‘Has his behaviour, when females have been in the case, always been that

of a man, who, having attained a pretty advanced period of life, content

with his own occupations and amusements, treats them only as a father

might his daughters?’

‘Not the least doubt of it,’ replied Mr. Winkle, in the fulness of his

heart. ‘That is--yes--oh, yes--certainly.’

‘You have never known anything in his behaviour towards Mrs. Bardell, or

any other female, in the least degree suspicious?’ said Mr. Phunky,

preparing to sit down; for Serjeant Snubbin was winking at him.

‘N-n-no,’ replied Mr. Winkle, ‘except on one trifling occasion, which, I

have no doubt, might be easily explained.’

Now, if the unfortunate Mr. Phunky had sat down when Serjeant Snubbin

had winked at him, or if Serjeant Buzfuz had stopped this irregular

cross-examination at the outset (which he knew better than to do;

observing Mr. Winkle’s anxiety, and well knowing it would, in all

probability, lead to something serviceable to him), this unfortunate

admission would not have been elicited. The moment the words fell from

Mr. Winkle’s lips, Mr. Phunky sat down, and Serjeant Snubbin rather

hastily told him he might leave the box, which Mr. Winkle prepared to do

with great readiness, when Serjeant Buzfuz stopped him.

‘Stay, Mr. Winkle, stay!’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, ‘will your Lordship have

the goodness to ask him, what this one instance of suspicious behaviour

towards females on the part of this gentleman, who is old enough to be

his father, was?’

‘You hear what the learned counsel says, Sir,’ observed the judge,

turning to the miserable and agonised Mr. Winkle. ‘Describe the occasion

to which you refer.’

‘My Lord,’ said Mr. Winkle, trembling with anxiety, ‘I--I’d rather not.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said the little judge; ‘but you must.’

Amid the profound silence of the whole court, Mr. Winkle faltered out,

that the trifling circumstance of suspicion was Mr. Pickwick’s being

found in a lady’s sleeping-apartment at midnight; which had terminated,

he believed, in the breaking off of the projected marriage of the lady

in question, and had led, he knew, to the whole party being forcibly

carried before George Nupkins, Esq., magistrate and justice of the

peace, for the borough of Ipswich!

‘You may leave the box, Sir,’ said Serjeant Snubbin. Mr. Winkle did

leave the box, and rushed with delirious haste to the George and

Vulture, where he was discovered some hours after, by the waiter,

groaning in a hollow and dismal manner, with his head buried beneath the

sofa cushions.

Tracy Tupman, and Augustus Snodgrass, were severally called into the

box; both corroborated the testimony of their unhappy friend; and each

was driven to the verge of desperation by excessive badgering.

Susannah Sanders was then called, and examined by Serjeant Buzfuz, and

cross-examined by Serjeant Snubbin. Had always said and believed that

Pickwick would marry Mrs. Bardell; knew that Mrs. Bardell’s being

engaged to Pickwick was the current topic of conversation in the

neighbourhood, after the fainting in July; had been told it herself by

Mrs. Mudberry which kept a mangle, and Mrs. Bunkin which clear-starched,

but did not see either Mrs. Mudberry or Mrs. Bunkin in court. Had heard

Pickwick ask the little boy how he should like to have another father.

Did not know that Mrs. Bardell was at that time keeping company with the

baker, but did know that the baker was then a single man and is now

married. Couldn’t swear that Mrs. Bardell was not very fond of the

baker, but should think that the baker was not very fond of Mrs.

Bardell, or he wouldn’t have married somebody else. Thought Mrs. Bardell

fainted away on the morning in July, because Pickwick asked her to name

the day: knew that she (witness) fainted away stone dead when Mr.

Sanders asked her to name the day, and believed that everybody as called

herself a lady would do the same, under similar circumstances. Heard

Pickwick ask the boy the question about the marbles, but upon her oath

did not know the difference between an ‘alley tor’ and a ‘commoney.’

By the _court_.--During the period of her keeping company with Mr.

Sanders, had received love letters, like other ladies. In the course of

their correspondence Mr. Sanders had often called her a ‘duck,’ but

never ‘chops,’ nor yet ‘tomato sauce.’ He was particularly fond of

ducks. Perhaps if he had been as fond of chops and tomato sauce, he

might have called her that, as a term of affection.

Serjeant Buzfuz now rose with more importance than he had yet exhibited,

if that were possible, and vociferated; ‘Call Samuel Weller.’

It was quite unnecessary to call Samuel Weller; for Samuel Weller

stepped briskly into the box the instant his name was pronounced; and

placing his hat on the floor, and his arms on the rail, took a bird’s-

eye view of the Bar, and a comprehensive survey of the Bench, with a

remarkably cheerful and lively aspect.

‘What’s your name, sir?’ inquired the judge.

‘Sam Weller, my Lord,’ replied that gentleman.

‘Do you spell it with a “V” or a “W”?’ inquired the judge.

‘That depends upon the taste and fancy of the speller, my Lord,’ replied

Sam; ‘I never had occasion to spell it more than once or twice in my

life, but I spells it with a “V.”’

Here a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, ‘Quite right too, Samivel,

quite right. Put it down a “we,” my Lord, put it down a “we.”’

Who is that, who dares address the court?’ said the little judge,

looking up. ‘Usher.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Bring that person here instantly.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

But as the usher didn’t find the person, he didn’t bring him; and, after

a great commotion, all the people who had got up to look for the

culprit, sat down again. The little judge turned to the witness as soon

as his indignation would allow him to speak, and said--

‘Do you know who that was, sir?’

‘I rayther suspect it was my father, my lord,’ replied Sam.

‘Do you see him here now?’ said the judge.

‘No, I don’t, my Lord,’ replied Sam, staring right up into the lantern

at the roof of the court.

‘If you could have pointed him out, I would have committed him

instantly,’ said the judge. Sam bowed his acknowledgments and turned,

with unimpaired cheerfulness of countenance, towards Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Now, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Now, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘I believe you are in the service of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant in this

case? Speak up, if you please, Mr. Weller.’

‘I mean to speak up, Sir,’ replied Sam; ‘I am in the service o’ that

‘ere gen’l’man, and a wery good service it is.’

‘Little to do, and plenty to get, I suppose?’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, with

jocularity.

‘Oh, quite enough to get, Sir, as the soldier said ven they ordered him

three hundred and fifty lashes,’ replied Sam.

‘You must not tell us what the soldier, or any other man, said, Sir,’

interposed the judge; ‘it’s not evidence.’

‘Wery good, my Lord,’ replied Sam.

‘Do you recollect anything particular happening on the morning when you

were first engaged by the defendant; eh, Mr. Weller?’ said Serjeant

Buzfuz.

‘Yes, I do, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Have the goodness to tell the jury what it was.’

‘I had a reg’lar new fit out o’ clothes that mornin’, gen’l’men of the

jury,’ said Sam, ‘and that was a wery partickler and uncommon

circumstance vith me in those days.’

Hereupon there was a general laugh; and the little judge, looking with

an angry countenance over his desk, said, ‘You had better be careful,

Sir.’

‘So Mr. Pickwick said at the time, my Lord,’ replied Sam; ‘and I was

wery careful o’ that ‘ere suit o’ clothes; wery careful indeed, my

Lord.’

The judge looked sternly at Sam for full two minutes, but Sam’s features

were so perfectly calm and serene that the judge said nothing, and

motioned Serjeant Buzfuz to proceed.

‘Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, folding his

arms emphatically, and turning half-round to the jury, as if in mute

assurance that he would bother the witness yet--‘do you mean to tell me,

Mr. Weller, that you saw nothing of this fainting on the part of the

plaintiff in the arms of the defendant, which you have heard described

by the witnesses?’

Certainly not,’ replied Sam; ‘I was in the passage till they called me

up, and then the old lady was not there.’

‘Now, attend, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, dipping a large pen

into the inkstand before him, for the purpose of frightening Sam with a

show of taking down his answer. ‘You were in the passage, and yet saw

nothing of what was going forward. Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. Weller?’

‘Yes, I have a pair of eyes,’ replied Sam, ‘and that’s just it. If they

wos a pair o’ patent double million magnifyin’ gas microscopes of hextra

power, p’raps I might be able to see through a flight o’ stairs and a

deal door; but bein’ only eyes, you see, my wision ‘s limited.’

At this answer, which was delivered without the slightest appearance of

irritation, and with the most complete simplicity and equanimity of

manner, the spectators tittered, the little judge smiled, and Serjeant

Buzfuz looked particularly foolish. After a short consultation with

Dodson & Fogg, the learned Serjeant again turned towards Sam, and said,

with a painful effort to conceal his vexation, ‘Now, Mr. Weller, I’ll

ask you a question on another point, if you please.’

‘If you please, Sir,’ rejoined Sam, with the utmost good-humour.

‘Do you remember going up to Mrs. Bardell’s house, one night in November

last?’

Oh, yes, wery well.’

‘Oh, you do remember that, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, recovering

his spirits; ‘I thought we should get at something at last.’

‘I rayther thought that, too, sir,’ replied Sam; and at this the

spectators tittered again.

‘Well; I suppose you went up to have a little talk about this trial--eh,

Mr. Weller?’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking knowingly at the jury.

‘I went up to pay the rent; but we did get a-talkin’ about the trial,’

replied Sam.

‘Oh, you did get a-talking about the trial,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz,

brightening up with the anticipation of some important discovery. ‘Now,

what passed about the trial; will you have the goodness to tell us, Mr.

Weller’?’

‘Vith all the pleasure in life, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Arter a few

unimportant obserwations from the two wirtuous females as has been

examined here to-day, the ladies gets into a very great state o’

admiration at the honourable conduct of Mr. Dodson and Fogg--them two

gen’l’men as is settin’ near you now.’ This, of course, drew general

attention to Dodson & Fogg, who looked as virtuous as possible.

‘The attorneys for the plaintiff,’ said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz. ‘Well! They

spoke in high praise of the honourable conduct of Messrs. Dodson and

Fogg, the attorneys for the plaintiff, did they?’

‘Yes,’ said Sam, ‘they said what a wery gen’rous thing it was o’ them to

have taken up the case on spec, and to charge nothing at all for costs,

unless they got ‘em out of Mr. Pickwick.’

At this very unexpected reply, the spectators tittered again, and Dodson

& Fogg, turning very red, leaned over to Serjeant Buzfuz, and in a

hurried manner whispered something in his ear.

‘You are quite right,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz aloud, with affected

composure. ‘It’s perfectly useless, my Lord, attempting to get at any

evidence through the impenetrable stupidity of this witness. I will not

trouble the court by asking him any more questions. Stand down, sir.’

‘Would any other gen’l’man like to ask me anythin’?’ inquired Sam,

taking up his hat, and looking round most deliberately.

‘Not I, Mr. Weller, thank you,’ said Serjeant Snubbin, laughing.

‘You may go down, sir,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, waving his hand

impatiently. Sam went down accordingly, after doing Messrs. Dodson &

Fogg’s case as much harm as he conveniently could, and saying just as

little respecting Mr. Pickwick as might be, which was precisely the

object he had had in view all along.

‘I have no objection to admit, my Lord,’ said Serjeant Snubbin, ‘if it

will save the examination of another witness, that Mr. Pickwick has

retired from business, and is a gentleman of considerable independent

property.’

‘Very well,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, putting in the two letters to be

read, ‘then that’s my case, my Lord.’

Serjeant Snubbin then addressed the jury on behalf of the defendant; and

a very long and a very emphatic address he delivered, in which he

bestowed the highest possible eulogiums on the conduct and character of

Mr. Pickwick; but inasmuch as our readers are far better able to form a

correct estimate of that gentleman’s merits and deserts, than Serjeant

Snubbin could possibly be, we do not feel called upon to enter at any

length into the learned gentleman’s observations. He attempted to show

that the letters which had been exhibited, merely related to Mr.

Pickwick’s dinner, or to the preparations for receiving him in his

apartments on his return from some country excursion. It is sufficient

to add in general terms, that he did the best he could for Mr. Pickwick;

and the best, as everybody knows, on the infallible authority of the old

adage, could do no more.

Mr. Justice Stareleigh summed up, in the old-established and most

approved form. He read as much of his notes to the jury as he could

decipher on so short a notice, and made running-comments on the evidence

as he went along. If Mrs. Bardell were right, it was perfectly clear

that Mr. Pickwick was wrong, and if they thought the evidence of Mrs.

Cluppins worthy of credence they would believe it, and, if they didn’t,

why, they wouldn’t. If they were satisfied that a breach of promise of

marriage had been committed they would find for the plaintiff with such

damages as they thought proper; and if, on the other hand, it appeared

to them that no promise of marriage had ever been given, they would find

for the defendant with no damages at all. The jury then retired to their

private room to talk the matter over, and the judge retired to _his

_private room, to refresh himself with a mutton chop and a glass of

sherry.

An anxious quarter of a hour elapsed; the jury came back; the judge was

fetched in. Mr. Pickwick put on his spectacles, and gazed at the foreman

with an agitated countenance and a quickly-beating heart.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the individual in black, ‘are you all agreed upon your

verdict?’

‘We are,’ replied the foreman.

‘Do you find for the plaintiff, gentlemen, or for the defendant?’

For the plaintiff.’

