amazement. ‘Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir, impossible. See Serjeant Snubbin!
Bless you, my dear Sir, such a thing was never heard of, without a
consultation fee being previously paid, and a consultation fixed. It
couldn’t be done, my dear Sir; it couldn’t be done.’
Mr. Pickwick, however, had made up his mind not only that it could be
done, but that it should be done; and the consequence was, that within
ten minutes after he had received the assurance that the thing was
impossible, he was conducted by his solicitor into the outer office of
the great Serjeant Snubbin himself.
It was an uncarpeted room of tolerable dimensions, with a large writing-
table drawn up near the fire, the baize top of which had long since lost
all claim to its original hue of green, and had gradually grown gray
with dust and age, except where all traces of its natural colour were
obliterated by ink-stains. Upon the table were numerous little bundles
of papers tied with red tape; and behind it, sat an elderly clerk, whose
sleek appearance and heavy gold watch-chain presented imposing
indications of the extensive and lucrative practice of Mr. Serjeant
Snubbin.
‘Is the Serjeant in his room, Mr. Mallard?’ inquired Perker, offering
his box with all imaginable courtesy.
‘Yes, he is,’ was the reply, ‘but he’s very busy. Look here; not an
opinion given yet, on any one of these cases; and an expedition fee paid
with all of ‘em.’ The clerk smiled as he said this, and inhaled the
pinch of snuff with a zest which seemed to be compounded of a fondness
for snuff and a relish for fees.
‘Something like practice that,’ said Perker.
‘Yes,’ said the barrister’s clerk, producing his own box, and offering
it with the greatest cordiality; ‘and the best of it is, that as nobody
alive except myself can read the serjeant’s writing, they are obliged to
wait for the opinions, when he has given them, till I have copied ‘em,
ha-ha-ha!’
‘Which makes good for we know who, besides the serjeant, and draws a
little more out of the clients, eh?’ said Perker; ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ At this
the serjeant’s clerk laughed again--not a noisy boisterous laugh, but a
silent, internal chuckle, which Mr. Pickwick disliked to hear. When a
man bleeds inwardly, it is a dangerous thing for himself; but when he
laughs inwardly, it bodes no good to other people.
‘You haven’t made me out that little list of the fees that I’m in your
debt, have you?’ said Perker.
‘No, I have not,’ replied the clerk.
‘I wish you would,’ said Perker. ‘Let me have them, and I’ll send you a
cheque. But I suppose you’re too busy pocketing the ready money, to
think of the debtors, eh? ha, ha, ha!’ This sally seemed to tickle the
clerk amazingly, and he once more enjoyed a little quiet laugh to
himself.
‘But, Mr. Mallard, my dear friend,’ said Perker, suddenly recovering his
gravity, and drawing the great man’s great man into a Corner, by the
lappel of his coat; ‘you must persuade the Serjeant to see me, and my
client here.’
‘Come, come,’ said the clerk, ‘that’s not bad either. See the Serjeant!
come, that’s too absurd.’ Notwithstanding the absurdity of the proposal,
however, the clerk allowed himself to be gently drawn beyond the hearing
of Mr. Pickwick; and after a short conversation conducted in whispers,
walked softly down a little dark passage, and disappeared into the legal
luminary’s sanctum, whence he shortly returned on tiptoe, and informed
Mr. Perker and Mr. Pickwick that the Serjeant had been prevailed upon,
in violation of all established rules and customs, to admit them at
once.
Mr. Serjeant Snubbins was a lantern-faced, sallow-complexioned man, of
about five-and-forty, or--as the novels say--he might be fifty. He had
that dull-looking, boiled eye which is often to be seen in the heads of
people who have applied themselves during many years to a weary and
laborious course of study; and which would have been sufficient, without
the additional eyeglass which dangled from a broad black riband round
his neck, to warn a stranger that he was very near-sighted. His hair was
thin and weak, which was partly attributable to his having never devoted
much time to its arrangement, and partly to his having worn for five-
and-twenty years the forensic wig which hung on a block beside him. The
marks of hairpowder on his coat-collar, and the ill-washed and worse
tied white neckerchief round his throat, showed that he had not found
leisure since he left the court to make any alteration in his dress;
while the slovenly style of the remainder of his costume warranted the
inference that his personal appearance would not have been very much
improved if he had. Books of practice, heaps of papers, and opened
letters, were scattered over the table, without any attempt at order or
arrangement; the furniture of the room was old and rickety; the doors of
the book-case were rotting in their hinges; the dust flew out from the
carpet in little clouds at every step; the blinds were yellow with age
and dirt; the state of everything in the room showed, with a clearness
not to be mistaken, that Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was far too much occupied
with his professional pursuits to take any great heed or regard of his
personal comforts.
The Serjeant was writing when his clients entered; he bowed abstractedly
when Mr. Pickwick was introduced by his solicitor; and then, motioning
them to a seat, put his pen carefully in the inkstand, nursed his left
leg, and waited to be spoken to.
‘Mr. Pickwick is the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick, Serjeant
Snubbin,’ said Perker.
‘I am retained in that, am I?’ said the Serjeant.
‘You are, Sir,’ replied Perker.
The Serjeant nodded his head, and waited for something else.
‘Mr. Pickwick was anxious to call upon you, Serjeant Snubbin,’ said
Perker, ‘to state to you, before you entered upon the case, that he
denies there being any ground or pretence whatever for the action
against him; and that unless he came into court with clean hands, and
without the most conscientious conviction that he was right in resisting
the plaintiff’s demand, he would not be there at all. I believe I state
your views correctly; do I not, my dear Sir?’ said the little man,
turning to Mr. Pickwick.
‘Quite so,’ replied that gentleman.
Mr. Serjeant Snubbin unfolded his glasses, raised them to his eyes; and,
after looking at Mr. Pickwick for a few seconds with great curiosity,
turned to Mr. Perker, and said, smiling slightly as he spoke--
‘Has Mr. Pickwick a strong case?’
The attorney shrugged his shoulders.
‘Do you propose calling witnesses?’
‘No.’
The smile on the Serjeant’s countenance became more defined; he rocked
his leg with increased violence; and, throwing himself back in his easy-
chair, coughed dubiously.
These tokens of the Serjeant’s presentiments on the subject, slight as
they were, were not lost on Mr. Pickwick. He settled the spectacles,
through which he had attentively regarded such demonstrations of the
barrister’s feelings as he had permitted himself to exhibit, more firmly
on his nose; and said with great energy, and in utter disregard of all
Mr. Perker’s admonitory winkings and frownings--
‘My wishing to wait upon you, for such a purpose as this, Sir, appears,
I have no doubt, to a gentleman who sees so much of these matters as you
must necessarily do, a very extraordinary circumstance.’
The Serjeant tried to look gravely at the fire, but the smile came back
again.
‘Gentlemen of your profession, Sir,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, ‘see the
worst side of human nature. All its disputes, all its ill-will and bad
blood, rise up before you. You know from your experience of juries (I
mean no disparagement to you, or them) how much depends upon effect; and
you are apt to attribute to others, a desire to use, for purposes of
deception and self-interest, the very instruments which you, in pure
honesty and honour of purpose, and with a laudable desire to do your
utmost for your client, know the temper and worth of so well, from
constantly employing them yourselves. I really believe that to this
circumstance may be attributed the vulgar but very general notion of
your being, as a body, suspicious, distrustful, and over-cautious.
Conscious as I am, sir, of the disadvantage of making such a declaration
to you, under such circumstances, I have come here, because I wish you
distinctly to understand, as my friend Mr. Perker has said, that I am
innocent of the falsehood laid to my charge; and although I am very well
aware of the inestimable value of your assistance, Sir, I must beg to
add, that unless you sincerely believe this, I would rather be deprived
of the aid of your talents than have the advantage of them.’
Long before the close of this address, which we are bound to say was of
a very prosy character for Mr. Pickwick, the Serjeant had relapsed into
a state of abstraction. After some minutes, however, during which he had
reassumed his pen, he appeared to be again aware of the presence of his
clients; raising his head from the paper, he said, rather snappishly--
‘Who is with me in this case?’
‘Mr. Phunky, Serjeant Snubbin,’ replied the attorney.
‘Phunky--Phunky,’ said the Serjeant, ‘I never heard the name before. He
must be a very young man.’
‘Yes, he is a very young man,’ replied the attorney. ‘He was only called
the other day. Let me see--he has not been at the Bar eight years yet.’
‘Ah, I thought not,’ said the Serjeant, in that sort of pitying tone in
which ordinary folks would speak of a very helpless little child. ‘Mr.
Mallard, send round to Mr.--Mr.--’
Phunky’s--Holborn Court, Gray’s Inn,’ interposed Perker. (Holborn Court,
by the bye, is South Square now.)--‘Mr. Phunky, and say I should be glad
if he’d step here, a moment.’
Mr. Mallard departed to execute his commission; and Serjeant Snubbin
relapsed into abstraction until Mr. Phunky himself was introduced.
Although an infant barrister, he was a full-grown man. He had a very
nervous manner, and a painful hesitation in his speech; it did not
appear to be a natural defect, but seemed rather the result of timidity,
arising from the consciousness of being ‘kept down’ by want of means, or
interest, or connection, or impudence, as the case might be. He was
overawed by the Serjeant, and profoundly courteous to the attorney.
‘I have not had the pleasure of seeing you before, Mr. Phunky,’ said
Serjeant Snubbin, with haughty condescension.
Mr. Phunky bowed. He _had _had the pleasure of seeing the Serjeant, and
of envying him too, with all a poor man’s envy, for eight years and a
quarter.
‘You are with me in this case, I understand?’ said the Serjeant.
If Mr. Phunky had been a rich man, he would have instantly sent for his
clerk to remind him; if he had been a wise one, he would have applied
his forefinger to his forehead, and endeavoured to recollect, whether,
in the multiplicity of his engagements, he had undertaken this one or
not; but as he was neither rich nor wise (in this sense, at all events)
he turned red, and bowed.
‘Have you read the papers, Mr. Phunky?’ inquired the Serjeant.
Here again, Mr. Phunky should have professed to have forgotten all about
the merits of the case; but as he had read such papers as had been laid
before him in the course of the action, and had thought of nothing else,
waking or sleeping, throughout the two months during which he had been
retained as Mr. Serjeant Snubbin’s junior, he turned a deeper red and
bowed again.
‘This is Mr. Pickwick,’ said the Serjeant, waving his pen in the
direction in which that gentleman was standing.
Mr. Phunky bowed to Mr. Pickwick, with a reverence which a first client
must ever awaken; and again inclined his head towards his leader.
‘Perhaps you will take Mr. Pickwick away,’ said the Serjeant, ‘and--and-
-and--hear anything Mr. Pickwick may wish to communicate. We shall have
a consultation, of course.’ With that hint that he had been interrupted
quite long enough, Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who had been gradually growing
more and more abstracted, applied his glass to his eyes for an instant,
bowed slightly round, and was once more deeply immersed in the case
before him, which arose out of an interminable lawsuit, originating in
the act of an individual, deceased a century or so ago, who had stopped
up a pathway leading from some place which nobody ever came from, to
some other place which nobody ever went to.
Mr. Phunky would not hear of passing through any door until Mr. Pickwick
and his solicitor had passed through before him, so it was some time
before they got into the Square; and when they did reach it, they walked
up and down, and held a long conference, the result of which was, that
it was a very difficult matter to say how the verdict would go; that
nobody could presume to calculate on the issue of an action; that it was
very lucky they had prevented the other party from getting Serjeant
Snubbin; and other topics of doubt and consolation, common in such a
position of affairs.
Mr. Weller was then roused by his master from a sweet sleep of an hour’s
duration; and, bidding adieu to Lowten, they returned to the city.
CHAPTER XXXII. DESCRIBES, FAR MORE FULLY THAN THE COURT NEWSMAN EVER
DID, A BACHELOR’S PARTY, GIVEN BY MR. BOB SAWYER AT HIS LODGINGS IN THE
BOROUGH
There is a repose about Lant Street, in the Borough, which sheds a
gentle melancholy upon the soul. There are always a good many houses to
let in the street: it is a by-street too, and its dulness is soothing. A
house in Lant Street would not come within the denomination of a first-
rate residence, in the strict acceptation of the term; but it is a most
desirable spot nevertheless. If a man wished to abstract himself from
the world--to remove himself from within the reach of temptation--to
place himself beyond the possibility of any inducement to look out of
the window--we should recommend him by all means go to Lant Street.
In this happy retreat are colonised a few clear-starchers, a sprinkling
of journeymen bookbinders, one or two prison agents for the Insolvent
Court, several small housekeepers who are employed in the Docks, a
handful of mantua-makers, and a seasoning of jobbing tailors. The
majority of the inhabitants either direct their energies to the letting
of furnished apartments, or devote themselves to the healthful and
invigorating pursuit of mangling. The chief features in the still life
of the street are green shutters, lodging-bills, brass door-plates, and
bell-handles; the principal specimens of animated nature, the pot-boy,
the muffin youth, and the baked-potato man. The population is migratory,
usually disappearing on the verge of quarter-day, and generally by
night. His Majesty’s revenues are seldom collected in this happy valley;
the rents are dubious; and the water communication is very frequently
cut off.
