was half an hour too fast, and that the thunder must have\naffected it. Impatient, wet, and weary though they were, Martin and Mark\nwere overjoyed to see these old faces, and watched them with delighted\ninterest as they departed from the house, and passed close by them.\n\n\'There\'s the old tailor, Mark!\' whispered Martin.\n\n\'There he goes, sir! A little bandier than he was, I think, sir, ain\'t\nhe? His figure\'s so far altered, as it seems to me, that you might wheel\na rather larger barrow between his legs as he walks, than you could have\ndone conveniently when we know\'d him. There\'s Sam a-coming out, sir.\'\n\n\'Ah, to be sure!\' cried Martin; \'Sam, the hostler. I wonder whether that\nhorse of Pecksniff\'s is alive still?\'\n\n\'Not a doubt on it, sir,\' returned Mark. \'That\'s a description of\nanimal, sir, as will go on in a bony way peculiar to himself for a long\ntime, and get into the newspapers at last under the title of \"Sing\'lar\nTenacity of Life in a Quadruped.\" As if he had ever been alive in all\nhis life, worth mentioning! There\'s the clerk, sir--wery drunk, as\nusual.\'\n\n\'I see him!\' said Martin, laughing. \'But, my life, how wet you are,\nMark!\'\n\n\'I am! What do you consider yourself, sir?\'\n\n\'Oh, not half as bad,\' said his fellow-traveller, with an air of great\nvexation. \'I told you not to keep on the windy side, Mark, but to let us\nchange and change about. The rain has been beating on you ever since it\nbegan.\'\n\n\'You don\'t know how it pleases me, sir,\' said Mark, after a short\nsilence, \'if I may make so bold as say so, to hear you a-going on in\nthat there uncommon considerate way of yours; which I don\'t mean to\nattend to, never, but which, ever since that time when I was floored in\nEden, you have showed.\'\n\n\'Ah, Mark!\' sighed Martin, \'the less we say of that the better. Do I see\nthe light yonder?\'\n\n\'That\'s the light!\' cried Mark. \'Lord bless her, what briskness she\npossesses! Now for it, sir. Neat wines, good beds, and first-rate\nentertainment for man or beast.\'\n\nThe kitchen fire burnt clear and red, the table was spread out, the\nkettle boiled; the slippers were there, the boot-jack too, sheets of\nham were there, cooking on the gridiron; half-a-dozen eggs were there,\npoaching in the frying-pan; a plethoric cherry-brandy bottle was there,\nwinking at a foaming jug of beer upon the table; rare provisions were\nthere, dangling from the rafters as if you had only to open your mouth,\nand something exquisitely ripe and good would be glad of the excuse for\ntumbling into it. Mrs Lupin, who for their sakes had dislodged the\nvery cook, high priestess of the temple, with her own genial hands was\ndressing their repast.\n\nIt was impossible to help it--a ghost must have hugged her. The Atlantic\nOcean and the Red Sea being, in that respect, all one, Martin hugged\nher instantly. Mr Tapley (as if the idea were quite novel, and had never\noccurred to him before), followed, with much gravity, on the same side.\n\n\'Little did I ever think,\' said Mrs Lupin, adjusting her cap and\nlaughing heartily; yes, and blushing too; \'often as I have said that Mr\nPecksniff\'s young gentlemen were the life and soul of the Dragon, and\nthat without them it would be too dull to live in--little did I ever\nthink I am sure, that any one of them would ever make so free as you, Mr\nMartin! And still less that I shouldn\'t be angry with him, but should be\nglad with all my heart to be the first to welcome him home from America,\nwith Mark Tapley for his--\'\n\n\'For his friend, Mrs Lupin,\' interposed Martin.\n\n\'For his friend,\' said the hostess, evidently gratified by this\ndistinction, but at the same time admonishing Mr Tapley with a fork\nto remain at a respectful distance. \'Little did I ever think that! But\nstill less, that I should ever have the changes to relate that I shall\nhave to tell you of, when you have done your supper!\'\n\n\'Good Heaven!\' cried Martin, changing colour, \'what changes?\'\n\n\'SHE,\' said the hostess, \'is quite well, and now at Mr Pecksniff\'s.\nDon\'t be at all alarmed about her. She is everything you could wish.\nIt\'s of no use mincing matters, or making secrets, is it?\' added Mrs\nLupin. \'I know all about it, you see!\'\n\n\'My good creature,\' returned Martin, \'you are exactly the person who\nought to know all about it. I am delighted to think you DO know about\nthat! But what changes do you hint at? Has any death occurred?\'\n\n\'No, no!\' said the hostess. \'Not as bad as that. But I declare now that\nI will not be drawn into saying another word till you have had your\nsupper. If you ask me fifty questions in the meantime, I won\'t answer\none.\'\n\nShe was so positive, that there was nothing for it but to get the supper\nover as quickly as possible; and as they had been walking a great many\nmiles, and had fasted since the middle of the day, they did no great\nviolence to their own inclinations in falling on it tooth and nail. It\ntook rather longer to get through than might have been expected; for,\nhalf-a-dozen times, when they thought they had finished, Mrs Lupin\nexposed the fallacy of that impression triumphantly. But at last, in\nthe course of time and nature, they gave in. Then, sitting with\ntheir slippered feet stretched out upon the kitchen hearth (which was\nwonderfully comforting, for the night had grown by this time raw and\nchilly), and looking with involuntary admiration at their dimpled,\nbuxom, blooming hostess, as the firelight sparkled in her eyes and\nglimmered in her raven hair, they composed themselves to listen to her\nnews.\n\nMany were the exclamations of surprise which interrupted her, when she\ntold them of the separation between Mr Pecksniff and his daughters, and\nbetween the same good gentleman and Mr Pinch. But these were nothing to\nthe indignant demonstrations of Martin, when she related, as the common\ntalk of the neighbourhood, what entire possession he had obtained\nover the mind and person of old Mr Chuzzlewit, and what high honour he\ndesigned for Mary. On receipt of this intelligence, Martin\'s slippers\nflew off in a twinkling, and he began pulling on his wet boots with that\nindefinite intention of going somewhere instantly, and doing something\nto somebody, which is the first safety-valve of a hot temper.\n\n\'He!\' said Martin, \'smooth-tongued villain that he is! He! Give me that\nother boot, Mark?\'\n\n\'Where was you a-thinking of going to, sir?\' inquired Mr Tapley drying\nthe sole at the fire, and looking coolly at it as he spoke, as if it\nwere a slice of toast.\n\n\'Where!\' repeated Martin. \'You don\'t suppose I am going to remain here,\ndo you?\'\n\nThe imperturbable Mark confessed that he did.\n\nYou do!\' retorted Martin angrily. \'I am much obliged to you. What do you\ntake me for?\'\n\n\'I take you for what you are, sir,\' said Mark; \'and, consequently, am\nquite sure that whatever you do will be right and sensible. The boot,\nsir.\'\n\nMartin darted an impatient look at him, without taking it, and walked\nrapidly up and down the kitchen several times, with one boot and a\nstocking on. But, mindful of his Eden resolution, he had already gained\nmany victories over himself when Mark was in the case, and he resolved\nto conquer now. So he came back to the book-jack, laid his hand on\nMark\'s shoulder to steady himself, pulled the boot off, picked up his\nslippers, put them on, and sat down again. He could not help thrusting\nhis hands to the very bottom of his pockets, and muttering at intervals,\n\'Pecksniff too! That fellow! Upon my soul! In-deed! What next?\' and so\nforth; nor could he help occasionally shaking his fist at the chimney,\nwith a very threatening countenance; but this did not last long; and he\nheard Mrs Lupin out, if not with composure, at all events in silence.\n\n\'As to Mr Pecksniff himself,\' observed the hostess in conclusion,\nspreading out the skirts of her gown with both hands, and nodding\nher head a great many times as she did so, \'I don\'t know what to\nsay. Somebody must have poisoned his mind, or influenced him in some\nextraordinary way. I cannot believe that such a noble-spoken gentleman\nwould go and do wrong of his own accord!\'\n\nA noble-spoken gentleman! How many people are there in the world, who,\nfor no better reason, uphold their Pecksniffs to the last and abandon\nvirtuous men, when Pecksniffs breathe upon them!\n\n\'As to Mr Pinch,\' pursued the landlady, \'if ever there was a dear, good,\npleasant, worthy soul alive, Pinch, and no other, is his name. But\nhow do we know that old Mr Chuzzlewit himself was not the cause of\ndifference arising between him and Mr Pecksniff? No one but themselves\ncan tell; for Mr Pinch has a proud spirit, though he has such a quiet\nway; and when he left us, and was so sorry to go, he scorned to make his\nstory good, even to me.\'\n\n\'Poor old Tom!\' said Martin, in a tone that sounded like remorse.\n\n\'It\'s a comfort to know,\' resumed the landlady, \'that he has his sister\nliving with him, and is doing well. Only yesterday he sent me back, by\npost, a little\'--here the colour came into her cheeks--\'a little trifle\nI was bold enough to lend him when he went away; saying, with many\nthanks, that he had good employment, and didn\'t want it. It was the same\nnote; he hadn\'t broken it. I never thought I could have been so little\npleased to see a bank-note come back to me as I was to see that.\'\n\n\'Kindly said, and heartily!\' said Martin. \'Is it not, Mark?\'\n\n\'She can\'t say anything as does not possess them qualities,\' returned\nMr Tapley; \'which as much belongs to the Dragon as its licence. And now\nthat we have got quite cool and fresh, to the subject again, sir;\nwhat will you do? If you\'re not proud, and can make up your mind to go\nthrough with what you spoke of, coming along, that\'s the course for\nyou to take. If you started wrong with your grandfather (which, you\'ll\nexcuse my taking the liberty of saying, appears to have been the case),\nup with you, sir, and tell him so, and make an appeal to his affections.\nDon\'t stand out. He\'s a great deal older than you, and if he was hasty,\nyou was hasty too. Give way, sir, give way.\'\n\nThe eloquence of Mr Tapley was not without its effect on Martin but he\nstill hesitated, and expressed his reason thus:\n\n\'That\'s all very true, and perfectly correct, Mark; and if it were a\nmere question of humbling myself before HIM, I would not consider it\ntwice. But don\'t you see, that being wholly under this hypocrite\'s\ngovernment, and having (if what we hear be true) no mind or will of his\nown, I throw myself, in fact, not at his feet, but at the feet of\nMr Pecksniff? And when I am rejected and spurned away,\' said Martin,\nturning crimson at the thought, \'it is not by him; my own blood stirred\nagainst me; but by Pecksniff--Pecksniff, Mark!\'\n\n\'Well, but we know beforehand,\' returned the politic Mr Tapley, \'that\nPecksniff is a wagabond, a scoundrel, and a willain.\'\n\n\'A most pernicious villain!\' said Martin.\n\n\'A most pernicious willain. We know that beforehand, sir; and,\nconsequently, it\'s no shame to be defeated by Pecksniff. Blow\nPecksniff!\' cried Mr Tapley, in the fervour of his eloquence. \'Who\'s he!\nIt\'s not in the natur of Pecksniff to shame US, unless he agreed with\nus, or done us a service; and, in case he offered any audacity of that\ndescription, we could express our sentiments in the English language,\nI hope. Pecksniff!\' repeated Mr Tapley, with ineffable disdain. \'What\'s\nPecksniff, who\'s Pecksniff, where\'s Pecksniff, that he\'s to be so much\nconsidered? We\'re not a-calculating for ourselves;\' he laid uncommon\nemphasis on the last syllable of that word, and looked full in Martin\'s\nface; \'we\'re making a effort for a young lady likewise as has undergone\nher share; and whatever little hope we have, this here Pecksniff is not\nto stand in its way, I expect. I never heard of any act of Parliament,\nas was made by Pecksniff. Pecksniff! Why, I wouldn\'t see the man myself;\nI wouldn\'t hear him; I wouldn\'t choose to know he was in company. I\'d\nscrape my shoes on the scraper of the door, and call that Pecksniff, if\nyou liked; but I wouldn\'t condescend no further.\'\n\nThe amazement of Mrs Lupin, and indeed of Mr Tapley himself for that\nmatter, at this impassioned flow of language, was immense. But Martin,\nafter looking thoughtfully at the fire for a short time, said:\n\n\'You are right, Mark. Right or wrong, it shall be done. I\'ll do it.\'\n\n\'One word more, sir,\' returned Mark. \'Only think of him so far as not to\ngive him a handle against you. Don\'t you do anything secret that he\ncan report before you get there. Don\'t you even see Miss Mary in the\nmorning, but let this here dear friend of ours\'--Mr Tapley bestowed a\nsmile upon the hostess--\'prepare her for what\'s a-going to happen, and\ncarry any little message as may be agreeable. She knows how. Don\'t you?\'\nMrs Lupin laughed and tossed her head. \'Then you go in, bold and free as\na gentleman should. \"I haven\'t done nothing under-handed,\" says you. \"I\nhaven\'t been skulking about the premises, here I am, for-give me, I ask\nyour pardon, God Bless You!\"\'\n\nMartin smiled, but felt that it was good advice notwithstanding, and\nresolved to act upon it. When they had ascertained from Mrs Lupin that\nPecksniff had already returned from the great ceremonial at which they\nhad beheld him in his glory; and when they had fully arranged the order\nof their proceedings; they went to bed, intent upon the morrow.\n\nIn pursuance of their project as agreed upon at this discussion, Mr\nTapley issued forth next morning, after breakfast, charged with a letter\nfrom Martin to his grandfather, requesting leave to wait upon him for a\nfew minutes. And postponing as he went along the congratulations of his\nnumerous friends until a more convenient season, he soon arrived at Mr\nPecksniff\'s house. At that gentleman\'s door; with a face so immovable\nthat it would have been next to an impossibility for the most acute\nphysiognomist to determine what he was thinking about, or whether he was\nthinking at all; he straightway knocked.\n\nA person of Mr Tapley\'s observation could not long remain insensible\nto the fact that Mr Pecksniff was making the end of his nose very\nblunt against the glass of the parlour window, in an angular attempt to\ndiscover who had knocked at the door. Nor was Mr Tapley slow to baffle\nthis movement on the part of the enemy, by perching himself on the\ntop step, and presenting the crown of his hat in that direction. But\npossibly Mr Pecksniff had already seen him, for Mark soon heard his\nshoes creaking, as he advanced to open the door with his own hands.\n\nMr Pecksniff was as cheerful as ever, and sang a little song in the\npassage.\n\n\'How d\'ye do, sir?\' said Mark.\n\n\'Oh!\' cried Mr Pecksniff. \'Tapley, I believe? The Prodigal returned! We\ndon\'t want any beer, my friend.\'\n\n\'Thankee, sir,\' said Mark. \'I couldn\'t accommodate you if you did. A\nletter, sir. Wait for an answer.\'\n\n\'For me?\' cried Mr Pecksniff. \'And an answer, eh?\'\n\n\'Not for you, I think, sir,\' said Mark, pointing out the direction.\n\'Chuzzlewit, I believe the name is, sir.\'\n\n\'Oh!\' returned Mr Pecksniff. \'Thank you. Yes. Who\'s it from, my good\nyoung man?\'\n\n\'The gentleman it comes from wrote his name inside, sir,\' returned Mr\nTapley with extreme politeness. \'I see him a-signing of it at the end,\nwhile I was a-waitin\'.\'\n\n\'And he said he wanted an answer, did he?\' asked Mr Pecksniff in his\nmost persuasive manner.\n\nMark replied in the affirmative.\n\n\'He shall have an answer. Certainly,\' said Mr Pecksniff, tearing the\nletter into small pieces, as mildly as if that were the most flattering\nattention a correspondent could receive. \'Have the goodness to give him\nthat, with my compliments, if you please. Good morning!\' Whereupon he\nhanded Mark the scraps; retired, and shut the door.\n\nMark thought it prudent to subdue his personal emotions, and return to\nMartin at the Dragon. They were not unprepared for such a reception,\nand suffered an hour or so to elapse before making another attempt.\nWhen this interval had gone by, they returned to Mr Pecksniff\'s house in\ncompany. Martin knocked this time, while Mr Tapley prepared himself to\nkeep the door open with his foot and shoulder, when anybody came, and by\nthat means secure an enforced parley. But this precaution was needless,\nfor the servant-girl appeared almost immediately. Brushing quickly past\nher as he had resolved in such a case to do, Martin (closely followed\nby his faithful ally) opened the door of that parlour in which he knew\na visitor was most likely to be found; passed at once into the room; and\nstood, without a word of notice or announcement, in the presence of his\ngrandfather.\n\nMr Pecksniff also was in the room; and Mary. In the swift instant of\ntheir mutual recognition, Martin saw the old man droop his grey head,\nand hide his face in his hands.\n\nIt smote him to the heart. In his most selfish and most careless day,\nthis lingering remnant of the old man\'s ancient love, this buttress of a\nruined tower he had built up in the time gone by, with so much pride and\nhope, would have caused a pang in Martin\'s heart. But now, changed for\nthe better in his worst respect; looking through an altered medium on\nhis former friend, the guardian of his childhood, so broken and bowed\ndown; resentment, sullenness, self-confidence, and pride, were all swept\naway, before the starting tears upon the withered cheeks. He could not\nbear to see them. He could not bear to think they fell at sight of\nhim. He could not bear to view reflected in them, the reproachful and\nirrevocable Past.\n\nHe hurriedly advanced to seize the old man\'s hand in his, when Mr\nPecksniff interposed himself between them.\n\n\'No, young man!\' said Mr Pecksniff, striking himself upon the breast,\nand stretching out his other arm towards his guest as if it were a wing\nto shelter him. \'No, sir. None of that. Strike here, sir, here! Launch\nyour arrows at me, sir, if you\'ll have the goodness; not at Him!\'\n\n\'Grandfather!\' cried Martin. \'Hear me! I implore you, let me speak!\'\n\n\'Would you, sir? Would you?\' said Mr Pecksniff, dodging about, so as to\nkeep himself always between them. \'Is it not enough, sir, that you come\ninto my house like a thief in the night, or I should rather say, for we\ncan never be too particular on the subject of Truth, like a thief in\nthe day-time; bringing your dissolute companions with you, to plant\nthemselves with their backs against the insides of parlour doors, and\nprevent the entrance or issuing forth of any of my household\'--Mark had\ntaken up this position, and held it quite unmoved--\'but would you also\nstrike at venerable Virtue? Would you? Know that it is not defenceless.\nI will be its shield, young man. Assail me. Come on, sir. Fire away!\'\n\n\'Pecksniff,\' said the old man, in a feeble voice. \'Calm yourself. Be\nquiet.\'\n\n\'I can\'t be calm,\' cried Mr Pecksniff, \'and I won\'t be quiet. My\nbenefactor and my friend! Shall even my house be no refuge for your\nhoary pillow!\'\n\n\'Stand aside!\' said the old man, stretching out his hand; \'and let me\nsee what it is I used to love so dearly.\'\n\n\'It is right that you should see it, my friend,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'It\nis well that you should see it, my noble sir. It is desirable that you\nshould contemplate it in its true proportions. Behold it! There it is,\nsir. There it is!\'\n\nMartin could hardly be a mortal man, and not express in his face\nsomething of the anger and disdain with which Mr Pecksniff inspired him.\nBut beyond this he evinced no knowledge whatever of that gentleman\'s\npresence or existence. True, he had once, and that at first, glanced at\nhim involuntarily, and with supreme contempt; but for any other heed he\ntook of him, there might have been nothing in his place save empty air.\n\nAs Mr Pecksniff withdrew from between them, agreeably to the wish just\nnow expressed (which he did during the delivery of the observations\nlast recorded), old Martin, who had taken Mary Graham\'s hand in his, and\nwhispered kindly to her, as telling her she had no cause to be alarmed,\ngently pushed her from him, behind his chair; and looked steadily at his\ngrandson.\n\n\'And that,\' he said, \'is he. Ah! that is he! Say what you wish to say.\nBut come no nearer,\'\n\n\'His sense of justice is so fine,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'that he will\nhear even him, although he knows beforehand that nothing can come of it.\nIngenuous mind!\' Mr Pecksniff did not address himself immediately to\nany person in saying this, but assuming the position of the Chorus in a\nGreek Tragedy, delivered his opinion as a commentary on the proceedings.\n\n\'Grandfather!\' said Martin, with great earnestness. \'From a painful\njourney, from a hard life, from a sick-bed, from privation and distress,\nfrom gloom and disappointment, from almost hopelessness and despair, I\nhave come back to you.\'\n\n\'Rovers of this sort,\' observed Mr Pecksniff, as Chorus, \'very commonly\ncome back when they find they don\'t meet with the success they expected\nin their marauding ravages.\'\n\n\'But for this faithful man,\' said Martin, turning towards Mark, \'whom\nI first knew in this place, and who went away with me voluntarily, as\na servant, but has been, throughout, my zealous and devoted friend; but\nfor him, I must have died abroad. Far from home, far from any help or\nconsolation; far from the probability even of my wretched fate being\never known to any one who cared to hear it--oh, that you would let me\nsay, of being known to you!\'\n\nThe old man looked at Mr Pecksniff. Mr Pecksniff looked at him. \'Did\nyou speak, my worthy sir?\' said Mr Pecksniff, with a smile. The old man\nanswered in the negative. \'I know what you thought,\' said Mr Pecksniff,\nwith another smile. \'Let him go on my friend. The development of\nself-interest in the human mind is always a curious study. Let him go\non, sir.\'\n\n\'Go on!\' observed the old man; in a mechanical obedience, it appeared,\nto Mr Pecksniff\'s suggestion.\n\n\'I have been so wretched and so poor,\' said Martin, \'that I am indebted\nto the charitable help of a stranger, in a land of strangers, for the\nmeans of returning here. All this tells against me in your mind, I know.\nI have given you cause to think I have been driven here wholly by want,\nand have not been led on, in any degree, by affection or regret. When\nI parted from you, Grandfather, I deserved that suspicion, but I do not\nnow. I do not now.\'\n\nThe Chorus put its hand in its waistcoat, and smiled. \'Let him go on,\nmy worthy sir,\' it said. \'I know what you are thinking of, but don\'t\nexpress it prematurely.\'\n\nOld Martin raised his eyes to Mr Pecksniff\'s face, and appearing to\nderive renewed instruction from his looks and words, said, once again:\n\n\'Go on!\'\n\n\'I have little more to say,\' returned Martin. \'And as I say it now, with\nlittle or no hope, Grandfather; whatever dawn of hope I had on entering\nthe room; believe it to be true. At least, believe it to be true.\'\n\n\'Beautiful Truth!\' exclaimed the Chorus, looking upward. \'How is your\nname profaned by vicious persons! You don\'t live in a well, my holy\nprinciple, but on the lips of false mankind. It is hard to bear with\nmankind, dear sir\'--addressing the elder Mr Chuzzlewit; \'but let us do\nso meekly. It is our duty so to do. Let us be among the Few who do their\nduty. If,\' pursued the Chorus, soaring up into a lofty flight, \'as the\npoet informs us, England expects Every man to do his duty, England is\nthe most sanguine country on the face of the earth, and will find itself\ncontinually disappointed.\'\n\n\'Upon that subject,\' said Martin, looking calmly at the old man as\nhe spoke, but glancing once at Mary, whose face was now buried in her\nhands, upon the back of his easy-chair; \'upon that subject which first\noccasioned a division between us, my mind and heart are incapable of\nchange. Whatever influence they have undergone, since that unhappy time,\nhas not been one to weaken but to strengthen me. I cannot profess sorrow\nfor that, nor irresolution in that, nor shame in that. Nor would you\nwish me, I know. But that I might have trusted to your love, if I had\nthrown myself manfully upon it; that I might have won you over with\nease, if I had been more yielding and more considerate; that I should\nhave best remembered myself in forgetting myself, and recollecting you;\nreflection, solitude, and misery, have taught me. I came resolved to say\nthis, and to ask your forgiveness; not so much in hope for the future,\nas in regret for the past; for all that I would ask of you is, that you\nwould aid me to live. Help me to get honest work to do, and I would do\nit. My condition places me at the disadvantage of seeming to have only\nmy selfish ends to serve, but try if that be so or not. Try if I be\nself-willed, obdurate, and haughty, as I was; or have been disciplined\nin a rough school. Let the voice of nature and association plead between\nus, Grandfather; and do not, for one fault, however thankless, quite\nreject me!\'\n\nAs he ceased, the grey head of the old man drooped again; and he\nconcealed his face behind his outspread fingers.\n\n\'My dear sir,\' cried Mr Pecksniff, bending over him, \'you must not give\nway to this. It is very natural, and very amiable, but you must not\nallow the shameless conduct of one whom you long ago cast off, to move\nyou so far. Rouse yourself. Think,\' said Pecksniff, \'think of Me, my\nfriend.\'\n\n\'I will,\' returned old Martin, looking up into his face. \'You recall me\nto myself. I will.\'\n\n\'Why, what,\' said Mr Pecksniff, sitting down beside him in a chair which\nhe drew up for the purpose, and tapping him playfully on the arm, \'what\nis the matter with my strong-minded compatriot, if I may venture to take\nthe liberty of calling him by that endearing expression? Shall I have\nto scold my coadjutor, or to reason with an intellect like this? I think\nnot.\'\n\n\'No, no. There is no occasion,\' said the old man. \'A momentary feeling.\nNothing more.\'\n\n\'Indignation,\' observed Mr Pecksniff, \'WILL bring the scalding tear\ninto the honest eye, I know\'--he wiped his own elaborately. \'But we\nhave highest duties to perform than that. Rouse yourself, Mr Chuzzlewit.\nShall I give expression to your thoughts, my friend?\'\n\n\'Yes,\' said old Martin, leaning back in his chair, and looking at him,\nhalf in vacancy and half in admiration, as if he were fascinated by\nthe man. \'Speak for me, Pecksniff, Thank you. You are true to me. Thank\nyou!\'\n\n\'Do not unman me, sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his hand vigorously,\n\'or I shall be unequal to the task. It is not agreeable to my feelings,\nmy good sir, to address the person who is now before us, for when I\nejected him from this house, after hearing of his unnatural conduct from\nyour lips, I renounced communication with him for ever. But you desire\nit; and that is sufficient. Young man! The door is immediately behind\nthe companion of your infamy. Blush if you can; begone without a blush,\nif you can\'t.\'\n\nMartin looked as steadily at his grandfather as if there had been a\ndead silence all this time. The old man looked no less steadily at Mr\nPecksniff.\n\n\'When I ordered you to leave this house upon the last occasion of your\nbeing dismissed from it with disgrace,\' said Mr Pecksniff; \'when,\nstung and stimulated beyond endurance by your shameless conduct to this\nextraordinarily noble-minded individual, I exclaimed \"Go forth!\" I told\nyou that I wept for your depravity. Do not suppose that the tear which\nstands in my eye at this moment, is shed for you. It is shed for him,\nsir. It is shed for him.\'\n\nHere Mr Pecksniff, accidentally dropping the tear in question on a\nbald part of Mr Chuzzlewit\'s head, wiped the place with his\npocket-handkerchief, and begged pardon.\n\n\'It is shed for him, sir, whom you seek to make the victim of your\narts,\' said Mr Pecksniff; \'whom you seek to plunder, to deceive, and to\nmislead. It is shed in sympathy with him, and admiration of him; not in\npity for him, for happily he knows what you are. You shall not wrong\nhim further, sir, in any way,\' said Mr Pecksniff, quite transported with\nenthusiasm, \'while I have life. You may bestride my senseless corse,\nsir. That is very likely. I can imagine a mind like yours deriving great\nsatisfaction from any measure of that kind. But while I continue to be\ncalled upon to exist, sir, you must strike at him through me. Awe!\' said\nMr Pecksniff, shaking his head at Martin with indignant jocularity; \'and\nin such a cause you will find me, my young sir, an Ugly Customer!\'\n\nStill Martin looked steadily and mildly at his grandfather. \'Will you\ngive me no answer,\' he said, at length, \'not a word?\'\n\n\'You hear what has been said,\' replied the old man, without averting his\neyes from the face of Mr Pecksniff; who nodded encouragingly.\n\n\'I have not heard your voice. I have not heard your spirit,\' returned\nMartin.\n\n\'Tell him again,\' said the old man, still gazing up in Mr Pecksniff\'s\nface.\n\n\'I only hear,\' replied Martin, strong in his purpose from the first, and\nstronger in it as he felt how Pecksniff winced and shrunk beneath his\ncontempt; \'I only hear what you say to me, grandfather.\'\n\nPerhaps it was well for Mr Pecksniff that his venerable friend found\nin his (Mr Pecksniff\'s) features an exclusive and engrossing object\nof contemplation, for if his eyes had gone astray, and he had compared\nyoung Martin\'s bearing with that of his zealous defender, the latter\ndisinterested gentleman would scarcely have shown to greater advantage\nthan on the memorable afternoon when he took Tom Pinch\'s last receipt\nin full of all demands. One really might have thought there was some\nquality in Mr Pecksniff--an emanation from the brightness and purity\nwithin him perhaps--which set off and adorned his foes; they looked so\ngallant and so manly beside him.\n\n\'Not a word?\' said Martin, for the second time.\n\n\'I remember that I have a word to say, Pecksniff,\' observed the old man.\n\'But a word. You spoke of being indebted to the charitable help of some\nstranger for the means of returning to England. Who is he? And what help\nin money did he render you?\'\n\nAlthough he asked this question of Martin, he did not look towards him,\nbut kept his eyes on Mr Pecksniff as before. It appeared to have become\na habit with him, both in a literal and figurative sense, to look to Mr\nPecksniff alone.\n\nMartin took out his pencil, tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and\nhastily wrote down the particulars of his debt to Mr Bevan. The old man\nstretched out his hand for the paper, and took it; but his eyes did not\nwander from Mr Pecksniff\'s face.\n\n\'It would be a poor pride and a false humility,\' said Martin, in a\nlow voice, \'to say, I do not wish that to be paid, or that I have any\npresent hope of being able to pay it. But I never felt my poverty so\ndeeply as I feel it now.\'\n\n\'Read it to me, Pecksniff,\' said the old man.\n\nMr Pecksniff, after approaching the perusal of the paper as if it were a\nmanuscript confession of a murder, complied.\n\n\'I think, Pecksniff,\' said old Martin, \'I could wish that to be\ndischarged. I should not like the lender, who was abroad, who had\nno opportunity of making inquiry, and who did (as he thought) a kind\naction, to suffer.\'\n\n\'An honourable sentiment, my dear sir. Your own entirely. But a\ndangerous precedent,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'permit me to suggest.\'\n\n\'It shall not be a precedent,\' returned the old man. \'It is the only\nrecognition of him. But we will talk of it again. You shall advise me.\nThere is nothing else?\'\n\n\'Nothing else,\' said Mr Pecksniff buoyantly, \'but for you to recover\nthis intrusion--this cowardly and indefensible outrage on your\nfeelings--with all possible dispatch, and smile again.\'\n\n\'You have nothing more to say?\' inquired the old man, laying his hand\nwith unusual earnestness on Mr Pecksniff\'s sleeve.\n\nMr Pecksniff would not say what rose to his lips. For reproaches he\nobserved, were useless.\n\n\'You have nothing at all to urge? You are sure of that! If you have, no\nmatter what it is, speak freely. I will oppose nothing that you ask of\nme,\' said the old man.\n\nThe tears rose in such abundance to Mr Pecksniff\'s eyes at this proof\nof unlimited confidence on the part of his friend, that he was fain to\nclasp the bridge of his nose convulsively before he could at all compose\nhimself. When he had the power of utterance again, he said with great\nemotion, that he hoped he should live to deserve this; and added, that\nhe had no other observation whatever to make.\n\nFor a few moments the old man sat looking at him, with that blank and\nmotionless expression which is not uncommon in the faces of those whose\nfaculties are on the wane, in age. But he rose up firmly too, and walked\ntowards the door, from which Mark withdrew to make way for him.\n\nThe obsequious Mr Pecksniff proffered his arm. The old man took it.\nTurning at the door, he said to Martin, waving him off with his hand,\n\n\'You have heard him. Go away. It is all over. Go!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff murmured certain cheering expressions of sympathy and\nencouragement as they retired; and Martin, awakening from the stupor\ninto which the closing portion of this scene had plunged him, to the\nopportunity afforded by their departure, caught the innocent cause of\nall in his embrace, and pressed her to his heart.\n\n\'Dear girl!\' said Martin. \'He has not changed you. Why, what an impotent\nand harmless knave the fellow is!\'\n\n\'You have restrained yourself so nobly! You have borne so much!\'\n\n\'Restrained myself!\' cried Martin, cheerfully. \'You were by, and were\nunchanged, I knew. What more advantage did I want? The sight of me was\nsuch a bitterness to the dog, that I had my triumph in his being forced\nto endure it. But tell me, love--for the few hasty words we can exchange\nnow are precious--what is this which has been rumoured to me? Is it true\nthat you are persecuted by this knave\'s addresses?\'\n\n\'I was, dear Martin, and to some extent am now; but my chief source\nof unhappiness has been anxiety for you. Why did you leave us in such\nterrible suspense?\'\n\n\'Sickness, distance; the dread of hinting at our real condition, the\nimpossibility of concealing it except in perfect silence; the knowledge\nthat the truth would have pained you infinitely more than uncertainty\nand doubt,\' said Martin, hurriedly; as indeed everything else was done\nand said, in those few hurried moments, \'were the causes of my writing\nonly once. But Pecksniff? You needn\'t fear to tell me the whole tale;\nfor you saw me with him face to face, hearing him speak, and not taking\nhim by the throat; what is the history of his pursuit of you? Is it\nknown to my grandfather?\'\n\n\'Yes.\'\n\n\'And he assists him in it?\'\n\n\'No,\' she answered eagerly.\n\n\'Thank Heaven!\' cried Martin, \'that it leaves his mind unclouded in that\none respect!\'\n\n\'I do not think,\' said Mary, \'it was known to him at first. When\nthis man had sufficiently prepared his mind, he revealed it to him by\ndegrees. I think so, but I only know it from my own impression: now from\nanything they told me. Then he spoke to me alone.\'\n\n\'My grandfather did?\' said Martin.\n\n\'Yes--spoke to me alone, and told me--\'\n\n\'What the hound had said,\' cried Martin. \'Don\'t repeat it.\'\n\n\'And said I knew well what qualities he possessed; that he was\nmoderately rich; in good repute; and high in his favour and confidence.\nBut seeing me very much distressed, he said that he would not control\nor force my inclinations, but would content himself with telling me the\nfact. He would not pain me by dwelling on it, or reverting to it; nor\nhas he ever done so since, but has truly kept his word.\'\n\n\'The man himself?--\' asked Martin.\n\n\'He has had few opportunities of pursuing his suit. I have never walked\nout alone, or remained alone an instant in his presence. Dear Martin, I\nmust tell you,\' she continued, \'that the kindness of your grandfather\nto me remains unchanged. I am his companion still. An indescribable\ntenderness and compassion seem to have mingled themselves with his old\nregard; and if I were his only child, I could not have a gentler father.\nWhat former fancy or old habit survives in this, when his heart has\nturned so cold to you, is a mystery I cannot penetrate; but it has been,\nand it is, a happiness to me, that I remained true to him; that if he\nshould wake from his delusion, even at the point of death, I am here,\nlove, to recall you to his thoughts.\'\n\nMartin looked with admiration on her glowing face, and pressed his lips\nto hers.\n\n\'I have sometimes heard, and read,\' she said, \'that those whose powers\nhad been enfeebled long ago, and whose lives had faded, as it were, into\na dream, have been known to rouse themselves before death, and inquire\nfor familiar faces once very dear to them; but forgotten, unrecognized,\nhated even, in the meantime. Think, if with his old impressions of this\nman, he should suddenly resume his former self, and find in him his only\nfriend!\'\n\n\'I would not urge you to abandon him, dearest,\' said Martin, \'though I\ncould count the years we are to wear out asunder. But the influence this\nfellow exercises over him has steadily increased, I fear.\'\n\nShe could not help admitting that. Steadily, imperceptibly, and surely,\nuntil it was paramount and supreme. She herself had none; and yet\nhe treated her with more affection than at any previous time. Martin\nthought the inconsistency a part of his weakness and decay.\n\n\'Does the influence extend to fear?\' said Martin. \'Is he timid of\nasserting his own opinion in the presence of this infatuation? I fancied\nso just now.\'\n\n\'I have thought so, often. Often when we are sitting alone, almost as\nwe used to do, and I have been reading a favourite book to him or he has\nbeen talking quite cheerfully, I have observed that the entrance of\nMr Pecksniff has changed his whole demeanour. He has broken off\nimmediately, and become what you have seen to-day. When we first came\nhere he had his impetuous outbreaks, in which it was not easy for Mr\nPecksniff with his utmost plausibility to appease him. But these have\nlong since dwindled away. He defers to him in everything, and has no\nopinion upon any question, but that which is forced upon him by this\ntreacherous man.\'\n\nSuch was the account, rapidly furnished in whispers, and interrupted,\nbrief as it was, by many false alarms of Mr Pecksniff\'s return;\nwhich Martin received of his grandfather\'s decline, and of that good\ngentleman\'s ascendancy. He heard of Tom Pinch too, and Jonas too, with\nnot a little about himself into the bargain; for though lovers are\nremarkable for leaving a great deal unsaid on all occasions, and very\nproperly desiring to come back and say it, they are remarkable also for\na wonderful power of condensation, and can, in one way or other, give\nutterance to more language--eloquent language--in any given short space\nof time, than all the six hundred and fifty-eight members in the Commons\nHouse of Parliament of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland;\nwho are strong lovers no doubt, but of their country only, which makes\nall the difference; for in a passion of that kind (which is not always\nreturned), it is the custom to use as many words as possible, and\nexpress nothing whatever.\n\nA caution from Mr Tapley; a hasty interchange of farewells, and of\nsomething else which the proverb says must not be told of afterwards;\na white hand held out to Mr Tapley himself, which he kissed with the\ndevotion of a knight-errant; more farewells, more something else\'s; a\nparting word from Martin that he would write from London and would do\ngreat things there yet (Heaven knows what, but he quite believed it);\nand Mark and he stood on the outside of the Pecksniffian halls.\n\n\'A short interview after such an absence!\' said Martin, sorrowfully.\n\'But we are well out of the house. We might have placed ourselves in a\nfalse position by remaining there, even so long, Mark.\'\n\n\'I don\'t know about ourselves, sir,\' he returned; \'but somebody else\nwould have got into a false position, if he had happened to come back\nagain, while we was there. I had the door all ready, sir. If Pecksniff\nhad showed his head, or had only so much as listened behind it, I would\nhave caught him like a walnut. He\'s the sort of man,\' added Mr Tapley,\nmusing, \'as would squeeze soft, I know.\'\n\nA person who was evidently going to Mr Pecksniff\'s house, passed them at\nthis moment. He raised his eyes at the mention of the architect\'s name;\nand when he had gone on a few yards, stopped and gazed at them. Mr\nTapley, also, looked over his shoulder, and so did Martin; for the\nstranger, as he passed, had looked very sharply at them.\n\n\'Who may that be, I wonder!\' said Martin. \'The face seems familiar to\nme, but I don\'t know the man.\'\n\n\'He seems to have a amiable desire that his face should be tolerable\nfamiliar to us,\' said Mr Tapley, \'for he\'s a-staring pretty hard. He\'d\nbetter not waste his beauty, for he ain\'t got much to spare.\'\n\nComing in sight of the Dragon, they saw a travelling carriage at the\ndoor.\n\n\'And a Salisbury carriage, eh?\' said Mr Tapley. \'That\'s what he came in\ndepend upon it. What\'s in the wind now? A new pupil, I shouldn\'t wonder.\nP\'raps it\'s a order for another grammar-school, of the same pattern as\nthe last.\'\n\nBefore they could enter at the door, Mrs Lupin came running out; and\nbeckoning them to the carriage showed them a portmanteau with the name\nof CHUZZLEWIT upon it.\n\n\'Miss Pecksniff\'s husband that was,\' said the good woman to Martin. \'I\ndidn\'t know what terms you might be on, and was quite in a worry till\nyou came back.\'\n\n\'He and I have never interchanged a word yet,\' observed Martin; \'and as\nI have no wish to be better or worse acquainted with him, I will not put\nmyself in his way. We passed him on the road, I have no doubt. I am glad\nhe timed his coming as he did. Upon my word! Miss Pecksniff\'s husband\ntravels gayly!\'\n\n\'A very fine-looking gentleman with him--in the best room now,\'\nwhispered Mrs Lupin, glancing up at the window as they went into the\nhouse. \'He has ordered everything that can be got for dinner; and has\nthe glossiest moustaches and whiskers ever you saw.\'\n\n\'Has he?\' cried Martin, \'why then we\'ll endeavour to avoid him too, in\nthe hope that our self-denial may be strong enough for the sacrifice.\nIt is only for a few hours,\' said Martin, dropping wearily into a chair\nbehind the little screen in the bar. \'Our visit has met with no success,\nmy dear Mrs Lupin, and I must go to London.\'\n\n\'Dear, dear!\' cried the hostess.\n\n\'Yes, one foul wind no more makes a winter, than one swallow makes a\nsummer. I\'ll try it again. Tom Pinch has succeeded. With his advice to\nguide me, I may do the same. I took Tom under my protection once, God\nsave the mark!\' said Martin, with a melancholy smile; \'and promised I\nwould make his fortune. Perhaps Tom will take me under HIS protection\nnow, and teach me how to earn my bread.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-FOUR\n\nFURTHER CONTINUATION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND\n\n\nIt was a special quality, among the many admirable qualities possessed\nby Mr Pecksniff, that the more he was found out, the more hypocrisy he\npractised. Let him be discomfited in one quarter, and he refreshed and\nrecompensed himself by carrying the war into another. If his workings\nand windings were detected by A, so much the greater reason was there\nfor practicing without loss of time on B, if it were only to keep his\nhand in. He had never been such a saintly and improving spectacle to all\nabout him, as after his detection by Thomas Pinch. He had scarcely ever\nbeen at once so tender in his humanity, and so dignified and exalted in\nhis virtue, as when young Martin\'s scorn was fresh and hot upon him.\n\nHaving this large stock of superfluous sentiment and morality on hand\nwhich must positively be cleared off at any sacrifice, Mr Pecksniff no\nsooner heard his son-in-law announced, than he regarded him as a kind\nof wholesale or general order, to be immediately executed. Descending,\ntherefore, swiftly to the parlour, and clasping the young man in\nhis arms, he exclaimed, with looks and gestures that denoted the\nperturbation of his spirit:\n\n\'Jonas. My child--she is well! There is nothing the matter?\'\n\n\'What, you\'re at it again, are you?\' replied his son-in-law. \'Even with\nme? Get away with you, will you?\'\n\n\'Tell me she is well then,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Tell me she is well my\nboy!\'\n\n\'She\'s well enough,\' retorted Jonas, disengaging himself. \'There\'s\nnothing the matter with HER.\'\n\n\'There is nothing the matter with her!\' cried Mr Pecksniff, sitting down\nin the nearest chair, and rubbing up his hair. \'Fie upon my weakness!\nI cannot help it, Jonas. Thank you. I am better now. How is my other\nchild; my eldest; my Cherrywerrychigo?\' said Mr Pecksniff, inventing a\nplayful little name for her, in the restored lightness of his heart.\n\n\'She\'s much about the same as usual,\' returned Jonas. \'She sticks\npretty close to the vinegar-bottle. You know she\'s got a sweetheart, I\nsuppose?\'\n\n\'I have heard of it,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'from headquarters; from my\nchild herself I will not deny that it moved me to contemplate the loss\nof my remaining daughter, Jonas--I am afraid we parents are selfish, I\nam afraid we are--but it has ever been the study of my life to qualify\nthem for the domestic hearth; and it is a sphere which Cherry will\nadorn.\'\n\n\'She need adorn some sphere or other,\' observed the son-in-law, for she\nain\'t very ornamental in general.\'\n\n\'My girls are now provided for,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'They are now\nhappily provided for, and I have not laboured in vain!\'\n\nThis is exactly what Mr Pecksniff would have said, if one of his\ndaughters had drawn a prize of thirty thousand pounds in the lottery, or\nif the other had picked up a valuable purse in the street, which nobody\nappeared to claim. In either of these cases he would have invoked a\npatriarchal blessing on the fortunate head, with great solemnity, and\nwould have taken immense credit to himself, as having meant it from the\ninfant\'s cradle.\n\n\'Suppose we talk about something else, now,\' observed Jonas, drily.\n\'just for a change. Are you quite agreeable?\'\n\n\'Quite,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Ah, you wag, you naughty wag! You laugh at\npoor old fond papa. Well! He deserves it. And he don\'t mind it either,\nfor his feelings are their own reward. You have come to stay with me,\nJonas?\'\n\n\'No. I\'ve got a friend with me,\' said Jonas.\n\n\'Bring your friend!\' cried Mr Pecksniff, in a gush of hospitality.\n\'Bring any number of your friends!\'\n\n\'This ain\'t the sort of man to be brought,\' said Jonas, contemptuously.\n\'I think I see myself \"bringing\" him to your house, for a treat!\nThank\'ee all the same; but he\'s a little too near the top of the tree\nfor that, Pecksniff.\'\n\nThe good man pricked up his ears; his interest was awakened. A position\nnear the top of the tree was greatness, virtue, goodness, sense, genius;\nor, it should rather be said, a dispensation from all, and in itself\nsomething immeasurably better than all; with Mr Pecksniff. A man who was\nable to look down upon Mr Pecksniff could not be looked up at, by that\ngentleman, with too great an amount of deference, or from a position of\ntoo much humility. So it always is with great spirits.\n\n\'I\'ll tell you what you may do, if you like,\' said Jonas; \'you may come\nand dine with us at the Dragon. We were forced to come down to Salisbury\nlast night, on some business, and I got him to bring me over here this\nmorning, in his carriage; at least, not his own carriage, for we had\na breakdown in the night, but one we hired instead; it\'s all the same.\nMind what you\'re about, you know. He\'s not used to all sorts; he only\nmixes with the best!\'\n\n\'Some young nobleman who has been borrowing money of you at good\ninterest, eh?\' said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his forefinger facetiously. \'I\nshall be delighted to know the gay sprig.\'\n\n\'Borrowing!\' echoed Jonas. \'Borrowing! When you\'re a twentieth part as\nrich as he is, you may shut up shop! We should be pretty well off if we\ncould buy his furniture, and plate, and pictures, by clubbing together.\nA likely man to borrow: Mr Montague! Why since I was lucky enough (come!\nand I\'ll say, sharp enough, too) to get a share in the Assurance office\nthat he\'s President of, I\'ve made--never mind what I\'ve made,\' said\nJonas, seeming to recover all at once his usual caution. \'You know me\npretty well, and I don\'t blab about such things. But, Ecod, I\'ve made a\ntrifle.\'\n\n\'Really, my dear Jonas,\' cried Mr Pecksniff, with much warmth, \'a\ngentleman like this should receive some attention. Would he like to\nsee the church? or if he has a taste for the fine arts--which I have no\ndoubt he has, from the description you give of his circumstances--I can\nsend him down a few portfolios. Salisbury Cathedral, my dear Jonas,\'\nsaid Mr Pecksniff; the mention of the portfolios and his anxiety to\ndisplay himself to advantage, suggesting his usual phraseology in\nthat regard, \'is an edifice replete with venerable associations,\nand strikingly suggestive of the loftiest emotions. It is here we\ncontemplate the work of bygone ages. It is here we listen to the\nswelling organ, as we stroll through the reverberating aisles. We have\ndrawings of this celebrated structure from the North, from the South,\nfrom the East, from the West, from the South-East, from the Nor\'West--\'\n\nDuring this digression, and indeed during the whole dialogue, Jonas had\nbeen rocking on his chair, with his hands in his pockets and his head\nthrown cunningly on one side. He looked at Mr Pecksniff now with such\nshrewd meaning twinkling in his eyes, that Mr Pecksniff stopped, and\nasked him what he was going to say.\n\n\'Ecod!\' he answered. \'Pecksniff if I knew how you meant to leave your\nmoney, I could put you in the way of doubling it in no time. It wouldn\'t\nbe bad to keep a chance like this snug in the family. But you\'re such a\ndeep one!\'\n\n\'Jonas!\' cried Mr Pecksniff, much affected, \'I am not a diplomatical\ncharacter; my heart is in my hand. By far the greater part of the\ninconsiderable savings I have accumulated in the course of--I hope--a\nnot dishonourable or useless career, is already given, devised, and\nbequeathed (correct me, my dear Jonas, if I am technically wrong), with\nexpressions of confidence, which I will not repeat; and in securities\nwhich it is unnecessary to mention to a person whom I cannot, whom\nI will not, whom I need not, name.