‘With what damages, gentlemen?’

‘Seven hundred and fifty pounds.’

Mr. Pickwick took off his spectacles, carefully wiped the glasses,

folded them into their case, and put them in his pocket; then, having

drawn on his gloves with great nicety, and stared at the foreman all the

while, he mechanically followed Mr. Perker and the blue bag out of

court.

They stopped in a side room while Perker paid the court fees; and here,

Mr. Pickwick was joined by his friends. Here, too, he encountered

Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, rubbing their hands with every token of outward

satisfaction.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well, Sir,’ said Dodson, for self and partner.

‘You imagine you’ll get your costs, don’t you, gentlemen?’ said Mr.

Pickwick.

Fogg said they thought it rather probable. Dodson smiled, and said

they’d try.

‘You may try, and try, and try again, Messrs. Dodson and Fogg,’ said Mr.

Pickwick vehemently, ‘but not one farthing of costs or damages do you

ever get from me, if I spend the rest of my existence in a debtor’s

prison.’

‘Ha! ha!’ laughed Dodson. ‘You’ll think better of that, before next

term, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘He, he, he! We’ll soon see about that, Mr. Pickwick,’ grinned Fogg.

Speechless with indignation, Mr. Pickwick allowed himself to be led by

his solicitor and friends to the door, and there assisted into a

hackney-coach, which had been fetched for the purpose, by the ever-

watchful Sam Weller.

Sam had put up the steps, and was preparing to jump upon the box, when

he felt himself gently touched on the shoulder; and, looking round, his

father stood before him. The old gentleman’s countenance wore a mournful

expression, as he shook his head gravely, and said, in warning accents--

‘I know’d what ‘ud come o’ this here mode o’ doin’ bisness. Oh, Sammy,

Sammy, vy worn’t there a alleybi!’

CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH MR. PICKWICK THINKS HE HAD BETTER GO TO BATH; AND

GOES ACCORDINGLY

But surely, my dear sir,’ said little Perker, as he stood in Mr.

Pickwick’s apartment on the morning after the trial, ‘surely you don’t

really mean--really and seriously now, and irritation apart--that you

won’t pay these costs and damages?’

‘Not one halfpenny,’ said Mr. Pickwick firmly; ‘not one halfpenny.’

‘Hooroar for the principle, as the money-lender said ven he vouldn’t

renew the bill,’ observed Mr. Weller, who was clearing away the

breakfast-things.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘have the goodness to step downstairs.’

‘Cert’nly, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; and acting on Mr. Pickwick’s gentle

hint, Sam retired.

‘No, Perker,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with great seriousness of manner, ‘my

friends here have endeavoured to dissuade me from this determination,

but without avail. I shall employ myself as usual, until the opposite

party have the power of issuing a legal process of execution against me;

and if they are vile enough to avail themselves of it, and to arrest my

person, I shall yield myself up with perfect cheerfulness and content of

heart. When can they do this?’

‘They can issue execution, my dear Sir, for the amount of the damages

and taxed costs, next term,’ replied Perker, ‘just two months hence, my

dear sir.’

‘Very good,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Until that time, my dear fellow, let me

hear no more of the matter. And now,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, looking

round on his friends with a good-humoured smile, and a sparkle in the

eye which no spectacles could dim or conceal, ‘the only question is,

Where shall we go next?’

Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were too much affected by their friend’s

heroism to offer any reply. Mr. Winkle had not yet sufficiently

recovered the recollection of his evidence at the trial, to make any

observation on any subject, so Mr. Pickwick paused in vain.

‘Well,’ said that gentleman, ‘if you leave me to suggest our

destination, I say Bath. I think none of us have ever been there.’

Nobody had; and as the proposition was warmly seconded by Perker, who

considered it extremely probable that if Mr. Pickwick saw a little

change and gaiety he would be inclined to think better of his

determination, and worse of a debtor’s prison, it was carried

unanimously; and Sam was at once despatched to the White Horse Cellar,

to take five places by the half-past seven o’clock coach, next morning.

There were just two places to be had inside, and just three to be had

out; so Sam Weller booked for them all, and having exchanged a few

compliments with the booking-office clerk on the subject of a pewter

half-crown which was tendered him as a portion of his ‘change,’ walked

back to the George and Vulture, where he was pretty busily employed

until bed-time in reducing clothes and linen into the smallest possible

compass, and exerting his mechanical genius in constructing a variety of

ingenious devices for keeping the lids on boxes which had neither locks

nor hinges.

The next was a very unpropitious morning for a journey--muggy, damp, and

drizzly. The horses in the stages that were going out, and had come

through the city, were smoking so, that the outside passengers were

invisible. The newspaper-sellers looked moist, and smelled mouldy; the

wet ran off the hats of the orange-vendors as they thrust their heads

into the coach windows, and diluted the insides in a refreshing manner.

The Jews with the fifty-bladed penknives shut them up in despair; the

men with the pocket-books made pocket-books of them. Watch-guards and

toasting-forks were alike at a discount, and pencil-cases and sponges

were a drug in the market.

Leaving Sam Weller to rescue the luggage from the seven or eight porters

who flung themselves savagely upon it, the moment the coach stopped, and

finding that they were about twenty minutes too early, Mr. Pickwick and

his friends went for shelter into the travellers’ room--the last

resource of human dejection.

The travellers’ room at the White Horse Cellar is of course

uncomfortable; it would be no travellers’ room if it were not. It is the

right-hand parlour, into which an aspiring kitchen fireplace appears to

have walked, accompanied by a rebellious poker, tongs, and shovel. It is

divided into boxes, for the solitary confinement of travellers, and is

furnished with a clock, a looking-glass, and a live waiter, which latter

article is kept in a small kennel for washing glasses, in a corner of

the apartment.

One of these boxes was occupied, on this particular occasion, by a

stern-eyed man of about five-and-forty, who had a bald and glossy

forehead, with a good deal of black hair at the sides and back of his

head, and large black whiskers. He was buttoned up to the chin in a

brown coat; and had a large sealskin travelling-cap, and a greatcoat and

cloak, lying on the seat beside him. He looked up from his breakfast as

Mr. Pickwick entered, with a fierce and peremptory air, which was very

dignified; and, having scrutinised that gentleman and his companions to

his entire satisfaction, hummed a tune, in a manner which seemed to say

that he rather suspected somebody wanted to take advantage of him, but

it wouldn’t do.

‘Waiter,’ said the gentleman with the whiskers.

‘Sir?’ replied a man with a dirty complexion, and a towel of the same,

emerging from the kennel before mentioned.

‘Some more toast.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Buttered toast, mind,’ said the gentleman fiercely.

‘Directly, sir,’ replied the waiter.

The gentleman with the whiskers hummed a tune in the same manner as

before, and pending the arrival of the toast, advanced to the front of

the fire, and, taking his coat tails under his arms, looked at his boots

and ruminated.

‘I wonder whereabouts in Bath this coach puts up,’ said Mr. Pickwick,

mildly addressing Mr. Winkle.

‘Hum--eh--what’s that?’ said the strange man.

‘I made an observation to my friend, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, always

ready to enter into conversation. ‘I wondered at what house the Bath

coach put up. Perhaps you can inform me.’

Are you going to Bath?’ said the strange man.

‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘And those other gentlemen?’

‘They are going also,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not inside--I’ll be damned if you’re going inside,’ said the strange

man.

‘Not all of us,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, not all of you,’ said the strange man emphatically. ‘I’ve taken two

places. If they try to squeeze six people into an infernal box that only

holds four, I’ll take a post-chaise and bring an action. I’ve paid my

fare. It won’t do; I told the clerk when I took my places that it

wouldn’t do. I know these things have been done. I know they are done

every day; but I never was done, and I never will be. Those who know me

best, best know it; crush me!’ Here the fierce gentleman rang the bell

with great violence, and told the waiter he’d better bring the toast in

five seconds, or he’d know the reason why.

‘My good sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘you will allow me to observe that

this is a very unnecessary display of excitement. I have only taken

places inside for two.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said the fierce man. ‘I withdraw my expressions.

I tender an apology. There’s my card. Give me your acquaintance.’

‘With great pleasure, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘We are to be fellow-

travellers, and I hope we shall find each other’s society mutually

agreeable.’

‘I hope we shall,’ said the fierce gentleman. ‘I know we shall. I like

your looks; they please me. Gentlemen, your hands and names. Know me.’

Of course, an interchange of friendly salutations followed this gracious

speech; and the fierce gentleman immediately proceeded to inform the

friends, in the same short, abrupt, jerking sentences, that his name was

Dowler; that he was going to Bath on pleasure; that he was formerly in

the army; that he had now set up in business as a gentleman; that he

lived upon the profits; and that the individual for whom the second

place was taken, was a personage no less illustrious than Mrs. Dowler,

his lady wife.

‘She’s a fine woman,’ said Mr. Dowler. ‘I am proud of her. I have

reason.’

‘I hope I shall have the pleasure of judging,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a

smile.

‘You shall,’ replied Dowler. ‘She shall know you. She shall esteem you.

I courted her under singular circumstances. I won her through a rash

vow. Thus. I saw her; I loved her; I proposed; she refused me.--“You

love another?”--“Spare my blushes.”--“I know him.”--“You do.”--“Very

good; if he remains here, I’ll skin him.”’

‘Lord bless me!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick involuntarily.

‘Did you skin the gentleman, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, with a very pale

face.

‘I wrote him a note, I said it was a painful thing. And so it was.’

‘Certainly,’ interposed Mr. Winkle.

‘I said I had pledged my word as a gentleman to skin him. My character

was at stake. I had no alternative. As an officer in His Majesty’s

service, I was bound to skin him. I regretted the necessity, but it must

be done. He was open to conviction. He saw that the rules of the service

were imperative. He fled. I married her. Here’s the coach. That’s her

head.’

As Mr. Dowler concluded, he pointed to a stage which had just driven up,

from the open window of which a rather pretty face in a bright blue

bonnet was looking among the crowd on the pavement, most probably for

the rash man himself. Mr. Dowler paid his bill, and hurried out with his

travelling cap, coat, and cloak; and Mr. Pickwick and his friends

followed to secure their places.

Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had seated themselves at the back part of

the coach; Mr. Winkle had got inside; and Mr. Pickwick was preparing to

follow him, when Sam Weller came up to his master, and whispering in his

ear, begged to speak to him, with an air of the deepest mystery.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘what’s the matter now?’

‘Here’s rayther a rum go, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘What?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘This here, Sir,’ rejoined Sam. ‘I’m wery much afeerd, sir, that the

properiator o’ this here coach is a playin’ some imperence vith us.’

‘How is that, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘aren’t the names down on the

way-bill?’

‘The names is not only down on the vay-bill, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘but

they’ve painted vun on ‘em up, on the door o’ the coach.’ As Sam spoke,

he pointed to that part of the coach door on which the proprietor’s name

usually appears; and there, sure enough, in gilt letters of a goodly

size, was the magic name of _Pickwick_!

‘Dear me,’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite staggered by the coincidence;

‘what a very extraordinary thing!’

‘Yes, but that ain’t all,’ said Sam, again directing his master’s

attention to the coach door; ‘not content vith writin’ up “Pick-wick,”

they puts “Moses” afore it, vich I call addin’ insult to injury, as the

parrot said ven they not only took him from his native land, but made

him talk the English langwidge arterwards.’

‘It’s odd enough, certainly, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but if we stand

talking here, we shall lose our places.’

‘Wot, ain’t nothin’ to be done in consequence, sir?’ exclaimed Sam,

perfectly aghast at the coolness with which Mr. Pickwick prepared to

ensconce himself inside.

‘Done!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘What should be done?’

Ain’t nobody to be whopped for takin’ this here liberty, sir?’ said Mr.

Weller, who had expected that at least he would have been commissioned

to challenge the guard and the coachman to a pugilistic encounter on the

spot.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick eagerly; ‘not on any account. Jump

up to your seat directly.’

‘I am wery much afeered,’ muttered Sam to himself, as he turned away,

‘that somethin’ queer’s come over the governor, or he’d never ha’ stood

this so quiet. I hope that ‘ere trial hasn’t broke his spirit, but it

looks bad, wery bad.’ Mr. Weller shook his head gravely; and it is

worthy of remark, as an illustration of the manner in which he took this

circumstance to heart, that he did not speak another word until the

coach reached the Kensington turnpike. Which was so long a time for him

to remain taciturn, that the fact may be considered wholly

unprecedented.

Nothing worthy of special mention occurred during the journey. Mr.

Dowler related a variety of anecdotes, all illustrative of his own

personal prowess and desperation, and appealed to Mrs. Dowler in

corroboration thereof; when Mrs. Dowler invariably brought in, in the

form of an appendix, some remarkable fact or circumstance which Mr.

Dowler had forgotten, or had perhaps through modesty, omitted; for the

addenda in every instance went to show that Mr. Dowler was even a more

wonderful fellow than he made himself out to be. Mr. Pickwick and Mr.

Winkle listened with great admiration, and at intervals conversed with

Mrs. Dowler, who was a very agreeable and fascinating person. So, what

between Mr. Dowler’s stories, and Mrs. Dowler’s charms, and Mr.

Pickwick’s good-humour, and Mr. Winkle’s good listening, the insides

contrived to be very companionable all the way.