Mr. Bob Sawyer embellished one side of the fire, in his first-floor
front, early on the evening for which he had invited Mr. Pickwick, and
Mr. Ben Allen the other. The preparations for the reception of visitors
appeared to be completed. The umbrellas in the passage had been heaped
into the little corner outside the back-parlour door; the bonnet and
shawl of the landlady’s servant had been removed from the bannisters;
there were not more than two pairs of pattens on the street-door mat;
and a kitchen candle, with a very long snuff, burned cheerfully on the
ledge of the staircase window. Mr. Bob Sawyer had himself purchased the
spirits at a wine vaults in High Street, and had returned home preceding
the bearer thereof, to preclude the possibility of their delivery at the
wrong house. The punch was ready-made in a red pan in the bedroom; a
little table, covered with a green baize cloth, had been borrowed from
the parlour, to play at cards on; and the glasses of the establishment,
together with those which had been borrowed for the occasion from the
public-house, were all drawn up in a tray, which was deposited on the
landing outside the door.
Notwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature of all these
arrangements, there was a cloud on the countenance of Mr. Bob Sawyer, as
he sat by the fireside. There was a sympathising expression, too, in the
features of Mr. Ben Allen, as he gazed intently on the coals, and a tone
of melancholy in his voice, as he said, after a long silence--
‘Well, it is unlucky she should have taken it in her head to turn sour,
just on this occasion. She might at least have waited till to-morrow.’
‘That’s her malevolence--that’s her malevolence,’ returned Mr. Bob
Sawyer vehemently. ‘She says that if I can afford to give a party I
ought to be able to pay her confounded “little bill.”’
How long has it been running?’ inquired Mr. Ben Allen. A bill, by the
bye, is the most extraordinary locomotive engine that the genius of man
ever produced. It would keep on running during the longest lifetime,
without ever once stopping of its own accord.
‘Only a quarter, and a month or so,’ replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.
Ben Allen coughed hopelessly, and directed a searching look between the
two top bars of the stove.
‘It’ll be a deuced unpleasant thing if she takes it into her head to let
out, when those fellows are here, won’t it?’ said Mr. Ben Allen at
length.
‘Horrible,’ replied Bob Sawyer, ‘horrible.’
A low tap was heard at the room door. Mr. Bob Sawyer looked expressively
at his friend, and bade the tapper come in; whereupon a dirty, slipshod
girl in black cotton stockings, who might have passed for the neglected
daughter of a superannuated dustman in very reduced circumstances,
thrust in her head, and said--
‘Please, Mister Sawyer, Missis Raddle wants to speak to you.’
Before Mr. Bob Sawyer could return any answer, the girl suddenly
disappeared with a jerk, as if somebody had given her a violent pull
behind; this mysterious exit was no sooner accomplished, than there was
another tap at the door--a smart, pointed tap, which seemed to say,
‘Here I am, and in I’m coming.’
Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced at his friend with a look of abject apprehension,
and once more cried, ‘Come in.’
The permission was not at all necessary, for, before Mr. Bob Sawyer had
uttered the words, a little, fierce woman bounced into the room, all in
a tremble with passion, and pale with rage.
‘Now, Mr. Sawyer,’ said the little, fierce woman, trying to appear very
calm, ‘if you’ll have the kindness to settle that little bill of mine
I’ll thank you, because I’ve got my rent to pay this afternoon, and my
landlord’s a-waiting below now.’ Here the little woman rubbed her hands,
and looked steadily over Mr. Bob Sawyer’s head, at the wall behind him.
‘I am very sorry to put you to any inconvenience, Mrs. Raddle,’ said Bob
Sawyer deferentially, ‘but--’
‘Oh, it isn’t any inconvenience,’ replied the little woman, with a
shrill titter. ‘I didn’t want it particular before to-day; leastways, as
it has to go to my landlord directly, it was as well for you to keep it
as me. You promised me this afternoon, Mr. Sawyer, and every gentleman
as has ever lived here, has kept his word, Sir, as of course anybody as
calls himself a gentleman does.’ Mrs. Raddle tossed her head, bit her
lips, rubbed her hands harder, and looked at the wall more steadily than
ever. It was plain to see, as Mr. Bob Sawyer remarked in a style of
Eastern allegory on a subsequent occasion, that she was ‘getting the
steam up.’
‘I am very sorry, Mrs. Raddle,’ said Bob Sawyer, with all imaginable
humility, ‘but the fact is, that I have been disappointed in the City
to-day.’--Extraordinary place that City. An astonishing number of men
always _are _getting disappointed there.
‘Well, Mr. Sawyer,’ said Mrs. Raddle, planting herself firmly on a
purple cauliflower in the Kidderminster carpet, ‘and what’s that to me,
Sir?’
‘I--I--have no doubt, Mrs. Raddle,’ said Bob Sawyer, blinking this last
question, ‘that before the middle of next week we shall be able to set
ourselves quite square, and go on, on a better system, afterwards.’
This was all Mrs. Raddle wanted. She had bustled up to the apartment of
the unlucky Bob Sawyer, so bent upon going into a passion, that, in all
probability, payment would have rather disappointed her than otherwise.
She was in excellent order for a little relaxation of the kind, having
just exchanged a few introductory compliments with Mr. R. in the front
kitchen.
‘Do you suppose, Mr. Sawyer,’ said Mrs. Raddle, elevating her voice for
the information of the neighbours--‘do you suppose that I’m a-going day
after day to let a fellar occupy my lodgings as never thinks of paying
his rent, nor even the very money laid out for the fresh butter and lump
sugar that’s bought for his breakfast, and the very milk that’s took in,
at the street door? Do you suppose a hard-working and industrious woman
as has lived in this street for twenty year (ten year over the way, and
nine year and three-quarters in this very house) has nothing else to do
but to work herself to death after a parcel of lazy idle fellars, that
are always smoking and drinking, and lounging, when they ought to be
glad to turn their hands to anything that would help ‘em to pay their
bills? Do you--’
‘My good soul,’ interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen soothingly.
‘Have the goodness to keep your observashuns to yourself, Sir, I beg,’
said Mrs. Raddle, suddenly arresting the rapid torrent of her speech,
and addressing the third party with impressive slowness and solemnity.
‘I am not aweer, Sir, that you have any right to address your
conversation to me. I don’t think I let these apartments to you, Sir.’
‘No, you certainly did not,’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
‘Very good, Sir,’ responded Mrs. Raddle, with lofty politeness. ‘Then
p’raps, Sir, you’ll confine yourself to breaking the arms and legs of
the poor people in the hospitals, and keep yourself _to_ yourself, Sir,
or there may be some persons here as will make you, Sir.’
‘But you are such an unreasonable woman,’ remonstrated Mr. Benjamin
Allen.
‘I beg your parding, young man,’ said Mrs. Raddle, in a cold
perspiration of anger. ‘But will you have the goodness just to call me
that again, sir?’
‘I didn’t make use of the word in any invidious sense, ma’am,’ replied
Mr. Benjamin Allen, growing somewhat uneasy on his own account.
‘I beg your parding, young man,’ demanded Mrs. Raddle, in a louder and
more imperative tone. ‘But who do you call a woman? Did you make that
remark to me, sir?’
‘Why, bless my heart!’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
‘Did you apply that name to me, I ask of you, sir?’ interrupted Mrs.
Raddle, with intense fierceness, throwing the door wide open.
‘Why, of course I did,’ replied Mr. Benjamin Allen.
‘Yes, of course you did,’ said Mrs. Raddle, backing gradually to the
door, and raising her voice to its loudest pitch, for the special behoof
of Mr. Raddle in the kitchen. ‘Yes, of course you did! And everybody
knows that they may safely insult me in my own ‘ouse while my husband
sits sleeping downstairs, and taking no more notice than if I was a dog
in the streets. He ought to be ashamed of himself (here Mrs. Raddle
sobbed) to allow his wife to be treated in this way by a parcel of young
cutters and carvers of live people’s bodies, that disgraces the lodgings
(another sob), and leaving her exposed to all manner of abuse; a base,
faint-hearted, timorous wretch, that’s afraid to come upstairs, and face
the ruffinly creatures--that’s afraid--that’s afraid to come!’ Mrs.
Raddle paused to listen whether the repetition of the taunt had roused
her better half; and finding that it had not been successful, proceeded
to descend the stairs with sobs innumerable; when there came a loud
double knock at the street door; whereupon she burst into an hysterical
fit of weeping, accompanied with dismal moans, which was prolonged until
the knock had been repeated six times, when, in an uncontrollable burst
of mental agony, she threw down all the umbrellas, and disappeared into
the back parlour, closing the door after her with an awful crash.
‘Does Mr. Sawyer live here?’ said Mr. Pickwick, when the door was
opened.
‘Yes,’ said the girl, ‘first floor. It’s the door straight afore you,
when you gets to the top of the stairs.’ Having given this instruction,
the handmaid, who had been brought up among the aboriginal inhabitants
of Southwark, disappeared, with the candle in her hand, down the kitchen
stairs, perfectly satisfied that she had done everything that could
possibly be required of her under the circumstances.
Mr. Snodgrass, who entered last, secured the street door, after several
ineffectual efforts, by putting up the chain; and the friends stumbled
upstairs, where they were received by Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been
afraid to go down, lest he should be waylaid by Mrs. Raddle.
‘How are you?’ said the discomfited student. ‘Glad to see you--take care
of the glasses.’ This caution was addressed to Mr. Pickwick, who had put
his hat in the tray.
‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,’ said Bob Sawyer. ‘I’m rather
confined for room here, but you must put up with all that, when you come
to see a young bachelor. Walk in. You’ve seen this gentleman before, I
think?’ Mr. Pickwick shook hands with Mr. Benjamin Allen, and his
friends followed his example. They had scarcely taken their seats when
there was another double knock.
‘I hope that’s Jack Hopkins!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer. ‘Hush. Yes, it is.
Come up, Jack; come up.’
A heavy footstep was heard upon the stairs, and Jack Hopkins presented
himself. He wore a black velvet waistcoat, with thunder-and-lightning
buttons; and a blue striped shirt, with a white false collar.
‘You’re late, Jack?’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
‘Been detained at Bartholomew’s,’ replied Hopkins.
‘Anything new?’
‘No, nothing particular. Rather a good accident brought into the
casualty ward.’
‘What was that, sir?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Only a man fallen out of a four pair of stairs’ window; but it’s a very
fair case indeed.’
‘Do you mean that the patient is in a fair way to recover?’ inquired Mr.
Pickwick.
‘No,’ replied Mr. Hopkins carelessly. ‘No, I should rather say he
wouldn’t. There must be a splendid operation, though, to-morrow--
magnificent sight if Slasher does it.’
‘You consider Mr. Slasher a good operator?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Best alive,’ replied Hopkins. ‘Took a boy’s leg out of the socket last
week--boy ate five apples and a gingerbread cake--exactly two minutes
after it was all over, boy said he wouldn’t lie there to be made game
of, and he’d tell his mother if they didn’t begin.’
‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, astonished.
‘Pooh! That’s nothing, that ain’t,’ said Jack Hopkins. ‘Is it, Bob?’
‘Nothing at all,’ replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.
‘By the bye, Bob,’ said Hopkins, with a scarcely perceptible glance at
Mr. Pickwick’s attentive face, ‘we had a curious accident last night. A
child was brought in, who had swallowed a necklace.’
‘Swallowed what, Sir?’ interrupted Mr. Pickwick.
‘A necklace,’ replied Jack Hopkins. ‘Not all at once, you know, that
would be too much--you couldn’t swallow that, if the child did--eh, Mr.
Pickwick? ha, ha!’ Mr. Hopkins appeared highly gratified with his own
pleasantry, and continued--‘No, the way was this. Child’s parents were
poor people who lived in a court. Child’s eldest sister bought a
necklace--common necklace, made of large black wooden beads. Child being
fond of toys, cribbed the necklace, hid it, played with it, cut the
string, and swallowed a bead. Child thought it capital fun, went back
next day, and swallowed another bead.’
‘Bless my heart,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘what a dreadful thing! I beg your
pardon, Sir. Go on.’
‘Next day, child swallowed two beads; the day after that, he treated
himself to three, and so on, till in a week’s time he had got through
the necklace--five-and-twenty beads in all. The sister, who was an
industrious girl, and seldom treated herself to a bit of finery, cried
her eyes out, at the loss of the necklace; looked high and low for it;
but, I needn’t say, didn’t find it. A few days afterwards, the family
were at dinner--baked shoulder of mutton, and potatoes under it--the
child, who wasn’t hungry, was playing about the room, when suddenly
there was heard a devil of a noise, like a small hailstorm. “Don’t do
that, my boy,” said the father. “I ain’t a-doin’ nothing,” said the
child. “Well, don’t do it again,” said the father. There was a short
silence, and then the noise began again, worse than ever. “If you don’t
mind what I say, my boy,” said the father, “you’ll find yourself in bed,
in something less than a pig’s whisper.” He gave the child a shake to
make him obedient, and such a rattling ensued as nobody ever heard
before. “Why, damme, it’s _in_ the child!” said the father, “he’s got
the croup in the wrong place!” “No, I haven’t, father,” said the child,
beginning to cry, “it’s the necklace; I swallowed it, father.”--The
father caught the child up, and ran with him to the hospital; the beads
in the boy’s stomach rattling all the way with the jolting; and the
people looking up in the air, and down in the cellars, to see where the
unusual sound came from. He’s in the hospital now,’ said Jack Hopkins,
‘and he makes such a devil of a noise when he walks about, that they’re
obliged to muffle him in a watchman’s coat, for fear he should wake the
patients.’
