gentleman, but came tripping along in the pleasantest manner conceivable, avoiding the garden-roller and the borders of the beds with inimitable dexterity, picking his way among the flower-pots, and smiling with unspeakable good humour. Before he was half-way up the walk he began to salute me; then I thought I knew him; but when he came towards me with his hat in his hand, the sun shining on his bald head, his bland face, his bright spectacles, his fawn- coloured tights, and his black gaiters, – then my heart warmed towards him, and I felt quite certain that it was Mr. Pickwick.
‘My dear sir,’ said that gentleman as I rose to receive him, ‘pray be seated. Pray sit down. Now, do not stand on my account. I must insist upon it, really.’ With these words Mr. Pickwick gently pressed me down into my seat, and taking my hand in his, shook it again and again with a warmth of manner perfectly irresistible. I endeavoured to express in my welcome something of that heartiness and pleasure which the sight of him awakened, and made him sit down beside me. All this time he kept alternately releasing my hand and grasping it again, and surveying me through his spectacles with such a beaming countenance as I never till then beheld.
‘You knew me directly!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘What a pleasure it is to think that you knew me directly!’
I remarked that I had read his adventures very often, and his features were quite familiar to me from the published portraits. As I thought it a good opportunity of adverting to the circumstance, I condoled with him upon the various libels on his character which had found their way into print. Mr. Pickwick shook his head, and for a moment looked very indignant, but smiling again directly, added that no doubt I was acquainted with Cervantes’s introduction to the second part of Don Quixote, and that it fully expressed his sentiments on the subject.
‘But now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘don’t you wonder how I found you out?’
‘I shall never wonder, and, with your good leave, never know,’ said I, smiling in my turn. ‘It is enough for me that you give me this gratification. I have not the least desire that you should tell me by what means I have obtained it.’
‘You are very kind,’ returned Mr. Pickwick, shaking me by the hand again; ‘you are so exactly what I expected! But for what particular purpose do you think I have sought you, my dear sir? Now what DO you think I have come for?’
Mr. Pickwick put this question as though he were persuaded that it was morally impossible that I could by any means divine the deep purpose of his visit, and that it must be hidden from all human ken. Therefore, although I was rejoiced to think that I had anticipated his drift, I feigned to be quite ignorant of it, and after a brief consideration shook my head despairingly.
‘What should you say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, laying the forefinger of his left hand upon my coat-sleeve, and looking at me with his head thrown back, and a little on one side, – ‘what should you say if I confessed that after reading your account of yourself and your little society, I had come here, a humble candidate for one of those empty chairs?’
‘I should say,’ I returned, ‘that I know of only one circumstance which could still further endear that little society to me, and that would be the associating with it my old friend, – for you must let me call you so, – my old friend, Mr. Pickwick.’
As I made him this answer every feature of Mr. Pickwick’s face fused itself into one all-pervading expression of delight. After shaking me heartily by both hands at once, he patted me gently on the back, and then – I well understood why – coloured up to the eyes, and hoped with great earnestness of manner that he had not hurt me.
If he had, I would have been content that he should have repeated the offence a hundred times rather than suppose so; but as he had not, I had no difficulty in changing the subject by making an inquiry which had been upon my lips twenty times already.
‘You have not told me,’ said I, ‘anything about Sam Weller.’
‘O! Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘is the same as ever. The same true, faithful fellow that he ever was. What should I tell you about Sam, my dear sir, except that he is more indispensable to my happiness and comfort every day of my life?’
‘And Mr. Weller senior?’ said I.
‘Old Mr. Weller,’ returned Mr. Pickwick, ‘is in no respect more altered than Sam, unless it be that he is a little more opinionated than he was formerly, and perhaps at times more talkative. He spends a good deal of his time now in our neighbourhood, and has so constituted himself a part of my bodyguard, that when I ask permission for Sam to have a seat in your kitchen on clock nights (supposing your three friends think me worthy to fill one of the chairs), I am afraid I must often include Mr. Weller too.’
I very readily pledged myself to give both Sam and his father a free admission to my house at all hours and seasons, and this point settled, we fell into a lengthy conversation which was carried on with as little reserve on both sides as if we had been intimate friends from our youth, and which conveyed to me the comfortable assurance that Mr. Pickwick’s buoyancy of spirit, and indeed all his old cheerful characteristics, were wholly unimpaired. As he had spoken of the consent of my friends as being yet in abeyance, I repeatedly assured him that his proposal was certain to receive their most joyful sanction, and several times entreated that he would give me leave to introduce him to Jack Redburn and Mr. Miles (who were near at hand) without further ceremony.
To this proposal, however, Mr. Pickwick’s delicacy would by no means allow him to accede, for he urged that his eligibility must be formally discussed, and that, until this had been done, he could not think of obtruding himself further. The utmost I could obtain from him was a promise that he would attend upon our next night of meeting, that I might have the pleasure of presenting him immediately on his election.
Mr. Pickwick, having with many blushes placed in my hands a small roll of paper, which he termed his ‘qualification,’ put a great many questions to me touching my friends, and particularly Jack Redburn, whom he repeatedly termed ‘a fine fellow,’ and in whose favour I could see he was strongly predisposed. When I had satisfied him on these points, I took him up into my room, that he might make acquaintance with the old chamber which is our place of meeting.
‘And this,’ said Mr. Pickwick, stopping short, ‘is the clock! Dear me! And this is really the old clock!’
I thought he would never have come away from it. After advancing towards it softly, and laying his hand upon it with as much respect and as many smiling looks as if it were alive, he set himself to consider it in every possible direction, now mounting on a chair to look at the top, now going down upon his knees to examine the bottom, now surveying the sides with his spectacles almost touching the case, and now trying to peep between it and the wall to get a slight view of the back. Then he would retire a pace or two and look up at the dial to see it go, and then draw near again and stand with his head on one side to hear it tick: never failing to glance towards me at intervals of a few seconds each, and nod his head with such complacent gratification as I am quite unable to describe. His admiration was not confined to the clock either, but extended itself to every article in the room; and really, when he had gone through them every one, and at last sat himself down in all the six chairs, one after another, to try how they felt, I never saw such a picture of good-humour and happiness as he presented, from the top of his shining head down to the very last button of his gaiters.
I should have been well pleased, and should have had the utmost enjoyment of his company, if he had remained with me all day, but my favourite, striking the hour, reminded him that he must take his leave. I could not forbear telling him once more how glad he had made me, and we shook hands all the way down-stairs.
We had no sooner arrived in the Hall than my housekeeper, gliding out of her little room (she had changed her gown and cap, I observed), greeted Mr. Pickwick with her best smile and courtesy; and the barber, feigning to be accidentally passing on his way out, made him a vast number of bows. When the housekeeper courtesied, Mr. Pickwick bowed with the utmost politeness, and when he bowed, the housekeeper courtesied again; between the housekeeper and the barber, I should say that Mr. Pickwick faced about and bowed with undiminished affability fifty times at least.
I saw him to the door; an omnibus was at the moment passing the corner of the lane, which Mr. Pickwick hailed and ran after with extraordinary nimbleness. When he had got about half-way, he turned his head, and seeing that I was still looking after him and that I waved my hand, stopped, evidently irresolute whether to come back and shake hands again, or to go on. The man behind the omnibus shouted, and Mr. Pickwick ran a little way towards him: then he looked round at me, and ran a little way back again. Then there was another shout, and he turned round once more and ran the other way. After several of these vibrations, the man settled the question by taking Mr. Pickwick by the arm and putting him into the carriage; but his last action was to let down the window and wave his hat to me as it drove off.
I lost no time in opening the parcel he had left with me. The following were its contents:-
MR. PICKWICK’S TALE
A good many years have passed away since old John Podgers lived in the town of Windsor, where he was born, and where, in course of time, he came to be comfortably and snugly buried. You may be sure that in the time of King James the First, Windsor was a very quaint queer old town, and you may take it upon my authority that John Podgers was a very quaint queer old fellow; consequently he and Windsor fitted each other to a nicety, and seldom parted company even for half a day.
John Podgers was broad, sturdy, Dutch-built, short, and a very hard eater, as men of his figure often are. Being a hard sleeper likewise, he divided his time pretty equally between these two recreations, always falling asleep when he had done eating, and always taking another turn at the trencher when he had done sleeping, by which means he grew more corpulent and more drowsy every day of his life. Indeed it used to be currently reported that when he sauntered up and down the sunny side of the street before dinner (as he never failed to do in fair weather), he enjoyed his soundest nap; but many people held this to be a fiction, as he had several times been seen to look after fat oxen on market-days, and had even been heard, by persons of good credit and reputation, to chuckle at the sight, and say to himself with great glee, ‘Live beef, live beef!’ It was upon this evidence that the wisest people in Windsor (beginning with the local authorities of course) held that John Podgers was a man of strong, sound sense, not what is called smart, perhaps, and it might be of a rather lazy and apoplectic turn, but still a man of solid parts, and one who meant much more than he cared to show. This impression was confirmed by a very dignified way he had of shaking his head and imparting, at the same time, a pendulous motion to his double chin; in short, he passed for one of those people who, being plunged into the Thames, would make no vain efforts to set it afire, but would straightway flop down to the bottom with a deal of gravity, and be highly respected in consequence by all good men.
Being well to do in the world, and a peaceful widower, – having a great appetite, which, as he could afford to gratify it, was a luxury and no inconvenience, and a power of going to sleep, which, as he had no occasion to keep awake, was a most enviable faculty, – you will readily suppose that John Podgers was a happy man. But appearances are often deceptive when they least seem so, and the truth is that, notwithstanding his extreme sleekness, he was rendered uneasy in his mind and exceedingly uncomfortable by a constant apprehension that beset him night and day.
You know very well that in those times there flourished divers evil old women who, under the name of Witches, spread great disorder through the land, and inflicted various dismal tortures upon Christian men; sticking pins and needles into them when they least expected it, and causing them to walk in the air with their feet upwards, to the great terror of their wives and families, who were naturally very much disconcerted when the master of the house unexpectedly came home, knocking at the door with his heels and combing his hair on the scraper. These were their commonest pranks, but they every day played a hundred others, of which none were less objectionable, and many were much more so, being improper besides; the result was that vengeance was denounced against all old women, with whom even the king himself had no sympathy (as he certainly ought to have had), for with his own most Gracious hand he penned a most Gracious consignment of them to everlasting wrath, and devised most Gracious means for their confusion and slaughter, in virtue whereof scarcely a day passed but one witch at the least was most graciously hanged, drowned, or roasted in some part of his dominions. Still the press teemed with strange and terrible news from the North or the South, or the East or the West, relative to witches and their unhappy victims in some corner of the country, and the Public’s hair stood on end to that degree that it lifted its hat off its head, and made its face pale with terror.