\' Here he gave the hand of his\nson-in-law a fervent squeeze, as if he would have added, \'God bless you;\nbe very careful of it when you get it!\'\n\nMr Jonas only shook his head and laughed, and, seeming to think better\nof what he had had in his mind, said, \'No. He would keep his own\ncounsel.\' But as he observed that he would take a walk, Mr Pecksniff\ninsisted on accompanying him, remarking that he could leave a card for\nMr Montague, as they went along, by way of gentleman-usher to himself at\ndinner-time. Which he did.\n\nIn the course of their walk, Mr Jonas affected to maintain that close\nreserve which had operated as a timely check upon him during the\nforegoing dialogue. And as he made no attempt to conciliate Mr\nPecksniff, but, on the contrary, was more boorish and rude to him than\nusual, that gentleman, so far from suspecting his real design, laid\nhimself out to be attacked with advantage. For it is in the nature of a\nknave to think the tools with which he works indispensable to knavery;\nand knowing what he would do himself in such a case, Mr Pecksniff\nargued, \'if this young man wanted anything of me for his own ends, he\nwould be polite and deferential.\'\n\nThe more Jonas repelled him in his hints and inquiries, the more\nsolicitous, therefore, Mr Pecksniff became to be initiated into the\ngolden mysteries at which he had obscurely glanced. Why should there be\ncold and worldly secrets, he observed, between relations? What was life\nwithout confidence? If the chosen husband of his daughter, the man to\nwhom he had delivered her with so much pride and hope, such bounding\nand such beaming joy; if he were not a green spot in the barren waste of\nlife, where was that oasis to be bound?\n\nLittle did Mr Pecksniff think on what a very green spot he planted one\nfoot at that moment! Little did he foresee when he said, \'All is but\ndust!\' how very shortly he would come down with his own!\n\nInch by inch, in his grudging and ill-conditioned way; sustained to the\nlife, for the hope of making Mr Pecksniff suffer in that tender place,\nthe pocket, where Jonas smarted so terribly himself, gave him an\nadditional and malicious interest in the wiles he was set on to\npractise; inch by inch, and bit by bit, Jonas rather allowed the\ndazzling prospects of the Anglo-Bengalee establishment to escape him,\nthan paraded them before his greedy listener. And in the same niggardly\nspirit, he left Mr Pecksniff to infer, if he chose (which he DID choose,\nof course), that a consciousness of not having any great natural gifts\nof speech and manner himself, rendered him desirous to have the credit\nof introducing to Mr Montague some one who was well endowed in those\nrespects, and so atone for his own deficiencies. Otherwise, he muttered\ndiscontentedly, he would have seen his beloved father-in-law \'far enough\noff,\' before he would have taken him into his confidence.\n\nPrimed in this artful manner, Mr Pecksniff presented himself at\ndinner-time in such a state of suavity, benevolence, cheerfulness,\npoliteness, and cordiality, as even he had perhaps never attained\nbefore. The frankness of the country gentleman, the refinement of\nthe artist, the good-humoured allowance of the man of the world;\nphilanthropy, forbearance, piety, toleration, all blended together in a\nflexible adaptability to anything and everything; were expressed in Mr\nPecksniff, as he shook hands with the great speculator and capitalist.\n\n\'Welcome, respected sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'to our humble village! We\nare a simple people; primitive clods, Mr Montague; but we can appreciate\nthe honour of your visit, as my dear son-in-law can testify. It is very\nstrange,\' said Mr Pecksniff, pressing his hand almost reverentially,\n\'but I seem to know you. That towering forehead, my dear Jonas,\' said Mr\nPecksniff aside, \'and those clustering masses of rich hair--I must have\nseen you, my dear sir, in the sparkling throng.\'\n\nNothing was more probable, they all agreed.\n\n\'I could have wished,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'to have had the honour of\nintroducing you to an elderly inmate of our house: to the uncle of our\nfriend. Mr Chuzzlewit, sir, would have been proud indeed to have taken\nyou by the hand.\'\n\n\'Is the gentleman here now?\' asked Montague, turning deeply red. \'He\nis,\' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'You said nothing about that, Chuzzlewit.\'\n\n\'I didn\'t suppose you\'d care to hear of it,\' returned Jonas. \'You\nwouldn\'t care to know him, I can promise you.\'\n\n\'Jonas! my dear Jonas!\' remonstrated Mr Pecksniff. \'Really!\'\n\n\'Oh! it\'s all very well for you to speak up for him,\' said Jonas. \'You\nhave nailed him. You\'ll get a fortune by him.\'\n\n\'Oho! Is the wind in that quarter?\' cried Montague. \'Ha, ha, ha!\' and\nhere they all laughed--especially Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'No, no!\' said that gentleman, clapping his son-in-law playfully upon\nthe shoulder. \'You must not believe all that my young relative says,\nMr Montague. You may believe him in official business, and trust him in\nofficial business, but you must not attach importance to his flights of\nfancy.\'\n\n\'Upon my life, Mr Pecksniff,\' cried Montague, \'I attach the greatest\nimportance to that last observation of his. I trust and hope it\'s true.\nMoney cannot be turned and turned again quickly enough in the ordinary\ncourse, Mr Pecksniff. There is nothing like building our fortune on the\nweaknesses of mankind.\'\n\n\'Oh fie! oh fie, for shame!\' cried Mr Pecksniff. But they all laughed\nagain--especially Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'I give you my honour that WE do it,\' said Montague.\n\n\'Oh fie, fie!\' cried Mr Pecksniff. \'You are very pleasant. That I am\nsure you don\'t! That I am sure you don\'t! How CAN you, you know?\'\n\nAgain they all laughed in concert; and again Mr Pecksniff laughed\nespecially.\n\nThis was very agreeable indeed. It was confidential, easy,\nstraight-forward; and still left Mr Pecksniff in the position of being\nin a gentle way the Mentor of the party. The greatest achievements in\nthe article of cookery that the Dragon had ever performed, were set\nbefore them; the oldest and best wines in the Dragon\'s cellar saw the\nlight on that occasion; a thousand bubbles, indicative of the wealth and\nstation of Mr Montague in the depths of his pursuits, were constantly\nrising to the surface of the conversation; and they were as frank and\nmerry as three honest men could be. Mr Pecksniff thought it a pity (he\nsaid so) that Mr Montague should think lightly of mankind and their\nweaknesses. He was anxious upon this subject; his mind ran upon it; in\none way or another he was constantly coming back to it; he must make\na convert of him, he said. And as often as Mr Montague repeated his\nsentiment about building fortunes on the weaknesses of mankind, and\nadded frankly, \'WE do it!\' just as often Mr Pecksniff repeated \'Oh fie!\noh fie, for shame! I am sure you don\'t. How CAN you, you know?\' laying a\ngreater stress each time on those last words.\n\nThe frequent repetition of this playful inquiry on the part of Mr\nPecksniff, led at last to playful answers on the part of Mr Montague;\nbut after some little sharp-shooting on both sides, Mr Pecksniff became\ngrave, almost to tears; observing that if Mr Montague would give\nhim leave, he would drink the health of his young kinsman, Mr Jonas;\ncongratulating him upon the valuable and distinguished friendship he\nhad formed, but envying him, he would confess, his usefulness to his\nfellow-creatures. For, if he understood the objects of that Institution\nwith which he was newly and advantageously connected--knowing them\nbut imperfectly--they were calculated to do Good; and for his (Mr\nPecksniff\'s) part, if he could in any way promote them, he thought\nhe would be able to lay his head upon his pillow every night, with an\nabsolute certainty of going to sleep at once.\n\nThe transition from this accidental remark (for it was quite accidental\nand had fallen from Mr Pecksniff in the openness of his soul), to the\ndiscussion of the subject as a matter of business, was easy. Books,\npapers, statements, tables, calculations of various kinds, were soon\nspread out before them; and as they were all framed with one object,\nit is not surprising that they should all have tended to one end. But\nstill, whenever Montague enlarged upon the profits of the office, and\nsaid that as long as there were gulls upon the wing it must succeed, Mr\nPecksniff mildly said \'Oh fie!\'--and might indeed have remonstrated\nwith him, but that he knew he was joking. Mr Pecksniff did know he was\njoking; because he said so.\n\nThere never had been before, and there never would be again, such\nan opportunity for the investment of a considerable sum (the rate of\nadvantage increased in proportion to the amount invested), as at that\nmoment. The only time that had at all approached it, was the time when\nJonas had come into the concern; which made him ill-natured now, and\ninclined him to pick out a doubt in this place, and a flaw in that, and\ngrumbling to advise Mr Pecksniff to think better of it. The sum which\nwould complete the proprietorship in this snug concern, was nearly equal\nto Mr Pecksniff\'s whole hoard; not counting Mr Chuzzlewit, that is to\nsay, whom he looked upon as money in the Bank, the possession of which\ninclined him the more to make a dash with his own private sprats for\nthe capture of such a whale as Mr Montague described. The returns\nbegan almost immediately, and were immense. The end of it was, that\nMr Pecksniff agreed to become the last partner and proprietor in the\nAnglo-Bengalee, and made an appointment to dine with Mr Montague, at\nSalisbury, on the next day but one, then and there to complete the\nnegotiation.\n\nIt took so long to bring the subject to this head, that it was nearly\nmidnight when they parted. When Mr Pecksniff walked downstairs to the\ndoor, he found Mrs Lupin standing there, looking out.\n\n\'Ah, my good friend!\' he said; \'not a-bed yet! Contemplating the stars,\nMrs Lupin?\'\n\n\'It\'s a beautiful starlight night, sir.\'\n\n\'A beautiful starlight night,\' said Mr Pecksniff, looking up. \'Behold\nthe planets, how they shine! Behold the--those two persons who were here\nthis morning have left your house, I hope, Mrs Lupin?\'\n\n\'Yes, sir. They are gone.\'\n\n\'I am glad to hear it,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Behold the wonders of the\nfirmament, Mrs Lupin! how glorious is the scene! When I look up at those\nshining orbs, I think that each of them is winking to the other to\ntake notice of the vanity of men\'s pursuits. My fellow-men!\' cried Mr\nPecksniff, shaking his head in pity; \'you are much mistaken; my wormy\nrelatives, you are much deceived! The stars are perfectly contented (I\nsuppose so) in their several spheres. Why are not you? Oh! do not strive\nand struggle to enrich yourselves, or to get the better of each other,\nmy deluded friends, but look up there, with me!\'\n\nMrs Lupin shook her head, and heaved a sigh. It was very affecting.\n\n\'Look up there, with me!\' repeated Mr Pecksniff, stretching out\nhis hand; \'With me, a humble individual who is also an insect like\nyourselves. Can silver, gold, or precious stones, sparkle like those\nconstellations! I think not. Then do not thirst for silver, gold, or\nprecious stones; but look up there, with me!\'\n\nWith those words, the good man patted Mrs Lupin\'s hand between his own,\nas if he would have added \'think of this, my good woman!\' and walked\naway in a sort of ecstasy or rapture, with his hat under his arm.\n\nJonas sat in the attitude in which Mr Pecksniff had left him, gazing\nmoodily at his friend; who, surrounded by a heap of documents, was\nwriting something on an oblong slip of paper.\n\n\'You mean to wait at Salisbury over the day after to-morrow, do you,\nthen?\' said Jonas.\n\n\'You heard our appointment,\' returned Montague, without raising his\neyes. \'In any case I should have waited to see after the boy.\'\n\nThey appeared to have changed places again; Montague being in high\nspirits; Jonas gloomy and lowering.\n\n\'You don\'t want me, I suppose?\' said Jonas.\n\n\'I want you to put your name here,\' he returned, glancing at him with a\nsmile, \'as soon as I have filled up the stamp. I may as well have your\nnote of hand for that extra capital. That\'s all I want. If you wish\nto go home, I can manage Mr Pecksniff now, alone. There is a perfect\nunderstanding between us.\'\n\nJonas sat scowling at him as he wrote, in silence. When he had\nfinished his writing, and had dried it on the blotting paper in his\ntravelling-desk; he looked up, and tossed the pen towards him.\n\n\'What, not a day\'s grace, not a day\'s trust, eh?\' said Jonas bitterly.\n\'Not after the pains I have taken with to-night\'s work?\'\n\n\'To night\'s work was a part of our bargain,\' replied Montague; \'and so\nwas this.\'\n\n\'You drive a hard bargain,\' said Jonas, advancing to the table. \'You\nknow best. Give it here!\'\n\nMontague gave him the paper. After pausing as if he could not make up\nhis mind to put his name to it, Jonas dipped his pen hastily in the\nnearest inkstand, and began to write. But he had scarcely marked the\npaper when he started back, in a panic.\n\n\'Why, what the devil\'s this?\' he said. \'It\'s bloody!\'\n\nHe had dipped the pen, as another moment showed, into red ink. But he\nattached a strange degree of importance to the mistake. He asked how it\nhad come there, who had brought it, why it had been brought; and looked\nat Montague, at first, as if he thought he had put a trick upon him.\nEven when he used a different pen, and the right ink, he made some\nscratches on another paper first, as half believing they would turn red\nalso.\n\n\'Black enough, this time,\' he said, handing the note to Montague.\n\'Good-bye.\'\n\n\'Going now! how do you mean to get away from here?\'\n\n\'I shall cross early in the morning to the high road, before you are out\nof bed; and catch the day-coach, going up. Good-bye!\'\n\n\'You are in a hurry!\'\n\n\'I have something to do,\' said Jonas. \'Good-bye!\'\n\nHis friend looked after him as he went out, in surprise, which gradually\ngave place to an air of satisfaction and relief.\n\n\'It happens all the better. It brings about what I wanted, without any\ndifficulty. I shall travel home alone.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-FIVE\n\nIN WHICH TOM PINCH AND HIS SISTER TAKE A LITTLE PLEASURE; BUT QUITE IN A\nDOMESTIC WAY, AND WITH NO CEREMONY ABOUT IT\n\n\nTom Pinch and his sister having to part, for the dispatch of the\nmorning\'s business, immediately after the dispersion of the other actors\nin the scene upon the wharf with which the reader has been already made\nacquainted, had no opportunity of discussing the subject at that time.\nBut Tom, in his solitary office, and Ruth, in the triangular parlour,\nthought about nothing else all day; and, when their hour of meeting in\nthe afternoon approached, they were very full of it, to be sure.\n\nThere was a little plot between them, that Tom should always come out\nof the Temple by one way; and that was past the fountain. Coming through\nFountain Court, he was just to glance down the steps leading into Garden\nCourt, and to look once all round him; and if Ruth had come to meet him,\nthere he would see her; not sauntering, you understand (on account of\nthe clerks), but coming briskly up, with the best little laugh upon her\nface that ever played in opposition to the fountain, and beat it all to\nnothing. For, fifty to one, Tom had been looking for her in the wrong\ndirection, and had quite given her up, while she had been tripping\ntowards him from the first; jingling that little reticule of hers (with\nall the keys in it) to attract his wandering observation.\n\nWhether there was life enough left in the slow vegetation of Fountain\nCourt for the smoky shrubs to have any consciousness of the brightest\nand purest-hearted little woman in the world, is a question for\ngardeners, and those who are learned in the loves of plants. But, that\nit was a good thing for that same paved yard to have such a delicate\nlittle figure flitting through it; that it passed like a smile from the\ngrimy old houses, and the worn flagstones, and left them duller, darker,\nsterner than before; there is no sort of doubt. The Temple fountain\nmight have leaped up twenty feet to greet the spring of hopeful\nmaidenhood, that in her person stole on, sparkling, through the dry and\ndusty channels of the Law; the chirping sparrows, bred in Temple\nchinks and crannies, might have held their peace to listen to imaginary\nskylarks, as so fresh a little creature passed; the dingy boughs, unused\nto droop, otherwise than in their puny growth, might have bent down in\na kindred gracefulness to shed their benedictions on her graceful head;\nold love letters, shut up in iron boxes in the neighbouring offices, and\nmade of no account among the heaps of family papers into which they had\nstrayed, and of which, in their degeneracy, they formed a part, might\nhave stirred and fluttered with a moment\'s recollection of their ancient\ntenderness, as she went lightly by. Anything might have happened that\ndid not happen, and never will, for the love of Ruth.\n\nSomething happened, too, upon the afternoon of which the history treats.\nNot for her love. Oh no! quite by accident, and without the least\nreference to her at all.\n\nEither she was a little too soon, or Tom was a little too late--she was\nso precise in general, that she timed it to half a minute--but no Tom\nwas there. Well! But was anybody else there, that she blushed so deeply,\nafter looking round, and tripped off down the steps with such unusual\nexpedition?\n\nWhy, the fact is, that Mr Westlock was passing at that moment. The\nTemple is a public thoroughfare; they may write up on the gates that it\nis not, but so long as the gates are left open it is, and will be; and\nMr Westlock had as good a right to be there as anybody else. But why did\nshe run away, then? Not being ill dressed, for she was much too neat for\nthat, why did she run away? The brown hair that had fallen down beneath\nher bonnet, and had one impertinent imp of a false flower clinging to\nit, boastful of its licence before all men, THAT could not have been the\ncause, for it looked charming. Oh! foolish, panting, frightened little\nheart, why did she run away!\n\nMerrily the tiny fountain played, and merrily the dimples sparkled on\nits sunny face. John Westlock hurried after her. Softly the whispering\nwater broke and fell; as roguishly the dimples twinkled, as he stole\nupon her footsteps.\n\nOh, foolish, panting, timid little heart, why did she feign to be\nunconscious of his coming! Why wish herself so far away, yet be so\nflutteringly happy there!\n\n\'I felt sure it was you,\' said John, when he overtook her in the\nsanctuary of Garden Court. \'I knew I couldn\'t be mistaken.\'\n\nShe was SO surprised.\n\n\'You are waiting for your brother,\' said John. \'Let me bear you\ncompany.\'\n\nSo light was the touch of the coy little hand, that he glanced down to\nassure himself he had it on his arm. But his glance, stopping for\nan instant at the bright eyes, forgot its first design, and went no\nfarther.\n\nThey walked up and down three or four times, speaking about Tom and his\nmysterious employment. Now that was a very natural and innocent subject,\nsurely. Then why, whenever Ruth lifted up her eyes, did she let them\nfall again immediately, and seek the uncongenial pavement of the court?\nThey were not such eyes as shun the light; they were not such eyes\nas require to be hoarded to enhance their value. They were much too\nprecious and too genuine to stand in need of arts like those. Somebody\nmust have been looking at them!\n\nThey found out Tom, though, quickly enough. This pair of eyes descried\nhim in the distance, the moment he appeared. He was staring about him,\nas usual, in all directions but the right one; and was as obstinate\nin not looking towards them, as if he had intended it. As it was plain\nthat, being left to himself, he would walk away home, John Westlock\ndarted off to stop him.\n\nThis made the approach of poor little Ruth, by herself, one of the\nmost embarrassing of circumstances. There was Tom, manifesting extreme\nsurprise (he had no presence of mind, that Tom, on small occasions);\nthere was John, making as light of it as he could, but explaining at the\nsame time with most unnecessary elaboration; and here was she, coming\ntowards them, with both of them looking at her, conscious of blushing to\na terrible extent, but trying to throw up her eyebrows carelessly, and\npout her rosy lips, as if she were the coolest and most unconcerned of\nlittle women.\n\nMerrily the fountain plashed and plashed, until the dimples, merging\ninto one another, swelled into a general smile, that covered the whole\nsurface of the basin.\n\n\'What an extraordinary meeting!\' said Tom. \'I should never have dreamed\nof seeing you two together here.\'\n\n\'Quite accidental,\' John was heard to murmur.\n\n\'Exactly,\' cried Tom; \'that\'s what I mean, you know. If it wasn\'t\naccidental, there would be nothing remarkable in it.\'\n\n\'To be sure,\' said John.\n\n\'Such an out-of-the-way place for you to have met in,\' pursued Tom,\nquite delighted. \'Such an unlikely spot!\'\n\nJohn rather disputed that. On the contrary, he considered it a very\nlikely spot, indeed. He was constantly passing to and fro there, he\nsaid. He shouldn\'t wonder if it were to happen again. His only wonder\nwas, that it had never happened before.\n\nBy this time Ruth had got round on the farther side of her brother, and\nhad taken his arm. She was squeezing it now, as much as to say \'Are you\ngoing to stop here all day, you dear, old, blundering Tom?\'\n\nTom answered the squeeze as if it had been a speech. \'John,\' he said,\n\'if you\'ll give my sister your arm, we\'ll take her between us, and walk\non. I have a curious circumstance to relate to you. Our meeting could\nnot have happened better.\'\n\nMerrily the fountain leaped and danced, and merrily the smiling dimples\ntwinkled and expanded more and more, until they broke into a laugh\nagainst the basin\'s rim, and vanished.\n\n\'Tom,\' said his friend, as they turned into the noisy street, \'I have a\nproposition to make. It is, that you and your sister--if she will so far\nhonour a poor bachelor\'s dwelling--give me a great pleasure, and come\nand dine with me.\'\n\n\'What, to-day?\' cried Tom.\n\n\'Yes, to-day. It\'s close by, you know. Pray, Miss Pinch, insist upon it.\nIt will be very disinterested, for I have nothing to give you.\'\n\n\'Oh! you must not believe that, Ruth,\' said Tom. \'He is the most\ntremendous fellow, in his housekeeping, that I ever heard of, for a\nsingle man. He ought to be Lord Mayor. Well! what do you say? Shall we\ngo?\'\n\n\'If you please, Tom,\' rejoined his dutiful little sister.\n\n\'But I mean,\' said Tom, regarding her with smiling admiration; \'is there\nanything you ought to wear, and haven\'t got? I am sure I don\'t know,\nJohn; she may not be able to take her bonnet off, for anything I can\ntell.\'\n\nThere was a great deal of laughing at this, and there were divers\ncompliments from John Westlock--not compliments HE said at least (and\nreally he was right), but good, plain, honest truths, which no one could\ndeny. Ruth laughed, and all that, but she made no objection; so it was\nan engagement.\n\n\'If I had known it a little sooner,\' said John, \'I would have tried\nanother pudding. Not in rivalry; but merely to exalt that famous one. I\nwouldn\'t on any account have had it made with suet.\'\n\n\'Why not?\' asked Tom.\n\n\'Because that cookery-book advises suet,\' said John Westlock; \'and ours\nwas made with flour and eggs.\'\n\n\'Oh good gracious!\' cried Tom. \'Ours was made with flour and eggs,\nwas it? Ha, ha, ha! A beefsteak pudding made with flour and eggs! Why\nanybody knows better than that. I know better than that! Ha, ha, ha!\'\n\nIt is unnecessary to say that Tom had been present at the making of the\npudding, and had been a devoted believer in it all through. But he was\nso delighted to have this joke against his busy little sister and was\ntickled to that degree at having found her out, that he stopped\nin Temple Bar to laugh; and it was no more to Tom, that he was\nanathematized and knocked about by the surly passengers, than it would\nhave been to a post; for he continued to exclaim with unabated good\nhumour, \'flour and eggs! A beefsteak pudding made with flour and eggs!\'\nuntil John Westlock and his sister fairly ran away from him, and left\nhim to have his laugh out by himself; which he had, and then came\ndodging across the crowded street to them, with such sweet temper and\ntenderness (it was quite a tender joke of Tom\'s) beaming in his face,\nGod bless it, that it might have purified the air, though Temple Bar had\nbeen, as in the golden days gone by, embellished with a row of rotting\nhuman heads.\n\nThere are snug chambers in those Inns where the bachelors live, and, for\nthe desolate fellows they pretend to be, it is quite surprising how well\nthey get on. John was very pathetic on the subject of his dreary life,\nand the deplorable makeshifts and apologetic contrivances it involved,\nbut he really seemed to make himself pretty comfortable. His rooms were\nthe perfection of neatness and convenience at any rate; and if he were\nanything but comfortable, the fault was certainly not theirs.\n\nHe had no sooner ushered Tom and his sister into his best room (where\nthere was a beautiful little vase of fresh flowers on the table, all\nready for Ruth. Just as if he had expected her, Tom said), than, seizing\nhis hat, he bustled out again, in his most energetically bustling, way;\nand presently came hurrying back, as they saw through the half-opened\ndoor, attended by a fiery-faced matron attired in a crunched bonnet,\nwith particularly long strings to it hanging down her back; in\nconjunction with whom he instantly began to lay the cloth for dinner,\npolishing up the wine-glasses with his own hands, brightening the silver\ntop of the pepper-caster on his coat-sleeve, drawing corks and filling\ndecanters, with a skill and expedition that were quite dazzling. And\nas if, in the course of this rubbing and polishing, he had rubbed an\nenchanted lamp or a magic ring, obedient to which there were twenty\nthousand supernatural slaves at least, suddenly there appeared a being\nin a white waistcoat, carrying under his arm a napkin, and attended by\nanother being with an oblong box upon his head, from which a banquet,\npiping hot, was taken out and set upon the table.\n\nSalmon, lamb, peas, innocent young potatoes, a cool salad, sliced\ncucumber, a tender duckling, and a tart--all there. They all came at the\nright time. Where they came from, didn\'t appear; but the oblong box was\nconstantly going and coming, and making its arrival known to the man in\nthe white waistcoat by bumping modestly against the outside of the door;\nfor, after its first appearance, it entered the room no more. He\nwas never surprised, this man; he never seemed to wonder at the\nextraordinary things he found in the box, but took them out with a face\nexpressive of a steady purpose and impenetrable character, and put\nthem on the table. He was a kind man; gentle in his manners, and much\ninterested in what they ate and drank. He was a learned man, and knew\nthe flavour of John Westlock\'s private sauces, which he softly and\nfeelingly described, as he handed the little bottles round. He was a\ngrave man, and a noiseless; for dinner being done, and wine and fruit\narranged upon the board, he vanished, box and all, like something that\nhad never been.\n\n\'Didn\'t I say he was a tremendous fellow in his housekeeping?\' cried\nTom. \'Bless my soul! It\'s wonderful.\'\n\n\'Ah, Miss Pinch,\' said John. \'This is the bright side of the life we\nlead in such a place. It would be a dismal life, indeed, if it didn\'t\nbrighten up to-day\'\n\n\'Don\'t believe a word he says,\' cried Tom. \'He lives here like a\nmonarch, and wouldn\'t change his mode of life for any consideration. He\nonly pretends to grumble.\'\n\nNo, John really did not appear to pretend; for he was uncommonly earnest\nin his desire to have it understood that he was as dull, solitary, and\nuncomfortable on ordinary occasions as an unfortunate young man could,\nin reason, be. It was a wretched life, he said, a miserable life. He\nthought of getting rid of the chambers as soon as possible; and meant,\nin fact, to put a bill up very shortly.\n\n\'Well\' said Tom Pinch, \'I don\'t know where you can go, John, to be more\ncomfortable. That\'s all I can say. What do YOU say, Ruth?\'\n\nRuth trifled with the cherries on her plate, and said that she thought\nMr Westlock ought to be quite happy, and that she had no doubt he was.\n\nAh, foolish, panting, frightened little heart, how timidly she said it!\n\n\'But you are forgetting what you had to tell, Tom; what occurred this\nmorning,\' she added in the same breath.\n\n\'So I am,\' said Tom. \'We have been so talkative on other topics that I\ndeclare I have not had time to think of it. I\'ll tell it you at once,\nJohn, in case I should forget it altogether.\'\n\nOn Tom\'s relating what had passed upon the wharf, his friend was very\nmuch surprised, and took such a great interest in the narrative as\nTom could not quite understand. He believed he knew the old lady whose\nacquaintance they had made, he said; and that he might venture to say,\nfrom their description of her, that her name was Gamp. But of what\nnature the communication could have been which Tom had borne so\nunexpectedly; why its delivery had been entrusted to him; how it\nhappened that the parties were involved together; and what secret lay\nat the bottom of the whole affair; perplexed him very much. Tom had been\nsure of his taking some interest in the matter; but was not prepared for\nthe strong interest he showed. It held John Westlock to the subject even\nafter Ruth had left the room; and evidently made him anxious to pursue\nit further than as a mere subject of conversation.\n\n\'I shall remonstrate with my landlord, of course,\' said Tom; \'though he\nis a very singular secret sort of man, and not likely to afford me much\nsatisfaction; even if he knew what was in the letter.\'\n\n\'Which you may swear he did,\' John interposed.\n\n\'You think so?\'\n\n\'I am certain of it.\'\n\n\'Well!\' said Tom, \'I shall remonstrate with him when I see him (he\ngoes in and out in a strange way, but I will try to catch him tomorrow\nmorning), on his having asked me to execute such an unpleasant\ncommission. And I have been thinking, John, that if I went down to\nMrs What\'s-her-name\'s in the City, where I was before, you know--Mrs\nTodgers\'s--to-morrow morning, I might find poor Mercy Pecksniff there,\nperhaps, and be able to explain to her how I came to have any hand in\nthe business.\'\n\n\'You are perfectly right, Tom,\' returned his friend, after a short\ninterval of reflection. \'You cannot do better. It is quite clear to me\nthat whatever the business is, there is little good in it; and it is so\ndesirable for you to disentangle yourself from any appearance of willful\nconnection with it, that I would counsel you to see her husband, if you\ncan, and wash your hands of it by a plain statement of the facts. I have\na misgiving that there is something dark at work here, Tom. I will tell\nyou why, at another time; when I have made an inquiry or two myself.\'\n\nAll this sounded very mysterious to Tom Pinch. But as he knew he could\nrely upon his friend, he resolved to follow this advice.\n\nAh, but it would have been a good thing to have had a coat of\ninvisibility, wherein to have watched little Ruth, when she was left\nto herself in John Westlock\'s chambers, and John and her brother were\ntalking thus, over their wine! The gentle way in which she tried to get\nup a little conversation with the fiery-faced matron in the crunched\nbonnet, who was waiting to attend her; after making a desperate rally\nin regard of her dress, and attiring herself in a washed-out yellow gown\nwith sprigs of the same upon it, so that it looked like a tesselated\nwork of pats of butter. That would have been pleasant. The grim and\ngriffin-like inflexibility with which the fiery-faced matron repelled\nthese engaging advances, as proceeding from a hostile and dangerous\npower, who could have no business there, unless it were to deprive her\nof a customer, or suggest what became of the self-consuming tea and\nsugar, and other general trifles. That would have been agreeable. The\nbashful, winning, glorious curiosity, with which little Ruth, when\nfiery-face was gone, peeped into the books and nick-nacks that\nwere lying about, and had a particular interest in some delicate\npaper-matches on the chimney-piece; wondering who could have made them.\nThat would have been worth seeing. The faltering hand with which she\ntied those flowers together; with which, almost blushing at her own\nfair self as imaged in the glass, she arranged them in her breast, and\nlooking at them with her head aside, now half resolved to take them out\nagain, now half resolved to leave them where they were. That would have\nbeen delightful!\n\nJohn seemed to think it all delightful; for coming in with Tom to\ntea, he took his seat beside her like a man enchanted. And when the\ntea-service had been removed, and Tom, sitting down at the piano, became\nabsorbed in some of his old organ tunes, he was still beside her at the\nopen window, looking out upon the twilight.\n\nThere is little enough to see in Furnival\'s Inn. It is a shady, quiet\nplace, echoing to the footsteps of the stragglers who have business\nthere; and rather monotonous and gloomy on summer evenings. What gave it\nsuch a charm to them, that they remained at the window as unconscious of\nthe flight of time as Tom himself, the dreamer, while the melodies which\nhad so often soothed his spirit were hovering again about him! What\npower infused into the fading light, the gathering darkness; the stars\nthat here and there appeared; the evening air, the City\'s hum and stir,\nthe very chiming of the old church clocks; such exquisite enthrallment,\nthat the divinest regions of the earth spread out before their eyes\ncould not have held them captive in a stronger chain?\n\nThe shadows deepened, deepened, and the room became quite dark. Still\nTom\'s fingers wandered over the keys of the piano, and still the window\nhad its pair of tenants. At length, her hand upon his shoulder, and her\nbreath upon his forehead, roused Tom from his reverie.\n\n\'Dear me!\' he cried, desisting with a start. \'I am afraid I have been\nvery inconsiderate and unpolite.\'\n\nTom little thought how much consideration and politeness he had shown!\n\n\'Sing something to us, my dear,\' said Tom, \'let us hear your voice.\nCome!\'\n\nJohn Westlock added his entreaties with such earnestness that a flinty\nheart alone could have resisted them. Hers was not a flinty heart. Oh,\ndear no! Quite another thing.\n\nSo down she sat, and in a pleasant voice began to sing the ballads Tom\nloved well. Old rhyming stories, with here and there a pause for a few\nsimple chords, such as a harper might have sounded in the ancient time\nwhile looking upward for the current of some half-remembered legend;\nwords of old poets, wedded to such measures that the strain of music\nmight have been the poet\'s breath, giving utterance and expression to\nhis thoughts; and now a melody so joyous and light-hearted, that the\nsinger seemed incapable of sadness, until in her inconstancy (oh wicked\nlittle singer!) she relapsed, and broke the listeners\' hearts again;\nthese were the simple means she used to please them. And that these\nsimple means prevailed, and she DID please them, let the still darkened\nchamber, and its long-deferred illumination witness.\n\nThe candles came at last, and it was time for moving homeward. Cutting\npaper carefully, and rolling it about the stalks of those same flowers,\noccasioned some delay; but even this was done in time, and Ruth was\nready.\n\n\'Good night!\' said Tom. \'A memorable and delightful visit, John! Good\nnight!\'\n\nJohn thought he would walk with them.\n\n\'No, no. Don\'t!\' said Tom. \'What nonsense! We can get home very well\nalone. I couldn\'t think of taking you out.\'\n\nBut John said he would rather.\n\n\'Are you sure you would rather?\' said Tom. \'I am afraid you only say so\nout of politeness.\'\n\nJohn being quite sure, gave his arm to Ruth, and led her out.\nFiery-face, who was again in attendance, acknowledged her departure with\nso cold a curtsey that it was hardly visible; and cut Tom, dead.\n\nTheir host was bent on walking the whole distance, and would not listen\nto Tom\'s dissuasions. Happy time, happy walk, happy parting, happy\ndreams! But there are some sweet day-dreams, so there are that put the\nvisions of the night to shame.\n\nBusily the Temple fountain murmured in the moonlight, while Ruth lay\nsleeping, with her flowers beside her; and John Westlock sketched a\nportrait--whose?--from memory.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-SIX\n\nIN WHICH MISS PECKSNIFF MAKES LOVE, MR JONAS MAKES WRATH, MRS GAMP MAKES\nTEA, AND MR CHUFFEY MAKES BUSINESS\n\n\nOn the next day\'s official duties coming to a close, Tom hurried home\nwithout losing any time by the way; and after dinner and a short rest\nsallied out again, accompanied by Ruth, to pay his projected visit\nto Todgers\'s. Tom took Ruth with him, not only because it was a great\npleasure to him to have her for his companion whenever he could, but\nbecause he wished her to cherish and comfort poor Merry; which she, for\nher own part (having heard the wretched history of that young wife from\nTom), was all eagerness to do.\n\n\'She was so glad to see me,\' said Tom, \'that I am sure she will be\nglad to see you. Your sympathy is certain to be much more delicate and\nacceptable than mine.\'\n\n\'I am very far from being certain of that, Tom,\' she replied; \'and\nindeed you do yourself an injustice. Indeed you do. But I hope she may\nlike me, Tom.\'\n\n\'Oh, she is sure to do that!\' cried Tom, confidently.\n\n\'What a number of friends I should have, if everybody was of your way of\nthinking. Shouldn\'t I, Tom, dear?\' said his little sister pinching him\nupon the cheek.\n\nTom laughed, and said that with reference to this particular case he had\nno doubt at all of finding a disciple in Merry. \'For you women,\' said\nTom, \'you women, my dear, are so kind, and in your kindness have such\nnice perception; you know so well how to be affectionate and full of\nsolicitude without appearing to be; your gentleness of feeling is like\nyour touch so light and easy, that the one enables you to deal with\nwounds of the mind as tenderly as the other enables you to deal with\nwounds of the body. You are such--\'\n\n\'My goodness, Tom!\' his sister interposed. \'You ought to fall in love\nimmediately.\'\n\nTom put this observation off good humouredly, but somewhat gravely too;\nand they were soon very chatty again on some other subject.\n\nAs they were passing through a street in the City, not very far from Mrs\nTodgers\'s place of residence, Ruth checked Tom before the window of\na large Upholstery and Furniture Warehouse, to call his attention to\nsomething very magnificent and ingenious, displayed there to the best\nadvantage, for the admiration and temptation of the public. Tom had\nhazarded some most erroneous and extravagantly wrong guess in relation\nto the price of this article, and had joined his sister in laughing\nheartily at his mistake, when he pressed her arm in his, and pointed to\ntwo persons at a little distance, who were looking in at the same window\nwith a deep interest in the chests of drawers and tables.\n\n\'Hush!\' Tom whispered. \'Miss Pecksniff, and the young gentleman to whom\nshe is going to be married.\'\n\n\'Why does he look as if he was going to be buried, Tom?\' inquired his\nlittle sister.\n\n\'Why, he is naturally a dismal young gentleman, I believe,\' said Tom\n\'but he is very civil and inoffensive.\'\n\n\'I suppose they are furnishing their house,\' whispered Ruth.\n\n\'Yes, I suppose they are,\' replied Tom. \'We had better avoid speaking to\nthem.\'\n\nThey could not very well avoid looking at them, however, especially\nas some obstruction on the pavement, at a little distance, happened to\ndetain them where they were for a few moments. Miss Pecksniff had quite\nthe air of having taken the unhappy Moddle captive, and brought him\nup to the contemplation of the furniture like a lamb to the altar.\nHe offered no resistance, but was perfectly resigned and quiet. The\nmelancholy depicted in the turn of his languishing head, and in his\ndejected attitude, was extreme; and though there was a full-sized\nfour-post bedstead in the window, such a tear stood trembling in his eye\nas seemed to blot it out.\n\n\'Augustus, my love,\' said Miss Pecksniff, \'ask the price of the eight\nrosewood chairs, and the loo table.\'\n\n\'Perhaps they are ordered already,\' said Augustus. \'Perhaps they are\nAnother\'s.\'\n\n\'They can make more like them, if they are,\' rejoined Miss Pecksniff.\n\n\'No, no, they can\'t,\' said Moddle. \'It\'s impossible!\'\n\nHe appeared, for the moment, to be quite overwhelmed and stupefied by\nthe prospect of his approaching happiness; but recovering, entered the\nshop. He returned immediately, saying in a tone of despair\n\n\'Twenty-four pound ten!\'\n\nMiss Pecksniff, turning to receive this announcement, became conscious\nof the observation of Tom Pinch and his sister.\n\n\'Oh, really!\' cried Miss Pecksniff, glancing about her, as if for some\nconvenient means of sinking into the earth. \'Upon my word, I--there\nnever was such a--to think that one should be so very--Mr Augustus\nModdle, Miss Pinch!\'\n\nMiss Pecksniff was quite gracious to Miss Pinch in this triumphant\nintroduction; exceedingly gracious. She was more than gracious; she was\nkind and cordial. Whether the recollection of the old service Tom had\nrendered her in knocking Mr Jonas on the head had wrought this change in\nher opinions; or whether her separation from her parent had reconciled\nher to all human-kind, or to all that interesting portion of human-kind\nwhich was not friendly to him; or whether the delight of having some new\nfemale acquaintance to whom to communicate her interesting prospects was\nparamount to every other consideration; cordial and kind Miss Pecksniff\nwas. And twice Miss Pecksniff kissed Miss Pinch upon the cheek.\n\n\'Augustus--Mr Pinch, you know. My dear girl!\' said Miss Pecksniff,\naside. \'I never was so ashamed in my life.\'\n\nRuth begged her not to think of it.\n\n\'I mind your brother less than anybody else,\' simpered Miss Pecksniff.\n\'But the indelicacy of meeting any gentleman under such circumstances!\nAugustus, my child, did you--\'\n\nHere Miss Pecksniff whispered in his ear. The suffering Moddle repeated:\n\n\'Twenty-four pound ten!\'\n\n\'Oh, you silly man! I don\'t mean them,\' said Miss Pecksniff. \'I am\nspeaking of the--\'\n\nHere she whispered him again.\n\n\'If it\'s the same patterned chintz as that in the window; thirty-two,\ntwelve, six,\' said Moddle, with a sigh. \'And very dear.\'\n\nMiss Pecksniff stopped him from giving any further explanation by laying\nher hand upon his lips, and betraying a soft embarrassment. She then\nasked Tom Pinch which way he was going.\n\n\'I was going to see if I could find your sister,\' answered Tom, \'to whom\nI wished to say a few words. We were going to Mrs Todgers\'s, where I had\nthe pleasure of seeing her before.\'\n\n\'It\'s of no use your going on, then,\' said Cherry, \'for we have not\nlong left there; and I know she is not at home. But I\'ll take you to my\nsister\'s house, if you please. Augustus--Mr Moddle, I mean--and myself,\nare on our way to tea there, now. You needn\'t think of HIM,\' she added,\nnodding her head as she observed some hesitation on Tom\'s part. \'He is\nnot at home.\'\n\n\'Are you sure?\' asked Tom.\n\n\'Oh, I am quite sure of that. I don\'t want any MORE revenge,\' said Miss\nPecksniff, expressively. \'But, really, I must beg you two gentlemen to\nwalk on, and allow me to follow with Miss Pinch. My dear, I never was so\ntaken by surprise!\'\n\nIn furtherance of this bashful arrangement, Moddle gave his arm to Tom;\nand Miss Pecksniff linked her own in Ruth\'s.\n\n\'Of course, my love,\' said Miss Pecksniff, \'it would be useless for me\nto disguise, after what you have seen, that I am about to be united to\nthe gentleman who is walking with your brother. It would be in vain\nto conceal it. What do you think of him? Pray, let me have your candid\nopinion.\'\n\nRuth intimated that, as far as she could judge, he was a very eligible\nswain.\n\n\'I am curious to know,\' said Miss Pecksniff, with loquacious frankness,\n\'whether you have observed, or fancied, in this very short space of\ntime, that he is of a rather melancholy turn?\'\n\n\'So very short a time,\' Ruth pleaded.\n\n\'No, no; but don\'t let that interfere with your answer,\' returned Miss\nPecksniff. \'I am curious to hear what you say.\'\n\nRuth acknowledged that he had impressed her at first sight as looking\n\'rather low.\'\n\n\'No, really?\' said Miss Pecksniff. \'Well! that is quite remarkable!\nEverybody says the same. Mrs Todgers says the same; and Augustus informs\nme that it is quite a joke among the gentlemen in the house. Indeed, but\nfor the positive commands I have laid upon him, I believe it would have\nbeen the occasion of loaded fire-arms being resorted to more than once.\nWhat do you think is the cause of his appearance of depression?\'\n\nRuth thought of several things; such as his digestion, his tailor, his\nmother, and the like. But hesitating to give utterance to any one of\nthem, she refrained from expressing an opinion.\n\n\'My dear,\' said Miss Pecksniff; \'I shouldn\'t wish it to be known, but I\ndon\'t mind mentioning it to you, having known your brother for so many\nyears--I refused Augustus three times. He is of a most amiable and\nsensitive nature, always ready to shed tears if you look at him, which\nis extremely charming; and he has never recovered the effect of that\ncruelty. For it WAS cruel,\' said Miss Pecksniff, with a self-conviction\ncandour that might have adorned the diadem of her own papa. \'There is\nno doubt of it. I look back upon my conduct now with blushes. I always\nliked him. I felt that he was not to me what the crowd of young men who\nhad made proposals had been, but something very different. Then what\nright had I to refuse him three times?\'\n\n\'It was a severe trial of his fidelity, no doubt,\' said Ruth.\n\n\'My dear,\' returned Miss Pecksniff. \'It was wrong. But such is the\ncaprice and thoughtlessness of our sex! Let me be a warning to you.\nDon\'t try the feelings of any one who makes you an offer, as I have\ntried the feelings of Augustus; but if you ever feel towards a person\nas I really felt towards him, at the very time when I was driving him\nto distraction, let that feeling find expression, if that person throws\nhimself at your feet, as Augustus Moddle did at mine. Think,\' said Miss\nPecksniff, \'what my feelings would have been, if I had goaded him to\nsuicide, and it had got into the papers!\'\n\nRuth observed that she would have been full of remorse, no doubt.\n\n\'Remorse!\' cried Miss Pecksniff, in a sort of snug and comfortable\npenitence. \'What my remorse is at this moment, even after making\nreparation by accepting him, it would be impossible to tell you! Looking\nback upon my giddy self, my dear, now that I am sobered down and\nmade thoughtful, by treading on the very brink of matrimony; and\ncontemplating myself as I was when I was like what you are now; I\nshudder. I shudder. What is the consequence of my past conduct? Until\nAugustus leads me to the altar he is not sure of me. I have blighted and\nwithered the affections of his heart to that extent that he is not sure\nof me. I see that preying on his mind and feeding on his vitals. What\nare the reproaches of my conscience, when I see this in the man I love!\'\n\nRuth endeavoured to express some sense of her unbounded and flattering\nconfidence; and presumed that she was going to be married soon.\n\n\'Very soon indeed,\' returned Miss Pecksniff. \'As soon as our house is\nready. We are furnishing now as fast as we can.\'\n\nIn the same vein of confidence Miss Pecksniff ran through a general\ninventory of the articles that were already bought with the articles\nthat remained to be purchased; what garments she intended to be married\nin, and where the ceremony was to be performed; and gave Miss Pinch, in\nshort (as she told her), early and exclusive information on all points\nof interest connected with the event.\n\nWhile this was going forward in the rear, Tom and Mr Moddle walked on,\narm in arm, in the front, in a state of profound silence, which Tom at\nlast broke; after thinking for a long time what he could say that should\nrefer to an indifferent topic, in respect of which he might rely, with\nsome degree of certainty, on Mr Moddle\'s bosom being unruffled.\n\n\'I wonder,\' said Tom, \'that in these crowded streets the foot-passengers\nare not oftener run over.\'\n\nMr Moddle, with a dark look, replied:\n\n\'The drivers won\'t do it.\'\n\n\'Do you mean?\' Tom began--\n\n\'That there are some men,\' interrupted Moddle, with a hollow laugh, \'who\ncan\'t get run over. They live a charmed life. Coal waggons recoil from\nthem, and even cabs refuse to run them down. Ah!\' said Augustus, marking\nTom\'s astonishment. \'There are such men. One of \'em is a friend of\nmine.\'\n\n\'Upon my word and honour,\' thought Tom, \'this young gentleman is in\na state of mind which is very serious indeed!\' Abandoning all idea of\nconversation, he did not venture to say another word, but he was careful\nto keep a tight hold upon Augustus\'s arm, lest he should fly into the\nroad, and making another and a more successful attempt, should get up a\nprivate little Juggernaut before the eyes of his betrothed. Tom was\nso afraid of his committing this rash act, that he had scarcely ever\nexperienced such mental relief as when they arrived in safety at Mrs\nJonas Chuzzlewit\'s house.\n\n\'Walk up, pray, Mr Pinch,\' said Miss Pecksniff. For Tom halted,\nirresolutely, at the door.\n\n\'I am doubtful whether I should be welcome,\' replied Tom, \'or, I ought\nrather to say, I have no doubt about it. I will send up a message, I\nthink.\'\n\n\'But what nonsense that is!\' returned Miss Pecksniff, speaking apart\nto Tom. \'He is not at home, I am certain. I know he is not; and Merry\nhasn\'t the least idea that you ever--\'\n\n\'No,\' interrupted Tom. \'Nor would I have her know it, on any account. I\nam not so proud of that scuffle, I assure you.