‘That’s the most extraordinary case I ever heard of,’ said Mr. Pickwick,
with an emphatic blow on the table.
‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ said Jack Hopkins. ‘Is it, Bob?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied Bob Sawyer.
‘Very singular things occur in our profession, I can assure you, Sir,’
said Hopkins.
‘So I should be disposed to imagine,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
Another knock at the door announced a large-headed young man in a black
wig, who brought with him a scorbutic youth in a long stock. The next
comer was a gentleman in a shirt emblazoned with pink anchors, who was
closely followed by a pale youth with a plated watchguard. The arrival
of a prim personage in clean linen and cloth boots rendered the party
complete. The little table with the green baize cover was wheeled out;
the first instalment of punch was brought in, in a white jug; and the
succeeding three hours were devoted to _Vingt-et-un_ at sixpence a
dozen, which was only once interrupted by a slight dispute between the
scorbutic youth and the gentleman with the pink anchors; in the course
of which, the scorbutic youth intimated a burning desire to pull the
nose of the gentleman with the emblems of hope; in reply to which, that
individual expressed his decided unwillingness to accept of any ‘sauce’
on gratuitous terms, either from the irascible young gentleman with the
scorbutic countenance, or any other person who was ornamented with a
head.
When the last ‘natural’ had been declared, and the profit and loss
account of fish and sixpences adjusted, to the satisfaction of all
parties, Mr. Bob Sawyer rang for supper, and the visitors squeezed
themselves into corners while it was getting ready.
It was not so easily got ready as some people may imagine. First of all,
it was necessary to awaken the girl, who had fallen asleep with her face
on the kitchen table; this took a little time, and, even when she did
answer the bell, another quarter of an hour was consumed in fruitless
endeavours to impart to her a faint and distant glimmering of reason.
The man to whom the order for the oysters had been sent, had not been
told to open them; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyster with a
limp knife and a two-pronged fork; and very little was done in this way.
Very little of the beef was done either; and the ham (which was also
from the German-sausage shop round the corner) was in a similar
predicament. However, there was plenty of porter in a tin can; and the
cheese went a great way, for it was very strong. So upon the whole,
perhaps, the supper was quite as good as such matters usually are.
After supper, another jug of punch was put upon the table, together with
a paper of cigars, and a couple of bottles of spirits. Then there was an
awful pause; and this awful pause was occasioned by a very common
occurrence in this sort of place, but a very embarrassing one
notwithstanding.
The fact is, the girl was washing the glasses. The establishment boasted
four: we do not record the circumstance as at all derogatory to Mrs.
Raddle, for there never was a lodging-house yet, that was not short of
glasses. The landlady’s glasses were little, thin, blown-glass tumblers,
and those which had been borrowed from the public-house were great,
dropsical, bloated articles, each supported on a huge gouty leg. This
would have been in itself sufficient to have possessed the company with
the real state of affairs; but the young woman of all work had prevented
the possibility of any misconception arising in the mind of any
gentleman upon the subject, by forcibly dragging every man’s glass away,
long before he had finished his beer, and audibly stating, despite the
winks and interruptions of Mr. Bob Sawyer, that it was to be conveyed
downstairs, and washed forthwith.
It is a very ill wind that blows nobody any good. The prim man in the
cloth boots, who had been unsuccessfully attempting to make a joke
during the whole time the round game lasted, saw his opportunity, and
availed himself of it. The instant the glasses disappeared, he commenced
a long story about a great public character, whose name he had
forgotten, making a particularly happy reply to another eminent and
illustrious individual whom he had never been able to identify. He
enlarged at some length and with great minuteness upon divers collateral
circumstances, distantly connected with the anecdote in hand, but for
the life of him he couldn’t recollect at that precise moment what the
anecdote was, although he had been in the habit of telling the story
with great applause for the last ten years.
‘Dear me,’ said the prim man in the cloth boots, ‘it is a very
extraordinary circumstance.’
‘I am sorry you have forgotten it,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, glancing
eagerly at the door, as he thought he heard the noise of glasses
jingling; ‘very sorry.’
‘So am I,’ responded the prim man, ‘because I know it would have
afforded so much amusement. Never mind; I dare say I shall manage to
recollect it, in the course of half an hour or so.’
The prim man arrived at this point just as the glasses came back, when
Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been absorbed in attention during the whole
time, said he should very much like to hear the end of it, for, so far
as it went, it was, without exception, the very best story he had ever
heard.
The sight of the tumblers restored Bob Sawyer to a degree of equanimity
which he had not possessed since his interview with his landlady. His
face brightened up, and he began to feel quite convivial.
‘Now, Betsy,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with great suavity, and dispersing,
at the same time, the tumultuous little mob of glasses the girl had
collected in the centre of the table--‘now, Betsy, the warm water; be
brisk, there’s a good girl.’
‘You can’t have no warm water,’ replied Betsy.
‘No warm water!’ exclaimed Mr. Bob Sawyer.
‘No,’ said the girl, with a shake of the head which expressed a more
decided negative than the most copious language could have conveyed.
‘Missis Raddle said you warn’t to have none.’
The surprise depicted on the countenances of his guests imparted new
courage to the host.
‘Bring up the warm water instantly--instantly!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer,
with desperate sternness.
‘No. I can’t,’ replied the girl; ‘Missis Raddle raked out the kitchen
fire afore she went to bed, and locked up the kittle.’
‘Oh, never mind; never mind. Pray don’t disturb yourself about such a
trifle,’ said Mr. Pickwick, observing the conflict of Bob Sawyer’s
passions, as depicted in his countenance, ‘cold water will do very
well.’
‘Oh, admirably,’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
‘My landlady is subject to some slight attacks of mental derangement,’
remarked Bob Sawyer, with a ghastly smile; ‘I fear I must give her
warning.’
‘No, don’t,’ said Ben Allen.
‘I fear I must,’ said Bob, with heroic firmness. ‘I’ll pay her what I
owe her, and give her warning to-morrow morning.’ Poor fellow! how
devoutly he wished he could!
Mr. Bob Sawyer’s heart-sickening attempts to rally under this last blow,
communicated a dispiriting influence to the company, the greater part of
whom, with the view of raising their spirits, attached themselves with
extra cordiality to the cold brandy-and-water, the first perceptible
effects of which were displayed in a renewal of hostilities between the
scorbutic youth and the gentleman in the shirt. The belligerents vented
their feelings of mutual contempt, for some time, in a variety of
frownings and snortings, until at last the scorbutic youth felt it
necessary to come to a more explicit understanding on the matter; when
the following clear understanding took place.
‘Sawyer,’ said the scorbutic youth, in a loud voice.
‘Well, Noddy,’ replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.
‘I should be very sorry, Sawyer,’ said Mr. Noddy, ‘to create any
unpleasantness at any friend’s table, and much less at yours, Sawyer--
very; but I must take this opportunity of informing Mr. Gunter that he
is no gentleman.’
‘And I should be very sorry, Sawyer, to create any disturbance in the
street in which you reside,’ said Mr. Gunter, ‘but I’m afraid I shall be
under the necessity of alarming the neighbours by throwing the person
who has just spoken, out o’ window.’
‘What do you mean by that, sir?’ inquired Mr. Noddy.
‘What I say, Sir,’ replied Mr. Gunter.
‘I should like to see you do it, Sir,’ said Mr. Noddy.
‘You shall _feel _me do it in half a minute, Sir,’ replied Mr. Gunter.
‘I request that you’ll favour me with your card, Sir,’ said Mr. Noddy.
‘I’ll do nothing of the kind, Sir,’ replied Mr. Gunter.
‘Why not, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Noddy.
‘Because you’ll stick it up over your chimney-piece, and delude your
visitors into the false belief that a gentleman has been to see you,
Sir,’ replied Mr. Gunter.
‘Sir, a friend of mine shall wait on you in the morning,’ said Mr.
Noddy.
‘Sir, I’m very much obliged to you for the caution, and I’ll leave
particular directions with the servant to lock up the spoons,’ replied
Mr. Gunter.
At this point the remainder of the guests interposed, and remonstrated
with both parties on the impropriety of their conduct; on which Mr.
Noddy begged to state that his father was quite as respectable as Mr.
Gunter’s father; to which Mr. Gunter replied that his father was to the
full as respectable as Mr. Noddy’s father, and that his father’s son was
as good a man as Mr. Noddy, any day in the week. As this announcement
seemed the prelude to a recommencement of the dispute, there was another
interference on the part of the company; and a vast quantity of talking
and clamouring ensued, in the course of which Mr. Noddy gradually
allowed his feelings to overpower him, and professed that he had ever
entertained a devoted personal attachment towards Mr. Gunter. To this
Mr. Gunter replied that, upon the whole, he rather preferred Mr. Noddy
to his own brother; on hearing which admission, Mr. Noddy magnanimously
rose from his seat, and proffered his hand to Mr. Gunter. Mr. Gunter
grasped it with affecting fervour; and everybody said that the whole
dispute had been conducted in a manner which was highly honourable to
both parties concerned.
‘Now,’ said Jack Hopkins, ‘just to set us going again, Bob, I don’t mind
singing a song.’ And Hopkins, incited thereto by tumultuous applause,
plunged himself at once into ‘The King, God bless him,’ which he sang as
loud as he could, to a novel air, compounded of the ‘Bay of Biscay,’ and
‘A Frog he would.’ The chorus was the essence of the song; and, as each
gentleman sang it to the tune he knew best, the effect was very striking
indeed.
It was at the end of the chorus to the first verse, that Mr. Pickwick
held up his hand in a listening attitude, and said, as soon as silence
was restored--
‘Hush! I beg your pardon. I thought I heard somebody calling from
upstairs.’
A profound silence immediately ensued; and Mr. Bob Sawyer was observed
to turn pale.
‘I think I hear it now,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Have the goodness to open
the door.’
The door was no sooner opened than all doubt on the subject was removed.
‘Mr. Sawyer! Mr. Sawyer!’ screamed a voice from the two-pair landing.
‘It’s my landlady,’ said Bob Sawyer, looking round him with great
dismay. ‘Yes, Mrs. Raddle.’
‘What do you mean by this, Mr. Sawyer?’ replied the voice, with great
shrillness and rapidity of utterance. ‘Ain’t it enough to be swindled
out of one’s rent, and money lent out of pocket besides, and abused and
insulted by your friends that dares to call themselves men, without
having the house turned out of the window, and noise enough made to
bring the fire-engines here, at two o’clock in the morning?--Turn them
wretches away.’
‘You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,’ said the voice of Mr. Raddle,
which appeared to proceed from beneath some distant bed-clothes.
‘Ashamed of themselves!’ said Mrs. Raddle. ‘Why don’t you go down and
knock ‘em every one downstairs? You would if you was a man.’
I should if I was a dozen men, my dear,’ replied Mr. Raddle pacifically,
‘but they have the advantage of me in numbers, my dear.’
‘Ugh, you coward!’ replied Mrs. Raddle, with supreme contempt. ‘_Do_ you
mean to turn them wretches out, or not, Mr. Sawyer?’
‘They’re going, Mrs. Raddle, they’re going,’ said the miserable Bob. ‘I
am afraid you’d better go,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer to his friends. ‘I
thought you were making too much noise.’
‘It’s a very unfortunate thing,’ said the prim man. ‘Just as we were
getting so comfortable too!’ The prim man was just beginning to have a
dawning recollection of the story he had forgotten.
‘It’s hardly to be borne,’ said the prim man, looking round. ‘Hardly to
be borne, is it?’
‘Not to be endured,’ replied Jack Hopkins; ‘let’s have the other verse,
Bob. Come, here goes!’
‘No, no, Jack, don’t,’ interposed Bob Sawyer; ‘it’s a capital song, but
I am afraid we had better not have the other verse. They are very
violent people, the people of the house.’
‘Shall I step upstairs, and pitch into the landlord?’ inquired Hopkins,
‘or keep on ringing the bell, or go and groan on the staircase? You may
command me, Bob.’
‘I am very much indebted to you for your friendship and good-nature,
Hopkins,’ said the wretched Mr. Bob Sawyer, ‘but I think the best plan
to avoid any further dispute is for us to break up at once.’
‘Now, Mr. Sawyer,’ screamed the shrill voice of Mrs. Raddle, ‘are them
brutes going?’
‘They’re only looking for their hats, Mrs. Raddle,’ said Bob; ‘they are
going directly.’
‘Going!’ said Mrs. Raddle, thrusting her nightcap over the banisters
just as Mr. Pickwick, followed by Mr. Tupman, emerged from the sitting-
room. ‘Going! what did they ever come for?’
‘My dear ma’am,’ remonstrated Mr. Pickwick, looking up.
‘Get along with you, old wretch!’ replied Mrs. Raddle, hastily
withdrawing the nightcap. ‘Old enough to be his grandfather, you willin!
You’re worse than any of ‘em.’
Mr. Pickwick found it in vain to protest his innocence, so hurried
downstairs into the street, whither he was closely followed by Mr.
Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Ben Allen, who was dismally
depressed with spirits and agitation, accompanied them as far as London
Bridge, and in the course of the walk confided to Mr. Winkle, as an
especially eligible person to intrust the secret to, that he was
resolved to cut the throat of any gentleman, except Mr. Bob Sawyer, who
should aspire to the affections of his sister Arabella. Having expressed
his determination to perform this painful duty of a brother with proper
firmness, he burst into tears, knocked his hat over his eyes, and,
making the best of his way back, knocked double knocks at the door of
the Borough Market office, and took short naps on the steps alternately,
until daybreak, under the firm impression that he lived there, and had
forgotten the key.
The visitors having all departed, in compliance with the rather pressing
request of Mrs. Raddle, the luckless Mr. Bob Sawyer was left alone, to
meditate on the probable events of to-morrow, and the pleasures of the
evening.
CHAPTER XXXIII. MR. WELLER THE ELDER DELIVERS SOME CRITICAL SENTIMENTS
RESPECTING LITERARY COMPOSITION; AND, ASSISTED BY HIS SON SAMUEL, PAYS A
SMALL INSTALMENT OF RETALIATION TO THE ACCOUNT OF THE REVEREND GENTLEMAN
WITH THE RED NOSE
The morning of the thirteenth of February, which the readers of this
authentic narrative know, as well as we do, to have been the day
immediately preceding that which was appointed for the trial of Mrs.
Bardell’s action, was a busy time for Mr. Samuel Weller, who was
perpetually engaged in travelling from the George and Vulture to Mr.
Perker’s chambers and back again, from and between the hours of nine
o’clock in the morning and two in the afternoon, both inclusive. Not
that there was anything whatever to be done, for the consultation had
taken place, and the course of proceeding to be adopted, had been
finally determined on; but Mr. Pickwick being in a most extreme state of
excitement, persevered in constantly sending small notes to his
attorney, merely containing the inquiry, ‘Dear Perker. Is all going on
well?’ to which Mr. Perker invariably forwarded the reply, ‘Dear
Pickwick. As well as possible’; the fact being, as we have already
hinted, that there was nothing whatever to go on, either well or ill,
until the sitting of the court on the following morning.
But people who go voluntarily to law, or are taken forcibly there, for
the first time, may be allowed to labour under some temporary irritation
and anxiety; and Sam, with a due allowance for the frailties of human
nature, obeyed all his master’s behests with that imperturbable good-
humour and unruffable composure which formed one of his most striking
and amiable characteristics.
Sam had solaced himself with a most agreeable little dinner, and was
waiting at the bar for the glass of warm mixture in which Mr. Pickwick
had requested him to drown the fatigues of his morning’s walks, when a
young boy of about three feet high, or thereabouts, in a hairy cap and
fustian overalls, whose garb bespoke a laudable ambition to attain in
time the elevation of an hostler, entered the passage of the George and
Vulture, and looked first up the stairs, and then along the passage, and
then into the bar, as if in search of somebody to whom he bore a
commission; whereupon the barmaid, conceiving it not improbable that the
said commission might be directed to the tea or table spoons of the
establishment, accosted the boy with--
‘Now, young man, what do you want?’
‘Is there anybody here, named Sam?’ inquired the youth, in a loud voice
of treble quality.
‘What’s the t’other name?’ said Sam Weller, looking round.
‘How should I know?’ briskly replied the young gentleman below the hairy
cap.
‘You’re a sharp boy, you are,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘only I wouldn’t show
that wery fine edge too much, if I was you, in case anybody took it off.
What do you mean by comin’ to a hot-el, and asking arter Sam, vith as
much politeness as a vild Indian?’
‘’Cos an old gen’l’m’n told me to,’ replied the boy.
‘What old gen’l’m’n?’ inquired Sam, with deep disdain.
‘Him as drives a Ipswich coach, and uses our parlour,’ rejoined the boy.
‘He told me yesterday mornin’ to come to the George and Wultur this
arternoon, and ask for Sam.’
‘It’s my father, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller, turning with an explanatory
air to the young lady in the bar; ‘blessed if I think he hardly knows
wot my other name is. Well, young brockiley sprout, wot then?’
‘Why then,’ said the boy, ‘you was to come to him at six o’clock to our
‘ouse, ‘cos he wants to see you--Blue Boar, Leaden’all Markit. Shall I
say you’re comin’?’
‘You may wenture on that ‘ere statement, Sir,’ replied Sam. And thus
empowered, the young gentleman walked away, awakening all the echoes in
George Yard as he did so, with several chaste and extremely correct
imitations of a drover’s whistle, delivered in a tone of peculiar
richness and volume.
Mr. Weller having obtained leave of absence from Mr. Pickwick, who, in
his then state of excitement and worry, was by no means displeased at
being left alone, set forth, long before the appointed hour, and having
plenty of time at his disposal, sauntered down as far as the Mansion
House, where he paused and contemplated, with a face of great calmness
and philosophy, the numerous cads and drivers of short stages who
assemble near that famous place of resort, to the great terror and
confusion of the old-lady population of these realms. Having loitered
here, for half an hour or so, Mr. Weller turned, and began wending his
way towards Leadenhall Market, through a variety of by-streets and
courts. As he was sauntering away his spare time, and stopped to look at
almost every object that met his gaze, it is by no means surprising that
Mr. Weller should have paused before a small stationer’s and print-
seller’s window; but without further explanation it does appear
surprising that his eyes should have no sooner rested on certain
pictures which were exposed for sale therein, than he gave a sudden
start, smote his right leg with great vehemence, and exclaimed, with
energy, ‘if it hadn’t been for this, I should ha’ forgot all about it,
till it was too late!’
The particular picture on which Sam Weller’s eyes were fixed, as he said
this, was a highly-coloured representation of a couple of human hearts
skewered together with an arrow, cooking before a cheerful fire, while a
male and female cannibal in modern attire, the gentleman being clad in a
blue coat and white trousers, and the lady in a deep red pelisse with a
parasol of the same, were approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a
serpentine gravel path leading thereunto. A decidedly indelicate young
gentleman, in a pair of wings and nothing else, was depicted as
superintending the cooking; a representation of the spire of the church
in Langham Place, London, appeared in the distance; and the whole formed
a ‘valentine,’ of which, as a written inscription in the window
testified, there was a large assortment within, which the shopkeeper
pledged himself to dispose of, to his countrymen generally, at the
reduced rate of one-and-sixpence each.
‘I should ha’ forgot it; I should certainly ha’ forgot it!’ said Sam; so
saying, he at once stepped into the stationer’s shop, and requested to
be served with a sheet of the best gilt-edged letter-paper, and a hard-
nibbed pen which could be warranted not to splutter. These articles
having been promptly supplied, he walked on direct towards Leadenhall
Market at a good round pace, very different from his recent lingering
one. Looking round him, he there beheld a signboard on which the
painter’s art had delineated something remotely resembling a cerulean
elephant with an aquiline nose in lieu of trunk. Rightly conjecturing
that this was the Blue Boar himself, he stepped into the house, and
inquired concerning his parent.
‘He won’t be here this three-quarters of an hour or more,’ said the
young lady who superintended the domestic arrangements of the Blue Boar.
‘Wery good, my dear,’ replied Sam. ‘Let me have nine-penn’oth o’ brandy-
and-water luke, and the inkstand, will you, miss?’
The brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, having been carried into
the little parlour, and the young lady having carefully flattened down
the coals to prevent their blazing, and carried away the poker to
preclude the possibility of the fire being stirred, without the full
privity and concurrence of the Blue Boar being first had and obtained,
Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near the stove, and pulled out the
sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and the hard-nibbed pen. Then looking
carefully at the pen to see that there were no hairs in it, and dusting
down the table, so that there might be no crumbs of bread under the
paper, Sam tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and
composed himself to write.
To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of devoting themselves
practically to the science of penmanship, writing a letter is no very
easy task; it being always considered necessary in such cases for the
writer to recline his head on his left arm, so as to place his eyes as
nearly as possible on a level with the paper, and, while glancing
sideways at the letters he is constructing, to form with his tongue
imaginary characters to correspond. These motions, although
unquestionably of the greatest assistance to original composition,
retard in some degree the progress of the writer; and Sam had
unconsciously been a full hour and a half writing words in small text,
smearing out wrong letters with his little finger, and putting in new
ones which required going over very often to render them visible through
the old blots, when he was roused by the opening of the door and the
entrance of his parent.
‘Vell, Sammy,’ said the father.
‘Vell, my Prooshan Blue,’ responded the son, laying down his pen.
‘What’s the last bulletin about mother-in-law?’
‘Mrs. Veller passed a very good night, but is uncommon perwerse, and
unpleasant this mornin’. Signed upon oath, Tony Veller, Esquire. That’s
the last vun as was issued, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, untying his
shawl.
‘No better yet?’ inquired Sam.
‘All the symptoms aggerawated,’ replied Mr. Weller, shaking his head.
‘But wot’s that, you’re a-doin’ of? Pursuit of knowledge under
difficulties, Sammy?’
‘I’ve done now,’ said Sam, with slight embarrassment; ‘I’ve been a-
writin’.’
‘So I see,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Not to any young ‘ooman, I hope,
Sammy?’
‘Why, it’s no use a-sayin’ it ain’t,’ replied Sam; ‘it’s a walentine.’
‘A what!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken by the word.
‘A walentine,’ replied Sam.
‘Samivel, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, ‘I didn’t
think you’d ha’ done it. Arter the warnin’ you’ve had o’ your father’s
wicious propensities; arter all I’ve said to you upon this here wery
subject; arter actiwally seein’ and bein’ in the company o’ your own
mother-in-law, vich I should ha’ thought wos a moral lesson as no man
could never ha’ forgotten to his dyin’ day! I didn’t think you’d ha’
done it, Sammy, I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it!’ These reflections
were too much for the good old man. He raised Sam’s tumbler to his lips
and drank off its contents.
‘Wot’s the matter now?’ said Sam.
‘Nev’r mind, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘it’ll be a wery agonisin’
trial to me at my time of life, but I’m pretty tough, that’s vun
consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked wen the farmer said he wos
afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London market.’
‘Wot’ll be a trial?’ inquired Sam.
‘To see you married, Sammy--to see you a dilluded wictim, and thinkin’
in your innocence that it’s all wery capital,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘It’s
a dreadful trial to a father’s feelin’s, that ‘ere, Sammy--’
‘Nonsense,’ said Sam. ‘I ain’t a-goin’ to get married, don’t you fret
yourself about that; I know you’re a judge of these things. Order in
your pipe and I’ll read you the letter. There!’
We cannot distinctly say whether it was the prospect of the pipe, or the
consolatory reflection that a fatal disposition to get married ran in
the family, and couldn’t be helped, which calmed Mr. Weller’s feelings,
and caused his grief to subside. We should be rather disposed to say
that the result was attained by combining the two sources of
consolation, for he repeated the second in a low tone, very frequently;
ringing the bell meanwhile, to order in the first. He then divested
himself of his upper coat; and lighting the pipe and placing himself in
front of the fire with his back towards it, so that he could feel its
full heat, and recline against the mantel-piece at the same time, turned
towards Sam, and, with a countenance greatly mollified by the softening
influence of tobacco, requested him to ‘fire away.’
Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and
began with a very theatrical air--
‘“Lovely--“’
‘Stop,’ said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. ‘A double glass o’ the
inwariable, my dear.’
‘Very well, Sir,’ replied the girl; who with great quickness appeared,
vanished, returned, and disappeared.
‘They seem to know your ways here,’ observed Sam.
‘Yes,’ replied his father, ‘I’ve been here before, in my time. Go on,
Sammy.’
‘“Lovely creetur,”’ repeated Sam.
‘’Tain’t in poetry, is it?’ interposed his father.
‘No, no,’ replied Sam.
‘Wery glad to hear it,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Poetry’s unnat’ral; no man
ever talked poetry ‘cept a beadle on boxin’-day, or Warren’s blackin’,
or Rowland’s oil, or some of them low fellows; never you let yourself
down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin agin, Sammy.’
Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more
commenced, and read as follows:
‘“Lovely creetur I feel myself a damned--“’
That ain’t proper,’ said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth.
‘No; it ain’t “damned,”’ observed Sam, holding the letter up to the
light, ‘it’s “shamed,” there’s a blot there--“I feel myself ashamed.”’
‘Wery good,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Go on.’
‘Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir--’ I forget what this here word
is,’ said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to
remember.
‘Why don’t you look at it, then?’ inquired Mr. Weller.
‘So I am a-lookin’ at it,’ replied Sam, ‘but there’s another blot.
Here’s a “c,” and a “i,” and a “d.”’
‘Circumwented, p’raps,’ suggested Mr. Weller.
‘No, it ain’t that,’ said Sam, ‘“circumscribed”; that’s it.’
‘That ain’t as good a word as “circumwented,” Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller
gravely.
‘Think not?’ said Sam.
‘Nothin’ like it,’ replied his father.
‘But don’t you think it means more?’ inquired Sam.
‘Vell p’raps it’s a more tenderer word,’ said Mr. Weller, after a few
moments’ reflection. ‘Go on, Sammy.’
‘“Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a-dressin’ of you,
for you are a nice gal and nothin’ but it.”’
‘That’s a wery pretty sentiment,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, removing
his pipe to make way for the remark.
‘Yes, I think it is rayther good,’ observed Sam, highly flattered.
