prompt:
Chapter: Scattered about, in various holes and corners of the Temple, are certain
dark and dirty chambers, in and out of which, all the morning in
vacation, and half the evening too in term time, there may be seen
constantly hurrying with bundles of papers under their arms, and
protruding from their pockets, an almost uninterrupted succession of
lawyers' clerks. There are several grades of lawyers' clerks. There is
the articled clerk, who has paid a premium, and is an attorney in
perspective, who runs a tailor's bill, receives invitations to parties,
knows a family in Gower Street, and another in Tavistock Square; who
goes out of town every long vacation to see his father, who keeps live
horses innumerable; and who is, in short, the very aristocrat of clerks.
There is the salaried clerk--out of door, or in door, as the case may
be--who devotes the major part of his thirty shillings a week to his
Personal pleasure and adornments, repairs half-price to the Adelphi
Theatre at least three times a week, dissipates majestically at the
cider cellars afterwards, and is a dirty caricature of the fashion which
expired six months ago. There is the middle-aged copying clerk, with a
large family, who is always shabby, and often drunk. And there are the
office lads in their first surtouts, who feel a befitting contempt for
boys at day-schools, club as they go home at night, for saveloys and
porter, and think there's nothing like 'life.' There are varieties of
the genus, too numerous to recapitulate, but however numerous they may
be, they are all to be seen, at certain regulated business hours,
hurrying to and from the places we have just mentioned.

These sequestered nooks are the public offices of the legal profession,
where writs are issued, judgments signed, declarations filed, and
numerous other ingenious machines put in motion for the torture and
torment of His Majesty's liege subjects, and the comfort and emolument
of the practitioners of the law. They are, for the most part, low-
roofed, mouldy rooms, where innumerable rolls of parchment, which have
been perspiring in secret for the last century, send forth an agreeable
odour, which is mingled by day with the scent of the dry-rot, and by
night with the various exhalations which arise from damp cloaks,
festering umbrellas, and the coarsest tallow candles.

About half-past seven o'clock in the evening, some ten days or a
fortnight after Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London, there
hurried into one of these offices, an individual in a brown coat and
brass buttons, whose long hair was scrupulously twisted round the rim of
his napless hat, and whose soiled drab trousers were so tightly strapped
over his Blucher boots, that his knees threatened every moment to start
from their concealment. He produced from his coat pockets a long and
narrow strip of parchment, on which the presiding functionary impressed
an illegible black stamp. He then drew forth four scraps of paper, of
similar dimensions, each containing a printed copy of the strip of
parchment with blanks for a name; and having filled up the blanks, put
all the five documents in his pocket, and hurried away.

The man in the brown coat, with the cabalistic documents in his pocket,
was no other than our old acquaintance Mr. Jackson, of the house of
Dodson & Fogg, Freeman's Court, Cornhill. Instead of returning to the
office whence he came, however, he bent his steps direct to Sun Court,
and walking straight into the George and Vulture, demanded to know
whether one Mr. Pickwick was within.

'Call Mr. Pickwick's servant, Tom,' said the barmaid of the George and
Vulture.

'Don't trouble yourself,' said Mr. Jackson. 'I've come on business. If
you'll show me Mr. Pickwick's room I'll step up myself.'

'What name, Sir?' said the waiter.

'Jackson,' replied the clerk.

The waiter stepped upstairs to announce Mr. Jackson; but Mr. Jackson
saved him the trouble by following close at his heels, and walking into
the apartment before he could articulate a syllable.

Mr. Pickwick had, that day, invited his three friends to dinner; they
were all seated round the fire, drinking their wine, when Mr. Jackson
presented himself, as above described.

'How de do, sir?' said Mr. Jackson, nodding to Mr. Pickwick.

That gentleman bowed, and looked somewhat surprised, for the physiognomy
of Mr. Jackson dwelt not in his recollection.

'I have called from Dodson and Fogg's,' said Mr. Jackson, in an
explanatory tone.

Mr. Pickwick roused at the name. 'I refer you to my attorney, Sir; Mr.
Perker, of Gray's Inn,' said he. 'Waiter, show this gentleman out.'

'Beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,' said Jackson, deliberately depositing
his hat on the floor, and drawing from his pocket the strip of
parchment. 'But personal service, by clerk or agent, in these cases, you
know, Mr. Pickwick--nothing like caution, sir, in all legal forms--eh?'

Here Mr. Jackson cast his eye on the parchment; and, resting his hands
on the table, and looking round with a winning and persuasive smile,
said, 'Now, come; don't let's have no words about such a little matter
as this. Which of you gentlemen's name's Snodgrass?'

At this inquiry, Mr. Snodgrass gave such a very undisguised and palpable
start, that no further reply was needed.

'Ah! I thought so,' said Mr. Jackson, more affably than before. 'I've a
little something to trouble you with, Sir.'

'Me!'exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass.

'It's only a subpoena in Bardell and Pickwick on behalf of the
plaintiff,' replied Jackson, singling out one of the slips of paper, and
producing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket. 'It'll come on, in the
settens after Term: fourteenth of Febooary, we expect; we've marked it a
special jury cause, and it's only ten down the paper. That's yours, Mr.
Snodgrass.' As Jackson said this, he presented the parchment before the
eyes of Mr. Snodgrass, and slipped the paper and the shilling into his
hand.

Mr. Tupman had witnessed this process in silent astonishment, when
Jackson, turning sharply upon him, said--

'I think I ain't mistaken when I say your name's Tupman, am I?'

Mr. Tupman looked at Mr. Pickwick; but, perceiving no encouragement in
that gentleman's widely-opened eyes to deny his name, said--

'Yes, my name is Tupman, Sir.'

'And that other gentleman's Mr. Winkle, I think?' said Jackson. Mr.
Winkle faltered out a reply in the affirmative; and both gentlemen were
forthwith invested with a slip of paper, and a shilling each, by the
dexterous Mr. Jackson.

'Now,' said Jackson, 'I'm afraid you'll think me rather troublesome, but
I want somebody else, if it ain't inconvenient. I have Samuel Weller's
name here, Mr. Pickwick.'

'Send my servant here, waiter,' said Mr. Pickwick. The waiter retired,
considerably astonished, and Mr. Pickwick motioned Jackson to a seat.

There was a painful pause, which was at length broken by the innocent
defendant.

'I suppose, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, his indignation rising while he
spoke--'I suppose, Sir, that it is the intention of your employers to
seek to criminate me upon the testimony of my own friends?'

Mr. Jackson struck his forefinger several times against the left side of
his nose, to intimate that he was not there to disclose the secrets of
the prison house, and playfully rejoined--

'Not knowin', can't say.'

'For what other reason, Sir,' pursued Mr. Pickwick, 'are these subpoenas
served upon them, if not for this?'

'Very good plant, Mr. Pickwick,' replied Jackson, slowly shaking his
head. 'But it won't do. No harm in trying, but there's little to be got
out of me.'

Here Mr. Jackson smiled once more upon the company, and, applying his
left thumb to the tip of his nose, worked a visionary coffee-mill with
his right hand, thereby performing a very graceful piece of pantomime
(then much in vogue, but now, unhappily, almost obsolete) which was
familiarly denominated 'taking a grinder.'

'No, no, Mr. Pickwick,' said Jackson, in conclusion; 'Perker's people
must guess what we've served these subpoenas for. If they can't, they
must wait till the action comes on, and then they'll find out.'

Mr. Pickwick bestowed a look of excessive disgust on his unwelcome
visitor, and would probably have hurled some tremendous anathema at the
heads of Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, had not Sam's entrance at the instant
interrupted him.

'Samuel Weller?' said Mr. Jackson, inquiringly.

'Vun o' the truest things as you've said for many a long year,' replied
Sam, in a most composed manner.

'Here's a subpoena for you, Mr. Weller,' said Jackson.

'What's that in English?' inquired Sam.

'Here's the original,' said Jackson, declining the required explanation.

'Which?' said Sam.

'This,' replied Jackson, shaking the parchment.

'Oh, that's the 'rig'nal, is it?' said Sam. 'Well, I'm wery glad I've
seen the 'rig'nal, 'cos it's a gratifyin' sort o' thing, and eases vun's
mind so much.'

'And here's the shilling,' said Jackson. 'It's from Dodson and Fogg's.'

'And it's uncommon handsome o' Dodson and Fogg, as knows so little of
me, to come down vith a present,' said Sam. 'I feel it as a wery high
compliment, sir; it's a wery honorable thing to them, as they knows how
to reward merit werever they meets it. Besides which, it's affectin' to
one's feelin's.'

As Mr. Weller said this, he inflicted a little friction on his right
eyelid, with the sleeve of his coat, after the most approved manner of
actors when they are in domestic pathetics.

Mr. Jackson seemed rather puzzled by Sam's proceedings; but, as he had
served the subpoenas, and had nothing more to say, he made a feint of
putting on the one glove which he usually carried in his hand, for the
sake of appearances; and returned to the office to report progress.

Mr. Pickwick slept little that night; his memory had received a very
disagreeable refresher on the subject of Mrs. Bardell's action. He
breakfasted betimes next morning, and, desiring Sam to accompany him,
set forth towards Gray's Inn Square.

'Sam!' said Mr. Pickwick, looking round, when they got to the end of
Cheapside.

'Sir?' said Sam, stepping up to his master.

'Which way?'

Up Newgate Street.'

Mr. Pickwick did not turn round immediately, but looked vacantly in
Sam's face for a few seconds, and heaved a deep sigh.

'What's the matter, sir?' inquired Sam.

'This action, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'is expected to come on, on the
fourteenth of next month.'

Remarkable coincidence that 'ere, sir,' replied Sam.

'Why remarkable, Sam?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Walentine's day, sir,' responded Sam; 'reg'lar good day for a breach o'
promise trial.'

Mr. Weller's smile awakened no gleam of mirth in his master's
countenance. Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly round, and led the way in
silence.