\'\n\n\'Ah, but then you are so modest, you see,\' returned Miss Pecksniff, with\na smile. \'But pray walk up. If you don\'t wish her to know it, and do\nwish to speak to her, pray walk up. Pray walk up, Miss Pinch. Don\'t\nstand here.\'\n\nTom still hesitated for he felt that he was in an awkward position. But\nCherry passing him at this juncture, and leading his sister upstairs,\nand the house-door being at the same time shut behind them, he followed\nwithout quite knowing whether it was well or ill-judged so to do.\n\n\'Merry, my darling!\' said the fair Miss Pecksniff, opening the door of\nthe usual sitting-room. \'Here are Mr Pinch and his sister come to see\nyou! I thought we should find you here, Mrs Todgers! How do you do, Mrs\nGamp? And how do you do, Mr Chuffey, though it\'s of no use asking you\nthe question, I am well aware.\'\n\nHonouring each of these parties, as she severally addressed them, with\nan acid smile, Miss Charity presented \'Mr Moddle.\'\n\n\'I believe you have seen HIM before,\' she pleasantly observed.\n\'Augustus, my sweet child, bring me a chair.\'\n\nThe sweet child did as he was told; and was then about to retire into a\ncorner to mourn in secret, when Miss Charity, calling him in an audible\nwhisper a \'little pet,\' gave him leave to come and sit beside her. It\nis to be hoped, for the general cheerfulness of mankind, that such a\ndoleful little pet was never seen as Mr Moddle looked when he complied.\nSo despondent was his temper, that he showed no outward thrill of\necstasy when Miss Pecksniff placed her lily hand in his, and concealed\nthis mark of her favour from the vulgar gaze by covering it with a\ncorner of her shawl. Indeed, he was infinitely more rueful then than\nhe had been before; and, sitting uncomfortably upright in his chair,\nsurveyed the company with watery eyes, which seemed to say, without\nthe aid of language, \'Oh, good gracious! look here! Won\'t some kind\nChristian help me!\'\n\nBut the ecstasies of Mrs Gamp were sufficient to have furnished forth\na score of young lovers; and they were chiefly awakened by the sight of\nTom Pinch and his sister. Mrs Gamp was a lady of that happy temperament\nwhich can be ecstatic without any other stimulating cause than a general\ndesire to establish a large and profitable connection. She added daily\nso many strings to her bow, that she made a perfect harp of it; and upon\nthat instrument she now began to perform an extemporaneous concerto.\n\n\'Why, goodness me!\' she said, \'Mrs Chuzzlewit! To think as I should see\nbeneath this blessed \'ouse, which well I know it, Miss Pecksniff, my\nsweet young lady, to be a \'ouse as there is not a many like, worse luck,\nand wishin\' it were not so, which then this tearful walley would be\nchanged into a flowerin\' guardian, Mr Chuffey; to think as I should see\nbeneath this indiwidgle roof, identically comin\', Mr Pinch (I take the\nliberty, though almost unbeknown), and do assure you of it, sir, the\nsmilinest and sweetest face as ever, Mrs Chuzzlewit, I see exceptin\'\nyourn, my dear good lady, and YOUR good lady\'s too, sir, Mr Moddle, if\nI may make so bold as speak so plain of what is plain enough to them as\nneedn\'t look through millstones, Mrs Todgers, to find out wot is wrote\nupon the wall behind. Which no offence is meant, ladies and gentlemen;\nnone bein\' took, I hope. To think as I should see that smilinest and\nsweetest face which me and another friend of mine, took notice of among\nthe packages down London Bridge, in this promiscous place, is a surprige\nin-deed!\'\n\nHaving contrived, in this happy manner, to invest every member of her\naudience with an individual share and immediate personal interest in\nher address, Mrs Gamp dropped several curtseys to Ruth, and smilingly\nshaking her head a great many times, pursued the thread of her\ndiscourse:\n\n\'Now, ain\'t we rich in beauty this here joyful arternoon, I\'m sure. I\nknows a lady, which her name, I\'ll not deceive you, Mrs Chuzzlewit, is\nHarris, her husband\'s brother bein\' six foot three, and marked with\na mad bull in Wellington boots upon his left arm, on account of his\nprecious mother havin\' been worrited by one into a shoemaker\'s shop,\nwhen in a sitiwation which blessed is the man as has his quiver full of\nsech, as many times I\'ve said to Gamp when words has roge betwixt us on\naccount of the expense--and often have I said to Mrs Harris, \"Oh, Mrs\nHarris, ma\'am! your countenance is quite a angel\'s!\" Which, but\nfor Pimples, it would be. \"No, Sairey Gamp,\" says she, \"you best of\nhard-working and industrious creeturs as ever was underpaid at any\nprice, which underpaid you are, quite diff\'rent. Harris had it done\nafore marriage at ten and six,\" she says, \"and wore it faithful next his\nheart till the colour run, when the money was declined to be give back,\nand no arrangement could be come to. But he never said it was a angel\'s,\nSairey, wotever he might have thought.\" If Mrs Harris\'s husband was\nhere now,\' said Mrs Gamp, looking round, and chuckling as she dropped\na general curtsey, \'he\'d speak out plain, he would, and his dear wife\nwould be the last to blame him! For if ever a woman lived as know\'d not\nwot it was to form a wish to pizon them as had good looks, and had no\nreagion give her by the best of husbands, Mrs Harris is that ev\'nly\ndispogician!\'\n\nWith these words the worthy woman, who appeared to have dropped in\nto take tea as a delicate little attention, rather than to have any\nengagement on the premises in an official capacity, crossed to Mr\nChuffey, who was seated in the same corner as of old, and shook him by\nthe shoulder.\n\n\'Rouge yourself, and look up! Come!\' said Mrs Gamp. \'Here\'s company, Mr\nChuffey.\'\n\n\'I am sorry for it,\' cried the old man, looking humbly round the room.\n\'I know I\'m in the way. I ask pardon, but I\'ve nowhere else to go to.\nWhere is she?\'\n\nMerry went to him.\n\n\'Ah!\' said the old man, patting her on the check. \'Here she is. Here she\nis! She\'s never hard on poor old Chuffey. Poor old Chuff!\'\n\nAs she took her seat upon a low chair by the old man\'s side, and put\nherself within the reach of his hand, she looked up once at Tom. It\nwas a sad look that she cast upon him, though there was a faint smile\ntrembling on her face. It was a speaking look, and Tom knew what it\nsaid. \'You see how misery has changed me. I can feel for a dependant\nNOW, and set some value on his attachment.\'\n\n\'Aye, aye!\' cried Chuffey in a soothing tone. \'Aye, aye, aye! Never mind\nhim. It\'s hard to hear, but never mind him. He\'ll die one day. There\nare three hundred and sixty-five days in the year--three hundred and\nsixty-six in leap year--and he may die on any one of \'em.\'\n\n\'You\'re a wearing old soul, and that\'s the sacred truth,\' said Mrs Gamp,\ncontemplating him from a little distance with anything but favour, as he\ncontinued to mutter to himself. \'It\'s a pity that you don\'t know wot you\nsay, for you\'d tire your own patience out if you did, and fret yourself\ninto a happy releage for all as knows you.\'\n\n\'His son,\' murmured the old man, lifting up his hand. \'His son!\'\n\n\'Well, I\'m sure!\' said Mrs Gamp, \'you\'re a-settlin\' of it, Mr Chuffey.\nTo your satigefaction, sir, I hope. But I wouldn\'t lay a new pincushion\non it myself, sir, though you ARE so well informed. Drat the old\ncreetur, he\'s a-layin\' down the law tolerable confident, too! A deal he\nknows of sons! or darters either! Suppose you was to favour us with some\nremarks on twins, sir, WOULD you be so good!\'\n\nThe bitter and indignant sarcasm which Mrs Gamp conveyed into these\ntaunts was altogether lost on the unconscious Chuffey, who appeared to\nbe as little cognizant of their delivery as of his having given Mrs\nGamp offence. But that high-minded woman being sensitively alive to any\ninvasion of her professional province, and imagining that Mr Chuffey had\ngiven utterance to some prediction on the subject of sons, which ought\nto have emanated in the first instance from herself as the only lawful\nauthority, or which should at least have been on no account proclaimed\nwithout her sanction and concurrence, was not so easily appeased. She\ncontinued to sidle at Mr Chuffey with looks of sharp hostility, and to\ndefy him with many other ironical remarks, uttered in that low key\nwhich commonly denotes suppressed indignation; until the entrance of\nthe teaboard, and a request from Mrs Jonas that she would make tea at a\nside-table for the party that had unexpectedly assembled, restored her\nto herself. She smiled again, and entered on her ministration with her\nown particular urbanity.\n\n\'And quite a family it is to make tea for,\' said Mrs Gamp; \'and wot a\nhappiness to do it! My good young \'ooman\'--to the servant-girl--\'p\'raps\nsomebody would like to try a new-laid egg or two, not biled too hard.\nLikeways, a few rounds o\' buttered toast, first cuttin\' off the crust,\nin consequence of tender teeth, and not too many of \'em; which Gamp\nhimself, Mrs Chuzzlewit, at one blow, being in liquor, struck out four,\ntwo single, and two double, as was took by Mrs Harris for a keepsake,\nand is carried in her pocket at this present hour, along with two\ncramp-bones, a bit o\' ginger, and a grater like a blessed infant\'s shoe,\nin tin, with a little heel to put the nutmeg in; as many times I\'ve seen\nand said, and used for candle when required, within the month.\'\n\nAs the privileges of the side-table--besides including the small\nprerogatives of sitting next the toast, and taking two cups of tea to\nother people\'s one, and always taking them at a crisis, that is to\nsay, before putting fresh water into the tea-pot, and after it had been\nstanding for some time--also comprehended a full view of the company,\nand an opportunity of addressing them as from a rostrum, Mrs Gamp\ndischarged the functions entrusted to her with extreme good-humour and\naffability. Sometimes resting her saucer on the palm of her outspread\nhand, and supporting her elbow on the table, she stopped between her\nsips of tea to favour the circle with a smile, a wink, a roll of the\nhead, or some other mark of notice; and at those periods her countenance\nwas lighted up with a degree of intelligence and vivacity, which it was\nalmost impossible to separate from the benignant influence of distilled\nwaters.\n\nBut for Mrs Gamp, it would have been a curiously silent party. Miss\nPecksniff only spoke to her Augustus, and to him in whispers. Augustus\nspoke to nobody, but sighed for every one, and occasionally gave himself\nsuch a sounding slap upon the forehead as would make Mrs Todgers, who\nwas rather nervous, start in her chair with an involuntary exclamation.\nMrs Todgers was occupied in knitting, and seldom spoke. Poor Merry held\nthe hand of cheerful little Ruth between her own, and listening with\nevident pleasure to all she said, but rarely speaking herself, sometimes\nsmiled, and sometimes kissed her on the cheek, and sometimes turned\naside to hide the tears that trembled in her eyes. Tom felt this change\nin her so much, and was so glad to see how tenderly Ruth dealt with her,\nand how she knew and answered to it, that he had not the heart to make\nany movement towards their departure, although he had long since given\nutterance to all he came to say.\n\nThe old clerk, subsiding into his usual state, remained profoundly\nsilent, while the rest of the little assembly were thus occupied, intent\nupon the dreams, whatever they might be, which hardly seemed to stir\nthe surface of his sluggish thoughts. The bent of these dull fancies\ncombining probably with the silent feasting that was going on about him,\nand some struggling recollection of the last approach to revelry he had\nwitnessed, suggested a strange question to his mind. He looked round\nupon a sudden, and said:\n\n\'Who\'s lying dead upstairs?\'\n\n\'No one,\' said Merry, turning to him. \'What is the matter? We are all\nhere.\'\n\n\'All here!\' cried the old man. \'All here! Where is he then--my old\nmaster, Mr Chuzzlewit, who had the only son? Where is he?\'\n\n\'Hush! Hush!\' said Merry, speaking kindly to him. \'That happened long\nago. Don\'t you recollect?\'\n\n\'Recollect!\' rejoined the old man, with a cry of grief. \'As if I could\nforget! As if I ever could forget!\'\n\nHe put his hand up to his face for a moment; and then repeated turning\nround exactly as before:\n\n\'Who\'s lying dead upstairs?\'\n\n\'No one!\' said Merry.\n\nAt first he gazed angrily upon her, as upon a stranger who endeavoured\nto deceive him; but peering into her face, and seeing that it was indeed\nshe, he shook his head in sorrowful compassion.\n\n\'You think not. But they don\'t tell you. No, no, poor thing! They don\'t\ntell you. Who are these, and why are they merry-making here, if there is\nno one dead? Foul play! Go see who it is!\'\n\nShe made a sign to them not to speak to him, which indeed they had\nlittle inclination to do; and remained silent herself. So did he for\na short time; but then he repeated the same question with an eagerness\nthat had a peculiar terror in it.\n\n\'There\'s some one dead,\' he said, \'or dying; and I want to knows who it\nis. Go see, go see! Where\'s Jonas?\'\n\n\'In the country,\' she replied.\n\nThe old man gazed at her as if he doubted what she said, or had not\nheard her; and, rising from his chair, walked across the room and\nupstairs, whispering as he went, \'Foul play!\' They heard his footsteps\noverhead, going up into that corner of the room in which the bed stood\n(it was there old Anthony had died); and then they heard him coming down\nagain immediately. His fancy was not so strong or wild that it pictured\nto him anything in the deserted bedchamber which was not there; for he\nreturned much calmer, and appeared to have satisfied himself.\n\n\'They don\'t tell you,\' he said to Merry in his quavering voice, as\nhe sat down again, and patted her upon the head. \'They don\'t tell me\neither; but I\'ll watch, I\'ll watch. They shall not hurt you; don\'t be\nfrightened. When you have sat up watching, I have sat up watching too.\nAye, aye, I have!\' he piped out, clenching his weak, shrivelled hand.\n\'Many a night I have been ready!\'\n\nHe said this with such trembling gaps and pauses in his want of breath,\nand said it in his jealous secrecy so closely in her ear, that little\nor nothing of it was understood by the visitors. But they had heard\nand seen enough of the old man to be disquieted, and to have left\ntheir seats and gathered about him; thereby affording Mrs Gamp,\nwhose professional coolness was not so easily disturbed, an eligible\nopportunity for concentrating the whole resources of her powerful mind\nand appetite upon the toast and butter, tea and eggs. She had brought\nthem to bear upon those viands with such vigour that her face was in the\nhighest state of inflammation, when she now (there being nothing left to\neat or drink) saw fit to interpose.\n\n\'Why, highty tighty, sir!\' cried Mrs Gamp, \'is these your manners? You\nwant a pitcher of cold water throw\'d over you to bring you round; that\'s\nmy belief, and if you was under Betsey Prig you\'d have it, too, I do\nassure you, Mr Chuffey. Spanish Flies is the only thing to draw this\nnonsense out of you; and if anybody wanted to do you a kindness, they\'d\nclap a blister of \'em on your head, and put a mustard poultige on your\nback. \'Who\'s dead, indeed! It wouldn\'t be no grievous loss if some one\nwas, I think!\'\n\n\'He\'s quiet now, Mrs Gamp,\' said Merry. \'Don\'t disturb him.\'\n\n\'Oh, bother the old wictim, Mrs Chuzzlewit,\' replied that zealous lady,\n\'I ain\'t no patience with him. You give him his own way too much by\nhalf. A worritin\' wexagious creetur!\'\n\nNo doubt with the view of carrying out the precepts she enforced, and\n\'bothering the old wictim\' in practice as well as in theory, Mrs Gamp\ntook him by the collar of his coat, and gave him some dozen or two of\nhearty shakes backward and forward in his chair; that exercise being\nconsidered by the disciples of the Prig school of nursing (who are very\nnumerous among professional ladies) as exceedingly conducive to repose,\nand highly beneficial to the performance of the nervous functions.\nIts effect in this instance was to render the patient so giddy and\naddle-headed, that he could say nothing more; which Mrs Gamp regarded as\nthe triumph of her art.\n\n\'There!\' she said, loosening the old man\'s cravat, in consequence of his\nbeing rather black in the face, after this scientific treatment. \'Now,\nI hope, you\'re easy in your mind. If you should turn at all faint we\ncan soon rewive you, sir, I promige you. Bite a person\'s thumbs, or\nturn their fingers the wrong way,\' said Mrs Gamp, smiling with the\nconsciousness of at once imparting pleasure and instruction to her\nauditors, \'and they comes to, wonderful, Lord bless you!\'\n\nAs this excellent woman had been formerly entrusted with the care of Mr\nChuffey on a previous occasion, neither Mrs Jonas nor anybody else had\nthe resolution to interfere directly with her mode of treatment;\nthough all present (Tom Pinch and his sister especially) appeared to be\ndisposed to differ from her views. For such is the rash boldness of the\nuninitiated, that they will frequently set up some monstrous abstract\nprinciple, such as humanity, or tenderness, or the like idle folly, in\nobstinate defiance of all precedent and usage; and will even venture to\nmaintain the same against the persons who have made the precedents\nand established the usage, and who must therefore be the best and most\nimpartial judges of the subject.\n\n\'Ah, Mr Pinch!\' said Miss Pecksniff. \'It all comes of this unfortunate\nmarriage. If my sister had not been so precipitate, and had not united\nherself to a Wretch, there would have been no Mr Chuffey in the house.\'\n\n\'Hush!\' cried Tom. \'She\'ll hear you.\'\n\n\'I should be very sorry if she did hear me, Mr Pinch,\' said Cherry,\nraising her voice a little; \'for it is not in my nature to add to the\nuneasiness of any person; far less of my own sister. I know what a\nsister\'s duties are, Mr Pinch, and I hope I always showed it in my\npractice. Augustus, my dear child, find my pocket-handkerchief, and give\nit to me.\'\n\nAugustus obeyed, and took Mrs Todgers aside to pour his griefs into her\nfriendly bosom.\n\n\'I am sure, Mr Pinch,\' said Charity, looking after her betrothed and\nglancing at her sister, \'that I ought to be very grateful for the\nblessings I enjoy, and those which are yet in store for me. When I\ncontrast Augustus\'--here she was modest and embarrased--\'who, I don\'t\nmind saying to you, is all softness, mildness, and devotion, with the\ndetestable man who is my sister\'s husband; and when I think, Mr Pinch,\nthat in the dispensations of this world, our cases might have been\nreversed; I have much to be thankful for, indeed, and much to make me\nhumble and contented.\'\n\nContented she might have been, but humble she assuredly was not. Her\nface and manner experienced something so widely different from humility,\nthat Tom could not help understanding and despising the base motives\nthat were working in her breast. He turned away, and said to Ruth, that\nit was time for them to go.\n\n\'I will write to your husband,\' said Tom to Merry, \'and explain to him,\nas I would have done if I had met him here, that if he has sustained any\ninconvenience through my means, it is not my fault; a postman not being\nmore innocent of the news he brings, than I was when I handed him that\nletter.\'\n\n\'I thank you!\' said Merry. \'It may do some good.\'\n\nShe parted tenderly from Ruth, who with her brother was in the act of\nleaving the room, when a key was heard in the lock of the door below,\nand immediately afterwards a quick footstep in the passage. Tom stopped,\nand looked at Merry.\n\nIt was Jonas, she said timidly.\n\n\'I had better not meet him on the stairs, perhaps,\' said Tom, drawing\nhis sister\'s arm through his, and coming back a step or two. \'I\'ll wait\nfor him here, a moment.\'\n\nHe had scarcely said it when the door opened, and Jonas entered. His\nwife came forward to receive him; but he put her aside with his hand,\nand said in a surly tone:\n\n\'I didn\'t know you\'d got a party.\'\n\nAs he looked, at the same time, either by accident or design, towards\nMiss Pecksniff; and as Miss Pecksniff was only too delighted to quarrel\nwith him, she instantly resented it.\n\n\'Oh dear!\' she said, rising. \'Pray don\'t let us intrude upon your\ndomestic happiness! That would be a pity. We have taken tea here, sir,\nin your absence; but if you will have the goodness to send us a note of\nthe expense, receipted, we shall be happy to pay it. Augustus, my love,\nwe will go, if you please. Mrs Todgers, unless you wish to remain here,\nwe shall be happy to take you with us. It would be a pity, indeed, to\nspoil the bliss which this gentleman always brings with him, especially\ninto his own home.\'\n\n\'Charity! Charity!\' remonstrated her sister, in such a heartfelt tone\nthat she might have been imploring her to show the cardinal virtue whose\nname she bore.\n\n\'Merry, my dear, I am much obliged to you for your advice,\' returned\nMiss Pecksniff, with a stately scorn--by the way, she had not been\noffered any--\'but I am not his slave--\'\n\n\'No, nor wouldn\'t have been if you could,\' interrupted Jonas. \'We know\nall about it.\'\n\n\'WHAT did you say, sir?\' cried Miss Pecksniff, sharply.\n\n\'Didn\'t you hear?\' retorted Jonas, lounging down upon a chair. \'I am not\na-going to say it again. If you like to stay, you may stay. If you like\nto go, you may go. But if you stay, please to be civil.\'\n\n\'Beast!\' cried Miss Pecksniff, sweeping past him. \'Augustus! He is\nbeneath your notice!\' Augustus had been making some faint and sickly\ndemonstration of shaking his fist. \'Come away, child,\' screamed Miss\nPecksniff, \'I command you!\'\n\nThe scream was elicited from her by Augustus manifesting an intention to\nreturn and grapple with him. But Miss Pecksniff giving the fiery youth\na pull, and Mrs Todgers giving him a push they all three tumbled out\nof the room together, to the music of Miss Pecksniff\'s shrill\nremonstrances.\n\nAll this time Jonas had seen nothing of Tom and his sister; for they\nwere almost behind the door when he opened it, and he had sat down with\nhis back towards them, and had purposely kept his eyes upon the opposite\nside of the street during his altercation with Miss Pecksniff, in order\nthat his seeming carelessness might increase the exasperation of that\nwronged young damsel. His wife now faltered out that Tom had been\nwaiting to see him; and Tom advanced.\n\nThe instant he presented himself, Jonas got up from his chair, and\nswearing a great oath, caught it in his grasp, as if he would have\nfelled Tom to the ground with it. As he most unquestionably would have\ndone, but that his very passion and surprise made him irresolute, and\ngave Tom, in his calmness, an opportunity of being heard.\n\n\'You have no cause to be violent, sir,\' said Tom. \'Though what I wish to\nsay relates to your own affairs, I know nothing of them, and desire to\nknow nothing of them.\'\n\nJonas was too enraged to speak. He held the door open; and stamping his\nfoot upon the ground, motioned Tom away.\n\n\'As you cannot suppose,\' said Tom, \'that I am here with any view of\nconciliating you or pleasing myself, I am quite indifferent to your\nreception of me, or your dismissal of me. Hear what I have to say, if\nyou are not a madman! I gave you a letter the other day, when you were\nabout to go abroad.\'\n\n\'You Thief, you did!\' retorted Jonas. \'I\'ll pay you for the carriage of\nit one day, and settle an old score besides. I will!\'\n\n\'Tut, tut,\' said Tom, \'you needn\'t waste words or threats. I wish you\nto understand--plainly because I would rather keep clear of you and\neverything that concerns you: not because I have the least apprehension\nof your doing me any injury: which would be weak indeed--that I am no\nparty to the contents of that letter. That I know nothing of it. That I\nwas not even aware that it was to be delivered to you; and that I had it\nfrom--\'\n\n\'By the Lord!\' cried Jonas, fiercely catching up the chair, \'I\'ll knock\nyour brains out, if you speak another word.\'\n\nTom, nevertheless, persisting in his intention, and opening his lips to\nspeak again, Jonas set upon him like a savage; and in the quickness and\nferocity of his attack would have surely done him some grievous injury,\ndefenceless as he was, and embarrassed by having his frightened sister\nclinging to his arm, if Merry had not run between them, crying to\nTom for the love of Heaven to leave the house. The agony of this poor\ncreature, the terror of his sister, the impossibility of making himself\naudible, and the equal impossibility of bearing up against Mrs Gamp, who\nthrew herself upon him like a feather-bed, and forced him backwards down\nthe stairs by the mere oppression of her dead weight, prevailed. Tom\nshook the dust of that house off his feet, without having mentioned\nNadgett\'s name.\n\nIf the name could have passed his lips; if Jonas, in the insolence of\nhis vile nature, had never roused him to do that old act of manliness,\nfor which (and not for his last offence) he hated him with such\nmalignity; if Jonas could have learned, as then he could and would have\nlearned, through Tom\'s means, what unsuspected spy there was upon him;\nhe would have been saved from the commission of a Guilty Deed, then\ndrawing on towards its black accomplishment. But the fatality was of\nhis own working; the pit was of his own digging; the gloom that gathered\nround him was the shadow of his own life.\n\nHis wife had closed the door, and thrown herself before it, on the\nground, upon her knees. She held up her hands to him now, and besought\nhim not to be harsh with her, for she had interposed in fear of\nbloodshed.\n\n\'So, so!\' said Jonas, looking down upon her, as he fetched his breath.\n\'These are your friends, are they, when I am away? You plot and tamper\nwith this sort of people, do you?\'\n\n\'No, indeed! I have no knowledge of these secrets, and no clue to\ntheir meaning. I have never seen him since I left home but once--but\ntwice--before to-day.\'\n\n\'Oh!\' sneered Jonas, catching at this correction. \'But once, but twice,\neh? Which do you mean? Twice and once, perhaps. Three times! How many\nmore, you lying jade?\'\n\nAs he made an angry motion with his hand, she shrunk down hastily. A\nsuggestive action! Full of a cruel truth!\n\n\'How many more times?\' he repeated.\n\n\'No more. The other morning, and to-day, and once besides.\'\n\nHe was about to retort upon her, when the clock struck. He started\nstopped, and listened; appearing to revert to some engagement, or to\nsome other subject, a secret within his own breast, recalled to him by\nthis record of the progress of the hours.\n\n\'Don\'t lie there! Get up!\'\n\nHaving helped her to rise, or rather hauled her up by the arm, he went\non to say:\n\n\'Listen to me, young lady; and don\'t whine when you have no occasion, or\nI may make some for you. If I find him in my house again, or find that\nyou have seen him in anybody else\'s house, you\'ll repent it. If you are\nnot deaf and dumb to everything that concerns me, unless you have my\nleave to hear and speak, you\'ll repent it. If you don\'t obey exactly\nwhat I order, you\'ll repent it. Now, attend. What\'s the time?\'\n\n\'It struck eight a minute ago.\'\n\nHe looked towards her intently; and said, with a laboured distinctness,\nas if he had got the words off by heart:\n\n\'I have been travelling day and night, and am tired. I have lost some\nmoney, and that don\'t improve me. Put my supper in the little off-room\nbelow, and have the truckle-bed made. I shall sleep there to-night, and\nmaybe to-morrow night; and if I can sleep all day to-morrow, so much\nthe better, for I\'ve got trouble to sleep off, if I can. Keep the house\nquiet, and don\'t call me. Mind! Don\'t call me. Don\'t let anybody call\nme. Let me lie there.\'\n\nShe said it should be done. Was that all?\n\n\'All what? You must be prying and questioning!\' he angrily retorted.\n\'What more do you want to know?\'\n\n\'I want to know nothing, Jonas, but what you tell me. All hope of\nconfidence between us has long deserted me!\'\n\n\'Ecod, I should hope so!\' he muttered.\n\n\'But if you will tell me what you wish, I will be obedient and will\ntry to please you. I make no merit of that, for I have no friend in\nmy father or my sister, but am quite alone. I am very humble and\nsubmissive. You told me you would break my spirit, and you have done so.\nDo not break my heart too!\'\n\nShe ventured, as she said these words, to lay her hand upon his\nshoulder. He suffered it to rest there, in his exultation; and the whole\nmean, abject, sordid, pitiful soul of the man, looked at her, for the\nmoment, through his wicked eyes.\n\nFor the moment only; for, with the same hurried return to something\nwithin himself, he bade her, in a surly tone, show her obedience by\nexecuting his commands without delay. When she had withdrawn he paced\nup and down the room several times; but always with his right hand\nclenched, as if it held something; which it did not, being empty. When\nhe was tired of this, he threw himself into a chair, and thoughtfully\nturned up the sleeve of his right arm, as if he were rather musing\nabout its strength than examining it; but, even then, he kept the hand\nclenched.\n\nHe was brooding in this chair, with his eyes cast down upon the ground,\nwhen Mrs Gamp came in to tell him that the little room was ready. Not\nbeing quite sure of her reception after interfering in the quarrel, Mrs\nGamp, as a means of interesting and propitiating her patron, affected a\ndeep solicitude in Mr Chuffey.\n\n\'How is he now, sir?\' she said.\n\n\'Who?\' cried Jonas, raising his head, and staring at her.\n\n\'To be sure!\' returned the matron with a smile and a curtsey. \'What am I\nthinking of! You wasn\'t here, sir, when he was took so strange. I never\nsee a poor dear creetur took so strange in all my life, except a patient\nmuch about the same age, as I once nussed, which his calling was the\ncustom-\'us, and his name was Mrs Harris\'s own father, as pleasant a\nsinger, Mr Chuzzlewit, as ever you heerd, with a voice like a Jew\'s-harp\nin the bass notes, that it took six men to hold at sech times, foaming\nfrightful.\'\n\n\'Chuffey, eh?\' said Jonas carelessly, seeing that she went up to the\nold, clerk, and looked at him. \'Ha!\'\n\n\'The creetur\'s head\'s so hot,\' said Mrs Gamp, \'that you might heat a\nflat-iron at it. And no wonder I am sure, considerin\' the things he\nsaid!\'\n\n\'Said!\' cried Jonas. \'What did he say?\'\n\nMrs Gamp laid her hand upon her heart, to put some check upon its\npalpitations, and turning up her eyes replied in a faint voice:\n\n\'The awfulest things, Mr Chuzzlewit, as ever I heerd! Which Mrs Harris\'s\nfather never spoke a word when took so, some does and some don\'t, except\nsayin\' when he come round, \"Where is Sairey Gamp?\" But raly, sir, when\nMr Chuffey comes to ask who\'s lyin\' dead upstairs, and--\'\n\n\'Who\'s lying dead upstairs!\' repeated Jonas, standing aghast.\n\nMrs Gamp nodded, made as if she were swallowing, and went on.\n\n\'Who\'s lying dead upstairs; sech was his Bible language; and where was\nMr Chuzzlewit as had the only son; and when he goes upstairs a-looking\nin the beds and wandering about the rooms, and comes down again\na-whisperin\' softly to his-self about foul play and that; it gives me\nsech a turn, I don\'t deny it, Mr Chuzzlewit, that I never could have kep\nmyself up but for a little drain o\' spirits, which I seldom touches, but\ncould always wish to know where to find, if so dispoged, never knowin\'\nwot may happen next, the world bein\' so uncertain.\'\n\n\'Why, the old fool\'s mad!\' cried Jonas, much disturbed.\n\n\'That\'s my opinion, sir,\' said Mrs Gamp, \'and I will not deceive you. I\nbelieve as Mr Chuffey, sir, rekwires attention (if I may make so bold),\nand should not have his liberty to wex and worrit your sweet lady as he\ndoes.\'\n\n\'Why, who minds what he says?\' retorted Jonas.\n\n\'Still he is worritin\' sir,\' said Mrs Gamp. \'No one don\'t mind him, but\nhe IS a ill conwenience.\'\n\n\'Ecod you\'re right,\' said Jonas, looking doubtfully at the subject of\nthis conversation. \'I have half a mind to shut him up.\'\n\nMrs Gamp rubbed her hands, and smiled, and shook her head, and sniffed\nexpressively, as scenting a job.\n\n\'Could you--could you take care of such an idiot, now, in some spare\nroom upstairs?\' asked Jonas.\n\n\'Me and a friend of mine, one off, one on, could do it, Mr Chuzzlewit,\'\nreplied the nurse; \'our charges not bein\' high, but wishin\' they was\nlower, and allowance made considerin\' not strangers. Me and Betsey Prig,\nsir, would undertake Mr Chuffey reasonable,\' said Mrs Gamp, looking at\nhim with her head on one side, as if he had been a piece of goods, for\nwhich she was driving a bargain; \'and give every satigefaction. Betsey\nPrig has nussed a many lunacies, and well she knows their ways,\nwhich puttin\' \'em right close afore the fire, when fractious, is the\ncertainest and most compoging.\'\n\nWhile Mrs Gamp discoursed to this effect, Jonas was walking up and down\nthe room again, glancing covertly at the old clerk, as he did so. He now\nmade a stop, and said:\n\n\'I must look after him, I suppose, or I may have him doing some\nmischief. What say you?\'\n\n\'Nothin\' more likely!\' Mrs Gamp replied. \'As well I have experienged, I\ndo assure you, sir.\'\n\n\'Well! Look after him for the present, and--let me see--three days from\nthis time let the other woman come here, and we\'ll see if we can make\na bargain of it. About nine or ten o\'clock at night, say. Keep your eye\nupon him in the meanwhile, and don\'t talk about it. He\'s as mad as a\nMarch hare!\'\n\n\'Madder!\' cried Mrs Gamp. \'A deal madder!\'\n\n\'See to him, then; take care that he does no harm; and recollect what I\nhave told you.\'\n\nLeaving Mrs Gamp in the act of repeating all she had been told, and\nof producing in support of her memory and trustworthiness, many\ncommendations selected from among the most remarkable opinions of the\ncelebrated Mrs Harris, he descended to the little room prepared for him,\nand pulling off his coat and his boots, put them outside the door before\nhe locked it. In locking it, he was careful so to adjust the key as to\nbaffle any curious person who might try to peep in through the key-hole;\nand when he had taken these precautions, he sat down to his supper.\n\n\'Mr Chuff,\' he muttered, \'it\'ll be pretty easy to be even with YOU. It\'s\nof no use doing things by halves, and as long as I stop here, I\'ll take\ngood care of you. When I\'m off you may say what you please. But it\'s\na d--d strange thing,\' he added, pushing away his untouched plate, and\nstriding moodily to and fro, \'that his drivellings should have taken\nthis turn just now.\'\n\nAfter pacing the little room from end to end several times, he sat down\nin another chair.\n\n\'I say just now, but for anything I know, he may have been carrying on\nthe same game all along. Old dog! He shall be gagged!\'\n\nHe paced the room again in the same restless and unsteady way; and then\nsat down upon the bedstead, leaning his chin upon his hand, and looking\nat the table. When he had looked at it for a long time, he remembered\nhis supper; and resuming the chair he had first occupied, began to eat\nwith great rapacity; not like a hungry man, but as if he were determined\nto do it. He drank too, roundly; sometimes stopping in the middle of a\ndraught to walk, and change his seat and walk again, and dart back to\nthe table and fall to, in a ravenous hurry, as before.\n\nIt was now growing dark. As the gloom of evening, deepening into\nnight, came on, another dark shade emerging from within him seemed to\noverspread his face, and slowly change it. Slowly, slowly; darker and\ndarker; more and more haggard; creeping over him by little and little,\nuntil it was black night within him and without.\n\nThe room in which he had shut himself up, was on the ground floor, at\nthe back of the house. It was lighted by a dirty skylight, and had a\ndoor in the wall, opening into a narrow covered passage or blind-alley,\nvery little frequented after five or six o\'clock in the evening, and\nnot in much use as a thoroughfare at any hour. But it had an outlet in a\nneighbouring street.\n\nThe ground on which this chamber stood had, at one time, not within his\nrecollection, been a yard; and had been converted to its present purpose\nfor use as an office. But the occasion for it died with the man who\nbuilt it; and saving that it had sometimes served as an apology for a\nspare bedroom, and that the old clerk had once held it (but that was\nyears ago) as his recognized apartment, it had been little troubled by\nAnthony Chuzzlewit and Son. It was a blotched, stained, mouldering room,\nlike a vault; and there were water-pipes running through it, which at\nunexpected times in the night, when other things were quiet, clicked and\ngurgled suddenly, as if they were choking.\n\nThe door into the court had not been open for a long, long time; but the\nkey had always hung in one place, and there it hung now. He was prepared\nfor its being rusty; for he had a little bottle of oil in his pocket and\nthe feather of a pen, with which he lubricated the key and the lock too,\ncarefully. All this while he had been without his coat, and had nothing\non his feet but his stockings. He now got softly into bed in the same\nstate, and tossed from side to side to tumble it. In his restless\ncondition that was easily done.\n\nWhen he arose, he took from his portmanteau, which he had caused to be\ncarried into that place when he came home, a pair of clumsy shoes,\nand put them on his feet; also a pair of leather leggings, such\nas countrymen are used to wear, with straps to fasten them to the\nwaistband. In these he dressed himself at leisure. Lastly, he took out\na common frock of coarse dark jean, which he drew over his own\nunder-clothing; and a felt hat--he had purposely left his own upstairs.\nHe then sat himself down by the door, with the key in his hand, waiting.\n\nHe had no light; the time was dreary, long, and awful. The ringers were\npracticing in a neighbouring church, and the clashing of the bells was\nalmost maddening. Curse the clamouring bells, they seemed to know that\nhe was listening at the door, and to proclaim it in a crowd of voices to\nall the town! Would they never be still?\n\nThey ceased at last, and then the silence was so new and terrible that\nit seemed the prelude to some dreadful noise. Footsteps in the court!\nTwo men. He fell back from the door on tiptoe, as if they could have\nseen him through its wooden panels.\n\nThey passed on, talking (he could make out) about a skeleton which had\nbeen dug up yesterday, in some work of excavation near at hand, and was\nsupposed to be that of a murdered man. \'So murder is not always found\nout, you see,\' they said to one another as they turned the corner.\n\nHush!\n\nHe put the key into the lock, and turned it. The door resisted for a\nwhile, but soon came stiffly open; mingling with the sense of fever in\nhis mouth, a taste of rust, and dust, and earth, and rotting wood. He\nlooked out; passed out; locked it after him.\n\nAll was clear and quiet, as he fled away.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN\n\nCONCLUSION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND\n\n\nDid no men passing through the dim streets shrink without knowing why,\nwhen he came stealing up behind them? As he glided on, had no child in\nits sleep an indistinct perception of a guilty shadow falling on its\nbed, that troubled its innocent rest? Did no dog howl, and strive to\nbreak its rattling chain, that it might tear him; no burrowing rat,\nscenting the work he had in hand, essay to gnaw a passage after him,\nthat it might hold a greedy revel at the feast of his providing? When he\nlooked back, across his shoulder, was it to see if his quick footsteps\nstill fell dry upon the dusty pavement, or were already moist and\nclogged with the red mire that stained the naked feet of Cain!\n\nHe shaped his course for the main western road, and soon reached it;\nriding a part of the way, then alighting and walking on again. He\ntravelled for a considerable distance upon the roof of a stage-coach,\nwhich came up while he was afoot; and when it turned out of his road,\nbribed the driver of a return post-chaise to take him on with him; and\nthen made across the country at a run, and saved a mile or two before he\nstruck again into the road. At last, as his plan was, he came up with a\ncertain lumbering, slow, night-coach, which stopped wherever it could,\nand was stopping then at a public-house, while the guard and coachman\nate and drank within.\n\nHe bargained for a seat outside this coach, and took it. And he quitted\nit no more until it was within a few miles of its destination, but\noccupied the same place all night.\n\nAll night! It is a common fancy that nature seems to sleep by night. It\nis a false fancy, as who should know better than he?\n\nThe fishes slumbered in the cold, bright, glistening streams and rivers,\nperhaps; and the birds roosted on the branches of the trees; and in\ntheir stalls and pastures beasts were quiet; and human creatures slept.\nBut what of that, when the solemn night was watching, when it never\nwinked, when its darkness watched no less than its light! The stately\ntrees, the moon and shining stars, the softly stirring wind, the\nover-shadowed lane, the broad, bright countryside, they all kept watch.\nThere was not a blade of growing grass or corn, but watched; and the\nquieter it was, the more intent and fixed its watch upon him seemed to\nbe.\n\nAnd yet he slept. Riding on among those sentinels of God, he slept,\nand did not change the purpose of his journey. If he forgot it in his\ntroubled dreams, it came up steadily, and woke him. But it never woke\nhim to remorse, or to abandonment of his design.\n\nHe dreamed at one time that he was lying calmly in his bed, thinking of\na moonlight night and the noise of wheels, when the old clerk put\nhis head in at the door, and beckoned him. At this signal he arose\nimmediately--being already dressed in the clothes he actually wore at\nthat time--and accompanied him into a strange city, where the names of\nthe streets were written on the walls in characters quite new to him;\nwhich gave him no surprise or uneasiness, for he remembered in his dream\nto have been there before. Although these streets were very precipitous,\ninsomuch that to get from one to another it was necessary to descend\ngreat heights by ladders that were too short, and ropes that moved deep\nbells, and swung and swayed as they were clung to, the danger gave him\nlittle emotion beyond the first thrill of terror; his anxieties being\nconcentrated on his dress which was quite unfitted for some festival\nthat was about to be holden there, and in which he had come to take\na part. Already, great crowds began to fill the streets, and in\none direction myriads of people came rushing down an interminable\nperspective, strewing flowers and making way for others on white horses,\nwhen a terrible figure started from the throng, and cried out that it\nwas the Last Day for all the world. The cry being spread, there was a\nwild hurrying on to Judgment; and the press became so great that he and\nhis companion (who was constantly changing, and was never the same man\ntwo minutes together, though he never saw one man come or another go),\nstood aside in a porch, fearfully surveying the multitude; in which\nthere were many faces that he knew, and many that he did not know, but\ndreamed he did; when all at once a struggling head rose up among the\nrest--livid and deadly, but the same as he had known it--and denounced\nhim as having appointed that direful day to happen. They closed\ntogether. As he strove to free the hand in which he held a club, and\nstrike the blow he had so often thought of, he started to the knowledge\nof his waking purpose and the rising of the sun.\n\nThe sun was welcome to him. There were life and motion, and a world\nastir, to divide the attention of Day. It was the eye of Night--of\nwakeful, watchful, silent, and attentive Night, with so much leisure for\nthe observation of his wicked thoughts--that he dreaded most. There is\nno glare in the night. Even Glory shows to small advantage in the night,\nupon a crowded battle-field. How then shows Glory\'s blood-relation,\nbastard Murder!\n\nAye! He made no compromise, and held no secret with himself now. Murder.\nHe had come to do it.\n\n\'Let me get down here\' he said\n\n\'Short of the town, eh!\' observed the coachman.\n\n\'I may get down where I please, I suppose?\'\n\n\'You got up to please yourself, and may get down to please yourself. It\nwon\'t break our hearts to lose you, and it wouldn\'t have broken \'em if\nwe\'d never found you. Be a little quicker. That\'s all.\'\n\nThe guard had alighted, and was waiting in the road to take his money.\nIn the jealousy and distrust of what he contemplated, he thought this\nman looked at him with more than common curiosity.\n\n\'What are you staring at?\' said Jonas.\n\n\'Not at a handsome man,\' returned the guard. \'If you want your fortune\ntold, I\'ll tell you a bit of it. You won\'t be drowned. That\'s a\nconsolation for you.\'\n\nBefore he could retort or turn away, the coachman put an end to the\ndialogue by giving him a cut with his whip, and bidding him get out for a\nsurly dog. The guard jumped up to his seat at the same moment, and they\ndrove off, laughing; leaving him to stand in the road and shake his fist\nat them. He was not displeased though, on second thoughts, to have\nbeen taken for an ill-conditioned common country fellow; but rather\ncongratulated himself upon it as a proof that he was well disguised.\n\nWandering into a copse by the road-side--but not in that place; two or\nthree miles off--he tore out from a fence a thick, hard, knotted stake;\nand, sitting down beneath a hayrick, spent some time in shaping it, in\npeeling off the bark, and fashioning its jagged head with his knife.\n\nThe day passed on. Noon, afternoon, evening. Sunset.\n\nAt that serene and peaceful time two men, riding in a gig, came out\nof the city by a road not much frequented. It was the day on which Mr\nPecksniff had agreed to dine with Montague. He had kept his appointment,\nand was now going home. His host was riding with him for a short\ndistance; meaning to return by a pleasant track, which Mr Pecksniff had\nengaged to show him, through some fields. Jonas knew their plans. He had\nhung about the inn-yard while they were at dinner and had heard their\norders given.\n\nThey were loud and merry in their conversation, and might have been\nheard at some distance; far above the sound of their carriage wheels\nor horses\' hoofs. They came on noisily, to where a stile and footpath\nindicated their point of separation. Here they stopped.\n\n\'It\'s too soon. Much too soon,\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'But this is the\nplace, my dear sir. Keep the path, and go straight through the little\nwood you\'ll come to. The path is narrower there, but you can\'t miss it.\nWhen shall I see you again? Soon I hope?\'\n\n\'I hope so,\' replied Montague.\n\n\'Good night!\'\n\n\'Good night. And a pleasant ride!\'\n\nSo long as Mr Pecksniff was in sight, and turned his head at intervals\nto salute him, Montague stood in the road smiling, and waving his hand.\nBut when his new partner had disappeared, and this show was no longer\nnecessary, he sat down on the stile with looks so altered, that he might\nhave grown ten years older in the meantime.\n\nHe was flushed with wine, but not gay. His scheme had succeeded, but he\nshowed no triumph. The effort of sustaining his difficult part before\nhis late companion had fatigued him, perhaps, or it may be that the\nevening whispered to his conscience, or it may be (as it HAS been) that\na shadowy veil was dropping round him, closing out all thoughts but the\npresentiment and vague foreknowledge of impending doom.\n\nIf there be fluids, as we know there are, which, conscious of a coming\nwind, or rain, or frost, will shrink and strive to hide themselves in\ntheir glass arteries; may not that subtle liquor of the blood perceive,\nby properties within itself, that hands are raised to waste and spill\nit; and in the veins of men run cold and dull as his did, in that hour!\n\nSo cold, although the air was warm; so dull, although the sky was\nbright; that he rose up shivering from his seat, and hastily resumed\nhis walk. He checked himself as hastily; undecided whether to pursue the\nfootpath, which was lonely and retired, or to go back by the road.\n\nHe took the footpath.\n\nThe glory of the departing sun was on his face. The music of the birds\nwas in his ears. Sweet wild flowers bloomed about him. Thatched roofs of\npoor men\'s homes were in the distance; and an old grey spire, surmounted\nby a Cross, rose up between him and the coming night.\n\nHe had never read the lesson which these things conveyed; he had ever\nmocked and turned away from it; but, before going down into a hollow\nplace, he looked round, once, upon the evening prospect, sorrowfully.\nThen he went down, down, down, into the dell.\n\nIt brought him to the wood; a close, thick, shadowy wood, through which\nthe path went winding on, dwindling away into a slender sheep-track. He\npaused before entering; for the stillness of this spot almost daunted\nhim.\n\nThe last rays of the sun were shining in, aslant, making a path of\ngolden light along the stems and branches in its range, which, even as\nhe looked, began to die away, yielding gently to the twilight that came\ncreeping on. It was so very quiet that the soft and stealthy moss about\nthe trunks of some old trees, seemed to have grown out of the silence,\nand to be its proper offspring. Those other trees which were subdued\nby blasts of wind in winter time, had not quite tumbled down, but being\ncaught by others, lay all bare and scathed across their leafy arms, as\nif unwilling to disturb the general repose by the crash of their fall.\nVistas of silence opened everywhere, into the heart and innermost\nrecesses of the wood; beginning with the likeness of an aisle, a\ncloister, or a ruin open to the sky; then tangling off into a deep green\nrustling mystery, through which gnarled trunks, and twisted boughs, and\nivy-covered stems, and trembling leaves, and bark-stripped bodies of old\ntrees stretched out at length, were faintly seen in beautiful confusion.\n\nAs the sunlight died away, and evening fell upon the wood, he entered\nit. Moving, here and there a bramble or a drooping bough which stretched\nacross his path, he slowly disappeared. At intervals a narrow opening\nshowed him passing on, or the sharp cracking of some tender branch\ndenoted where he went; then, he was seen or heard no more.