‘Wot I like in that ‘ere style of writin’,’ said the elder Mr. Weller,
‘is, that there ain’t no callin’ names in it--no Wenuses, nor nothin’ o’
that kind. Wot’s the good o’ callin’ a young ‘ooman a Wenus or a angel,
Sammy?’
‘Ah! what, indeed?’ replied Sam.
‘You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king’s
arms at once, which is wery well known to be a collection o’ fabulous
animals,’ added Mr. Weller.
‘Just as well,’ replied Sam.
‘Drive on, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller.
Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows; his father
continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency,
which was particularly edifying.
‘“Afore I see you, I thought all women was alike.”’
‘So they are,’ observed the elder Mr. Weller parenthetically.
‘“But now,”’ continued Sam, ‘“now I find what a reg’lar soft-headed,
inkred’lous turnip I must ha’ been; for there ain’t nobody like you,
though I like you better than nothin’ at all.” I thought it best to make
that rayther strong,’ said Sam, looking up.
Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.
‘“So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear--as the gen’l’m’n
in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday--to tell you that the
first and only time I see you, your likeness was took on my hart in much
quicker time and brighter colours than ever a likeness was took by the
profeel macheen (wich p’raps you may have heerd on Mary my dear) altho
it _does _finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete,
with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a
quarter.”’
‘I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller
dubiously.
‘No, it don’t,’ replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid
contesting the point--
‘“Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine and think over what I’ve
said.--My dear Mary I will now conclude.” That’s all,’ said Sam.
‘That’s rather a Sudden pull-up, ain’t it, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller.
‘Not a bit on it,’ said Sam; ‘she’ll vish there wos more, and that’s the
great art o’ letter-writin’.’
‘Well,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘there’s somethin’ in that; and I wish your
mother-in-law ‘ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel
principle. Ain’t you a-goin’ to sign it?’
‘That’s the difficulty,’ said Sam; ‘I don’t know what to sign it.’
‘Sign it--“Veller”,’ said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name.
‘Won’t do,’ said Sam. ‘Never sign a walentine with your own name.’
‘Sign it “Pickwick,” then,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘it’s a wery good name, and
a easy one to spell.’
The wery thing,’ said Sam. ‘I _could _end with a werse; what do you
think?’
‘I don’t like it, Sam,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘I never know’d a
respectable coachman as wrote poetry, ‘cept one, as made an affectin’
copy o’ werses the night afore he was hung for a highway robbery; and he
wos only a Cambervell man, so even that’s no rule.’
But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred
to him, so he signed the letter--
‘Your love-sick Pickwick.’
And having folded it, in a very intricate manner, squeezed a downhill
direction in one corner: ‘To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkins’s, Mayor’s,
Ipswich, Suffolk’; and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready for
the general post. This important business having been transacted, Mr.
Weller the elder proceeded to open that, on which he had summoned his
son.
‘The first matter relates to your governor, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller.
‘He’s a-goin’ to be tried to-morrow, ain’t he?’
‘The trial’s a-comin’ on,’ replied Sam.
‘Vell,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘Now I s’pose he’ll want to call some witnesses
to speak to his character, or p’rhaps to prove a alleybi. I’ve been a-
turnin’ the bis’ness over in my mind, and he may make his-self easy,
Sammy. I’ve got some friends as’ll do either for him, but my adwice ‘ud
be this here--never mind the character, and stick to the alleybi.
Nothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing.’ Mr. Weller looked very profound
as he delivered this legal opinion; and burying his nose in his tumbler,
winked over the top thereof, at his astonished son.
‘Why, what do you mean?’ said Sam; ‘you don’t think he’s a-goin’ to be
tried at the Old Bailey, do you?’
‘That ain’t no part of the present consideration, Sammy,’ replied Mr.
Weller. ‘Verever he’s a-goin’ to be tried, my boy, a alleybi’s the thing
to get him off. Ve got Tom Vildspark off that ‘ere manslaughter, with a
alleybi, ven all the big vigs to a man said as nothing couldn’t save
him. And my ‘pinion is, Sammy, that if your governor don’t prove a
alleybi, he’ll be what the Italians call reg’larly flummoxed, and that’s
all about it.’
As the elder Mr. Weller entertained a firm and unalterable conviction
that the Old Bailey was the supreme court of judicature in this country,
and that its rules and forms of proceeding regulated and controlled the
practice of all other courts of justice whatsoever, he totally
disregarded the assurances and arguments of his son, tending to show
that the alibi was inadmissible; and vehemently protested that Mr.
Pickwick was being ‘wictimised.’ Finding that it was of no use to
discuss the matter further, Sam changed the subject, and inquired what
the second topic was, on which his revered parent wished to consult him.
‘That’s a pint o’ domestic policy, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘This here
Stiggins--’
‘Red-nosed man?’ inquired Sam.
‘The wery same,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘This here red-nosed man, Sammy,
wisits your mother-in-law vith a kindness and constancy I never see
equalled. He’s sitch a friend o’ the family, Sammy, that wen he’s avay
from us, he can’t be comfortable unless he has somethin’ to remember us
by.’
‘And I’d give him somethin’ as ‘ud turpentine and beeswax his memory for
the next ten years or so, if I wos you,’ interposed Sam.
‘Stop a minute,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘I wos a-going to say, he always
brings now, a flat bottle as holds about a pint and a half, and fills it
vith the pine-apple rum afore he goes avay.’
‘And empties it afore he comes back, I s’pose?’ said Sam.
‘Clean!’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘never leaves nothin’ in it but the cork
and the smell; trust him for that, Sammy. Now, these here fellows, my
boy, are a-goin’ to-night to get up the monthly meetin’ o’ the Brick
Lane Branch o’ the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance
Association. Your mother-in-law wos a-goin’, Sammy, but she’s got the
rheumatics, and can’t; and I, Sammy--I’ve got the two tickets as wos
sent her.’ Mr. Weller communicated this secret with great glee, and
winked so indefatigably after doing so, that Sam began to think he must
have got the _Tic Doloureux_ in his right eyelid.
‘Well?’ said that young gentleman.
‘Well,’ continued his progenitor, looking round him very cautiously,
‘you and I’ll go, punctiwal to the time. The deputy-shepherd won’t,
Sammy; the deputy-shepherd won’t.’ Here Mr. Weller was seized with a
paroxysm of chuckles, which gradually terminated in as near an approach
to a choke as an elderly gentleman can, with safety, sustain.
‘Well, I never see sitch an old ghost in all my born days,’ exclaimed
Sam, rubbing the old gentleman’s back, hard enough to set him on fire
with the friction. ‘What are you a-laughin’ at, corpilence?’
‘Hush! Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, looking round him with increased
caution, and speaking in a whisper. ‘Two friends o’ mine, as works the
Oxford Road, and is up to all kinds o’ games, has got the deputy-
shepherd safe in tow, Sammy; and ven he does come to the Ebenezer
Junction (vich he’s sure to do: for they’ll see him to the door, and
shove him in, if necessary), he’ll be as far gone in rum-and-water, as
ever he wos at the Markis o’ Granby, Dorkin’, and that’s not sayin’ a
little neither.’ And with this, Mr. Weller once more laughed
immoderately, and once more relapsed into a state of partial
suffocation, in consequence.
Nothing could have been more in accordance with Sam Weller’s feelings
than the projected exposure of the real propensities and qualities of
the red-nosed man; and it being very near the appointed hour of meeting,
the father and son took their way at once to Brick Lane, Sam not
forgetting to drop his letter into a general post-office as they walked
along.
The monthly meetings of the Brick Lane Branch of the United Grand
Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association were held in a large room,
pleasantly and airily situated at the top of a safe and commodious
ladder. The president was the straight-walking Mr. Anthony Humm, a
converted fireman, now a schoolmaster, and occasionally an itinerant
preacher; and the secretary was Mr. Jonas Mudge, chandler’s shopkeeper,
an enthusiastic and disinterested vessel, who sold tea to the members.
Previous to the commencement of business, the ladies sat upon forms, and
drank tea, till such time as they considered it expedient to leave off;
and a large wooden money-box was conspicuously placed upon the green
baize cloth of the business-table, behind which the secretary stood, and
acknowledged, with a gracious smile, every addition to the rich vein of
copper which lay concealed within.
On this particular occasion the women drank tea to a most alarming
extent; greatly to the horror of Mr. Weller, senior, who, utterly
regardless of all Sam’s admonitory nudgings, stared about him in every
direction with the most undisguised astonishment.
‘Sammy,’ whispered Mr. Weller, ‘if some o’ these here people don’t want
tappin’ to-morrow mornin’, I ain’t your father, and that’s wot it is.
Why, this here old lady next me is a-drowndin’ herself in tea.’
Be quiet, can’t you?’ murmured Sam.
‘Sam,’ whispered Mr. Weller, a moment afterwards, in a tone of deep
agitation, ‘mark my vords, my boy. If that ‘ere secretary fellow keeps
on for only five minutes more, he’ll blow hisself up with toast and
water.’
‘Well, let him, if he likes,’ replied Sam; ‘it ain’t no bis’ness o’
yourn.’
‘If this here lasts much longer, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, in the same
low voice, ‘I shall feel it my duty, as a human bein’, to rise and
address the cheer. There’s a young ‘ooman on the next form but two, as
has drunk nine breakfast cups and a half; and she’s a-swellin’ wisibly
before my wery eyes.’
There is little doubt that Mr. Weller would have carried his benevolent
intention into immediate execution, if a great noise, occasioned by
putting up the cups and saucers, had not very fortunately announced that
the tea-drinking was over. The crockery having been removed, the table
with the green baize cover was carried out into the centre of the room,
and the business of the evening was commenced by a little emphatic man,
with a bald head and drab shorts, who suddenly rushed up the ladder, at
the imminent peril of snapping the two little legs incased in the drab
shorts, and said--
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I move our excellent brother, Mr. Anthony Humm,
into the chair.’
The ladies waved a choice selection of pocket-handkerchiefs at this
proposition; and the impetuous little man literally moved Mr. Humm into
the chair, by taking him by the shoulders and thrusting him into a
mahogany-frame which had once represented that article of furniture. The
waving of handkerchiefs was renewed; and Mr. Humm, who was a sleek,
white-faced man, in a perpetual perspiration, bowed meekly, to the great
admiration of the females, and formally took his seat. Silence was then
proclaimed by the little man in the drab shorts, and Mr. Humm rose and
said--That, with the permission of his Brick Lane Branch brothers and
sisters, then and there present, the secretary would read the report of
the Brick Lane Branch committee; a proposition which was again received
with a demonstration of pocket-handkerchiefs.
The secretary having sneezed in a very impressive manner, and the cough
which always seizes an assembly, when anything particular is going to be
done, having been duly performed, the following document was read:
‘REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE OF THE BRICK LANE BRANCH OF THE UNITED GRAND
JUNCTION EBENEZER TEMPERANCE ASSOCIATION
‘Your committee have pursued their grateful labours during the past
month, and have the unspeakable pleasure of reporting the following
additional cases of converts to Temperance.
‘H. Walker, tailor, wife, and two children. When in better
circumstances, owns to having been in the constant habit of drinking ale
and beer; says he is not certain whether he did not twice a week, for
twenty years, taste “dog’s nose,” which your committee find upon
inquiry, to be compounded of warm porter, moist sugar, gin, and nutmeg
(a groan, and ‘So it is!’ from an elderly female). Is now out of work
and penniless; thinks it must be the porter (cheers) or the loss of the
use of his right hand; is not certain which, but thinks it very likely
that, if he had drunk nothing but water all his life, his fellow-workman
would never have stuck a rusty needle in him, and thereby occasioned his
accident (tremendous cheering). Has nothing but cold water to drink, and
never feels thirsty (great applause).
‘Betsy Martin, widow, one child, and one eye. Goes out charing and
washing, by the day; never had more than one eye, but knows her mother
drank bottled stout, and shouldn’t wonder if that caused it (immense
cheering). Thinks it not impossible that if she had always abstained
from spirits she might have had two eyes by this time (tremendous
applause). Used, at every place she went to, to have eighteen-pence a
day, a pint of porter, and a glass of spirits; but since she became a
member of the Brick Lane Branch, has always demanded three-and-sixpence
(the announcement of this most interesting fact was received with
deafening enthusiasm).
‘Henry Beller was for many years toast-master at various corporation
dinners, during which time he drank a great deal of foreign wine; may
sometimes have carried a bottle or two home with him; is not quite
certain of that, but is sure if he did, that he drank the contents.
Feels very low and melancholy, is very feverish, and has a constant
thirst upon him; thinks it must be the wine he used to drink (cheers).
Is out of employ now; and never touches a drop of foreign wine by any
chance (tremendous plaudits).
‘Thomas Burton is purveyor of cat’s meat to the Lord Mayor and Sheriffs,
and several members of the Common Council (the announcement of this
gentleman’s name was received with breathless interest). Has a wooden
leg; finds a wooden leg expensive, going over the stones; used to wear
second-hand wooden legs, and drink a glass of hot gin-and-water
regularly every night--sometimes two (deep sighs). Found the second-hand
wooden legs split and rot very quickly; is firmly persuaded that their
constitution was undermined by the gin-and-water (prolonged cheering).
Buys new wooden legs now, and drinks nothing but water and weak tea. The
new legs last twice as long as the others used to do, and he attributes
this solely to his temperate habits (triumphant cheers).’