They had walked some distance, Mr. Pickwick trotting on before, plunged
in profound meditation, and Sam following behind, with a countenance
expressive of the most enviable and easy defiance of everything and
everybody, when the latter, who was always especially anxious to impart
to his master any exclusive information he possessed, quickened his pace
until he was close at Mr. Pickwick's heels; and, pointing up at a house
they were passing, said--

'Wery nice pork-shop that 'ere, sir.'

'Yes, it seems so,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Celebrated sassage factory,' said Sam.

'Is it?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Is it!' reiterated Sam, with some indignation; 'I should rayther think
it was. Why, sir, bless your innocent eyebrows, that's where the
mysterious disappearance of a 'spectable tradesman took place four years
ago.'

'You don't mean to say he was burked, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick, looking
hastily round.

'No, I don't indeed, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, 'I wish I did; far worse
than that. He was the master o' that 'ere shop, sir, and the inwentor o'
the patent-never-leavin'-off sassage steam-ingin, as 'ud swaller up a
pavin' stone if you put it too near, and grind it into sassages as easy
as if it was a tender young babby. Wery proud o' that machine he was, as
it was nat'ral he should be, and he'd stand down in the celler a-lookin'
at it wen it was in full play, till he got quite melancholy with joy. A
wery happy man he'd ha' been, Sir, in the procession o' that 'ere ingin
and two more lovely hinfants besides, if it hadn't been for his wife,
who was a most owdacious wixin. She was always a-follerin' him about,
and dinnin' in his ears, till at last he couldn't stand it no longer.
"I'll tell you what it is, my dear," he says one day; "if you persewere
in this here sort of amusement," he says, "I'm blessed if I don't go
away to 'Merriker; and that's all about it." "You're a idle willin,"
says she, "and I wish the 'Merrikins joy of their bargain." Arter which
she keeps on abusin' of him for half an hour, and then runs into the
little parlour behind the shop, sets to a-screamin', says he'll be the
death on her, and falls in a fit, which lasts for three good hours--one
o' them fits wich is all screamin' and kickin'. Well, next mornin', the
husband was missin'. He hadn't taken nothin' from the till--hadn't even
put on his greatcoat--so it was quite clear he warn't gone to 'Merriker.
Didn't come back next day; didn't come back next week; missis had bills
printed, sayin' that, if he'd come back, he should be forgiven
everythin' (which was very liberal, seein' that he hadn't done nothin'
at all); the canals was dragged, and for two months arterwards, wenever
a body turned up, it was carried, as a reg'lar thing, straight off to
the sassage shop. Hows'ever, none on 'em answered; so they gave out that
he'd run away, and she kep' on the bis'ness. One Saturday night, a
little, thin, old gen'l'm'n comes into the shop in a great passion and
says, "Are you the missis o' this here shop?" "Yes, I am," says she.
"Well, ma'am," says he, "then I've just looked in to say that me and my
family ain't a-goin' to be choked for nothin'; and more than that,
ma'am," he says, "you'll allow me to observe that as you don't use the
primest parts of the meat in the manafacter o' sassages, I'd think you'd
find beef come nearly as cheap as buttons." "As buttons, Sir!" says she.
"Buttons, ma'am," says the little, old gentleman, unfolding a bit of
paper, and showin' twenty or thirty halves o' buttons. "Nice seasonin'
for sassages, is trousers' buttons, ma'am." "They're my husband's
buttons!" says the widder beginnin' to faint, "What!" screams the little
old gen'l'm'n, turnin' wery pale. "I see it all," says the widder; "in a
fit of temporary insanity he rashly converted hisself into sassages!"
And so he had, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, looking steadily into Mr.
Pickwick's horror-stricken countenance, 'or else he'd been draw'd into
the ingin; but however that might ha' been, the little, old gen'l'm'n,
who had been remarkably partial to sassages all his life, rushed out o'
the shop in a wild state, and was never heerd on arterwards!'

The relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master
and man to Mr. Perker's chambers. Lowten, holding the door half open,
was in conversation with a rustily-clad, miserable-looking man, in boots
without toes and gloves without fingers. There were traces of privation
and suffering--almost of despair--in his lank and care-worn countenance;
he felt his poverty, for he shrank to the dark side of the staircase as
Mr. Pickwick approached.

'It's very unfortunate,' said the stranger, with a sigh.

'Very,' said Lowten, scribbling his name on the doorpost with his pen,
and rubbing it out again with the feather. 'Will you leave a message for
him?'

'When do you think he'll be back?' inquired the stranger.

'Quite uncertain,' replied Lowten, winking at Mr. Pickwick, as the
stranger cast his eyes towards the ground.

'You don't think it would be of any use my waiting for him?' said the
stranger, looking wistfully into the office.

'Oh, no, I'm sure it wouldn't,' replied the clerk, moving a little more
into the centre of the doorway. 'He's certain not to be back this week,
and it's a chance whether he will be next; for when Perker once gets out
of town, he's never in a hurry to come back again.'

'Out of town!' said Mr. Pickwick; 'dear me, how unfortunate!'

'Don't go away, Mr. Pickwick,' said Lowten, 'I've got a letter for you.'
The stranger, seeming to hesitate, once more looked towards the ground,
and the clerk winked slyly at Mr. Pickwick, as if to intimate that some
exquisite piece of humour was going forward, though what it was Mr.
Pickwick could not for the life of him divine.

'Step in, Mr. Pickwick,' said Lowten. 'Well, will you leave a message,
Mr. Watty, or will you call again?'

'Ask him to be so kind as to leave out word what has been done in my
business,' said the man; 'for God's sake don't neglect it, Mr. Lowten.'

'No, no; I won't forget it,' replied the clerk. 'Walk in, Mr. Pickwick.
Good-morning, Mr. Watty; it's a fine day for walking, isn't it?' Seeing
that the stranger still lingered, he beckoned Sam Weller to follow his
master in, and shut the door in his face.

'There never was such a pestering bankrupt as that since the world
began, I do believe!' said Lowten, throwing down his pen with the air of
an injured man. 'His affairs haven't been in Chancery quite four years
yet, and I'm d----d if he don't come worrying here twice a week. Step
this way, Mr. Pickwick. Perker _is_ in, and he'll see you, I know.
Devilish cold,' he added pettishly, 'standing at that door, wasting
one's time with such seedy vagabonds!' Having very vehemently stirred a
particularly large fire with a particularly small poker, the clerk led
the way to his principal's private room, and announced Mr. Pickwick.

'Ah, my dear Sir,' said little Mr. Perker, bustling up from his chair.
'Well, my dear sir, and what's the news about your matter, eh? Anything
more about our friends in Freeman's Court? They've not been sleeping, I
know that. Ah, they're very smart fellows; very smart, indeed.'

As the little man concluded, he took an emphatic pinch of snuff, as a
tribute to the smartness of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg.

'They are great scoundrels,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Aye, aye,' said the little man; 'that's a matter of opinion, you know,
and we won't dispute about terms; because of course you can't be
expected to view these subjects with a professional eye. Well, we've
done everything that's necessary. I have retained Serjeant Snubbin.'

'Is he a good man?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Good man!' replied Perker; 'bless your heart and soul, my dear Sir,
Serjeant Snubbin is at the very top of his profession. Gets treble the
business of any man in court--engaged in every case. You needn't mention
it abroad; but we say--we of the profession--that Serjeant Snubbin leads
the court by the nose.'

The little man took another pinch of snuff as he made this
communication, and nodded mysteriously to Mr. Pickwick.

'They have subpoenaed my three friends,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Ah! of course they would,' replied Perker. 'Important witnesses; saw
you in a delicate situation.'

'But she fainted of her own accord,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'She threw
herself into my arms.'

'Very likely, my dear Sir,' replied Perker; 'very likely and very
natural. Nothing more so, my dear Sir, nothing. But who's to prove it?'

'They have subpoenaed my servant, too,' said Mr. Pickwick, quitting the
other point; for there Mr. Perker's question had somewhat staggered him.

'Sam?' said Perker.

Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.

'Of course, my dear Sir; of course. I knew they would. I could have told
you that, a month ago. You know, my dear Sir, if you _will _take the
management of your affairs into your own hands after entrusting them to
your solicitor, you must also take the consequences.' Here Mr. Perker
drew himself up with conscious dignity, and brushed some stray grains of
snuff from his shirt frill.

'And what do they want him to prove?' asked Mr. Pickwick, after two or
three minutes' silence.

'That you sent him up to the plaintiff 's to make some offer of a
compromise, I suppose,' replied Perker. 'It don't matter much, though; I
don't think many counsel could get a great deal out of _him_.'

'I don't think they could,' said Mr. Pickwick, smiling, despite his
vexation, at the idea of Sam's appearance as a witness. 'What course do
we pursue?'

'We have only one to adopt, my dear Sir,' replied Perker; 'cross-examine
the witnesses; trust to Snubbin's eloquence; throw dust in the eyes of
the judge; throw ourselves on the jury.'

'And suppose the verdict is against me?' said Mr. Pickwick.

Mr. Perker smiled, took a very long pinch of snuff, stirred the fire,
shrugged his shoulders, and remained expressively silent.

'You mean that in that case I must pay the damages?' said Mr. Pickwick,
who had watched this telegraphic answer with considerable sternness.

Perker gave the fire another very unnecessary poke, and said, 'I am
afraid so.'

'Then I beg to announce to you my unalterable determination to pay no
damages whatever,' said Mr. Pickwick, most emphatically. 'None, Perker.
Not a pound, not a penny of my money, shall find its way into the
pockets of Dodson and Fogg. That is my deliberate and irrevocable
determination.' Mr. Pickwick gave a heavy blow on the table before him,
in confirmation of the irrevocability of his intention.

'Very well, my dear Sir, very well,' said Perker. 'You know best, of
course.'

'Of course,' replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. 'Where does Serjeant Snubbin
live?'