\n\nNever more beheld by mortal eye or heard by mortal ear; one man\nexcepted. That man, parting the leaves and branches on the other side,\nnear where the path emerged again, came leaping out soon afterwards.\n\nWhat had he left within the wood, that he sprang out of it as if it were\na hell!\n\nThe body of a murdered man. In one thick solitary spot, it lay among\nthe last year\'s leaves of oak and beech, just as it had fallen headlong\ndown. Sopping and soaking in among the leaves that formed its pillow;\noozing down into the boggy ground, as if to cover itself from human\nsight; forcing its way between and through the curling leaves, as if\nthose senseless things rejected and forswore it and were coiled up in\nabhorrence; went a dark, dark stain that dyed the whole summer night\nfrom earth to heaven.\n\nThe doer of this deed came leaping from the wood so fiercely, that he\ncast into the air a shower of fragments of young boughs, torn away\nin his passage, and fell with violence upon the grass. But he quickly\ngained his feet again, and keeping underneath a hedge with his body\nbent, went running on towards the road. The road once reached, he fell\ninto a rapid walk, and set on toward London.\n\nAnd he was not sorry for what he had done. He was frightened when he\nthought of it--when did he not think of it!--but he was not sorry. He\nhad had a terror and dread of the wood when he was in it; but being\nout of it, and having committed the crime, his fears were now diverted,\nstrangely, to the dark room he had left shut up at home. He had a\ngreater horror, infinitely greater, of that room than of the wood. Now\nthat he was on his return to it, it seemed beyond comparison more dismal\nand more dreadful than the wood. His hideous secret was shut up in the\nroom, and all its terrors were there; to his thinking it was not in the\nwood at all.\n\nHe walked on for ten miles; and then stopped at an ale-house for a\ncoach, which he knew would pass through, on its way to London, before\nlong; and which he also knew was not the coach he had travelled down by,\nfor it came from another place. He sat down outside the door here, on\na bench, beside a man who was smoking his pipe. Having called for some\nbeer, and drunk, he offered it to this companion, who thanked him, and\ntook a draught. He could not help thinking that, if the man had known\nall, he might scarcely have relished drinking out of the same cup with\nhim.\n\n\'A fine night, master!\' said this person. \'And a rare sunset.\'\n\n\'I didn\'t see it,\' was his hasty answer.\n\n\'Didn\'t see it?\' returned the man.\n\n\'How the devil could I see it, if I was asleep?\'\n\n\'Asleep! Aye, aye.\' The man appeared surprised by his unexpected\nirritability, and saying no more, smoked his pipe in silence. They had\nnot sat very long, when there was a knocking within.\n\n\'What\'s that?\' cried Jonas.\n\n\'Can\'t say, I\'m sure,\' replied the man.\n\nHe made no further inquiry, for the last question had escaped him in\nspite of himself. But he was thinking, at the moment, of the closed-up\nroom; of the possibility of their knocking at the door on some special\noccasion; of their being alarmed at receiving no answer; of their\nbursting it open; of their finding the room empty; of their fastening\nthe door into the court, and rendering it impossible for him to get into\nthe house without showing himself in the garb he wore, which would lead\nto rumour, rumour to detection, detection to death. At that instant, as\nif by some design and order of circumstances, the knocking had come.\n\nIt still continued; like a warning echo of the dread reality he had\nconjured up. As he could not sit and hear it, he paid for his beer and\nwalked on again. And having slunk about, in places unknown to him all\nday; and being out at night, in a lonely road, in an unusual dress and\nin that wandering and unsettled frame of mind; he stopped more than once\nto look about him, hoping he might be in a dream.\n\nStill he was not sorry. No. He had hated the man too much, and had been\nbent, too desperately and too long, on setting himself free. If the\nthing could have come over again, he would have done it again. His\nmalignant and revengeful passions were not so easily laid. There was no\nmore penitence or remorse within him now than there had been while the\ndeed was brewing.\n\nDread and fear were upon him, to an extent he had never counted on, and\ncould not manage in the least degree. He was so horribly afraid of that\ninfernal room at home. This made him, in a gloomy murderous, mad way,\nnot only fearful FOR himself, but OF himself; for being, as it were, a\npart of the room: a something supposed to be there, yet missing from it:\nhe invested himself with its mysterious terrors; and when he pictured in\nhis mind the ugly chamber, false and quiet, false and quiet, through the\ndark hours of two nights; and the tumbled bed, and he not in it, though\nbelieved to be; he became in a manner his own ghost and phantom, and was\nat once the haunting spirit and the haunted man.\n\nWhen the coach came up, which it soon did, he got a place outside and\nwas carried briskly onward towards home. Now, in taking his seat among\nthe people behind, who were chiefly country people, he conceived a fear\nthat they knew of the murder, and would tell him that the body had been\nfound; which, considering the time and place of the commission of the\ncrime, were events almost impossible to have happened yet, as he very\nwell knew. But although he did know it, and had therefore no reason\nto regard their ignorance as anything but the natural sequence to\nthe facts, still this very ignorance of theirs encouraged him. So far\nencouraged him, that he began to believe the body never would be found,\nand began to speculate on that probability. Setting off from this point,\nand measuring time by the rapid hurry of his guilty thoughts, and\nwhat had gone before the bloodshed, and the troops of incoherent and\ndisordered images of which he was the constant prey; he came by\ndaylight to regard the murder as an old murder, and to think himself\ncomparatively safe because it had not been discovered yet. Yet! When the\nsun which looked into the wood, and gilded with its rising light a dead\nman\'s lace, had seen that man alive, and sought to win him to a thought\nof Heaven, on its going down last night!\n\nBut here were London streets again. Hush!\n\nIt was but five o\'clock. He had time enough to reach his own house\nunobserved, and before there were many people in the streets, if nothing\nhad happened so far, tending to his discovery. He slipped down from\nthe coach without troubling the driver to stop his horses; and hurrying\nacross the road, and in and out of every by-way that lay near his\ncourse, at length approached his own dwelling. He used additional\ncaution in his immediate neighbourhood; halting first to look all\ndown the street before him; then gliding swiftly through that one, and\nstopping to survey the next, and so on.\n\nThe passage-way was empty when his murderer\'s face looked into it. He\nstole on, to the door on tiptoe, as if he dreaded to disturb his own\nimaginary rest.\n\nHe listened. Not a sound. As he turned the key with a trembling hand,\nand pushed the door softly open with his knee, a monstrous fear beset\nhis mind.\n\nWhat if the murdered man were there before him!\n\nHe cast a fearful glance all round. But there was nothing there.\n\nHe went in, locked the door, drew the key through and through the dust\nand damp in the fire-place to sully it again, and hung it up as of old.\nHe took off his disguise, tied it up in a bundle ready for carrying away\nand sinking in the river before night, and locked it up in a cupboard.\nThese precautions taken, he undressed and went to bed.\n\nThe raging thirst, the fire that burnt within him as he lay beneath the\nclothes, the augmented horror of the room when they shut it out from his\nview; the agony of listening, in which he paid enforced regard to every\nsound, and thought the most unlikely one the prelude to that knocking\nwhich should bring the news; the starts with which he left his couch,\nand looking in the glass, imagined that his deed was broadly written\nin his face, and lying down and burying himself once more beneath the\nblankets, heard his own heart beating Murder, Murder, Murder, in the\nbed; what words can paint tremendous truths like these!\n\nThe morning advanced. There were footsteps in the house. He heard the\nblinds drawn up, and shutters opened; and now and then a stealthy tread\noutside his own door. He tried to call out, more than once, but his\nmouth was dry as if it had been filled with sand. At last he sat up in\nhis bed, and cried:\n\n\'Who\'s there?\'\n\nIt was his wife.\n\nHe asked her what it was o\'clock? Nine.\n\n\'Did--did no one knock at my door yesterday?\' he faltered. \'Something\ndisturbed me; but unless you had knocked the door down, you would have\ngot no notice from me.\'\n\n\'No one,\' she replied. That was well. He had waited, almost breathless,\nfor her answer. It was a relief to him, if anything could be.\n\n\'Mr Nadgett wanted to see you,\' she said, \'but I told him you were\ntired, and had requested not to be disturbed. He said it was of little\nconsequence, and went away. As I was opening my window to let in the\ncool air, I saw him passing through the street this morning, very early;\nbut he hasn\'t been again.\'\n\nPassing through the street that morning? Very early! Jonas trembled at\nthe thought of having had a narrow chance of seeing him himself; even\nhim, who had no object but to avoid people, and sneak on unobserved, and\nkeep his own secrets; and who saw nothing.\n\nHe called to her to get his breakfast ready, and prepared to go\nupstairs; attiring himself in the clothes he had taken off when he came\ninto that room, which had been, ever since, outside the door. In his\nsecret dread of meeting the household for the first time, after what he\nhad done, he lingered at the door on slight pretexts that they might see\nhim without looking in his face; and left it ajar while he dressed; and\ncalled out to have the windows opened, and the pavement watered, that\nthey might become accustomed to his voice. Even when he had put off the\ntime, by one means or other, so that he had seen or spoken to them all,\nhe could not muster courage for a long while to go in among them,\nbut stood at his own door listening to the murmur of their distant\nconversation.\n\nHe could not stop there for ever, and so joined them. His last glance at\nthe glass had seen a tell-tale face, but that might have been because\nof his anxious looking in it. He dared not look at them to see if they\nobserved him, but he thought them very silent.\n\nAnd whatsoever guard he kept upon himself, he could not help listening,\nand showing that he listened. Whether he attended to their talk, or\ntried to think of other things, or talked himself, or held his peace, or\nresolutely counted the dull tickings of a hoarse clock at his back, he\nalways lapsed, as if a spell were on him, into eager listening. For\nhe knew it must come. And his present punishment, and torture and\ndistraction, were, to listen for its coming.\n\nHush!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT\n\nBEARS TIDINGS OF MARTIN AND OF MARK, AS WELL AS OF A THIRD PERSON NOT\nQUITE UNKNOWN TO THE READER. EXHIBITS FILIAL PIETY IN AN UGLY ASPECT;\nAND CASTS A DOUBTFUL RAY OF LIGHT UPON A VERY DARK PLACE\n\n\nTom Pinch and Ruth were sitting at their early breakfast, with the\nwindow open, and a row of the freshest little plants ranged before it\non the inside by Ruth\'s own hands; and Ruth had fastened a sprig of\ngeranium in Tom\'s button-hole, to make him very smart and summer-like\nfor the day (it was obliged to be fastened in, or that dear old Tom\nwas certain to lose it); and people were crying flowers up and down the\nstreet; and a blundering bee, who had got himself in between the\ntwo sashes of the window, was bruising his head against the glass,\nendeavouring to force himself out into the fine morning, and considering\nhimself enchanted because he couldn\'t do it; and the morning was as fine\na morning as ever was seen; and the fragrant air was kissing Ruth and\nrustling about Tom, as if it said, \'how are you, my dears; I came all\nthis way on purpose to salute you;\' and it was one of those glad times\nwhen we form, or ought to form, the wish that every one on earth were\nable to be happy, and catching glimpses of the summer of the heart, to\nfeel the beauty of the summer of the year.\n\nIt was even a pleasanter breakfast than usual; and it was always a\npleasant one. For little Ruth had now two pupils to attend, each three\ntimes a week; and each two hours at a time; and besides this, she had\npainted some screens and card-racks, and, unknown to Tom (was there ever\nanything so delightful!), had walked into a certain shop which dealt\nin such articles, after often peeping through the window; and had taken\ncourage to ask the Mistress of that shop whether she would buy them. And\nthe mistress had not only bought them, but had ordered more, and that\nvery morning Ruth had made confession of these facts to Tom, and had\nhanded him the money in a little purse she had worked expressly for the\npurpose. They had been in a flutter about this, and perhaps had shed a\nhappy tear or two for anything the history knows to the contrary; but\nit was all over now; and a brighter face than Tom\'s, or a brighter face\nthan Ruth\'s, the bright sun had not looked on since he went to bed last\nnight.\n\n\'My dear girl,\' said Tom, coming so abruptly on the subject, that he\ninterrupted himself in the act of cutting a slice of bread, and left\nthe knife sticking in the loaf, \'what a queer fellow our landlord is!\nI don\'t believe he has been home once since he got me into that\nunsatisfactory scrape. I begin to think he will never come home again.\nWhat a mysterious life that man does lead, to be sure!\'\n\n\'Very strange. Is it not, Tom?\'\n\n\'Really,\' said Tom, \'I hope it is only strange. I hope there may be\nnothing wrong in it. Sometimes I begin to be doubtful of that. I must\nhave an explanation with him,\' said Tom, shaking his head as if this\nwere a most tremendous threat, \'when I can catch him!\'\n\nA short double knock at the door put Tom\'s menacing looks to flight, and\nawakened an expression of surprise instead.\n\n\'Heyday!\' said Tom. \'An early hour for visitors! It must be John, I\nsuppose.\'\n\n\'I--I--don\'t think it was his knock, Tom,\' observed his little sister.\n\n\'No?\' said Tom. \'It surely can\'t be my employer suddenly arrived in\ntown; directed here by Mr Fips; and come for the key of the office. It\'s\nsomebody inquiring for me, I declare! Come in, if you please!\'\n\nBut when the person came in, Tom Pinch, instead of saying, \'Did you\nwish to speak with me, sir?\' or, \'My name is Pinch, sir; what is your\nbusiness, may I ask?\' or addressing him in any such distant terms; cried\nout, \'Good gracious Heaven!\' and seized him by both hands, with the\nliveliest manifestations of astonishment and pleasure.\n\nThe visitor was not less moved than Tom himself, and they shook hands a\ngreat many times, without another word being spoken on either side. Tom\nwas the first to find his voice.\n\n\'Mark Tapley, too!\' said Tom, running towards the door, and shaking\nhands with somebody else. \'My dear Mark, come in. How are you, Mark? He\ndon\'t look a day older than he used to do at the Dragon. How ARE you,\nMark?\'\n\n\'Uncommonly jolly, sir, thank\'ee,\' returned Mr Tapley, all smiles and\nbows. \'I hope I see you well, sir.\'\n\n\'Good gracious me!\' cried Tom, patting him tenderly on the back. \'How\ndelightful it is to hear his old voice again! My dear Martin, sit down.\nMy sister, Martin. Mr Chuzzlewit, my love. Mark Tapley from the Dragon,\nmy dear. Good gracious me, what a surprise this is! Sit down. Lord,\nbless me!\'\n\nTom was in such a state of excitement that he couldn\'t keep himself\nstill for a moment, but was constantly running between Mark and Martin,\nshaking hands with them alternately, and presenting them over and over\nagain to his sister.\n\n\'I remember the day we parted, Martin, as well as if it were yesterday,\'\nsaid Tom. \'What a day it was! and what a passion you were in! And don\'t\nyou remember my overtaking you in the road that morning, Mark, when I\nwas going to Salisbury in the gig to fetch him, and you were looking out\nfor a situation? And don\'t you recollect the dinner we had at Salisbury,\nMartin, with John Westlock, eh! Good gracious me! Ruth, my dear,\nMr Chuzzlewit. Mark Tapley, my love, from the Dragon. More cups and\nsaucers, if you please. Bless my soul, how glad I am to see you both!\'\n\nAnd then Tom (as John Westlock had done on his arrival) ran off to the\nloaf to cut some bread and butter for them; and before he had spread a\nsingle slice, remembered something else, and came running back again to\ntell it; and then he shook hands with them again; and then he introduced\nhis sister again; and then he did everything he had done already all\nover again; and nothing Tom could do, and nothing Tom could say, was\nhalf sufficient to express his joy at their safe return.\n\nMr Tapley was the first to resume his composure. In a very short space\nof time he was discovered to have somehow installed himself in office as\nwaiter, or attendant upon the party; a fact which was first suggested to\nthem by his temporary absence in the kitchen, and speedy return with a\nkettle of boiling water, from which he replenished the tea-pot with a\nself-possession that was quite his own.\n\n\'Sit down, and take your breakfast, Mark,\' said Tom. \'Make him sit down\nand take his breakfast, Martin.\'\n\n\'Oh! I gave him up, long ago, as incorrigible,\' Martin replied. \'He\ntakes his own way, Tom. You would excuse him, Miss Pinch, if you knew\nhis value.\'\n\n\'She knows it, bless you!\' said Tom. \'I have told her all about Mark\nTapley. Have I not, Ruth?\'\n\n\'Yes, Tom.\'\n\n\'Not all,\' returned Martin, in a low voice. \'The best of Mark Tapley is\nonly known to one man, Tom; and but for Mark he would hardly be alive to\ntell it!\'\n\n\'Mark!\' said Tom Pinch energetically; \'if you don\'t sit down this\nminute, I\'ll swear at you!\'\n\n\'Well, sir,\' returned Mr Tapley, \'sooner than you should do that, I\'ll\ncom-ply. It\'s a considerable invasion of a man\'s jollity to be made so\npartickler welcome, but a Werb is a word as signifies to be, to do,\nor to suffer (which is all the grammar, and enough too, as ever I wos\ntaught); and if there\'s a Werb alive, I\'m it. For I\'m always a-bein\',\nsometimes a-doin\', and continually a-sufferin\'.\'\n\n\'Not jolly yet?\' asked Tom, with a smile.\n\n\'Why, I was rather so, over the water, sir,\' returned Mr Tapley; \'and\nnot entirely without credit. But Human Natur\' is in a conspiracy again\'\nme; I can\'t get on. I shall have to leave it in my will, sir, to be\nwrote upon my tomb: \"He was a man as might have come out strong if he\ncould have got a chance. But it was denied him.\"\'\n\nMr Tapley took this occasion of looking about him with a grin, and\nsubsequently attacking the breakfast, with an appetite not at all\nexpressive of blighted hopes, or insurmountable despondency.\n\nIn the meanwhile, Martin drew his chair a little nearer to Tom and his\nsister, and related to them what had passed at Mr Pecksniff\'s\nhouse; adding in few words a general summary of the distresses and\ndisappointments he had undergone since he left England.\n\n\'For your faithful stewardship in the trust I left with you, Tom,\' he\nsaid, \'and for all your goodness and disinterestedness, I can never\nthank you enough. When I add Mary\'s thanks to mine--\'\n\nAh, Tom! The blood retreated from his cheeks, and came rushing back, so\nviolently, that it was pain to feel it; ease though, ease, compared with\nthe aching of his wounded heart.\n\n\'When I add Mary\'s thanks to mine,\' said Martin, \'I have made the only\npoor acknowledgment it is in our power to offer; but if you knew how\nmuch we feel, Tom, you would set some store by it, I am sure.\'\n\nAnd if they had known how much Tom felt--but that no human creature ever\nknew--they would have set some store by him. Indeed they would.\n\nTom changed the topic of discourse. He was sorry he could not pursue it,\nas it gave Martin pleasure; but he was unable, at that moment. No drop\nof envy or bitterness was in his soul; but he could not master the firm\nutterance of her name.\n\nHe inquired what Martin\'s projects were.\n\n\'No longer to make your fortune, Tom,\' said Martin, \'but to try to live.\nI tried that once in London, Tom; and failed. If you will give me the\nbenefit of your advice and friendly counsel, I may succeed better under\nyour guidance. I will do anything Tom, anything, to gain a livelihood by\nmy own exertions. My hopes do not soar above that, now.\'\n\nHigh-hearted, noble Tom! Sorry to find the pride of his old companion\nhumbled, and to hear him speaking in this altered strain at once, at\nonce, he drove from his breast the inability to contend with its deep\nemotions, and spoke out bravely.\n\n\'Your hopes do not soar above that!\' cried Tom. \'Yes they do. How can\nyou talk so! They soar up to the time when you will be happy with her,\nMartin. They soar up to the time when you will be able to claim her,\nMartin. They soar up to the time when you will not be able to believe\nthat you were ever cast down in spirit, or poor in pocket, Martin.\nAdvice, and friendly counsel! Why, of course. But you shall have better\nadvice and counsel (though you cannot have more friendly) than mine. You\nshall consult John Westlock. We\'ll go there immediately. It is yet so\nearly that I shall have time to take you to his chambers before I go to\nbusiness; they are in my way; and I can leave you there, to talk\nover your affairs with him. So come along. Come along. I am a man of\noccupation now, you know,\' said Tom, with his pleasantest smile; \'and\nhave no time to lose. Your hopes don\'t soar higher than that? I dare\nsay they don\'t. I know you, pretty well. They\'ll be soaring out of sight\nsoon, Martin, and leaving all the rest of us leagues behind.\'\n\n\'Aye! But I may be a little changed,\' said Martin, \'since you knew me\npretty well, Tom.\'\n\n\'What nonsense!\' exclaimed Tom. \'Why should you be changed? You talk\nas if you were an old man. I never heard such a fellow! Come to John\nWestlock\'s, come. Come along, Mark Tapley. It\'s Mark\'s doing, I have\nno doubt; and it serves you right for having such a grumbler for your\ncompanion.\'\n\n\'There\'s no credit to be got through being jolly with YOU, Mr Pinch,\nanyways,\' said Mark, with his face all wrinkled up with grins. \'A parish\ndoctor might be jolly with you. There\'s nothing short of goin\' to the\nU-nited States for a second trip, as would make it at all creditable to\nbe jolly, arter seein\' you again!\'\n\nTom laughed, and taking leave of his sister, hurried Mark and Martin out\ninto the street, and away to John Westlock\'s by the nearest road; for\nhis hour of business was very near at hand, and he prided himself on\nalways being exact to his time.\n\nJohn Westlock was at home, but, strange to say, was rather embarrassed\nto see them; and when Tom was about to go into the room where he\nwas breakfasting, said he had a stranger there. It appeared to be a\nmysterious stranger, for John shut that door as he said it, and led them\ninto the next room.\n\nHe was very much delighted, though, to see Mark Tapley; and received\nMartin with his own frank courtesy. But Martin felt that he did not\ninspire John Westlock with any unusual interest; and twice or\nthrice observed that he looked at Tom Pinch doubtfully; not to say\ncompassionately. He thought, and blushed to think, that he knew the\ncause of this.\n\n\'I apprehend you are engaged,\' said Martin, when Tom had announced the\npurport of their visit. \'If you will allow me to come again at your own\ntime, I shall be glad to do so.\'\n\n\'I AM engaged,\' replied John, with some reluctance; \'but the matter on\nwhich I am engaged is one, to say the truth, more immediately demanding\nyour knowledge than mine.\'\n\n\'Indeed!\' cried Martin.\n\n\'It relates to a member of your family, and is of a serious nature. If\nyou will have the kindness to remain here, it will be a satisfaction to\nme to have it privately communicated to you, in order that you may judge\nof its importance for yourself.\'\n\n\'And in the meantime,\' said Tom, \'I must really take myself off, without\nany further ceremony.\'\n\n\'Is your business so very particular,\' asked Martin, \'that you cannot\nremain with us for half an hour? I wish you could. What IS your\nbusiness, Tom?\'\n\nIt was Tom\'s turn to be embarrassed now; but he plainly said, after a\nlittle hesitation:\n\n\'Why, I am not at liberty to say what it is, Martin; though I hope\nsoon to be in a condition to do so, and am aware of no other reason\nto prevent my doing so now, than the request of my employer. It\'s an\nawkward position to be placed in,\' said Tom, with an uneasy sense of\nseeming to doubt his friend, \'as I feel every day; but I really cannot\nhelp it, can I, John?\'\n\nJohn Westlock replied in the negative; and Martin, expressing himself\nperfectly satisfied, begged them not to say another word; though he\ncould not help wondering very much what curious office Tom held, and why\nhe was so secret, and embarrassed, and unlike himself, in reference to\nit. Nor could he help reverting to it, in his own mind, several times\nafter Tom went away, which he did as soon as this conversation was\nended, taking Mr Tapley with him, who, as he laughingly said, might\naccompany him as far as Fleet Street without injury.\n\n\'And what do you mean to do, Mark?\' asked Tom, as they walked on\ntogether.\n\n\'Mean to do, sir?\' returned Mr Tapley.\n\n\'Aye. What course of life do you mean to pursue?\'\n\n\'Well, sir,\' said Mr Tapley. \'The fact is, that I have been a-thinking\nrather of the matrimonial line, sir.\'\n\n\'You don\'t say so, Mark!\' cried Tom.\n\n\'Yes, sir. I\'ve been a-turnin\' of it over.\'\n\n\'And who is the lady, Mark?\'\n\n\'The which, sir?\' said Mr Tapley.\n\n\'The lady. Come! You know what I said,\' replied Tom, laughing, \'as well\nas I do!\'\n\nMr Tapley suppressed his own inclination to laugh; and with one of his\nmost whimsically-twisted looks, replied:\n\n\'You couldn\'t guess, I suppose, Mr Pinch?\'\n\n\'How is it possible?\' said Tom. \'I don\'t know any of your flames, Mark.\nExcept Mrs Lupin, indeed.\'\n\n\'Well, sir!\' retorted Mr Tapley. \'And supposing it was her!\'\n\nTom stopping in the street to look at him, Mr Tapley for a moment\npresented to his view an utterly stolid and expressionless face; a\nperfect dead wall of countenance. But opening window after window in\nit with astonishing rapidity, and lighting them all up as for a general\nillumination, he repeated:\n\n\'Supposin\', for the sake of argument, as it was her, sir!\'\n\n\'Why I thought such a connection wouldn\'t suit you, Mark, on any terms!\'\ncried Tom.\n\n\'Well, sir! I used to think so myself, once,\' said Mark. \'But I ain\'t so\nclear about it now. A dear, sweet creetur, sir!\'\n\n\'A dear, sweet creature? To be sure she is,\' cried Tom. \'But she always\nwas a dear, sweet creature, was she not?\'\n\n\'WAS she not!\' assented Mr Tapley.\n\n\'Then why on earth didn\'t you marry her at first, Mark, instead of\nwandering abroad, and losing all this time, and leaving her alone by\nherself, liable to be courted by other people?\'\n\n\'Why, sir,\' retorted Mr Tapley, in a spirit of unbounded confidence,\n\'I\'ll tell you how it come about. You know me, Mr Pinch, sir; there\nain\'t a gentleman alive as knows me better. You\'re acquainted with my\nconstitution, and you\'re acquainted with my weakness. My constitution\nis, to be jolly; and my weakness is, to wish to find a credit in it.\nWery good, sir. In this state of mind, I gets a notion in my head that\nshe looks on me with a eye of--with what you may call a favourable sort\nof a eye in fact,\' said Mr Tapley, with modest hesitation.\n\n\'No doubt,\' replied Tom. \'We knew that perfectly well when we spoke on\nthis subject long ago; before you left the Dragon.\'\n\nMr Tapley nodded assent. \'Well, sir! But bein\' at that time full of\nhopeful wisions, I arrives at the conclusion that no credit is to be got\nout of such a way of life as that, where everything agreeable would be\nready to one\'s hand. Lookin\' on the bright side of human life in short,\none of my hopeful wisions is, that there\'s a deal of misery awaitin\' for\nme; in the midst of which I may come out tolerable strong, and be jolly\nunder circumstances as reflects some credit. I goes into the world, sir,\nwery boyant, and I tries this. I goes aboard ship first, and wery soon\ndiscovers (by the ease with which I\'m jolly, mind you) as there\'s no\ncredit to be got THERE. I might have took warning by this, and gave it\nup; but I didn\'t. I gets to the U-nited States; and then I DO begin, I\nwon\'t deny it, to feel some little credit in sustaining my spirits. What\nfollows? Jest as I\'m a-beginning to come out, and am a-treadin\' on the\nwerge, my master deceives me.\'\n\n\'Deceives you!\' cried Tom.\n\n\'Swindles me,\' retorted Mr Tapley with a beaming face. \'Turns his back\non everything as made his service a creditable one, and leaves me high\nand dry, without a leg to stand upon. In which state I returns home.\nWery good. Then all my hopeful wisions bein\' crushed; and findin\' that\nthere ain\'t no credit for me nowhere; I abandons myself to despair,\nand says, \"Let me do that as has the least credit in it of all; marry a\ndear, sweet creetur, as is wery fond of me; me bein\', at the same time,\nwery fond of her; lead a happy life, and struggle no more again\' the\nblight which settles on my prospects.\"\'\n\n\'If your philosophy, Mark,\' said Tom, who laughed heartily at this\nspeech, \'be the oddest I ever heard of, it is not the least wise. Mrs\nLupin has said \"yes,\" of course?\'\n\n\'Why, no, sir,\' replied Mr Tapley; \'she hasn\'t gone so far as that yet.\nWhich I attribute principally to my not havin\' asked her. But we was\nwery agreeable together--comfortable, I may say--the night I come home.\nIt\'s all right, sir.\'\n\n\'Well!\' said Tom, stopping at the Temple Gate. \'I wish you joy, Mark,\nwith all my heart. I shall see you again to-day, I dare say. Good-bye\nfor the present.\'\n\n\'Good-bye, sir! Good-bye, Mr Pinch!\' he added by way of soliloquy, as\nhe stood looking after him. \'Although you ARE a damper to a honourable\nambition. You little think it, but you was the first to dash my hopes.\nPecksniff would have built me up for life, but your sweet temper pulled\nme down. Good-bye, Mr Pinch!\'\n\nWhile these confidences were interchanged between Tom Pinch and Mark,\nMartin and John Westlock were very differently engaged. They were no\nsooner left alone together than Martin said, with an effort he could not\ndisguise:\n\n\'Mr Westlock, we have met only once before, but you have known Tom a\nlong while, and that seems to render you familiar to me. I cannot\ntalk freely with you on any subject unless I relieve my mind of what\noppresses it just now. I see with pain that you so far mistrust me that\nyou think me likely to impose on Tom\'s regardlessness of himself, or on\nhis kind nature, or some of his good qualities.\'\n\n\'I had no intention,\' replied John, \'of conveying any such impression to\nyou, and am exceedingly sorry to have done so.\'\n\n\'But you entertain it?\' said Martin.\n\n\'You ask me so pointedly and directly,\' returned the other, \'that I\ncannot deny the having accustomed myself to regard you as one who,\nnot in wantonness but in mere thoughtlessness of character, did not\nsufficiently consider his nature and did not quite treat it as it\ndeserves to be treated. It is much easier to slight than to appreciate\nTom Pinch.\'\n\nThis was not said warmly, but was energetically spoken too; for there\nwas no subject in the world (but one) on which the speaker felt so\nstrongly.\n\n\'I grew into the knowledge of Tom,\' he pursued, \'as I grew towards\nmanhood; and I have learned to love him as something, infinitely better\nthan myself. I did not think that you understood him when we met before.\nI did not think that you greatly cared to understand him. The instances\nof this which I observed in you were, like my opportunities for\nobservation, very trivial--and were very harmless, I dare say. But they\nwere not agreeable to me, and they forced themselves upon me; for I was\nnot upon the watch for them, believe me. You will say,\' added John, with\na smile, as he subsided into more of his accustomed manner, \'that I am\nnot by any means agreeable to you. I can only assure you, in reply, that\nI would not have originated this topic on any account.\'\n\n\'I originated it,\' said Martin; \'and so far from having any complaint\nto make against you, highly esteem the friendship you entertain for\nTom, and the very many proofs you have given him of it. Why should\nI endeavour to conceal from you\'--he coloured deeply though--\'that\nI neither understood him nor cared to understand him when I was his\ncompanion; and that I am very truly sorry for it now!\'\n\nIt was so sincerely said, at once so modestly and manfully, that John\noffered him his hand as if he had not done so before; and Martin giving\nhis in the same open spirit, all constraint between the young men\nvanished.\n\n\'Now pray,\' said John, \'when I tire your patience very much in what I\nam going to say, recollect that it has an end to it, and that the end is\nthe point of the story.\'\n\nWith this preface, he related all the circumstances connected with his\nhaving presided over the illness and slow recovery of the patient at the\nBull; and tacked on to the skirts of that narrative Tom\'s own account of\nthe business on the wharf. Martin was not a little puzzled when he came\nto an end, for the two stories seemed to have no connection with each\nother, and to leave him, as the phrase is, all abroad.\n\n\'If you will excuse me for one moment,\' said John, rising, \'I will beg\nyou almost immediately to come into the next room.\'\n\nUpon that, he left Martin to himself, in a state of considerable\nastonishment; and soon came back again to fulfil his promise.\nAccompanying him into the next room, Martin found there a third person;\nno doubt the stranger of whom his host had spoken when Tom Pinch\nintroduced him.\n\nHe was a young man; with deep black hair and eyes. He was gaunt and\npale; and evidently had not long recovered from a severe illness. He\nstood as Martin entered, but sat again at John\'s desire. His eyes were\ncast downward; and but for one glance at them both, half in humiliation\nand half in entreaty, he kept them so, and sat quite still and silent.\n\n\'This person\'s name is Lewsome,\' said John Westlock, \'whom I have\nmentioned to you as having been seized with an illness at the inn near\nhere, and undergone so much. He has had a very hard time of it, ever\nsince he began to recover; but, as you see, he is now doing well.\'\n\nAs he did not move or speak, and John Westlock made a pause, Martin, not\nknowing what to say, said that he was glad to hear it.\n\n\'The short statement that I wish you to hear from his own lips, Mr\nChuzzlewit,\' John pursued--looking attentively at him, and not at\nMartin--\'he made to me for the first time yesterday, and repeated to me\nthis morning, without the least variation of any essential particular. I\nhave already told you that he informed me before he was removed from the\nInn, that he had a secret to disclose to me which lay heavy on his mind.\nBut, fluctuating between sickness and health and between his desire to\nrelieve himself of it, and his dread of involving himself by revealing\nit, he has, until yesterday, avoided the disclosure. I never pressed\nhim for it (having no idea of its weight or import, or of my right to do\nso), until within a few days past; when, understanding from him, on his\nown voluntary avowal, in a letter from the country, that it related to a\nperson whose name was Jonas Chuzzlewit; and thinking that it might throw\nsome light on that little mystery which made Tom anxious now and then; I\nurged the point upon him, and heard his statement, as you will now,\nfrom his own lips. It is due to him to say, that in the apprehension\nof death, he committed it to writing sometime since, and folded it in a\nsealed paper, addressed to me; which he could not resolve, however,\nto place of his own act in my hands. He has the paper in his breast, I\nbelieve, at this moment.\'\n\nThe young man touched it hastily; in corroboration of the fact.\n\n\'It will be well to leave that in our charge, perhaps,\' said John. \'But\ndo not mind it now.\'\n\nAs he said this, he held up his hand to bespeak Martin\'s attention. It\nwas already fixed upon the man before him, who, after a short silence\nsaid, in a low, weak, hollow voice:\n\n\'What relation was Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit, who--\'\n\n\'--Who died--to me?\' said Martin. \'He was my grandfather\'s brother.\'\n\n\'I fear he was made away with. Murdered!\'\n\n\'My God!\' said Martin. \'By whom?\'\n\nThe young man, Lewsome, looked up in his face, and casting down his eyes\nagain, replied:\n\n\'I fear, by me.\'\n\n\'By you?\' cried Martin.\n\n\'Not by my act, but I fear by my means.\'\n\n\'Speak out!\' said Martin, \'and speak the truth.\'\n\n\'I fear this IS the truth.\'\n\nMartin was about to interrupt him again, but John Westlock saying\nsoftly, \'Let him tell his story in his own way,\' Lewsome went on thus:\n\n\'I have been bred a surgeon, and for the last few years have served a\ngeneral practitioner in the City, as his assistant. While I was in\nhis employment I became acquainted with Jonas Chuzzlewit. He is the\nprincipal in this deed.\'\n\n\'What do you mean?\' demanded Martin, sternly. \'Do you know he is the son\nof the old man of whom you have spoken?\'\n\n\'I do,\' he answered.\n\nHe remained silent for some moments, when he resumed at the point where\nhe had left off.\n\n\'I have reason to know it; for I have often heard him wish his old\nfather dead, and complain of his being wearisome to him, and a drag\nupon him. He was in the habit of doing so, at a place of meeting we\nhad--three or four of us--at night. There was no good in the place you\nmay suppose, when you hear that he was the chief of the party. I wish I\nhad died myself, and never seen it!\'\n\nHe stopped again; and again resumed as before.\n\n\'We met to drink and game; not for large sums, but for sums that were\nlarge to us. He generally won. Whether or no, he lent money at interest\nto those who lost; and in this way, though I think we all secretly hated\nhim, he came to be the master of us. To propitiate him we made a jest of\nhis father; it began with his debtors; I was one; and we used to toast\na quicker journey to the old man, and a swift inheritance to the young\none.\'\n\nHe paused again.\n\n\'One night he came there in a very bad humour. He had been greatly\ntried, he said, by the old man that day. He and I were alone together;\nand he angrily told me, that the old man was in his second childhood;\nthat he was weak, imbecile, and drivelling; as unbearable to himself as\nhe was to other people; and that it would be a charity to put him out of\nthe way. He swore that he had often thought of mixing something with the\nstuff he took for his cough, which should help him to die easily. People\nwere sometimes smothered who were bitten by mad dogs, he said; and why\nnot help these lingering old men out of their troubles too? He looked\nfull at me as he said so, and I looked full at him; but it went no\nfarther that night.\'\n\nHe stopped once more, and was silent for so long an interval that John\nWestlock said \'Go on.\' Martin had never removed his eyes from his face,\nbut was so absorbed in horror and astonishment that he could not speak.\n\n\'It may have been a week after that, or it may have been less or\nmore--the matter was in my mind all the time, but I cannot recollect the\ntime, as I should any other period--when he spoke to me again. We were\nalone then, too; being there before the usual hour of assembling. There\nwas no appointment between us; but I think I went there to meet him, and\nI know he came there to meet me. He was there first. He was reading\na newspaper when I went in, and nodded to me without looking up, or\nleaving off reading. I sat down opposite and close to him. He said,\nimmediately, that he wanted me to get him some of two sorts of drugs.\nOne that was instantaneous in its effect; of which he wanted very\nlittle. One that was slow and not suspicious in appearance; of which he\nwanted more. While he was speaking to me he still read the newspaper. He\nsaid \"Drugs,\" and never used any other word. Neither did I.\'\n\n\'This all agrees with what I have heard before,\' observed John Westlock.\n\n\'I asked him what he wanted the drugs for? He said for no harm; to\nphysic cats; what did it matter to me? I was going out to a distant\ncolony (I had recently got the appointment, which, as Mr Westlock\nknows, I have since lost by my sickness, and which was my only hope of\nsalvation from ruin), and what did it matter to me? He could get them\nwithout my aid at half a hundred places, but not so easily as he could\nget them of me. This was true. He might not want them at all, he said,\nand he had no present idea of using them; but he wished to have them\nby him. All this time he still read the newspaper. We talked about the\nprice. He was to forgive me a small debt--I was quite in his power--and\nto pay me five pounds; and there the matter dropped, through others\ncoming in. But, next night, under exactly similar circumstances, I gave\nhim the drugs, on his saying I was a fool to think that he should ever\nuse them for any harm; and he gave me the money. We have never met\nsince. I only know that the poor old father died soon afterwards, just\nas he would have died from this cause; and that I have undergone, and\nsuffer now, intolerable misery. Nothing\' he added, stretching out his\nhands, \'can paint my misery! It is well deserved, but nothing can paint\nit.\'\n\nWith that he hung his head, and said no more, wasted and wretched, he\nwas not a creature upon whom to heap reproaches that were unavailing.\n\n\'Let him remain at hand,\' said Martin, turning from him; \'but out of\nsight, in Heaven\'s name!\'\n\n\'He will remain here,\' John whispered. \'Come with me!\' Softly turning\nthe key upon him as they went out, he conducted Martin into the\nadjoining room, in which they had been before.\n\nMartin was so amazed, so shocked, and confounded by what he had heard\nthat it was some time before he could reduce it to any order in his\nmind, or could sufficiently comprehend the bearing of one part upon\nanother, to take in all the details at one view. When he, at length, had\nthe whole narrative clearly before him, John Westlock went on to point\nout the great probability of the guilt of Jonas being known to other\npeople, who traded in it for their own benefit, and who were, by\nsuch means, able to exert that control over him which Tom Pinch had\naccidentally witnessed, and unconsciously assisted. This appeared so\nplain, that they agreed upon it without difficulty; but instead of\nderiving the least assistance from this source, they found that it\nembarrassed them the more.\n\nThey knew nothing of the real parties who possessed this power. The only\nperson before them was Tom\'s landlord. They had no right to question\nTom\'s landlord, even if they could find him, which, according to Tom\'s\naccount, it would not be easy to do. And granting that they did question\nhim, and he answered (which was taking a good deal for granted), he had\nonly to say, with reference to the adventure on the wharf, that he had\nbeen sent from such and such a place to summon Jonas back on urgent\nbusiness, and there was an end of it.\n\nBesides, there was the great difficulty and responsibility of moving at\nall in the matter. Lewsome\'s story might be false; in his wretched state\nit might be greatly heightened by a diseased brain; or admitting it\nto be entirely true, the old man might have died a natural death. Mr\nPecksniff had been there at the time; as Tom immediately remembered,\nwhen he came back in the afternoon, and shared their counsels; and there\nhad been no secrecy about it. Martin\'s grandfather was of right the\nperson to decide upon the course that should be taken; but to get at his\nviews would be impossible, for Mr Pecksniff\'s views were certain to\nbe his. And the nature of Mr Pecksniff\'s views in reference to his own\nson-in-law might be easily reckoned upon.\n\nApart from these considerations, Martin could not endure the thought\nof seeming to grasp at this unnatural charge against his relative, and\nusing it as a stepping-stone to his grandfather\'s favour. But that he\nwould seem to do so, if he presented himself before his grandfather in\nMr Pecksniff\'s house again, for the purpose of declaring it; and that\nMr Pecksniff, of all men, would represent his conduct in that despicable\nlight, he perfectly well knew. On the other hand to be in possession of\nsuch a statement, and take no measures of further inquiry in reference\nto it, was tantamount to being a partner in the guilt it professed to\ndisclose.\n\nIn a word, they were wholly unable to discover any outlet from this maze\nof difficulty, which did not lie through some perplexed and entangled\nthicket. And although Mr Tapley was promptly taken into their\nconfidence; and the fertile imagination of that gentleman suggested many\nbold expedients, which, to do him justice, he was quite ready to carry\ninto instant operation on his own personal responsibility; still \'bating\nthe general zeal of Mr Tapley\'s nature, nothing was made particularly\nclearer by these offers of service.\n\nIt was in this position of affairs that Tom\'s account of the strange\nbehaviour of the decayed clerk, on the night of the tea-party, became\nof great moment, and finally convinced them that to arrive at a more\naccurate knowledge of the workings of that old man\'s mind and memory,\nwould be to take a most important stride in their pursuit of the truth.\nSo, having first satisfied themselves that no communication had ever\ntaken place between Lewsome and Mr Chuffey (which would have accounted\nat once for any suspicions the latter might entertain), they unanimously\nresolved that the old clerk was the man they wanted.\n\nBut, like the unanimous resolution of a public meeting, which will\noftentimes declare that this or that grievance is not to be borne\na moment longer, which is nevertheless borne for a century or two\nafterwards, without any modification, they only reached in this the\nconclusion that they were all of one mind. For it was one thing to want\nMr Chuffey, and another thing to get at him; and to do that without\nalarming him, or without alarming Jonas, or without being discomfited\nby the difficulty of striking, in an instrument so out of tune and so\nunused, the note they sought, was an end as far from their reach as\never.\n\nThe question then became, who of those about the old clerk had had most\ninfluence with him that night? Tom said his young mistress clearly.\nBut Tom and all of them shrunk from the thought of entrapping her,\nand making her the innocent means of bringing retribution on her cruel\nhusband. Was there nobody else? Why yes. In a very different way, Tom\nsaid, he was influenced by Mrs Gamp, the nurse; who had once had the\ncontrol of him, as he understood, for some time.\n\nThey caught at this immediately. Here was a new way out, developed in a\nquarter until then overlooked. John Westlock knew Mrs Gamp; he had given\nher employment; he was acquainted with her place of residence: for that\ngood lady had obligingly furnished him, at parting, with a pack of her\nprofessional cards for general distribution. It was decided that Mrs\nGamp should be approached with caution, but approached without delay;\nand that the depths of that discreet matron\'s knowledge of Mr Chuffey,\nand means of bringing them, or one of them, into communication with him,\nshould be carefully sounded.\n\nOn this service, Martin and John Westlock determined to proceed that\nnight; waiting on Mrs Gamp first, at her lodgings; and taking their\nchance of finding her in the repose of private life, or of having to\nseek her out, elsewhere, in the exercise of her professional duties. Tom\nreturned home, that he might lose no opportunity of having an interview\nwith Nadgett, by being absent in the event of his reappearance. And Mr\nTapley remained (by his own particular desire) for the time being in\nFurnival\'s Inn, to look after Lewsome; who might safely have been left\nto himself, however, for any thought he seemed to entertain of giving\nthem the slip.\n\nBefore they parted on their several errands, they caused him to read\naloud, in the presence of them all, the paper which he had about him,\nand the declaration he had attached to it, which was to the effect that\nhe had written it voluntarily, in the fear of death and in the torture\nof his mind. And when he had done so, they all signed it, and taking it\nfrom him, of his free will, locked it in a place of safety.\n\nMartin also wrote, by John\'s advice, a letter to the trustees of the\nfamous Grammar School, boldly claiming the successful design as his,\nand charging Mr Pecksniff with the fraud he had committed. In this\nproceeding also, John was hotly interested; observing, with his usual\nirreverance, that Mr Pecksniff had been a successful rascal all his\nlife through, and that it would be a lasting source of happiness to him\n(John) if he could help to do him justice in the smallest particular.\n\nA busy day! But Martin had no lodgings yet; so when these matters were\ndisposed of, he excused himself from dining with John Westlock and was\nfain to wander out alone, and look for some. He succeeded, after great\ntrouble, in engaging two garrets for himself and Mark, situated in a\ncourt in the Strand, not far from Temple Bar. Their luggage, which was\nwaiting for them at a coach-office, he conveyed to this new place of\nrefuge; and it was with a glow of satisfaction, which as a selfish man\nhe never could have known and never had, that, thinking how much pains\nand trouble he had saved Mark, and how pleased and astonished Mark would\nbe, he afterwards walked up and down, in the Temple, eating a meat-pie\nfor his dinner.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-NINE\n\nIN WHICH MRS HARRIS ASSISTED BY A TEAPOT, IS THE CAUSE OF A DIVISION\nBETWEEN FRIENDS\n\n\nMrs Gamp\'s apartment in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, wore,\nmetaphorically speaking, a robe of state. It was swept and garnished for\nthe reception of a visitor. That visitor was Betsey Prig; Mrs Prig, of\nBartlemy\'s; or as some said Barklemy\'s, or as some said Bardlemy\'s; for\nby all these endearing and familiar appellations, had the hospital of\nSaint Bartholomew become a household word among the sisterhood which\nBetsey Prig adorned.