You may believe that the little town of Windsor did not escape the general contagion. The inhabitants boiled a witch on the king’s birthday and sent a bottle of the broth to court, with a dutiful address expressive of their loyalty. The king, being rather frightened by the present, piously bestowed it upon the Archbishop of Canterbury, and returned an answer to the address, wherein he gave them golden rules for discovering witches, and laid great stress upon certain protecting charms, and especially horseshoes. Immediately the towns-people went to work nailing up horseshoes over every door, and so many anxious parents apprenticed their children to farriers to keep them out of harm’s way, that it became quite a genteel trade, and flourished exceedingly.
In the midst of all this bustle John Podgers ate and slept as usual, but shook his head a great deal oftener than was his custom, and was observed to look at the oxen less, and at the old women more. He had a little shelf put up in his sitting-room, whereon was displayed, in a row which grew longer every week, all the witchcraft literature of the time; he grew learned in charms and exorcisms, hinted at certain questionable females on broomsticks whom he had seen from his chamber window, riding in the air at night, and was in constant terror of being bewitched. At length, from perpetually dwelling upon this one idea, which, being alone in his head, had all its own way, the fear of witches became the single passion of his life. He, who up to that time had never known what it was to dream, began to have visions of witches whenever he fell asleep; waking, they were incessantly present to his imagination likewise; and, sleeping or waking, he had not a moment’s peace. He began to set witch-traps in the highway, and was often seen lying in wait round the corner for hours together, to watch their effect. These engines were of simple construction, usually consisting of two straws disposed in the form of a cross, or a piece of a Bible cover with a pinch of salt upon it; but they were infallible, and if an old woman chanced to stumble over them (as not unfrequently happened, the chosen spot being a broken and stony place), John started from a doze, pounced out upon her, and hung round her neck till assistance arrived, when she was immediately carried away and drowned. By dint of constantly inveigling old ladies and disposing of them in this summary manner, he acquired the reputation of a great public character; and as he received no harm in these pursuits beyond a scratched face or so, he came, in the course of time, to be considered witch-proof.
There was but one person who entertained the least doubt of John Podgers’s gifts, and that person was his own nephew, a wild, roving young fellow of twenty who had been brought up in his uncle’s house and lived there still, – that is to say, when he was at home, which was not as often as it might have been. As he was an apt scholar, it was he who read aloud every fresh piece of strange and terrible intelligence that John Podgers bought; and this he always did of an evening in the little porch in front of the house, round which the neighbours would flock in crowds to hear the direful news, – for people like to be frightened, and when they can be frightened for nothing and at another man’s expense, they like it all the better.
One fine midsummer evening, a group of persons were gathered in this place, listening intently to Will Marks (that was the nephew’s name), as with his cap very much on one side, his arm coiled slyly round the waist of a pretty girl who sat beside him, and his face screwed into a comical expression intended to represent extreme gravity, he read – with Heaven knows how many embellishments of his own – a dismal account of a gentleman down in Northamptonshire under the influence of witchcraft and taken forcible possession of by the Devil, who was playing his very self with him. John Podgers, in a high sugar-loaf hat and short cloak, filled the opposite seat, and surveyed the auditory with a look of mingled pride and horror very edifying to see; while the hearers, with their heads thrust forward and their mouths open, listened and trembled, and hoped there was a great deal more to come. Sometimes Will stopped for an instant to look round upon his eager audience, and then, with a more comical expression of face than before and a settling of himself comfortably, which included a squeeze of the young lady before mentioned, he launched into some new wonder surpassing all the others.
The setting sun shed his last golden rays upon this little party, who, absorbed in their present occupation, took no heed of the approach of night, or the glory in which the day went down, when the sound of a horse, approaching at a good round trot, invading the silence of the hour, caused the reader to make a sudden stop, and the listeners to raise their heads in wonder. Nor was their wonder diminished when a horseman dashed up to the porch, and abruptly checking his steed, inquired where one John Podgers dwelt.
‘Here!’ cried a dozen voices, while a dozen hands pointed out sturdy John, still basking in the terrors of the pamphlet.
The rider, giving his bridle to one of those who surrounded him, dismounted, and approached John, hat in hand, but with great haste.
‘Whence come ye?’ said John.
‘From Kingston, master.’
‘On most pressing business.’
‘Of what nature?’
Witchcraft! Everybody looked aghast at the breathless messenger, and the breathless messenger looked equally aghast at everybody – except Will Marks, who, finding himself unobserved, not only squeezed the young lady again, but kissed her twice. Surely he must have been bewitched himself, or he never could have done it – and the young lady too, or she never would have let him.
‘Witchcraft!’ cried Will, drowning the sound of his last kiss, which was rather a loud one.
The messenger turned towards him, and with a frown repeated the word more solemnly than before; then told his errand, which was, in brief, that the people of Kingston had been greatly terrified for some nights past by hideous revels, held by witches beneath the gibbet within a mile of the town, and related and deposed to by chance wayfarers who had passed within ear-shot of the spot; that the sound of their voices in their wild orgies had been plainly heard by many persons; that three old women laboured under strong suspicion, and that precedents had been consulted and solemn council had, and it was found that to identify the hags some single person must watch upon the spot alone; that no single person had the courage to perform the task; and that he had been despatched express to solicit John Podgers to undertake it that very night, as being a man of great renown, who bore a charmed life, and was proof against unholy spells.
John received this communication with much composure, and said in a few words, that it would have afforded him inexpressible pleasure to do the Kingston people so slight a service, if it were not for his unfortunate propensity to fall asleep, which no man regretted more than himself upon the present occasion, but which quite settled the question. Nevertheless, he said, there WAS a gentleman present (and here he looked very hard at a tall farrier), who, having been engaged all his life in the manufacture of horseshoes, must be quite invulnerable to the power of witches, and who, he had no doubt, from his own reputation for bravery and good-nature, would readily accept the commission. The farrier politely thanked him for his good opinion, which it would always be his study to deserve, but added that, with regard to the present little matter, he couldn’t think of it on any account, as his departing on such an errand would certainly occasion the instant death of his wife, to whom, as they all knew, he was tenderly attached. Now, so far from this circumstance being notorious, everybody had suspected the reverse, as the farrier was in the habit of beating his lady rather more than tender husbands usually do; all the married men present, however, applauded his resolution with great vehemence, and one and all declared that they would stop at home and die if needful (which happily it was not) in defence of their lawful partners.
This burst of enthusiasm over, they began to look, as by one consent, toward Will Marks, who, with his cap more on one side than ever, sat watching the proceedings with extraordinary unconcern. He had never been heard openly to express his disbelief in witches, but had often cut such jokes at their expense as left it to be inferred; publicly stating on several occasions that he considered a broomstick an inconvenient charger, and one especially unsuited to the dignity of the female character, and indulging in other free remarks of the same tendency, to the great amusement of his wild companions.
As they looked at Will they began to whisper and murmur among themselves, and at length one man cried, ‘Why don’t you ask Will Marks?’
As this was what everybody had been thinking of, they all took up the word, and cried in concert, ‘Ah! why don’t you ask Will?’
‘HE don’t care,’ said the farrier.
‘Not he,’ added another voice in the crowd.
‘He don’t believe in it, you know,’ sneered a little man with a yellow face and a taunting nose and chin, which he thrust out from under the arm of a long man before him.
‘Besides,’ said a red-faced gentleman with a gruff voice, ‘he’s a single man.’
‘That’s the point!’ said the farrier; and all the married men murmured, ah! that was it, and they only wished they were single themselves; they would show him what spirit was, very soon.
The messenger looked towards Will Marks beseechingly.
‘It will be a wet night, friend, and my gray nag is tired after yesterday’s work – ‘
Here there was a general titter.
‘But,’ resumed Will, looking about him with a smile, ‘if nobody else puts in a better claim to go, for the credit of the town I am your man, and I would be, if I had to go afoot. In five minutes I shall be in the saddle, unless I am depriving any worthy gentleman here of the honour of the adventure, which I wouldn’t do for the world.’
But here arose a double difficulty, for not only did John Podgers combat the resolution with all the words he had, which were not many, but the young lady combated it too with all the tears she had, which were very many indeed. Will, however, being inflexible, parried his uncle’s objections with a joke, and coaxed the young lady into a smile in three short whispers. As it was plain that he set his mind upon it, and would go, John Podgers offered him a few first-rate charms out of his own pocket, which he dutifully declined to accept; and the young lady gave him a kiss, which he also returned.
‘You see what a rare thing it is to be married,’ said Will, ‘and how careful and considerate all these husbands are. There’s not a man among them but his heart is leaping to forestall me in this adventure, and yet a strong sense of duty keeps him back. The husbands in this one little town are a pattern to the world, and so must the wives be too, for that matter, or they could never boast half the influence they have!’
Waiting for no reply to this sarcasm, he snapped his fingers and withdrew into the house, and thence into the stable, while some busied themselves in refreshing the messenger, and others in baiting his steed. In less than the specified time he returned by another way, with a good cloak hanging over his arm, a good sword girded by his side, and leading his good horse caparisoned for the journey.
‘Now,’ said Will, leaping into the saddle at a bound, ‘up and away. Upon your mettle, friend, and push on. Good night!’
He kissed his hand to the girl, nodded to his drowsy uncle, waved his cap to the rest – and off they flew pell-mell, as if all the witches in England were in their horses’ legs. They were out of sight in a minute.
The men who were left behind shook their heads doubtfully, stroked their chins, and shook their heads again. The farrier said that certainly Will Marks was a good horseman, nobody should ever say he denied that: but he was rash, very rash, and there was no telling what the end of it might be; what did he go for, that was what he wanted to know? He wished the young fellow no harm, but why did he go? Everybody echoed these words, and shook their heads again, having done which they wished John Podgers good night, and straggled home to bed.
The Kingston people were in their first sleep when Will Marks and his conductor rode through the town and up to the door of a house where sundry grave functionaries were assembled, anxiously expecting the arrival of the renowned Podgers. They were a little disappointed to find a gay young man in his place; but they put the best face upon the matter, and gave him full instructions how he was to conceal himself behind the gibbet, and watch and listen to the witches, and how at a certain time he was to burst forth and cut and slash among them vigorously, so that the suspected parties might be found bleeding in their beds next day, and thoroughly confounded. They gave him a great quantity of wholesome advice besides, and – which was more to the purpose with Will – a good supper. All these things being done, and midnight nearly come, they sallied forth to show him the spot where he was to keep his dreary vigil.