In Lincoln's Inn Old Square,' replied Perker.

'I should like to see him,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'See Serjeant Snubbin, my dear Sir!' rejoined Perker, in utter
amazement. 'Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir, impossible. See Serjeant Snubbin!
Bless you, my dear Sir, such a thing was never heard of, without a
consultation fee being previously paid, and a consultation fixed. It
couldn't be done, my dear Sir; it couldn't be done.'

Mr. Pickwick, however, had made up his mind not only that it could be
done, but that it should be done; and the consequence was, that within
ten minutes after he had received the assurance that the thing was
impossible, he was conducted by his solicitor into the outer office of
the great Serjeant Snubbin himself.

It was an uncarpeted room of tolerable dimensions, with a large writing-
table drawn up near the fire, the baize top of which had long since lost
all claim to its original hue of green, and had gradually grown gray
with dust and age, except where all traces of its natural colour were
obliterated by ink-stains. Upon the table were numerous little bundles
of papers tied with red tape; and behind it, sat an elderly clerk, whose
sleek appearance and heavy gold watch-chain presented imposing
indications of the extensive and lucrative practice of Mr. Serjeant
Snubbin.

'Is the Serjeant in his room, Mr. Mallard?' inquired Perker, offering
his box with all imaginable courtesy.

'Yes, he is,' was the reply, 'but he's very busy. Look here; not an
opinion given yet, on any one of these cases; and an expedition fee paid
with all of 'em.' The clerk smiled as he said this, and inhaled the
pinch of snuff with a zest which seemed to be compounded of a fondness
for snuff and a relish for fees.

'Something like practice that,' said Perker.

'Yes,' said the barrister's clerk, producing his own box, and offering
it with the greatest cordiality; 'and the best of it is, that as nobody
alive except myself can read the serjeant's writing, they are obliged to
wait for the opinions, when he has given them, till I have copied 'em,
ha-ha-ha!'

'Which makes good for we know who, besides the serjeant, and draws a
little more out of the clients, eh?' said Perker; 'Ha, ha, ha!' At this
the serjeant's clerk laughed again--not a noisy boisterous laugh, but a
silent, internal chuckle, which Mr. Pickwick disliked to hear. When a
man bleeds inwardly, it is a dangerous thing for himself; but when he
laughs inwardly, it bodes no good to other people.

'You haven't made me out that little list of the fees that I'm in your
debt, have you?' said Perker.

'No, I have not,' replied the clerk.

'I wish you would,' said Perker. 'Let me have them, and I'll send you a
cheque. But I suppose you're too busy pocketing the ready money, to
think of the debtors, eh? ha, ha, ha!' This sally seemed to tickle the
clerk amazingly, and he once more enjoyed a little quiet laugh to
himself.

'But, Mr. Mallard, my dear friend,' said Perker, suddenly recovering his
gravity, and drawing the great man's great man into a Corner, by the
lappel of his coat; 'you must persuade the Serjeant to see me, and my
client here.'

'Come, come,' said the clerk, 'that's not bad either. See the Serjeant!
come, that's too absurd.' Notwithstanding the absurdity of the proposal,
however, the clerk allowed himself to be gently drawn beyond the hearing
of Mr. Pickwick; and after a short conversation conducted in whispers,
walked softly down a little dark passage, and disappeared into the legal
luminary's sanctum, whence he shortly returned on tiptoe, and informed
Mr. Perker and Mr. Pickwick that the Serjeant had been prevailed upon,
in violation of all established rules and customs, to admit them at
once.

Mr. Serjeant Snubbins was a lantern-faced, sallow-complexioned man, of
about five-and-forty, or--as the novels say--he might be fifty. He had
that dull-looking, boiled eye which is often to be seen in the heads of
people who have applied themselves during many years to a weary and
laborious course of study; and which would have been sufficient, without
the additional eyeglass which dangled from a broad black riband round
his neck, to warn a stranger that he was very near-sighted. His hair was
thin and weak, which was partly attributable to his having never devoted
much time to its arrangement, and partly to his having worn for five-
and-twenty years the forensic wig which hung on a block beside him. The
marks of hairpowder on his coat-collar, and the ill-washed and worse
tied white neckerchief round his throat, showed that he had not found
leisure since he left the court to make any alteration in his dress;
while the slovenly style of the remainder of his costume warranted the
inference that his personal appearance would not have been very much
improved if he had. Books of practice, heaps of papers, and opened
letters, were scattered over the table, without any attempt at order or
arrangement; the furniture of the room was old and rickety; the doors of
the book-case were rotting in their hinges; the dust flew out from the
carpet in little clouds at every step; the blinds were yellow with age
and dirt; the state of everything in the room showed, with a clearness
not to be mistaken, that Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was far too much occupied
with his professional pursuits to take any great heed or regard of his
personal comforts.

The Serjeant was writing when his clients entered; he bowed abstractedly
when Mr. Pickwick was introduced by his solicitor; and then, motioning
them to a seat, put his pen carefully in the inkstand, nursed his left
leg, and waited to be spoken to.

'Mr. Pickwick is the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick, Serjeant
Snubbin,' said Perker.

'I am retained in that, am I?' said the Serjeant.

'You are, Sir,' replied Perker.

The Serjeant nodded his head, and waited for something else.

'Mr. Pickwick was anxious to call upon you, Serjeant Snubbin,' said
Perker, 'to state to you, before you entered upon the case, that he
denies there being any ground or pretence whatever for the action
against him; and that unless he came into court with clean hands, and
without the most conscientious conviction that he was right in resisting
the plaintiff's demand, he would not be there at all. I believe I state
your views correctly; do I not, my dear Sir?' said the little man,
turning to Mr. Pickwick.

'Quite so,' replied that gentleman.

Mr. Serjeant Snubbin unfolded his glasses, raised them to his eyes; and,
after looking at Mr. Pickwick for a few seconds with great curiosity,
turned to Mr. Perker, and said, smiling slightly as he spoke--

'Has Mr. Pickwick a strong case?'

The attorney shrugged his shoulders.

'Do you propose calling witnesses?'

'No.'

The smile on the Serjeant's countenance became more defined; he rocked
his leg with increased violence; and, throwing himself back in his easy-
chair, coughed dubiously.

These tokens of the Serjeant's presentiments on the subject, slight as
they were, were not lost on Mr. Pickwick. He settled the spectacles,
through which he had attentively regarded such demonstrations of the
barrister's feelings as he had permitted himself to exhibit, more firmly
on his nose; and said with great energy, and in utter disregard of all
Mr. Perker's admonitory winkings and frownings--

'My wishing to wait upon you, for such a purpose as this, Sir, appears,
I have no doubt, to a gentleman who sees so much of these matters as you
must necessarily do, a very extraordinary circumstance.'

The Serjeant tried to look gravely at the fire, but the smile came back
again.

'Gentlemen of your profession, Sir,' continued Mr. Pickwick, 'see the
worst side of human nature. All its disputes, all its ill-will and bad
blood, rise up before you. You know from your experience of juries (I
mean no disparagement to you, or them) how much depends upon effect; and
you are apt to attribute to others, a desire to use, for purposes of
deception and self-interest, the very instruments which you, in pure
honesty and honour of purpose, and with a laudable desire to do your
utmost for your client, know the temper and worth of so well, from
constantly employing them yourselves. I really believe that to this
circumstance may be attributed the vulgar but very general notion of
your being, as a body, suspicious, distrustful, and over-cautious.
Conscious as I am, sir, of the disadvantage of making such a declaration
to you, under such circumstances, I have come here, because I wish you
distinctly to understand, as my friend Mr. Perker has said, that I am
innocent of the falsehood laid to my charge; and although I am very well
aware of the inestimable value of your assistance, Sir, I must beg to
add, that unless you sincerely believe this, I would rather be deprived
of the aid of your talents than have the advantage of them.'

Long before the close of this address, which we are bound to say was of
a very prosy character for Mr. Pickwick, the Serjeant had relapsed into
a state of abstraction. After some minutes, however, during which he had
reassumed his pen, he appeared to be again aware of the presence of his
clients; raising his head from the paper, he said, rather snappishly--

'Who is with me in this case?'

'Mr. Phunky, Serjeant Snubbin,' replied the attorney.

'Phunky--Phunky,' said the Serjeant, 'I never heard the name before. He
must be a very young man.'

'Yes, he is a very young man,' replied the attorney. 'He was only called
the other day. Let me see--he has not been at the Bar eight years yet.'

'Ah, I thought not,' said the Serjeant, in that sort of pitying tone in
which ordinary folks would speak of a very helpless little child. 'Mr.
Mallard, send round to Mr.--Mr.--'

Phunky's--Holborn Court, Gray's Inn,' interposed Perker. (Holborn Court,
by the bye, is South Square now.)--'Mr. Phunky, and say I should be glad
if he'd step here, a moment.'

Mr. Mallard departed to execute his commission; and Serjeant Snubbin
relapsed into abstraction until Mr. Phunky himself was introduced.

Although an infant barrister, he was a full-grown man. He had a very
nervous manner, and a painful hesitation in his speech; it did not
appear to be a natural defect, but seemed rather the result of timidity,
arising from the consciousness of being 'kept down' by want of means, or
interest, or connection, or impudence, as the case might be. He was
overawed by the Serjeant, and profoundly courteous to the attorney.

'I have not had the pleasure of seeing you before, Mr. Phunky,' said
Serjeant Snubbin, with haughty condescension.

Mr. Phunky bowed. He _had _had the pleasure of seeing the Serjeant, and
of envying him too, with all a poor man's envy, for eight years and a
quarter.

'You are with me in this case, I understand?' said the Serjeant.

If Mr. Phunky had been a rich man, he would have instantly sent for his
clerk to remind him; if he had been a wise one, he would have applied
his forefinger to his forehead, and endeavoured to recollect, whether,
in the multiplicity of his engagements, he had undertaken this one or
not; but as he was neither rich nor wise (in this sense, at all events)
he turned red, and bowed.