Anthony Humm now moved that the assembly do regale itself with a song.
With a view to their rational and moral enjoyment, Brother Mordlin had
adapted the beautiful words of ‘Who hasn’t heard of a Jolly Young
Waterman?’ to the tune of the Old Hundredth, which he would request them
to join him in singing (great applause). He might take that opportunity
of expressing his firm persuasion that the late Mr. Dibdin, seeing the
errors of his former life, had written that song to show the advantages
of abstinence. It was a temperance song (whirlwinds of cheers). The
neatness of the young man’s attire, the dexterity of his feathering, the
enviable state of mind which enabled him in the beautiful words of the
poet, to
‘Row along, thinking of nothing at all,’
all combined to prove that he must have been a water-drinker (cheers).
Oh, what a state of virtuous jollity! (rapturous cheering). And what was
the young man’s reward? Let all young men present mark this:
‘The maidens all flocked to his boat so readily.’
(Loud cheers, in which the ladies joined.) What a bright example! The
sisterhood, the maidens, flocking round the young waterman, and urging
him along the stream of duty and of temperance. But, was it the maidens
of humble life only, who soothed, consoled, and supported him? No!
‘He was always first oars with the fine city ladies.’
(Immense cheering.) The soft sex to a man--he begged pardon, to a
female--rallied round the young waterman, and turned with disgust from
the drinker of spirits (cheers). The Brick Lane Branch brothers were
watermen (cheers and laughter). That room was their boat; that audience
were the maidens; and he (Mr. Anthony Humm), however unworthily, was
‘first oars’ (unbounded applause).
‘Wot does he mean by the soft sex, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller, in a
whisper.
‘The womin,’ said Sam, in the same tone.
‘He ain’t far out there, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘they _must _be a
soft sex--a wery soft sex, indeed--if they let themselves be gammoned by
such fellers as him.’
Any further observations from the indignant old gentleman were cut short
by the announcement of the song, which Mr. Anthony Humm gave out two
lines at a time, for the information of such of his hearers as were
unacquainted with the legend. While it was being sung, the little man
with the drab shorts disappeared; he returned immediately on its
conclusion, and whispered Mr. Anthony Humm, with a face of the deepest
importance.
‘My friends,’ said Mr. Humm, holding up his hand in a deprecatory
manner, to bespeak the silence of such of the stout old ladies as were
yet a line or two behind; ‘my friends, a delegate from the Dorking
Branch of our society, Brother Stiggins, attends below.’
Out came the pocket-handkerchiefs again, in greater force than ever; for
Mr. Stiggins was excessively popular among the female constituency of
Brick Lane.
‘He may approach, I think,’ said Mr. Humm, looking round him, with a fat
smile. ‘Brother Tadger, let him come forth and greet us.’
The little man in the drab shorts who answered to the name of Brother
Tadger, bustled down the ladder with great speed, and was immediately
afterwards heard tumbling up with the Reverend Mr. Stiggins.
‘He’s a-comin’, Sammy,’ whispered Mr. Weller, purple in the countenance
with suppressed laughter.
‘Don’t say nothin’ to me,’ replied Sam, ‘for I can’t bear it. He’s close
to the door. I hear him a-knockin’ his head again the lath and plaster
now.’
As Sam Weller spoke, the little door flew open, and Brother Tadger
appeared, closely followed by the Reverend Mr. Stiggins, who no sooner
entered, than there was a great clapping of hands, and stamping of feet,
and flourishing of handkerchiefs; to all of which manifestations of
delight, Brother Stiggins returned no other acknowledgment than staring
with a wild eye, and a fixed smile, at the extreme top of the wick of
the candle on the table, swaying his body to and fro, meanwhile, in a
very unsteady and uncertain manner.
‘Are you unwell, Brother Stiggins?’ whispered Mr. Anthony Humm.
‘I am all right, Sir,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, in a tone in which ferocity
was blended with an extreme thickness of utterance; ‘I am all right,
Sir.’
‘Oh, very well,’ rejoined Mr. Anthony Humm, retreating a few paces.
‘I believe no man here has ventured to say that I am not all right,
Sir?’ said Mr. Stiggins.
‘Oh, certainly not,’ said Mr. Humm.
‘I should advise him not to, Sir; I should advise him not,’ said Mr.
Stiggins.
By this time the audience were perfectly silent, and waited with some
anxiety for the resumption of business.
‘Will you address the meeting, brother?’ said Mr. Humm, with a smile of
invitation.
‘No, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Stiggins; ‘No, sir. I will not, sir.’
The meeting looked at each other with raised eyelids; and a murmur of
astonishment ran through the room.
‘It’s my opinion, sir,’ said Mr. Stiggins, unbuttoning his coat, and
speaking very loudly--‘it’s my opinion, sir, that this meeting is drunk,
sir. Brother Tadger, sir!’ said Mr. Stiggins, suddenly increasing in
ferocity, and turning sharp round on the little man in the drab shorts,
‘_you _are drunk, sir!’ With this, Mr. Stiggins, entertaining a
praiseworthy desire to promote the sobriety of the meeting, and to
exclude therefrom all improper characters, hit Brother Tadger on the
summit of the nose with such unerring aim, that the drab shorts
disappeared like a flash of lightning. Brother Tadger had been knocked,
head first, down the ladder.
Upon this, the women set up a loud and dismal screaming; and rushing in
small parties before their favourite brothers, flung their arms around
them to preserve them from danger. An instance of affection, which had
nearly proved fatal to Humm, who, being extremely popular, was all but
suffocated, by the crowd of female devotees that hung about his neck,
and heaped caresses upon him. The greater part of the lights were
quickly put out, and nothing but noise and confusion resounded on all
sides.
‘Now, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, taking off his greatcoat with much
deliberation, ‘just you step out, and fetch in a watchman.’
‘And wot are you a-goin’ to do, the while?’ inquired Sam.
‘Never you mind me, Sammy,’ replied the old gentleman; ‘I shall ockipy
myself in havin’ a small settlement with that ‘ere Stiggins.’ Before Sam
could interfere to prevent it, his heroic parent had penetrated into a
remote corner of the room, and attacked the Reverend Mr. Stiggins with
manual dexterity.
‘Come off!’ said Sam.
‘Come on!’ cried Mr. Weller; and without further invitation he gave the
Reverend Mr. Stiggins a preliminary tap on the head, and began dancing
round him in a buoyant and cork-like manner, which in a gentleman at his
time of life was a perfect marvel to behold.
Finding all remonstrances unavailing, Sam pulled his hat firmly on,
threw his father’s coat over his arm, and taking the old man round the
waist, forcibly dragged him down the ladder, and into the street; never
releasing his hold, or permitting him to stop, until they reached the
corner. As they gained it, they could hear the shouts of the populace,
who were witnessing the removal of the Reverend Mr. Stiggins to strong
lodgings for the night, and could hear the noise occasioned by the
dispersion in various directions of the members of the Brick Lane Branch
of the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association.
CHAPTER XXXIV. IS WHOLLY DEVOTED TO A FULL AND FAITHFUL REPORT OF THE
MEMORABLE TRIAL OF BARDELL AGAINST PICKWICK
I wonder what the foreman of the jury, whoever he’ll be, has got for
breakfast,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, by way of keeping up a conversation on
the eventful morning of the fourteenth of February.
‘Ah!’ said Perker, ‘I hope he’s got a good one.’
Why so?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Highly important--very important, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker. ‘A
good, contented, well-breakfasted juryman is a capital thing to get hold
of. Discontented or hungry jurymen, my dear sir, always find for the
plaintiff.’
‘Bless my heart,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking very blank, ‘what do they
do that for?’
‘Why, I don’t know,’ replied the little man coolly; ‘saves time, I
suppose. If it’s near dinner-time, the foreman takes out his watch when
the jury has retired, and says, “Dear me, gentlemen, ten minutes to
five, I declare! I dine at five, gentlemen.” “So do I,” says everybody
else, except two men who ought to have dined at three and seem more than
half disposed to stand out in consequence. The foreman smiles, and puts
up his watch:--“Well, gentlemen, what do we say, plaintiff or defendant,
gentlemen? I rather think, so far as I am concerned, gentlemen,--I say,
I rather think--but don’t let that influence you--I _rather_ think the
plaintiff’s the man.” Upon this, two or three other men are sure to say
that they think so too--as of course they do; and then they get on very
unanimously and comfortably. Ten minutes past nine!’ said the little
man, looking at his watch. ‘Time we were off, my dear sir; breach of
promise trial-court is generally full in such cases. You had better ring
for a coach, my dear sir, or we shall be rather late.’
Mr. Pickwick immediately rang the bell, and a coach having been
procured, the four Pickwickians and Mr. Perker ensconced themselves
therein, and drove to Guildhall; Sam Weller, Mr. Lowten, and the blue
bag, following in a cab.
‘Lowten,’ said Perker, when they reached the outer hall of the court,
‘put Mr. Pickwick’s friends in the students’ box; Mr. Pickwick himself
had better sit by me. This way, my dear sir, this way.’ Taking Mr.
Pickwick by the coat sleeve, the little man led him to the low seat just
beneath the desks of the King’s Counsel, which is constructed for the
convenience of attorneys, who from that spot can whisper into the ear of
the leading counsel in the case, any instructions that may be necessary
during the progress of the trial. The occupants of this seat are
invisible to the great body of spectators, inasmuch as they sit on a
much lower level than either the barristers or the audience, whose seats
are raised above the floor. Of course they have their backs to both, and
their faces towards the judge.
‘That’s the witness-box, I suppose?’ said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a
kind of pulpit, with a brass rail, on his left hand.
‘That’s the witness-box, my dear sir,’ replied Perker, disinterring a
quantity of papers from the blue bag, which Lowten had just deposited at
his feet.
‘And that,’ said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a couple of enclosed seats on
his right, ‘that’s where the jurymen sit, is it not?’
‘The identical place, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker, tapping the lid of
his snuff-box.
Mr. Pickwick stood up in a state of great agitation, and took a glance
at the court. There were already a pretty large sprinkling of spectators
in the gallery, and a numerous muster of gentlemen in wigs, in the
barristers’ seats, who presented, as a body, all that pleasing and
extensive variety of nose and whisker for which the Bar of England is so
justly celebrated. Such of the gentlemen as had a brief to carry,
carried it in as conspicuous a manner as possible, and occasionally
scratched their noses therewith, to impress the fact more strongly on
the observation of the spectators. Other gentlemen, who had no briefs to
show, carried under their arms goodly octavos, with a red label behind,
and that under-done-pie-crust-coloured cover, which is technically known
as ‘law calf.’ Others, who had neither briefs nor books, thrust their
hands into their pockets, and looked as wise as they conveniently could;
others, again, moved here and there with great restlessness and
earnestness of manner, content to awaken thereby the admiration and
astonishment of the uninitiated strangers. The whole, to the great
wonderment of Mr. Pickwick, were divided into little groups, who were
chatting and discussing the news of the day in the most unfeeling manner
possible--just as if no trial at all were coming on.
A bow from Mr. Phunky, as he entered, and took his seat behind the row
appropriated to the King’s Counsel, attracted Mr. Pickwick’s attention;
and he had scarcely returned it, when Mr. Serjeant Snubbin appeared,
followed by Mr. Mallard, who half hid the Serjeant behind a large
crimson bag, which he placed on his table, and, after shaking hands with
Perker, withdrew. Then there entered two or three more Serjeants; and
among them, one with a fat body and a red face, who nodded in a friendly
manner to Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, and said it was a fine morning.
‘Who’s that red-faced man, who said it was a fine morning, and nodded to
our counsel?’ whispered Mr. Pickwick.
‘Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz,’ replied Perker. ‘He’s opposed to us; he leads on
the other side. That gentleman behind him is Mr. Skimpin, his junior.’
Mr. Pickwick was on the point of inquiring, with great abhorrence of the
man’s cold-blooded villainy, how Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, who was counsel
for the opposite party, dared to presume to tell Mr. Serjeant Snubbin,
who was counsel for him, that it was a fine morning, when he was
interrupted by a general rising of the barristers, and a loud cry of
‘Silence!’ from the officers of the court. Looking round, he found that
this was caused by the entrance of the judge.
Mr. Justice Stareleigh (who sat in the absence of the Chief Justice,
occasioned by indisposition) was a most particularly short man, and so
fat, that he seemed all face and waistcoat. He rolled in, upon two
little turned legs, and having bobbed gravely to the Bar, who bobbed
gravely to him, put his little legs underneath his table, and his little
three-cornered hat upon it; and when Mr. Justice Stareleigh had done
this, all you could see of him was two queer little eyes, one broad pink
face, and somewhere about half of a big and very comical-looking wig.
The judge had no sooner taken his seat, than the officer on the floor of
the court called out ‘Silence!’ in a commanding tone, upon which another
officer in the gallery cried ‘Silence!’ in an angry manner, whereupon
three or four more ushers shouted ‘Silence!’ in a voice of indignant
remonstrance. This being done, a gentleman in black, who sat below the
judge, proceeded to call over the names of the jury; and after a great
deal of bawling, it was discovered that only ten special jurymen were
present. Upon this, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz prayed a _tales_; the gentleman
in black then proceeded to press into the special jury, two of the
common jurymen; and a greengrocer and a chemist were caught directly.