The night was by this time dark and threatening. There was a rumbling of distant thunder, and a low sighing of wind among the trees, which was very dismal. The potentates of the town kept so uncommonly close to Will that they trod upon his toes, or stumbled against his ankles, or nearly tripped up his heels at every step he took, and, besides these annoyances, their teeth chattered so with fear, that he seemed to be accompanied by a dirge of castanets.
At last they made a halt at the opening of a lonely, desolate space, and, pointing to a black object at some distance, asked Will if he saw that, yonder.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘What then?’
Informing him abruptly that it was the gibbet where he was to watch, they wished him good night in an extremely friendly manner, and ran back as fast as their feet would carry them.
Will walked boldly to the gibbet, and, glancing upwards when he came under it, saw – certainly with satisfaction – that it was empty, and that nothing dangled from the top but some iron chains, which swung mournfully to and fro as they were moved by the breeze. After a careful survey of every quarter he determined to take his station with his face towards the town; both because that would place him with his back to the wind, and because, if any trick or surprise were attempted, it would probably come from that direction in the first instance. Having taken these precautions, he wrapped his cloak about him so that it left the handle of his sword free, and ready to his hand, and leaning against the gallows-tree with his cap not quite so much on one side as it had been before, took up his position for the night.
SECOND CHAPTER OF MR. PICKWICK’S TALE
We left Will Marks leaning under the gibbet with his face towards the town, scanning the distance with a keen eye, which sought to pierce the darkness and catch the earliest glimpse of any person or persons that might approach towards him. But all was quiet, and, save the howling of the wind as it swept across the heath in gusts, and the creaking of the chains that dangled above his head, there was no sound to break the sullen stillness of the night. After half an hour or so this monotony became more disconcerting to Will than the most furious uproar would have been, and he heartily wished for some one antagonist with whom he might have a fair stand-up fight, if it were only to warm himself.
Truth to tell, it was a bitter wind, and seemed to blow to the very heart of a man whose blood, heated but now with rapid riding, was the more sensitive to the chilling blast. Will was a daring fellow, and cared not a jot for hard knocks or sharp blades; but he could not persuade himself to move or walk about, having just that vague expectation of a sudden assault which made it a comfortable thing to have something at his back, even though that something were a gallows-tree. He had no great faith in the superstitions of the age, still such of them as occurred to him did not serve to lighten the time, or to render his situation the more endurable. He remembered how witches were said to repair at that ghostly hour to churchyards and gibbets, and such-like dismal spots, to pluck the bleeding mandrake or scrape the flesh from dead men’s bones, as choice ingredients for their spells; how, stealing by night to lonely places, they dug graves with their finger-nails, or anointed themselves before riding in the air, with a delicate pomatum made of the fat of infants newly boiled. These, and many other fabled practices of a no less agreeable nature, and all having some reference to the circumstances in which he was placed, passed and repassed in quick succession through the mind of Will Marks, and adding a shadowy dread to that distrust and watchfulness which his situation inspired, rendered it, upon the whole, sufficiently uncomfortable. As he had foreseen, too, the rain began to descend heavily, and driving before the wind in a thick mist, obscured even those few objects which the darkness of the night had before imperfectly revealed.
‘Look!’ shrieked a voice. ‘Great Heaven, it has fallen down, and stands erect as if it lived!’
The speaker was close behind him; the voice was almost at his ear. Will threw off his cloak, drew his sword, and darting swiftly round, seized a woman by the wrist, who, recoiling from him with a dreadful shriek, fell struggling upon her knees. Another woman, clad, like her whom he had grasped, in mourning garments, stood rooted to the spot on which they were, gazing upon his face with wild and glaring eyes that quite appalled him.
‘Say,’ cried Will, when they had confronted each other thus for some time, ‘what are ye?’
‘Say what are YOU,’ returned the woman, ‘who trouble even this obscene resting-place of the dead, and strip the gibbet of its honoured burden? Where is the body?’
He looked in wonder and affright from the woman who questioned him to the other whose arm he clutched.
‘Where is the body?’ repeated the questioner more firmly than before. ‘You wear no livery which marks you for the hireling of the government. You are no friend to us, or I should recognise you, for the friends of such as we are few in number. What are you then, and wherefore are you here?’
‘I am no foe to the distressed and helpless,’ said Will. ‘Are ye among that number? ye should be by your looks.’
‘We are!’ was the answer.
‘Is it ye who have been wailing and weeping here under cover of the night?’ said Will.
‘It is,’ replied the woman sternly; and pointing, as she spoke, towards her companion, ‘she mourns a husband, and I a brother. Even the bloody law that wreaks its vengeance on the dead does not make that a crime, and if it did ‘twould be alike to us who are past its fear or favour.’
Will glanced at the two females, and could barely discern that the one whom he addressed was much the elder, and that the other was young and of a slight figure. Both were deadly pale, their garments wet and worn, their hair dishevelled and streaming in the wind, themselves bowed down with grief and misery; their whole appearance most dejected, wretched, and forlorn. A sight so different from any he had expected to encounter touched him to the quick, and all idea of anything but their pitiable condition vanished before it.
‘I am a rough, blunt yeoman,’ said Will. ‘Why I came here is told in a word; you have been overheard at a distance in the silence of the night, and I have undertaken a watch for hags or spirits. I came here expecting an adventure, and prepared to go through with any. If there be aught that I can do to help or aid you, name it, and on the faith of a man who can be secret and trusty, I will stand by you to the death.’
‘How comes this gibbet to be empty?’ asked the elder female.
‘I swear to you,’ replied Will, ‘that I know as little as yourself. But this I know, that when I came here an hour ago or so, it was as it is now; and if, as I gather from your question, it was not so last night, sure I am that it has been secretly disturbed without the knowledge of the folks in yonder town. Bethink you, therefore, whether you have no friends in league with you or with him on whom the law has done its worst, by whom these sad remains have been removed for burial.’
The women spoke together, and Will retired a pace or two while they conversed apart. He could hear them sob and moan, and saw that they wrung their hands in fruitless agony. He could make out little that they said, but between whiles he gathered enough to assure him that his suggestion was not very wide of the mark, and that they not only suspected by whom the body had been removed, but also whither it had been conveyed. When they had been in conversation a long time, they turned towards him once more. This time the younger female spoke.
‘You have offered us your help?’
‘And given a pledge that you are still willing to redeem?’
‘Yes. So far as I may, keeping all plots and conspiracies at arm’s length.’
‘Follow us, friend.’
Will, whose self-possession was now quite restored, needed no second bidding, but with his drawn sword in his hand, and his cloak so muffled over his left arm as to serve for a kind of shield without offering any impediment to its free action, suffered them to lead the way. Through mud and mire, and wind and rain, they walked in silence a full mile. At length they turned into a dark lane, where, suddenly starting out from beneath some trees where he had taken shelter, a man appeared, having in his charge three saddled horses. One of these (his own apparently), in obedience to a whisper from the women, he consigned to Will, who, seeing that they mounted, mounted also. Then, without a word spoken, they rode on together, leaving the attendant behind.
They made no halt nor slackened their pace until they arrived near Putney. At a large wooden house which stood apart from any other they alighted, and giving their horses to one who was already waiting, passed in by a side door, and so up some narrow creaking stairs into a small panelled chamber, where Will was left alone. He had not been here very long, when the door was softly opened, and there entered to him a cavalier whose face was concealed beneath a black mask.
Will stood upon his guard, and scrutinised this figure from head to foot. The form was that of a man pretty far advanced in life, but of a firm and stately carriage. His dress was of a rich and costly kind, but so soiled and disordered that it was scarcely to be recognised for one of those gorgeous suits which the expensive taste and fashion of the time prescribed for men of any rank or station.
He was booted and spurred, and bore about him even as many tokens of the state of the roads as Will himself. All this he noted, while the eyes behind the mask regarded him with equal attention. This survey over, the cavalier broke silence.
‘Thou’rt young and bold, and wouldst be richer than thou art?’
‘The two first I am,’ returned Will. ‘The last I have scarcely thought of. But be it so. Say that I would be richer than I am; what then?’
‘The way lies before thee now,’ replied the Mask.
‘Show it me.’
‘First let me inform thee, that thou wert brought here to-night lest thou shouldst too soon have told thy tale to those who placed thee on the watch.’
‘I thought as much when I followed,’ said Will. ‘But I am no blab, not I.’
‘Good,’ returned the Mask. ‘Now listen. He who was to have executed the enterprise of burying that body, which, as thou hast suspected, was taken down to-night, has left us in our need.’
Will nodded, and thought within himself that if the Mask were to attempt to play any tricks, the first eyelet-hole on the left-hand side of his doublet, counting from the buttons up the front, would be a very good place in which to pink him neatly.
‘Thou art here, and the emergency is desperate. I propose his task to thee. Convey the body (now coffined in this house), by means that I shall show, to the Church of St. Dunstan in London to-morrow night, and thy service shall be richly paid. Thou’rt about to ask whose corpse it is. Seek not to know. I warn thee, seek not to know. Felons hang in chains on every moor and heath. Believe, as others do, that this was one, and ask no further. The murders of state policy, its victims or avengers, had best remain unknown to such as thee.’
‘The mystery of this service,’ said Will, ‘bespeaks its danger. What is the reward?’
‘One hundred golden unities,’ replied the cavalier. ‘The danger to one who cannot be recognised as the friend of a fallen cause is not great, but there is some hazard to be run. Decide between that and the reward.’
‘What if I refuse?’ said Will.
‘Depart in peace, in God’s name,’ returned the Mask in a melancholy tone, ‘and keep our secret, remembering that those who brought thee here were crushed and stricken women, and that those who bade thee go free could have had thy life with one word, and no man the wiser.’
Men were readier to undertake desperate adventures in those times than they are now. In this case the temptation was great, and the punishment, even in case of detection, was not likely to be very severe, as Will came of a loyal stock, and his uncle was in good repute, and a passable tale to account for his possession of the body and his ignorance of the identity might be easily devised.
The cavalier explained that a coveted cart had been prepared for the purpose; that the time of departure could be arranged so that he should reach London Bridge at dusk, and proceed through the City after the day had closed in; that people would be ready at his journey’s end to place the coffin in a vault without a minute’s delay; that officious inquirers in the streets would be easily repelled by the tale that he was carrying for interment the corpse of one who had died of the plague; and in short showed him every reason why he should succeed, and none why he should fail. After a time they were joined by another gentleman, masked like the first, who added new arguments to those which had been already urged; the wretched wife, too, added her tears and prayers to their calmer representations; and in the end, Will, moved by compassion and good-nature, by a love of the marvellous, by a mischievous anticipation of the terrors of the Kingston people when he should be missing next day, and finally, by the prospect of gain, took upon himself the task, and devoted all his energies to its successful execution.