\n\nMrs Gamp\'s apartment was not a spacious one, but, to a contented mind,\na closet is a palace; and the first-floor front at Mr Sweedlepipe\'s may\nhave been, in the imagination of Mrs Gamp, a stately pile. If it were\nnot exactly that, to restless intellects, it at least comprised as much\naccommodation as any person, not sanguine to insanity, could have looked\nfor in a room of its dimensions. For only keep the bedstead always in\nyour mind; and you were safe. That was the grand secret. Remembering the\nbedstead, you might even stoop to look under the little round table\nfor anything you had dropped, without hurting yourself much against the\nchest of drawers, or qualifying as a patient of Saint Bartholomew, by\nfalling into the fire.\n\nVisitors were much assisted in their cautious efforts to preserve an\nunflagging recollection of this piece of furniture, by its size; which\nwas great. It was not a turn-up bedstead, nor yet a French bedstead,\nnor yet a four-post bedstead, but what is poetically called a tent; the\nsacking whereof was low and bulgy, insomuch that Mrs Gamp\'s box would\nnot go under it, but stopped half-way, in a manner which, while it did\nviolence to the reason, likewise endangered the legs of a stranger. The\nframe too, which would have supported the canopy and hangings if there\nhad been any, was ornamented with divers pippins carved in timber,\nwhich on the slightest provocation, and frequently on none at all, came\ntumbling down; harassing the peaceful guest with inexplicable terrors.\n\nThe bed itself was decorated with a patchwork quilt of great antiquity;\nand at the upper end, upon the side nearest to the door, hung a scanty\ncurtain of blue check, which prevented the Zephyrs that were abroad in\nKingsgate Street, from visiting Mrs Gamp\'s head too roughly. Some rusty\ngowns and other articles of that lady\'s wardrobe depended from the\nposts; and these had so adapted themselves by long usage to her figure,\nthat more than one impatient husband coming in precipitately, at about\nthe time of twilight, had been for an instant stricken dumb by the\nsupposed discovery that Mrs Gamp had hanged herself. One gentleman,\ncoming on the usual hasty errand, had said indeed, that they looked like\nguardian angels \'watching of her in her sleep.\' But that, as Mrs Gamp\nsaid, \'was his first;\' and he never repeated the sentiment, though he\noften repeated his visit.\n\nThe chairs in Mrs Gamp\'s apartment were extremely large and\nbroad-backed, which was more than a sufficient reason for there being\nbut two in number. They were both elbow-chairs, of ancient mahogany; and\nwere chiefly valuable for the slippery nature of their seats, which had\nbeen originally horsehair, but were now covered with a shiny substance\nof a bluish tint, from which the visitor began to slide away with a\ndismayed countenance, immediately after sitting down. What Mrs Gamp\nwanted in chairs she made up in bandboxes; of which she had a great\ncollection, devoted to the reception of various miscellaneous valuables,\nwhich were not, however, as well protected as the good woman, by a\npleasant fiction, seemed to think; for, though every bandbox had a\ncarefully closed lid, not one among them had a bottom; owing to which\ncause the property within was merely, as it were, extinguished. The\nchest of drawers having been originally made to stand upon the top of\nanother chest, had a dwarfish, elfin look, alone; but in regard of its\nsecurity it had a great advantage over the bandboxes, for as all the\nhandles had been long ago pulled off, it was very difficult to get at\nits contents. This indeed was only to be done by one or two devices;\neither by tilting the whole structure forward until all the drawers fell\nout together, or by opening them singly with knives, like oysters.\n\nMrs Gamp stored all her household matters in a little cupboard by the\nfire-place; beginning below the surface (as in nature) with the coals,\nand mounting gradually upwards to the spirits, which, from motives of\ndelicacy, she kept in a teapot. The chimney-piece was ornamented with\na small almanack, marked here and there in Mrs Gamp\'s own hand with a\nmemorandum of the date at which some lady was expected to fall due. It\nwas also embellished with three profiles: one, in colours, of Mrs Gamp\nherself in early life; one, in bronze, of a lady in feathers, supposed\nto be Mrs Harris, as she appeared when dressed for a ball; and one, in\nblack, of Mr Gamp, deceased. The last was a full length, in order\nthat the likeness might be rendered more obvious and forcible by the\nintroduction of the wooden leg.\n\nA pair of bellows, a pair of pattens, a toasting-fork, a kettle, a\npap-boat, a spoon for the administration of medicine to the refractory,\nand lastly, Mrs Gamp\'s umbrella, which as something of great price\nand rarity, was displayed with particular ostentation, completed the\ndecorations of the chimney-piece and adjacent wall. Towards these\nobjects Mrs Gamp raised her eyes in satisfaction when she had arranged\nthe tea-board, and had concluded her arrangements for the reception\nof Betsey Prig, even unto the setting forth of two pounds of Newcastle\nsalmon, intensely pickled.\n\n\'There! Now drat you, Betsey, don\'t be long!\' said Mrs Gamp,\napostrophizing her absent friend. \'For I can\'t abear to wait, I do\nassure you. To wotever place I goes, I sticks to this one mortar, \"I\'m\neasy pleased; it is but little as I wants; but I must have that little\nof the best, and to the minute when the clock strikes, else we do not\npart as I could wish, but bearin\' malice in our arts.\"\'\n\nHer own preparations were of the best, for they comprehended a delicate\nnew loaf, a plate of fresh butter, a basin of fine white sugar, and\nother arrangements on the same scale. Even the snuff with which she\nnow refreshed herself, was so choice in quality that she took a second\npinch.\n\n\'There\'s the little bell a-ringing now,\' said Mrs Gamp, hurrying to\nthe stair-head and looking over. \'Betsey Prig, my--why it\'s that there\ndisapintin\' Sweedlepipes, I do believe.\'\n\n\'Yes, it\'s me,\' said the barber in a faint voice; \'I\'ve just come in.\'\n\n\'You\'re always a-comin\' in, I think,\' muttered Mrs Gamp to herself,\n\'except wen you\'re a-goin\' out. I ha\'n\'t no patience with that man!\'\n\n\'Mrs Gamp,\' said the barber. \'I say! Mrs Gamp!\'\n\n\'Well,\' cried Mrs Gamp, impatiently, as she descended the stairs. \'What\nis it? Is the Thames a-fire, and cooking its own fish, Mr Sweedlepipes?\nWhy wot\'s the man gone and been a-doin\' of to himself? He\'s as white as\nchalk!\'\n\nShe added the latter clause of inquiry, when she got downstairs, and\nfound him seated in the shaving-chair, pale and disconsolate.\n\n\'You recollect,\' said Poll. \'You recollect young--\'\n\n\'Not young Wilkins!\' cried Mrs Gamp. \'Don\'t say young Wilkins, wotever\nyou do. If young Wilkins\'s wife is took--\'\n\n\'It isn\'t anybody\'s wife,\' exclaimed the little barber. \'Bailey, young\nBailey!\'\n\n\'Why, wot do you mean to say that chit\'s been a-doin\' of?\' retorted Mrs\nGamp, sharply. \'Stuff and nonsense, Mrs Sweedlepipes!\'\n\n\'He hasn\'t been a-doing anything!\' exclaimed poor Poll, quite desperate.\n\'What do you catch me up so short for, when you see me put out to that\nextent that I can hardly speak? He\'ll never do anything again. He\'s done\nfor. He\'s killed. The first time I ever see that boy,\' said Poll, \'I\ncharged him too much for a red-poll. I asked him three-halfpence for a\npenny one, because I was afraid he\'d beat me down. But he didn\'t.\nAnd now he\'s dead; and if you was to crowd all the steam-engines and\nelectric fluids that ever was, into this shop, and set \'em every one to\nwork their hardest, they couldn\'t square the account, though it\'s only a\nha\'penny!\'\n\nMr Sweedlepipe turned aside to the towel, and wiped his eyes with it.\n\n\'And what a clever boy he was!\' he said. \'What a surprising young chap\nhe was! How he talked! and what a deal he know\'d! Shaved in this very\nchair he was; only for fun; it was all his fun; he was full of it. Ah!\nto think that he\'ll never be shaved in earnest! The birds might every\none have died, and welcome,\' cried the little barber, looking round him\nat the cages, and again applying to the towel, \'sooner than I\'d have\nheard this news!\'\n\n\'How did you ever come to hear it?\' said Mrs Gamp, \'who told you?\'\n\n\'I went out,\' returned the little barber, \'into the City, to meet a\nsporting gent upon the Stock Exchange, that wanted a few slow pigeons to\npractice at; and when I\'d done with him, I went to get a little drop\nof beer, and there I heard everybody a-talking about it. It\'s in the\npapers.\'\n\n\'You are in a nice state of confugion, Mr Sweedlepipes, you are!\' said\nMrs Gamp, shaking her head; \'and my opinion is, as half-a-dudgeon fresh\nyoung lively leeches on your temples, wouldn\'t be too much to clear your\nmind, which so I tell you. Wot were they a-talkin\' on, and wot was in\nthe papers?\'\n\n\'All about it!\' cried the barber. \'What else do you suppose? Him and his\nmaster were upset on a journey, and he was carried to Salisbury, and\nwas breathing his last when the account came away. He never spoke\nafterwards. Not a single word. That\'s the worst of it to me; but that\nain\'t all. His master can\'t be found. The other manager of their office\nin the city, Crimple, David Crimple, has gone off with the money, and is\nadvertised for, with a reward, upon the walls. Mr Montague, poor young\nBailey\'s master (what a boy he was!) is advertised for, too. Some say\nhe\'s slipped off, to join his friend abroad; some say he mayn\'t have got\naway yet; and they\'re looking for him high and low. Their office is a\nsmash; a swindle altogether. But what\'s a Life Assurance office to a\nLife! And what a Life Young Bailey\'s was!\'\n\n\'He was born into a wale,\' said Mrs Gamp, with philosophical coolness.\n\'and he lived in a wale; and he must take the consequences of sech a\nsitiwation. But don\'t you hear nothink of Mr Chuzzlewit in all this?\'\n\n\'No,\' said Poll, \'nothing to speak of. His name wasn\'t printed as one of\nthe board, though some people say it was just going to be. Some believe\nhe was took in, and some believe he was one of the takers-in; but\nhowever that may be, they can\'t prove nothing against him. This morning\nhe went up of his own accord afore the Lord Mayor or some of them City\nbig-wigs, and complained that he\'d been swindled, and that these two\npersons had gone off and cheated him, and that he had just found out\nthat Montague\'s name wasn\'t even Montague, but something else. And they\ndo say that he looked like Death, owing to his losses. But, Lord\nforgive me,\' cried the barber, coming back again to the subject of\nhis individual grief, \'what\'s his looks to me! He might have died and\nwelcome, fifty times, and not been such a loss as Bailey!\'\n\nAt this juncture the little bell rang, and the deep voice of Mrs Prig\nstruck into the conversation.\n\n\'Oh! You\'re a-talkin\' about it, are you!\' observed that lady. \'Well, I\nhope you\'ve got it over, for I ain\'t interested in it myself.\'\n\n\'My precious Betsey,\' said Mrs Gamp, \'how late you are!\'\n\nThe worthy Mrs Prig replied, with some asperity, \'that if perwerse\npeople went off dead, when they was least expected, it warn\'t no fault\nof her\'n.\' And further, \'that it was quite aggrawation enough to be made\nlate when one was dropping for one\'s tea, without hearing on it again.\'\n\nMrs Gamp, deriving from this exhibition of repartee some clue to the\nstate of Mrs Prig\'s feelings, instantly conducted her upstairs; deeming\nthat the sight of pickled salmon might work a softening change.\n\nBut Betsey Prig expected pickled salmon. It was obvious that she did;\nfor her first words, after glancing at the table, were:\n\n\'I know\'d she wouldn\'t have a cowcumber!\'\n\nMrs Gamp changed colour, and sat down upon the bedstead.\n\n\'Lord bless you, Betsey Prig, your words is true. I quite forgot it!\'\n\nMrs Prig, looking steadfastly at her friend, put her hand in her\npocket, and with an air of surly triumph drew forth either the oldest of\nlettuces or youngest of cabbages, but at any rate, a green vegetable of\nan expansive nature, and of such magnificent proportions that she was\nobliged to shut it up like an umbrella before she could pull it out.\nShe also produced a handful of mustard and cress, a trifle of the herb\ncalled dandelion, three bunches of radishes, an onion rather larger than\nan average turnip, three substantial slices of beetroot, and a short\nprong or antler of celery; the whole of this garden-stuff having been\npublicly exhibited, but a short time before, as a twopenny salad, and\npurchased by Mrs Prig on condition that the vendor could get it all into\nher pocket. Which had been happily accomplished, in High Holborn, to\nthe breathless interest of a hackney-coach stand. And she laid so little\nstress on this surprising forethought, that she did not even smile, but\nreturning her pocket into its accustomed sphere, merely recommended\nthat these productions of nature should be sliced up, for immediate\nconsumption, in plenty of vinegar.\n\n\'And don\'t go a-droppin\' none of your snuff in it,\' said Mrs Prig.\n\'In gruel, barley-water, apple-tea, mutton-broth, and that, it don\'t\nsignify. It stimulates a patient. But I don\'t relish it myself.\'\n\n\'Why, Betsey Prig!\' cried Mrs Gamp, \'how CAN you talk so!\'\n\n\'Why, ain\'t your patients, wotever their diseases is, always asneezin\'\ntheir wery heads off, along of your snuff?\' said Mrs Prig.\n\n\'And wot if they are!\' said Mrs Gamp\n\n\'Nothing if they are,\' said Mrs Prig. \'But don\'t deny it, Sairah.\'\n\n\'Who deniges of it?\' Mrs Gamp inquired.\n\nMrs Prig returned no answer.\n\n\'WHO deniges of it, Betsey?\' Mrs Gamp inquired again. Then Mrs Gamp, by\nreversing the question, imparted a deeper and more awful character of\nsolemnity to the same. \'Betsey, who deniges of it?\'\n\nIt was the nearest possible approach to a very decided difference of\nopinion between these ladies; but Mrs Prig\'s impatience for the meal\nbeing greater at the moment than her impatience of contradiction, she\nreplied, for the present, \'Nobody, if you don\'t, Sairah,\' and prepared\nherself for tea. For a quarrel can be taken up at any time, but a\nlimited quantity of salmon cannot.\n\nHer toilet was simple. She had merely to \'chuck\' her bonnet and shawl\nupon the bed; give her hair two pulls, one upon the right side and one\nupon the left, as if she were ringing a couple of bells; and all was\ndone. The tea was already made, Mrs Gamp was not long over the salad,\nand they were soon at the height of their repast.\n\nThe temper of both parties was improved, for the time being, by the\nenjoyments of the table. When the meal came to a termination (which it\nwas pretty long in doing), and Mrs Gamp having cleared away, produced\nthe teapot from the top shelf, simultaneously with a couple of\nwine-glasses, they were quite amiable.\n\n\'Betsey,\' said Mrs Gamp, filling her own glass and passing the teapot,\n\'I will now propoge a toast. My frequent pardner, Betsey Prig!\'\n\n\'Which, altering the name to Sairah Gamp; I drink,\' said Mrs Prig, \'with\nlove and tenderness.\'\n\nFrom this moment symptoms of inflammation began to lurk in the nose of\neach lady; and perhaps, notwithstanding all appearances to the contrary,\nin the temper also.\n\n\'Now, Sairah,\' said Mrs Prig, \'joining business with pleasure, wot is\nthis case in which you wants me?\'\n\nMrs Gamp betraying in her face some intention of returning an evasive\nanswer, Betsey added:\n\n\'IS it Mrs Harris?\'\n\n\'No, Betsey Prig, it ain\'t,\' was Mrs Gamp\'s reply.\n\n\'Well!\' said Mrs Prig, with a short laugh. \'I\'m glad of that, at any\nrate.\'\n\n\'Why should you be glad of that, Betsey?\' Mrs Gamp retorted, warmly.\n\'She is unbeknown to you except by hearsay, why should you be glad? If\nyou have anythink to say contrairy to the character of Mrs Harris, which\nwell I knows behind her back, afore her face, or anywheres, is not to be\nimpeaged, out with it, Betsey. I have know\'d that sweetest and best of\nwomen,\' said Mrs Gamp, shaking her head, and shedding tears, \'ever since\nafore her First, which Mr Harris who was dreadful timid went and stopped\nhis ears in a empty dog-kennel, and never took his hands away or come\nout once till he was showed the baby, wen bein\' took with fits, the\ndoctor collared him and laid him on his back upon the airy stones, and\nshe was told to ease her mind, his owls was organs. And I have know\'d\nher, Betsey Prig, when he has hurt her feelin\' art by sayin\' of his\nNinth that it was one too many, if not two, while that dear innocent was\ncooin\' in his face, which thrive it did though bandy, but I have never\nknow\'d as you had occagion to be glad, Betsey, on accounts of Mrs Harris\nnot requiring you. Require she never will, depend upon it, for her\nconstant words in sickness is, and will be, \"Send for Sairey?\"\'\n\nDuring this touching address, Mrs Prig adroitly feigning to be the\nvictim of that absence of mind which has its origin in excessive\nattention to one topic, helped herself from the teapot without appearing\nto observe it. Mrs Gamp observed it, however, and came to a premature\nclose in consequence.\n\n\'Well, it ain\'t her, it seems,\' said Mrs Prig, coldly; \'who is it then?\'\n\n\'You have heerd me mention, Betsey,\' Mrs Gamp replied, after glancing in\nan expressive and marked manner at the tea-pot, \'a person as I took\ncare on at the time as you and me was pardners off and on, in that there\nfever at the Bull?\'\n\n\'Old Snuffey,\' Mrs Prig observed.\n\nSarah Gamp looked at her with an eye of fire, for she saw in this\nmistake of Mrs Prig, another willful and malignant stab at that same\nweakness or custom of hers, an ungenerous allusion to which, on the part\nof Betsey, had first disturbed their harmony that evening. And she saw\nit still more clearly, when, politely but firmly correcting that lady\nby the distinct enunciation of the word \'Chuffey,\' Mrs Prig received the\ncorrection with a diabolical laugh.\n\nThe best among us have their failings, and it must be conceded of Mrs\nPrig, that if there were a blemish in the goodness of her disposition,\nit was a habit she had of not bestowing all its sharp and acid\nproperties upon her patients (as a thoroughly amiable woman would have\ndone), but of keeping a considerable remainder for the service of her\nfriends. Highly pickled salmon, and lettuces chopped up in vinegar,\nmay, as viands possessing some acidity of their own, have encouraged and\nincreased this failing in Mrs Prig; and every application to the teapot\ncertainly did; for it was often remarked of her by her friends, that\nshe was most contradictory when most elevated. It is certain that her\ncountenance became about this time derisive and defiant, and that she\nsat with her arms folded, and one eye shut up, in a somewhat offensive,\nbecause obstrusively intelligent, manner.\n\nMrs Gamp observing this, felt it the more necessary that Mrs Prig should\nknow her place, and be made sensible of her exact station in society, as\nwell as of her obligations to herself. She therefore assumed an air of\ngreater patronage and importance, as she went on to answer Mrs Prig a\nlittle more in detail.\n\n\'Mr Chuffey, Betsey,\' said Mrs Gamp, \'is weak in his mind. Excuge me\nif I makes remark, that he may neither be so weak as people thinks, nor\npeople may not think he is so weak as they pretends, and what I knows,\nI knows; and what you don\'t, you don\'t; so do not ask me, Betsey. But Mr\nChuffey\'s friends has made propojals for his bein\' took care on, and has\nsaid to me, \"Mrs Gamp, WILL you undertake it? We couldn\'t think,\" they\nsays, \"of trusting him to nobody but you, for, Sairey, you are gold as\nhas passed the furnage. Will you undertake it, at your own price, day\nand night, and by your own self?\" \"No,\" I says, \"I will not. Do not\nreckon on it. There is,\" I says, \"but one creetur in the world as I would\nundertake on sech terms, and her name is Harris. But,\" I says, \"I\nam acquainted with a friend, whose name is Betsey Prig, that I can\nrecommend, and will assist me. Betsey,\" I says, \"is always to be trusted\nunder me, and will be guided as I could desire.\"\'\n\nHere Mrs Prig, without any abatement of her offensive manner again\ncounterfeited abstraction of mind, and stretched out her hand to the\nteapot. It was more than Mrs Gamp could bear. She stopped the hand of\nMrs Prig with her own, and said, with great feeling:\n\n\'No, Betsey! Drink fair, wotever you do!\'\n\nMrs Prig, thus baffled, threw herself back in her chair, and closing the\nsame eye more emphatically, and folding her arms tighter, suffered her\nhead to roll slowly from side to side, while she surveyed her friend\nwith a contemptuous smile.\n\nMrs Gamp resumed:\n\n\'Mrs Harris, Betsey--\'\n\n\'Bother Mrs Harris!\' said Betsey Prig.\n\nMrs Gamp looked at her with amazement, incredulity, and indignation;\nwhen Mrs Prig, shutting her eye still closer, and folding her arms still\ntighter, uttered these memorable and tremendous words:\n\n\'I don\'t believe there\'s no sich a person!\'\n\nAfter the utterance of which expressions, she leaned forward, and\nsnapped her fingers once, twice, thrice; each time nearer to the face of\nMrs Gamp, and then rose to put on her bonnet, as one who felt that there\nwas now a gulf between them, which nothing could ever bridge across.\n\nThe shock of this blow was so violent and sudden, that Mrs Gamp sat\nstaring at nothing with uplifted eyes, and her mouth open as if she\nwere gasping for breath, until Betsey Prig had put on her bonnet and\nher shawl, and was gathering the latter about her throat. Then Mrs Gamp\nrose--morally and physically rose--and denounced her.\n\n\'What!\' said Mrs Gamp, \'you bage creetur, have I know\'d Mrs Harris five\nand thirty year, to be told at last that there ain\'t no sech a person\nlivin\'! Have I stood her friend in all her troubles, great and small,\nfor it to come at last to sech a end as this, which her own sweet picter\nhanging up afore you all the time, to shame your Bragian words! But well\nyou mayn\'t believe there\'s no sech a creetur, for she wouldn\'t demean\nherself to look at you, and often has she said, when I have made mention\nof your name, which, to my sinful sorrow, I have done, \"What, Sairey\nGamp! debage yourself to HER!\" Go along with you!\'\n\n\'I\'m a-goin\', ma\'am, ain\'t I?\' said Mrs Prig, stopping as she said it.\n\n\'You had better, ma\'am,\' said Mrs Gamp.\n\n\'Do you know who you\'re talking to, ma\'am?\' inquired her visitor.\n\n\'Aperiently,\' said Mrs Gamp, surveying her with scorn from head to foot,\n\'to Betsey Prig. Aperiently so. I know her. No one better. Go along with\nyou!\'\n\n\'And YOU was a-goin\' to take me under you!\' cried Mrs Prig, surveying\nMrs Gamp from head to foot in her turn. \'YOU was, was you? Oh, how kind!\nWhy, deuce take your imperence,\' said Mrs Prig, with a rapid change from\nbanter to ferocity, \'what do you mean?\'\n\n\'Go along with you!\' said Mrs Gamp. \'I blush for you.\'\n\n\'You had better blush a little for yourself, while you ARE about it!\'\nsaid Mrs Prig. \'You and your Chuffeys! What, the poor old creetur isn\'t\nmad enough, isn\'t he? Aha!\'\n\n\'He\'d very soon be mad enough, if you had anything to do with him,\' said\nMrs Gamp.\n\n\'And that\'s what I was wanted for, is it?\' cried Mrs Prig, triumphantly.\n\'Yes. But you\'ll find yourself deceived. I won\'t go near him. We shall\nsee how you get on without me. I won\'t have nothink to do with him.\'\n\n\'You never spoke a truer word than that!\' said Mrs Gamp. \'Go along with\nyou!\'\n\nShe was prevented from witnessing the actual retirement of Mrs Prig from\nthe room, notwithstanding the great desire she had expressed to behold\nit, by that lady, in her angry withdrawal, coming into contact with the\nbedstead, and bringing down the previously mentioned pippins; three or\nfour of which came rattling on the head of Mrs Gamp so smartly, that\nwhen she recovered from this wooden shower-bath, Mrs Prig was gone.\n\nShe had the satisfaction, however, of hearing the deep voice of Betsey,\nproclaiming her injuries and her determination to have nothing to do\nwith Mr Chuffey, down the stairs, and along the passage, and even out in\nKingsgate Street. Likewise of seeing in her own apartment, in the place\nof Mrs Prig, Mr Sweedlepipe and two gentlemen.\n\n\'Why, bless my life!\' exclaimed the little barber, \'what\'s amiss? The\nnoise you ladies have been making, Mrs Gamp! Why, these two gentlemen\nhave been standing on the stairs, outside the door, nearly all the time,\ntrying to make you hear, while you were pelting away, hammer and tongs!\nIt\'ll be the death of the little bullfinch in the shop, that draws his\nown water. In his fright, he\'s been a-straining himself all to bits,\ndrawing more water than he could drink in a twelvemonth. He must have\nthought it was Fire!\'\n\nMrs Gamp had in the meanwhile sunk into her chair, from whence, turning\nup her overflowing eyes, and clasping her hands, she delivered the\nfollowing lamentation:\n\n\'Oh, Mr Sweedlepipes, which Mr Westlock also, if my eyes do not deceive,\nand a friend not havin\' the pleasure of bein\' beknown, wot I have took\nfrom Betsey Prig this blessed night, no mortial creetur knows! If she\nhad abuged me, bein\' in liquor, which I thought I smelt her wen she\ncome, but could not so believe, not bein\' used myself\'--Mrs Gamp, by the\nway, was pretty far gone, and the fragrance of the teapot was strong in\nthe room--\'I could have bore it with a thankful art. But the words she\nspoke of Mrs Harris, lambs could not forgive. No, Betsey!\' said Mrs\nGamp, in a violent burst of feeling, \'nor worms forget!\'\n\nThe little barber scratched his head, and shook it, and looked at the\nteapot, and gradually got out of the room. John Westlock, taking a\nchair, sat down on one side of Mrs Gamp. Martin, taking the foot of the\nbed, supported her on the other.\n\n\'You wonder what we want, I daresay,\' observed John. \'I\'ll tell you\npresently, when you have recovered. It\'s not pressing, for a few minutes\nor so. How do you find yourself? Better?\'\n\nMrs Gamp shed more tears, shook her head and feebly pronounced Mrs\nHarris\'s name.\n\n\'Have a little--\' John was at a loss what to call it.\n\n\'Tea,\' suggested Martin.\n\n\'It ain\'t tea,\' said Mrs Gamp.\n\n\'Physic of some sort, I suppose,\' cried John. \'Have a little.\'\n\nMrs Gamp was prevailed upon to take a glassful. \'On condition,\' she\npassionately observed, \'as Betsey never has another stroke of work from\nme.\'\n\n\'Certainly not,\' said John. \'She shall never help to nurse ME.\'\n\n\'To think,\' said Mrs Gamp, \'as she should ever have helped to nuss that\nfriend of yourn, and been so near of hearing things that--Ah!\'\n\nJohn looked at Martin.\n\n\'Yes,\' he said. \'That was a narrow escape, Mrs Gamp.\'\n\n\'Narrer, in-deed!\' she returned. \'It was only my having the night, and\nhearin\' of him in his wanderins; and her the day, that saved it. Wot\nwould she have said and done, if she had know\'d what I know; that\nperfeejus wretch! Yet, oh good gracious me!\' cried Mrs Gamp, trampling\non the floor, in the absence of Mrs Prig, \'that I should hear from that\nsame woman\'s lips what I have heerd her speak of Mrs Harris!\'\n\n\'Never mind,\' said John. \'You know it is not true.\'\n\n\'Isn\'t true!\' cried Mrs Gamp. \'True! Don\'t I know as that dear woman\nis expecting of me at this minnit, Mr Westlock, and is a-lookin\' out of\nwindow down the street, with little Tommy Harris in her arms, as calls\nme his own Gammy, and truly calls, for bless the mottled little legs\nof that there precious child (like Canterbury Brawn his own dear father\nsays, which so they are) his own I have been, ever since I found him,\nMr Westlock, with his small red worsted shoe a-gurglin\' in his throat,\nwhere he had put it in his play, a chick, wile they was leavin\' of\nhim on the floor a-lookin\' for it through the ouse and him a-choakin\'\nsweetly in the parlour! Oh, Betsey Prig, what wickedness you\'ve showed\nthis night, but never shall you darken Sairey\'s doors agen, you twining\nserpiant!\'\n\n\'You were always so kind to her, too!\' said John, consolingly.\n\n\'That\'s the cutting part. That\'s where it hurts me, Mr Westlock,\' Mrs\nGamp replied; holding out her glass unconsciously, while Martin filled\nit.\n\n\'Chosen to help you with Mr Lewsome!\' said John. \'Chosen to help you\nwith Mr Chuffey!\'\n\n\'Chose once, but chose no more,\' cried Mrs Gamp. \'No pardnership with\nBetsey Prig agen, sir!\'\n\n\'No, no,\' said John. \'That would never do.\'\n\n\'I don\'t know as it ever would have done, sir,\' Mrs Gamp replied, with\na solemnity peculiar to a certain stage of intoxication. \'Now that the\nmarks,\' by which Mrs Gamp is supposed to have meant mask, \'is off\nthat creetur\'s face, I do not think it ever would have done. There\nare reagions in families for keeping things a secret, Mr Westlock, and\nhavin\' only them about you as you knows you can repoge in. Who could\nrepoge in Betsey Prig, arter her words of Mrs Harris, setting in that\nchair afore my eyes!\'\n\n\'Quite true,\' said John; \'quite. I hope you have time to find another\nassistant, Mrs Gamp?\'\n\nBetween her indignation and the teapot, her powers of comprehending what\nwas said to her began to fail. She looked at John with tearful eyes, and\nmurmuring the well-remembered name which Mrs Prig had challenged--as if\nit were a talisman against all earthly sorrows--seemed to wander in her\nmind.\n\n\'I hope,\' repeated John, \'that you have time to find another assistant?\'\n\n\'Which short it is, indeed,\' cried Mrs Gamp, turning up her languid\neyes, and clasping Mr Westlock\'s wrist with matronly affection.\n\'To-morrow evenin\', sir, I waits upon his friends. Mr Chuzzlewit apinted\nit from nine to ten.\'\n\n\'From nine to ten,\' said John, with a significant glance at Martin. \'and\nthen Mr Chuffey retires into safe keeping, does he?\'\n\n\'He needs to be kep safe, I do assure you,\' Mrs Gamp replied with a\nmysterious air. \'Other people besides me has had a happy deliverance\nfrom Betsey Prig. I little know\'d that woman. She\'d have let it out!\'\n\n\'Let HIM out, you mean,\' said John.\n\n\'Do I!\' retorted Mrs Gamp. \'Oh!\'\n\nThe severely ironical character of this reply was strengthened by a very\nslow nod, and a still slower drawing down of the corners of Mrs Gamp\'s\nmouth. She added with extreme stateliness of manner after indulging in a\nshort doze:\n\n\'But I am a-keepin\' of you gentlemen, and time is precious.\'\n\nMingling with that delusion of the teapot which inspired her with\nthe belief that they wanted her to go somewhere immediately, a shrewd\navoidance of any further reference to the topics into which she had\nlately strayed, Mrs Gamp rose; and putting away the teapot in its\naccustomed place, and locking the cupboard with much gravity proceeded\nto attire herself for a professional visit.\n\nThis preparation was easily made, as it required nothing more than\nthe snuffy black bonnet, the snuffy black shawl, the pattens and\nthe indispensable umbrella, without which neither a lying-in nor a\nlaying-out could by any possibility be attempted. When Mrs Gamp had\ninvested herself with these appendages she returned to her chair, and\nsitting down again, declared herself quite ready.\n\n\'It\'s a \'appiness to know as one can benefit the poor sweet creetur,\'\nshe observed, \'I\'m sure. It isn\'t all as can. The torters Betsey Prig\ninflicts is frightful!\'\n\nClosing her eyes as she made this remark, in the acuteness of her\ncommiseration for Betsey\'s patients, she forgot to open them again until\nshe dropped a patten. Her nap was also broken at intervals like the\nfabled slumbers of Friar Bacon, by the dropping of the other patten,\nand of the umbrella. But when she had got rid of those incumbrances, her\nsleep was peaceful.\n\nThe two young men looked at each other, ludicrously enough; and Martin,\nstifling his disposition to laugh, whispered in John Westlock\'s ear,\n\n\'What shall we do now?\'\n\n\'Stay here,\' he replied.\n\nMrs Gamp was heard to murmur \'Mrs Harris\' in her sleep.\n\n\'Rely upon it,\' whispered John, looking cautiously towards her, \'that\nyou shall question this old clerk, though you go as Mrs Harris herself.\nWe know quite enough to carry her our own way now, at all events; thanks\nto this quarrel, which confirms the old saying that when rogues fall\nout, honest people get what they want. Let Jonas Chuzzlewit look to\nhimself; and let her sleep as long as she likes. We shall gain our end\nin good time.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY\n\nSURPRISES TOM PINCH VERY MUCH, AND SHOWS HOW CERTAIN CONFIDENCES PASSED\nBETWEEN HIM AND HIS SISTER\n\n\nIt was the next evening; and Tom and his sister were sitting together\nbefore tea, talking, in their usual quiet way, about a great many\nthings, but not at all about Lewsome\'s story or anything connected with\nit; for John Westlock--really John, for so young a man, was one of the\nmost considerate fellows in the world--had particularly advised Tom not\nto mention it to his sister just yet, in case it should disquiet her.\n\'And I wouldn\'t, Tom,\' he said, with a little hesitation, \'I wouldn\'t\nhave a shadow on her happy face, or an uneasy thought in her gentle\nheart, for all the wealth and honours of the universe!\' Really John was\nuncommonly kind; extraordinarily kind. If he had been her father, Tom\nsaid, he could not have taken a greater interest in her.\n\nBut although Tom and his sister were extremely conversational, they were\nless lively, and less cheerful, than usual. Tom had no idea that this\noriginated with Ruth, but took it for granted that he was rather dull\nhimself. In truth he was; for the lightest cloud upon the Heaven of her\nquiet mind, cast its shadow upon Tom.\n\nAnd there was a cloud on little Ruth that evening. Yes, indeed. When Tom\nwas looking in another direction, her bright eyes, stealing on towards\nhis face, would sparkle still more brightly than their custom was, and\nthen grow dim. When Tom was silent, looking out upon the summer weather,\nshe would sometimes make a hasty movement, as if she were about to throw\nherself upon his neck; then check the impulse, and when he looked\nround, show a laughing face, and speak to him very merrily; when she had\nanything to give Tom, or had any excuse for coming near him, she would\nflutter about him, and lay her bashful hand upon his shoulder, and not\nbe willing to withdraw it; and would show by all such means that there\nwas something on her heart which in her great love she longed to say to\nhim, but had not the courage to utter.\n\nSo they were sitting, she with her work before her, but not working, and\nTom with his book beside him, but not reading, when Martin knocked\nat the door. Anticipating who it was, Tom went to open it; and he and\nMartin came back into the room together. Tom looked surprised, for in\nanswer to his cordial greeting Martin had hardly spoken a word.\n\nRuth also saw that there was something strange in the manner of their\nvisitor, and raised her eyes inquiringly to Tom\'s face, as if she were\nseeking an explanation there. Tom shook his head, and made the same mute\nappeal to Martin.\n\nMartin did not sit down but walked up to the window, and stood there\nlooking out. He turned round after a few moments to speak, but hastily\naverted his head again, without doing so.\n\n\'What has happened, Martin?\' Tom anxiously inquired. \'My dear fellow,\nwhat bad news do you bring?\'\n\n\'Oh, Tom!\' replied Martin, in a tone of deep reproach. \'To hear you\nfeign that interest in anything that happens to me, hurts me even more\nthan your ungenerous dealing.\'\n\n\'My ungenerous dealing! Martin! My--\' Tom could say no more.\n\n\'How could you, Tom, how could you suffer me to thank you so fervently\nand sincerely for your friendship; and not tell me, like a man, that you\nhad deserted me! Was it true, Tom! Was it honest! Was it worthy of what\nyou used to be--of what I am sure you used to be--to tempt me, when you\nhad turned against me, into pouring out my heart! Oh, Tom!\'\n\nHis tone was one of such strong injury and yet of so much grief for the\nloss of a friend he had trusted in--it expressed such high past love\nfor Tom, and so much sorrow and compassion for his supposed\nunworthiness--that Tom, for a moment, put his hand before his face, and\nhad no more power of justifying himself, than if he had been a monster\nof deceit and falsehood.\n\n\'I protest, as I must die,\' said Martin, \'that I grieve over the loss\nof what I thought you; and have no anger in the recollection of my own\ninjuries. It is only at such a time, and after such a discovery, that we\nknow the full measure of our old regard for the subject of it. I swear,\nlittle as I showed it--little as I know I showed it--that when I had the\nleast consideration for you, Tom, I loved you like a brother.\'\n\nTom was composed by this time, and might have been the Spirit of Truth,\nin a homely dress--it very often wears a homely dress, thank God!--when\nhe replied to him.\n\n\'Martin,\' he said, \'I don\'t know what is in your mind, or who has abused\nit, or by what extraordinary means. But the means are false. There is\nno truth whatever in the impression under which you labour. It is a\ndelusion from first to last; and I warn you that you will deeply regret\nthe wrong you do me. I can honestly say that I have been true to you,\nand to myself. You will be very sorry for this. Indeed, you will be very\nsorry for it, Martin.\'\n\n\'I AM sorry,\' returned Martin, shaking his head. \'I think I never knew\nwhat it was to be sorry in my heart, until now.\'\n\n\'At least,\' said Tom, \'if I had always been what you charge me with\nbeing now, and had never had a place in your regard, but had always been\ndespised by you, and had always deserved it, you should tell me in what\nyou have found me to be treacherous; and on what grounds you proceed. I\ndo not intreat you, therefore, to give me that satisfaction as a favour,\nMartin, but I ask it of you as a right.\'\n\n\'My own eyes are my witnesses,\' returned Martin. \'Am I to believe them?\'\n\n\'No,\' said Tom, calmly. \'Not if they accuse me.\'\n\n\'Your own words. Your own manner,\' pursued Martin. \'Am I to believe\nTHEM?\'\n\n\'No,\' replied Tom, calmly. \'Not if they accuse me. But they never have\naccused me. Whoever has perverted them to such a purpose, has wronged\nme almost as cruelly\'--his calmness rather failed him here--\'as you have\ndone.\'\n\n\'I came here,\' said Martin; \'and I appeal to your good sister to hear\nme--\'\n\n\'Not to her,\' interrupted Tom. \'Pray, do not appeal to her. She will\nnever believe you.\'\n\nHe drew her arm through his own, as he said it.\n\n\'I believe it, Tom!\'\n\n\'No, no,\' cried Tom, \'of course not. I said so. Why, tut, tut, tut. What\na silly little thing you are!\'\n\n\'I never meant,\' said Martin, hastily, \'to appeal to you against your\nbrother. Do not think me so unmanly and unkind. I merely appealed to you\nto hear my declaration, that I came here for no purpose of reproach--I\nhave not one reproach to vent--but in deep regret. You could not know in\nwhat bitterness of regret, unless you knew how often I have thought of\nTom; how long in almost hopeless circumstances, I have looked forward\nto the better estimation of his friendship; and how steadfastly I have\nbelieved and trusted in him.\'\n\n\'Tut, tut,\' said Tom, stopping her as she was about to speak. \'He is\nmistaken. He is deceived. Why should you mind? He is sure to be set\nright at last.\'\n\n\'Heaven bless the day that sets me right!\' cried Martin, \'if it could\never come!\'\n\n\'Amen!\' said Tom. \'And it will!\'\n\nMartin paused, and then said in a still milder voice:\n\n\'You have chosen for yourself, Tom, and will be relieved by our parting.\nIt is not an angry one. There is no anger on my side--\'\n\n\'There is none on mine,\' said Tom.\n\n\'--It is merely what you have brought about, and worked to bring about.\nI say again, you have chosen for yourself. You have made the choice that\nmight have been expected in most people situated as you are, but which I\ndid not expect in you. For that, perhaps, I should blame my own judgment\nmore than you. There is wealth and favour worth having, on one side; and\nthere is the worthless friendship of an abandoned, struggling fellow, on\nthe other. You were free to make your election, and you made it; and the\nchoice was not difficult. But those who have not the courage to resist\nsuch temptations, should have the courage to avow what they have yielded\nto them; and I DO blame you for this, Tom: that you received me with a\nshow of warmth, encouraged me to be frank and plain-spoken, tempted me\nto confide in you, and professed that you were able to be mine; when\nyou had sold yourself to others. I do not believe,\' said Martin, with\nemotion--\'hear me say it from my heart--I CANNOT believe, Tom, now that\nI am standing face to face with you, that it would have been in your\nnature to do me any serious harm, even though I had not discovered, by\nchance, in whose employment you were. But I should have encumbered you;\nI should have led you into more double-dealing; I should have hazarded\nyour retaining the favour for which you have paid so high a price,\nbartering away your former self; and it is best for both of us that I\nhave found out what you so much desired to keep secret.\'\n\n\'Be just,\' said Tom; who, had not removed his mild gaze from Martin\'s\nface since the commencement of this last address; \'be just even in\nyour injustice, Martin. You forget. You have not yet told me what your\naccusation is!\'\n\n\'Why should I?\' returned Martin, waving his hand, and moving towards\nthe door. \'You could not know it the better for my dwelling on it, and\nthough it would be really none the worse, it might seem to me to be.\nNo, Tom. Bygones shall be bygones between us. I can take leave of you\nat this moment, and in this place--in which you are so amiable and so\ngood--as heartily, if not as cheerfully, as ever I have done since we\nfirst met. All good go with you, Tom!--I--\'\n\n\'You leave me so? You can leave me so, can you?\' said Tom.\n\n\'I--you--you have chosen for yourself, Tom! I--I hope it was a rash\nchoice,\' Martin faltered. \'I think it was. I am sure it was! Good-bye!\'\n\nAnd he was gone.\n\nTom led his little sister to her chair, and sat down in his own. He took\nhis book, and read, or seemed to read. Presently he said aloud, turning\na leaf as he spoke: \'He will be very sorry for this.\' And a tear stole\ndown his face, and dropped upon the page.\n\nRuth nestled down beside him on her knees, and clasped her arms about\nhis neck.\n\n\'No, Tom! No, no! Be comforted! Dear Tom!\'\n\n\'I am quite--comforted,\' said Tom. \'It will be set right.\'\n\n\'Such a cruel, bad return!\' cried Ruth.\n\n\'No, no,\' said Tom. \'He believes it. I cannot imagine why. But it will\nbe set right.\'\n\nMore closely yet, she nestled down about him; and wept as if her heart\nwould break.\n\n\'Don\'t. Don\'t,\' said Tom. \'Why do you hide your face, my dear!\'\n\nThen in a burst of tears, it all broke out at last.\n\n\'Oh Tom, dear Tom, I know your secret heart. I have found it out; you\ncouldn\'t hide the truth from me. Why didn\'t you tell me? I am sure I\ncould have made you happier, if you had! You love her, Tom, so dearly!\'\n\nTom made a motion with his hand as if he would have put his sister\nhurriedly away; but it clasped upon hers, and all his little history\nwas written in the action. All its pathetic eloquence was in the silent\ntouch.\n\n\'In spite of that,\' said Ruth, \'you have been so faithful and so good,\ndear; in spite of that, you have been so true and self-denying, and have\nstruggled with yourself; in spite of that, you have been so gentle,\nand so kind, and even-tempered, that I have never seen you give a hasty\nlook, or heard you say one irritable word. In spite of all, you have\nbeen so cruelly mistaken. Oh Tom, dear Tom, will THIS be set right too!\nWill it, Tom? Will you always have this sorrow in your breast; you who\ndeserve to be so happy; or is there any hope?\'\n\nAnd still she hid her face from Tom, and clasped him round the neck,\nand wept for him, and poured out all her woman\'s heart and soul in the\nrelief and pain of this disclosure.\n\nIt was not very long before she and Tom were sitting side by side, and\nshe was looking with an earnest quietness in Tom\'s face. Then Tom spoke\nto her thus, cheerily, though gravely:\n\n\'I am very glad, my dear, that this has passed between us. Not because\nit assures me of your tender affection (for I was well assured of that\nbefore), but because it relieves my mind of a great weight.\'\n\nTom\'s eyes glistened when he spoke of her affection; and he kissed her\non the cheek.\n\n\'My dear girl,\' said Tom; \'with whatever feeling I regard her\'--they\nseemed to avoid the name by mutual consent--\'I have long ago--I am sure\nI may say from the very first--looked upon it as a dream. As something\nthat might possibly have happened under very different circumstances,\nbut which can never be. Now, tell me. What would you have set right?\'\n\nShe gave Tom such a significant little look, that he was obliged to take\nit for an answer whether he would or no; and to go on.\n\n\'By her own choice and free consent, my love, she is betrothed to\nMartin; and was, long before either of them knew of my existence. You\nwould have her betrothed to me?\'\n\n\'Yes,\' she said directly.\n\n\'Yes,\' rejoined Tom, \'but that might be setting it wrong, instead of\nright. Do you think,\' said Tom, with a grave smile, \'that even if she\nhad never seen him, it is very likely she would have fallen in love with\nMe?\'\n\n\'Why not, dear Tom?\'\n\nTom shook his head, and smiled again.\n\n\'You think of me, Ruth,\' said Tom, \'and it is very natural that you\nshould, as if I were a character in a book; and you make it a sort of\npoetical justice that I should, by some impossible means or other, come,\nat last, to marry the person I love. But there is a much higher justice\nthan poetical justice, my dear, and it does not order events upon the\nsame principle. Accordingly, people who read about heroes in books, and\nchoose to make heroes of themselves out of books, consider it a very\nfine thing to be discontented and gloomy, and misanthropical, and\nperhaps a little blasphemous, because they cannot have everything\nordered for their individual accommodation. Would you like me to become\none of that sort of people?\'\n\n\'No, Tom. But still I know,\' she added timidly, \'that this is a sorrow\nto you in your own better way.\'\n\nTom thought of disputing the position. But it would have been mere\nfolly, and he gave it up.\n\n\'My dear,\' said Tom, \'I will repay your affection with the Truth and all\nthe Truth. It is a sorrow to me. I have proved it to be so sometimes,\nthough I have always striven against it. But somebody who is precious to\nyou may die, and you may dream that you are in heaven with the departed\nspirit, and you may find it a sorrow to wake to the life on earth, which\nis no harder to be borne than when you fell asleep. It is sorrowful to\nme to contemplate my dream which I always knew was a dream, even when\nit first presented itself; but the realities about me are not to blame.\nThey are the same as they were. My sister, my sweet companion, who makes\nthis place so dear, is she less devoted to me, Ruth, than she would\nhave been, if this vision had never troubled me? My old friend John, who\nmight so easily have treated me with coldness and neglect, is he less\ncordial to me? The world about me, is there less good in that? Are my\nwords to be harsh and my looks to be sour, and is my heart to grow cold,\nbecause there has fallen in my way a good and beautiful creature, who\nbut for the selfish regret that I cannot call her my own, would, like\nall other good and beautiful creatures, make me happier and better!\nNo, my dear sister. No,\' said Tom stoutly. \'Remembering all my means of\nhappiness, I hardly dare to call this lurking something a sorrow; but\nwhatever name it may justly bear, I thank Heaven that it renders me more\nsensible of affection and attachment, and softens me in fifty ways. Not\nless happy. Not less happy, Ruth!\'\n\nShe could not speak to him, but she loved him, as he well deserved. Even\nas he deserved, she loved him.\n\n\'She will open Martin\'s eyes,\' said Tom, with a glow of pride, \'and that\n(which is indeed wrong) will be set right. Nothing will persuade her, I\nknow, that I have betrayed him. It will be set right through her, and he\nwill be very sorry for it. Our secret, Ruth, is our own, and lives and\ndies with us. I don\'t believe I ever could have told it you,\' said Tom,\nwith a smile, \'but how glad I am to think you have found it out!\'\n\nThey had never taken such a pleasant walk as they took that night. Tom\ntold her all so freely and so simply, and was so desirous to return\nher tenderness with his fullest confidence, that they prolonged it far\nbeyond their usual hour, and sat up late when they came home. And\nwhen they parted for the night there was such a tranquil, beautiful\nexpression in Tom\'s face, that she could not bear to shut it out, but\ngoing back on tiptoe to his chamber-door, looked in and stood there till\nhe saw her, and then embracing him again, withdrew. And in her prayers\nand in her sleep--good times to be remembered with such fervour,\nTom!--his name was uppermost.\n\nWhen he was left alone, Tom pondered very much on this discovery of\nhers, and greatly wondered what had led her to it. \'Because,\' thought\nTom, \'I have been so very careful. It was foolish and unnecessary in\nme, as I clearly see now, when I am so relieved by her knowing it; but I\nhave been so very careful to conceal it from her. Of course I knew that\nshe was intelligent and quick, and for that reason was more upon my\nguard; but I was not in the least prepared for this. I am sure her\ndiscovery has been sudden too. Dear me!\' said Tom. \'It\'s a most singular\ninstance of penetration!\'\n\nTom could not get it out of his head. There it was, when his head was on\nhis pillow.\n\n\'How she trembled when she began to tell me she knew it!\' thought Tom,\nrecalling all the little incidents and circumstances; \'and how her\nface flushed! But that was natural! Oh, quite natural! That needs no\naccounting for.\'\n\nTom little thought how natural it was. Tom little knew that there was\nthat in Ruth\'s own heart, but newly set there, which had helped her to\nthe reading of his mystery. Ah, Tom! He didn\'t understand the whispers\nof the Temple Fountain, though he passed it every day.\n\nWho so lively and cheerful as busy Ruth next morning! Her early tap at\nTom\'s door, and her light foot outside, would have been music to him\nthough she had not spoken. But she said it was the brightest morning\never seen; and so it was; and if it had been otherwise, she would have\nmade it so to Tom.