'Have you read the papers, Mr. Phunky?' inquired the Serjeant.

Here again, Mr. Phunky should have professed to have forgotten all about
the merits of the case; but as he had read such papers as had been laid
before him in the course of the action, and had thought of nothing else,
waking or sleeping, throughout the two months during which he had been
retained as Mr. Serjeant Snubbin's junior, he turned a deeper red and
bowed again.

'This is Mr. Pickwick,' said the Serjeant, waving his pen in the
direction in which that gentleman was standing.

Mr. Phunky bowed to Mr. Pickwick, with a reverence which a first client
must ever awaken; and again inclined his head towards his leader.

'Perhaps you will take Mr. Pickwick away,' said the Serjeant, 'and--and-
-and--hear anything Mr. Pickwick may wish to communicate. We shall have
a consultation, of course.' With that hint that he had been interrupted
quite long enough, Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who had been gradually growing
more and more abstracted, applied his glass to his eyes for an instant,
bowed slightly round, and was once more deeply immersed in the case
before him, which arose out of an interminable lawsuit, originating in
the act of an individual, deceased a century or so ago, who had stopped
up a pathway leading from some place which nobody ever came from, to
some other place which nobody ever went to.

Mr. Phunky would not hear of passing through any door until Mr. Pickwick
and his solicitor had passed through before him, so it was some time
before they got into the Square; and when they did reach it, they walked
up and down, and held a long conference, the result of which was, that
it was a very difficult matter to say how the verdict would go; that
nobody could presume to calculate on the issue of an action; that it was
very lucky they had prevented the other party from getting Serjeant
Snubbin; and other topics of doubt and consolation, common in such a
position of affairs.

Mr. Weller was then roused by his master from a sweet sleep of an hour's
duration; and, bidding adieu to Lowten, they returned to the city.

There is a repose about Lant Street, in the Borough, which sheds a
gentle melancholy upon the soul. There are always a good many houses to
let in the street: it is a by-street too, and its dulness is soothing. A
house in Lant Street would not come within the denomination of a first-
rate residence, in the strict acceptation of the term; but it is a most
desirable spot nevertheless. If a man wished to abstract himself from
the world--to remove himself from within the reach of temptation--to
place himself beyond the possibility of any inducement to look out of
the window--we should recommend him by all means go to Lant Street.

In this happy retreat are colonised a few clear-starchers, a sprinkling
of journeymen bookbinders, one or two prison agents for the Insolvent
Court, several small housekeepers who are employed in the Docks, a
handful of mantua-makers, and a seasoning of jobbing tailors. The
majority of the inhabitants either direct their energies to the letting
of furnished apartments, or devote themselves to the healthful and
invigorating pursuit of mangling. The chief features in the still life
of the street are green shutters, lodging-bills, brass door-plates, and
bell-handles; the principal specimens of animated nature, the pot-boy,
the muffin youth, and the baked-potato man. The population is migratory,
usually disappearing on the verge of quarter-day, and generally by
night. His Majesty's revenues are seldom collected in this happy valley;
the rents are dubious; and the water communication is very frequently
cut off.

Mr. Bob Sawyer embellished one side of the fire, in his first-floor
front, early on the evening for which he had invited Mr. Pickwick, and
Mr. Ben Allen the other. The preparations for the reception of visitors
appeared to be completed. The umbrellas in the passage had been heaped
into the little corner outside the back-parlour door; the bonnet and
shawl of the landlady's servant had been removed from the bannisters;
there were not more than two pairs of pattens on the street-door mat;
and a kitchen candle, with a very long snuff, burned cheerfully on the
ledge of the staircase window. Mr. Bob Sawyer had himself purchased the
spirits at a wine vaults in High Street, and had returned home preceding
the bearer thereof, to preclude the possibility of their delivery at the
wrong house. The punch was ready-made in a red pan in the bedroom; a
little table, covered with a green baize cloth, had been borrowed from
the parlour, to play at cards on; and the glasses of the establishment,
together with those which had been borrowed for the occasion from the
public-house, were all drawn up in a tray, which was deposited on the
landing outside the door.

Notwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature of all these
arrangements, there was a cloud on the countenance of Mr. Bob Sawyer, as
he sat by the fireside. There was a sympathising expression, too, in the
features of Mr. Ben Allen, as he gazed intently on the coals, and a tone
of melancholy in his voice, as he said, after a long silence--

'Well, it is unlucky she should have taken it in her head to turn sour,
just on this occasion. She might at least have waited till to-morrow.'

'That's her malevolence--that's her malevolence,' returned Mr. Bob
Sawyer vehemently. 'She says that if I can afford to give a party I
ought to be able to pay her confounded "little bill."'

How long has it been running?' inquired Mr. Ben Allen. A bill, by the
bye, is the most extraordinary locomotive engine that the genius of man
ever produced. It would keep on running during the longest lifetime,
without ever once stopping of its own accord.

'Only a quarter, and a month or so,' replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.

Ben Allen coughed hopelessly, and directed a searching look between the
two top bars of the stove.

'It'll be a deuced unpleasant thing if she takes it into her head to let
out, when those fellows are here, won't it?' said Mr. Ben Allen at
length.

'Horrible,' replied Bob Sawyer, 'horrible.'

A low tap was heard at the room door. Mr. Bob Sawyer looked expressively
at his friend, and bade the tapper come in; whereupon a dirty, slipshod
girl in black cotton stockings, who might have passed for the neglected
daughter of a superannuated dustman in very reduced circumstances,
thrust in her head, and said--

'Please, Mister Sawyer, Missis Raddle wants to speak to you.'

Before Mr. Bob Sawyer could return any answer, the girl suddenly
disappeared with a jerk, as if somebody had given her a violent pull
behind; this mysterious exit was no sooner accomplished, than there was
another tap at the door--a smart, pointed tap, which seemed to say,
'Here I am, and in I'm coming.'

Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced at his friend with a look of abject apprehension,
and once more cried, 'Come in.'

The permission was not at all necessary, for, before Mr. Bob Sawyer had
uttered the words, a little, fierce woman bounced into the room, all in
a tremble with passion, and pale with rage.

'Now, Mr. Sawyer,' said the little, fierce woman, trying to appear very
calm, 'if you'll have the kindness to settle that little bill of mine
I'll thank you, because I've got my rent to pay this afternoon, and my
landlord's a-waiting below now.' Here the little woman rubbed her hands,
and looked steadily over Mr. Bob Sawyer's head, at the wall behind him.

'I am very sorry to put you to any inconvenience, Mrs. Raddle,' said Bob
Sawyer deferentially, 'but--'

'Oh, it isn't any inconvenience,' replied the little woman, with a
shrill titter. 'I didn't want it particular before to-day; leastways, as
it has to go to my landlord directly, it was as well for you to keep it
as me. You promised me this afternoon, Mr. Sawyer, and every gentleman
as has ever lived here, has kept his word, Sir, as of course anybody as
calls himself a gentleman does.' Mrs. Raddle tossed her head, bit her
lips, rubbed her hands harder, and looked at the wall more steadily than
ever. It was plain to see, as Mr. Bob Sawyer remarked in a style of
Eastern allegory on a subsequent occasion, that she was 'getting the
steam up.'

'I am very sorry, Mrs. Raddle,' said Bob Sawyer, with all imaginable
humility, 'but the fact is, that I have been disappointed in the City
to-day.'--Extraordinary place that City. An astonishing number of men
always _are _getting disappointed there.

'Well, Mr. Sawyer,' said Mrs. Raddle, planting herself firmly on a
purple cauliflower in the Kidderminster carpet, 'and what's that to me,
Sir?'

'I--I--have no doubt, Mrs. Raddle,' said Bob Sawyer, blinking this last
question, 'that before the middle of next week we shall be able to set
ourselves quite square, and go on, on a better system, afterwards.'

This was all Mrs. Raddle wanted. She had bustled up to the apartment of
the unlucky Bob Sawyer, so bent upon going into a passion, that, in all
probability, payment would have rather disappointed her than otherwise.
She was in excellent order for a little relaxation of the kind, having
just exchanged a few introductory compliments with Mr. R. in the front
kitchen.

'Do you suppose, Mr. Sawyer,' said Mrs. Raddle, elevating her voice for
the information of the neighbours--'do you suppose that I'm a-going day
after day to let a fellar occupy my lodgings as never thinks of paying
his rent, nor even the very money laid out for the fresh butter and lump
sugar that's bought for his breakfast, and the very milk that's took in,
at the street door? Do you suppose a hard-working and industrious woman
as has lived in this street for twenty year (ten year over the way, and
nine year and three-quarters in this very house) has nothing else to do
but to work herself to death after a parcel of lazy idle fellars, that
are always smoking and drinking, and lounging, when they ought to be
glad to turn their hands to anything that would help 'em to pay their
bills? Do you--'

'My good soul,' interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen soothingly.

'Have the goodness to keep your observashuns to yourself, Sir, I beg,'
said Mrs. Raddle, suddenly arresting the rapid torrent of her speech,
and addressing the third party with impressive slowness and solemnity.
'I am not aweer, Sir, that you have any right to address your
conversation to me. I don't think I let these apartments to you, Sir.'

'No, you certainly did not,' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

'Very good, Sir,' responded Mrs. Raddle, with lofty politeness. 'Then
p'raps, Sir, you'll confine yourself to breaking the arms and legs of
the poor people in the hospitals, and keep yourself _to_ yourself, Sir,
or there may be some persons here as will make you, Sir.'

'But you are such an unreasonable woman,' remonstrated Mr. Benjamin
Allen.

'I beg your parding, young man,' said Mrs. Raddle, in a cold
perspiration of anger. 'But will you have the goodness just to call me
that again, sir?'

'I didn't make use of the word in any invidious sense, ma'am,' replied
Mr. Benjamin Allen, growing somewhat uneasy on his own account.