The outsides did as outsides always do. They were very cheerful and

talkative at the beginning of every stage, and very dismal and sleepy in

the middle, and very bright and wakeful again towards the end. There was

one young gentleman in an India-rubber cloak, who smoked cigars all day;

and there was another young gentleman in a parody upon a greatcoat, who

lighted a good many, and feeling obviously unsettled after the second

whiff, threw them away when he thought nobody was looking at him. There

was a third young man on the box who wished to be learned in cattle; and

an old one behind, who was familiar with farming. There was a constant

succession of Christian names in smock-frocks and white coats, who were

invited to have a ‘lift’ by the guard, and who knew every horse and

hostler on the road and off it; and there was a dinner which would have

been cheap at half-a-crown a mouth, if any moderate number of mouths

could have eaten it in the time. And at seven o’clock P.M. Mr. Pickwick

and his friends, and Mr. Dowler and his wife, respectively retired to

their private sitting-rooms at the White Hart Hotel, opposite the Great

Pump Room, Bath, where the waiters, from their costume, might be

mistaken for Westminster boys, only they destroy the illusion by

behaving themselves much better.

Breakfast had scarcely been cleared away on the succeeding morning, when

a waiter brought in Mr. Dowler’s card, with a request to be allowed

permission to introduce a friend. Mr. Dowler at once followed up the

delivery of the card, by bringing himself and the friend also.

The friend was a charming young man of not much more than fifty, dressed

in a very bright blue coat with resplendent buttons, black trousers, and

the thinnest possible pair of highly-polished boots. A gold eye-glass

was suspended from his neck by a short, broad, black ribbon; a gold

snuff-box was lightly clasped in his left hand; gold rings innumerable

glittered on his fingers; and a large diamond pin set in gold glistened

in his shirt frill. He had a gold watch, and a gold curb chain with

large gold seals; and he carried a pliant ebony cane with a gold top.

His linen was of the very whitest, finest, and stiffest; his wig of the

glossiest, blackest, and curliest. His snuff was princes’ mixture; his

scent _bouquet du roi_. His features were contracted into a perpetual

smile; and his teeth were in such perfect order that it was difficult at

a small distance to tell the real from the false.

‘Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mr. Dowler; ‘my friend, Angelo Cyrus Bantam,

Esquire, M.C.; Bantam; Mr. Pickwick. Know each other.’

‘Welcome to Ba--ath, Sir. This is indeed an acquisition. Most welcome to

Ba--ath, sir. It is long--very long, Mr. Pickwick, since you drank the

waters. It appears an age, Mr. Pickwick. Re-markable!’

Such were the expressions with which Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C.,

took Mr. Pickwick’s hand; retaining it in his, meantime, and shrugging

up his shoulders with a constant succession of bows, as if he really

could not make up his mind to the trial of letting it go again.

‘It is a very long time since I drank the waters, certainly,’ replied

Mr. Pickwick; ‘for, to the best of my knowledge, I was never here

before.’

‘Never in Ba--ath, Mr. Pickwick!’ exclaimed the Grand Master, letting

the hand fall in astonishment. ‘Never in Ba--ath! He! he! Mr. Pickwick,

you are a wag. Not bad, not bad. Good, good. He! he! he! Re-markable!’

‘To my shame, I must say that I am perfectly serious,’ rejoined Mr.

Pickwick. ‘I really never was here before.’

‘Oh, I see,’ exclaimed the Grand Master, looking extremely pleased;

‘yes, yes--good, good--better and better. You are the gentleman of whom

we have heard. Yes; we know you, Mr. Pickwick; we know you.’

‘The reports of the trial in those confounded papers,’ thought Mr.

Pickwick. ‘They have heard all about me.’

You are the gentleman residing on Clapham Green,’ resumed Bantam, ‘who

lost the use of his limbs from imprudently taking cold after port wine;

who could not be moved in consequence of acute suffering, and who had

the water from the king’s bath bottled at one hundred and three degrees,

and sent by wagon to his bedroom in town, where he bathed, sneezed, and

the same day recovered. Very remarkable!’

Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment which the supposition implied,

but had the self-denial to repudiate it, notwithstanding; and taking

advantage of a moment’s silence on the part of the M.C., begged to

introduce his friends, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. An

introduction which overwhelmed the M.C. with delight and honour.

‘Bantam,’ said Mr. Dowler, ‘Mr. Pickwick and his friends are strangers.

They must put their names down. Where’s the book?’

‘The register of the distinguished visitors in Ba--ath will be at the

Pump Room this morning at two o’clock,’ replied the M.C. ‘Will you guide

our friends to that splendid building, and enable me to procure their

autographs?’

‘I will,’ rejoined Dowler. ‘This is a long call. It’s time to go. I

shall be here again in an hour. Come.’

‘This is a ball-night,’ said the M.C., again taking Mr. Pickwick’s hand,

as he rose to go. ‘The ball-nights in Ba--ath are moments snatched from

paradise; rendered bewitching by music, beauty, elegance, fashion,

etiquette, and--and--above all, by the absence of tradespeople, who are

quite inconsistent with paradise, and who have an amalgamation of

themselves at the Guildhall every fortnight, which is, to say the least,

remarkable. Good-bye, good-bye!’ and protesting all the way downstairs

that he was most satisfied, and most delighted, and most overpowered,

and most flattered, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C., stepped into a

very elegant chariot that waited at the door, and rattled off.

At the appointed hour, Mr. Pickwick and his friends, escorted by Dowler,

repaired to the Assembly Rooms, and wrote their names down in the book--

an instance of condescension at which Angelo Bantam was even more

overpowered than before. Tickets of admission to that evening’s assembly

were to have been prepared for the whole party, but as they were not

ready, Mr. Pickwick undertook, despite all the protestations to the

contrary of Angelo Bantam, to send Sam for them at four o’clock in the

afternoon, to the M.C.’s house in Queen Square. Having taken a short

walk through the city, and arrived at the unanimous conclusion that Park

Street was very much like the perpendicular streets a man sees in a

dream, which he cannot get up for the life of him, they returned to the

White Hart, and despatched Sam on the errand to which his master had

pledged him.

Sam Weller put on his hat in a very easy and graceful manner, and,

thrusting his hands in his waistcoat pockets, walked with great

deliberation to Queen Square, whistling as he went along, several of the

most popular airs of the day, as arranged with entirely new movements

for that noble instrument the organ, either mouth or barrel. Arriving at

the number in Queen Square to which he had been directed, he left off

whistling and gave a cheerful knock, which was instantaneously answered

by a powdered-headed footman in gorgeous livery, and of symmetrical

stature.

‘Is this here Mr. Bantam’s, old feller?’ inquired Sam Weller, nothing

abashed by the blaze of splendour which burst upon his sight in the

person of the powdered-headed footman with the gorgeous livery.

‘Why, young man?’ was the haughty inquiry of the powdered-headed

footman.

‘’Cos if it is, jist you step in to him with that ‘ere card, and say Mr.

Veller’s a-waitin’, will you?’ said Sam. And saying it, he very coolly

walked into the hall, and sat down.

The powdered-headed footman slammed the door very hard, and scowled very

grandly; but both the slam and the scowl were lost upon Sam, who was

regarding a mahogany umbrella-stand with every outward token of critical

approval.

Apparently his master’s reception of the card had impressed the

powdered-headed footman in Sam’s favour, for when he came back from

delivering it, he smiled in a friendly manner, and said that the answer

would be ready directly.

‘Wery good,’ said Sam. ‘Tell the old gen’l’m’n not to put himself in a

perspiration. No hurry, six-foot. I’ve had my dinner.’

‘You dine early, sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman.

‘I find I gets on better at supper when I does,’ replied Sam.

‘Have you been long in Bath, sir?’ inquired the powdered-headed footman.

‘I have not had the pleasure of hearing of you before.’

‘I haven’t created any wery surprisin’ sensation here, as yet,’ rejoined

Sam, ‘for me and the other fash’nables only come last night.’

‘Nice place, Sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman.

‘Seems so,’ observed Sam.

‘Pleasant society, sir,’ remarked the powdered-headed footman. ‘Very

agreeable servants, sir.’

‘I should think they wos,’ replied Sam. ‘Affable, unaffected, say-

nothin’-to-nobody sorts o’ fellers.’

‘Oh, very much so, indeed, sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman,

taking Sam’s remarks as a high compliment. ‘Very much so indeed. Do you

do anything in this way, Sir?’ inquired the tall footman, producing a

small snuff-box with a fox’s head on the top of it.

‘Not without sneezing,’ replied Sam.

‘Why, it _is_ difficult, sir, I confess,’ said the tall footman. ‘It may

be done by degrees, Sir. Coffee is the best practice. I carried coffee,

Sir, for a long time. It looks very like rappee, sir.’

Here, a sharp peal at the bell reduced the powdered-headed footman to

the ignominious necessity of putting the fox’s head in his pocket, and

hastening with a humble countenance to Mr. Bantam’s ‘study.’ By the bye,

who ever knew a man who never read or wrote either, who hadn’t got some

small back parlour which he _would _call a study!

‘There is the answer, sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman. ‘I’m

afraid you’ll find it inconveniently large.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Sam, taking a letter with a small enclosure.

‘It’s just possible as exhausted natur’ may manage to surwive it.’

‘I hope we shall meet again, Sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman,

rubbing his hands, and following Sam out to the door-step.

‘You are wery obligin’, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Now, don’t allow yourself to

be fatigued beyond your powers; there’s a amiable bein’. Consider what

you owe to society, and don’t let yourself be injured by too much work.

For the sake o’ your feller-creeturs, keep yourself as quiet as you can;

only think what a loss you would be!’ With these pathetic words, Sam

Weller departed.

‘A very singular young man that,’ said the powdered-headed footman,

looking after Mr. Weller, with a countenance which clearly showed he

could make nothing of him.

Sam said nothing at all. He winked, shook his head, smiled, winked

again; and, with an expression of countenance which seemed to denote

that he was greatly amused with something or other, walked merrily away.

At precisely twenty minutes before eight o’clock that night, Angelo

Cyrus Bantam, Esq., the Master of the Ceremonies, emerged from his

chariot at the door of the Assembly Rooms in the same wig, the same

teeth, the same eye-glass, the same watch and seals, the same rings, the

same shirt-pin, and the same cane. The only observable alterations in

his appearance were, that he wore a brighter blue coat, with a white

silk lining, black tights, black silk stockings, and pumps, and a white

waistcoat, and was, if possible, just a thought more scented.

Thus attired, the Master of the Ceremonies, in strict discharge of the

important duties of his all-important office, planted himself in the

room to receive the company.

Bath being full, the company, and the sixpences for tea, poured in, in

shoals. In the ballroom, the long card-room, the octagonal card-room,

the staircases, and the passages, the hum of many voices, and the sound

of many feet, were perfectly bewildering. Dresses rustled, feathers

waved, lights shone, and jewels sparkled. There was the music--not of

the quadrille band, for it had not yet commenced; but the music of soft,

tiny footsteps, with now and then a clear, merry laugh--low and gentle,

but very pleasant to hear in a female voice, whether in Bath or

elsewhere. Brilliant eyes, lighted up with pleasurable expectation,

gleamed from every side; and, look where you would, some exquisite form

glided gracefully through the throng, and was no sooner lost, than it

was replaced by another as dainty and bewitching.

In the tea-room, and hovering round the card-tables, were a vast number

of queer old ladies, and decrepit old gentlemen, discussing all the

small talk and scandal of the day, with a relish and gusto which

sufficiently bespoke the intensity of the pleasure they derived from the

occupation. Mingled with these groups, were three or four match-making

mammas, appearing to be wholly absorbed by the conversation in which

they were taking part, but failing not from time to time to cast an

anxious sidelong glance upon their daughters, who, remembering the

maternal injunction to make the best use of their youth, had already

commenced incipient flirtations in the mislaying scarves, putting on

gloves, setting down cups, and so forth; slight matters apparently, but

which may be turned to surprisingly good account by expert

practitioners.

Lounging near the doors, and in remote corners, were various knots of

silly young men, displaying various varieties of puppyism and stupidity;

amusing all sensible people near them with their folly and conceit; and

happily thinking themselves the objects of general admiration--a wise

and merciful dispensation which no good man will quarrel with.

And lastly, seated on some of the back benches, where they had already

taken up their positions for the evening, were divers unmarried ladies

past their grand climacteric, who, not dancing because there were no

partners for them, and not playing cards lest they should be set down as

irretrievably single, were in the favourable situation of being able to

abuse everybody without reflecting on themselves. In short, they could

abuse everybody, because everybody was there. It was a scene of gaiety,

glitter, and show; of richly-dressed people, handsome mirrors, chalked

floors, girandoles and wax-candles; and in all parts of the scene,

gliding from spot to spot in silent softness, bowing obsequiously to

this party, nodding familiarly to that, and smiling complacently on all,

was the sprucely-attired person of Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, the

Master of the Ceremonies.

‘Stop in the tea-room. Take your sixpenn’orth. Then lay on hot water,

and call it tea. Drink it,’ said Mr. Dowler, in a loud voice, directing

Mr. Pickwick, who advanced at the head of the little party, with Mrs.