The following night, when it was quite dark, the hollow echoes of old London Bridge responded to the rumbling of the cart which contained the ghastly load, the object of Will Marks’ care. Sufficiently disguised to attract no attention by his garb, Will walked at the horse’s head, as unconcerned as a man could be who was sensible that he had now arrived at the most dangerous part of his undertaking, but full of boldness and confidence.
It was now eight o’clock. After nine, none could walk the streets without danger of their lives, and even at this hour, robberies and murder were of no uncommon occurrence. The shops upon the bridge were all closed; the low wooden arches thrown across the way were like so many black pits, in every one of which ill-favoured fellows lurked in knots of three or four; some standing upright against the wall, lying in wait; others skulking in gateways, and thrusting out their uncombed heads and scowling eyes: others crossing and recrossing, and constantly jostling both horse and man to provoke a quarrel; others stealing away and summoning their companions in a low whistle. Once, even in that short passage, there was the noise of scuffling and the clash of swords behind him, but Will, who knew the City and its ways, kept straight on and scarcely turned his head.
The streets being unpaved, the rain of the night before had converted them into a perfect quagmire, which the splashing water- spouts from the gables, and the filth and offal cast from the different houses, swelled in no small degree. These odious matters being left to putrefy in the close and heavy air, emitted an insupportable stench, to which every court and passage poured forth a contribution of its own. Many parts, even of the main streets, with their projecting stories tottering overhead and nearly shutting out the sky, were more like huge chimneys than open ways. At the corners of some of these, great bonfires were burning to prevent infection from the plague, of which it was rumoured that some citizens had lately died; and few, who availing themselves of the light thus afforded paused for a moment to look around them, would have been disposed to doubt the existence of the disease, or wonder at its dreadful visitations.
But it was not in such scenes as these, or even in the deep and miry road, that Will Marks found the chief obstacles to his progress. There were kites and ravens feeding in the streets (the only scavengers the City kept), who, scenting what he carried, followed the cart or fluttered on its top, and croaked their knowledge of its burden and their ravenous appetite for prey. There were distant fires, where the poor wood and plaster tenements wasted fiercely, and whither crowds made their way, clamouring eagerly for plunder, beating down all who came within their reach, and yelling like devils let loose. There were single-handed men flying from bands of ruffians, who pursued them with naked weapons, and hunted them savagely; there were drunken, desperate robbers issuing from their dens and staggering through the open streets where no man dared molest them; there were vagabond servitors returning from the Bear Garden, where had been good sport that day, dragging after them their torn and bleeding dogs, or leaving them to die and rot upon the road. Nothing was abroad but cruelty, violence, and disorder.
Many were the interruptions which Will Marks encountered from these stragglers, and many the narrow escapes he made. Now some stout bully would take his seat upon the cart, insisting to be driven to his own home, and now two or three men would come down upon him together, and demand that on peril of his life he showed them what he had inside. Then a party of the city watch, upon their rounds, would draw across the road, and not satisfied with his tale, question him closely, and revenge themselves by a little cuffing and hustling for maltreatment sustained at other hands that night. All these assailants had to be rebutted, some by fair words, some by foul, and some by blows. But Will Marks was not the man to be stopped or turned back now he had penetrated so far, and though he got on slowly, still he made his way down Fleet-street and reached the church at last.
As he had been forewarned, all was in readiness. Directly he stopped, the coffin was removed by four men, who appeared so suddenly that they seemed to have started from the earth. A fifth mounted the cart, and scarcely allowing Will time to snatch from it a little bundle containing such of his own clothes as he had thrown off on assuming his disguise, drove briskly away. Will never saw cart or man again.
He followed the body into the church, and it was well he lost no time in doing so, for the door was immediately closed. There was no light in the building save that which came from a couple of torches borne by two men in cloaks, who stood upon the brink of a vault. Each supported a female figure, and all observed a profound silence.
By this dim and solemn glare, which made Will feel as though light itself were dead, and its tomb the dreary arches that frowned above, they placed the coffin in the vault, with uncovered heads, and closed it up. One of the torch-bearers then turned to Will, and stretched forth his hand, in which was a purse of gold. Something told him directly that those were the same eyes which he had seen beneath the mask.
‘Take it,’ said the cavalier in a low voice, ‘and be happy. Though these have been hasty obsequies, and no priest has blessed the work, there will not be the less peace with thee thereafter, for having laid his bones beside those of his little children. Keep thy own counsel, for thy sake no less than ours, and God be with thee!’
‘The blessing of a widowed mother on thy head, good friend!’ cried the younger lady through her tears; ‘the blessing of one who has now no hope or rest but in this grave!’
Will stood with the purse in his hand, and involuntarily made a gesture as though he would return it, for though a thoughtless fellow, he was of a frank and generous nature. But the two gentlemen, extinguishing their torches, cautioned him to be gone, as their common safety would be endangered by a longer delay; and at the same time their retreating footsteps sounded through the church. He turned, therefore, towards the point at which he had entered, and seeing by a faint gleam in the distance that the door was again partially open, groped his way towards it and so passed into the street.
Meantime the local authorities of Kingston had kept watch and ward all the previous night, fancying every now and then that dismal shrieks were borne towards them on the wind, and frequently winking to each other, and drawing closer to the fire as they drank the health of the lonely sentinel, upon whom a clerical gentleman present was especially severe by reason of his levity and youthful folly. Two or three of the gravest in company, who were of a theological turn, propounded to him the question, whether such a character was not but poorly armed for single combat with the Devil, and whether he himself would not have been a stronger opponent; but the clerical gentleman, sharply reproving them for their presumption in discussing such questions, clearly showed that a fitter champion than Will could scarcely have been selected, not only for that being a child of Satan, he was the less likely to be alarmed by the appearance of his own father, but because Satan himself would be at his ease in such company, and would not scruple to kick up his heels to an extent which it was quite certain he would never venture before clerical eyes, under whose influence (as was notorious) he became quite a tame and milk-and-water character.
But when next morning arrived, and with it no Will Marks, and when a strong party repairing to the spot, as a strong party ventured to do in broad day, found Will gone and the gibbet empty, matters grew serious indeed. The day passing away and no news arriving, and the night going on also without any intelligence, the thing grew more tremendous still; in short, the neighbourhood worked itself up to such a comfortable pitch of mystery and horror, that it is a great question whether the general feeling was not one of excessive disappointment, when, on the second morning, Will Marks returned.
However this may be, back Will came in a very cool and collected state, and appearing not to trouble himself much about anybody except old John Podgers, who, having been sent for, was sitting in the Town Hall crying slowly, and dozing between whiles. Having embraced his uncle and assured him of his safety, Will mounted on a table and told his story to the crowd.
And surely they would have been the most unreasonable crowd that ever assembled together, if they had been in the least respect disappointed with the tale he told them; for besides describing the Witches’ Dance to the minutest motion of their legs, and performing it in character on the table, with the assistance of a broomstick, he related how they had carried off the body in a copper caldron, and so bewitched him, that he lost his senses until he found himself lying under a hedge at least ten miles off, whence he had straightway returned as they then beheld. The story gained such universal applause that it soon afterwards brought down express from London the great witch-finder of the age, the Heaven-born Hopkins, who having examined Will closely on several points, pronounced it the most extraordinary and the best accredited witch- story ever known, under which title it was published at the Three Bibles on London Bridge, in small quarto, with a view of the caldron from an original drawing, and a portrait of the clerical gentleman as he sat by the fire.
On one point Will was particularly careful: and that was to describe for the witches he had seen, three impossible old females, whose likenesses never were or will be. Thus he saved the lives of the suspected parties, and of all other old women who were dragged before him to be identified.
This circumstance occasioned John Podgers much grief and sorrow, until happening one day to cast his eyes upon his house-keeper, and observing her to be plainly afflicted with rheumatism, he procured her to be burnt as an undoubted witch. For this service to the state he was immediately knighted, and became from that time Sir John Podgers.
Will Marks never gained any clue to the mystery in which he had been an actor, nor did any inscription in the church, which he often visited afterwards, nor any of the limited inquiries that he dared to make, yield him the least assistance. As he kept his own secret, he was compelled to spend the gold discreetly and sparingly. In the course of time he married the young lady of whom I have already told you, whose maiden name is not recorded, with whom he led a prosperous and happy life. Years and years after this adventure, it was his wont to tell her upon a stormy night that it was a great comfort to him to think those bones, to whomsoever they might have once belonged, were not bleaching in the troubled air, but were mouldering away with the dust of their own kith and kindred in a quiet grave.
FURTHER PARTICULARS OF MASTER HUMPHREY’S VISITOR
Being very full of Mr. Pickwick’s application, and highly pleased with the compliment he had paid me, it will be readily supposed that long before our next night of meeting I communicated it to my three friends, who unanimously voted his admission into our body. We all looked forward with some impatience to the occasion which would enroll him among us, but I am greatly mistaken if Jack Redburn and myself were not by many degrees the most impatient of the party.
At length the night came, and a few minutes after ten Mr. Pickwick’s knock was heard at the street-door. He was shown into a lower room, and I directly took my crooked stick and went to accompany him up-stairs, in order that he might be presented with all honour and formality.
‘Mr. Pickwick,’ said I, on entering the room, ‘I am rejoiced to see you, – rejoiced to believe that this is but the opening of a long series of visits to this house, and but the beginning of a close and lasting friendship.’
That gentleman made a suitable reply with a cordiality and frankness peculiarly his own, and glanced with a smile towards two persons behind the door, whom I had not at first observed, and whom I immediately recognised as Mr. Samuel Weller and his father.
It was a warm evening, but the elder Mr. Weller was attired, notwithstanding, in a most capacious greatcoat, and his chin enveloped in a large speckled shawl, such as is usually worn by stage coachmen on active service. He looked very rosy and very stout, especially about the legs, which appeared to have been compressed into his top-boots with some difficulty. His broad- brimmed hat he held under his left arm, and with the forefinger of his right hand he touched his forehead a great many times in acknowledgment of my presence.
‘I am very glad to see you in such good health, Mr. Weller,’ said I.
‘Why, thankee, sir,’ returned Mr. Weller, ‘the axle an’t broke yet. We keeps up a steady pace, – not too sewere, but vith a moderate degree o’ friction, – and the consekens is that ve’re still a runnin’ and comes in to the time reg’lar. – My son Samivel, sir, as you may have read on in history,’ added Mr. Weller, introducing his first-born.
I received Sam very graciously, but before he could say a word his father struck in again.