\n\nShe was ready with his neat breakfast when he went downstairs, and had\nher bonnet ready for the early walk, and was so full of news, that Tom\nwas lost in wonder. She might have been up all night, collecting it for\nhis entertainment. There was Mr Nadgett not come home yet, and there was\nbread down a penny a loaf, and there was twice as much strength in this\ntea as in the last, and the milk-woman\'s husband had come out of the\nhospital cured, and the curly-headed child over the way had been lost\nall yesterday, and she was going to make all sorts of preserves in a\ndesperate hurry, and there happened to be a saucepan in the house which\nwas the very saucepan for the purpose; and she knew all about the last\nbook Tom had brought home, all through, though it was a teaser to read;\nand she had so much to tell him that she had finished breakfast first.\nThen she had her little bonnet on, and the tea and sugar locked up, and\nthe keys in her reticule, and the flower, as usual, in Tom\'s coat, and\nwas in all respects quite ready to accompany him, before Tom knew she\nhad begun to prepare. And in short, as Tom said, with a confidence in\nhis own assertion which amounted to a defiance of the public in general,\nthere never was such a little woman.\n\nShe made Tom talkative. It was impossible to resist her. She put such\nenticing questions to him; about books, and about dates of churches,\nand about organs and about the Temple, and about all kinds of things.\nIndeed, she lightened the way (and Tom\'s heart with it) to that degree,\nthat the Temple looked quite blank and solitary when he parted from her\nat the gate.\n\n\'No Mr Fips\'s friend to-day, I suppose,\' thought Tom, as he ascended the\nstairs.\n\nNot yet, at any rate, for the door was closed as usual, and Tom opened\nit with his key. He had got the books into perfect order now, and\nhad mended the torn leaves, and had pasted up the broken backs, and\nsubstituted neat labels for the worn-out letterings. It looked a\ndifferent place, it was so orderly and neat. Tom felt some pride in\ncomtemplating the change he had wrought, though there was no one to\napprove or disapprove of it.\n\nHe was at present occupied in making a fair copy of his draught of\nthe catalogue; on which, as there was no hurry, he was painfully\nconcentrating all the ingenious and laborious neatness he had ever\nexpended on map or plan in Mr Pecksniff\'s workroom. It was a very marvel\nof a catalogue; for Tom sometimes thought he was really getting his\nmoney too easily, and he had determined within himself that this\ndocument should take a little of his superfluous leisure out of him.\n\nSo with pens and ruler, and compasses and india-rubber, and pencil, and\nblack ink, and red ink, Tom worked away all the morning. He thought a\ngood deal about Martin, and their interview of yesterday, and would have\nbeen far easier in his mind if he could have resolved to confide it\nto his friend John, and to have taken his opinion on the subject.\nBut besides that he knew what John\'s boiling indignation would be, he\nbethought himself that he was helping Martin now in a matter of great\nmoment, and that to deprive the latter of his assistance at such a\ncrisis of affairs, would be to inflict a serious injury upon him.\n\n\'So I\'ll keep it to myself,\' said Tom, with a sigh. \'I\'ll keep it to\nmyself.\'\n\nAnd to work he went again, more assiduously than ever, with the pens,\nand the ruler, and the india-rubber, and the pencils, and the red ink,\nthat he might forget it.\n\nHe had laboured away another hour or more, when he heard a footstep in\nthe entry, down below.\n\n\'Ah!\' said Tom, looking towards the door; \'time was, not long ago\neither, when that would have set me wondering and expecting. But I have\nleft off now.\'\n\nThe footstep came on, up the stairs.\n\n\'Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,\' said Tom, counting. \'Now\nyou\'ll stop. Nobody ever comes past the thirty-eighth stair.\'\n\nThe person did, certainly, but only to take breath; for up the footstep\ncame again. Forty, forty-one, forty-two, and so on.\n\nThe door stood open. As the tread advanced, Tom looked impatiently and\neagerly towards it. When a figure came upon the landing, and arriving\nin the doorway, stopped and gazed at him, he rose up from his chair, and\nhalf believed he saw a spirit.\n\nOld Martin Chuzzlewit! The same whom he had left at Mr Pecksniff\'s, weak\nand sinking!\n\nThe same? No, not the same, for this old man, though old, was strong,\nand leaned upon his stick with a vigorous hand, while with the other\nhe signed to Tom to make no noise. One glance at the resolute face, the\nwatchful eye, the vigorous hand upon the staff, the triumphant purpose\nin the figure, and such a light broke in on Tom as blinded him.\n\n\'You have expected me,\' said Martin, \'a long time.\'\n\n\'I was told that my employer would arrive soon,\' said Tom; \'but--\'\n\n\'I know. You were ignorant who he was. It was my desire. I am glad it\nhas been so well observed. I intended to have been with you much sooner.\nI thought the time had come. I thought I could know no more, and no\nworse, of him, than I did on that day when I saw you last. But I was\nwrong.\'\n\nHe had by this time come up to Tom, and now he grasped his hand.\n\n\'I have lived in his house, Pinch, and had him fawning on me days and\nweeks and months. You know it. I have suffered him to treat me like\nhis tool and instrument. You know it; you have seen me there. I have\nundergone ten thousand times as much as I could have endured if I had\nbeen the miserable weak old man he took me for. You know it. I have seen\nhim offer love to Mary. You know it; who better--who better, my true\nheart! I have had his base soul bare before me, day by day, and have not\nbetrayed myself once. I never could have undergone such torture but for\nlooking forward to this time.\'\n\nHe stopped, even in the passion of his speech--if that can be called\npassion which was so resolute and steady--to press Tom\'s hand again.\nThen he said, in great excitement:\n\n\'Close the door, close the door. He will not be long after me, but\nmay come too soon. The time now drawing on,\' said the old man,\nhurriedly--his eyes and whole face brightening as he spoke--\'will make\namends for all. I wouldn\'t have him die or hang himself, for millions of\ngolden pieces! Close the door!\'\n\nTom did so; hardly knowing yet whether he was awake or in a dream.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-ONE\n\nSHEDS NEW AND BRIGHTER LIGHT UPON THE VERY DARK PLACE; AND CONTAINS THE\nSEQUEL OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND\n\n\nThe night had now come, when the old clerk was to be delivered over\nto his keepers. In the midst of his guilty distractions, Jonas had not\nforgotten it.\n\nIt was a part of his guilty state of mind to remember it; for on his\npersistence in the scheme depended one of his precautions for his own\nsafety. A hint, a word, from the old man, uttered at such a moment in\nattentive ears, might fire the train of suspicion, and destroy him. His\nwatchfulness of every avenue by which the discovery of his guilt might\nbe approached, sharpened with his sense of the danger by which he was\nencompassed. With murder on his soul, and its innumerable alarms and\nterrors dragging at him night and day, he would have repeated the crime,\nif he had seen a path of safety stretching out beyond. It was in his\npunishment; it was in his guilty condition. The very deed which his\nfears rendered insupportable, his fears would have impelled him to\ncommit again.\n\nBut keeping the old man close, according to his design, would serve his\nturn. His purpose was to escape, when the first alarm and wonder had\nsubsided; and when he could make the attempt without awakening instant\nsuspicion. In the meanwhile these women would keep him quiet; and if\nthe talking humour came upon him, would not be easily startled. He knew\ntheir trade.\n\nNor had he spoken idly when he said the old man should be gagged. He had\nresolved to ensure his silence; and he looked to the end, not the means.\nHe had been rough and rude and cruel to the old man all his life; and\nviolence was natural to his mind in connection with him. \'He shall be\ngagged if he speaks, and pinioned if he writes,\' said Jonas, looking at\nhim; for they sat alone together. \'He is mad enough for that; I\'ll go\nthrough with it!\'\n\nHush!\n\nStill listening! To every sound. He had listened ever since, and it\nhad not come yet. The exposure of the Assurance office; the flight of\nCrimple and Bullamy with the plunder, and among the rest, as he feared,\nwith his own bill, which he had not found in the pocket-book of the\nmurdered man, and which with Mr Pecksniff\'s money had probably been\nremitted to one or other of those trusty friends for safe deposit at the\nbanker\'s; his immense losses, and peril of being still called to account\nas a partner in the broken firm; all these things rose in his mind at\none time and always, but he could not contemplate them. He was aware of\ntheir presence, and of the rage, discomfiture, and despair, they brought\nalong with them; but he thought--of his own controlling power and\ndirection he thought--of the one dread question only. When they would\nfind the body in the wood.\n\nHe tried--he had never left off trying--not to forget it was there, for\nthat was impossible, but to forget to weary himself by drawing vivid\npictures of it in his fancy; by going softly about it and about it\namong the leaves, approaching it nearer and nearer through a gap in the\nboughs, and startling the very flies that were thickly sprinkled all\nover it, like heaps of dried currants. His mind was fixed and fastened\non the discovery, for intelligence of which he listened intently to\nevery cry and shout; listened when any one came in or went out; watched\nfrom the window the people who passed up and down the street; mistrusted\nhis own looks and words. And the more his thoughts were set upon the\ndiscovery, the stronger was the fascination which attracted them to\nthe thing itself; lying alone in the wood. He was for ever showing and\npresenting it, as it were, to every creature whom he saw. \'Look here!\nDo you know of this? Is it found? Do you suspect ME?\' If he had been\ncondemned to bear the body in his arms, and lay it down for recognition\nat the feet of every one he met, it could not have been more constantly\nwith him, or a cause of more monotonous and dismal occupation than it\nwas in this state of his mind.\n\nStill he was not sorry. It was no contrition or remorse for what he had\ndone that moved him; it was nothing but alarm for his own security. The\nvague consciousness he possessed of having wrecked his fortune in the\nmurderous venture, intensified his hatred and revenge, and made him set\nthe greater store by what he had gained The man was dead; nothing could\nundo that. He felt a triumph yet, in the reflection.\n\nHe had kept a jealous watch on Chuffey ever since the deed; seldom\nleaving him but on compulsion, and then for as short intervals as\npossible. They were alone together now. It was twilight, and the\nappointed time drew near at hand. Jonas walked up and down the room. The\nold man sat in his accustomed corner.\n\nThe slightest circumstance was matter of disquiet to the murderer, and\nhe was made uneasy at this time by the absence of his wife, who had left\nhome early in the afternoon, and had not returned yet. No tenderness\nfor her was at the bottom of this; but he had a misgiving that she\nmight have been waylaid, and tempted into saying something that would\ncriminate him when the news came. For anything he knew, she might have\nknocked at the door of his room, while he was away, and discovered his\nplot. Confound her, it was like her pale face to be wandering up and\ndown the house! Where was she now?\n\n\'She went to her good friend, Mrs Todgers,\' said the old man, when he\nasked the question with an angry oath.\n\nAye! To be sure! Always stealing away into the company of that woman.\nShe was no friend of his. Who could tell what devil\'s mischief they\nmight hatch together! Let her be fetched home directly.\n\nThe old man, muttering some words softly, rose as if he would have gone\nhimself, but Jonas thrust him back into his chair with an impatient\nimprecation, and sent a servant-girl to fetch her. When he had charged\nher with her errand he walked to and fro again, and never stopped till\nshe came back, which she did pretty soon; the way being short, and the\nwoman having made good haste.\n\nWell! Where was she? Had she come?\n\nNo. She had left there, full three hours.\n\n\'Left there! Alone?\'\n\nThe messenger had not asked; taking that for granted.\n\n\'Curse you for a fool. Bring candles!\'\n\nShe had scarcely left the room when the old clerk, who had been\nunusually observant of him ever since he had asked about his wife, came\nsuddenly upon him.\n\n\'Give her up!\' cried the old man. \'Come! Give her up to me! Tell me what\nyou have done with her. Quick! I have made no promises on that score.\nTell me what you have done with her.\'\n\nHe laid his hands upon his collar as he spoke, and grasped it; tightly\ntoo.\n\n\'You shall not leave me!\' cried the old man. \'I am strong enough to cry\nout to the neighbours, and I will, unless you give her up. Give her up\nto me!\'\n\nJonas was so dismayed and conscience-stricken, that he had not even\nhardihood enough to unclench the old man\'s hands with his own; but stood\nlooking at him as well as he could in the darkness, without moving a\nfinger. It was as much as he could do to ask him what he meant.\n\n\'I will know what you have done with her!\' retorted Chuffey. \'If you\nhurt a hair of her head, you shall answer it. Poor thing! Poor thing!\nWhere is she?\'\n\n\'Why, you old madman!\' said Jonas, in a low voice, and with trembling\nlips. \'What Bedlam fit has come upon you now?\'\n\n\'It is enough to make me mad, seeing what I have seen in this house!\'\ncried Chuffey. \'Where is my dear old master! Where is his only son that\nI have nursed upon my knee, a child! Where is she, she who was the last;\nshe that I\'ve seen pining day by day, and heard weeping in the dead of\nnight! She was the last, the last of all my friends! Heaven help me, she\nwas the very last!\'\n\nSeeing that the tears were stealing down his face, Jonas mustered\ncourage to unclench his hands, and push him off before he answered:\n\n\'Did you hear me ask for her? Did you hear me send for her? How can I\ngive you up what I haven\'t got, idiot! Ecod, I\'d give her up to you and\nwelcome, if I could; and a precious pair you\'d be!\'\n\n\'If she has come to any harm,\' cried Chuffey, \'mind! I\'m old and silly;\nbut I have my memory sometimes; and if she has come to any harm--\'\n\n\'Devil take you,\' interrupted Jonas, but in a suppressed voice still;\n\'what harm do you suppose she has come to? I know no more where she is\nthan you do; I wish I did. Wait till she comes home, and see; she can\'t\nbe long. Will that content you?\'\n\n\'Mind!\' exclaimed the old man. \'Not a hair of her head! not a hair of\nher head ill-used! I won\'t bear it. I--I--have borne it too long Jonas.\nI am silent, but I--I--I can speak. I--I--I can speak--\' he stammered,\nas he crept back to his chair, and turned a threatening, though a\nfeeble, look upon him.\n\n\'You can speak, can you!\' thought Jonas. \'So, so, we\'ll stop your\nspeaking. It\'s well I knew of this in good time. Prevention is better\nthan cure.\'\n\nHe had made a poor show of playing the bully and evincing a desire to\nconciliate at the same time, but was so afraid of the old man that\ngreat drops had started out upon his brow; and they stood there yet. His\nunusual tone of voice and agitated manner had sufficiently expressed his\nfear; but his face would have done so now, without that aid, as he again\nwalked to and fro, glancing at him by the candelight.\n\nHe stopped at the window to think. An opposite shop was lighted up; and\nthe tradesman and a customer were reading some printed bill together\nacross the counter. The sight brought him back, instantly, to the\noccupation he had forgotten. \'Look here! Do you know of this? Is it\nfound? Do you suspect ME?\'\n\nA hand upon the door. \'What\'s that!\'\n\n\'A pleasant evenin\',\' said the voice of Mrs Gamp, \'though warm, which,\nbless you, Mr Chuzzlewit, we must expect when cowcumbers is three for\ntwopence. How does Mr Chuffey find his self to-night, sir?\'\n\nMrs Gamp kept particularly close to the door in saying this, and\ncurtseyed more than usual. She did not appear to be quite so much at her\nease as she generally was.\n\n\'Get him to his room,\' said Jonas, walking up to her, and speaking in\nher ear. \'He has been raving to-night--stark mad. Don\'t talk while he\'s\nhere, but come down again.\'\n\n\'Poor sweet dear!\' cried Mrs Gamp, with uncommon tenderness. \'He\'s all\nof a tremble.\'\n\n\'Well he may be,\' said Jonas, \'after the mad fit he has had. Get him\nupstairs.\'\n\nShe was by this time assisting him to rise.\n\n\'There\'s my blessed old chick!\' cried Mrs Gamp, in a tone that was at\nonce soothing and encouraging. \'There\'s my darlin\' Mr Chuffey! Now come\nup to your own room, sir, and lay down on your bed a bit; for you\'re\na-shakin\' all over, as if your precious jints was hung upon wires.\nThat\'s a good creetur! Come with Sairey!\'\n\n\'Is she come home?\' inquired the old man.\n\n\'She\'ll be here directly minit,\' returned Mrs Gamp. \'Come with Sairey,\nMr Chuffey. Come with your own Sairey!\'\n\nThe good woman had no reference to any female in the world in promising\nthis speedy advent of the person for whom Mr Chuffey inquired, but\nmerely threw it out as a means of pacifying the old man. It had its\neffect, for he permitted her to lead him away; and they quitted the room\ntogether.\n\nJonas looked out of the window again. They were still reading the\nprinted paper in the shop opposite, and a third man had joined in the\nperusal. What could it be, to interest them so?\'\n\nA dispute or discussion seemed to arise among them, for they all looked\nup from their reading together, and one of the three, who had been\nglancing over the shoulder of another, stepped back to explain or\nillustrate some action by his gestures.\n\nHorror! How like the blow he had struck in the wood!\n\nIt beat him from the window as if it had lighted on himself. As he\nstaggered into a chair, he thought of the change in Mrs Gamp exhibited\nin her new-born tenderness to her charge. Was that because it was\nfound?--because she knew of it?--because she suspected him?\n\n\'Mr Chuffey is a-lyin\' down,\' said Mrs Gamp, returning, \'and much good\nmay it do him, Mr Chuzzlewit, which harm it can\'t and good it may; be\njoyful!\'\n\n\'Sit down,\' said Jonas, hoarsely, \'and let us get this business done.\nWhere is the other woman?\'\n\n\'The other person\'s with him now,\' she answered.\n\n\'That\'s right,\' said Jonas. \'He is not fit to be left to himself. Why,\nhe fastened on me to-night; here, upon my coat; like a savage dog. Old\nas he is, and feeble as he is usually, I had some trouble to shake him\noff. You--Hush!--It\'s nothing. You told me the other woman\'s name. I\nforget it.\'\n\n\'I mentioned Betsey Prig,\' said Mrs Gamp.\n\n\'She is to be trusted, is she?\'\n\n\'That she ain\'t!\' said Mrs Gamp; \'nor have I brought her, Mr Chuzzlewit.\nI\'ve brought another, which engages to give every satigefaction.\'\n\n\'What is her name?\' asked Jonas.\n\nMrs Gamp looked at him in an odd way without returning any answer, but\nappeared to understand the question too.\n\n\'What is her name?\' repeated Jonas.\n\n\'Her name,\' said Mrs Gamp, \'is Harris.\'\n\nIt was extraordinary how much effort it cost Mrs Gamp to pronounce the\nname she was commonly so ready with. She made some three or four gasps\nbefore she could get it out; and, when she had uttered it, pressed her\nhand upon her side, and turned up her eyes, as if she were going to\nfaint away. But, knowing her to labour under a complication of internal\ndisorders, which rendered a few drops of spirits indispensable at\ncertain times to her existence, and which came on very strong when that\nremedy was not at hand, Jonas merely supposed her to be the victim of\none of these attacks.\n\n\'Well!\' he said, hastily, for he felt how incapable he was of confining\nhis wandering attention to the subject. \'You and she have arranged to\ntake care of him, have you?\'\n\nMrs Gamp replied in the affirmative, and softly discharged herself of\nher familiar phrase, \'Turn and turn about; one off, one on.\' But\nshe spoke so tremulously that she felt called upon to add, \'which\nfiddle-strings is weakness to expredge my nerves this night!\'\n\nJonas stopped to listen. Then said, hurriedly:\n\n\'We shall not quarrel about terms. Let them be the same as they were\nbefore. Keep him close, and keep him quiet. He must be restrained.\nHe has got it in his head to-night that my wife\'s dead, and has been\nattacking me as if I had killed her. It\'s--it\'s common with mad people\nto take the worst fancies of those they like best. Isn\'t it?\'\n\nMrs Gamp assented with a short groan.\n\n\'Keep him close, then, or in one of his fits he\'ll be doing me a\nmischief. And don\'t trust him at any time; for when he seems most\nrational, he\'s wildest in his talk. But that you know already. Let me\nsee the other.\'\n\n\'The t\'other person, sir?\' said Mrs Gamp.\n\n\'Aye! Go you to him and send the other. Quick! I\'m busy.\'\n\nMrs Gamp took two or three backward steps towards the door, and stopped\nthere.\n\n\'It is your wishes, Mr Chuzzlewit,\' she said, in a sort of quavering\ncroak, \'to see the t\'other person. Is it?\'\n\nBut the ghastly change in Jonas told her that the other person was\nalready seen. Before she could look round towards the door, she was put\naside by old Martin\'s hand; and Chuffey and John Westlock entered with\nhim.\n\n\'Let no one leave the house,\' said Martin. \'This man is my brother\'s\nson. Ill-met, ill-trained, ill-begotten. If he moves from the spot on\nwhich he stands, or speaks a word above his breath to any person here,\nopen the window, and call for help!\'\n\n\'What right have you to give such directions in this house?\' asked Jonas\nfaintly.\n\n\'The right of your wrong-doing. Come in there!\'\n\nAn irrepressible exclamation burst from the lips of Jonas, as Lewsome\nentered at the door. It was not a groan, or a shriek, or a word, but was\nwholly unlike any sound that had ever fallen on the ears of those who\nheard it, while at the same time it was the most sharp and terrible\nexpression of what was working in his guilty breast, that nature could\nhave invented.\n\nHe had done murder for this! He had girdled himself about with perils,\nagonies of mind, innumerable fears, for this! He had hidden his secret\nin the wood; pressed and stamped it down into the bloody ground; and\nhere it started up when least expected, miles upon miles away; known to\nmany; proclaiming itself from the lips of an old man who had renewed his\nstrength and vigour as by a miracle, to give it voice against him!\n\nHe leaned his hand on the back of a chair, and looked at them. It was\nin vain to try to do so scornfully, or with his usual insolence. He\nrequired the chair for his support. But he made a struggle for it.\n\n\'I know that fellow,\' he said, fetching his breath at every word, and\npointing his trembling finger towards Lewsome. \'He\'s the greatest liar\nalive. What\'s his last tale? Ha, ha! You\'re rare fellows, too! Why, that\nuncle of mine is childish; he\'s even a greater child than his brother,\nmy father, was, in his old age; or than Chuffey is. What the devil do\nyou mean,\' he added, looking fiercely at John Westlock and Mark Tapley\n(the latter had entered with Lewsome), \'by coming here, and bringing\ntwo idiots and a knave with you to take my house by storm? Hallo, there!\nOpen the door! Turn these strangers out!\'\n\n\'I tell you what,\' cried Mr Tapley, coming forward, \'if it wasn\'t\nfor your name, I\'d drag you through the streets of my own accord, and\nsingle-handed I would! Ah, I would! Don\'t try and look bold at me.\nYou can\'t do it! Now go on, sir,\' this was to old Martin. \'Bring the\nmurderin\' wagabond upon his knees! If he wants noise, he shall have\nenough of it; for as sure as he\'s a shiverin\' from head to foot I\'ll\nraise a uproar at this winder that shall bring half London in. Go on,\nsir! Let him try me once, and see whether I\'m a man of my word or not.\'\n\nWith that, Mark folded his arms, and took his seat upon the\nwindow-ledge, with an air of general preparation for anything, which\nseemed to imply that he was equally ready to jump out himself, or to\nthrow Jonas out, upon receiving the slightest hint that it would be\nagreeable to the company.\n\nOld Martin turned to Lewsome:\n\n\'This is the man,\' he said, extending his hand towards Jonas. \'Is it?\'\n\n\'You need do no more than look at him to be sure of that, or of the\ntruth of what I have said,\' was the reply. \'He is my witness.\'\n\n\'Oh, brother!\' cried old Martin, clasping his hands and lifting up his\neyes. \'Oh, brother, brother! Were we strangers half our lives that you\nmight breed a wretch like this, and I make life a desert by withering\nevery flower that grew about me! Is it the natural end of your precepts\nand mine, that this should be the creature of your rearing, training,\nteaching, hoarding, striving for; and I the means of bringing him to\npunishment, when nothing can repair the wasted past!\'\n\nHe sat down upon a chair as he spoke, and turning away his face, was\nsilent for a few moments. Then with recovered energy he proceeded:\n\n\'But the accursed harvest of our mistaken lives shall be trodden down.\nIt is not too late for that. You are confronted with this man, you\nmonster there; not to be spared, but to be dealt with justly. Hear what\nhe says! Reply, be silent, contradict, repeat, defy, do what you please.\nMy course will be the same. Go on! And you,\' he said to Chuffey, \'for\nthe love of your old friend, speak out, good fellow!\'\n\n\'I have been silent for his love!\' cried the old man. \'He urged me to\nit. He made me promise it upon his dying bed. I never would have spoken,\nbut for your finding out so much. I have thought about it ever since;\nI couldn\'t help that; and sometimes I have had it all before me in\na dream; but in the day-time, not in sleep. Is there such a kind of\ndream?\' said Chuffey, looking anxiously in old Martin\'s face.\n\nAs Martin made him an encouraging reply, he listened attentively to his\nvoice, and smiled.\n\n\'Ah, aye!\' he cried. \'He often spoke to me like that. We were at school\ntogether, he and I. I couldn\'t turn against his son, you know--his only\nson, Mr Chuzzlewit!\'\n\n\'I would to Heaven you had been his son!\' said Martin.\n\n\'You speak so like my dear old master,\' cried the old man with a\nchildish delight, \'that I almost think I hear him. I can hear you quite\nas well as I used to hear him. It makes me young again. He never spoke\nunkindly to me, and I always understood him. I could always see him too,\nthough my sight was dim. Well, well! He\'s dead, he\'s dead. He was very\ngood to me, my dear old master!\'\n\nHe shook his head mournfully over the brother\'s hand. At this moment\nMark, who had been glancing out of the window, left the room.\n\n\'I couldn\'t turn against his only son, you know,\' said Chuffey. \'He has\nnearly driven me to do it sometimes; he very nearly did tonight. Ah!\'\ncried the old man, with a sudden recollection of the cause. \'Where is\nshe? She\'s not come home!\'\n\n\'Do you mean his wife?\' said Mr Chuzzlewit.\n\n\'Yes.\'\n\n\'I have removed her. She is in my care, and will be spared the present\nknowledge of what is passing here. She has known misery enough, without\nthat addition.\'\n\nJonas heard this with a sinking heart. He knew that they were on his\nheels, and felt that they were resolute to run him to destruction. Inch\nby inch the ground beneath him was sliding from his feet; faster and\nfaster the encircling ruin contracted and contracted towards himself,\nits wicked centre, until it should close in and crush him.\n\nAnd now he heard the voice of his accomplice stating to his face,\nwith every circumstance of time and place and incident; and openly\nproclaiming, with no reserve, suppression, passion, or concealment; all\nthe truth. The truth, which nothing would keep down; which blood\nwould not smother, and earth would not hide; the truth, whose terrible\ninspiration seemed to change dotards into strong men; and on whose\navenging wings, one whom he had supposed to be at the extremest corner\nof the earth came swooping down upon him.\n\nHe tried to deny it, but his tongue would not move. He conceived some\ndesperate thought of rushing away, and tearing through the streets; but\nhis limbs would as little answer to his will as his stark, stiff staring\nface. All this time the voice went slowly on, denouncing him. It was as\nif every drop of blood in the wood had found a voice to jeer him with.\n\nWhen it ceased, another voice took up the tale, but strangely; for the\nold clerk, who had watched, and listened to the whole, and had wrung his\nhands from time to time, as if he knew its truth and could confirm it,\nbroke in with these words:\n\n\'No, no, no! you\'re wrong; you\'re wrong--all wrong together! Have\npatience, for the truth is only known to me!\'\n\n\'How can that be,\' said his old master\'s brother, \'after what you have\nheard? Besides, you said just now, above-stairs, when I told you of the\naccusation against him, that you knew he was his father\'s murderer.\'\n\n\'Aye, yes! and so he was!\' cried Chuffey, wildly. \'But not as you\nsuppose--not as you suppose. Stay! Give me a moment\'s time. I have\nit all here--all here! It was foul, foul, cruel, bad; but not as you\nsuppose. Stay, stay!\'\n\nHe put his hands up to his head, as if it throbbed or pained him. After\nlooking about him in a wandering and vacant manner for some moments, his\neyes rested upon Jonas, when they kindled up with sudden recollection\nand intelligence.\n\n\'Yes!\' cried old Chuffey, \'yes! That\'s how it was. It\'s all upon me now.\nHe--he got up from his bed before he died, to be sure, to say that he\nforgave him; and he came down with me into this room; and when he saw\nhim--his only son, the son he loved--his speech forsook him; he had\nno speech for what he knew--and no one understood him except me. But I\ndid--I did!\'\n\nOld Martin regarded him in amazement; so did his companions. Mrs Gamp,\nwho had said nothing yet; but had kept two-thirds of herself behind the\ndoor, ready for escape, and one-third in the room, ready for siding with\nthe strongest party; came a little further in and remarked, with a sob,\nthat Mr Chuffey was \'the sweetest old creetur goin\'.\'\n\n\'He bought the stuff,\' said Chuffey, stretching out his arm towards\nJonas while an unwonted fire shone in his eye, and lightened up his\nface; \'he bought the stuff, no doubt, as you have heard, and brought it\nhome. He mixed the stuff--look at him!--with some sweetmeat in a jar,\nexactly as the medicine for his father\'s cough was mixed, and put it\nin a drawer; in that drawer yonder in the desk; he knows which drawer\nI mean! He kept it there locked up. But his courage failed him or his\nheart was touched--my God! I hope it was his heart! He was his only\nson!--and he did not put it in the usual place, where my old master\nwould have taken it twenty times a day.\'\n\nThe trembling figure of the old man shook with the strong emotions that\npossessed him. But, with the same light in his eye, and with his arm\noutstretched, and with his grey hair stirring on his head, he seemed to\ngrow in size, and was like a man inspired. Jonas shrunk from looking at\nhim, and cowered down into the chair by which he had held. It seemed as\nif this tremendous Truth could make the dumb speak.\n\n\'I know it every word now!\' cried Chuffey. \'Every word! He put it in\nthat drawer, as I have said. He went so often there, and was so secret,\nthat his father took notice of it; and when he was out, had it opened.\nWe were there together, and we found the mixture--Mr Chuzzlewit and I.\nHe took it into his possession, and made light of it at the time; but in\nthe night he came to my bedside, weeping, and told me that his own son\nhad it in his mind to poison him. \"Oh, Chuff,\" he said, \"oh, dear old\nChuff! a voice came into my room to-night, and told me that this crime\nbegan with me. It began when I taught him to be too covetous of what I\nhave to leave, and made the expectation of it his great business!\" Those\nwere his words; aye, they are his very words! If he was a hard man now\nand then, it was for his only son. He loved his only son, and he was\nalways good to me!\'\n\nJonas listened with increased attention. Hope was breaking in upon him.\n\n\'\"He shall not weary for my death, Chuff;\" that was what he said next,\'\npursued the old clerk, as he wiped his eyes; \'that was what he said\nnext, crying like a little child: \"He shall not weary for my death,\nChuff. He shall have it now; he shall marry where he has a fancy, Chuff,\nalthough it don\'t please me; and you and I will go away and live upon a\nlittle. I always loved him; perhaps he\'ll love me then. It\'s a dreadful\nthing to have my own child thirsting for my death. But I might have\nknown it. I have sown, and I must reap. He shall believe that I am\ntaking this; and when I see that he is sorry, and has all he wants, I\'ll\ntell him that I found it out, and I\'ll forgive him. He\'ll make a better\nman of his own son, and be a better man himself, perhaps, Chuff!\"\'\n\nPoor Chuffey paused to dry his eyes again. Old Martin\'s face was hidden\nin his hands. Jonas listened still more keenly, and his breast heaved\nlike a swollen water, but with hope. With growing hope.\n\n\'My dear old master made believe next day,\' said Chuffey, \'that he had\nopened the drawer by mistake with a key from the bunch, which happened\nto fit it (we had one made and hung upon it); and that he had been\nsurprised to find his fresh supply of cough medicine in such a place,\nbut supposed it had been put there in a hurry when the drawer stood\nopen. We burnt it; but his son believed that he was taking it--he knows\nhe did. Once Mr Chuzzlewit, to try him, took heart to say it had a\nstrange taste; and he got up directly, and went out.\'\n\nJonas gave a short, dry cough; and, changing his position for an easier\none, folded his arms without looking at them, though they could now see\nhis face.\n\n\'Mr Chuzzlewit wrote to her father; I mean the father of the poor thing\nwho\'s his wife,\' said Chuffey; \'and got him to come up, intending to\nhasten on the marriage. But his mind, like mine, went a little wrong\nthrough grief, and then his heart broke. He sank and altered from the\ntime when he came to me in the night; and never held up his head again.\nIt was only a few days, but he had never changed so much in twice the\nyears. \"Spare him, Chuff!\" he said, before he died. They were the only\nwords he could speak. \"Spare him, Chuff!\" I promised him I would. I\'ve\ntried to do it. He\'s his only son.\'\n\nOn his recollection of the last scene in his old friend\'s life, poor\nChuffey\'s voice, which had grown weaker and weaker, quite deserted him.\nMaking a motion with his hand, as if he would have said that Anthony had\ntaken it, and had died with it in his, he retreated to the corner where\nhe usually concealed his sorrows; and was silent.\n\nJonas could look at his company now, and vauntingly too. \'Well!\' he\nsaid, after a pause. \'Are you satisfied? or have you any more of your\nplots to broach? Why that fellow, Lewsome, can invent \'em for you by the\nscore. Is this all? Have you nothing else?\'\n\nOld Martin looked at him steadily.\n\n\'Whether you are what you seemed to be at Pecksniff\'s, or are something\nelse and a mountebank, I don\'t know and I don\'t care,\' said Jonas,\nlooking downward with a smile, \'but I don\'t want you here. You were here\nso often when your brother was alive, and were always so fond of him\n(your dear, dear brother, and you would have been cuffing one another\nbefore this, ecod!), that I am not surprised at your being attached to\nthe place; but the place is not attached to you, and you can\'t leave it\ntoo soon, though you may leave it too late. And for my wife, old man,\nsend her home straight, or it will be the worse for her. Ha, ha! You\ncarry it with a high hand, too! But it isn\'t hanging yet for a man to\nkeep a penn\'orth of poison for his own purposes, and have it taken from\nhim by two old crazy jolter-heads who go and act a play about it. Ha,\nha! Do you see the door?\'\n\nHis base triumph, struggling with his cowardice, and shame, and guilt,\nwas so detestable, that they turned away from him, as if he were some\nobscene and filthy animal, repugnant to the sight. And here that last\nblack crime was busy with him too; working within him to his perdition.\nBut for that, the old clerk\'s story might have touched him, though never\nso lightly; but for that, the sudden removal of so great a load might\nhave brought about some wholesome change even in him. With that deed\ndone, however; with that unnecessary wasteful danger haunting him;\ndespair was in his very triumph and relief; wild, ungovernable, raging\ndespair, for the uselessness of the peril into which he had plunged;\ndespair that hardened him and maddened him, and set his teeth a-grinding\nin a moment of his exultation.\n\n\'My good friend!\' said old Martin, laying his hand on Chuffey\'s sleeve.\n\'This is no place for you to remain in. Come with me.\'\n\n\'Just his old way!\' cried Chuffey, looking up into his face. \'I almost\nbelieve it\'s Mr Chuzzlewit alive again. Yes! Take me with you! Stay,\nthough, stay.\'\n\n\'For what?\' asked old Martin.\n\n\'I can\'t leave her, poor thing!\' said Chuffey. \'She has been very good\nto me. I can\'t leave her, Mr Chuzzlewit. Thank you kindly. I\'ll remain\nhere. I haven\'t long to remain; it\'s no great matter.\'\n\nAs he meekly shook his poor, grey head, and thanked old Martin in these\nwords, Mrs Gamp, now entirely in the room, was affected to tears.\n\n\'The mercy as it is!\' she said, \'as sech a dear, good, reverend creetur\nnever got into the clutches of Betsey Prig, which but for me he would\nhave done, undoubted; facts bein\' stubborn and not easy drove!\'\n\n\'You heard me speak to you just now, old man,\' said Jonas to his uncle.\n\'I\'ll have no more tampering with my people, man or woman. Do you see\nthe door?\'\n\n\'Do YOU see the door?\' returned the voice of Mark, coming from that\ndirection. \'Look at it!\'\n\nHe looked, and his gaze was nailed there. Fatal, ill-omened blighted\nthreshold, cursed by his father\'s footsteps in his dying hour, cursed by\nhis young wife\'s sorrowing tread, cursed by the daily shadow of the old\nclerk\'s figure, cursed by the crossing of his murderer\'s feet--what men\nwere standing in the door way!\n\nNadgett foremost.\n\nHark! It came on, roaring like a sea! Hawkers burst into the street,\ncrying it up and down; windows were thrown open that the inhabitants\nmight hear it; people stopped to listen in the road and on the pavement;\nthe bells, the same bells, began to ring; tumbling over one another in a\ndance of boisterous joy at the discovery (that was the sound they had in\nhis distempered thoughts), and making their airy play-ground rock.\n\n\'That is the man,\' said Nadgett. \'By the window!\'\n\nThree others came in, laid hands upon him, and secured him. It was so\nquickly done, that he had not lost sight of the informer\'s face for an\ninstant when his wrists were manacled together.\n\n\'Murder,\' said Nadgett, looking round on the astonished group. \'Let no\none interfere.\'\n\nThe sounding street repeated Murder; barbarous and dreadful Murder.\nMurder, Murder, Murder. Rolling on from house to house, and echoing from\nstone to stone, until the voices died away into the distant hum, which\nseemed to mutter the same word!\n\nThey all stood silent: listening, and gazing in each other\'s faces, as\nthe noise passed on.\n\nOld Martin was the first to speak. \'What terrible history is this?\' he\ndemanded.\n\n\'Ask HIM,\' said Nadgett. \'You\'re his friend, sir. He can tell you, if he\nwill. He knows more of it than I do, though I know much.\'\n\n\'How do you know much?\'\n\n\'I have not been watching him so long for nothing,\' returned Nadgett. \'I\nnever watched a man so close as I have watched him.\'\n\nAnother of the phantom forms of this terrific Truth! Another of the many\nshapes in which it started up about him, out of vacancy. This man, of\nall men in the world, a spy upon him; this man, changing his identity;\ncasting off his shrinking, purblind, unobservant character, and\nspringing up into a watchful enemy! The dead man might have come out of\nhis grave, and not confounded and appalled him more.\n\nThe game was up. The race was at an end; the rope was woven for his\nneck. If, by a miracle, he could escape from this strait, he had but to\nturn his face another way, no matter where, and there would rise some\nnew avenger front to front with him; some infant in an hour grown old,\nor old man in an hour grown young, or blind man with his sight restored,\nor deaf man with his hearing given him. There was no chance. He sank\ndown in a heap against the wall, and never hoped again from that moment.\n\n\'I am not his friend, although I have the honour to be his relative,\'\nsaid Mr Chuzzlewit. \'You may speak to me. Where have you watched, and\nwhat have you seen?\'\n\n\'I have watched in many places,\' returned Nadgett, \'night and day. I\nhave watched him lately, almost without rest or relief;\' his anxious\nface and bloodshot eyes confirmed it. \'I little thought to what my\nwatching was to lead. As little as he did when he slipped out in the\nnight, dressed in those clothes which he afterwards sunk in a bundle at\nLondon Bridge!\'\n\nJonas moved upon the ground like a man in bodily torture. He uttered a\nsuppressed groan, as if he had been wounded by some cruel weapon; and\nplucked at the iron band upon his wrists, as though (his hands being\nfree) he would have torn himself.\n\n\'Steady, kinsman!\' said the chief officer of the party. \'Don\'t be\nviolent.\'\n\n\'Whom do you call kinsman?\' asked old Martin sternly.\n\n\'You,\' said the man, \'among others.\'\n\nMartin turned his scrutinizing gaze upon him. He was sitting lazily\nacross a chair with his arms resting on the back; eating nuts, and\nthrowing the shells out of window as he cracked them, which he still\ncontinued to do while speaking.\n\n\'Aye,\' he said, with a sulky nod. \'You may deny your nephews till you\ndie; but Chevy Slyme is Chevy Slyme still, all the world over. Perhaps\neven you may feel it some disgrace to your own blood to be employed in\nthis way. I\'m to be bought off.\'\n\n\'At every turn!\' cried Martin. \'Self, self, self. Every one among them\nfor himself!\'\n\n\'You had better save one or two among them the trouble then and be for\nthem as well as YOURself,\' replied his nephew. \'Look here at me! Can you\nsee the man of your family who has more talent in his little finger than\nall the rest in their united brains, dressed as a police officer without\nbeing ashamed? I took up with this trade on purpose to shame you. I\ndidn\'t think I should have to make a capture in the family, though.\'\n\n\'If your debauchery, and that of your chosen friends, has really brought\nyou to this level,\' returned the old man, \'keep it. You are living\nhonestly, I hope, and that\'s something.\'\n\n\'Don\'t be hard upon my chosen friends,\' returned Slyme, \'for they were\nsometimes your chosen friends too. Don\'t say you never employed my\nfriend Tigg, for I know better. We quarrelled upon it.\'\n\n\'I hired the fellow,\' retorted Mr Chuzzlewit, \'and I paid him.\'\n\n\'It\'s well you paid him,\' said his nephew, \'for it would be too late to\ndo so now. He has given his receipt in full; or had it forced from him\nrather.\'\n\nThe old man looked at him as if he were curious to know what he meant,\nbut scorned to prolong the conversation.\n\n\'I have always expected that he and I would be brought together again in\nthe course of business,\' said Slyme, taking a fresh handful of nuts from\nhis pocket; \'but I thought he would be wanted for some swindling job; it\nnever entered my head that I should hold a warrant for the apprehension\nof his murderer.\'\n\n\'HIS murderer!\' cried Mr Chuzzlewit, looking from one to another.\n\n\'His or Mr Montague\'s,\' said Nadgett. \'They are the same, I am told.\nI accuse him yonder of the murder of Mr Montague, who was found last\nnight, killed, in a wood. You will ask me why I accuse him as you have\nalready asked me how I know so much. I\'ll tell you. It can\'t remain a\nsecret long.\'\n\nThe ruling passion of the man expressed itself even then, in the tone of\nregret in which he deplored the approaching publicity of what he knew.\n\n\'I told you I had watched him,\' he proceeded. \'I was instructed to do\nso by Mr Montague, in whose employment I have been for some time. We had\nour suspicions of him; and you know what they pointed at, for you have\nbeen discussing it since we have been waiting here, outside the room. If\nyou care to hear, now it\'s all over, in what our suspicions began, I\'ll\ntell you plainly: in a quarrel (it first came to our ears through a hint\nof his own) between him and another office in which his father\'s life\nwas insured, and which had so much doubt and distrust upon the subject,\nthat he compounded with them, and took half the money; and was glad to\ndo it. Bit by bit, I ferreted out more circumstances against him, and\nnot a few. It required a little patience, but it\'s my calling. I found\nthe nurse--here she is to confirm me; I found the doctor, I found\nthe undertaker, I found the undertaker\'s man. I found out how the old\ngentleman there, Mr Chuffey, had behaved at the funeral; and I found out\nwhat this man,\' touching Lewsome on the arm, \'had talked about in his\nfever. I found out how he conducted himself before his father\'s death,\nand how since and how at the time; and writing it all down, and putting\nit carefully together, made case enough for Mr Montague to tax him\nwith the crime, which (as he himself believed until to-night) he had\ncommitted. I was by when this was done. You see him now. He is only\nworse than he was then.\'\n\nOh, miserable, miserable fool! oh, insupportable, excruciating torture!\nTo find alive and active--a party to it all--the brain and right-hand\nof the secret he had thought to crush! In whom, though he had walled the\nmurdered man up, by enchantment in a rock, the story would have lived\nand walked abroad! He tried to stop his ears with his fettered arms,\nthat he might shut out the rest.\n\nAs he crouched upon the floor, they drew away from him as if a\npestilence were in his breath. They fell off, one by one, from that part\nof the room, leaving him alone upon the ground. Even those who had him\nin their keeping shunned him, and (with the exception of Slyme, who was\nstill occupied with his nuts) kept apart.\n\n\'From that garret-window opposite,\' said Nadgett, pointing across the\nnarrow street, \'I have watched this house and him for days and nights.\nFrom that garret-window opposite I saw him return home, alone, from a\njourney on which he had set out with Mr Montague. That was my token that\nMr Montague\'s end was gained; and I might rest easy on my watch, though\nI was not to leave it until he dismissed me. But, standing at the door\nopposite, after dark that same night, I saw a countryman steal out of\nthis house, by a side-door in the court, who had never entered it.\nI knew his walk, and that it was himself, disguised. I followed him\nimmediately. I lost him on the western road, still travelling westward.\'\n\nJonas looked up at him for an instant, and muttered an oath.\n\n\'I could not comprehend what this meant,\' said Nadgett; \'but, having\nseen so much, I resolved to see it out, and through. And I did.\nLearning, on inquiry at his house from his wife, that he was supposed\nto be sleeping in the room from which I had seen him go out, and that he\nhad given strict orders not to be disturbed, I knew that he was\ncoming back; and for his coming back I watched. I kept my watch in\nthe street--in doorways, and such places--all that night; at the same\nwindow, all next day; and when night came on again, in the street once\nmore. For I knew he would come back, as he had gone out, when this part\nof the town was empty. He did. Early in the morning, the same countryman\ncame creeping, creeping, creeping home.\'\n\n\'Look sharp!\' interposed Slyme, who had now finished his nuts. \'This is\nquite irregular, Mr Nadgett.\'\n\n\'I kept at the window all day,\' said Nadgett, without heeding him.\n\'I think I never closed my eyes. At night, I saw him come out with a\nbundle. I followed him again. He went down the steps at London Bridge,\nand sunk it in the river. I now began to entertain some serious fears,\nand made a communication to the Police, which caused that bundle to\nbe--\'\n\n\'To be fished up,\' interrupted Slyme. \'Be alive, Mr Nadgett.\'\n\n\'It contained the dress I had seen him wear,\' said Nadgett; \'stained\nwith clay, and spotted with blood. Information of the murder was\nreceived in town last night. The wearer of that dress is already\nknown to have been seen near the place; to have been lurking in that\nneighbourhood; and to have alighted from a coach coming from that part\nof the country, at a time exactly tallying with the very minute when\nI saw him returning home. The warrant has been out, and these officers\nhave been with me, some hours. We chose our time; and seeing you come\nin, and seeing this person at the window--\'\n\n\'Beckoned to him,\' said Mark, taking up the thread of the narrative, on\nhearing this allusion to himself, \'to open the door; which he did with a\ndeal of pleasure.\'\n\n\'That\'s all at present,\' said Nadgett, putting up his great pocketbook,\nwhich from mere habit he had produced when he began his revelation, and\nhad kept in his hand all the time; \'but there is plenty more to come.\nYou asked me for the facts, so far I have related them, and need not\ndetain these gentlemen any longer. Are you ready, Mr Slyme?\'\n\n\'And something more,\' replied that worthy, rising. \'If you walk round to\nthe office, we shall be there as soon as you. Tom! Get a coach!\'\n\nThe officer to whom he spoke departed for that purpose. Old Martin\nlingered for a few moments, as if he would have addressed some words\nto Jonas; but looking round, and seeing him still seated on the floor,\nrocking himself in a savage manner to and fro, took Chuffey\'s arm, and\nslowly followed Nadgett out. John Westlock and Mark Tapley accompanied\nthem. Mrs Gamp had tottered out first, for the better display of her\nfeelings, in a kind of walking swoon; for Mrs Gamp performed swoons of\ndifferent sorts, upon a moderate notice, as Mr Mould did Funerals.