Dowler on his arm. Into the tea-room Mr. Pickwick turned; and catching

sight of him, Mr. Bantam corkscrewed his way through the crowd and

welcomed him with ecstasy.

‘My dear Sir, I am highly honoured. Ba--ath is favoured. Mrs. Dowler,

you embellish the rooms. I congratulate you on your feathers. Re-

markable!’

‘Anybody here?’ inquired Dowler suspiciously.

‘Anybody! The _elite _of Ba--ath. Mr. Pickwick, do you see the old lady

in the gauze turban?’

‘The fat old lady?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick innocently.

‘Hush, my dear sir--nobody’s fat or old in Ba--ath. That’s the Dowager

Lady Snuphanuph.’

‘Is it, indeed?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No less a person, I assure you,’ said the Master of the Ceremonies.

‘Hush. Draw a little nearer, Mr. Pickwick. You see the splendidly-

dressed young man coming this way?’

‘The one with the long hair, and the particularly small forehead?’

inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘The same. The richest young man in Ba--ath at this moment. Young Lord

Mutanhed.’

‘You don’t say so?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes. You’ll hear his voice in a moment, Mr. Pickwick. He’ll speak to

me. The other gentleman with him, in the red under-waistcoat and dark

moustache, is the Honourable Mr. Crushton, his bosom friend. How do you

do, my Lord?’

‘Veway hot, Bantam,’ said his Lordship.

‘It _is_ very warm, my Lord,’ replied the M.C.

‘Confounded,’ assented the Honourable Mr. Crushton.

‘Have you seen his Lordship’s mail-cart, Bantam?’ inquired the

Honourable Mr. Crushton, after a short pause, during which young Lord

Mutanhed had been endeavouring to stare Mr. Pickwick out of countenance,

and Mr. Crushton had been reflecting what subject his Lordship could

talk about best.

‘Dear me, no,’ replied the M.C. ‘A mail-cart! What an excellent idea.

Re-markable!’

‘Gwacious heavens!’ said his Lordship, ‘I thought evewebody had seen the

new mail-cart; it’s the neatest, pwettiest, gwacefullest thing that ever

wan upon wheels. Painted wed, with a cweam piebald.’

‘With a real box for the letters, and all complete,’ said the Honourable

Mr. Crushton.

‘And a little seat in fwont, with an iwon wail, for the dwiver,’ added

his Lordship. ‘I dwove it over to Bwistol the other morning, in a

cwimson coat, with two servants widing a quarter of a mile behind; and

confound me if the people didn’t wush out of their cottages, and awest

my pwogwess, to know if I wasn’t the post. Glorwious--glorwious!’

At this anecdote his Lordship laughed very heartily, as did the

listeners, of course. Then, drawing his arm through that of the

obsequious Mr. Crushton, Lord Mutanhed walked away.

‘Delightful young man, his Lordship,’ said the Master of the Ceremonies.

‘So I should think,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick drily.

The dancing having commenced, the necessary introductions having been

made, and all preliminaries arranged, Angelo Bantam rejoined Mr.

Pickwick, and led him into the card-room.

Just at the very moment of their entrance, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph

and two other ladies of an ancient and whist-like appearance, were

hovering over an unoccupied card-table; and they no sooner set eyes upon

Mr. Pickwick under the convoy of Angelo Bantam, than they exchanged

glances with each other, seeing that he was precisely the very person

they wanted, to make up the rubber.

‘My dear Bantam,’ said the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph coaxingly, ‘find us

some nice creature to make up this table; there’s a good soul.’ Mr.

Pickwick happened to be looking another way at the moment, so her

Ladyship nodded her head towards him, and frowned expressively.

‘My friend Mr. Pickwick, my Lady, will be most happy, I am sure,

remarkably so,’ said the M.C., taking the hint. ‘Mr. Pickwick, Lady

Snuphanuph--Mrs. Colonel Wugsby--Miss Bolo.’

Mr. Pickwick bowed to each of the ladies, and, finding escape

impossible, cut. Mr. Pickwick and Miss Bolo against Lady Snuphanuph and

Mrs. Colonel Wugsby.

As the trump card was turned up, at the commencement of the second deal,

two young ladies hurried into the room, and took their stations on

either side of Mrs. Colonel Wugsby’s chair, where they waited patiently

until the hand was over.

‘Now, Jane,’ said Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, turning to one of the girls,

‘what is it?’

I came to ask, ma, whether I might dance with the youngest Mr. Crawley,’

whispered the prettier and younger of the two.

‘Good God, Jane, how can you think of such things?’ replied the mamma

indignantly. ‘Haven’t you repeatedly heard that his father has eight

hundred a year, which dies with him? I am ashamed of you. Not on any

account.’

‘Ma,’ whispered the other, who was much older than her sister, and very

insipid and artificial, ‘Lord Mutanhed has been introduced to me. I said

I thought I wasn’t engaged, ma.’

‘You’re a sweet pet, my love,’ replied Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, tapping her

daughter’s cheek with her fan, ‘and are always to be trusted. He’s

immensely rich, my dear. Bless you!’ With these words Mrs. Colonel

Wugsby kissed her eldest daughter most affectionately, and frowning in a

warning manner upon the other, sorted her cards.

Poor Mr. Pickwick! he had never played with three thorough-paced female

card-players before. They were so desperately sharp, that they quite

frightened him. If he played a wrong card, Miss Bolo looked a small

armoury of daggers; if he stopped to consider which was the right one,

Lady Snuphanuph would throw herself back in her chair, and smile with a

mingled glance of impatience and pity to Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, at which

Mrs. Colonel Wugsby would shrug up her shoulders, and cough, as much as

to say she wondered whether he ever would begin. Then, at the end of

every hand, Miss Bolo would inquire with a dismal countenance and

reproachful sigh, why Mr. Pickwick had not returned that diamond, or led

the club, or roughed the spade, or finessed the heart, or led through

the honour, or brought out the ace, or played up to the king, or some

such thing; and in reply to all these grave charges, Mr. Pickwick would

be wholly unable to plead any justification whatever, having by this

time forgotten all about the game. People came and looked on, too, which

made Mr. Pickwick nervous. Besides all this, there was a great deal of

distracting conversation near the table, between Angelo Bantam and the

two Misses Matinter, who, being single and singular, paid great court to

the Master of the Ceremonies, in the hope of getting a stray partner now

and then. All these things, combined with the noises and interruptions

of constant comings in and goings out, made Mr. Pickwick play rather

badly; the cards were against him, also; and when they left off at ten

minutes past eleven, Miss Bolo rose from the table considerably

agitated, and went straight home, in a flood of tears and a sedan-chair.

Being joined by his friends, who one and all protested that they had

scarcely ever spent a more pleasant evening, Mr. Pickwick accompanied

them to the White Hart, and having soothed his feelings with something

hot, went to bed, and to sleep, almost simultaneously.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE CHIEF FEATURES OF WHICH WILL BE FOUND TO BE AN

AUTHENTIC VERSION OF THE LEGEND OF PRINCE BLADUD, AND A MOST

EXTRAORDINARY CALAMITY THAT BEFELL MR. WINKLE

As Mr. Pickwick contemplated a stay of at least two months in Bath, he

deemed it advisable to take private lodgings for himself and friends for

that period; and as a favourable opportunity offered for their securing,

on moderate terms, the upper portion of a house in the Royal Crescent,

which was larger than they required, Mr. and Mrs. Dowler offered to

relieve them of a bedroom and sitting-room. This proposition was at once

accepted, and in three days’ time they were all located in their new

abode, when Mr. Pickwick began to drink the waters with the utmost

assiduity. Mr. Pickwick took them systematically. He drank a quarter of

a pint before breakfast, and then walked up a hill; and another quarter

of a pint after breakfast, and then walked down a hill; and, after every

fresh quarter of a pint, Mr. Pickwick declared, in the most solemn and

emphatic terms, that he felt a great deal better; whereat his friends

were very much delighted, though they had not been previously aware that

there was anything the matter with him.

The Great Pump Room is a spacious saloon, ornamented with Corinthian

pillars, and a music-gallery, and a Tompion clock, and a statue of Nash,

and a golden inscription, to which all the water-drinkers should attend,

for it appeals to them in the cause of a deserving charity. There is a

large bar with a marble vase, out of which the pumper gets the water;

and there are a number of yellow-looking tumblers, out of which the

company get it; and it is a most edifying and satisfactory sight to

behold the perseverance and gravity with which they swallow it. There

are baths near at hand, in which a part of the company wash themselves;

and a band plays afterwards, to congratulate the remainder on their

having done so. There is another pump room, into which infirm ladies and

gentlemen are wheeled, in such an astonishing variety of chairs and

chaises, that any adventurous individual who goes in with the regular

number of toes, is in imminent danger of coming out without them; and

there is a third, into which the quiet people go, for it is less noisy

than either. There is an immensity of promenading, on crutches and off,

with sticks and without, and a great deal of conversation, and

liveliness, and pleasantry.

Every morning, the regular water-drinkers, Mr. Pickwick among the

number, met each other in the pump room, took their quarter of a pint,

and walked constitutionally. At the afternoon’s promenade, Lord

Mutanhed, and the Honourable Mr. Crushton, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph,

Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, and all the great people, and all the morning

water-drinkers, met in grand assemblage. After this, they walked out, or

drove out, or were pushed out in bath-chairs, and met one another again.

After this, the gentlemen went to the reading-rooms, and met divisions

of the mass. After this, they went home. If it were theatre-night,

perhaps they met at the theatre; if it were assembly-night, they met at

the rooms; and if it were neither, they met the next day. A very

pleasant routine, with perhaps a slight tinge of sameness.

Mr. Pickwick was sitting up by himself, after a day spent in this

manner, making entries in his journal, his friends having retired to

bed, when he was roused by a gentle tap at the room door.

‘Beg your pardon, Sir,’ said Mrs. Craddock, the landlady, peeping in;

‘but did you want anything more, sir?’

‘Nothing more, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘My young girl is gone to bed, Sir,’ said Mrs. Craddock; ‘and Mr. Dowler

is good enough to say that he’ll sit up for Mrs. Dowler, as the party

isn’t expected to be over till late; so I was thinking that if you

wanted nothing more, Mr. Pickwick, I would go to bed.’

‘By all means, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wish you good-night, Sir,’ said Mrs. Craddock.

‘Good-night, ma’am,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick.

Mrs. Craddock closed the door, and Mr. Pickwick resumed his writing.

In half an hour’s time the entries were concluded. Mr. Pickwick

carefully rubbed the last page on the blotting-paper, shut up the book,

wiped his pen on the bottom of the inside of his coat tail, and opened

the drawer of the inkstand to put it carefully away. There were a couple

of sheets of writing-paper, pretty closely written over, in the inkstand

drawer, and they were folded so, that the title, which was in a good

round hand, was fully disclosed to him. Seeing from this, that it was no

private document; and as it seemed to relate to Bath, and was very

short: Mr. Pick-wick unfolded it, lighted his bedroom candle that it

might burn up well by the time he finished; and drawing his chair nearer

the fire, read as follows--

THE TRUE LEGEND OF PRINCE BLADUD

‘Less than two hundred years ago, on one of the public baths in this

city, there appeared an inscription in honour of its mighty founder, the

renowned Prince Bladud. That inscription is now erased.

‘For many hundred years before that time, there had been handed down,

from age to age, an old legend, that the illustrious prince being

afflicted with leprosy, on his return from reaping a rich harvest of

knowledge in Athens, shunned the court of his royal father, and

consorted moodily with husbandman and pigs. Among the herd (so said the

legend) was a pig of grave and solemn countenance, with whom the prince

had a fellow-feeling--for he too was wise--a pig of thoughtful and

reserved demeanour; an animal superior to his fellows, whose grunt was

terrible, and whose bite was sharp. The young prince sighed deeply as he

looked upon the countenance of the majestic swine; he thought of his

royal father, and his eyes were bedewed with tears.

‘This sagacious pig was fond of bathing in rich, moist mud. Not in

summer, as common pigs do now, to cool themselves, and did even in those

distant ages (which is a proof that the light of civilisation had

already begun to dawn, though feebly), but in the cold, sharp days of

winter. His coat was ever so sleek, and his complexion so clear, that

the prince resolved to essay the purifying qualities of the same water

that his friend resorted to. He made the trial. Beneath that black mud,

bubbled the hot springs of Bath. He washed, and was cured. Hastening to

his father’s court, he paid his best respects, and returning quickly

hither, founded this city and its famous baths.

‘He sought the pig with all the ardour of their early friendship--but,

alas! the waters had been his death. He had imprudently taken a bath at

too high a temperature, and the natural philosopher was no more! He was

succeeded by Pliny, who also fell a victim to his thirst for knowledge.

‘This was the legend. Listen to the true one.

‘A great many centuries since, there flourished, in great state, the

famous and renowned Lud Hudibras, king of Britain. He was a mighty

monarch. The earth shook when he walked--he was so very stout. His

people basked in the light of his countenance--it was so red and

glowing. He was, indeed, every inch a king. And there were a good many

inches of him, too, for although he was not very tall, he was a

remarkable size round, and the inches that he wanted in height, he made

up in circumference. If any degenerate monarch of modern times could be

in any way compared with him, I should say the venerable King Cole would

be that illustrious potentate.