‘Samivel Veller, sir,’ said the old gentleman, ‘has conferred upon me the ancient title o’ grandfather vich had long laid dormouse, and wos s’posed to be nearly hex-tinct in our family. Sammy, relate a anecdote o’ vun o’ them boys, – that ‘ere little anecdote about young Tony sayin’ as he WOULD smoke a pipe unbeknown to his mother.’
‘Be quiet, can’t you?’ said Sam; ‘I never see such a old magpie – never!’
‘That ‘ere Tony is the blessedest boy,’ said Mr. Weller, heedless of this rebuff, ‘the blessedest boy as ever I see in MY days! of all the charmin’est infants as ever I heerd tell on, includin’ them as was kivered over by the robin-redbreasts arter they’d committed sooicide with blackberries, there never wos any like that ‘ere little Tony. He’s alvays a playin’ vith a quart pot, that boy is! To see him a settin’ down on the doorstep pretending to drink out of it, and fetching a long breath artervards, and smoking a bit of firevood, and sayin’, “Now I’m grandfather,” – to see him a doin’ that at two year old is better than any play as wos ever wrote. “Now I’m grandfather!” He wouldn’t take a pint pot if you wos to make him a present on it, but he gets his quart, and then he says, “Now I’m grandfather!”‘
Mr. Weller was so overpowered by this picture that he straightway fell into a most alarming fit of coughing, which must certainly have been attended with some fatal result but for the dexterity and promptitude of Sam, who, taking a firm grasp of the shawl just under his father’s chin, shook him to and fro with great violence, at the same time administering some smart blows between his shoulders. By this curious mode of treatment Mr. Weller was finally recovered, but with a very crimson face, and in a state of great exhaustion.
‘He’ll do now, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, who had been in some alarm himself.
‘He’ll do, sir!’ cried Sam, looking reproachfully at his parent. ‘Yes, he WILL do one o’ these days, – he’ll do for his-self and then he’ll wish he hadn’t. Did anybody ever see sich a inconsiderate old file, – laughing into conwulsions afore company, and stamping on the floor as if he’d brought his own carpet vith him and wos under a wager to punch the pattern out in a given time? He’ll begin again in a minute. There – he’s a goin’ off – I said he would!’
In fact, Mr. Weller, whose mind was still running upon his precocious grandson, was seen to shake his head from side to side, while a laugh, working like an earthquake, below the surface, produced various extraordinary appearances in his face, chest, and shoulders, – the more alarming because unaccompanied by any noise whatever. These emotions, however, gradually subsided, and after three or four short relapses he wiped his eyes with the cuff of his coat, and looked about him with tolerable composure.
‘Afore the governor vith-draws,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘there is a pint, respecting vich Sammy has a qvestion to ask. Vile that qvestion is a perwadin’ this here conwersation, p’raps the genl’men vill permit me to re-tire.’
‘Wot are you goin’ away for?’ demanded Sam, seizing his father by the coat-tail.
‘I never see such a undootiful boy as you, Samivel,’ returned Mr. Weller. ‘Didn’t you make a solemn promise, amountin’ almost to a speeches o’ wow, that you’d put that ‘ere qvestion on my account?’
‘Well, I’m agreeable to do it,’ said Sam, ‘but not if you go cuttin’ away like that, as the bull turned round and mildly observed to the drover ven they wos a goadin’ him into the butcher’s door. The fact is, sir,’ said Sam, addressing me, ‘that he wants to know somethin’ respectin’ that ‘ere lady as is housekeeper here.’
‘Ay. What is that?’
‘Vy, sir,’ said Sam, grinning still more, ‘he wishes to know vether she – ‘
‘In short,’ interposed old Mr. Weller decisively, a perspiration breaking out upon his forehead, ‘vether that ‘ere old creetur is or is not a widder.’
Mr. Pickwick laughed heartily, and so did I, as I replied decisively, that ‘my housekeeper was a spinster.’
‘There!’ cried Sam, ‘now you’re satisfied. You hear she’s a spinster.’
‘A wot?’ said his father, with deep scorn.
‘A spinster,’ replied Sam.
Mr. Weller looked very hard at his son for a minute or two, and then said,
‘Never mind vether she makes jokes or not, that’s no matter. Wot I say is, is that ‘ere female a widder, or is she not?’
‘Wot do you mean by her making jokes?’ demanded Sam, quite aghast at the obscurity of his parent’s speech.
‘Never you mind, Samivel,’ returned Mr. Weller gravely; ‘puns may be wery good things or they may be wery bad ‘uns, and a female may be none the better or she may be none the vurse for making of ’em; that’s got nothing to do vith widders.’
‘Wy now,’ said Sam, looking round, ‘would anybody believe as a man at his time o’ life could be running his head agin spinsters and punsters being the same thing?’
‘There an’t a straw’s difference between ’em,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Your father didn’t drive a coach for so many years, not to be ekal to his own langvidge as far as THAT goes, Sammy.’
Avoiding the question of etymology, upon which the old gentleman’s mind was quite made up, he was several times assured that the housekeeper had never been married. He expressed great satisfaction on hearing this, and apologised for the question, remarking that he had been greatly terrified by a widow not long before, and that his natural timidity was increased in consequence.
‘It wos on the rail,’ said Mr. Weller, with strong emphasis; ‘I wos a goin’ down to Birmingham by the rail, and I wos locked up in a close carriage vith a living widder. Alone we wos; the widder and me wos alone; and I believe it wos only because we WOS alone and there wos no clergyman in the conwayance, that that ‘ere widder didn’t marry me afore ve reached the half-way station. Ven I think how she began a screaming as we wos a goin’ under them tunnels in the dark, – how she kept on a faintin’ and ketchin’ hold o’ me, – and how I tried to bust open the door as was tight-locked and perwented all escape – Ah! It was a awful thing, most awful!’
Mr. Weller was so very much overcome by this retrospect that he was unable, until he had wiped his brow several times, to return any reply to the question whether he approved of railway communication, notwithstanding that it would appear from the answer which he ultimately gave, that he entertained strong opinions on the subject.
‘I con-sider,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘that the rail is unconstitootional and an inwaser o’ priwileges, and I should wery much like to know what that ‘ere old Carter as once stood up for our liberties and wun ’em too, – I should like to know wot he vould say, if he wos alive now, to Englishmen being locked up vith widders, or with anybody again their wills. Wot a old Carter would have said, a old Coachman may say, and I as-sert that in that pint o’ view alone, the rail is an inwaser. As to the comfort, vere’s the comfort o’ sittin’ in a harm-cheer lookin’ at brick walls or heaps o’ mud, never comin’ to a public-house, never seein’ a glass o’ ale, never goin’ through a pike, never meetin’ a change o’ no kind (horses or othervise), but alvays comin’ to a place, ven you come to one at all, the wery picter o’ the last, vith the same p’leesemen standing about, the same blessed old bell a ringin’, the same unfort’nate people standing behind the bars, a waitin’ to be let in; and everythin’ the same except the name, vich is wrote up in the same sized letters as the last name, and vith the same colours. As to the Honour and dignity o’ travellin’, vere can that be vithout a coachman; and wot’s the rail to sich coachmen and guards as is sometimes forced to go by it, but a outrage and a insult? As to the pace, wot sort o’ pace do you think I, Tony Veller, could have kept a coach goin’ at, for five hundred thousand pound a mile, paid in adwance afore the coach was on the road? And as to the ingein, – a nasty, wheezin’, creakin’, gaspin’, puffin’, bustin’ monster, alvays out o’ breath, vith a shiny green-and-gold back, like a unpleasant beetle in that ‘ere gas magnifier, – as to the ingein as is alvays a pourin’ out red-hot coals at night, and black smoke in the day, the sensiblest thing it does, in my opinion, is, ven there’s somethin’ in the vay, and it sets up that ‘ere frightful scream vich seems to say, “Now here’s two hundred and forty passengers in the wery greatest extremity o’ danger, and here’s their two hundred and forty screams in vun!”‘
By this time I began to fear that my friends would be rendered impatient by my protracted absence. I therefore begged Mr. Pickwick to accompany me up-stairs, and left the two Mr. Wellers in the care of the housekeeper, laying strict injunctions upon her to treat them with all possible hospitality.
CHAPTER IV – THE CLOCK
As we were going up-stairs, Mr. Pickwick put on his spectacles, which he had held in his hand hitherto; arranged his neckerchief, smoothed down his waistcoat, and made many other little preparations of that kind which men are accustomed to be mindful of, when they are going among strangers for the first time, and are anxious to impress them pleasantly. Seeing that I smiled, he smiled too, and said that if it had occurred to him before he left home, he would certainly have presented himself in pumps and silk stockings.
‘I would, indeed, my dear sir,’ he said very seriously; ‘I would have shown my respect for the society, by laying aside my gaiters.’
‘You may rest assured,’ said I, ‘that they would have regretted your doing so very much, for they are quite attached to them.’
‘No, really!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, with manifest pleasure. ‘Do you think they care about my gaiters? Do you seriously think that they identify me at all with my gaiters?’
‘I am sure they do,’ I replied.
‘Well, now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that is one of the most charming and agreeable circumstances that could possibly have occurred to me!’
I should not have written down this short conversation, but that it developed a slight point in Mr. Pickwick’s character, with which I was not previously acquainted. He has a secret pride in his legs. The manner in which he spoke, and the accompanying glance he bestowed upon his tights, convince me that Mr. Pickwick regards his legs with much innocent vanity.
‘But here are our friends,’ said I, opening the door and taking his arm in mine; ‘let them speak for themselves. – Gentlemen, I present to you Mr. Pickwick.’
Mr. Pickwick and I must have been a good contrast just then. I, leaning quietly on my crutch-stick, with something of a care-worn, patient air; he, having hold of my arm, and bowing in every direction with the most elastic politeness, and an expression of face whose sprightly cheerfulness and good-humour knew no bounds. The difference between us must have been more striking yet, as we advanced towards the table, and the amiable gentleman, adapting his jocund step to my poor tread, had his attention divided between treating my infirmities with the utmost consideration, and affecting to be wholly unconscious that I required any.
I made him personally known to each of my friends in turn. First, to the deaf gentleman, whom he regarded with much interest, and accosted with great frankness and cordiality. He had evidently some vague idea, at the moment, that my friend being deaf must be dumb also; for when the latter opened his lips to express the pleasure it afforded him to know a gentleman of whom he had heard so much, Mr. Pickwick was so extremely disconcerted, that I was obliged to step in to his relief.
His meeting with Jack Redburn was quite a treat to see. Mr. Pickwick smiled, and shook hands, and looked at him through his spectacles, and under them, and over them, and nodded his head approvingly, and then nodded to me, as much as to say, ‘This is just the man; you were quite right;’ and then turned to Jack and said a few hearty words, and then did and said everything over again with unimpaired vivacity. As to Jack himself, he was quite as much delighted with Mr. Pickwick as Mr. Pickwick could possibly be with him. Two people never can have met together since the world began, who exchanged a warmer or more enthusiastic greeting.