'I beg your parding, young man,' demanded Mrs. Raddle, in a louder and
more imperative tone. 'But who do you call a woman? Did you make that
remark to me, sir?'

'Why, bless my heart!' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

'Did you apply that name to me, I ask of you, sir?' interrupted Mrs.
Raddle, with intense fierceness, throwing the door wide open.

'Why, of course I did,' replied Mr. Benjamin Allen.

'Yes, of course you did,' said Mrs. Raddle, backing gradually to the
door, and raising her voice to its loudest pitch, for the special behoof
of Mr. Raddle in the kitchen. 'Yes, of course you did! And everybody
knows that they may safely insult me in my own 'ouse while my husband
sits sleeping downstairs, and taking no more notice than if I was a dog
in the streets. He ought to be ashamed of himself (here Mrs. Raddle
sobbed) to allow his wife to be treated in this way by a parcel of young
cutters and carvers of live people's bodies, that disgraces the lodgings
(another sob), and leaving her exposed to all manner of abuse; a base,
faint-hearted, timorous wretch, that's afraid to come upstairs, and face
the ruffinly creatures--that's afraid--that's afraid to come!' Mrs.
Raddle paused to listen whether the repetition of the taunt had roused
her better half; and finding that it had not been successful, proceeded
to descend the stairs with sobs innumerable; when there came a loud
double knock at the street door; whereupon she burst into an hysterical
fit of weeping, accompanied with dismal moans, which was prolonged until
the knock had been repeated six times, when, in an uncontrollable burst
of mental agony, she threw down all the umbrellas, and disappeared into
the back parlour, closing the door after her with an awful crash.

'Does Mr. Sawyer live here?' said Mr. Pickwick, when the door was
opened.

'Yes,' said the girl, 'first floor. It's the door straight afore you,
when you gets to the top of the stairs.' Having given this instruction,
the handmaid, who had been brought up among the aboriginal inhabitants
of Southwark, disappeared, with the candle in her hand, down the kitchen
stairs, perfectly satisfied that she had done everything that could
possibly be required of her under the circumstances.

Mr. Snodgrass, who entered last, secured the street door, after several
ineffectual efforts, by putting up the chain; and the friends stumbled
upstairs, where they were received by Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been
afraid to go down, lest he should be waylaid by Mrs. Raddle.

'How are you?' said the discomfited student. 'Glad to see you--take care
of the glasses.' This caution was addressed to Mr. Pickwick, who had put
his hat in the tray.

'Dear me,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I beg your pardon.'

'Don't mention it, don't mention it,' said Bob Sawyer. 'I'm rather
confined for room here, but you must put up with all that, when you come
to see a young bachelor. Walk in. You've seen this gentleman before, I
think?' Mr. Pickwick shook hands with Mr. Benjamin Allen, and his
friends followed his example. They had scarcely taken their seats when
there was another double knock.

'I hope that's Jack Hopkins!' said Mr. Bob Sawyer. 'Hush. Yes, it is.
Come up, Jack; come up.'

A heavy footstep was heard upon the stairs, and Jack Hopkins presented
himself. He wore a black velvet waistcoat, with thunder-and-lightning
buttons; and a blue striped shirt, with a white false collar.

'You're late, Jack?' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

'Been detained at Bartholomew's,' replied Hopkins.

'Anything new?'

'No, nothing particular. Rather a good accident brought into the
casualty ward.'

'What was that, sir?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Only a man fallen out of a four pair of stairs' window; but it's a very
fair case indeed.'

'Do you mean that the patient is in a fair way to recover?' inquired Mr.
Pickwick.

'No,' replied Mr. Hopkins carelessly. 'No, I should rather say he
wouldn't. There must be a splendid operation, though, to-morrow--
magnificent sight if Slasher does it.'

'You consider Mr. Slasher a good operator?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Best alive,' replied Hopkins. 'Took a boy's leg out of the socket last
week--boy ate five apples and a gingerbread cake--exactly two minutes
after it was all over, boy said he wouldn't lie there to be made game
of, and he'd tell his mother if they didn't begin.'

'Dear me!' said Mr. Pickwick, astonished.

'Pooh! That's nothing, that ain't,' said Jack Hopkins. 'Is it, Bob?'

'Nothing at all,' replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.

'By the bye, Bob,' said Hopkins, with a scarcely perceptible glance at
Mr. Pickwick's attentive face, 'we had a curious accident last night. A
child was brought in, who had swallowed a necklace.'

'Swallowed what, Sir?' interrupted Mr. Pickwick.

'A necklace,' replied Jack Hopkins. 'Not all at once, you know, that
would be too much--you couldn't swallow that, if the child did--eh, Mr.
Pickwick? ha, ha!' Mr. Hopkins appeared highly gratified with his own
pleasantry, and continued--'No, the way was this. Child's parents were
poor people who lived in a court. Child's eldest sister bought a
necklace--common necklace, made of large black wooden beads. Child being
fond of toys, cribbed the necklace, hid it, played with it, cut the
string, and swallowed a bead. Child thought it capital fun, went back
next day, and swallowed another bead.'

'Bless my heart,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'what a dreadful thing! I beg your
pardon, Sir. Go on.'

'Next day, child swallowed two beads; the day after that, he treated
himself to three, and so on, till in a week's time he had got through
the necklace--five-and-twenty beads in all. The sister, who was an
industrious girl, and seldom treated herself to a bit of finery, cried
her eyes out, at the loss of the necklace; looked high and low for it;
but, I needn't say, didn't find it. A few days afterwards, the family
were at dinner--baked shoulder of mutton, and potatoes under it--the
child, who wasn't hungry, was playing about the room, when suddenly
there was heard a devil of a noise, like a small hailstorm. "Don't do
that, my boy," said the father. "I ain't a-doin' nothing," said the
child. "Well, don't do it again," said the father. There was a short
silence, and then the noise began again, worse than ever. "If you don't
mind what I say, my boy," said the father, "you'll find yourself in bed,
in something less than a pig's whisper." He gave the child a shake to
make him obedient, and such a rattling ensued as nobody ever heard
before. "Why, damme, it's _in_ the child!" said the father, "he's got
the croup in the wrong place!" "No, I haven't, father," said the child,
beginning to cry, "it's the necklace; I swallowed it, father."--The
father caught the child up, and ran with him to the hospital; the beads
in the boy's stomach rattling all the way with the jolting; and the
people looking up in the air, and down in the cellars, to see where the
unusual sound came from. He's in the hospital now,' said Jack Hopkins,
'and he makes such a devil of a noise when he walks about, that they're
obliged to muffle him in a watchman's coat, for fear he should wake the
patients.'

'That's the most extraordinary case I ever heard of,' said Mr. Pickwick,
with an emphatic blow on the table.

'Oh, that's nothing,' said Jack Hopkins. 'Is it, Bob?'

'Certainly not,' replied Bob Sawyer.

'Very singular things occur in our profession, I can assure you, Sir,'
said Hopkins.

'So I should be disposed to imagine,' replied Mr. Pickwick.

Another knock at the door announced a large-headed young man in a black
wig, who brought with him a scorbutic youth in a long stock. The next
comer was a gentleman in a shirt emblazoned with pink anchors, who was
closely followed by a pale youth with a plated watchguard. The arrival
of a prim personage in clean linen and cloth boots rendered the party
complete. The little table with the green baize cover was wheeled out;
the first instalment of punch was brought in, in a white jug; and the
succeeding three hours were devoted to _Vingt-et-un_ at sixpence a
dozen, which was only once interrupted by a slight dispute between the
scorbutic youth and the gentleman with the pink anchors; in the course
of which, the scorbutic youth intimated a burning desire to pull the
nose of the gentleman with the emblems of hope; in reply to which, that
individual expressed his decided unwillingness to accept of any 'sauce'
on gratuitous terms, either from the irascible young gentleman with the
scorbutic countenance, or any other person who was ornamented with a
head.

When the last 'natural' had been declared, and the profit and loss
account of fish and sixpences adjusted, to the satisfaction of all
parties, Mr. Bob Sawyer rang for supper, and the visitors squeezed
themselves into corners while it was getting ready.

It was not so easily got ready as some people may imagine. First of all,
it was necessary to awaken the girl, who had fallen asleep with her face
on the kitchen table; this took a little time, and, even when she did
answer the bell, another quarter of an hour was consumed in fruitless
endeavours to impart to her a faint and distant glimmering of reason.
The man to whom the order for the oysters had been sent, had not been
told to open them; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyster with a
limp knife and a two-pronged fork; and very little was done in this way.
Very little of the beef was done either; and the ham (which was also
from the German-sausage shop round the corner) was in a similar
predicament. However, there was plenty of porter in a tin can; and the
cheese went a great way, for it was very strong. So upon the whole,
perhaps, the supper was quite as good as such matters usually are.

After supper, another jug of punch was put upon the table, together with
a paper of cigars, and a couple of bottles of spirits. Then there was an
awful pause; and this awful pause was occasioned by a very common
occurrence in this sort of place, but a very embarrassing one
notwithstanding.

The fact is, the girl was washing the glasses. The establishment boasted
four: we do not record the circumstance as at all derogatory to Mrs.
Raddle, for there never was a lodging-house yet, that was not short of
glasses. The landlady's glasses were little, thin, blown-glass tumblers,
and those which had been borrowed from the public-house were great,
dropsical, bloated articles, each supported on a huge gouty leg. This
would have been in itself sufficient to have possessed the company with
the real state of affairs; but the young woman of all work had prevented
the possibility of any misconception arising in the mind of any
gentleman upon the subject, by forcibly dragging every man's glass away,
long before he had finished his beer, and audibly stating, despite the
winks and interruptions of Mr. Bob Sawyer, that it was to be conveyed
downstairs, and washed forthwith.