‘This good king had a queen, who eighteen years before, had had a son,

who was called Bladud. He was sent to a preparatory seminary in his

father’s dominions until he was ten years old, and was then despatched,

in charge of a trusty messenger, to a finishing school at Athens; and as

there was no extra charge for remaining during the holidays, and no

notice required previous to the removal of a pupil, there he remained

for eight long years, at the expiration of which time, the king his

father sent the lord chamberlain over, to settle the bill, and to bring

him home; which, the lord chamberlain doing, was received with shouts,

and pensioned immediately.

‘When King Lud saw the prince his son, and found he had grown up such a

fine young man, he perceived what a grand thing it would be to have him

married without delay, so that his children might be the means of

perpetuating the glorious race of Lud, down to the very latest ages of

the world. With this view, he sent a special embassy, composed of great

noblemen who had nothing particular to do, and wanted lucrative

employment, to a neighbouring king, and demanded his fair daughter in

marriage for his son; stating at the same time that he was anxious to be

on the most affectionate terms with his brother and friend, but that if

they couldn’t agree in arranging this marriage, he should be under the

unpleasant necessity of invading his kingdom and putting his eyes out.

To this, the other king (who was the weaker of the two) replied that he

was very much obliged to his friend and brother for all his goodness and

magnanimity, and that his daughter was quite ready to be married,

whenever Prince Bladud liked to come and fetch her.

‘This answer no sooner reached Britain, than the whole nation was

transported with joy. Nothing was heard, on all sides, but the sounds of

feasting and revelry--except the chinking of money as it was paid in by

the people to the collector of the royal treasures, to defray the

expenses of the happy ceremony. It was upon this occasion that King Lud,

seated on the top of his throne in full council, rose, in the exuberance

of his feelings, and commanded the lord chief justice to order in the

richest wines and the court minstrels--an act of graciousness which has

been, through the ignorance of traditionary historians, attributed to

King Cole, in those celebrated lines in which his Majesty is represented

as

Calling for his pipe, and calling for his pot, And calling for his

fiddlers three.

Which is an obvious injustice to the memory of King Lud, and a dishonest

exaltation of the virtues of King Cole.

‘But, in the midst of all this festivity and rejoicing, there was one

individual present, who tasted not when the sparkling wines were poured

forth, and who danced not, when the minstrels played. This was no other

than Prince Bladud himself, in honour of whose happiness a whole people

were, at that very moment, straining alike their throats and purse-

strings. The truth was, that the prince, forgetting the undoubted right

of the minister for foreign affairs to fall in love on his behalf, had,

contrary to every precedent of policy and diplomacy, already fallen in

love on his own account, and privately contracted himself unto the fair

daughter of a noble Athenian.

‘Here we have a striking example of one of the manifold advantages of

civilisation and refinement. If the prince had lived in later days, he

might at once have married the object of his father’s choice, and then

set himself seriously to work, to relieve himself of the burden which

rested heavily upon him. He might have endeavoured to break her heart by

a systematic course of insult and neglect; or, if the spirit of her sex,

and a proud consciousness of her many wrongs had upheld her under this

ill-treatment, he might have sought to take her life, and so get rid of

her effectually. But neither mode of relief suggested itself to Prince

Bladud; so he solicited a private audience, and told his father.

‘It is an old prerogative of kings to govern everything but their

passions. King Lud flew into a frightful rage, tossed his crown up to

the ceiling, and caught it again--for in those days kings kept their

crowns on their heads, and not in the Tower--stamped the ground, rapped

his forehead, wondered why his own flesh and blood rebelled against him,

and, finally, calling in his guards, ordered the prince away to instant

Confinement in a lofty turret; a course of treatment which the kings of

old very generally pursued towards their sons, when their matrimonial

inclinations did not happen to point to the same quarter as their own.

‘When Prince Bladud had been shut up in the lofty turret for the greater

part of a year, with no better prospect before his bodily eyes than a

stone wall, or before his mental vision than prolonged imprisonment, he

naturally began to ruminate on a plan of escape, which, after months of

preparation, he managed to accomplish; considerately leaving his dinner-

knife in the heart of his jailer, lest the poor fellow (who had a

family) should be considered privy to his flight, and punished

accordingly by the infuriated king.

‘The monarch was frantic at the loss of his son. He knew not on whom to

vent his grief and wrath, until fortunately bethinking himself of the

lord chamberlain who had brought him home, he struck off his pension and

his head together.

‘Meanwhile, the young prince, effectually disguised, wandered on foot

through his father’s dominions, cheered and supported in all his

hardships by sweet thoughts of the Athenian maid, who was the innocent

cause of his weary trials. One day he stopped to rest in a country

village; and seeing that there were gay dances going forward on the

green, and gay faces passing to and fro, ventured to inquire of a

reveller who stood near him, the reason for this rejoicing.

‘“Know you not, O stranger,” was the reply, “of the recent proclamation

of our gracious king?”

‘“Proclamation! No. What proclamation?” rejoined the prince--for he had

travelled along the by and little-frequented ways, and knew nothing of

what had passed upon the public roads, such as they were.

‘“Why,” replied the peasant, “the foreign lady that our prince wished to

wed, is married to a foreign noble of her own country, and the king

proclaims the fact, and a great public festival besides; for now, of

course, Prince Bladud will come back and marry the lady his father

chose, who they say is as beautiful as the noonday sun. Your health,

sir. God save the king!”

‘The prince remained to hear no more. He fled from the spot, and plunged

into the thickest recesses of a neighbouring wood. On, on, he wandered,

night and day; beneath the blazing sun, and the cold pale moon; through

the dry heat of noon, and the damp cold of night; in the gray light of

morn, and the red glare of eve. So heedless was he of time or object,

that being bound for Athens, he wandered as far out of his way as Bath.

‘There was no city where Bath stands, then. There was no vestige of

human habitation, or sign of man’s resort, to bear the name; but there

was the same noble country, the same broad expanse of hill and dale, the

same beautiful channel stealing on, far away, the same lofty mountains

which, like the troubles of life, viewed at a distance, and partially

obscured by the bright mist of its morning, lose their ruggedness and

asperity, and seem all ease and softness. Moved by the gentle beauty of

the scene, the prince sank upon the green turf, and bathed his swollen

feet in his tears.

‘“Oh!” said the unhappy Bladud, clasping his hands, and mournfully

raising his eyes towards the sky, “would that my wanderings might end

here! Would that these grateful tears with which I now mourn hope

misplaced, and love despised, might flow in peace for ever!”

‘The wish was heard. It was in the time of the heathen deities, who used

occasionally to take people at their words, with a promptness, in some

cases, extremely awkward. The ground opened beneath the prince’s feet;

he sank into the chasm; and instantaneously it closed upon his head for

ever, save where his hot tears welled up through the earth, and where

they have continued to gush forth ever since.

‘It is observable that, to this day, large numbers of elderly ladies and

gentlemen who have been disappointed in procuring partners, and almost

as many young ones who are anxious to obtain them, repair annually to

Bath to drink the waters, from which they derive much strength and

comfort. This is most complimentary to the virtue of Prince Bladud’s

tears, and strongly corroborative of the veracity of this legend.’

Mr. Pickwick yawned several times when he had arrived at the end of this

little manuscript, carefully refolded, and replaced it in the inkstand

drawer, and then, with a countenance expressive of the utmost weariness,

lighted his chamber candle, and went upstairs to bed.

He stopped at Mr. Dowler’s door, according to custom, and knocked to say

good-night.

‘Ah!’ said Dowler, ‘going to bed? I wish I was. Dismal night. Windy;

isn’t it?’

‘Very,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Good-night.’

‘Good-night.’

Mr. Pickwick went to his bedchamber, and Mr. Dowler resumed his seat

before the fire, in fulfilment of his rash promise to sit up till his

wife came home.

There are few things more worrying than sitting up for somebody,

especially if that somebody be at a party. You cannot help thinking how

quickly the time passes with them, which drags so heavily with you; and

the more you think of this, the more your hopes of their speedy arrival

decline. Clocks tick so loud, too, when you are sitting up alone, and

you seem as if you had an under-garment of cobwebs on. First, something

tickles your right knee, and then the same sensation irritates your

left. You have no sooner changed your position, than it comes again in

the arms; when you have fidgeted your limbs into all sorts of queer

shapes, you have a sudden relapse in the nose, which you rub as if to

rub it off--as there is no doubt you would, if you could. Eyes, too, are

mere personal inconveniences; and the wick of one candle gets an inch

and a half long, while you are snuffing the other. These, and various

other little nervous annoyances, render sitting up for a length of time

after everybody else has gone to bed, anything but a cheerful amusement.

This was just Mr. Dowler’s opinion, as he sat before the fire, and felt

honestly indignant with all the inhuman people at the party who were

keeping him up. He was not put into better humour either, by the

reflection that he had taken it into his head, early in the evening, to

think he had got an ache there, and so stopped at home. At length, after

several droppings asleep, and fallings forward towards the bars, and

catchings backward soon enough to prevent being branded in the face, Mr.

Dowler made up his mind that he would throw himself on the bed in the

back room and think--not sleep, of course.

‘I’m a heavy sleeper,’ said Mr. Dowler, as he flung himself on the bed.

‘I must keep awake. I suppose I shall hear a knock here. Yes. I thought

so. I can hear the watchman. There he goes. Fainter now, though. A

little fainter. He’s turning the corner. Ah!’ When Mr. Dowler arrived at

this point, he turned the corner at which he had been long hesitating,

and fell fast asleep.

Just as the clock struck three, there was blown into the crescent a

sedan-chair with Mrs. Dowler inside, borne by one short, fat chairman,

and one long, thin one, who had had much ado to keep their bodies

perpendicular: to say nothing of the chair. But on that high ground, and

in the crescent, which the wind swept round and round as if it were

going to tear the paving stones up, its fury was tremendous. They were

very glad to set the chair down, and give a good round loud double-knock

at the street door.

They waited some time, but nobody came.

‘Servants is in the arms o’ Porpus, I think,’ said the short chairman,

warming his hands at the attendant link-boy’s torch.

‘I wish he’d give ‘em a squeeze and wake ‘em,’ observed the long one.

‘Knock again, will you, if you please,’ cried Mrs. Dowler from the

chair. ‘Knock two or three times, if you please.’

The short man was quite willing to get the job over, as soon as

possible; so he stood on the step, and gave four or five most startling

double-knocks, of eight or ten knocks a-piece, while the long man went

into the road, and looked up at the windows for a light.

Nobody came. It was all as silent and dark as ever.

‘Dear me!’ said Mrs. Dowler. ‘You must knock again, if you please.’

There ain’t a bell, is there, ma’am?’ said the short chairman.

‘Yes, there is,’ interposed the link-boy, ‘I’ve been a-ringing at it

ever so long.’

‘It’s only a handle,’ said Mrs. Dowler, ‘the wire’s broken.’

‘I wish the servants’ heads wos,’ growled the long man.

‘I must trouble you to knock again, if you please,’ said Mrs. Dowler,

with the utmost politeness.

The short man did knock again several times, without producing the

smallest effect. The tall man, growing very impatient, then relieved

him, and kept on perpetually knocking double-knocks of two loud knocks

each, like an insane postman.

At length Mr. Winkle began to dream that he was at a club, and that the

members being very refractory, the chairman was obliged to hammer the

table a good deal to preserve order; then he had a confused notion of an

auction room where there were no bidders, and the auctioneer was buying

everything in; and ultimately he began to think it just within the

bounds of possibility that somebody might be knocking at the street

door. To make quite certain, however, he remained quiet in bed for ten

minutes or so, and listened; and when he had counted two or three-and-

thirty knocks, he felt quite satisfied, and gave himself a great deal of

credit for being so wakeful.

‘Rap rap-rap rap-rap rap-ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, rap!’ went the knocker.

Mr. Winkle jumped out of bed, wondering very much what could possibly be

the matter, and hastily putting on his stockings and slippers, folded

his dressing-gown round him, lighted a flat candle from the rush-light

that was burning in the fireplace, and hurried downstairs.

‘Here’s somebody comin’ at last, ma’am,’ said the short chairman.

‘I wish I wos behind him vith a bradawl,’ muttered the long one.

‘Who’s there?’ cried Mr. Winkle, undoing the chain.

‘Don’t stop to ask questions, cast-iron head,’ replied the long man,

with great disgust, taking it for granted that the inquirer was a

footman; ‘but open the door.’

‘Come, look sharp, timber eyelids,’ added the other encouragingly.

Mr. Winkle, being half asleep, obeyed the command mechanically, opened

the door a little, and peeped out. The first thing he saw, was the red

glare of the link-boy’s torch. Startled by the sudden fear that the

house might be on fire, he hastily threw the door wide open, and holding

the candle above his head, stared eagerly before him, not quite certain

whether what he saw was a sedan-chair or a fire-engine. At this instant

there came a violent gust of wind; the light was blown out; Mr. Winkle

felt himself irresistibly impelled on to the steps; and the door blew

to, with a loud crash.

‘Well, young man, now you _have _done it!’ said the short chairman.

Mr. Winkle, catching sight of a lady’s face at the window of the sedan,

turned hastily round, plied the knocker with all his might and main, and

called frantically upon the chairman to take the chair away again.