\n\n\'Ha!\' muttered Slyme, looking after them. \'Upon my soul! As insensible\nof being disgraced by having such a nephew as myself, in such a\nsituation, as he was of my being an honour and a credit to the family!\nThat\'s the return I get for having humbled my spirit--such a spirit as\nmine--to earn a livelihood, is it?\'\n\nHe got up from his chair, and kicked it away indignantly.\n\n\'And such a livelihood too! When there are hundreds of men, not fit to\nhold a candle to me, rolling in carriages and living on their fortunes.\nUpon my soul it\'s a nice world!\'\n\nHis eyes encountered Jonas, who looked earnestly towards him, and moved\nhis lips as if he were whispering.\n\n\'Eh?\' said Slyme.\n\nJonas glanced at the attendant whose back was towards him, and made a\nclumsy motion with his bound hands towards the door.\n\n\'Humph!\' said Slyme, thoughtfully. \'I couldn\'t hope to disgrace him into\nanything when you have shot so far ahead of me though. I forgot that.\'\n\nJonas repeated the same look and gesture.\n\n\'Jack!\' said Slyme.\n\n\'Hallo!\' returned his man.\n\n\'Go down to the door, ready for the coach. Call out when it comes. I\'d\nrather have you there. Now then,\' he added, turning hastily to Jonas,\nwhen the man was gone. \'What\'s the matter?\'\n\nJonas essayed to rise.\n\n\'Stop a bit,\' said Slyme. \'It\'s not so easy when your wrists are tight\ntogether. Now then! Up! What is it?\'\n\n\'Put your hand in my pocket. Here! The breast pocket, on the left!\' said\nJonas.\n\nHe did so; and drew out a purse.\n\n\'There\'s a hundred pound in it,\' said Jonas, whose words were almost\nunintelligible; as his face, in its pallor and agony, was scarcely\nhuman.\n\nSlyme looked at him; gave it into his hands; and shook his head.\n\n\'I can\'t. I daren\'t. I couldn\'t if I dared. Those fellows below--\'\n\n\'Escape\'s impossible,\' said Jonas. \'I know it. One hundred pound for\nonly five minutes in the next room!\'\n\n\'What to do?\' he asked.\n\nThe face of his prisoner as he advanced to whisper in his ear, made him\nrecoil involuntarily. But he stopped and listened to him. The words were\nfew, but his own face changed as he heard them.\n\n\'I have it about me,\' said Jonas, putting his hands to his throat, as\nthough whatever he referred to were hidden in his neckerchief. \'How\nshould you know of it? How could you know? A hundred pound for only five\nminutes in the next room! The time\'s passing. Speak!\'\n\n\'It would be more--more creditable to the family,\' observed Slyme, with\ntrembling lips. \'I wish you hadn\'t told me half so much. Less would have\nserved your purpose. You might have kept it to yourself.\'\n\n\'A hundred pound for only five minutes in the next room! Speak!\' cried\nJonas, desperately.\n\nHe took the purse. Jonas, with a wild unsteady step, retreated to the\ndoor in the glass partition.\n\n\'Stop!\' cried Slyme, catching at his skirts. \'I don\'t know about this.\nYet it must end so at last. Are you guilty?\'\n\n\'Yes!\' said Jonas.\n\n\'Are the proofs as they were told just now?\'\n\n\'Yes!\' said Jonas.\n\n\'Will you--will you engage to say a--a Prayer, now, or something of that\nsort?\' faltered Slyme.\n\nJonas broke from him without replying, and closed the door between them.\n\nSlyme listened at the keyhole. After that, he crept away on tiptoe, as\nfar off as he could; and looked awfully towards the place. He was roused\nby the arrival of the coach, and their letting down the steps.\n\n\'He\'s getting a few things together,\' he said, leaning out of window,\nand speaking to the two men below, who stood in the full light of a\nstreet-lamp. \'Keep your eye upon the back, one of you, for form\'s sake.\'\n\nOne of the men withdrew into the court. The other, seating himself self\non the steps of the coach, remained in conversation with Slyme at the\nwindow who perhaps had risen to be his superior, in virtue of his old\npropensity (one so much lauded by the murdered man) of being always\nround the corner. A useful habit in his present calling.\n\n\'Where is he?\' asked the man.\n\nSlyme looked into the room for an instant and gave his head a jerk as\nmuch as to say, \'Close at hand. I see him.\'\n\n\'He\'s booked,\' observed the man.\n\n\'Through,\' said Slyme.\n\nThey looked at each other, and up and down the street. The man on\nthe coach-steps took his hat off, and put it on again, and whistled a\nlittle.\n\n\'I say! He\'s taking his time!\' he remonstrated.\n\n\'I allowed him five minutes,\' said Slyme. \'Time\'s more than up, though.\nI\'ll bring him down.\'\n\nHe withdrew from the window accordingly, and walked on tiptoe to the\ndoor in the partition. He listened. There was not a sound within. He set\nthe candles near it, that they might shine through the glass.\n\nIt was not easy, he found, to make up his mind to the opening of\nthe door. But he flung it wide open suddenly, and with a noise; then\nretreated. After peeping in and listening again, he entered.\n\nHe started back as his eyes met those of Jonas, standing in an angle of\nthe wall, and staring at him. His neckerchief was off; his face was ashy\npale.\n\n\'You\'re too soon,\' said Jonas, with an abject whimper. \'I\'ve not had\ntime. I have not been able to do it. I--five minutes more--two minutes\nmore!--only one!\'\n\nSlyme gave him no reply, but thrusting the purse upon him and forcing it\nback into his pocket, called up his men.\n\nHe whined, and cried, and cursed, and entreated them, and struggled, and\nsubmitted, in the same breath, and had no power to stand. They got him\naway and into the coach, where they put him on a seat; but he soon fell\nmoaning down among the straw at the bottom, and lay there.\n\nThe two men were with him. Slyme being on the box with the driver; and\nthey let him lie. Happening to pass a fruiterer\'s on their way; the door\nof which was open, though the shop was by this time shut; one of them\nremarked how faint the peaches smelled.\n\nThe other assented at the moment, but presently stooped down in quick\nalarm, and looked at the prisoner.\n\n\'Stop the coach! He has poisoned himself! The smell comes from this\nbottle in his hand!\'\n\nThe hand had shut upon it tight. With that rigidity of grasp with which\nno living man, in the full strength and energy of life, can clutch a\nprize he has won.\n\nThey dragged him out into the dark street; but jury, judge, and hangman,\ncould have done no more, and could do nothing now. Dead, dead, dead.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-TWO\n\nIN WHICH THE TABLES ARE TURNED, COMPLETELY UPSIDE DOWN\n\n\nOld Martin\'s cherished projects, so long hidden in his own breast, so\nfrequently in danger of abrupt disclosure through the bursting forth\nof the indignation he had hoarded up during his residence with Mr\nPecksniff, were retarded, but not beyond a few hours, by the occurrences\njust now related. Stunned, as he had been at first by the intelligence\nconveyed to him through Tom Pinch and John Westlock, of the supposed\nmanner of his brother\'s death; overwhelmed as he was by the subsequent\nnarratives of Chuffey and Nadgett, and the forging of that chain of\ncircumstances ending in the death of Jonas, of which catastrophe he was\nimmediately informed; scattered as his purposes and hopes were for the\nmoment, by the crowding in of all these incidents between him and his\nend; still their very intensity and the tumult of their assemblage\nnerved him to the rapid and unyielding execution of his scheme. In every\nsingle circumstance, whether it were cruel, cowardly, or false, he\nsaw the flowering of the same pregnant seed. Self; grasping, eager,\nnarrow-ranging, overreaching self; with its long train of suspicions,\nlusts, deceits, and all their growing consequences; was the root of the\nvile tree. Mr Pecksniff had so presented his character before the old\nman\'s eyes, that he--the good, the tolerant, enduring Pecksniff--had\nbecome the incarnation of all selfishness and treachery; and the more\nodious the shapes in which those vices ranged themselves before him now,\nthe sterner consolation he had in his design of setting Mr Pecksniff\nright and Mr Pecksniff\'s victims too.\n\nTo this work he brought, not only the energy and determination natural\nto his character (which, as the reader may have observed in the\nbeginning of his or her acquaintance with this gentleman, was remarkable\nfor the strong development of those qualities), but all the forced and\nunnaturally nurtured energy consequent upon their long suppression. And\nthese two tides of resolution setting into one and sweeping on, became\nso strong and vigorous, that, to prevent themselves from being carried\naway before it, Heaven knows where, was as much as John Westlock and\nMark Tapley together (though they were tolerably energetic too) could\nmanage to effect.\n\nHe had sent for John Westlock immediately on his arrival; and John,\nunder the conduct of Tom Pinch, had waited on him. Having a lively\nrecollection of Mr Tapley, he had caused that gentleman\'s attendance to\nbe secured, through John\'s means, without delay; and thus, as we have\nseen, they had all repaired together to the City. But his grandson he\nhad refused to see until to-morrow, when Mr Tapley was instructed to\nsummon him to the Temple at ten o\'clock in the forenoon. Tom he would\nnot allow to be employed in anything, lest he should be wrongfully\nsuspected; but he was a party to all their proceedings, and was with\nthem until late at night--until after they knew of the death of Jonas;\nwhen he went home to tell all these wonders to little Ruth, and to\nprepare her for accompanying him to the Temple in the morning, agreeably\nto Mr Chuzzlewit\'s particular injunction.\n\nIt was characteristic of old Martin, and his looking on to something\nwhich he had distinctly before him, that he communicated to them nothing\nof his intentions, beyond such hints of reprisal on Mr Pecksniff as they\ngathered from the game he had played in that gentleman\'s house, and the\nbrightening of his eyes whenever his name was mentioned. Even to John\nWestlock, in whom he was evidently disposed to place great confidence\n(which may indeed be said of every one of them), he gave no explanation\nwhatever. He merely requested him to return in the morning; and with\nthis for their utmost satisfaction, they left him, when the night was\nfar advanced, alone.\n\nThe events of such a day might have worn out the body and spirit of\na much younger man than he, but he sat in deep and painful meditation\nuntil the morning was bright. Nor did he even then seek any prolonged\nrepose, but merely slumbered in his chair, until seven o\'clock, when Mr\nTapley had appointed to come to him by his desire; and came--as fresh\nand clean and cheerful as the morning itself.\n\n\'You are punctual,\' said Mr Chuzzlewit, opening the door to him in reply\nto his light knock, which had roused him instantly.\n\n\'My wishes, sir,\' replied Mr Tapley, whose mind would appear from the\ncontext to have been running on the matrimonial service, \'is to love,\nhonour, and obey. The clock\'s a-striking now, sir.\'\n\n\'Come in!\'\n\n\'Thank\'ee, sir,\' rejoined Mr Tapley, \'what could I do for you first,\nsir?\'\n\n\'You gave my message to Martin?\' said the old man, bending his eyes upon\nhim.\n\n\'I did, sir,\' returned Mark; \'and you never see a gentleman more\nsurprised in all your born days than he was.\'\n\n\'What more did you tell him?\' Mr Chuzzlewit inquired.\n\n\'Why, sir,\' said Mr Tapley, smiling, \'I should have liked to tell him a\ndeal more, but not being able, sir, I didn\'t tell it him.\'\n\n\'You told him all you knew?\'\n\n\'But it was precious little, sir,\' retorted Mr Tapley. \'There was very\nlittle respectin\' you that I was able to tell him, sir. I only mentioned\nmy opinion that Mr Pecksniff would find himself deceived, sir, and\nthat you would find yourself deceived, and that he would find himself\ndeceived, sir.\'\n\n\'In what?\' asked Mr Chuzzlewit.\n\n\'Meaning him, sir?\'\n\n\'Meaning both him and me.\'\n\n\'Well, sir,\' said Mr Tapley. \'In your old opinions of each other. As\nto him, sir, and his opinions, I know he\'s a altered man. I know it.\nI know\'d it long afore he spoke to you t\'other day, and I must say it.\nNobody don\'t know half as much of him as I do. Nobody can\'t. There\nwas always a deal of good in him, but a little of it got crusted over,\nsomehow. I can\'t say who rolled the paste of that \'ere crust myself,\nbut--\'\n\n\'Go on,\' said Martin. \'Why do you stop?\'\n\n\'But it--well! I beg your pardon, but I think it may have been you, sir.\nUnintentional I think it may have been you. I don\'t believe that neither\nof you gave the other quite a fair chance. There! Now I\'ve got rid on\nit,\' said Mr Tapley in a fit of desperation: \'I can\'t go a-carryin\' it\nabout in my own mind, bustin\' myself with it; yesterday was quite long\nenough. It\'s out now. I can\'t help it. I\'m sorry for it. Don\'t wisit on\nhim, sir, that\'s all.\'\n\nIt was clear that Mark expected to be ordered out immediately, and was\nquite prepared to go.\n\n\'So you think,\' said Martin, \'that his old faults are, in some degree,\nof my creation, do you?\'\n\n\'Well, sir,\' retorted Mr Tapley, \'I\'m werry sorry, but I can\'t unsay it.\nIt\'s hardly fair of you, sir, to make a ignorant man conwict himself in\nthis way, but I DO think so. I am as respectful disposed to you, sir, as\na man can be; but I DO think so.\'\n\nThe light of a faint smile seemed to break through the dull steadiness\nof Martin\'s face, as he looked attentively at him, without replying.\n\n\'Yet you are an ignorant man, you say,\' he observed after a long pause.\n\n\'Werry much so,\' Mr Tapley replied.\n\n\'And I a learned, well-instructed man, you think?\'\n\n\'Likewise wery much so,\' Mr Tapley answered.\n\nThe old man, with his chin resting on his hand, paced the room twice or\nthrice before he added:\n\n\'You have left him this morning?\'\n\n\'Come straight from him now, sir.\'\n\n\'For what does he suppose?\'\n\n\'He don\'t know what to suppose, sir, no more than myself. I told him\njest wot passed yesterday, sir, and that you had said to me, \"Can you be\nhere by seven in the morning?\" and that you had said to him, through me,\n\"Can you be here by ten in the morning?\" and that I had said \"Yes\" to\nboth. That\'s all, sir.\'\n\nHis frankness was so genuine that it plainly WAS all.\n\n\'Perhaps,\' said Martin, \'he may think you are going to desert him, and\nto serve me?\'\n\n\'I have served him in that sort of way, sir,\' replied Mark, without the\nloss of any atom of his self-possession; \'and we have been that sort of\ncompanions in misfortune, that my opinion is, he don\'t believe a word on\nit. No more than you do, sir.\'\n\n\'Will you help me to dress, and get me some breakfast from the hotel?\'\nasked Martin.\n\n\'With pleasure, sir,\' said Mark.\n\n\'And by-and-bye,\' said Martin, \'remaining in the room, as I wish you to\ndo, will you attend to the door yonder--give admission to visitors, I\nmean, when they knock?\'\n\n\'Certainly, sir,\' said Mr Tapley.\n\n\'You will not find it necessary to express surprise at their\nappearance,\' Martin suggested.\n\n\'Oh dear no, sir!\' said Mr Tapley, \'not at all.\'\n\nAlthough he pledged himself to this with perfect confidence, he was in a\nstate of unbounded astonishment even now. Martin appeared to observe it,\nand to have some sense of the ludicrous bearing of Mr Tapley under these\nperplexing circumstances; for, in spite of the composure of his voice\nand the gravity of his face, the same indistinct light flickered on the\nlatter several times. Mark bestirred himself, however, to execute the\noffices with which he was entrusted; and soon lost all tendency to any\noutward expression of his surprise, in the occupation of being brisk and\nbusy.\n\nBut when he had put Mr Chuzzlewit\'s clothes in good order for dressing,\nand when that gentleman was dressed and sitting at his breakfast,\nMr Tapley\'s feelings of wonder began to return upon him with great\nviolence; and, standing beside the old man with a napkin under his\narm (it was as natural and easy to joke to Mark to be a butler in the\nTemple, as it had been to volunteer as cook on board the Screw), he\nfound it difficult to resist the temptation of casting sidelong glances\nat him very often. Nay, he found it impossible; and accordingly yielded\nto this impulse so often, that Martin caught him in the fact some fifty\ntimes. The extraordinary things Mr Tapley did with his own face when\nany of these detections occurred; the sudden occasions he had to rub\nhis eyes or his nose or his chin; the look of wisdom with which he\nimmediately plunged into the deepest thought, or became intensely\ninterested in the habits and customs of the flies upon the ceiling, or\nthe sparrows out of doors; or the overwhelming politeness with which\nhe endeavoured to hide his confusion by handing the muffin; may not\nunreasonably be assumed to have exercised the utmost power of feature\nthat even Martin Chuzzlewit the elder possessed.\n\nBut he sat perfectly quiet and took his breakfast at his leisure, or\nmade a show of doing so, for he scarcely ate or drank, and frequently\nlapsed into long intervals of musing. When he had finished, Mark sat\ndown to his breakfast at the same table; and Mr Chuzzlewit, quite silent\nstill, walked up and down the room.\n\nMark cleared away in due course, and set a chair out for him, in which,\nas the time drew on towards ten o\'clock, he took his seat, leaning his\nhands upon his stick, and clenching them upon the handle, and resting\nhis chin on them again. All his impatience and abstraction of manner had\nvanished now; and as he sat there, looking, with his keen eyes, steadily\ntowards the door, Mark could not help thinking what a firm, square,\npowerful face it was; or exulting in the thought that Mr Pecksniff,\nafter playing a pretty long game of bowls with its owner, seemed to be\nat last in a very fair way of coming in for a rubber or two.\n\nMark\'s uncertainty in respect of what was going to be done or said, and\nby whom to whom, would have excited him in itself. But knowing for\na certainty besides, that young Martin was coming, and in a very few\nminutes must arrive, he found it by no means easy to remain quiet and\nsilent. But, excepting that he occasionally coughed in a hollow and\nunnatural manner to relieve himself, he behaved with great decorum\nthrough the longest ten minutes he had ever known.\n\nA knock at the door. Mr Westlock. Mr Tapley, in admitting him, raised\nhis eyebrows to the highest possible pitch, implying thereby that he\nconsidered himself in an unsatisfactory position. Mr Chuzzlewit received\nhim very courteously.\n\nMark waited at the door for Tom Pinch and his sister, who were coming up\nthe stairs. The old man went to meet them; took their hands in his;\nand kissed her on the cheek. As this looked promising, Mr Tapley smiled\nbenignantly.\n\nMr Chuzzlewit had resumed his chair before young Martin, who was close\nbehind them, entered. The old man, scarcely looking at him, pointed to\na distant seat. This was less encouraging; and Mr Tapley\'s spirits fell\nagain.\n\nHe was quickly summoned to the door by another knock. He did not start,\nor cry, or tumble down, at sight of Miss Graham and Mrs Lupin, but he\ndrew a very long breath, and came back perfectly resigned, looking on\nthem and on the rest with an expression which seemed to say that nothing\ncould surprise him any more; and that he was rather glad to have done\nwith that sensation for ever.\n\nThe old man received Mary no less tenderly than he had received Tom\nPinch\'s sister. A look of friendly recognition passed between himself\nand Mrs Lupin, which implied the existence of a perfect understanding\nbetween them. It engendered no astonishment in Mr Tapley; for, as he\nafterwards observed, he had retired from the business, and sold off the\nstock.\n\nNot the least curious feature in this assemblage was, that everybody\npresent was so much surprised and embarrassed by the sight of everybody\nelse, that nobody ventured to speak. Mr Chuzzlewit alone broke silence.\n\n\'Set the door open, Mark!\' he said; \'and come here.\'\n\nMark obeyed.\n\nThe last appointed footstep sounded now upon the stairs. They all knew\nit. It was Mr Pecksniff\'s; and Mr Pecksniff was in a hurry too, for he\ncame bounding up with such uncommon expedition that he stumbled twice or\nthrice.\n\n\'Where is my venerable friend?\' he cried upon the upper landing; and\nthen with open arms came darting in.\n\nOld Martin merely looked at him; but Mr Pecksniff started back as if he\nhad received the charge from an electric battery.\n\n\'My venerable friend is well?\' cried Mr Pecksniff.\n\n\'Quite well.\'\n\nIt seemed to reassure the anxious inquirer. He clasped his hands and,\nlooking upwards with a pious joy, silently expressed his gratitude.\nHe then looked round on the assembled group, and shook his head\nreproachfully. For such a man severely, quite severely.\n\n\'Oh, vermin!\' said Mr Pecksniff. \'Oh, bloodsuckers! Is it not enough\nthat you have embittered the existence of an individual wholly\nunparalleled in the biographical records of amiable persons, but must\nyou now, even now, when he has made his election, and reposed his trust\nin a Numble, but at least sincere and disinterested relative; must\nyou now, vermin and swarmers (I regret to make use of these strong\nexpressions, my dear sir, but there are times when honest indignation\nwill not be controlled), must you now, vermin and swarmers (for I WILL\nrepeat it), take advantage of his unprotected state, assemble round\nhim from all quarters, as wolves and vultures, and other animals of\nthe feathered tribe assemble round--I will not say round carrion or a\ncarcass, for Mr Chuzzlewit is quite the contrary--but round their prey;\ntheir prey; to rifle and despoil; gorging their voracious maws, and\nstaining their offensive beaks, with every description of carnivorous\nenjoyment!\'\n\nAs he stopped to fetch his breath, he waved them off, in a solemn\nmanner, with his hand.\n\n\'Horde of unnatural plunderers and robbers!\' he continued; \'leave him!\nleave him, I say! Begone! Abscond! You had better be off! Wander over\nthe face of the earth, young sirs, like vagabonds as you are, and do not\npresume to remain in a spot which is hallowed by the grey hairs of the\npatriarchal gentleman to whose tottering limbs I have the honour to act\nas an unworthy, but I hope an unassuming, prop and staff. And you, my\ntender sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff, addressing himself in a tone of gentle\nremonstrance to the old man, \'how could you ever leave me, though even\nfor this short period! You have absented yourself, I do not doubt, upon\nsome act of kindness to me; bless you for it; but you must not do it;\nyou must not be so venturesome. I should really be angry with you if I\ncould, my friend!\'\n\nHe advanced with outstretched arms to take the old man\'s hand. But he\nhad not seen how the hand clasped and clutched the stick within its\ngrasp. As he came smiling on, and got within his reach, old Martin, with\nhis burning indignation crowded into one vehement burst, and flashing\nout of every line and wrinkle in his face, rose up, and struck him down\nupon the ground.\n\nWith such a well-directed nervous blow, that down he went, as heavily\nand true as if the charge of a Life-Guardsman had tumbled him out of a\nsaddle. And whether he was stunned by the shock, or only confused by the\nwonder and novelty of this warm reception, he did not offer to get up\nagain; but lay there, looking about him with a disconcerted meekness\nin his face so enormously ridiculous, that neither Mark Tapley nor John\nWestlock could repress a smile, though both were actively interposing to\nprevent a repetition of the blow; which the old man\'s gleaming eyes and\nvigorous attitude seemed to render one of the most probable events in\nthe world.\n\n\'Drag him away! Take him out of my reach!\' said Martin; \'or I can\'t help\nit. The strong restraint I have put upon my hands has been enough to\npalsy them. I am not master of myself while he is within their range.\nDrag him away!\'\n\nSeeing that he still did not rise, Mr Tapley, without any compromise\nabout it, actually did drag him away, and stick him up on the floor,\nwith his back against the opposite wall.\n\n\'Hear me, rascal!\' said Mr Chuzzlewit. \'I have summoned you here to\nwitness your own work. I have summoned you here to witness it, because\nI know it will be gall and wormwood to you! I have summoned you here to\nwitness it, because I know the sight of everybody here must be a dagger\nin your mean, false heart! What! do you know me as I am, at last!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff had cause to stare at him, for the triumph in his face and\nspeech and figure was a sight to stare at.\n\n\'Look there!\' said the old man, pointing at him, and appealing to the\nrest. \'Look there! And then--come hither, my dear Martin--look here!\nhere! here!\' At every repetition of the word he pressed his grandson\ncloser to his breast.\n\n\'The passion I felt, Martin, when I dared not do this,\' he said, \'was\nin the blow I struck just now. Why did we ever part! How could we ever\npart! How could you ever fly from me to him!\'\n\nMartin was about to answer, but he stopped him, and went on.\n\n\'The fault was mine no less than yours. Mark has told me so today, and\nI have known it long; though not so long as I might have done. Mary, my\nlove, come here.\'\n\nAs she trembled and was very pale, he sat her in his own chair, and\nstood beside it with her hand in his; and Martin standing by him.\n\n\'The curse of our house,\' said the old man, looking kindly down upon\nher, \'has been the love of self; has ever been the love of self. How\noften have I said so, when I never knew that I had wrought it upon\nothers.\'\n\nHe drew one hand through Martin\'s arm, and standing so, between them,\nproceeded thus:\n\n\'You all know how I bred this orphan up, to tend me. None of you can\nknow by what degrees I have come to regard her as a daughter; for\nshe has won upon me, by her self-forgetfulness, her tenderness, her\npatience, all the goodness of her nature, when Heaven is her witness\nthat I took but little pains to draw it forth. It blossomed without\ncultivation, and it ripened without heat. I cannot find it in my heart\nto say that I am sorry for it now, or yonder fellow might be holding up\nhis head.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff put his hand into his waistcoat, and slightly shook that\npart of him to which allusion had been made; as if to signify that it\nwas still uppermost.\n\n\'There is a kind of selfishness,\' said Martin--\'I have learned it in my\nown experience of my own breast--which is constantly upon the watch for\nselfishness in others; and holding others at a distance, by suspicions\nand distrusts, wonders why they don\'t approach, and don\'t confide, and\ncalls that selfishness in them. Thus I once doubted those about me--not\nwithout reason in the beginning--and thus I once doubted you, Martin.\'\n\n\'Not without reason,\' Martin answered, \'either.\'\n\n\'Listen, hypocrite! Listen, smooth-tongued, servile, crawling knave!\'\nsaid Martin. \'Listen, you shallow dog. What! When I was seeking him, you\nhad already spread your nets; you were already fishing for him, were ye?\nWhen I lay ill in this good woman\'s house and your meek spirit pleaded\nfor my grandson, you had already caught him, had ye? Counting on the\nrestoration of the love you knew I bore him, you designed him for one\nof your two daughters did ye? Or failing that, you traded in him as a\nspeculation which at any rate should blind me with the lustre of your\ncharity, and found a claim upon me! Why, even then I knew you, and I\ntold you so. Did I tell you that I knew you, even then?\'\n\n\'I am not angry, sir,\' said Mr Pecksniff, softly. \'I can bear a great\ndeal from you. I will never contradict you, Mr Chuzzlewit.\'\n\n\'Observe!\' said Martin, looking round. \'I put myself in that man\'s\nhands on terms as mean and base, and as degrading to himself, as I could\nrender them in words. I stated them at length to him, before his own\nchildren, syllable by syllable, as coarsely as I could, and with as much\noffence, and with as plain an exposition of my contempt, as words--not\nlooks and manner merely--could convey. If I had only called the angry\nblood into his face, I would have wavered in my purpose. If I had only\nstung him into being a man for a minute I would have abandoned it. If he\nhad offered me one word of remonstrance, in favour of the grandson whom\nhe supposed I had disinherited; if he had pleaded with me, though never\nso faintly, against my appeal to him to abandon him to misery and\ncast him from his house; I think I could have borne with him for ever\nafterwards. But not a word, not a word. Pandering to the worst of human\npassions was the office of his nature; and faithfully he did his work!\'\n\n\'I am not angry,\' observed Mr Pecksniff. \'I am hurt, Mr Chuzzlewit;\nwounded in my feelings; but I am not angry, my good sir.\'\n\nMr Chuzzlewit resumed.\n\n\'Once resolved to try him, I was resolute to pursue the trial to the\nend; but while I was bent on fathoming the depth of his duplicity, I\nmade a sacred compact with myself that I would give him credit on the\nother side for any latent spark of goodness, honour, forbearance--any\nvirtue--that might glimmer in him. For first to last there has been no\nsuch thing. Not once. He cannot say I have not given him opportunity.\nHe cannot say I have ever led him on. He cannot say I have not left\nhim freely to himself in all things; or that I have not been a passive\ninstrument in his hands, which he might have used for good as easily as\nevil. Or if he can, he Lies! And that\'s his nature, too.\'\n\n\'Mr Chuzzlewit,\' interrupted Pecksniff, shedding tears. \'I am not angry,\nsir. I cannot be angry with you. But did you never, my dear sir,\nexpress a desire that the unnatural young man who by his wicked arts has\nestranged your good opinion from me, for the time being; only for the\ntime being; that your grandson, Mr Chuzzlewit, should be dismissed my\nhouse? Recollect yourself, my Christian friend.\'\n\n\'I have said so, have I not?\' retorted the old man, sternly. \'I could\nnot tell how far your specious hypocrisy had deceived him, knave; and\nknew no better way of opening his eyes than by presenting you before him\nin your own servile character. Yes. I did express that desire. And you\nleaped to meet it; and you met it; and turning in an instant on the\nhand you had licked and beslavered, as only such hounds can, you\nstrengthened, and confirmed, and justified me in my scheme.\'\n\nMr Pecksniff made a bow; a submissive, not to say a grovelling and an\nabject bow. If he had been complimented on his practice of the loftiest\nvirtues, he never could have bowed as he bowed then.\n\n\'The wretched man who has been murdered,\' Mr Chuzzlewit went on to say;\n\'then passing by the name of--\'\n\n\'Tigg,\' suggested Mark.\n\n\'Of Tigg; brought begging messages to me on behalf of a friend of his,\nand an unworthy relative of mine; and finding him a man well enough\nsuited to my purpose, I employed him to glean some news of you, Martin,\nfor me. It was from him I learned that you had taken up your abode with\nyonder fellow. It was he, who meeting you here in town, one evening--you\nremember where?\'\n\n\'At the pawnbroker\'s shop,\' said Martin.\n\n\'Yes; watched you to your lodging, and enabled me to send you a\nbank-note.\'\n\n\'I little thought,\' said Martin, greatly moved, \'that it had come from\nyou; I little thought that you were interested in my fate. If I had--\'\n\n\'If you had,\' returned the old man, sorrowfully, \'you would have shown\nless knowledge of me as I seemed to be, and as I really was. I hoped to\nbring you back, Martin, penitent and humbled. I hoped to distress you\ninto coming back to me. Much as I loved you, I had that to acknowledge\nwhich I could not reconcile it to myself to avow, then, unless you\nmade submission to me first. Thus it was I lost you. If I have had,\nindirectly, any act or part in the fate of that unhappy man, by putting\nmeans, however small, within his reach, Heaven forgive me! I might have\nknown, perhaps, that he would misuse money; that it was ill-bestowed\nupon him; and that sown by his hands it could engender mischief only.\nBut I never thought of him at that time as having the disposition or\nability to be a serious impostor, or otherwise than as a thoughtless,\nidle-humoured, dissipated spendthrift, sinning more against himself than\nothers, and frequenting low haunts and indulging vicious tastes, to his\nown ruin only.\'\n\n\'Beggin\' your pardon, sir,\' said Mr Tapley, who had Mrs Lupin on his\narm by this time, quite agreeably; \'if I may make so bold as say so, my\nopinion is, as you was quite correct, and that he turned out perfectly\nnat\'ral for all that. There\'s surprisin\' number of men sir, who as long\nas they\'ve only got their own shoes and stockings to depend upon, will\nwalk down hill, along the gutters quiet enough and by themselves, and\nnot do much harm. But set any on \'em up with a coach and horses, sir;\nand it\'s wonderful what a knowledge of drivin\' he\'ll show, and how he\'ll\nfill his wehicle with passengers, and start off in the middle of the\nroad, neck or nothing, to the Devil! Bless your heart, sir, there\'s ever\nso many Tiggs a-passin\' this here Temple-gate any hour in the day, that\nonly want a chance to turn out full-blown Montagues every one!\'\n\n\'Your ignorance, as you call it, Mark,\' said Mr Chuzzlewit, \'is wiser\nthan some men\'s enlightenment, and mine among them. You are right; not\nfor the first time to-day. Now hear me out, my dears. And hear me, you,\nwho, if what I have been told be accurately stated, are Bankrupt in\npocket no less than in good name! And when you have heard me, leave this\nplace, and poison my sight no more!\'\n\nMr Pecksniff laid his hand upon his breast, and bowed again.\n\n\'The penance I have done in this house,\' said Mr Chuzzlewit, \'has earned\nthis reflection with it constantly, above all others. That if it had\npleased Heaven to visit such infirmity on my old age as really had\nreduced me to the state in which I feigned to be, I should have brought\nits misery upon myself. Oh, you whose wealth, like mine, has been a\nsource of continual unhappiness, leading you to distrust the nearest and\ndearest, and to dig yourself a living grave of suspicion and reserve;\ntake heed that, having cast off all whom you might have bound to you,\nand tenderly, you do not become in your decay the instrument of such a\nman as this, and waken in another world to the knowledge of such wrong\nas would embitter Heaven itself, if wrong or you could ever reach it!\'\n\nAnd then he told them how he had sometimes thought, in the beginning,\nthat love might grow up between Mary and Martin; and how he had pleased\nhis fancy with the picture of observing it when it was new, and taking\nthem to task, apart, in counterfeited doubt, and then confessing to them\nthat it had been an object dear to his heart; and by his sympathy with\nthem, and generous provision for their young fortunes, establishing a\nclaim on their affection and regard which nothing should wither, and\nwhich should surround his old age with means of happiness. How in the\nfirst dawn of this design, and when the pleasure of such a scheme for\nthe happiness of others was new and indistinct within him, Martin had\ncome to tell him that he had already chosen for himself; knowing that\nhe, the old man, had some faint project on that head, but ignorant whom\nit concerned. How it was little comfort to him to know that Martin\nhad chosen Her, because the grace of his design was lost, and because\nfinding that she had returned his love, he tortured himself with\nthe reflection that they, so young, to whom he had been so kind a\nbenefactor, were already like the world, and bent on their own selfish,\nstealthy ends. How in the bitterness of this impression, and of his past\nexperience, he had reproached Martin so harshly (forgetting that he had\nnever invited his confidence on such a point, and confounding what\nhe had meant to do with what he had done), that high words sprung up\nbetween them, and they separated in wrath. How he loved him still, and\nhoped he would return. How on the night of his illness at the Dragon,\nhe had secretly written tenderly of him, and made him his heir, and\nsanctioned his marriage with Mary; and how, after his interview with Mr\nPecksniff, he had distrusted him again, and burnt the paper to ashes,\nand had lain down in his bed distracted by suspicions, doubts, and\nregrets.\n\nAnd then he told them how, resolved to probe this Pecksniff, and to\nprove the constancy and truth of Mary (to himself no less than\nMartin), he had conceived and entered on his plan; and how, beneath her\ngentleness and patience, he had softened more and more; still more and\nmore beneath the goodness and simplicity, the honour and the manly faith\nof Tom. And when he spoke of Tom, he said God bless him; and the tears\nwere in his eyes; for he said that Tom, mistrusted and disliked by him\nat first, had come like summer rain upon his heart; and had disposed it\nto believe in better things. And Martin took him by the hand, and Mary\ntoo, and John, his old friend, stoutly too; and Mark, and Mrs Lupin,\nand his sister, little Ruth. And peace of mind, deep, tranquil peace of\nmind, was in Tom\'s heart.\n\nThe old man then related how nobly Mr Pecksniff had performed the duty\nin which he stood indebted to society, in the matter of Tom\'s\ndismissal; and how, having often heard disparagement of Mr Westlock from\nPecksniffian lips, and knowing him to be a friend to Tom, he had used,\nthrough his confidential agent and solicitor, that little artifice which\nhad kept him in readiness to receive his unknown friend in London. And\nhe called on Mr Pecksniff (by the name of Scoundrel) to remember that\nthere again he had not trapped him to do evil, but that he had done it\nof his own free will and agency; nay, that he had cautioned him against\nit. And once again he called on Mr Pecksniff (by the name of Hang-dog)\nto remember that when Martin coming home at last, an altered man, had\nsued for the forgiveness which awaited him, he, Pecksniff, had rejected\nhim in language of his own, and had remorsely stepped in between him and\nthe least touch of natural tenderness. \'For which,\' said the old man,\n\'if the bending of my finger would remove a halter from your neck, I\nwouldn\'t bend it!\'\n\n\'Martin,\' he added, \'your rival has not been a dangerous one, but Mrs\nLupin here has played duenna for some weeks; not so much to watch your\nlove as to watch her lover. For that Ghoul\'--his fertility in finding\nnames for Mr Pecksniff was astonishing--\'would have crawled into her\ndaily walks otherwise, and polluted the fresh air. What\'s this? Her hand\nis trembling strangely. See if you can hold it.\'\n\nHold it! If he clasped it half as tightly as he did her waist. Well,\nwell!\n\nBut it was good in him that even then, in his high fortune and\nhappiness, with her lips nearly printed on his own, and her proud young\nbeauty in his close embrace, he had a hand still left to stretch out to\nTom Pinch.\n\n\'Oh, Tom! Dear Tom! I saw you, accidentally, coming here. Forgive me!\'\n\n\'Forgive!\' cried Tom. \'I\'ll never forgive you as long as I live, Martin,\nif you say another syllable about it. Joy to you both! Joy, my dear\nfellow, fifty thousand times.\'\n\nJoy! There is not a blessing on earth that Tom did not wish them. There\nis not a blessing on earth that Tom would not have bestowed upon them,\nif he could.\n\n\'I beg your pardon, sir,\' said Mr Tapley, stepping forward, \'but yow was\nmentionin\', just now, a lady of the name of Lupin, sir.\'\n\n\'I was,\' returned old Martin\n\n\'Yes, sir. It\'s a pretty name, sir?\'\n\n\'A very good name,\' said Martin.\n\n\'It seems a\'most a pity to change such a name into Tapley. Don\'t it,\nsir?\' said Mark.\n\n\'That depends upon the lady. What is HER opinion?\'\n\n\'Why, sir,\' said Mr Tapley, retiring, with a bow, towards the buxom\nhostess, \'her opinion is as the name ain\'t a change for the better, but\nthe indiwidual may be, and, therefore, if nobody ain\'t acquainted\nwith no jest cause or impediment, et cetrer, the Blue Dragon will be\ncon-werted into the Jolly Tapley. A sign of my own inwention, sir. Wery\nnew, conwivial, and expressive!\'\n\nThe whole of these proceedings were so agreeable to Mr Pecksniff that\nhe stood with his eyes fixed upon the floor and his hands clasping one\nanother alternately, as if a host of penal sentences were being passed\nupon him. Not only did his figure appear to have shrunk, but his\ndiscomfiture seemed to have extended itself even to his dress. His\nclothes seemed to have grown shabbier, his linen to have turned yellow,\nhis hair to have become lank and frowsy; his very boots looked villanous\nand dim, as if their gloss had departed with his own.\n\nFeeling, rather than seeing, that the old man now pointed to the door,\nhe raised his eyes, picked up his hat, and thus addressed him:\n\n\'Mr Chuzzlewit, sir! you have partaken of my hospitality.\'\n\n\'And paid for it,\' he observed.\n\n\'Thank you. That savours,\' said Mr Pecksniff, taking out his\npocket-handkerchief, \'of your old familiar frankness. You have paid for\nit. I was about to make the remark. You have deceived me, sir. Thank you\nagain. I am glad of it. To see you in the possession of your health and\nfaculties on any terms, is, in itself, a sufficient recompense. To have\nbeen deceived implies a trusting nature. Mine is a trusting nature. I\nam thankful for it. I would rather have a trusting nature, do you know,\nsir, than a doubting one!\'\n\nHere Mr Pecksniff, with a sad smile, bowed, and wiped his eyes.\n\n\'There is hardly any person present, Mr Chuzzlewit,\' said Pecksniff,\n\'by whom I have not been deceived. I have forgiven those persons on the\nspot. That was my duty; and, of course, I have done it. Whether it was\nworthy of you to partake of my hospitality, and to act the part you\ndid act in my house, that, sir, is a question which I leave to your own\nconscience. And your conscience does not acquit you. No, sir, no!\'\n\nPronouncing these last words in a loud and solemn voice, Mr Pecksniff\nwas not so absolutely lost in his own fervour as to be unmindful of the\nexpediency of getting a little nearer to the door.\n\n\'I have been struck this day,\' said Mr Pecksniff, \'with a walking\nstick (which I have every reason to believe has knobs upon it), on that\ndelicate and exquisite portion of the human anatomy--the brain. Several\nblows have been inflicted, sir, without a walking-stick, upon that\ntenderer portion of my frame--my heart. You have mentioned, sir,\nmy being bankrupt in my purse. Yes, sir, I am. By an unfortunate\nspeculation, combined with treachery, I find myself reduced to poverty;\nat a time, sir, when the child of my bosom is widowed, and affliction\nand disgrace are in my family.\'\n\nHere Mr Pecksniff wiped his eyes again, and gave himself two or three\nlittle knocks upon the breast, as if he were answering two or three\nother little knocks from within, given by the tinkling hammer of his\nconscience, to express \'Cheer up, my boy!\'\n\n\'I know the human mind, although I trust it. That is my weakness. Do I\nnot know, sir\'--here he became exceedingly plaintive and was observed to\nglance towards Tom Pinch--\'that my misfortunes bring this treatment on\nme? Do I not know, sir, that but for them I never should have heard what\nI have heard to-day? Do I not know that in the silence and the solitude\nof night, a little voice will whisper in your ear, Mr Chuzzlewit, \"This\nwas not well. This was not well, sir!\" Think of this, sir (if you will\nhave the goodness), remote from the impulses of passion, and apart from\nthe specialities, if I may use that strong remark, of prejudice. And if\nyou ever contemplate the silent tomb, sir, which you will excuse me for\nentertaining some doubt of your doing, after the conduct into which you\nhave allowed yourself to be betrayed this day; if you ever contemplate\nthe silent tomb sir, think of me. If you find yourself approaching to\nthe silent tomb, sir, think of me. If you should wish to have anything\ninscribed upon your silent tomb, sir, let it be, that I--ah, my\nremorseful sir! that I--the humble individual who has now the honour of\nreproaching you, forgave you. That I forgave you when my injuries were\nfresh, and when my bosom was newly wrung. It may be bitterness to you to\nhear it now, sir, but you will live to seek a consolation in it. May you\nfind a consolation in it when you want it, sir! Good morning!\'\n\nWith this sublime address, Mr Pecksniff departed. But the effect of\nhis departure was much impaired by his being immediately afterwards run\nagainst, and nearly knocked down, by a monstrously excited little man in\nvelveteen shorts and a very tall hat; who came bursting up the stairs,\nand straight into the chambers of Mr Chuzzlewit, as if he were deranged.\n\n\'Is there anybody here that knows him?\' cried the little man. \'Is there\nanybody here that knows him? Oh, my stars, is there anybody here that\nknows him?\'\n\nThey looked at each other for an explanation; but nobody knew anything\nmore than that here was an excited little man with a very tall hat on,\nrunning in and out of the room as hard as he could go; making his single\npair of bright blue stockings appear at least a dozen; and constantly\nrepeating in a shrill voice, \'IS there anybody here that knows him?\'\n\n\'If your brains is not turned topjy turjey, Mr Sweedlepipes!\' exclaimed\nanother voice, \'hold that there nige of yourn, I beg you, sir.\'\n\nAt the same time Mrs Gamp was seen in the doorway; out of breath from\ncoming up so many stairs, and panting fearfully; but dropping curtseys\nto the last.\n\n\'Excuge the weakness of the man,\' said Mrs Gamp, eyeing Mr Sweedlepipe\nwith great indignation; \'and well I might expect it, as I should have\nknow\'d, and wishin\' he was drownded in the Thames afore I had brought\nhim here, which not a blessed hour ago he nearly shaved the noge off\nfrom the father of as lovely a family as ever, Mr Chuzzlewit, was born\nthree sets of twins, and would have done it, only he see it a-goin\' in\nthe glass, and dodged the rager. And never, Mr Sweedlepipes, I do assure\nyou, sir, did I so well know what a misfortun it was to be acquainted\nwith you, as now I do, which so I say, sir, and I don\'t deceive you!\'\n\n\'I ask your pardon, ladies and gentlemen all,\' cried the little barber,\ntaking off his hat, \'and yours too, Mrs Gamp. But--but,\' he added this\nhalf laughing and half crying, \'IS there anybody here that knows him?\'\n\nAs the barber said these words, a something in top-boots, with its head\nbandaged up, staggered into the room, and began going round and round\nand round, apparently under the impression that it was walking straight\nforward.\n\n\'Look at him!\' cried the excited little barber. \'Here he is! That\'ll\nsoon wear off, and then he\'ll be all right again. He\'s no more dead than\nI am. He\'s all alive and hearty. Aint you, Bailey?\'\n\n\'R--r--reether so, Poll!\' replied that gentleman.\n\n\'Look here!\' cried the little barber, laughing and crying in the same\nbreath. \'When I steady him he comes all right. There! He\'s all right\nnow. Nothing\'s the matter with him now, except that he\'s a little shook\nand rather giddy; is there, Bailey?\'\n\n\'R--r--reether shook, Poll--reether so!\' said Mr Bailey. \'What, my\nlovely Sairey! There you air!\'\n\n\'What a boy he is!\' cried the tender-hearted Poll, actually sobbing\nover him. \'I never see sech a boy! It\'s all his fun. He\'s full of it.\nHe shall go into the business along with me. I am determined he shall.\nWe\'ll make it Sweedlepipe and Bailey. He shall have the sporting branch\n(what a one he\'ll be for the matches!) and me the shavin\'. I\'ll make\nover the birds to him as soon as ever he\'s well enough. He shall have\nthe little bullfinch in the shop, and all. He\'s sech a boy! I ask your\npardon, ladies and gentlemen, but I thought there might be some one here\nthat know\'d him!\'\n\nMrs Gamp had observed, not without jealousy and scorn, that a favourable\nimpression appeared to exist in behalf of Mr Sweedlepipe and his\nyoung friend; and that she had fallen rather into the background in\nconsequence. She now struggled to the front, therefore, and stated her\nbusiness.\n\n\'Which, Mr Chuzzlewit,\' she said, \'is well beknown to Mrs Harris as has\none sweet infant (though she DO not wish it known) in her own family by\nthe mother\'s side, kep in spirits in a bottle; and that sweet babe she\nsee at Greenwich Fair, a-travelling in company with a pink-eyed lady,\nProoshan dwarf, and livin\' skelinton, which judge her feelings when the\nbarrel organ played, and she was showed her own dear sister\'s child, the\nsame not bein\' expected from the outside picter, where it was painted\nquite contrairy in a livin\' state, a many sizes larger, and performing\nbeautiful upon the Arp, which never did that dear child know or do;\nsince breathe it never did, to speak on in this wale! And Mrs Harris, Mr\nChuzzlewit, has knowed me many year, and can give you information that\nthe lady which is widdered can\'t do better and may do worse, than let me\nwait upon her, which I hope to do. Permittin\' the sweet faces as I see\nafore me.\'\n\n\'Oh!\' said Mr Chuzzlewit. \'Is that your business? Was this good person\npaid for the trouble we gave her?\'\n\n\'I paid her, sir,\' returned Mark Tapley; \'liberal.\'\n\n\'The young man\'s words is true,\' said Mrs Gamp, \'and thank you kindly.\'\n\n\'Then here we will close our acquaintance, Mrs Gamp,\' retorted Mr\nChuzzlewit. \'And Mr Sweedlepipe--is that your name?\'\n\n\'That is my name, sir,\' replied Poll, accepting with a profusion of\ngratitude, some chinking pieces which the old man slipped into his hand.\n\n\'Mr Sweedlepipe, take as much care of your lady-lodger as you can, and\ngive her a word or two of good advice now and then. Such,\' said old\nMartin, looking gravely at the astonished Mrs Gamp, \'as hinting at the\nexpediency of a little less liquor, and a little more humanity, and\na little less regard for herself, and a little more regard for her\npatients, and perhaps a trifle of additional honesty. Or when Mrs Gamp\ngets into trouble, Mr Sweedlepipe, it had better not be at a time when I\nam near enough to the Old Bailey to volunteer myself as a witness to her\ncharacter. Endeavour to impress that upon her at your leisure, if you\nplease.\'\n\nMrs Gamp clasped her hands, turned up her eyes until they were quite\ninvisible, threw back her bonnet for the admission of fresh air to her\nheated brow; and in the act of saying faintly--\'Less liquor!--Sairey\nGamp--Bottle on the chimney-piece, and let me put my lips to it, when I\nam so dispoged!