It is a very ill wind that blows nobody any good. The prim man in the
cloth boots, who had been unsuccessfully attempting to make a joke
during the whole time the round game lasted, saw his opportunity, and
availed himself of it. The instant the glasses disappeared, he commenced
a long story about a great public character, whose name he had
forgotten, making a particularly happy reply to another eminent and
illustrious individual whom he had never been able to identify. He
enlarged at some length and with great minuteness upon divers collateral
circumstances, distantly connected with the anecdote in hand, but for
the life of him he couldn't recollect at that precise moment what the
anecdote was, although he had been in the habit of telling the story
with great applause for the last ten years.

'Dear me,' said the prim man in the cloth boots, 'it is a very
extraordinary circumstance.'

'I am sorry you have forgotten it,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer, glancing
eagerly at the door, as he thought he heard the noise of glasses
jingling; 'very sorry.'

'So am I,' responded the prim man, 'because I know it would have
afforded so much amusement. Never mind; I dare say I shall manage to
recollect it, in the course of half an hour or so.'

The prim man arrived at this point just as the glasses came back, when
Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been absorbed in attention during the whole
time, said he should very much like to hear the end of it, for, so far
as it went, it was, without exception, the very best story he had ever
heard.

The sight of the tumblers restored Bob Sawyer to a degree of equanimity
which he had not possessed since his interview with his landlady. His
face brightened up, and he began to feel quite convivial.

'Now, Betsy,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with great suavity, and dispersing,
at the same time, the tumultuous little mob of glasses the girl had
collected in the centre of the table--'now, Betsy, the warm water; be
brisk, there's a good girl.'

'You can't have no warm water,' replied Betsy.

'No warm water!' exclaimed Mr. Bob Sawyer.

'No,' said the girl, with a shake of the head which expressed a more
decided negative than the most copious language could have conveyed.
'Missis Raddle said you warn't to have none.'

The surprise depicted on the countenances of his guests imparted new
courage to the host.

'Bring up the warm water instantly--instantly!' said Mr. Bob Sawyer,
with desperate sternness.

'No. I can't,' replied the girl; 'Missis Raddle raked out the kitchen
fire afore she went to bed, and locked up the kittle.'

'Oh, never mind; never mind. Pray don't disturb yourself about such a
trifle,' said Mr. Pickwick, observing the conflict of Bob Sawyer's
passions, as depicted in his countenance, 'cold water will do very
well.'

'Oh, admirably,' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

'My landlady is subject to some slight attacks of mental derangement,'
remarked Bob Sawyer, with a ghastly smile; 'I fear I must give her
warning.'

'No, don't,' said Ben Allen.

'I fear I must,' said Bob, with heroic firmness. 'I'll pay her what I
owe her, and give her warning to-morrow morning.' Poor fellow! how
devoutly he wished he could!

Mr. Bob Sawyer's heart-sickening attempts to rally under this last blow,
communicated a dispiriting influence to the company, the greater part of
whom, with the view of raising their spirits, attached themselves with
extra cordiality to the cold brandy-and-water, the first perceptible
effects of which were displayed in a renewal of hostilities between the
scorbutic youth and the gentleman in the shirt. The belligerents vented
their feelings of mutual contempt, for some time, in a variety of
frownings and snortings, until at last the scorbutic youth felt it
necessary to come to a more explicit understanding on the matter; when
the following clear understanding took place.

'Sawyer,' said the scorbutic youth, in a loud voice.

'Well, Noddy,' replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.

'I should be very sorry, Sawyer,' said Mr. Noddy, 'to create any
unpleasantness at any friend's table, and much less at yours, Sawyer--
very; but I must take this opportunity of informing Mr. Gunter that he
is no gentleman.'

'And I should be very sorry, Sawyer, to create any disturbance in the
street in which you reside,' said Mr. Gunter, 'but I'm afraid I shall be
under the necessity of alarming the neighbours by throwing the person
who has just spoken, out o' window.'

'What do you mean by that, sir?' inquired Mr. Noddy.

'What I say, Sir,' replied Mr. Gunter.

'I should like to see you do it, Sir,' said Mr. Noddy.

'You shall _feel _me do it in half a minute, Sir,' replied Mr. Gunter.

'I request that you'll favour me with your card, Sir,' said Mr. Noddy.

'I'll do nothing of the kind, Sir,' replied Mr. Gunter.

'Why not, Sir?' inquired Mr. Noddy.

'Because you'll stick it up over your chimney-piece, and delude your
visitors into the false belief that a gentleman has been to see you,
Sir,' replied Mr. Gunter.

'Sir, a friend of mine shall wait on you in the morning,' said Mr.
Noddy.

'Sir, I'm very much obliged to you for the caution, and I'll leave
particular directions with the servant to lock up the spoons,' replied
Mr. Gunter.

At this point the remainder of the guests interposed, and remonstrated
with both parties on the impropriety of their conduct; on which Mr.
Noddy begged to state that his father was quite as respectable as Mr.
Gunter's father; to which Mr. Gunter replied that his father was to the
full as respectable as Mr. Noddy's father, and that his father's son was
as good a man as Mr. Noddy, any day in the week. As this announcement
seemed the prelude to a recommencement of the dispute, there was another
interference on the part of the company; and a vast quantity of talking
and clamouring ensued, in the course of which Mr. Noddy gradually
allowed his feelings to overpower him, and professed that he had ever
entertained a devoted personal attachment towards Mr. Gunter. To this
Mr. Gunter replied that, upon the whole, he rather preferred Mr. Noddy
to his own brother; on hearing which admission, Mr. Noddy magnanimously
rose from his seat, and proffered his hand to Mr. Gunter. Mr. Gunter
grasped it with affecting fervour; and everybody said that the whole
dispute had been conducted in a manner which was highly honourable to
both parties concerned.

'Now,' said Jack Hopkins, 'just to set us going again, Bob, I don't mind
singing a song.' And Hopkins, incited thereto by tumultuous applause,
plunged himself at once into 'The King, God bless him,' which he sang as
loud as he could, to a novel air, compounded of the 'Bay of Biscay,' and
'A Frog he would.' The chorus was the essence of the song; and, as each
gentleman sang it to the tune he knew best, the effect was very striking
indeed.

It was at the end of the chorus to the first verse, that Mr. Pickwick
held up his hand in a listening attitude, and said, as soon as silence
was restored--

'Hush! I beg your pardon. I thought I heard somebody calling from
upstairs.'

A profound silence immediately ensued; and Mr. Bob Sawyer was observed
to turn pale.

'I think I hear it now,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Have the goodness to open
the door.'

The door was no sooner opened than all doubt on the subject was removed.

'Mr. Sawyer! Mr. Sawyer!' screamed a voice from the two-pair landing.

'It's my landlady,' said Bob Sawyer, looking round him with great
dismay. 'Yes, Mrs. Raddle.'

'What do you mean by this, Mr. Sawyer?' replied the voice, with great
shrillness and rapidity of utterance. 'Ain't it enough to be swindled
out of one's rent, and money lent out of pocket besides, and abused and
insulted by your friends that dares to call themselves men, without
having the house turned out of the window, and noise enough made to
bring the fire-engines here, at two o'clock in the morning?--Turn them
wretches away.'

'You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,' said the voice of Mr. Raddle,
which appeared to proceed from beneath some distant bed-clothes.

'Ashamed of themselves!' said Mrs. Raddle. 'Why don't you go down and
knock 'em every one downstairs? You would if you was a man.'

I should if I was a dozen men, my dear,' replied Mr. Raddle pacifically,
'but they have the advantage of me in numbers, my dear.'

'Ugh, you coward!' replied Mrs. Raddle, with supreme contempt. '_Do_ you
mean to turn them wretches out, or not, Mr. Sawyer?'

'They're going, Mrs. Raddle, they're going,' said the miserable Bob. 'I
am afraid you'd better go,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer to his friends. 'I
thought you were making too much noise.'

'It's a very unfortunate thing,' said the prim man. 'Just as we were
getting so comfortable too!' The prim man was just beginning to have a
dawning recollection of the story he had forgotten.

'It's hardly to be borne,' said the prim man, looking round. 'Hardly to
be borne, is it?'

'Not to be endured,' replied Jack Hopkins; 'let's have the other verse,
Bob. Come, here goes!'

'No, no, Jack, don't,' interposed Bob Sawyer; 'it's a capital song, but
I am afraid we had better not have the other verse. They are very
violent people, the people of the house.'

'Shall I step upstairs, and pitch into the landlord?' inquired Hopkins,
'or keep on ringing the bell, or go and groan on the staircase? You may
command me, Bob.'

'I am very much indebted to you for your friendship and good-nature,
Hopkins,' said the wretched Mr. Bob Sawyer, 'but I think the best plan
to avoid any further dispute is for us to break up at once.'

'Now, Mr. Sawyer,' screamed the shrill voice of Mrs. Raddle, 'are them
brutes going?'

'They're only looking for their hats, Mrs. Raddle,' said Bob; 'they are
going directly.'

'Going!' said Mrs. Raddle, thrusting her nightcap over the banisters
just as Mr. Pickwick, followed by Mr. Tupman, emerged from the sitting-
room. 'Going! what did they ever come for?'

'My dear ma'am,' remonstrated Mr. Pickwick, looking up.

'Get along with you, old wretch!' replied Mrs. Raddle, hastily
withdrawing the nightcap. 'Old enough to be his grandfather, you willin!
You're worse than any of 'em.'

Mr. Pickwick found it in vain to protest his innocence, so hurried
downstairs into the street, whither he was closely followed by Mr.
Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Ben Allen, who was dismally
depressed with spirits and agitation, accompanied them as far as London
Bridge, and in the course of the walk confided to Mr. Winkle, as an
especially eligible person to intrust the secret to, that he was
resolved to cut the throat of any gentleman, except Mr. Bob Sawyer, who
should aspire to the affections of his sister Arabella. Having expressed
his determination to perform this painful duty of a brother with proper
firmness, he burst into tears, knocked his hat over his eyes, and,
making the best of his way back, knocked double knocks at the door of
the Borough Market office, and took short naps on the steps alternately,
until daybreak, under the firm impression that he lived there, and had
forgotten the key.