‘Take it away, take it away,’ cried Mr. Winkle. ‘Here’s somebody coming

out of another house; put me into the chair. Hide me! Do something with

me!’

All this time he was shivering with cold; and every time he raised his

hand to the knocker, the wind took the dressing-gown in a most

unpleasant manner.

‘The people are coming down the crescent now. There are ladies with ‘em;

cover me up with something. Stand before me!’ roared Mr. Winkle. But the

chairmen were too much exhausted with laughing to afford him the

slightest assistance, and the ladies were every moment approaching

nearer and nearer.

Mr. Winkle gave a last hopeless knock; the ladies were only a few doors

off. He threw away the extinguished candle, which, all this time he had

held above his head, and fairly bolted into the sedan-chair where Mrs.

Dowler was.

Now, Mrs. Craddock had heard the knocking and the voices at last; and,

only waiting to put something smarter on her head than her nightcap, ran

down into the front drawing-room to make sure that it was the right

party. Throwing up the window-sash as Mr. Winkle was rushing into the

chair, she no sooner caught sight of what was going forward below, than

she raised a vehement and dismal shriek, and implored Mr. Dowler to get

up directly, for his wife was running away with another gentleman.

Upon this, Mr. Dowler bounced off the bed as abruptly as an India-rubber

ball, and rushing into the front room, arrived at one window just as Mr.

Pickwick threw up the other, when the first object that met the gaze of

both, was Mr. Winkle bolting into the sedan-chair.

‘Watchman,’ shouted Dowler furiously, ‘stop him--hold him--keep him

tight--shut him in, till I come down. I’ll cut his throat--give me a

knife--from ear to ear, Mrs. Craddock--I will!’ And breaking from the

shrieking landlady, and from Mr. Pickwick, the indignant husband seized

a small supper-knife, and tore into the street.

But Mr. Winkle didn’t wait for him. He no sooner heard the horrible

threat of the valorous Dowler, than he bounced out of the sedan, quite

as quickly as he had bounced in, and throwing off his slippers into the

road, took to his heels and tore round the crescent, hotly pursued by

Dowler and the watchman. He kept ahead; the door was open as he came

round the second time; he rushed in, slammed it in Dowler’s face,

mounted to his bedroom, locked the door, piled a wash-hand-stand, chest

of drawers, and a table against it, and packed up a few necessaries

ready for flight with the first ray of morning.

Dowler came up to the outside of the door; avowed, through the keyhole,

his steadfast determination of cutting Mr. Winkle’s throat next day;

and, after a great confusion of voices in the drawing-room, amidst which

that of Mr. Pickwick was distinctly heard endeavouring to make peace,

the inmates dispersed to their several bed-chambers, and all was quiet

once more.

It is not unlikely that the inquiry may be made, where Mr. Weller was,

all this time? We will state where he was, in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XXXVII. HONOURABLY ACCOUNTS FOR MR. WELLER’S ABSENCE, BY

DESCRIBING A SOIREE TO WHICH HE WAS INVITED AND WENT; ALSO RELATES HOW

HE WAS ENTRUSTED BY MR. PICKWICK WITH A PRIVATE MISSION OF DELICACY AND

IMPORTANCE

Mr. Weller,’ said Mrs. Craddock, upon the morning of this very eventful

day, ‘here’s a letter for you.’

‘Wery odd that,’ said Sam; ‘I’m afeerd there must be somethin’ the

matter, for I don’t recollect any gen’l’m’n in my circle of acquaintance

as is capable o’ writin’ one.’

‘Perhaps something uncommon has taken place,’ observed Mrs. Craddock.

‘It must be somethin’ wery uncommon indeed, as could perduce a letter

out o’ any friend o’ mine,’ replied Sam, shaking his head dubiously;

‘nothin’ less than a nat’ral conwulsion, as the young gen’l’m’n observed

ven he wos took with fits. It can’t be from the gov’ner,’ said Sam,

looking at the direction. ‘He always prints, I know, ‘cos he learnt

writin’ from the large bills in the booking-offices. It’s a wery strange

thing now, where this here letter can ha’ come from.’

As Sam said this, he did what a great many people do when they are

uncertain about the writer of a note--looked at the seal, and then at

the front, and then at the back, and then at the sides, and then at the

superscription; and, as a last resource, thought perhaps he might as

well look at the inside, and try to find out from that.

‘It’s wrote on gilt-edged paper,’ said Sam, as he unfolded it, ‘and

sealed in bronze vax vith the top of a door key. Now for it.’ And, with

a very grave face, Mr. Weller slowly read as follows--

‘A select company of the Bath footmen presents their compliments to Mr.

Weller, and requests the pleasure of his company this evening, to a

friendly swarry, consisting of a boiled leg of mutton with the usual

trimmings. The swarry to be on table at half-past nine o’clock

punctually.’

This was inclosed in another note, which ran thus--

‘Mr. John Smauker, the gentleman who had the pleasure of meeting Mr.

Weller at the house of their mutual acquaintance, Mr. Bantam, a few days

since, begs to inclose Mr. Weller the herewith invitation. If Mr. Weller

will call on Mr. John Smauker at nine o’clock, Mr. John Smauker will

have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Weller.

(Signed) ‘_John Smauker_.’

The envelope was directed to blank Weller, Esq., at Mr. Pickwick’s; and

in a parenthesis, in the left hand corner, were the words ‘airy bell,’

as an instruction to the bearer.

‘Vell,’ said Sam, ‘this is comin’ it rayther powerful, this is. I never

heerd a biled leg o’ mutton called a swarry afore. I wonder wot they’d

call a roast one.’

However, without waiting to debate the point, Sam at once betook himself

into the presence of Mr. Pickwick, and requested leave of absence for

that evening, which was readily granted. With this permission and the

street-door key, Sam Weller issued forth a little before the appointed

time, and strolled leisurely towards Queen Square, which he no sooner

gained than he had the satisfaction of beholding Mr. John Smauker

leaning his powdered head against a lamp-post at a short distance off,

smoking a cigar through an amber tube.

‘How do you do, Mr. Weller?’ said Mr. John Smauker, raising his hat

gracefully with one hand, while he gently waved the other in a

condescending manner. ‘How do you do, Sir?’

‘Why, reasonably conwalessent,’ replied Sam. ‘How do _you _find

yourself, my dear feller?’

‘Only so so,’ said Mr. John Smauker.

‘Ah, you’ve been a-workin’ too hard,’ observed Sam. ‘I was fearful you

would; it won’t do, you know; you must not give way to that ‘ere

uncompromisin’ spirit o’ yourn.’

‘It’s not so much that, Mr. Weller,’ replied Mr. John Smauker, ‘as bad

wine; I’m afraid I’ve been dissipating.’

‘Oh! that’s it, is it?’ said Sam; ‘that’s a wery bad complaint, that.’

‘And yet the temptation, you see, Mr. Weller,’ observed Mr. John

Smauker.

‘Ah, to be sure,’ said Sam.

‘Plunged into the very vortex of society, you know, Mr. Weller,’ said

Mr. John Smauker, with a sigh.

‘Dreadful, indeed!’ rejoined Sam.

‘But it’s always the way,’ said Mr. John Smauker; ‘if your destiny leads

you into public life, and public station, you must expect to be

subjected to temptations which other people is free from, Mr. Weller.’

‘Precisely what my uncle said, ven he vent into the public line,’

remarked Sam, ‘and wery right the old gen’l’m’n wos, for he drank

hisself to death in somethin’ less than a quarter.’

Mr. John Smauker looked deeply indignant at any parallel being drawn

between himself and the deceased gentleman in question; but, as Sam’s

face was in the most immovable state of calmness, he thought better of

it, and looked affable again.

‘Perhaps we had better be walking,’ said Mr. Smauker, consulting a

copper timepiece which dwelt at the bottom of a deep watch-pocket, and

was raised to the surface by means of a black string, with a copper key

at the other end.

‘P’raps we had,’ replied Sam, ‘or they’ll overdo the swarry, and that’ll

spile it.’

‘Have you drank the waters, Mr. Weller?’ inquired his companion, as they

walked towards High Street.

‘Once,’ replied Sam.

‘What did you think of ‘em, Sir?’

‘I thought they was particklery unpleasant,’ replied Sam.

‘Ah,’ said Mr. John Smauker, ‘you disliked the killibeate taste,

perhaps?’

‘I don’t know much about that ‘ere,’ said Sam. ‘I thought they’d a wery

strong flavour o’ warm flat irons.’

‘That _is_ the killibeate, Mr. Weller,’ observed Mr. John Smauker

contemptuously.

‘Well, if it is, it’s a wery inexpressive word, that’s all,’ said Sam.

‘It may be, but I ain’t much in the chimical line myself, so I can’t

say.’ And here, to the great horror of Mr. John Smauker, Sam Weller

began to whistle.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Weller,’ said Mr. John Smauker, agonised at the

exceeding ungenteel sound, ‘will you take my arm?’

‘Thank’ee, you’re wery good, but I won’t deprive you of it,’ replied

Sam. ‘I’ve rayther a way o’ putting my hands in my pockets, if it’s all

the same to you.’ As Sam said this, he suited the action to the word,

and whistled far louder than before.

‘This way,’ said his new friend, apparently much relieved as they turned

down a by-street; ‘we shall soon be there.’

‘Shall we?’ said Sam, quite unmoved by the announcement of his close

vicinity to the select footmen of Bath.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. John Smauker. ‘Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Weller.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Sam.

‘You’ll see some very handsome uniforms, Mr. Weller,’ continued Mr. John

Smauker; ‘and perhaps you’ll find some of the gentlemen rather high at

first, you know, but they’ll soon come round.’

‘That’s wery kind on ‘em,’ replied Sam.

‘And you know,’ resumed Mr. John Smauker, with an air of sublime

protection--‘you know, as you’re a stranger, perhaps, they’ll be rather

hard upon you at first.’

‘They won’t be wery cruel, though, will they?’ inquired Sam.

‘No, no,’ replied Mr. John Smauker, pulling forth the fox’s head, and

taking a gentlemanly pinch. ‘There are some funny dogs among us, and

they will have their joke, you know; but you mustn’t mind ‘em, you

mustn’t mind ‘em.’

‘I’ll try and bear up agin such a reg’lar knock down o’ talent,’ replied

Sam.

‘That’s right,’ said Mr. John Smauker, putting forth his fox’s head, and

elevating his own; ‘I’ll stand by you.’

By this time they had reached a small greengrocer’s shop, which Mr. John

Smauker entered, followed by Sam, who, the moment he got behind him,

relapsed into a series of the very broadest and most unmitigated grins,

and manifested other demonstrations of being in a highly enviable state

of inward merriment.

Crossing the greengrocer’s shop, and putting their hats on the stairs in

the little passage behind it, they walked into a small parlour; and here

the full splendour of the scene burst upon Mr. Weller’s view.

A couple of tables were put together in the middle of the parlour,

covered with three or four cloths of different ages and dates of

washing, arranged to look as much like one as the circumstances of the

case would allow. Upon these were laid knives and forks for six or eight

people. Some of the knife handles were green, others red, and a few

yellow; and as all the forks were black, the combination of colours was

exceedingly striking. Plates for a corresponding number of guests were

warming behind the fender; and the guests themselves were warming before

it: the chief and most important of whom appeared to be a stoutish

gentleman in a bright crimson coat with long tails, vividly red

breeches, and a cocked hat, who was standing with his back to the fire,

and had apparently just entered, for besides retaining his cocked hat on

his head, he carried in his hand a high stick, such as gentlemen of his

profession usually elevate in a sloping position over the roofs of

carriages.

‘Smauker, my lad, your fin,’ said the gentleman with the cocked hat.

Mr. Smauker dovetailed the top joint of his right-hand little finger

into that of the gentleman with the cocked hat, and said he was charmed

to see him looking so well.

‘Well, they tell me I am looking pretty blooming,’ said the man with the

cocked hat, ‘and it’s a wonder, too. I’ve been following our old woman

about, two hours a day, for the last fortnight; and if a constant

contemplation of the manner in which she hooks-and-eyes that infernal

lavender-coloured old gown of hers behind, isn’t enough to throw anybody

into a low state of despondency for life, stop my quarter’s salary.’

At this, the assembled selections laughed very heartily; and one

gentleman in a yellow waistcoat, with a coach-trimming border, whispered

a neighbour in green-foil smalls, that Tuckle was in spirits to-night.

‘By the bye,’ said Mr. Tuckle, ‘Smauker, my boy, you--’ The remainder of

the sentence was forwarded into Mr. John Smauker’s ear, by whisper.

‘Oh, dear me, I quite forgot,’ said Mr. John Smauker. ‘Gentlemen, my

friend Mr. Weller.’

‘Sorry to keep the fire off you, Weller,’ said Mr. Tuckle, with a

familiar nod. ‘Hope you’re not cold, Weller.’

‘Not by no means, Blazes,’ replied Sam. ‘It ‘ud be a wery chilly subject

as felt cold wen you stood opposite. You’d save coals if they put you

behind the fender in the waitin’-room at a public office, you would.’

As this retort appeared to convey rather a personal allusion to Mr.

Tuckle’s crimson livery, that gentleman looked majestic for a few

seconds, but gradually edging away from the fire, broke into a forced

smile, and said it wasn’t bad.