‘Answer to your names, gentlemen, that you may be sworn,’ said the
gentleman in black. ‘Richard Upwitch.’
‘Here,’ said the greengrocer.
‘Thomas Groffin.’
‘Here,’ said the chemist.
‘Take the book, gentlemen. You shall well and truly try--’
‘I beg this court’s pardon,’ said the chemist, who was a tall, thin,
yellow-visaged man, ‘but I hope this court will excuse my attendance.’
‘On what grounds, Sir?’ said Mr. Justice Stareleigh.
‘I have no assistant, my Lord,’ said the chemist.
‘I can’t help that, Sir,’ replied Mr. Justice Stareleigh. ‘You should
hire one.’
‘I can’t afford it, my Lord,’ rejoined the chemist.
‘Then you ought to be able to afford it, Sir,’ said the judge,
reddening; for Mr. Justice Stareleigh’s temper bordered on the
irritable, and brooked not contradiction.
‘I know I _ought _to do, if I got on as well as I deserved; but I don’t,
my Lord,’ answered the chemist.
‘Swear the gentleman,’ said the judge peremptorily.
The officer had got no further than the ‘You shall well and truly try,’
when he was again interrupted by the chemist.
‘I am to be sworn, my Lord, am I?’ said the chemist.
‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the testy little judge.
‘Very well, my Lord,’ replied the chemist, in a resigned manner. ‘Then
there’ll be murder before this trial’s over; that’s all. Swear me, if
you please, Sir;’ and sworn the chemist was, before the judge could find
words to utter.
‘I merely wanted to observe, my Lord,’ said the chemist, taking his seat
with great deliberation, ‘that I’ve left nobody but an errand-boy in my
shop. He is a very nice boy, my Lord, but he is not acquainted with
drugs; and I know that the prevailing impression on his mind is, that
Epsom salts means oxalic acid; and syrup of senna, laudanum. That’s all,
my Lord.’ With this, the tall chemist composed himself into a
comfortable attitude, and, assuming a pleasant expression of
countenance, appeared to have prepared himself for the worst.
Mr. Pickwick was regarding the chemist with feelings of the deepest
horror, when a slight sensation was perceptible in the body of the
court; and immediately afterwards Mrs. Bardell, supported by Mrs.
Cluppins, was led in, and placed, in a drooping state, at the other end
of the seat on which Mr. Pickwick sat. An extra-sized umbrella was then
handed in by Mr. Dodson, and a pair of pattens by Mr. Fogg, each of whom
had prepared a most sympathising and melancholy face for the occasion.
Mrs. Sanders then appeared, leading in Master Bardell. At sight of her
child, Mrs. Bardell started; suddenly recollecting herself, she kissed
him in a frantic manner; then relapsing into a state of hysterical
imbecility, the good lady requested to be informed where she was. In
reply to this, Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders turned their heads away
and wept, while Messrs. Dodson and Fogg entreated the plaintiff to
compose herself. Serjeant Buzfuz rubbed his eyes very hard with a large
white handkerchief, and gave an appealing look towards the jury, while
the judge was visibly affected, and several of the beholders tried to
cough down their emotion.
‘Very good notion that indeed,’ whispered Perker to Mr. Pickwick.
‘Capital fellows those Dodson and Fogg; excellent ideas of effect, my
dear Sir, excellent.’
As Perker spoke, Mrs. Bardell began to recover by slow degrees, while
Mrs. Cluppins, after a careful survey of Master Bardell’s buttons and
the button-holes to which they severally belonged, placed him on the
floor of the court in front of his mother--a commanding position in
which he could not fail to awaken the full commiseration and sympathy of
both judge and jury. This was not done without considerable opposition,
and many tears, on the part of the young gentleman himself, who had
certain inward misgivings that the placing him within the full glare of
the judge’s eye was only a formal prelude to his being immediately
ordered away for instant execution, or for transportation beyond the
seas, during the whole term of his natural life, at the very least.
‘Bardell and Pickwick,’ cried the gentleman in black, calling on the
case, which stood first on the list.
‘I am for the plaintiff, my Lord,’ said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz.
‘Who is with you, Brother Buzfuz?’ said the judge. Mr. Skimpin bowed, to
intimate that he was.
‘I appear for the defendant, my Lord,’ said Mr. Serjeant Snubbin.
‘Anybody with you, Brother Snubbin?’ inquired the court.
‘Mr. Phunky, my Lord,’ replied Serjeant Snubbin.
‘Serjeant Buzfuz and Mr. Skimpin for the plaintiff,’ said the judge,
writing down the names in his note-book, and reading as he wrote; ‘for
the defendant, Serjeant Snubbin and Mr. Monkey.’
‘Beg your Lordship’s pardon, Phunky.’
‘Oh, very good,’ said the judge; ‘I never had the pleasure of hearing
the gentleman’s name before.’ Here Mr. Phunky bowed and smiled, and the
judge bowed and smiled too, and then Mr. Phunky, blushing into the very
whites of his eyes, tried to look as if he didn’t know that everybody
was gazing at him, a thing which no man ever succeeded in doing yet, or
in all reasonable probability, ever will.
‘Go on,’ said the judge.
The ushers again called silence, and Mr. Skimpin proceeded to ‘open the
case’; and the case appeared to have very little inside it when he had
opened it, for he kept such particulars as he knew, completely to
himself, and sat down, after a lapse of three minutes, leaving the jury
in precisely the same advanced stage of wisdom as they were in before.
Serjeant Buzfuz then rose with all the majesty and dignity which the
grave nature of the proceedings demanded, and having whispered to
Dodson, and conferred briefly with Fogg, pulled his gown over his
shoulders, settled his wig, and addressed the jury.
Serjeant Buzfuz began by saying, that never, in the whole course of his
professional experience--never, from the very first moment of his
applying himself to the study and practice of the law--had he approached
a case with feelings of such deep emotion, or with such a heavy sense of
the responsibility imposed upon him--a responsibility, he would say,
which he could never have supported, were he not buoyed up and sustained
by a conviction so strong, that it amounted to positive certainty that
the cause of truth and justice, or, in other words, the cause of his
much-injured and most oppressed client, must prevail with the high-
minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he now saw in that box before
him.
Counsel usually begin in this way, because it puts the jury on the very
best terms with themselves, and makes them think what sharp fellows they
must be. A visible effect was produced immediately, several jurymen
beginning to take voluminous notes with the utmost eagerness.
‘You have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen,’ continued Serjeant
Buzfuz, well knowing that, from the learned friend alluded to, the
gentlemen of the jury had heard just nothing at all--‘you have heard
from my learned friend, gentlemen, that this is an action for a breach
of promise of marriage, in which the damages are laid at £1,500. But you
have not heard from my learned friend, inasmuch as it did not come
within my learned friend’s province to tell you, what are the facts and
circumstances of the case. Those facts and circumstances, gentlemen, you
shall hear detailed by me, and proved by the unimpeachable female whom I
will place in that box before you.’
Here, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, with a tremendous emphasis on the word ‘box,’
smote his table with a mighty sound, and glanced at Dodson and Fogg, who
nodded admiration of the Serjeant, and indignant defiance of the
defendant.
‘The plaintiff, gentlemen,’ continued Serjeant Buzfuz, in a soft and
melancholy voice, ‘the plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow.
The late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and
confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal
revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere
for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford.’
At this pathetic description of the decease of Mr. Bardell, who had been
knocked on the head with a quart-pot in a public-house cellar, the
learned serjeant’s voice faltered, and he proceeded, with emotion--
‘Some time before his death, he had stamped his likeness upon a little
boy. With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman,
Mrs. Bardell shrank from the world, and courted the retirement and
tranquillity of Goswell Street; and here she placed in her front parlour
window a written placard, bearing this inscription--“Apartments
furnished for a single gentleman. Inquire within.”’ Here Serjeant Buzfuz
paused, while several gentlemen of the jury took a note of the document.
‘There is no date to that, is there?’ inquired a juror.
‘There is no date, gentlemen,’ replied Serjeant Buzfuz; ‘but I am
instructed to say that it was put in the plaintiff’s parlour window just
this time three years. I entreat the attention of the jury to the
wording of this document--“Apartments furnished for a single gentleman”!
Mrs. Bardell’s opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived
from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost
husband. She had no fear, she had no distrust, she had no suspicion; all
was confidence and reliance. “Mr. Bardell,” said the widow--“Mr. Bardell
was a man of honour, Mr. Bardell was a man of his word, Mr. Bardell was
no deceiver, Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single
gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for
consolation; in single gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to
remind me of what Mr. Bardell was when he first won my young and untried
affections; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.”
Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse (among the best impulses
of our imperfect nature, gentlemen), the lonely and desolate widow dried
her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her
maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlour window. Did it remain
there long? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the
mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill
had been in the parlour window three days--three days, gentlemen--a
being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a
man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell’s house.
He inquired within--he took the lodgings; and on the very next day he
entered into possession of them. This man was Pickwick--Pickwick, the
defendant.’
Serjeant Buzfuz, who had proceeded with such volubility that his face
was perfectly crimson, here paused for breath. The silence awoke Mr.
Justice Stareleigh, who immediately wrote down something with a pen
without any ink in it, and looked unusually profound, to impress the
jury with the belief that he always thought most deeply with his eyes
shut. Serjeant Buzfuz proceeded--
‘Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the subject presents but few
attractions; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen,
the men, to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness, and
of systematic villainy.’
Here Mr. Pickwick, who had been writhing in silence for some time, gave
a violent start, as if some vague idea of assaulting Serjeant Buzfuz, in
the august presence of justice and law, suggested itself to his mind. An
admonitory gesture from Perker restrained him, and he listened to the
learned gentleman’s continuation with a look of indignation, which
contrasted forcibly with the admiring faces of Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs.
Sanders.
‘I say systematic villainy, gentlemen,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking
through Mr. Pickwick, and talking _at_ him; ‘and when I say systematic
villainy, let me tell the defendant Pickwick, if he be in court, as I am
informed he is, that it would have been more decent in him, more
becoming, in better judgment, and in better taste, if he had stopped
away. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or
disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will not go down
with you; that you will know how to value and how to appreciate them;
and let me tell him further, as my Lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a
counsel, in the discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be
intimidated nor bullied, nor put down; and that any attempt to do either
the one or the other, or the first, or the last, will recoil on the head
of the attempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his name
Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson.’
This little divergence from the subject in hand, had, of course, the
intended effect of turning all eyes to Mr. Pickwick. Serjeant Buzfuz,
having partially recovered from the state of moral elevation into which
he had lashed himself, resumed--
‘I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years, Pickwick continued to
reside constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs.
Bardell’s house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, during the whole of
that time, waited on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals,
looked out his linen for the washerwoman when it went abroad, darned,
aired, and prepared it for wear, when it came home, and, in short,
enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you that, on many
occasions, he gave halfpence, and on some occasions even sixpences, to
her little boy; and I shall prove to you, by a witness whose testimony
it will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert,
that on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and, after inquiring
whether he had won any “_alley tors_” or “_commoneys_” lately (both of
which I understand to be a particular species of marbles much prized by
the youth of this town), made use of this remarkable expression, “How
should you like to have another father?” I shall prove to you,
gentlemen, that about a year ago, Pickwick suddenly began to absent
himself from home, during long intervals, as if with the intention of
gradually breaking off from my client; but I shall show you also, that
his resolution was not at that time sufficiently strong, or that his
better feelings conquered, if better feelings he has, or that the charms
and accomplishments of my client prevailed against his unmanly
intentions, by proving to you, that on one occasion, when he returned
from the country, he distinctly and in terms, offered her marriage:
previously, however, taking special care that there would be no witness
to their solemn contract; and I am in a situation to prove to you, on
the testimony of three of his own friends--most unwilling witnesses,
gentlemen--most unwilling witnesses--that on that morning he was
discovered by them holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her
agitation by his caresses and endearments.’
A visible impression was produced upon the auditors by this part of the
learned Serjeant’s address. Drawing forth two very small scraps of
paper, he proceeded--
‘And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed between
these parties, letters which are admitted to be in the handwriting of
the defendant, and which speak volumes, indeed. The letters, too,
bespeak the character of the man. They are not open, fervent, eloquent
epistles, breathing nothing but the language of affectionate attachment.
They are covert, sly, underhanded communications, but, fortunately, far
more conclusive than if couched in the most glowing language and the
most poetic imagery--letters that must be viewed with a cautious and
suspicious eye--letters that were evidently intended at the time, by
Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they
might fall. Let me read the first: “Garraways, twelve o’clock. Dear Mrs.
B.--Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, _Pickwick_.” Gentlemen, what does
this mean? Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick! Chops! Gracious
heavens! and tomato sauce! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive
and confiding female to be trifled away, by such shallow artifices as
these? The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious.
“Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home till to-morrow. Slow coach.” And
then follows this very remarkable expression. “Don’t trouble yourself
about the warming-pan.” The warming-pan! Why, gentlemen, who _does
_trouble himself about a warming-pan? When was the peace of mind of man
or woman broken or disturbed by a warming-pan, which is in itself a
harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of
domestic furniture? Why is Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to
agitate herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case)
it is a mere cover for hidden fire--a mere substitute for some endearing
word or promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence,
artfully contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated
desertion, and which I am not in a condition to explain? And what does
this allusion to the slow coach mean? For aught I know, it may be a
reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestionably been a
criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose
speed will now be very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels,
gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will very soon be greased by
you!’
Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz paused in this place, to see whether the jury smiled
at his joke; but as nobody took it but the greengrocer, whose
sensitiveness on the subject was very probably occasioned by his having
subjected a chaise-cart to the process in question on that identical
morning, the learned Serjeant considered it advisable to undergo a
slight relapse into the dismals before he concluded.
‘But enough of this, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, ‘it is
difficult to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our
deepest sympathies are awakened. My client’s hopes and prospects are
ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone
indeed. The bill is down--but there is no tenant. Eligible single
gentlemen pass and repass--but there is no invitation for to inquire
within or without. All is gloom and silence in the house; even the voice
of the child is hushed; his infant sports are disregarded when his
mother weeps; his “alley tors” and his “commoneys” are alike neglected;
he forgets the long familiar cry of “knuckle down,” and at tip-cheese,
or odd and even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the
ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell
Street--Pickwick who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the
sward--Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless tomato
sauce and warming-pans--Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing
effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages,
gentlemen--heavy damages is the only punishment with which you can visit
him; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for those
damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-
feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathising, a
contemplative jury of her civilised countrymen.’ With this beautiful
peroration, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice Stareleigh
woke up.
‘Call Elizabeth Cluppins,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, rising a minute
afterwards, with renewed vigour.
The nearest usher called for Elizabeth Tuppins; another one, at a little
distance off, demanded Elizabeth Jupkins; and a third rushed in a
breathless state into King Street, and screamed for Elizabeth Muffins
till he was hoarse.
Meanwhile Mrs. Cluppins, with the combined assistance of Mrs. Bardell,
Mrs. Sanders, Mr. Dodson, and Mr. Fogg, was hoisted into the witness-
box; and when she was safely perched on the top step, Mrs. Bardell stood
on the bottom one, with the pocket-handkerchief and pattens in one hand,
and a glass bottle that might hold about a quarter of a pint of
smelling-salts in the other, ready for any emergency. Mrs. Sanders,
whose eyes were intently fixed on the judge’s face, planted herself
close by, with the large umbrella, keeping her right thumb pressed on
the spring with an earnest countenance, as if she were fully prepared to
put it up at a moment’s notice.
‘Mrs. Cluppins,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, ‘pray compose yourself, ma’am.’
Of course, directly Mrs. Cluppins was desired to compose herself, she
sobbed with increased vehemence, and gave divers alarming manifestations
of an approaching fainting fit, or, as she afterwards said, of her
feelings being too many for her.
‘Do you recollect, Mrs. Cluppins,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, after a few
unimportant questions--‘do you recollect being in Mrs. Bardell’s back
one pair of stairs, on one particular morning in July last, when she was
dusting Pickwick’s apartment?’
‘Yes, my Lord and jury, I do,’ replied Mrs. Cluppins.
‘Mr. Pickwick’s sitting-room was the first-floor front, I believe?’
‘Yes, it were, Sir,’ replied Mrs. Cluppins.
‘What were you doing in the back room, ma’am?’ inquired the little
judge.
‘My Lord and jury,’ said Mrs. Cluppins, with interesting agitation, ‘I
will not deceive you.’
‘You had better not, ma’am,’ said the little judge.
‘I was there,’ resumed Mrs. Cluppins, ‘unbeknown to Mrs. Bardell; I had
been out with a little basket, gentlemen, to buy three pound of red
kidney pertaties, which was three pound tuppence ha’penny, when I see
Mrs. Bardell’s street door on the jar.’
‘On the what?’ exclaimed the little judge.
‘Partly open, my Lord,’ said Serjeant Snubbin.
‘She said on the jar,’ said the little judge, with a cunning look.
‘It’s all the same, my Lord,’ said Serjeant Snubbin. The little judge
looked doubtful, and said he’d make a note of it. Mrs. Cluppins then
resumed--
‘I walked in, gentlemen, just to say good-mornin’, and went, in a
permiscuous manner, upstairs, and into the back room. Gentlemen, there
was the sound of voices in the front room, and--’
‘And you listened, I believe, Mrs. Cluppins?’ said Serjeant Buzfuz.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, Sir,’ replied Mrs. Cluppins, in a majestic manner,
‘I would scorn the haction. The voices was very loud, Sir, and forced
themselves upon my ear.’
‘Well, Mrs. Cluppins, you were not listening, but you heard the voices.
Was one of those voices Pickwick’s?’
‘Yes, it were, Sir.’ And Mrs. Cluppins, after distinctly stating that
Mr. Pickwick addressed himself to Mrs. Bardell, repeated by slow
degrees, and by dint of many questions, the conversation with which our
readers are already acquainted.
The jury looked suspicious, and Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz smiled as he sat
down. They looked positively awful when Serjeant Snubbin intimated that
he should not cross-examine the witness, for Mr. Pickwick wished it to
be distinctly stated that it was due to her to say, that her account was
in substance correct.
Mrs. Cluppins having once broken the ice, thought it a favourable
opportunity for entering into a short dissertation on her own domestic
affairs; so she straightway proceeded to inform the court that she was
the mother of eight children at that present speaking, and that she
entertained confident expectations of presenting Mr. Cluppins with a
ninth, somewhere about that day six months. At this interesting point,
the little judge interposed most irascibly; and the effect of the
interposition was, that both the worthy lady and Mrs. Sanders were
politely taken out of court, under the escort of Mr. Jackson, without
further parley.
‘Nathaniel Winkle!’ said Mr. Skimpin.
‘Here!’ replied a feeble voice. Mr. Winkle entered the witness-box, and
having been duly sworn, bowed to the judge with considerable deference.
‘Don’t look at me, Sir,’ said the judge sharply, in acknowledgment of
the salute; ‘look at the jury.’
Mr. Winkle obeyed the mandate, and looked at the place where he thought
it most probable the jury might be; for seeing anything in his then
state of intellectual complication was wholly out of the question.
Mr. Winkle was then examined by Mr. Skimpin, who, being a promising
young man of two or three-and-forty, was of course anxious to confuse a
witness who was notoriously predisposed in favour of the other side, as
much as he could.
‘Now, Sir,’ said Mr. Skimpin, ‘have the goodness to let his Lordship
know what your name is, will you?’ and Mr. Skimpin inclined his head on
one side to listen with great sharpness to the answer, and glanced at
the jury meanwhile, as if to imply that he rather expected Mr. Winkle’s
natural taste for perjury would induce him to give some name which did
not belong to him.
‘Winkle,’ replied the witness.
‘What’s your Christian name, Sir?’ angrily inquired the little judge.
‘Nathaniel, Sir.’
‘Daniel--any other name?’
‘Nathaniel, sir--my Lord, I mean.’
‘Nathaniel Daniel, or Daniel Nathaniel?’
‘No, my Lord, only Nathaniel--not Daniel at all.’
‘What did you tell me it was Daniel for, then, sir?’ inquired the judge.
‘I didn’t, my Lord,’ replied Mr. Winkle.
‘You did, Sir,’ replied the judge, with a severe frown. ‘How could I
have got Daniel on my notes, unless you told me so, Sir?’
This argument was, of course, unanswerable.
‘Mr. Winkle has rather a short memory, my Lord,’ interposed Mr. Skimpin,
with another glance at the jury. ‘We shall find means to refresh it
before we have quite done with him, I dare say.’
‘You had better be careful, Sir,’ said the little judge, with a sinister
look at the witness.
Poor Mr. Winkle bowed, and endeavoured to feign an easiness of manner,
which, in his then state of confusion, gave him rather the air of a
disconcerted pickpocket.
‘Now, Mr. Winkle,’ said Mr. Skimpin, ‘attend to me, if you please, Sir;
and let me recommend you, for your own sake, to bear in mind his
Lordship’s injunctions to be careful. I believe you are a particular
friend of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant, are you not?’
‘I have known Mr. Pickwick now, as well as I recollect at this moment,
nearly--’
‘Pray, Mr. Winkle, do not evade the question. Are you, or are you not, a
particular friend of the defendant’s?’
‘I was just about to say, that--’
‘Will you, or will you not, answer my question, Sir?’
If you don’t answer the question, you’ll be committed, Sir,’ interposed
the little judge, looking over his note-book.
‘Come, Sir,’ said Mr. Skimpin, ‘yes or no, if you please.’
‘Yes, I am,’ replied Mr. Winkle.
‘Yes, you are. And why couldn’t you say that at once, Sir? Perhaps you
know the plaintiff too? Eh, Mr. Winkle?’
‘I don’t know her; I’ve seen her.’
‘Oh, you don’t know her, but you’ve seen her? Now, have the goodness to
tell the gentlemen of the jury what you mean by that, Mr. Winkle.’
‘I mean that I am not intimate with her, but I have seen her when I went
to call on Mr. Pickwick, in Goswell Street.’
‘How often have you seen her, Sir?’
‘How often?’
‘Yes, Mr. Winkle, how often? I’ll repeat the question for you a dozen
times, if you require it, Sir.’ And the learned gentleman, with a firm
and steady frown, placed his hands on his hips, and smiled suspiciously
to the jury.
On this question there arose the edifying brow-beating, customary on
such points. First of all, Mr. Winkle said it was quite impossible for
him to say how many times he had seen Mrs. Bardell. Then he was asked if
he had seen her twenty times, to which he replied, ‘Certainly--more than
that.’ Then he was asked whether he hadn’t seen her a hundred times--
whether he couldn’t swear that he had seen her more than fifty times--
whether he didn’t know that he had seen her at least seventy-five times,
and so forth; the satisfactory conclusion which was arrived at, at last,
being, that he had better take care of himself, and mind what he was
about. The witness having been by these means reduced to the requisite
ebb of nervous perplexity, the examination was continued as follows--
‘Pray, Mr. Winkle, do you remember calling on the defendant Pickwick at
these apartments in the plaintiff’s house in Goswell Street, on one
particular morning, in the month of July last?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Were you accompanied on that occasion by a friend of the name of
Tupman, and another by the name of Snodgrass?’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘Are they here?’
Yes, they are,’ replied Mr. Winkle, looking very earnestly towards the
spot where his friends were stationed.
‘Pray attend to me, Mr. Winkle, and never mind your friends,’ said Mr.
Skimpin, with another expressive look at the jury. ‘They must tell their
stories without any previous consultation with you, if none has yet
taken place (another look at the jury). Now, Sir, tell the gentlemen of
the jury what you saw on entering the defendant’s room, on this
particular morning. Come; out with it, Sir; we must have it, sooner or
later.’
‘The defendant, Mr. Pickwick, was holding the plaintiff in his arms,
with his hands clasping her waist,’ replied Mr. Winkle with natural
hesitation, ‘and the plaintiff appeared to have fainted away.’
‘Did you hear the defendant say anything?’
‘I heard him call Mrs. Bardell a good creature, and I heard him ask her
to compose herself, for what a situation it was, if anybody should come,
or words to that effect.’
‘Now, Mr. Winkle, I have only one more question to ask you, and I beg
you to bear in mind his Lordship’s caution. Will you undertake to swear
that Pickwick, the defendant, did not say on the occasion in question--
“My dear Mrs. Bardell, you’re a good creature; compose yourself to this
situation, for to this situation you must come,” or words to that
effect?’
‘I--I didn’t understand him so, certainly,’ said Mr. Winkle, astounded
on this ingenious dove-tailing of the few words he had heard. ‘I was on
the staircase, and couldn’t hear distinctly; the impression on my mind
is--’
‘The gentlemen of the jury want none of the impressions on your mind,
Mr. Winkle, which I fear would be of little service to honest,
straightforward men,’ interposed Mr. Skimpin. ‘You were on the
staircase, and didn’t distinctly hear; but you will not swear that
Pickwick did not make use of the expressions I have quoted? Do I
understand that?’
‘No, I will not,’ replied Mr. Winkle; and down sat Mr. Skimpin with a
triumphant countenance.
Mr. Pickwick’s case had not gone off in so particularly happy a manner,
up to this point, that it could very well afford to have any additional
suspicion cast upon it. But as it could afford to be placed in a rather
better light, if possible, Mr. Phunky rose for the purpose of getting
something important out of Mr. Winkle in cross-examination. Whether he
did get anything important out of him, will immediately appear.
‘I believe, Mr. Winkle,’ said Mr. Phunky, ‘that Mr. Pickwick is not a
young man?’
‘Oh, no,’ replied Mr. Winkle; ‘old enough to be my father.’
‘You have told my learned friend that you have known Mr. Pickwick a long
time. Had you ever any reason to suppose or believe that he was about to
be married?’
‘Oh, no; certainly not;’ replied Mr. Winkle with so much eagerness, that
Mr. Phunky ought to have got him out of the box with all possible
dispatch. Lawyers hold that there are two kinds of particularly bad
witnesses--a reluctant witness, and a too-willing witness; it was Mr.
Winkle’s fate to figure in both characters.
‘I will even go further than this, Mr. Winkle,’ continued Mr. Phunky, in
a most smooth and complacent manner. ‘Did you ever see anything in Mr.
Pickwick’s manner and conduct towards the opposite sex, to induce you to
believe that he ever contemplated matrimony of late years, in any case?’
‘Oh, no; certainly not,’ replied Mr. Winkle.