It was amusing to observe the difference between this encounter and that which succeeded, between Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Miles. It was clear that the latter gentleman viewed our new member as a kind of rival in the affections of Jack Redburn, and besides this, he had more than once hinted to me, in secret, that although he had no doubt Mr. Pickwick was a very worthy man, still he did consider that some of his exploits were unbecoming a gentleman of his years and gravity. Over and above these grounds of distrust, it is one of his fixed opinions, that the law never can by possibility do anything wrong; he therefore looks upon Mr. Pickwick as one who has justly suffered in purse and peace for a breach of his plighted faith to an unprotected female, and holds that he is called upon to regard him with some suspicion on that account. These causes led to a rather cold and formal reception; which Mr. Pickwick acknowledged with the same stateliness and intense politeness as was displayed on the other side. Indeed, he assumed an air of such majestic defiance, that I was fearful he might break out into some solemn protest or declaration, and therefore inducted him into his chair without a moment’s delay.
This piece of generalship was perfectly successful. The instant he took his seat, Mr. Pickwick surveyed us all with a most benevolent aspect, and was taken with a fit of smiling full five minutes long. His interest in our ceremonies was immense. They are not very numerous or complicated, and a description of them may be comprised in very few words. As our transactions have already been, and must necessarily continue to be, more or less anticipated by being presented in these pages at different times, and under various forms, they do not require a detailed account.
Our first proceeding when we are assembled is to shake hands all round, and greet each other with cheerful and pleasant looks. Remembering that we assemble not only for the promotion of our happiness, but with the view of adding something to the common stock, an air of languor or indifference in any member of our body would be regarded by the others as a kind of treason. We have never had an offender in this respect; but if we had, there is no doubt that he would be taken to task pretty severely.
Our salutation over, the venerable piece of antiquity from which we take our name is wound up in silence. The ceremony is always performed by Master Humphrey himself (in treating of the club, I may be permitted to assume the historical style, and speak of myself in the third person), who mounts upon a chair for the purpose, armed with a large key. While it is in progress, Jack Redburn is required to keep at the farther end of the room under the guardianship of Mr. Miles, for he is known to entertain certain aspiring and unhallowed thoughts connected with the clock, and has even gone so far as to state that if he might take the works out for a day or two, he thinks he could improve them. We pardon him his presumption in consideration of his good intentions, and his keeping this respectful distance, which last penalty is insisted on, lest by secretly wounding the object of our regard in some tender part, in the ardour of his zeal for its improvement, he should fill us with dismay and consternation.
This regulation afforded Mr. Pickwick the highest delight, and seemed, if possible, to exalt Jack in his good opinion.
The next ceremony is the opening of the clock-case (of which Master Humphrey has likewise the key), the taking from it as many papers as will furnish forth our evening’s entertainment, and arranging in the recess such new contributions as have been provided since our last meeting. This is always done with peculiar solemnity. The deaf gentleman then fills and lights his pipe, and we once more take our seats round the table before mentioned, Master Humphrey acting as president, – if we can be said to have any president, where all are on the same social footing, – and our friend Jack as secretary. Our preliminaries being now concluded, we fall into any train of conversation that happens to suggest itself, or proceed immediately to one of our readings. In the latter case, the paper selected is consigned to Master Humphrey, who flattens it carefully on the table and makes dog’s ears in the corner of every page, ready for turning over easily; Jack Redburn trims the lamp with a small machine of his own invention which usually puts it out; Mr. Miles looks on with great approval notwithstanding; the deaf gentleman draws in his chair, so that he can follow the words on the paper or on Master Humphrey’s lips as he pleases; and Master Humphrey himself, looking round with mighty gratification, and glancing up at his old clock, begins to read aloud.
Mr. Pickwick’s face, while his tale was being read, would have attracted the attention of the dullest man alive. The complacent motion of his head and forefinger as he gently beat time, and corrected the air with imaginary punctuation, the smile that mantled on his features at every jocose passage, and the sly look he stole around to observe its effect, the calm manner in which he shut his eyes and listened when there was some little piece of description, the changing expression with which he acted the dialogue to himself, his agony that the deaf gentleman should know what it was all about, and his extraordinary anxiety to correct the reader when he hesitated at a word in the manuscript, or substituted a wrong one, were alike worthy of remark. And when at last, endeavouring to communicate with the deaf gentleman by means of the finger alphabet, with which he constructed such words as are unknown in any civilised or savage language, he took up a slate and wrote in large text, one word in a line, the question, ‘How – do – you – like – it?’ – when he did this, and handing it over the table awaited the reply, with a countenance only brightened and improved by his great excitement, even Mr. Miles relaxed, and could not forbear looking at him for the moment with interest and favour.
‘It has occurred to me,’ said the deaf gentleman, who had watched Mr. Pickwick and everybody else with silent satisfaction – ‘it has occurred to me,’ said the deaf gentleman, taking his pipe from his lips, ‘that now is our time for filling our only empty chair.’
As our conversation had naturally turned upon the vacant seat, we lent a willing ear to this remark, and looked at our friend inquiringly.
‘I feel sure,’ said he, ‘that Mr. Pickwick must be acquainted with somebody who would be an acquisition to us; that he must know the man we want. Pray let us not lose any time, but set this question at rest. Is it so, Mr. Pickwick?’
The gentleman addressed was about to return a verbal reply, but remembering our friend’s infirmity, he substituted for this kind of answer some fifty nods. Then taking up the slate and printing on it a gigantic ‘Yes,’ he handed it across the table, and rubbing his hands as he looked round upon our faces, protested that he and the deaf gentleman quite understood each other, already.
‘The person I have in my mind,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and whom I should not have presumed to mention to you until some time hence, but for the opportunity you have given me, is a very strange old man. His name is Bamber.’
‘Bamber!’ said Jack. ‘I have certainly heard the name before.’
‘I have no doubt, then,’ returned Mr. Pickwick, ‘that you remember him in those adventures of mine (the Posthumous Papers of our old club, I mean), although he is only incidentally mentioned; and, if I remember right, appears but once.’
‘That’s it,’ said Jack. ‘Let me see. He is the person who has a grave interest in old mouldy chambers and the Inns of Court, and who relates some anecdotes having reference to his favourite theme, – and an odd ghost story, – is that the man?’
‘The very same. Now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, lowering his voice to a mysterious and confidential tone, ‘he is a very extraordinary and remarkable person; living, and talking, and looking, like some strange spirit, whose delight is to haunt old buildings; and absorbed in that one subject which you have just mentioned, to an extent which is quite wonderful. When I retired into private life, I sought him out, and I do assure you that the more I see of him, the more strongly I am impressed with the strange and dreamy character of his mind.’
‘Where does he live?’ I inquired.
‘He lives,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘in one of those dull, lonely old places with which his thoughts and stories are all connected; quite alone, and often shut up close for several weeks together. In this dusty solitude he broods upon the fancies he has so long indulged, and when he goes into the world, or anybody from the world without goes to see him, they are still present to his mind and still his favourite topic. I may say, I believe, that he has brought himself to entertain a regard for me, and an interest in my visits; feelings which I am certain he would extend to Master Humphrey’s Clock if he were once tempted to join us. All I wish you to understand is, that he is a strange, secluded visionary, in the world but not of it; and as unlike anybody here as he is unlike anybody elsewhere that I have ever met or known.’
Mr. Miles received this account of our proposed companion with rather a wry face, and after murmuring that perhaps he was a little mad, inquired if he were rich.
‘I never asked him,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘You might know, sir, for all that,’ retorted Mr. Miles, sharply.
‘Perhaps so, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, no less sharply than the other, ‘but I do not. Indeed,’ he added, relapsing into his usual mildness, ‘I have no means of judging. He lives poorly, but that would seem to be in keeping with his character. I never heard him allude to his circumstances, and never fell into the society of any man who had the slightest acquaintance with them. I have really told you all I know about him, and it rests with you to say whether you wish to know more, or know quite enough already.’
We were unanimously of opinion that we would seek to know more; and as a sort of compromise with Mr. Miles (who, although he said ‘Yes – O certainly – he should like to know more about the gentleman – he had no right to put himself in opposition to the general wish,’ and so forth, shook his head doubtfully and hemmed several times with peculiar gravity), it was arranged that Mr. Pickwick should carry me with him on an evening visit to the subject of our discussion, for which purpose an early appointment between that gentleman and myself was immediately agreed upon; it being understood that I was to act upon my own responsibility, and to invite him to join us or not, as I might think proper. This solemn question determined, we returned to the clock-case (where we have been forestalled by the reader), and between its contents, and the conversation they occasioned, the remainder of our time passed very quickly.
When we broke up, Mr. Pickwick took me aside to tell me that he had spent a most charming and delightful evening. Having made this communication with an air of the strictest secrecy, he took Jack Redburn into another corner to tell him the same, and then retired into another corner with the deaf gentleman and the slate, to repeat the assurance. It was amusing to observe the contest in his mind whether he should extend his confidence to Mr. Miles, or treat him with dignified reserve. Half a dozen times he stepped up behind him with a friendly air, and as often stepped back again without saying a word; at last, when he was close at that gentleman’s ear and upon the very point of whispering something conciliating and agreeable, Mr. Miles happened suddenly to turn his head, upon which Mr. Pickwick skipped away, and said with some fierceness, ‘Good night, sir – I was about to say good night, sir, – nothing more;’ and so made a bow and left him.
‘Now, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when he had got down-stairs.
‘All right, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Hold hard, sir. Right arm fust – now the left – now one strong conwulsion, and the great- coat’s on, sir.’
Mr. Pickwick acted upon these directions, and being further assisted by Sam, who pulled at one side of the collar, and Mr. Weller, who pulled hard at the other, was speedily enrobed. Mr. Weller, senior, then produced a full-sized stable lantern, which he had carefully deposited in a remote corner, on his arrival, and inquired whether Mr. Pickwick would have ‘the lamps alight.’