‘Wery much obliged for your good opinion, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘We shall

get on by degrees, I des-say. We’ll try a better one by and bye.’

At this point the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a

gentleman in orange-coloured plush, accompanied by another selection in

purple cloth, with a great extent of stocking. The new-comers having

been welcomed by the old ones, Mr. Tuckle put the question that supper

be ordered in, which was carried unanimously.

The greengrocer and his wife then arranged upon the table a boiled leg

of mutton, hot, with caper sauce, turnips, and potatoes. Mr. Tuckle took

the chair, and was supported at the other end of the board by the

gentleman in orange plush. The greengrocer put on a pair of wash-leather

gloves to hand the plates with, and stationed himself behind Mr.

Tuckle’s chair.

‘Harris,’ said Mr. Tuckle, in a commanding tone.

‘Sir,’ said the greengrocer.

‘Have you got your gloves on?’

Yes, Sir.’

‘Then take the kiver off.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

The greengrocer did as he was told, with a show of great humility, and

obsequiously handed Mr. Tuckle the carving-knife; in doing which, he

accidentally gaped.

‘What do you mean by that, Sir?’ said Mr. Tuckle, with great asperity.

‘I beg your pardon, Sir,’ replied the crestfallen greengrocer, ‘I didn’t

mean to do it, Sir; I was up very late last night, Sir.’

‘I tell you what my opinion of you is, Harris,’ said Mr. Tuckle, with a

most impressive air, ‘you’re a wulgar beast.’

‘I hope, gentlemen,’ said Harris, ‘that you won’t be severe with me,

gentlemen. I am very much obliged to you indeed, gentlemen, for your

patronage, and also for your recommendations, gentlemen, whenever

additional assistance in waiting is required. I hope, gentlemen, I give

satisfaction.’

‘No, you don’t, Sir,’ said Mr. Tuckle. ‘Very far from it, Sir.’

‘We consider you an inattentive reskel,’ said the gentleman in the

orange plush.

‘And a low thief,’ added the gentleman in the green-foil smalls.

‘And an unreclaimable blaygaird,’ added the gentleman in purple.

The poor greengrocer bowed very humbly while these little epithets were

bestowed upon him, in the true spirit of the very smallest tyranny; and

when everybody had said something to show his superiority, Mr. Tuckle

proceeded to carve the leg of mutton, and to help the company.

This important business of the evening had hardly commenced, when the

door was thrown briskly open, and another gentleman in a light-blue

suit, and leaden buttons, made his appearance.

‘Against the rules,’ said Mr. Tuckle. ‘Too late, too late.’

‘No, no; positively I couldn’t help it,’ said the gentleman in blue. ‘I

appeal to the company. An affair of gallantry now, an appointment at the

theayter.’

‘Oh, that indeed,’ said the gentleman in the orange plush.

‘Yes; raly now, honour bright,’ said the man in blue. ‘I made a promese

to fetch our youngest daughter at half-past ten, and she is such an

uncauminly fine gal, that I raly hadn’t the ‘art to disappint her. No

offence to the present company, Sir, but a petticut, sir--a petticut,

Sir, is irrevokeable.’

‘I begin to suspect there’s something in that quarter,’ said Tuckle, as

the new-comer took his seat next Sam, ‘I’ve remarked, once or twice,

that she leans very heavy on your shoulder when she gets in and out of

the carriage.’

‘Oh, raly, raly, Tuckle, you shouldn’t,’ said the man in blue. ‘It’s not

fair. I may have said to one or two friends that she wos a very divine

creechure, and had refused one or two offers without any hobvus cause,

but--no, no, no, indeed, Tuckle--before strangers, too--it’s not right--

you shouldn’t. Delicacy, my dear friend, delicacy!’ And the man in blue,

pulling up his neckerchief, and adjusting his coat cuffs, nodded and

frowned as if there were more behind, which he could say if he liked,

but was bound in honour to suppress.

The man in blue being a light-haired, stiff-necked, free and easy sort

of footman, with a swaggering air and pert face, had attracted Mr.

Weller’s special attention at first, but when he began to come out in

this way, Sam felt more than ever disposed to cultivate his

acquaintance; so he launched himself into the conversation at once, with

characteristic independence.

‘Your health, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘I like your conversation much. I think

it’s wery pretty.’

At this the man in blue smiled, as if it were a compliment he was well

used to; but looked approvingly on Sam at the same time, and said he

hoped he should be better acquainted with him, for without any flattery

at all he seemed to have the makings of a very nice fellow about him,

and to be just the man after his own heart.

‘You’re wery good, sir,’ said Sam. ‘What a lucky feller you are!’

‘How do you mean?’ inquired the gentleman in blue.

‘That ‘ere young lady,’ replied Sam. ‘She knows wot’s wot, she does. Ah!

I see.’ Mr. Weller closed one eye, and shook his head from side to side,

in a manner which was highly gratifying to the personal vanity of the

gentleman in blue.

‘I’m afraid you’re a cunning fellow, Mr. Weller,’ said that individual.

‘No, no,’ said Sam. ‘I leave all that ‘ere to you. It’s a great deal

more in your way than mine, as the gen’l’m’n on the right side o’ the

garden vall said to the man on the wrong un, ven the mad bull vos a-

comin’ up the lane.’

‘Well, well, Mr. Weller,’ said the gentleman in blue, ‘I think she has

remarked my air and manner, Mr. Weller.’

‘I should think she couldn’t wery well be off o’ that,’ said Sam.

‘Have you any little thing of that kind in hand, sir?’ inquired the

favoured gentleman in blue, drawing a toothpick from his waistcoat

pocket.

‘Not exactly,’ said Sam. ‘There’s no daughters at my place, else o’

course I should ha’ made up to vun on ‘em. As it is, I don’t think I can

do with anythin’ under a female markis. I might keep up with a young

‘ooman o’ large property as hadn’t a title, if she made wery fierce love

to me. Not else.’

‘Of course not, Mr. Weller,’ said the gentleman in blue, ‘one can’t be

troubled, you know; and _we_ know, Mr. Weller--we, who are men of the

world--that a good uniform must work its way with the women, sooner or

later. In fact, that’s the only thing, between you and me, that makes

the service worth entering into.’

‘Just so,’ said Sam. ‘That’s it, o’ course.’

When this confidential dialogue had gone thus far, glasses were placed

round, and every gentleman ordered what he liked best, before the

public-house shut up. The gentleman in blue, and the man in orange, who

were the chief exquisites of the party, ordered ‘cold shrub and water,’

but with the others, gin-and-water, sweet, appeared to be the favourite

beverage. Sam called the greengrocer a ‘desp’rate willin,’ and ordered a

large bowl of punch--two circumstances which seemed to raise him very

much in the opinion of the selections.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the man in blue, with an air of the most consummate

dandyism, ‘I’ll give you the ladies; come.’

‘Hear, hear!’ said Sam. ‘The young mississes.’

Here there was a loud cry of ‘Order,’ and Mr. John Smauker, as the

gentleman who had introduced Mr. Weller into that company, begged to

inform him that the word he had just made use of, was unparliamentary.

‘Which word was that ‘ere, Sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘Mississes, Sir,’ replied Mr. John Smauker, with an alarming frown. ‘We

don’t recognise such distinctions here.’

‘Oh, wery good,’ said Sam; ‘then I’ll amend the obserwation and call ‘em

the dear creeturs, if Blazes vill allow me.’

Some doubt appeared to exist in the mind of the gentleman in the green-

foil smalls, whether the chairman could be legally appealed to, as

‘Blazes,’ but as the company seemed more disposed to stand upon their

own rights than his, the question was not raised. The man with the

cocked hat breathed short, and looked long at Sam, but apparently

thought it as well to say nothing, in case he should get the worst of

it. After a short silence, a gentleman in an embroidered coat reaching

down to his heels, and a waistcoat of the same which kept one half of

his legs warm, stirred his gin-and-water with great energy, and putting

himself upon his feet, all at once by a violent effort, said he was

desirous of offering a few remarks to the company, whereupon the person

in the cocked hat had no doubt that the company would be very happy to

hear any remarks that the man in the long coat might wish to offer.

‘I feel a great delicacy, gentlemen, in coming for’ard,’ said the man in

the long coat, ‘having the misforchune to be a coachman, and being only

admitted as a honorary member of these agreeable swarrys, but I do feel

myself bound, gentlemen--drove into a corner, if I may use the

expression--to make known an afflicting circumstance which has come to

my knowledge; which has happened I may say within the soap of my

everyday contemplation. Gentlemen, our friend Mr. Whiffers (everybody

looked at the individual in orange), our friend Mr. Whiffers has

resigned.’

Universal astonishment fell upon the hearers. Each gentleman looked in

his neighbour’s face, and then transferred his glance to the upstanding

coachman.

‘You may well be sapparised, gentlemen,’ said the coachman. ‘I will not

wenchure to state the reasons of this irrepairabel loss to the service,

but I will beg Mr. Whiffers to state them himself, for the improvement

and imitation of his admiring friends.’

The suggestion being loudly approved of, Mr. Whiffers explained. He said

he certainly could have wished to have continued to hold the appointment

he had just resigned. The uniform was extremely rich and expensive, the

females of the family was most agreeable, and the duties of the

situation was not, he was bound to say, too heavy; the principal service

that was required of him, being, that he should look out of the hall

window as much as possible, in company with another gentleman, who had

also resigned. He could have wished to have spared that company the

painful and disgusting detail on which he was about to enter, but as the

explanation had been demanded of him, he had no alternative but to

state, boldly and distinctly, that he had been required to eat cold

meat.

It is impossible to conceive the disgust which this avowal awakened in

the bosoms of the hearers. Loud cries of ‘Shame,’ mingled with groans

and hisses, prevailed for a quarter of an hour.

Mr. Whiffers then added that he feared a portion of this outrage might

be traced to his own forbearing and accommodating disposition. He had a

distinct recollection of having once consented to eat salt butter, and

he had, moreover, on an occasion of sudden sickness in the house, so far

forgotten himself as to carry a coal-scuttle up to the second floor. He

trusted he had not lowered himself in the good opinion of his friends by

this frank confession of his faults; and he hoped the promptness with

which he had resented the last unmanly outrage on his feelings, to which

he had referred, would reinstate him in their good opinion, if he had.

Mr. Whiffers’s address was responded to, with a shout of admiration, and

the health of the interesting martyr was drunk in a most enthusiastic

manner; for this, the martyr returned thanks, and proposed their

visitor, Mr. Weller--a gentleman whom he had not the pleasure of an

intimate acquaintance with, but who was the friend of Mr. John Smauker,

which was a sufficient letter of recommendation to any society of

gentlemen whatever, or wherever. On this account, he should have been

disposed to have given Mr. Weller’s health with all the honours, if his

friends had been drinking wine; but as they were taking spirits by way

of a change, and as it might be inconvenient to empty a tumbler at every

toast, he should propose that the honours be understood.

At the conclusion of this speech, everybody took a sip in honour of Sam;

and Sam having ladled out, and drunk, two full glasses of punch in

honour of himself, returned thanks in a neat speech.

‘Wery much obliged to you, old fellers,’ said Sam, ladling away at the

punch in the most unembarrassed manner possible, ‘for this here

compliment; which, comin’ from sich a quarter, is wery overvelmin’. I’ve

heered a good deal on you as a body, but I will say, that I never

thought you was sich uncommon nice men as I find you air. I only hope

you’ll take care o’ yourselves, and not compromise nothin’ o’ your

dignity, which is a wery charmin’ thing to see, when one’s out a-

walkin’, and has always made me wery happy to look at, ever since I was

a boy about half as high as the brass-headed stick o’ my wery

respectable friend, Blazes, there. As to the wictim of oppression in the

suit o’ brimstone, all I can say of him, is, that I hope he’ll get jist

as good a berth as he deserves; in vitch case it’s wery little cold

swarry as ever he’ll be troubled with agin.’

Here Sam sat down with a pleasant smile, and his speech having been

vociferously applauded, the company broke up.

‘Wy, you don’t mean to say you’re a-goin’ old feller?’ said Sam Weller

to his friend, Mr. John Smauker.

‘I must, indeed,’ said Mr. Smauker; ‘I promised Bantam.’

‘Oh, wery well,’ said Sam; ‘that’s another thing. P’raps he’d resign if

you disappinted him. You ain’t a-goin’, Blazes?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said the man with the cocked hat.

‘Wot, and leave three-quarters of a bowl of punch behind you!’ said Sam;

‘nonsense, set down agin.’

Mr. Tuckle was not proof against this invitation. He laid aside the

cocked hat and stick which he had just taken up, and said he would have

one glass, for good fellowship’s sake.

As the gentleman in blue went home the same way as Mr. Tuckle, he was

prevailed upon to stop too. When the punch was about half gone, Sam

ordered in some oysters from the green-grocer’s shop; and the effect of

both was so extremely exhilarating, that Mr. Tuckle, dressed out with

the cocked hat and stick, danced the frog hornpipe among the shells on

the table, while the gentleman in blue played an accompaniment upon an

ingenious musical instrument formed of a hair-comb upon a curl-paper. At

last, when the punch was all gone, and the night nearly so, they sallied

forth to see each other home. Mr. Tuckle no sooner got into the open

air, than he was seized with a sudden desire to lie on the curbstone;

Sam thought it would be a pity to contradict him, and so let him have

his own way. As the cocked hat would have been spoiled if left there,

Sam very considerately flattened it down on the head of the gentleman in

blue, and putting the big stick in his hand, propped him up against his

own street-door, rang the bell, and walked quietly home.