The visitors having all departed, in compliance with the rather pressing
request of Mrs. Raddle, the luckless Mr. Bob Sawyer was left alone, to
meditate on the probable events of to-morrow, and the pleasures of the
evening.

The morning of the thirteenth of February, which the readers of this
authentic narrative know, as well as we do, to have been the day
immediately preceding that which was appointed for the trial of Mrs.
Bardell's action, was a busy time for Mr. Samuel Weller, who was
perpetually engaged in travelling from the George and Vulture to Mr.
Perker's chambers and back again, from and between the hours of nine
o'clock in the morning and two in the afternoon, both inclusive. Not
that there was anything whatever to be done, for the consultation had
taken place, and the course of proceeding to be adopted, had been
finally determined on; but Mr. Pickwick being in a most extreme state of
excitement, persevered in constantly sending small notes to his
attorney, merely containing the inquiry, 'Dear Perker. Is all going on
well?' to which Mr. Perker invariably forwarded the reply, 'Dear
Pickwick. As well as possible'; the fact being, as we have already
hinted, that there was nothing whatever to go on, either well or ill,
until the sitting of the court on the following morning.

But people who go voluntarily to law, or are taken forcibly there, for
the first time, may be allowed to labour under some temporary irritation
and anxiety; and Sam, with a due allowance for the frailties of human
nature, obeyed all his master's behests with that imperturbable good-
humour and unruffable composure which formed one of his most striking
and amiable characteristics.

Sam had solaced himself with a most agreeable little dinner, and was
waiting at the bar for the glass of warm mixture in which Mr. Pickwick
had requested him to drown the fatigues of his morning's walks, when a
young boy of about three feet high, or thereabouts, in a hairy cap and
fustian overalls, whose garb bespoke a laudable ambition to attain in
time the elevation of an hostler, entered the passage of the George and
Vulture, and looked first up the stairs, and then along the passage, and
then into the bar, as if in search of somebody to whom he bore a
commission; whereupon the barmaid, conceiving it not improbable that the
said commission might be directed to the tea or table spoons of the
establishment, accosted the boy with--

'Now, young man, what do you want?'

'Is there anybody here, named Sam?' inquired the youth, in a loud voice
of treble quality.

'What's the t'other name?' said Sam Weller, looking round.

'How should I know?' briskly replied the young gentleman below the hairy
cap.

'You're a sharp boy, you are,' said Mr. Weller; 'only I wouldn't show
that wery fine edge too much, if I was you, in case anybody took it off.
What do you mean by comin' to a hot-el, and asking arter Sam, vith as
much politeness as a vild Indian?'

''Cos an old gen'l'm'n told me to,' replied the boy.

'What old gen'l'm'n?' inquired Sam, with deep disdain.

'Him as drives a Ipswich coach, and uses our parlour,' rejoined the boy.
'He told me yesterday mornin' to come to the George and Wultur this
arternoon, and ask for Sam.'

'It's my father, my dear,' said Mr. Weller, turning with an explanatory
air to the young lady in the bar; 'blessed if I think he hardly knows
wot my other name is. Well, young brockiley sprout, wot then?'

'Why then,' said the boy, 'you was to come to him at six o'clock to our
'ouse, 'cos he wants to see you--Blue Boar, Leaden'all Markit. Shall I
say you're comin'?'

'You may wenture on that 'ere statement, Sir,' replied Sam. And thus
empowered, the young gentleman walked away, awakening all the echoes in
George Yard as he did so, with several chaste and extremely correct
imitations of a drover's whistle, delivered in a tone of peculiar
richness and volume.

Mr. Weller having obtained leave of absence from Mr. Pickwick, who, in
his then state of excitement and worry, was by no means displeased at
being left alone, set forth, long before the appointed hour, and having
plenty of time at his disposal, sauntered down as far as the Mansion
House, where he paused and contemplated, with a face of great calmness
and philosophy, the numerous cads and drivers of short stages who
assemble near that famous place of resort, to the great terror and
confusion of the old-lady population of these realms. Having loitered
here, for half an hour or so, Mr. Weller turned, and began wending his
way towards Leadenhall Market, through a variety of by-streets and
courts. As he was sauntering away his spare time, and stopped to look at
almost every object that met his gaze, it is by no means surprising that
Mr. Weller should have paused before a small stationer's and print-
seller's window; but without further explanation it does appear
surprising that his eyes should have no sooner rested on certain
pictures which were exposed for sale therein, than he gave a sudden
start, smote his right leg with great vehemence, and exclaimed, with
energy, 'if it hadn't been for this, I should ha' forgot all about it,
till it was too late!'

The particular picture on which Sam Weller's eyes were fixed, as he said
this, was a highly-coloured representation of a couple of human hearts
skewered together with an arrow, cooking before a cheerful fire, while a
male and female cannibal in modern attire, the gentleman being clad in a
blue coat and white trousers, and the lady in a deep red pelisse with a
parasol of the same, were approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a
serpentine gravel path leading thereunto. A decidedly indelicate young
gentleman, in a pair of wings and nothing else, was depicted as
superintending the cooking; a representation of the spire of the church
in Langham Place, London, appeared in the distance; and the whole formed
a 'valentine,' of which, as a written inscription in the window
testified, there was a large assortment within, which the shopkeeper
pledged himself to dispose of, to his countrymen generally, at the
reduced rate of one-and-sixpence each.

'I should ha' forgot it; I should certainly ha' forgot it!' said Sam; so
saying, he at once stepped into the stationer's shop, and requested to
be served with a sheet of the best gilt-edged letter-paper, and a hard-
nibbed pen which could be warranted not to splutter. These articles
having been promptly supplied, he walked on direct towards Leadenhall
Market at a good round pace, very different from his recent lingering
one. Looking round him, he there beheld a signboard on which the
painter's art had delineated something remotely resembling a cerulean
elephant with an aquiline nose in lieu of trunk. Rightly conjecturing
that this was the Blue Boar himself, he stepped into the house, and
inquired concerning his parent.

'He won't be here this three-quarters of an hour or more,' said the
young lady who superintended the domestic arrangements of the Blue Boar.

'Wery good, my dear,' replied Sam. 'Let me have nine-penn'oth o' brandy-
and-water luke, and the inkstand, will you, miss?'

The brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, having been carried into
the little parlour, and the young lady having carefully flattened down
the coals to prevent their blazing, and carried away the poker to
preclude the possibility of the fire being stirred, without the full
privity and concurrence of the Blue Boar being first had and obtained,
Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near the stove, and pulled out the
sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and the hard-nibbed pen. Then looking
carefully at the pen to see that there were no hairs in it, and dusting
down the table, so that there might be no crumbs of bread under the
paper, Sam tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and
composed himself to write.

To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of devoting themselves
practically to the science of penmanship, writing a letter is no very
easy task; it being always considered necessary in such cases for the
writer to recline his head on his left arm, so as to place his eyes as
nearly as possible on a level with the paper, and, while glancing
sideways at the letters he is constructing, to form with his tongue
imaginary characters to correspond. These motions, although
unquestionably of the greatest assistance to original composition,
retard in some degree the progress of the writer; and Sam had
unconsciously been a full hour and a half writing words in small text,
smearing out wrong letters with his little finger, and putting in new
ones which required going over very often to render them visible through
the old blots, when he was roused by the opening of the door and the
entrance of his parent.

'Vell, Sammy,' said the father.

'Vell, my Prooshan Blue,' responded the son, laying down his pen.
'What's the last bulletin about mother-in-law?'

'Mrs. Veller passed a very good night, but is uncommon perwerse, and
unpleasant this mornin'. Signed upon oath, Tony Veller, Esquire. That's
the last vun as was issued, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, untying his
shawl.

'No better yet?' inquired Sam.

'All the symptoms aggerawated,' replied Mr. Weller, shaking his head.
'But wot's that, you're a-doin' of? Pursuit of knowledge under
difficulties, Sammy?'

'I've done now,' said Sam, with slight embarrassment; 'I've been a-
writin'.'

'So I see,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Not to any young 'ooman, I hope,
Sammy?'

'Why, it's no use a-sayin' it ain't,' replied Sam; 'it's a walentine.'

'A what!' exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken by the word.

'A walentine,' replied Sam.

'Samivel, Samivel,' said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, 'I didn't
think you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' you've had o' your father's
wicious propensities; arter all I've said to you upon this here wery
subject; arter actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o' your own
mother-in-law, vich I should ha' thought wos a moral lesson as no man
could never ha' forgotten to his dyin' day! I didn't think you'd ha'
done it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd ha' done it!' These reflections
were too much for the good old man. He raised Sam's tumbler to his lips
and drank off its contents.

'Wot's the matter now?' said Sam.

'Nev'r mind, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, 'it'll be a wery agonisin'
trial to me at my time of life, but I'm pretty tough, that's vun
consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked wen the farmer said he wos
afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London market.'

'Wot'll be a trial?' inquired Sam.

'To see you married, Sammy--to see you a dilluded wictim, and thinkin'
in your innocence that it's all wery capital,' replied Mr. Weller. 'It's
a dreadful trial to a father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy--'

'Nonsense,' said Sam. 'I ain't a-goin' to get married, don't you fret
yourself about that; I know you're a judge of these things. Order in
your pipe and I'll read you the letter. There!'

We cannot distinctly say whether it was the prospect of the pipe, or the
consolatory reflection that a fatal disposition to get married ran in
the family, and couldn't be helped, which calmed Mr. Weller's feelings,
and caused his grief to subside. We should be rather disposed to say
that the result was attained by combining the two sources of
consolation, for he repeated the second in a low tone, very frequently;
ringing the bell meanwhile, to order in the first. He then divested
himself of his upper coat; and lighting the pipe and placing himself in
front of the fire with his back towards it, so that he could feel its
full heat, and recline against the mantel-piece at the same time, turned
towards Sam, and, with a countenance greatly mollified by the softening
influence of tobacco, requested him to 'fire away.'