‘I think not to-night,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Then if this here lady vill per-mit,’ rejoined Mr. Weller, ‘we’ll leave it here, ready for next journey. This here lantern, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, handing it to the housekeeper, ‘vunce belonged to the celebrated Bill Blinder as is now at grass, as all on us vill be in our turns. Bill, mum, wos the hostler as had charge o’ them two vell-known piebald leaders that run in the Bristol fast coach, and vould never go to no other tune but a sutherly vind and a cloudy sky, which wos consekvently played incessant, by the guard, wenever they wos on duty. He wos took wery bad one arternoon, arter having been off his feed, and wery shaky on his legs for some veeks; and he says to his mate, “Matey,” he says, “I think I’m a- goin’ the wrong side o’ the post, and that my foot’s wery near the bucket. Don’t say I an’t,” he says, “for I know I am, and don’t let me be interrupted,” he says, “for I’ve saved a little money, and I’m a-goin’ into the stable to make my last vill and testymint.” “I’ll take care as nobody interrupts,” says his mate, “but you on’y hold up your head, and shake your ears a bit, and you’re good for twenty years to come.” Bill Blinder makes him no answer, but he goes avay into the stable, and there he soon artervards lays himself down a’tween the two piebalds, and dies, – previously a writin’ outside the corn-chest, “This is the last vill and testymint of Villiam Blinder.” They wos nat’rally wery much amazed at this, and arter looking among the litter, and up in the loft, and vere not, they opens the corn-chest, and finds that he’d been and chalked his vill inside the lid; so the lid was obligated to be took off the hinges, and sent up to Doctor Commons to be proved, and under that ‘ere wery instrument this here lantern was passed to Tony Veller; vich circumstarnce, mum, gives it a wally in my eyes, and makes me rekvest, if you vill be so kind, as to take partickler care on it.’
The housekeeper graciously promised to keep the object of Mr. Weller’s regard in the safest possible custody, and Mr. Pickwick, with a laughing face, took his leave. The bodyguard followed, side by side; old Mr. Weller buttoned and wrapped up from his boots to his chin; and Sam with his hands in his pockets and his hat half off his head, remonstrating with his father, as he went, on his extreme loquacity.
I was not a little surprised, on turning to go up-stairs, to encounter the barber in the passage at that late hour; for his attendance is usually confined to some half-hour in the morning. But Jack Redburn, who finds out (by instinct, I think) everything that happens in the house, informed me with great glee, that a society in imitation of our own had been that night formed in the kitchen, under the title of ‘Mr. Weller’s Watch,’ of which the barber was a member; and that he could pledge himself to find means of making me acquainted with the whole of its future proceedings, which I begged him, both on my own account and that of my readers, by no means to neglect doing.
CHAPTER V – MR. WELLER’S WATCH
IT SEEMS that the housekeeper and the two Mr. Wellers were no sooner left together on the occasion of their first becoming acquainted, than the housekeeper called to her assistance Mr. Slithers the barber, who had been lurking in the kitchen in expectation of her summons; and with many smiles and much sweetness introduced him as one who would assist her in the responsible office of entertaining her distinguished visitors.
‘Indeed,’ said she, ‘without Mr. Slithers I should have been placed in quite an awkward situation.’
‘There is no call for any hock’erdness, mum,’ said Mr. Weller with the utmost politeness; ‘no call wotsumever. A lady,’ added the old gentleman, looking about him with the air of one who establishes an incontrovertible position, – ‘a lady can’t be hock’erd. Natur’ has otherwise purwided.’
The housekeeper inclined her head and smiled yet more sweetly. The barber, who had been fluttering about Mr. Weller and Sam in a state of great anxiety to improve their acquaintance, rubbed his hands and cried, ‘Hear, hear! Very true, sir;’ whereupon Sam turned about and steadily regarded him for some seconds in silence.
‘I never knew,’ said Sam, fixing his eyes in a ruminative manner upon the blushing barber, – ‘I never knew but vun o’ your trade, but HE wos worth a dozen, and wos indeed dewoted to his callin’!’
‘Was he in the easy shaving way, sir,’ inquired Mr. Slithers; ‘or in the cutting and curling line?’
‘Both,’ replied Sam; ‘easy shavin’ was his natur’, and cuttin’ and curlin’ was his pride and glory. His whole delight wos in his trade. He spent all his money in bears, and run in debt for ’em besides, and there they wos a growling avay down in the front cellar all day long, and ineffectooally gnashing their teeth, vile the grease o’ their relations and friends wos being re-tailed in gallipots in the shop above, and the first-floor winder wos ornamented vith their heads; not to speak o’ the dreadful aggrawation it must have been to ’em to see a man alvays a walkin’ up and down the pavement outside, vith the portrait of a bear in his last agonies, and underneath in large letters, “Another fine animal wos slaughtered yesterday at Jinkinson’s!” Hows’ever, there they wos, and there Jinkinson wos, till he wos took wery ill with some inn’ard disorder, lost the use of his legs, and wos confined to his bed, vere he laid a wery long time, but sich wos his pride in his profession, even then, that wenever he wos worse than usual the doctor used to go down-stairs and say, “Jinkinson’s wery low this mornin’; we must give the bears a stir;” and as sure as ever they stirred ’em up a bit and made ’em roar, Jinkinson opens his eyes if he wos ever so bad, calls out, “There’s the bears!” and rewives agin.’
‘Astonishing!’ cried the barber.
‘Not a bit,’ said Sam, ‘human natur’ neat as imported. Vun day the doctor happenin’ to say, “I shall look in as usual to-morrow mornin’,” Jinkinson catches hold of his hand and says, “Doctor,” he says, “will you grant me one favour?” “I will, Jinkinson,” says the doctor. “Then, doctor,” says Jinkinson, “vill you come unshaved, and let me shave you?” “I will,” says the doctor. “God bless you,” says Jinkinson. Next day the doctor came, and arter he’d been shaved all skilful and reg’lar, he says, “Jinkinson,” he says, “it’s wery plain this does you good. Now,” he says, “I’ve got a coachman as has got a beard that it ‘ud warm your heart to work on, and though the footman,” he says, “hasn’t got much of a beard, still he’s a trying it on vith a pair o’ viskers to that extent that razors is Christian charity. If they take it in turns to mind the carriage when it’s a waitin’ below,” he says, “wot’s to hinder you from operatin’ on both of ’em ev’ry day as well as upon me? you’ve got six children,” he says, “wot’s to hinder you from shavin’ all their heads and keepin’ ’em shaved? you’ve got two assistants in the shop down-stairs, wot’s to hinder you from cuttin’ and curlin’ them as often as you like? Do this,” he says, “and you’re a man agin.” Jinkinson squeedged the doctor’s hand and begun that wery day; he kept his tools upon the bed, and wenever he felt his-self gettin’ worse, he turned to at vun o’ the children who wos a runnin’ about the house vith heads like clean Dutch cheeses, and shaved him agin. Vun day the lawyer come to make his vill; all the time he wos a takin’ it down, Jinkinson was secretly a clippin’ avay at his hair vith a large pair of scissors. “Wot’s that ‘ere snippin’ noise?” says the lawyer every now and then; “it’s like a man havin’ his hair cut.” “It IS wery like a man havin’ his hair cut,” says poor Jinkinson, hidin’ the scissors, and lookin’ quite innocent. By the time the lawyer found it out, he was wery nearly bald. Jinkinson wos kept alive in this vay for a long time, but at last vun day he has in all the children vun arter another, shaves each on ’em wery clean, and gives him vun kiss on the crown o’ his head; then he has in the two assistants, and arter cuttin’ and curlin’ of ’em in the first style of elegance, says he should like to hear the woice o’ the greasiest bear, vich rekvest is immediately complied with; then he says that he feels wery happy in his mind and vishes to be left alone; and then he dies, previously cuttin’ his own hair and makin’ one flat curl in the wery middle of his forehead.’
This anecdote produced an extraordinary effect, not only upon Mr. Slithers, but upon the housekeeper also, who evinced so much anxiety to please and be pleased, that Mr. Weller, with a manner betokening some alarm, conveyed a whispered inquiry to his son whether he had gone ‘too fur.’
‘Wot do you mean by too fur?’ demanded Sam.
‘In that ‘ere little compliment respectin’ the want of hock’erdness in ladies, Sammy,’ replied his father.
‘You don’t think she’s fallen in love with you in consekens o’ that, do you?’ said Sam.
‘More unlikelier things have come to pass, my boy,’ replied Mr. Weller in a hoarse whisper; ‘I’m always afeerd of inadwertent captiwation, Sammy. If I know’d how to make myself ugly or unpleasant, I’d do it, Samivel, rayther than live in this here state of perpetival terror!’
Mr. Weller had, at that time, no further opportunity of dwelling upon the apprehensions which beset his mind, for the immediate occasion of his fears proceeded to lead the way down-stairs, apologising as they went for conducting him into the kitchen, which apartment, however, she was induced to proffer for his accommodation in preference to her own little room, the rather as it afforded greater facilities for smoking, and was immediately adjoining the ale-cellar. The preparations which were already made sufficiently proved that these were not mere words of course, for on the deal table were a sturdy ale-jug and glasses, flanked with clean pipes and a plentiful supply of tobacco for the old gentleman and his son, while on a dresser hard by was goodly store of cold meat and other eatables. At sight of these arrangements Mr. Weller was at first distracted between his love of joviality and his doubts whether they were not to be considered as so many evidences of captivation having already taken place; but he soon yielded to his natural impulse, and took his seat at the table with a very jolly countenance.
‘As to imbibin’ any o’ this here flagrant veed, mum, in the presence of a lady,’ said Mr. Weller, taking up a pipe and laying it down again, ‘it couldn’t be. Samivel, total abstinence, if YOU please.’
‘But I like it of all things,’ said the housekeeper.
‘No,’ rejoined Mr. Weller, shaking his head, – ‘no.’
‘Upon my word I do,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Mr. Slithers knows I do.’
Mr. Weller coughed, and notwithstanding the barber’s confirmation of the statement, said ‘No’ again, but more feebly than before. The housekeeper lighted a piece of paper, and insisted on applying it to the bowl of the pipe with her own fair hands; Mr. Weller resisted; the housekeeper cried that her fingers would be burnt; Mr. Weller gave way. The pipe was ignited, Mr. Weller drew a long puff of smoke, and detecting himself in the very act of smiling on the housekeeper, put a sudden constraint upon his countenance and looked sternly at the candle, with a determination not to captivate, himself, or encourage thoughts of captivation in others. From this iron frame of mind he was roused by the voice of his son.
‘I don’t think,’ said Sam, who was smoking with great composure and enjoyment, ‘that if the lady wos agreeable it ‘ud be wery far out o’ the vay for us four to make up a club of our own like the governors does up-stairs, and let him,’ Sam pointed with the stem of his pipe towards his parent, ‘be the president.’
The housekeeper affably declared that it was the very thing she had been thinking of. The barber said the same. Mr. Weller said nothing, but he laid down his pipe as if in a fit of inspiration, and performed the following manoeuvres.