At a much earlier hour next morning than his usual time of rising, Mr.

Pickwick walked downstairs completely dressed, and rang the bell.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller appeared in reply to the

summons, ‘shut the door.’

Mr. Weller did so.

‘There was an unfortunate occurrence here, last night, Sam,’ said Mr.

Pickwick, ‘which gave Mr. Winkle some cause to apprehend violence from

Mr. Dowler.’

‘So I’ve heerd from the old lady downstairs, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘And I’m sorry to say, Sam,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, with a most

perplexed countenance, ‘that in dread of this violence, Mr. Winkle has

gone away.’

‘Gone avay!’ said Sam.

‘Left the house early this morning, without the slightest previous

communication with me,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘And is gone, I know not

where.’

‘He should ha’ stopped and fought it out, Sir,’ replied Sam

contemptuously. ‘It wouldn’t take much to settle that ‘ere Dowler, Sir.’

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I may have my doubts of his great

bravery and determination also. But however that may be, Mr. Winkle is

gone. He must be found, Sam. Found and brought back to me.’

And s’pose he won’t come back, Sir?’ said Sam.

‘He must be made, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Who’s to do it, Sir?’ inquired Sam, with a smile.

‘You,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wery good, Sir.’

With these words Mr. Weller left the room, and immediately afterwards

was heard to shut the street door. In two hours’ time he returned with

so much coolness as if he had been despatched on the most ordinary

message possible, and brought the information that an individual, in

every respect answering Mr. Winkle’s description, had gone over to

Bristol that morning, by the branch coach from the Royal Hotel.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, grasping his hand, ‘you’re a capital fellow;

an invaluable fellow. You must follow him, Sam.’

‘Cert’nly, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘The instant you discover him, write to me immediately, Sam,’ said Mr.

Pickwick. ‘If he attempts to run away from you, knock him down, or lock

him up. You have my full authority, Sam.’

‘I’ll be wery careful, sir,’ rejoined Sam.

‘You’ll tell him,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that I am highly excited, highly

displeased, and naturally indignant, at the very extraordinary course he

has thought proper to pursue.’

‘I will, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘You’ll tell him,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that if he does not come back to

this very house, with you, he will come back with me, for I will come

and fetch him.’

‘I’ll mention that ‘ere, Sir,’ rejoined Sam.

‘You think you can find him, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking earnestly

in his face.

‘Oh, I’ll find him if he’s anyvere,’ rejoined Sam, with great

confidence.

‘Very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Then the sooner you go the better.’

With these instructions, Mr. Pickwick placed a sum of money in the hands

of his faithful servitor, and ordered him to start for Bristol

immediately, in pursuit of the fugitive.

Sam put a few necessaries in a carpet-bag, and was ready for starting.

He stopped when he had got to the end of the passage, and walking

quietly back, thrust his head in at the parlour door.

‘Sir,’ whispered Sam.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I fully understands my instructions, do I, Sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘I hope so,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It’s reg’larly understood about the knockin’ down, is it, Sir?’

inquired Sam.

‘Perfectly,’ replied Pickwick. ‘Thoroughly. Do what you think necessary.

You have my orders.’

Sam gave a nod of intelligence, and withdrawing his head from the door,

set forth on his pilgrimage with a light heart.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. HOW MR. WINKLE, WHEN HE STEPPED OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN,

WALKED GENTLY AND COMFORTABLY INTO THE FIRE

The ill-starred gentleman who had been the unfortunate cause of the

unusual noise and disturbance which alarmed the inhabitants of the Royal

Crescent in manner and form already described, after passing a night of

great confusion and anxiety, left the roof beneath which his friends

still slumbered, bound he knew not whither. The excellent and

considerate feelings which prompted Mr. Winkle to take this step can

never be too highly appreciated or too warmly extolled. ‘If,’ reasoned

Mr. Winkle with himself--‘if this Dowler attempts (as I have no doubt he

will) to carry into execution his threat of personal violence against

myself, it will be incumbent on me to call him out. He has a wife; that

wife is attached to, and dependent on him. Heavens! If I should kill him

in the blindness of my wrath, what would be my feelings ever

afterwards!’ This painful consideration operated so powerfully on the

feelings of the humane young man, as to cause his knees to knock

together, and his countenance to exhibit alarming manifestations of

inward emotion. Impelled by such reflections, he grasped his carpet-bag,

and creeping stealthily downstairs, shut the detestable street door with

as little noise as possible, and walked off. Bending his steps towards

the Royal Hotel, he found a coach on the point of starting for Bristol,

and, thinking Bristol as good a place for his purpose as any other he

could go to, he mounted the box, and reached his place of destination in

such time as the pair of horses, who went the whole stage and back

again, twice a day or more, could be reasonably supposed to arrive

there.

He took up his quarters at the Bush, and designing to postpone any

communication by letter with Mr. Pickwick until it was probable that Mr.

Dowler’s wrath might have in some degree evaporated, walked forth to

view the city, which struck him as being a shade more dirty than any

place he had ever seen. Having inspected the docks and shipping, and

viewed the cathedral, he inquired his way to Clifton, and being directed

thither, took the route which was pointed out to him. But as the

pavements of Bristol are not the widest or cleanest upon earth, so its

streets are not altogether the straightest or least intricate; and Mr.

Winkle, being greatly puzzled by their manifold windings and twistings,

looked about him for a decent shop in which he could apply afresh for

counsel and instruction.

His eye fell upon a newly-painted tenement which had been recently

converted into something between a shop and a private house, and which a

red lamp, projecting over the fanlight of the street door, would have

sufficiently announced as the residence of a medical practitioner, even

if the word ‘Surgery’ had not been inscribed in golden characters on a

wainscot ground, above the window of what, in times bygone, had been the

front parlour. Thinking this an eligible place wherein to make his

inquiries, Mr. Winkle stepped into the little shop where the gilt-

labelled drawers and bottles were; and finding nobody there, knocked

with a half-crown on the counter, to attract the attention of anybody

who might happen to be in the back parlour, which he judged to be the

innermost and peculiar sanctum of the establishment, from the repetition

of the word surgery on the door--painted in white letters this time, by

way of taking off the monotony.

At the first knock, a sound, as of persons fencing with fire-irons,

which had until now been very audible, suddenly ceased; at the second, a

studious-looking young gentleman in green spectacles, with a very large

book in his hand, glided quietly into the shop, and stepping behind the

counter, requested to know the visitor’s pleasure.

‘I am sorry to trouble you, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘but will you have

the goodness to direct me to--’

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ roared the studious young gentleman, throwing the large

book up into the air, and catching it with great dexterity at the very

moment when it threatened to smash to atoms all the bottles on the

counter. ‘Here’s a start!’

There was, without doubt; for Mr. Winkle was so very much astonished at

the extraordinary behaviour of the medical gentleman, that he

involuntarily retreated towards the door, and looked very much disturbed

at his strange reception.

‘What, don’t you know me?’ said the medical gentleman.

Mr. Winkle murmured, in reply, that he had not that pleasure.

‘Why, then,’ said the medical gentleman, ‘there are hopes for me yet; I

may attend half the old women in Bristol, if I’ve decent luck. Get out,

you mouldy old villain, get out!’ With this adjuration, which was

addressed to the large book, the medical gentleman kicked the volume

with remarkable agility to the farther end of the shop, and, pulling off

his green spectacles, grinned the identical grin of Robert Sawyer,

Esquire, formerly of Guy’s Hospital in the Borough, with a private

residence in Lant Street.

‘You don’t mean to say you weren’t down upon me?’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer,

shaking Mr. Winkle’s hand with friendly warmth.

‘Upon my word I was not,’ replied Mr. Winkle, returning his pressure.

‘I wonder you didn’t see the name,’ said Bob Sawyer, calling his

friend’s attention to the outer door, on which, in the same white paint,

were traced the words ‘Sawyer, late Nockemorf.’

‘It never caught my eye,’ returned Mr. Winkle.

‘Lord, if I had known who you were, I should have rushed out, and caught

you in my arms,’ said Bob Sawyer; ‘but upon my life, I thought you were

the King’s-taxes.’

‘No!’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘I did, indeed,’ responded Bob Sawyer, ‘and I was just going to say that

I wasn’t at home, but if you’d leave a message I’d be sure to give it to

myself; for he don’t know me; no more does the Lighting and Paving. I

think the Church-rates guesses who I am, and I know the Water-works

does, because I drew a tooth of his when I first came down here. But

come in, come in!’ Chattering in this way, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed Mr.

Winkle into the back room, where, amusing himself by boring little

circular caverns in the chimney-piece with a red-hot poker, sat no less

a person than Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Well!’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘This is indeed a pleasure I did not expect.

What a very nice place you have here!’

‘Pretty well, pretty well,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘I _passed_, soon after

that precious party, and my friends came down with the needful for this

business; so I put on a black suit of clothes, and a pair of spectacles,

and came here to look as solemn as I could.’

‘And a very snug little business you have, no doubt?’ said Mr. Winkle

knowingly.

‘Very,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘So snug, that at the end of a few years you

might put all the profits in a wine-glass, and cover ‘em over with a

gooseberry leaf.’

You cannot surely mean that?’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘The stock itself--’

Dummies, my dear boy,’ said Bob Sawyer; ‘half the drawers have nothing

in ‘em, and the other half don’t open.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Fact--honour!’ returned Bob Sawyer, stepping out into the shop, and

demonstrating the veracity of the assertion by divers hard pulls at the

little gilt knobs on the counterfeit drawers. ‘Hardly anything real in

the shop but the leeches, and _they _are second-hand.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought it!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, much surprised.

‘I hope not,’ replied Bob Sawyer, ‘else where’s the use of appearances,

eh? But what will you take? Do as we do? That’s right. Ben, my fine

fellow, put your hand into the cupboard, and bring out the patent

digester.’

Mr. Benjamin Allen smiled his readiness, and produced from the closet at

his elbow a black bottle half full of brandy.

‘You don’t take water, of course?’ said Bob Sawyer.

‘Thank you,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘It’s rather early. I should like to

qualify it, if you have no objection.’

‘None in the least, if you can reconcile it to your conscience,’ replied

Bob Sawyer, tossing off, as he spoke, a glass of the liquor with great

relish. ‘Ben, the pipkin!’

Mr. Benjamin Allen drew forth, from the same hiding-place, a small brass

pipkin, which Bob Sawyer observed he prided himself upon, particularly

because it looked so business-like. The water in the professional pipkin

having been made to boil, in course of time, by various little

shovelfuls of coal, which Mr. Bob Sawyer took out of a practicable

window-seat, labelled ‘Soda Water,’ Mr. Winkle adulterated his brandy;

and the conversation was becoming general, when it was interrupted by

the entrance into the shop of a boy, in a sober gray livery and a gold-

laced hat, with a small covered basket under his arm, whom Mr. Bob

Sawyer immediately hailed with, ‘Tom, you vagabond, come here.’

The boy presented himself accordingly.

‘You’ve been stopping to “over” all the posts in Bristol, you idle young

scamp!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘No, sir, I haven’t,’ replied the boy.

‘You had better not!’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a threatening aspect.

‘Who do you suppose will ever employ a professional man, when they see

his boy playing at marbles in the gutter, or flying the garter in the

horse-road? Have you no feeling for your profession, you groveller? Did

you leave all the medicine?’

Yes, Sir.’

‘The powders for the child, at the large house with the new family, and

the pills to be taken four times a day at the ill-tempered old

gentleman’s with the gouty leg?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then shut the door, and mind the shop.’

‘Come,’ said Mr. Winkle, as the boy retired, ‘things are not quite so

bad as you would have me believe, either. There is _some _medicine to be

sent out.’

Mr. Bob Sawyer peeped into the shop to see that no stranger was within

hearing, and leaning forward to Mr. Winkle, said, in a low tone--

‘He leaves it all at the wrong houses.’

Mr. Winkle looked perplexed, and Bob Sawyer and his friend laughed.

‘Don’t you see?’ said Bob. ‘He goes up to a house, rings the area bell,

pokes a packet of medicine without a direction into the servant’s hand,

and walks off. Servant takes it into the dining-parlour; master opens

it, and reads the label: “Draught to be taken at bedtime--pills as

before--lotion as usual--the powder. From Sawyer’s, late Nockemorf’s.

Physicians’ prescriptions carefully prepared,” and all the rest of it.

Shows it to his wife--she reads the label; it goes down to the servants-

-_they_ read the label. Next day, boy calls: “Very sorry--his mistake--

immense business--great many parcels to deliver--Mr. Sawyer’s

compliments--late Nockemorf.” The name gets known, and that’s the thing,

my boy, in the medical way. Bless your heart, old fellow, it’s better

than all the advertising in the world. We have got one four-ounce bottle

that’s been to half the houses in Bristol, and hasn’t done yet.’

‘Dear me, I see,’ observed Mr. Winkle; ‘what an excellent plan!’