\'--fell into one of the walking swoons; in which pitiable\nstate she was conducted forth by Mr Sweedlepipe, who, between his two\npatients, the swooning Mrs Gamp and the revolving Bailey, had enough to\ndo, poor fellow.\n\nThe old man looked about him, with a smile, until his eyes rested on Tom\nPinch\'s sister; when he smiled the more.\n\n\'We will all dine here together,\' he said; \'and as you and Mary have\nenough to talk of, Martin, you shall keep house for us until the\nafternoon, with Mr and Mrs Tapley. I must see your lodgings in the\nmeanwhile, Tom.\'\n\nTom was quite delighted. So was Ruth. She would go with them.\n\n\'Thank you, my love,\' said Mr Chuzzlewit. \'But I am afraid I must take\nTom a little out of the way, on business. Suppose you go on first, my\ndear?\'\n\nPretty little Ruth was equally delighted to do that.\n\n\'But not alone,\' said Martin, \'not alone. Mr Westlock, I dare say, will\nescort you.\'\n\nWhy, of course he would: what else had Mr Westlock in his mind? How dull\nthese old men are!\n\n\'You are sure you have no engagement?\' he persisted.\n\nEngagement! As if he could have any engagement!\n\nSo they went off arm-in-arm. When Tom and Mr Chuzzlewit went off\narm-in-arm a few minutes after them, the latter was still smiling; and\nreally, for a gentleman of his habits, in rather a knowing manner.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-THREE\n\nWHAT JOHN WESTLOCK SAID TO TOM PINCH\'S SISTER; WHAT TOM PINCH\'S SISTER\nSAID TO JOHN WESTLOCK; WHAT TOM PINCH SAID TO BOTH OF THEM; AND HOW THEY\nALL PASSED THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY\n\n\nBrilliantly the Temple Fountain sparkled in the sun, and laughingly\nits liquid music played, and merrily the idle drops of water danced and\ndanced, and peeping out in sport among the trees, plunged lightly down\nto hide themselves, as little Ruth and her companion came toward it.\n\nAnd why they came toward the Fountain at all is a mystery; for they had\nno business there. It was not in their way. It was quite out of their\nway. They had no more to do with the Fountain, bless you, than they had\nwith--with Love, or any out-of-the-way thing of that sort.\n\nIt was all very well for Tom and his sister to make appointments by the\nFountain, but that was quite another affair. Because, of course, when\nshe had to wait a minute or two, it would have been very awkward for her\nto have had to wait in any but a tolerably quiet spot; but that was as\nquiet a spot, everything considered, as they could choose. But when she\nhad John Westlock to take care of her, and was going home with her arm\nin his (home being in a different direction altogether), their coming\nanywhere near that Fountain was quite extraordinary.\n\nHowever, there they found themselves. And another extraordinary part\nof the matter was, that they seemed to have come there, by a silent\nunderstanding. Yet when they got there, they were a little confused\nby being there, which was the strangest part of all; because there is\nnothing naturally confusing in a Fountain. We all know that.\n\n\'What a good old place it was!\' John said. With quite an earnest affection\nfor it.\n\n\'A pleasant place indeed,\' said little Ruth. \'So shady!\'\n\nOh wicked little Ruth!\n\nThey came to a stop when John began to praise it. The day was exquisite;\nand stopping at all, it was quite natural--nothing could be more\nso--that they should glance down Garden Court; because Garden Court ends\nin the Garden, and the Garden ends in the River, and that glimpse is\nvery bright and fresh and shining on a summer\'s day. Then, oh, little\nRuth, why not look boldly at it! Why fit that tiny, precious, blessed\nlittle foot into the cracked corner of an insensible old flagstone in\nthe pavement; and be so very anxious to adjust it to a nicety!\n\nIf the Fiery-faced matron in the crunched bonnet could have seen them\nas they walked away, how many years\' purchase might Fiery Face have been\ndisposed to take for her situation in Furnival\'s Inn as laundress to Mr\nWestlock!\n\nThey went away, but not through London\'s streets! Through some enchanted\ncity, where the pavements were of air; where all the rough sounds of\na stirring town were softened into gentle music; where everything\nwas happy; where there was no distance, and no time. There were two\ngood-tempered burly draymen letting down big butts of beer into a\ncellar, somewhere; and when John helped her--almost lifted her--the\nlightest, easiest, neatest thing you ever saw--across the rope, they\nsaid he owed them a good turn for giving him the chance. Celestial\ndraymen!\n\nGreen pastures in the summer tide, deep-littered straw yards in the\nwinter, no start of corn and clover, ever, to that noble horse who WOULD\ndance on the pavement with a gig behind him, and who frightened her, and\nmade her clasp his arm with both hands (both hands meeting one upon the\nanother so endearingly!), and caused her to implore him to take\nrefuge in the pastry-cook\'s, and afterwards to peep out at the door so\nshrinkingly; and then, looking at him with those eyes, to ask him was\nhe sure--now was he sure--they might go safely on! Oh for a string of\nrampant horses! For a lion, for a bear, for a mad bull, for anything to\nbring the little hands together on his arm again!\n\nThey talked, of course. They talked of Tom, and all these changes and\nthe attachment Mr Chuzzlewit had conceived for him, and the bright\nprospects he had in such a friend, and a great deal more to the same\npurpose. The more they talked, the more afraid this fluttering little\nRuth became of any pause; and sooner than have a pause she would say the\nsame things over again; and if she hadn\'t courage or presence of mind\nenough for that (to say the truth she very seldom had), she was ten\nthousand times more charming and irresistible than she had been before.\n\n\'Martin will be married very soon now, I suppose?\' said John.\n\nShe supposed he would. Never did a bewitching little woman suppose\nanything in such a faint voice as Ruth supposed that.\n\nBut seeing that another of those alarming pauses was approaching, she\nremarked that he would have a beautiful wife. Didn\'t Mr Westlock think\nso?\n\n\'Ye--yes,\' said John, \'oh, yes.\'\n\nShe feared he was rather hard to please, he spoke so coldly.\n\n\'Rather say already pleased,\' said John. \'I have scarcely seen her. I\nhad no care to see her. I had no eyes for HER, this morning.\'\n\nOh, good gracious!\n\nIt was well they had reached their destination. She never could have\ngone any further. It would have been impossible to walk in such a\ntremble.\n\nTom had not come in. They entered the triangular parlour together, and\nalone. Fiery Face, Fiery Face, how many years\' purchase NOW!\n\nShe sat down on the little sofa, and untied her bonnet-strings. He sat\ndown by her side, and very near her; very, very near her. Oh rapid,\nswelling, bursting little heart, you knew that it would come to this,\nand hoped it would. Why beat so wildly, heart!\n\n\'Dear Ruth! Sweet Ruth! If I had loved you less, I could have told you\nthat I loved you, long ago. I have loved you from the first. There never\nwas a creature in the world more truly loved than you, dear Ruth, by\nme!\'\n\nShe clasped her little hands before her face. The gushing tears of joy,\nand pride, and hope, and innocent affection, would not be restrained.\nFresh from her full young heart they came to answer him.\n\n\'My dear love! If this is--I almost dare to hope it is, now--not painful\nor distressing to you, you make me happier than I can tell, or you\nimagine. Darling Ruth! My own good, gentle, winning Ruth! I hope I know\nthe value of your heart, I hope I know the worth of your angel nature.\nLet me try and show you that I do; and you will make me happier, Ruth--\'\n\n\'Not happier,\' she sobbed, \'than you make me. No one can be happier,\nJohn, than you make me!\'\n\nFiery Face, provide yourself! The usual wages or the usual warning. It\'s\nall over, Fiery Face. We needn\'t trouble you any further.\n\nThe little hands could meet each other now, without a rampant horse\nto urge them. There was no occasion for lions, bears, or mad bulls. It\ncould all be done, and infinitely better, without their assistance.\nNo burly drayman or big butts of beer, were wanted for apologies. No\napology at all was wanted. The soft light touch fell coyly, but quite\nnaturally, upon the lover\'s shoulder; the delicate waist, the drooping\nhead, the blushing cheek, the beautiful eyes, the exquisite mouth\nitself, were all as natural as possible. If all the horses in Araby had\nrun away at once, they couldn\'t have improved upon it.\n\nThey soon began to talk of Tom again.\n\n\'I hope he will be glad to hear of it!\' said John, with sparkling eyes.\n\nRuth drew the little hands a little tighter when he said it, and looked\nup seriously into his face.\n\n\'I am never to leave him, AM I, dear? I could never leave Tom. I am sure\nyou know that.\'\n\n\'Do you think I would ask you?\' he returned, with a--well! Never mind\nwith what.\n\n\'I am sure you never would,\' she answered, the bright tears standing in\nher eyes.\n\n\'And I will swear it, Ruth, my darling, if you please. Leave Tom! That\nwould be a strange beginning. Leave Tom, dear! If Tom and we be not\ninseparable, and Tom (God bless him) have not all honour and all love\nin our home, my little wife, may that home never be! And that\'s a strong\noath, Ruth.\'\n\nShall it be recorded how she thanked him? Yes, it shall. In all\nsimplicity and innocence and purity of heart, yet with a timid,\ngraceful, half-determined hesitation, she set a little rosy seal upon\nthe vow, whose colour was reflected in her face, and flashed up to the\nbraiding of her dark brown hair.\n\n\'Tom will be so happy, and so proud, and glad,\' she said, clasping her\nlittle hands. \'But so surprised! I am sure he had never thought of such\na thing.\'\n\nOf course John asked her immediately--because you know they were in that\nfoolish state when great allowances must be made--when SHE had begun to\nthink of such a thing, and this made a little diversion in their talk; a\ncharming diversion to them, but not so interesting to us; at the end of\nwhich, they came back to Tom again.\n\n\'Ah! dear Tom!\' said Ruth. \'I suppose I ought to tell you everything\nnow. I should have no secrets from you. Should I, John, love?\'\n\nIt is of no use saying how that preposterous John answered her, because\nhe answered in a manner which is untranslatable on paper though highly\nsatisfactory in itself. But what he conveyed was, No no no, sweet Ruth;\nor something to that effect.\n\nThen she told him Tom\'s great secret; not exactly saying how she had\nfound it out, but leaving him to understand it if he liked; and John was\nsadly grieved to hear it, and was full of sympathy and sorrow. But they\nwould try, he said, only the more, on this account to make him happy,\nand to beguile him with his favourite pursuits. And then, in all the\nconfidence of such a time, he told her how he had a capital opportunity\nof establishing himself in his old profession in the country; and how he\nhad been thinking, in the event of that happiness coming upon him which\nhad actually come--there was another slight diversion here--how he had\nbeen thinking that it would afford occupation to Tom, and enable them to\nlive together in the easiest manner, without any sense of dependence on\nTom\'s part; and to be as happy as the day was long. And Ruth receiving\nthis with joy, they went on catering for Tom to that extent that they\nhad already purchased him a select library and built him an organ, on\nwhich he was performing with the greatest satisfaction, when they heard\nhim knocking at the door.\n\nThough she longed to tell him what had happened, poor little Ruth was\ngreatly agitated by his arrival; the more so because she knew that Mr\nChuzzlewit was with him. So she said, all in a tremble:\n\n\'What shall I do, dear John! I can\'t bear that he should hear it from\nany one but me, and I could not tell him, unless we were alone.\'\n\n\'Do, my love,\' said John, \'whatever is natural to you on the impulse of\nthe moment, and I am sure it will be right.\'\n\nHe had hardly time to say thus much, and Ruth had hardly time to--just\nto get a little farther off--upon the sofa, when Tom and Mr Chuzzlewit\ncame in. Mr Chuzzlewit came first, and Tom was a few seconds behind him.\n\nNow Ruth had hastily resolved that she would beckon Tom upstairs after\na short time, and would tell him in his little bedroom. But when she saw\nhis dear old face come in, her heart was so touched that she ran into\nhis arms, and laid her head down on his breast and sobbed out, \'Bless\nme, Tom! My dearest brother!\'\n\nTom looked up, in surprise, and saw John Westlock close beside him,\nholding out his hand.\n\n\'John!\' cried Tom. \'John!\'\n\n\'Dear Tom,\' said his friend, \'give me your hand. We are brothers, Tom.\'\n\nTom wrung it with all his force, embraced his sister fervently, and put\nher in John Westlock\'s arms.\n\n\'Don\'t speak to me, John. Heaven is very good to us. I--\' Tom could find\nno further utterance, but left the room; and Ruth went after him.\n\nAnd when they came back, which they did by-and-bye, she looked more\nbeautiful, and Tom more good and true (if that were possible) than ever.\nAnd though Tom could not speak upon the subject even now; being yet\ntoo newly glad, he put both his hands in both of John\'s with emphasis\nsufficient for the best speech ever spoken.\n\n\'I am glad you chose to-day,\' said Mr Chuzzlewit to John; with the same\nknowing smile as when they had left him. \'I thought you would. I hoped\nTom and I lingered behind a discreet time. It\'s so long since I had\nany practical knowledge of these subjects, that I have been anxious, I\nassure you.\'\n\n\'Your knowledge is still pretty accurate, sir,\' returned John, laughing,\n\'if it led you to foresee what would happen to-day.\'\n\n\'Why, I am not sure, Mr Westlock,\' said the old man, \'that any great\nspirit of prophecy was needed, after seeing you and Ruth together. Come\nhither, pretty one. See what Tom and I purchased this morning, while you\nwere dealing in exchange with that young merchant there.\'\n\nThe old man\'s way of seating her beside him, and humouring his voice as\nif she were a child, was whimsical enough, but full of tenderness, and\nnot ill adapted, somehow, to little Ruth.\n\n\'See here!\' he said, taking a case from his pocket, \'what a beautiful\nnecklace. Ah! How it glitters! Earrings, too, and bracelets, and a zone\nfor your waist. This set is yours, and Mary has another like it. Tom\ncouldn\'t understand why I wanted two. What a short-sighted Tom! Earrings\nand bracelets, and a zone for your waist! Ah! Beautiful! Let us see how\nbrave they look. Ask Mr Westlock to clasp them on.\'\n\nIt was the prettiest thing to see her holding out her round, white arm;\nand John (oh deep, deep John!) pretending that the bracelet was very\nhard to fasten; it was the prettiest thing to see her girding on the\nprecious little zone, and yet obliged to have assistance because her\nfingers were in such terrible perplexity; it was the prettiest thing\nto see her so confused and bashful, with the smiles and blushes playing\nbrightly on her face, like the sparkling light upon the jewels; it was\nthe prettiest thing that you would see, in the common experiences of a\ntwelvemonth, rely upon it.\n\n\'The set of jewels and the wearer are so well matched,\' said the old\nman, \'that I don\'t know which becomes the other most. Mr Westlock could\ntell me, I have no doubt, but I\'ll not ask him, for he is bribed. Health\nto wear them, my dear, and happiness to make you forgetful of them,\nexcept as a remembrance from a loving friend!\'\n\nHe patted her upon the cheek, and said to Tom:\n\n\'I must play the part of a father here, Tom, also. There are not many\nfathers who marry two such daughters on the same day; but we will\noverlook the improbability for the gratification of an old man\'s fancy.\nI may claim that much indulgence,\' he added, \'for I have gratified few\nfancies enough in my life tending to the happiness of others, Heaven\nknows!\'\n\nThese various proceedings had occupied so much time, and they fell into\nsuch a pleasant conversation now, that it was within a quarter of an\nhour of the time appointed for dinner before any of them thought about\nit. A hackney-coach soon carried them to the Temple, however; and there\nthey found everything prepared for their reception.\n\nMr Tapley having been furnished with unlimited credentials relative to\nthe ordering of dinner, had so exerted himself for the honour of the\nparty, that a prodigious banquet was served, under the joint direction\nof himself and his Intended. Mr Chuzzlewit would have had them of the\nparty, and Martin urgently seconded his wish, but Mark could by no means\nbe persuaded to sit down at table; observing, that in having the honour\nof attending to their comforts, he felt himself, indeed, the landlord of\nthe Jolly Tapley, and could almost delude himself into the belief that\nthe entertainment was actually being held under the Jolly Tapley\'s roof.\n\nFor the better encouragement of himself in this fable, Mr Tapley took\nit upon him to issue divers general directions to the waiters from the\nhotel, relative to the disposal of the dishes and so forth; and as they\nwere usually in direct opposition to all precedent, and were always\nissued in his most facetious form of thought and speech, they occasioned\ngreat merriment among those attendants; in which Mr Tapley participated,\nwith an infinite enjoyment of his own humour. He likewise entertained\nthem with short anecdotes of his travels appropriate to the occasion;\nand now and then with some comic passage or other between himself and\nMrs Lupin; so that explosive laughs were constantly issuing from the\nside-board, and from the backs of chairs; and the head-waiter (who wore\npowder, and knee-smalls, and was usually a grave man) got to be a bright\nscarlet in the face, and broke his waistcoat-strings audibly.\n\nYoung Martin sat at the head of the table, and Tom Pinch at the foot;\nand if there were a genial face at that board, it was Tom\'s. They all\ntook their tone from Tom. Everybody drank to him, everybody looked to\nhim, everybody thought of him, everybody loved him. If he so much as\nlaid down his knife and fork, somebody put out a hand to shake with him.\nMartin and Mary had taken him aside before dinner, and spoken to him so\nheartily of the time to come, laying such fervent stress upon the trust\nthey had in his completion of their felicity, by his society and closest\nfriendship, that Tom was positively moved to tears. He couldn\'t bear it.\nHis heart was full, he said, of happiness. And so it was. Tom spoke the\nhonest truth. It was. Large as thy heart was, dear Tom Pinch, it had no\nroom that day for anything but happiness and sympathy!\n\nAnd there was Fips, old Fips of Austin Friars, present at the dinner,\nand turning out to be the jolliest old dog that ever did violence to his\nconvivial sentiments by shutting himself up in a dark office. \'Where is\nhe?\' said Fips, when he came in. And then he pounced on Tom, and told\nhim that he wanted to relieve himself of all his old constraint; and in\nthe first place shook him by one hand, and in the second place shook him\nby the other, and in the third place nudged him in the waistcoat, and in\nthe fourth place said, \'How are you?\' and in a great many other places\ndid a great many other things to show his friendliness and joy. And he\nsang songs, did Fips; and made speeches, did Fips; and knocked off his\nwine pretty handsomely, did Fips; and in short, he showed himself a\nperfect Trump, did Fips, in all respects.\n\nBut ah! the happiness of strolling home at night--obstinate little Ruth,\nshe wouldn\'t hear of riding!--as they had done on that dear night, from\nFurnival\'s Inn! The happiness of being able to talk about it, and to\nconfide their happiness to each other! The happiness of stating all\ntheir little plans to Tom, and seeing his bright face grow brighter as\nthey spoke!\n\nWhen they reached home, Tom left John and his sister in the parlour, and\nwent upstairs into his own room, under pretence of seeking a book. And\nTom actually winked to himself when he got upstairs; he thought it such\na deep thing to have done.\n\n\'They like to be by themselves, of course,\' said Tom; \'and I came away\nso naturally, that I have no doubt they are expecting me, every moment,\nto return. That\'s capital!\'\n\nBut he had not sat reading very long, when he heard a tap at his door.\n\n\'May I come in?\' said John.\n\n\'Oh, surely!\' Tom replied.\n\n\'Don\'t leave us, Tom. Don\'t sit by yourself. We want to make you merry;\nnot melancholy.\'\n\n\'My dear friend,\' said Tom, with a cheerful smile.\n\n\'Brother, Tom. Brother.\'\n\n\'My dear brother,\' said Tom; \'there is no danger of my being melancholy,\nhow can I be melancholy, when I know that you and Ruth are so blest in\neach other! I think I can find my tongue tonight, John,\' he added, after\na moment\'s pause. \'But I never can tell you what unutterable joy this\nday has given me. It would be unjust to you to speak of your having\nchosen a portionless girl, for I feel that you know her worth; I am sure\nyou know her worth. Nor will it diminish in your estimation, John, which\nmoney might.\'\n\n\'Which money would, Tom,\' he returned. \'Her worth! Oh, who could see her\nhere, and not love her! Who could know her, Tom, and not honour her! Who\ncould ever stand possessed of such a heart as hers, and grow indifferent\nto the treasure! Who could feel the rapture that I feel to-day, and love\nas I love her, Tom, without knowing something of her worth! Your joy\nunutterable! No, no, Tom. It\'s mine, it\'s mine.\n\n\'No, no, John,\' said Tom. \'It\'s mine, it\'s mine.\'\n\nTheir friendly contention was brought to a close by little Ruth herself,\nwho came peeping in at the door. And oh, the look, the glorious,\nhalf-proud, half-timid look she gave Tom, when her lover drew her to his\nside! As much as to say, \'Yes, indeed, Tom, he will do it. But then he\nhas a right, you know. Because I AM fond of him, Tom.\'\n\nAs to Tom, he was perfectly delighted. He could have sat and looked at\nthem, just as they were, for hours.\n\n\'I have told Tom, love, as we agreed, that we are not going to permit\nhim to run away, and that we cannot possibly allow it. The loss of one\nperson, and such a person as Tom, too, out of our small household of\nthree, is not to be endured; and so I have told him. Whether he is\nconsiderate, or whether he is only selfish, I don\'t know. But he needn\'t\nbe considerate, for he is not the least restraint upon us. Is he,\ndearest Ruth?\'\n\nWell! He really did not seem to be any particular restraint upon them.\nJudging from what ensued.\n\nWas it folly in Tom to be so pleased by their remembrance of him at\nsuch a time? Was their graceful love a folly, were their dear caresses\nfollies, was their lengthened parting folly? Was it folly in him to\nwatch her window from the street, and rate its scantiest gleam of light\nabove all diamonds; folly in her to breathe his name upon her knees, and\npour out her pure heart before that Being from whom such hearts and such\naffections come?\n\nIf these be follies, then Fiery Face go on and prosper! If they be not,\nthen Fiery Face avaunt! But set the crunched bonnet at some other single\ngentleman, in any case, for one is lost to thee for ever!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR\n\nGIVES THE AUTHOR GREAT CONCERN. FOR IT IS THE LAST IN THE BOOK\n\n\nTodger\'s was in high feather, and mighty preparations for a late\nbreakfast were astir in its commercial bowers. The blissful morning\nhad arrived when Miss Pecksniff was to be united in holy matrimony, to\nAugustus.\n\nMiss Pecksniff was in a frame of mind equally becoming to herself and\nthe occasion. She was full of clemency and conciliation. She had laid\nin several caldrons of live coals, and was prepared to heap them on the\nheads of her enemies. She bore no spite nor malice in her heart. Not the\nleast.\n\nQuarrels, Miss Pecksniff said, were dreadful things in families; and\nthough she never could forgive her dear papa, she was willing to receive\nher other relations. They had been separated, she observed, too long.\nIt was enough to call down a judgment upon the family. She believed the\ndeath of Jonas WAS a judgment on them for their internal dissensions.\nAnd Miss Pecksniff was confirmed in this belief, by the lightness with\nwhich the visitation had fallen on herself.\n\nBy way of doing sacrifice--not in triumph; not, of course, in triumph,\nbut in humiliation of spirit--this amiable young person wrote,\ntherefore, to her kinswoman of the strong mind, and informed her that\nher nuptials would take place on such a day. That she had been much hurt\nby the unnatural conduct of herself and daughters, and hoped they might\nnot have suffered in their consciences. That, being desirous to forgive\nher enemies, and make her peace with the world before entering into the\nmost solemn of covenants with the most devoted of men, she now held out\nthe hand of friendship. That if the strong-minded women took that hand,\nin the temper in which it was extended to her, she, Miss Pecksniff,\ndid invite her to be present at the ceremony of her marriage, and did\nfurthermore invite the three red-nosed spinsters, her daughters\n(but Miss Pecksniff did not particularize their noses), to attend as\nbridesmaids.\n\nThe strong-minded women returned for answer, that herself and daughters\nwere, as regarded their consciences, in the enjoyment of robust health,\nwhich she knew Miss Pecksniff would be glad to hear. That she had\nreceived Miss Pecksniff\'s note with unalloyed delight, because she\nnever had attached the least importance to the paltry and insignificant\njealousies with which herself and circle had been assailed; otherwise\nthan as she had found them, in the contemplation, a harmless source of\ninnocent mirth. That she would joyfully attend Miss Pecksniff\'s bridal;\nand that her three dear daughters would be happy to assist, on so\ninteresting, and SO VERY UNEXPECTED--which the strong-minded woman\nunderlined--SO VERY UNEXPECTED an occasion.\n\nOn the receipt of this gracious reply, Miss Pecksniff extended her\nforgiveness and her invitations to Mr and Mrs Spottletoe; to Mr George\nChuzzlewit the bachelor cousin; to the solitary female who usually had\nthe toothache; and to the hairy young gentleman with the outline of\na face; surviving remnants of the party that had once assembled in Mr\nPecksniff\'s parlour. After which Miss Pecksniff remarked that there was\na sweetness in doing our duty, which neutralized the bitter in our cups.\n\nThe wedding guests had not yet assembled, and indeed it was so early\nthat Miss Pecksniff herself was in the act of dressing at her leisure,\nwhen a carriage stopped near the Monument; and Mark, dismounting from\nthe rumble, assisted Mr Chuzzlewit to alight. The carriage remained in\nwaiting; so did Mr Tapley. Mr Chuzzlewit betook himself to Todger\'s.\n\nHe was shown, by the degenerate successor of Mr Bailey, into the\ndining-parlour; where--for his visit was expected--Mrs Todgers\nimmediately appeared.\n\n\'You are dressed, I see, for the wedding,\' he said.\n\nMrs Todgers, who was greatly flurried by the preparations, replied in\nthe affirmative.\n\n\'It goes against my wishes to have it in progress just now, I assure\nyou, sir,\' said Mrs Todgers; \'but Miss Pecksniff\'s mind was set upon it,\nand it really is time that Miss Pecksniff was married. That cannot be\ndenied, sir.\'\n\n\'No,\' said Mr Chuzzlewit, \'assuredly not. Her sister takes no part in\nthe proceedings?\'\n\n\'Oh, dear no, sir. Poor thing!\' said Mrs Todgers, shaking her head, and\ndropping her voice. \'Since she has known the worst, she has never left\nmy room; the next room.\'\n\n\'Is she prepared to see me?\' he inquired.\n\n\'Quite prepared, sir.\'\n\n\'Then let us lose no time.\'\n\nMrs Todgers conducted him into the little back chamber commanding the\nprospect of the cistern; and there, sadly different from when it had\nfirst been her lodging, sat poor Merry, in mourning weeds. The room\nlooked very dark and sorrowful; and so did she; but she had one friend\nbeside her, faithful to the last. Old Chuffey.\n\nWhen Mr Chuzzlewit sat down at her side, she took his hand and put it\nto her lips. She was in great grief. He too was agitated; for he had not\nseen her since their parting in the churchyard.\n\n\'I judged you hastily,\' he said, in a low voice. \'I fear I judged you\ncruelly. Let me know that I have your forgiveness.\'\n\nShe kissed his hand again; and retaining it in hers, thanked him in a\nbroken voice, for all his kindness to her since.\n\n\'Tom Pinch,\' said Martin, \'has faithfully related to me all that you\ndesired him to convey; at a time when he deemed it very improbable that\nhe would ever have an opportunity of delivering your message. Believe\nme, that if I ever deal again with an ill-advised and unawakened\nnature, hiding the strength it thinks its weakness, I will have long and\nmerciful consideration for it.\'\n\n\'You had for me; even for me,\' she answered. \'I quite believe it. I said\nthe words you have repeated, when my distress was very sharp and hard to\nbear; I say them now for others; but I cannot urge them for myself.\nYou spoke to me after you had seen and watched me day by day. There\nwas great consideration in that. You might have spoken, perhaps,\nmore kindly; you might have tried to invite my confidence by greater\ngentleness; but the end would have been the same.\'\n\nHe shook his head in doubt, and not without some inward self-reproach.\n\n\'How can I hope,\' she said, \'that your interposition would have\nprevailed with me, when I know how obdurate I was! I never thought at\nall; dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I never thought at all; I had no thought,\nno heart, no care to find one; at that time. It has grown out of my\ntrouble. I have felt it in my trouble. I wouldn\'t recall my trouble such\nas it is and has been--and it is light in comparison with trials which\nhundreds of good people suffer every day, I know--I wouldn\'t recall\nit to-morrow, if I could. It has been my friend, for without it no one\ncould have changed me; nothing could have changed me. Do not mistrust me\nbecause of these tears; I cannot help them. I am grateful for it, in my\nsoul. Indeed I am!\'\n\n\'Indeed she is!\' said Mrs Todgers. \'I believe it, sir.\'\n\n\'And so do I!\' said Mr Chuzzlewit. \'Now, attend to me, my dear. Your\nlate husband\'s estate, if not wasted by the confession of a large debt\nto the broken office (which document, being useless to the runaways,\nhas been sent over to England by them; not so much for the sake of the\ncreditors as for the gratification of their dislike to him, whom they\nsuppose to be still living), will be seized upon by law; for it is not\nexempt, as I learn, from the claims of those who have suffered by the\nfraud in which he was engaged. Your father\'s property was all, or nearly\nall, embarked in the same transaction. If there be any left, it will be\nseized on, in like manner. There is no home THERE.\'\n\n\'I couldn\'t return to him,\' she said, with an instinctive reference to\nhis having forced her marriage on. \'I could not return to him.\'\n\n\'I know it,\' Mr Chuzzlewit resumed; \'and I am here because I know\nit. Come with me! From all who are about me, you are certain (I\nhave ascertained it) of a generous welcome. But until your health is\nre-established, and you are sufficiently composed to bear that welcome,\nyou shall have your abode in any quiet retreat of your own choosing,\nnear London; not so far removed but that this kind-hearted lady may\nstill visit you as often as she pleases. You have suffered much; but you\nare young, and have a brighter and a better future stretching out before\nyou. Come with me. Your sister is careless of you, I know. She hurries\non and publishes her marriage, in a spirit which (to say no more of it)\nis barely decent, is unsisterly, and bad. Leave the house before her\nguests arrive. She means to give you pain. Spare her the offence, and\ncome with me!\'\n\nMrs Todgers, though most unwilling to part with her, added her\npersuasions. Even poor old Chuffey (of course included in the project)\nadded his. She hurriedly attired herself, and was ready to depart, when\nMiss Pecksniff dashed into the room.\n\nMiss Pecksniff dashed in so suddenly, that she was placed in an\nembarrassing position. For though she had completed her bridal toilette\nas to her head, on which she wore a bridal bonnet with orange flowers,\nshe had not completed it as to her skirts, which displayed no choicer\ndecoration than a dimity bedgown. She had dashed in, in fact, about\nhalf-way through, to console her sister, in her affliction, with a sight\nof the aforesaid bonnet; and being quite unconscious of the presence of\na visitor, until she found Mr Chuzzlewit standing face to face with her,\nher surprise was an uncomfortable one.\n\n\'So, young lady!\' said the old man, eyeing her with strong disfavour.\n\'You are to be married to-day!\'\n\n\'Yes, sir,\' returned Miss Pecksniff, modestly. \'I am. I--my dress is\nrather--really, Mrs Todgers!\'\n\n\'Your delicacy,\' said old Martin, \'is troubled, I perceive. I am not\nsurprised to find it so. You have chosen the period of your marriage\nunfortunately.\'\n\n\'I beg your pardon, Mr Chuzzlewit,\' retorted Cherry; very red and angry\nin a moment; \'but if you have anything to say on that subject, I must\nbeg to refer you to Augustus. You will scarcely think it manly, I hope,\nto force an argument on me, when Augustus is at all times ready to\ndiscuss it with you. I have nothing to do with any deceptions that may\nhave been practiced on my parent,\' said Miss Pecksniff, pointedly; \'and\nas I wish to be on good terms with everybody at such a time, I should\nhave been glad if you would have favoured us with your company at\nbreakfast. But I will not ask you as it is; seeing that you have been\nprepossessed and set against me in another quarter. I hope I have my\nnatural affections for another quarter, and my natural pity for\nanother quarter; but I cannot always submit to be subservient to it, Mr\nChuzzlewit. That would be a little too much. I trust I have more respect\nfor myself, as well as for the man who claims me as his Bride.\'\n\n\'Your sister, meeting--as I think; not as she says, for she has said\nnothing about it--with little consideration from you, is going away with\nme,\' said Mr Chuzzlewit.\n\n\'I am very happy to find that she has some good fortune at last,\'\nreturned Miss Pecksniff, tossing her head. \'I congratulate her, I\nam sure. I am not surprised that this event should be painful to\nher--painful to her--but I can\'t help that, Mr Chuzzlewit. It\'s not my\nfault.\'\n\n\'Come, Miss Pecksniff!\' said the old man, quietly. \'I should like to see\na better parting between you. I should like to see a better parting on\nyour side, in such circumstances. It would make me your friend. You may\nwant a friend one day or other.\'\n\n\'Every relation of life, Mr Chuzzlewit, begging your pardon; and every\nfriend in life,\' returned Miss Pecksniff, with dignity, \'is now bound up\nand cemented in Augustus. So long as Augustus is my own, I cannot want\na friend. When you speak of friends, sir, I must beg, once for all, to\nrefer you to Augustus. That is my impression of the religious ceremony\nin which I am so soon to take a part at that altar to which Augustus\nwill conduct me. I bear no malice at any time, much less in a moment of\ntriumph, towards any one; much less towards my sister. On the contrary,\nI congratulate her. If you didn\'t hear me say so, I am not to blame.\nAnd as I owe it to Augustus, to be punctual on an occasion when he may\nnaturally be supposed to be--to be impatient--really, Mrs Todgers!--I\nmust beg your leave, sir, to retire.\'\n\nAfter these words the bridal bonnet disappeared; with as much state as\nthe dimity bedgown left in it.\n\nOld Martin gave his arm to the younger sister without speaking; and led\nher out. Mrs Todgers, with her holiday garments fluttering in the wind,\naccompanied them to the carriage, clung round Merry\'s neck at parting,\nand ran back to her own dingy house, crying the whole way. She had\na lean, lank body, Mrs Todgers, but a well-conditioned soul within.\nPerhaps the good Samaritan was lean and lank, and found it hard to live.\nWho knows!\n\nMr Chuzzlewit followed her so closely with his eyes, that, until she had\nshut her own door, they did not encounter Mr Tapley\'s face.\n\n\'Why, Mark!\' he said, as soon as he observed it, \'what\'s the matter?\'\n\n\'The wonderfulest ewent, sir!\' returned Mark, pumping at his voice in\na most laborious manner, and hardly able to articulate with all his\nefforts. \'A coincidence as never was equalled! I\'m blessed if here ain\'t\ntwo old neighbours of ourn, sir!\'\n\n\'What neighbours?\' cried old Martin, looking out of window. \'Where?\'\n\n\'I was a-walkin\' up and down not five yards from this spot,\' said Mr\nTapley, breathless, \'and they come upon me like their own ghosts, as I\nthought they was! It\'s the wonderfulest ewent that ever happened. Bring\na feather, somebody, and knock me down with it!\'\n\n\'What do you mean!\' exclaimed old Martin, quite as much excited by\nthe spectacle of Mark\'s excitement as that strange person was himself.\n\'Neighbours, where?\'\n\n\'Here, sir!\' replied Mr Tapley. \'Here in the city of London! Here upon\nthese very stones! Here they are, sir! Don\'t I know \'em? Lord love their\nwelcome faces, don\'t I know \'em!\'\n\nWith which ejaculations Mr Tapley not only pointed to a decent-looking\nman and woman standing by, but commenced embracing them alternately,\nover and over again, in Monument Yard.\n\n\'Neighbours, WHERE? old Martin shouted; almost maddened by his\nineffectual efforts to get out at the coach-door.\n\n\'Neighbours in America! Neighbours in Eden!\' cried Mark. \'Neighbours in\nthe swamp, neighbours in the bush, neighbours in the fever. Didn\'t she\nnurse us! Didn\'t he help us! Shouldn\'t we both have died without \'em!\nHaven\'t they come a-strugglin\' back, without a single child for their\nconsolation! And talk to me of neighbours!\'\n\nAway he went again, in a perfectly wild state, hugging them, and\nskipping round them, and cutting in between them, as if he were\nperforming some frantic and outlandish dance.\n\nMr Chuzzlewit no sooner gathered who these people were, than he burst\nopen the coach-door somehow or other, and came tumbling out among them;\nand as if the lunacy of Mr Tapley were contagious, he immediately began\nto shake hands too, and exhibit every demonstration of the liveliest\njoy.\n\n\'Get up, behind!\' he said. \'Get up in the rumble. Come along with me! Go\nyou on the box, Mark. Home! Home!\'\n\n\'Home!\' cried Mr Tapley, seizing the old man\'s hand in a burst of\nenthusiasm. \'Exactly my opinion, sir. Home for ever! Excuse the liberty,\nsir, I can\'t help it. Success to the Jolly Tapley! There\'s nothin\' in\nthe house they shan\'t have for the askin\' for, except a bill. Home to be\nsure! Hurrah!\'\n\nHome they rolled accordingly, when he had got the old man in again, as\nfast as they could go; Mark abating nothing of his fervour by the way,\nby allowing it to vent itself as unrestrainedly as if he had been on\nSalisbury Plain.\n\nAnd now the wedding party began to assemble at Todgers\'s. Mr Jinkins,\nthe only boarder invited, was on the ground first. He wore a white\nfavour in his button-hole, and a bran new extra super double-milled blue\nsaxony dress coat (that was its description in the bill), with a variety\nof tortuous embellishments about the pockets, invented by the artist\nto do honour to the day. The miserable Augustus no longer felt strongly\neven on the subject of Jinkins. He hadn\'t strength of mind enough to do\nit. \'Let him come!\' he had said, in answer to Miss Pecksniff, when she\nurged the point. \'Let him come! He has ever been my rock ahead through\nlife. \'Tis meet he should be there. Ha, ha! Oh, yes! let Jinkins come!\'\n\nJinkins had come with all the pleasure in life, and there he was. For\nsome few minutes he had no companion but the breakfast, which was set\nforth in the drawing-room, with unusual taste and ceremony. But Mrs\nTodgers soon joined him; and the bachelor cousin, the hairy young\ngentleman, and Mr and Mrs Spottletoe, arrived in quick succession.\n\nMr Spottletoe honoured Jinkins with an encouraging bow. \'Glad to know\nyou, sir,\' he said. \'Give you joy!\' Under the impression that Jinkins\nwas the happy man.\n\nMr Jinkins explained. He was merely doing the honours for his friend\nModdle, who had ceased to reside in the house, and had not yet arrived.\n\n\'Not arrived, sir!\' exclaimed Spottletoe, in a great heat.\n\n\'Not yet,\' said Mr Jinkins.\n\n\'Upon my soul!\' cried Spottletoe. \'He begins well! Upon my life and\nhonour this young man begins well! But I should very much like to know\nhow it is that every one who comes into contact with this family is\nguilty of some gross insult to it. Death! Not arrived yet. Not here to\nreceive us!\'\n\nThe nephew with the outline of a countenance, suggested that perhaps he\nhad ordered a new pair of boots, and they hadn\'t come home.\n\n\'Don\'t talk to me of Boots, sir!\' retorted Spottletoe, with immense\nindignation. \'He is bound to come here in his slippers then; he is bound\nto come here barefoot. Don\'t offer such a wretched and evasive plea to\nme on behalf of your friend, as Boots, sir.\'\n\n\'He is not MY friend,\' said the nephew. \'I never saw him.\'\n\n\'Very well, sir,\' returned the fiery Spottletoe. \'Then don\'t talk to\nme!\'\n\nThe door was thrown open at this juncture, and Miss Pecksniff entered,\ntottering, and supported by her three bridesmaids. The strong-minded\nwoman brought up the rear; having waited outside until now, for the\npurpose of spoiling the effect.\n\n\'How do you do, ma\'am!\' said Spottletoe to the strong-minded woman in a\ntone of defiance. \'I believe you see Mrs Spottletoe, ma\'am?\'\n\nThe strong-minded woman with an air of great interest in Mrs\nSpottletoe\'s health, regretted that she was not more easily seen. Nature\nerring, in that lady\'s case, upon the slim side.\n\n\'Mrs Spottletoe is at least more easily seen than the bridegroom,\nma\'am,\' returned that lady\'s husband. \'That is, unless he has confined\nhis attentions to any particular part or branch of this family, which\nwould be quite in keeping with its usual proceedings.\'\n\n\'If you allude to me, sir--\' the strong-minded woman began.\n\n\'Pray,\' interposed Miss Pecksniff, \'do not allow Augustus, at this awful\nmoment of his life and mine, to be the means of disturbing that harmony\nwhich it is ever Augustus\'s and my wish to maintain. Augustus has not\nbeen introduced to any of my relations now present. He preferred not.\'\n\n\'Why, then, I venture to assert,\' cried Mr Spottletoe, \'that the man who\naspires to join this family, and \"prefers not\" to be introduced to its\nmembers, is an impertinent Puppy. That is my opinion of HIM!\'\n\nThe strong-minded woman remarked with great suavity, that she was afraid\nhe must be. Her three daughters observed aloud that it was \'Shameful!\'\n\n\'You do not know Augustus,\' said Miss Pecksniff, tearfully, \'indeed you\ndo not know him. Augustus is all mildness and humility. Wait till you\nsee Augustus, and I am sure he will conciliate your affections.\'\n\n\'The question arises,\' said Spottletoe, folding his arms: \'How long we\nare to wait. I am not accustomed to wait; that\'s the fact. And I want to\nknow how long we are expected to wait.\'\n\n\'Mrs Todgers!\' said Charity, \'Mr Jinkins! I am afraid there must be some\nmistake. I think Augustus must have gone straight to the Altar!\'\n\nAs such a thing was possible, and the church was close at hand, Mr\nJinkins ran off to see, accompanied by Mr George Chuzzlewit the bachelor\ncousin, who preferred anything to the aggravation of sitting near the\nbreakfast, without being able to eat it. But they came back with no\nother tidings than a familiar message from the clerk, importing that if\nthey wanted to be married that morning they had better look sharp, as\nthe curate wasn\'t going to wait there all day.\n\nThe bride was now alarmed; seriously alarmed. Good Heavens, what could\nhave happened! Augustus! Dear Augustus!\n\nMr Jinkins volunteered to take a cab, and seek him at the\nnewly-furnished house. The strong-minded woman administered comfort to\nMiss Pecksniff. \'It was a specimen of what she had to expect. It would\ndo her good. It would dispel the romance of the affair.\' The red-nosed\ndaughters also administered the kindest comfort. \'Perhaps he\'d come,\'\nthey said. The sketchy nephew hinted that he might have fallen off a\nbridge. The wrath of Mr Spottletoe resisted all the entreaties of his\nwife. Everybody spoke at once, and Miss Pecksniff, with clasped hands,\nsought consolation everywhere and found it nowhere, when Jinkins, having\nmet the postman at the door, came back with a letter, which he put into\nher hand.\n\nMiss Pecksniff opened it, uttered a piercing shriek, threw it down upon\nthe ground, and fainted away.\n\nThey picked it up; and crowding round, and looking over one another\'s\nshoulders, read, in the words and dashes following, this communication:\n\n\n\'OFF GRAVESEND.\n\n\'CLIPPER SCHOONER, CUPID\n\n\'Wednesday night\n\n\'EVER INJURED MISS PECKSNIFF--Ere this reaches you, the undersigned\nwill be--if not a corpse--on the way to Van Dieman\'s Land. Send not in\npursuit. I never will be taken alive!\n\n\'The burden--300 tons per register--forgive, if in my distraction,\nI allude to the ship--on my mind--has been truly dreadful.\nFrequently--when you have sought to soothe my brow with kisses--has\nself-destruction flashed across me. Frequently--incredible as it may\nseem--have I abandoned the idea.\n\n\'I love another. She is Another\'s. Everything appears to be somebody\nelse\'s. Nothing in the world is mine--not even my Situation--which I\nhave forfeited--by my rash conduct--in running away.\n\n\'If you ever loved me, hear my last appeal! The last appeal of a\nmiserable and blighted exile. Forward the inclosed--it is the key of my\ndesk--to the office--by hand. Please address to Bobbs and Cholberry--I\nmean to Chobbs and Bolberry--but my mind is totally unhinged. I left a\npenknife--with a buckhorn handle--in your work-box. It will repay the\nmessenger. May it make him happier than ever it did me!\n\n\'Oh, Miss Pecksniff, why didn\'t you leave me alone! Was it not cruel,\nCRUEL! Oh, my goodness, have you not been a witness of my feelings--have\nyou not seen them flowing from my eyes--did you not, yourself, reproach\nme with weeping more than usual on that dreadful night when last we\nmet--in that house--where I once was peaceful--though blighted--in the\nsociety of Mrs Todgers!\n\n\'But it was written--in the Talmud--that you should involve yourself in\nthe inscrutable and gloomy Fate which it is my mission to accomplish,\nand which wreathes itself--e\'en now--about in temples. I will not\nreproach, for I have wronged you. May the Furniture make some amends!\n\n\'Farewell! Be the proud bride of a ducal coronet, and forget me!\nLong may it be before you know the anguish with which I now subscribe\nmyself--amid the tempestuous howlings of the--sailors,\n\n\'Unalterably,\n\n\'Never yours,\n\n\'AUGUSTUS.\'\n\n\nThey thought as little of Miss Pecksniff, while they greedily perused\nthis letter, as if she were the very last person on earth whom it\nconcerned. But Miss Pecksniff really had fainted away. The bitterness of\nher mortification; the bitterness of having summoned witnesses, and\nsuch witnesses, to behold it; the bitterness of knowing that the\nstrong-minded women and the red-nosed daughters towered triumphant in\nthis hour of their anticipated overthrow; was too much to be borne. Miss\nPecksniff had fainted away in earnest.\n\n\nWhat sounds are these that fall so grandly on the ear! What darkening\nroom is this!\n\nAnd that mild figure seated at an organ, who is he! Ah Tom, dear Tom,\nold friend!\n\nThy head is prematurely grey, though Time has passed thee and our old\nassociation, Tom. But, in those sounds with which it is thy wont to bear\nthe twilight company, the music of thy heart speaks out--the story of\nthy life relates itself.\n\nThy life is tranquil, calm, and happy, Tom. In the soft strain which\never and again comes stealing back upon the ear, the memory of thine\nold love may find a voice perhaps; but it is a pleasant, softened,\nwhispering memory, like that in which we sometimes hold the dead, and\ndoes not pain or grieve thee, God be thanked.\n\nTouch the notes lightly, Tom, as lightly as thou wilt, but never will\nthine hand fall half so lightly on that Instrument as on the head of\nthine old tyrant brought down very, very low; and never will it make as\nhollow a response to any touch of thine, as he does always.\n\nFor a drunken, begging, squalid, letter-writing man, called Pecksniff,\nwith a shrewish daughter, haunts thee, Tom; and when he makes appeals to\nthee for cash, reminds thee that he built thy fortunes better than his\nown; and when he spends it, entertains the alehouse company with tales\nof thine ingratitude and his munificence towards thee once upon a time;\nand then he shows his elbows worn in holes, and puts his soleless\nshoes up on a bench, and begs his auditors look there, while thou art\ncomfortably housed and clothed. All known to thee, and yet all borne\nwith, Tom!\n\nSo, with a smile upon thy face, thou passest gently to another\nmeasure--to a quicker and more joyful one--and little feet are used to\ndance about thee at the sound, and bright young eyes to glance up\ninto thine. And there is one slight creature, Tom--her child; not\nRuth\'s--whom thine eyes follow in the romp and dance; who, wondering\nsometimes to see thee look so thoughtful, runs to climb up on thy knee,\nand put her cheek to thine; who loves thee, Tom, above the rest, if that\ncan be; and falling sick once, chose thee for her nurse, and never knew\nimpatience, Tom, when thou wert by her side.\n\nThou glidest, now, into a graver air; an air devoted to old friends and\nbygone times; and in thy lingering touch upon the keys, and the rich\nswelling of the mellow harmony, they rise before thee. The spirit of\nthat old man dead, who delighted to anticipate thy wants, and never\nceased to honour thee, is there, among the rest; repeating, with a face\ncomposed and calm, the words he said to thee upon his bed, and blessing\nthee!\n\nAnd coming from a garden, Tom, bestrewn with flowers by children\'s\nhands, thy sister, little Ruth, as light of foot and heart as in old\ndays, sits down beside thee. From the Present, and the Past, with which\nshe is so tenderly entwined in all thy thoughts, thy strain soars onward\nto the Future. As it resounds within thee and without, the noble music,\nrolling round ye both, shuts out the grosser prospect of an earthly\nparting, and uplifts ye both to Heaven!'"