Unbuttoning the three lower buttons of his waistcoat and pausing for a moment to enjoy the easy flow of breath consequent upon this process, he laid violent hands upon his watch-chain, and slowly and with extreme difficulty drew from his fob an immense double-cased silver watch, which brought the lining of the pocket with it, and was not to be disentangled but by great exertions and an amazing redness of face. Having fairly got it out at last, he detached the outer case and wound it up with a key of corresponding magnitude; then put the case on again, and having applied the watch to his ear to ascertain that it was still going, gave it some half-dozen hard knocks on the table to improve its performance.
‘That,’ said Mr. Weller, laying it on the table with its face upwards, ‘is the title and emblem o’ this here society. Sammy, reach them two stools this vay for the wacant cheers. Ladies and gen’lmen, Mr. Weller’s Watch is vound up and now a-goin’. Order!’
By way of enforcing this proclamation, Mr. Weller, using the watch after the manner of a president’s hammer, and remarking with great pride that nothing hurt it, and that falls and concussions of all kinds materially enhanced the excellence of the works and assisted the regulator, knocked the table a great many times, and declared the association formally constituted.
‘And don’t let’s have no grinnin’ at the cheer, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller to his son, ‘or I shall be committin’ you to the cellar, and then p’r’aps we may get into what the ‘Merrikins call a fix, and the English a qvestion o’ privileges.’
Having uttered this friendly caution, the President settled himself in his chair with great dignity, and requested that Mr. Samuel would relate an anecdote.
‘I’ve told one,’ said Sam.
‘Wery good, sir; tell another,’ returned the chair.
‘We wos a talking jist now, sir,’ said Sam, turning to Slithers, ‘about barbers. Pursuing that ‘ere fruitful theme, sir, I’ll tell you in a wery few words a romantic little story about another barber as p’r’aps you may never have heerd.’
‘Samivel!’ said Mr. Weller, again bringing his watch and the table into smart collision, ‘address your obserwations to the cheer, sir, and not to priwate indiwiduals!’
‘And if I might rise to order,’ said the barber in a soft voice, and looking round him with a conciliatory smile as he leant over the table, with the knuckles of his left hand resting upon it, – ‘if I MIGHT rise to order, I would suggest that “barbers” is not exactly the kind of language which is agreeable and soothing to our feelings. You, sir, will correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe there IS such a word in the dictionary as hairdressers.’
‘Well, but suppose he wasn’t a hairdresser,’ suggested Sam.
‘Wy then, sir, be parliamentary and call him vun all the more,’ returned his father. ‘In the same vay as ev’ry gen’lman in another place is a Honourable, ev’ry barber in this place is a hairdresser. Ven you read the speeches in the papers, and see as vun gen’lman says of another, “the Honourable member, if he vill allow me to call him so,” you vill understand, sir, that that means, “if he vill allow me to keep up that ‘ere pleasant and uniwersal fiction.”‘
It is a common remark, confirmed by history and experience, that great men rise with the circumstances in which they are placed. Mr. Weller came out so strong in his capacity of chairman, that Sam was for some time prevented from speaking by a grin of surprise, which held his faculties enchained, and at last subsided in a long whistle of a single note. Nay, the old gentleman appeared even to have astonished himself, and that to no small extent, as was demonstrated by the vast amount of chuckling in which he indulged, after the utterance of these lucid remarks.
‘Here’s the story,’ said Sam. ‘Vunce upon a time there wos a young hairdresser as opened a wery smart little shop vith four wax dummies in the winder, two gen’lmen and two ladies – the gen’lmen vith blue dots for their beards, wery large viskers, oudacious heads of hair, uncommon clear eyes, and nostrils of amazin’ pinkness; the ladies vith their heads o’ one side, their right forefingers on their lips, and their forms deweloped beautiful, in vich last respect they had the adwantage over the gen’lmen, as wasn’t allowed but wery little shoulder, and terminated rayther abrupt in fancy drapery. He had also a many hair-brushes and tooth-brushes bottled up in the winder, neat glass-cases on the counter, a floor-clothed cuttin’-room up-stairs, and a weighin’- macheen in the shop, right opposite the door. But the great attraction and ornament wos the dummies, which this here young hairdresser wos constantly a runnin’ out in the road to look at, and constantly a runnin’ in again to touch up and polish; in short, he wos so proud on ’em, that ven Sunday come, he wos always wretched and mis’rable to think they wos behind the shutters, and looked anxiously for Monday on that account. Vun o’ these dummies wos a favrite vith him beyond the others; and ven any of his acquaintance asked him wy he didn’t get married – as the young ladies he know’d, in partickler, often did – he used to say, “Never! I never vill enter into the bonds of vedlock,” he says, “until I meet vith a young ‘ooman as realises my idea o’ that ‘ere fairest dummy vith the light hair. Then, and not till then,” he says, “I vill approach the altar.” All the young ladies he know’d as had got dark hair told him this wos wery sinful, and that he wos wurshippin’ a idle; but them as wos at all near the same shade as the dummy coloured up wery much, and wos observed to think him a wery nice young man.’
‘Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, gravely, ‘a member o’ this associashun bein’ one o’ that ‘ere tender sex which is now immedetly referred to, I have to rekvest that you vill make no reflections.’
‘I ain’t a makin’ any, am I?’ inquired Sam.
‘Order, sir!’ rejoined Mr. Weller, with severe dignity. Then, sinking the chairman in the father, he added, in his usual tone of voice: ‘Samivel, drive on!’
Sam interchanged a smile with the housekeeper, and proceeded:
‘The young hairdresser hadn’t been in the habit o’ makin’ this avowal above six months, ven he en-countered a young lady as wos the wery picter o’ the fairest dummy. “Now,” he says, “it’s all up. I am a slave!” The young lady wos not only the picter o’ the fairest dummy, but she was wery romantic, as the young hairdresser was, too, and he says, “O!” he says, “here’s a community o’ feelin’, here’s a flow o’ soul!” he says, “here’s a interchange o’ sentiment!” The young lady didn’t say much, o’ course, but she expressed herself agreeable, and shortly artervards vent to see him vith a mutual friend. The hairdresser rushes out to meet her, but d’rectly she sees the dummies she changes colour and falls a tremblin’ wiolently. “Look up, my love,” says the hairdresser, “behold your imige in my winder, but not correcter than in my art!” “My imige!” she says. “Yourn!” replies the hairdresser. “But whose imige is THAT?” she says, a pinting at vun o’ the gen’lmen. “No vun’s, my love,” he says, “it is but a idea.” “A idea! ” she cries: “it is a portrait, I feel it is a portrait, and that ‘ere noble face must be in the millingtary!” “Wot do I hear!” says he, a crumplin’ his curls. “Villiam Gibbs,” she says, quite firm, “never renoo the subject. I respect you as a friend,” she says, “but my affections is set upon that manly brow.” “This,” says the hairdresser, “is a reg’lar blight, and in it I perceive the hand of Fate. Farevell!” Vith these vords he rushes into the shop, breaks the dummy’s nose vith a blow of his curlin’-irons, melts him down at the parlour fire, and never smiles artervards.’
‘The young lady, Mr. Weller?’ said the housekeeper.
‘Why, ma’am,’ said Sam, ‘finding that Fate had a spite agin her, and everybody she come into contact vith, she never smiled neither, but read a deal o’ poetry and pined avay, – by rayther slow degrees, for she ain’t dead yet. It took a deal o’ poetry to kill the hair-dresser, and some people say arter all that it was more the gin and water as caused him to be run over; p’r’aps it was a little o’ both, and came o’ mixing the two.’
The barber declared that Mr. Weller had related one of the most interesting stories that had ever come within his knowledge, in which opinion the housekeeper entirely concurred.
‘Are you a married man, sir?’ inquired Sam.
The barber replied that he had not that honour.
‘I s’pose you mean to be?’ said Sam.
‘Well,’ replied the barber, rubbing his hands smirkingly, ‘I don’t know, I don’t think it’s very likely.’
‘That’s a bad sign,’ said Sam; ‘if you’d said you meant to be vun o’ these days, I should ha’ looked upon you as bein’ safe. You’re in a wery precarious state.’
‘I am not conscious of any danger, at all events,’ returned the barber.
‘No more wos I, sir,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, interposing; ‘those vere my symptoms, exactly. I’ve been took that vay twice. Keep your vether eye open, my friend, or you’re gone.’
There was something so very solemn about this admonition, both in its matter and manner, and also in the way in which Mr. Weller still kept his eye fixed upon the unsuspecting victim, that nobody cared to speak for some little time, and might not have cared to do so for some time longer, if the housekeeper had not happened to sigh, which called off the old gentleman’s attention and gave rise to a gallant inquiry whether ‘there wos anythin’ wery piercin’ in that ‘ere little heart?’
‘Dear me, Mr. Weller!’ said the housekeeper, laughing.
‘No, but is there anythin’ as agitates it?’ pursued the old gentleman. ‘Has it always been obderrate, always opposed to the happiness o’ human creeturs? Eh? Has it?’
At this critical juncture for her blushes and confusion, the housekeeper discovered that more ale was wanted, and hastily withdrew into the cellar to draw the same, followed by the barber, who insisted on carrying the candle. Having looked after her with a very complacent expression of face, and after him with some disdain, Mr. Weller caused his glance to travel slowly round the kitchen, until at length it rested on his son.
‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘I mistrust that barber.’
‘Wot for?’ returned Sam; ‘wot’s he got to do with you? You’re a nice man, you are, arter pretendin’ all kinds o’ terror, to go a payin’ compliments and talkin’ about hearts and piercers.’
The imputation of gallantry appeared to afford Mr. Weller the utmost delight, for he replied in a voice choked by suppressed laughter, and with the tears in his eyes,
‘Wos I a talkin’ about hearts and piercers, – wos I though, Sammy, eh?’
‘Wos you? of course you wos.’
‘She don’t know no better, Sammy, there ain’t no harm in it, – no danger, Sammy; she’s only a punster. She seemed pleased, though, didn’t she? O’ course, she wos pleased, it’s nat’ral she should be, wery nat’ral.’
‘He’s wain of it!’ exclaimed Sam, joining in his father’s mirth. ‘He’s actually wain!’
‘Hush!’ replied Mr. Weller, composing his features, ‘they’re a comin’ back, – the little heart’s a comin’ back. But mark these wurds o’ mine once more, and remember ’em ven your father says he said ’em. Samivel, I mistrust that ‘ere deceitful barber.’
CHAPTER VI – MASTER HUMPHREY, FROM HIS CLOCK-SIDE IN THE CHIMNEY CORNER
TWO or three evenings after the institution of Mr. Weller’s Watch, I thought I heard, as I walked in the garden, the voice of Mr. Weller himself at no great distance; and stopping once or twice to listen more attentively, I found that the sounds proceeded from my