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and
began with a very theatrical air--

'"Lovely--"'

'Stop,' said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. 'A double glass o' the
inwariable, my dear.'

'Very well, Sir,' replied the girl; who with great quickness appeared,
vanished, returned, and disappeared.

'They seem to know your ways here,' observed Sam.

'Yes,' replied his father, 'I've been here before, in my time. Go on,
Sammy.'

'"Lovely creetur,"' repeated Sam.

''Tain't in poetry, is it?' interposed his father.

'No, no,' replied Sam.

'Wery glad to hear it,' said Mr. Weller. 'Poetry's unnat'ral; no man
ever talked poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin'-day, or Warren's blackin',
or Rowland's oil, or some of them low fellows; never you let yourself
down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin agin, Sammy.'

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more
commenced, and read as follows:

'"Lovely creetur I feel myself a damned--"'

That ain't proper,' said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth.

'No; it ain't "damned,"' observed Sam, holding the letter up to the
light, 'it's "shamed," there's a blot there--"I feel myself ashamed."'

'Wery good,' said Mr. Weller. 'Go on.'

'Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir--' I forget what this here word
is,' said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to
remember.

'Why don't you look at it, then?' inquired Mr. Weller.

'So I am a-lookin' at it,' replied Sam, 'but there's another blot.
Here's a "c," and a "i," and a "d."'

'Circumwented, p'raps,' suggested Mr. Weller.

'No, it ain't that,' said Sam, '"circumscribed"; that's it.'

'That ain't as good a word as "circumwented," Sammy,' said Mr. Weller
gravely.

'Think not?' said Sam.

'Nothin' like it,' replied his father.

'But don't you think it means more?' inquired Sam.

'Vell p'raps it's a more tenderer word,' said Mr. Weller, after a few
moments' reflection. 'Go on, Sammy.'

'"Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a-dressin' of you,
for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it."'

'That's a wery pretty sentiment,' said the elder Mr. Weller, removing
his pipe to make way for the remark.

'Yes, I think it is rayther good,' observed Sam, highly flattered.

'Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin',' said the elder Mr. Weller,
'is, that there ain't no callin' names in it--no Wenuses, nor nothin' o'
that kind. Wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel,
Sammy?'

'Ah! what, indeed?' replied Sam.

'You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's
arms at once, which is wery well known to be a collection o' fabulous
animals,' added Mr. Weller.

'Just as well,' replied Sam.

'Drive on, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller.

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows; his father
continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency,
which was particularly edifying.

'"Afore I see you, I thought all women was alike."'

'So they are,' observed the elder Mr. Weller parenthetically.

'"But now,"' continued Sam, '"now I find what a reg'lar soft-headed,
inkred'lous turnip I must ha' been; for there ain't nobody like you,
though I like you better than nothin' at all." I thought it best to make
that rayther strong,' said Sam, looking up.

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.

'"So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear--as the gen'l'm'n
in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday--to tell you that the
first and only time I see you, your likeness was took on my hart in much
quicker time and brighter colours than ever a likeness was took by the
profeel macheen (wich p'raps you may have heerd on Mary my dear) altho
it _does _finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete,
with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a
quarter."'

'I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller
dubiously.

'No, it don't,' replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid
contesting the point--

'"Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine and think over what I've
said.--My dear Mary I will now conclude." That's all,' said Sam.

'That's rather a Sudden pull-up, ain't it, Sammy?' inquired Mr. Weller.

'Not a bit on it,' said Sam; 'she'll vish there wos more, and that's the
great art o' letter-writin'.'

'Well,' said Mr. Weller, 'there's somethin' in that; and I wish your
mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel
principle. Ain't you a-goin' to sign it?'

'That's the difficulty,' said Sam; 'I don't know what to sign it.'

'Sign it--"Veller",' said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name.

'Won't do,' said Sam. 'Never sign a walentine with your own name.'

'Sign it "Pickwick," then,' said Mr. Weller; 'it's a wery good name, and
a easy one to spell.'

The wery thing,' said Sam. 'I _could _end with a werse; what do you
think?'

'I don't like it, Sam,' rejoined Mr. Weller. 'I never know'd a
respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one, as made an affectin'
copy o' werses the night afore he was hung for a highway robbery; and he
wos only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule.'

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred
to him, so he signed the letter--

'Your love-sick Pickwick.'

And having folded it, in a very intricate manner, squeezed a downhill
direction in one corner: 'To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkins's, Mayor's,
Ipswich, Suffolk'; and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready for
the general post. This important business having been transacted, Mr.
Weller the elder proceeded to open that, on which he had summoned his
son.

'The first matter relates to your governor, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller.
'He's a-goin' to be tried to-morrow, ain't he?'

'The trial's a-comin' on,' replied Sam.

'Vell,' said Mr. Weller, 'Now I s'pose he'll want to call some witnesses
to speak to his character, or p'rhaps to prove a alleybi. I've been a-
turnin' the bis'ness over in my mind, and he may make his-self easy,
Sammy. I've got some friends as'll do either for him, but my adwice 'ud
be this here--never mind the character, and stick to the alleybi.
Nothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing.' Mr. Weller looked very profound
as he delivered this legal opinion; and burying his nose in his tumbler,
winked over the top thereof, at his astonished son.

'Why, what do you mean?' said Sam; 'you don't think he's a-goin' to be
tried at the Old Bailey, do you?'

'That ain't no part of the present consideration, Sammy,' replied Mr.
Weller. 'Verever he's a-goin' to be tried, my boy, a alleybi's the thing
to get him off. Ve got Tom Vildspark off that 'ere manslaughter, with a
alleybi, ven all the big vigs to a man said as nothing couldn't save
him. And my 'pinion is, Sammy, that if your governor don't prove a
alleybi, he'll be what the Italians call reg'larly flummoxed, and that's
all about it.'

As the elder Mr. Weller entertained a firm and unalterable conviction
that the Old Bailey was the supreme court of judicature in this country,
and that its rules and forms of proceeding regulated and controlled the
practice of all other courts of justice whatsoever, he totally
disregarded the assurances and arguments of his son, tending to show
that the alibi was inadmissible; and vehemently protested that Mr.
Pickwick was being 'wictimised.' Finding that it was of no use to
discuss the matter further, Sam changed the subject, and inquired what
the second topic was, on which his revered parent wished to consult him.

'That's a pint o' domestic policy, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller. 'This here
Stiggins--'

'Red-nosed man?' inquired Sam.

'The wery same,' replied Mr. Weller. 'This here red-nosed man, Sammy,
wisits your mother-in-law vith a kindness and constancy I never see
equalled. He's sitch a friend o' the family, Sammy, that wen he's avay
from us, he can't be comfortable unless he has somethin' to remember us
by.'

'And I'd give him somethin' as 'ud turpentine and beeswax his memory for
the next ten years or so, if I wos you,' interposed Sam.

'Stop a minute,' said Mr. Weller; 'I wos a-going to say, he always
brings now, a flat bottle as holds about a pint and a half, and fills it
vith the pine-apple rum afore he goes avay.'

'And empties it afore he comes back, I s'pose?' said Sam.

'Clean!' replied Mr. Weller; 'never leaves nothin' in it but the cork
and the smell; trust him for that, Sammy. Now, these here fellows, my
boy, are a-goin' to-night to get up the monthly meetin' o' the Brick
Lane Branch o' the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance
Association. Your mother-in-law wos a-goin', Sammy, but she's got the
rheumatics, and can't; and I, Sammy--I've got the two tickets as wos
sent her.' Mr. Weller communicated this secret with great glee, and
winked so indefatigably after doing so, that Sam began to think he must
have got the _Tic Doloureux_ in his right eyelid.

'Well?' said that young gentleman.

'Well,' continued his progenitor, looking round him very cautiously,
'you and I'll go, punctiwal to the time. The deputy-shepherd won't,
Sammy; the deputy-shepherd won't.' Here Mr. Weller was seized with a
paroxysm of chuckles, which gradually terminated in as near an approach
to a choke as an elderly gentleman can, with safety, sustain.

'Well, I never see sitch an old ghost in all my born days,' exclaimed
Sam, rubbing the old gentleman's back, hard enough to set him on fire
with the friction. 'What are you a-laughin' at, corpilence?'

'Hush! Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, looking round him with increased
caution, and speaking in a whisper. 'Two friends o' mine, as works the
Oxford Road, and is up to all kinds o' games, has got the deputy-
shepherd safe in tow, Sammy; and ven he does come to the Ebenezer
Junction (vich he's sure to do: for they'll see him to the door, and
shove him in, if necessary), he'll be as far gone in rum-and-water, as
ever he wos at the Markis o' Granby, Dorkin', and that's not sayin' a
little neither.' And with this, Mr. Weller once more laughed
immoderately, and once more relapsed into a state of partial
suffocation, in consequence.

Nothing could have been more in accordance with Sam Weller's feelings
than the projected exposure of the real propensities and qualities of
the red-nosed man; and it being very near the appointed hour of meeting,
the father and son took their way at once to Brick Lane, Sam not
forgetting to drop his letter into a general post-office as they walked
along.

The monthly meetings of the Brick Lane Branch of the United Grand
Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association were held in a large room,
pleasantly and airily situated at the top of a safe and commodious
ladder. The president was the straight-walking Mr. Anthony Humm, a
converted fireman, now a schoolmaster, and occasionally an itinerant
preacher; and the secretary was Mr. Jonas Mudge, chandler's shopkeeper,
an enthusiastic and disinterested vessel, who sold tea to the members.
Previous to the commencement of business, the ladies sat upon forms, and
drank tea, till such time as they considered it expedient to leave off;
and a large wooden money-box was conspicuously placed upon the green
baize cloth of the business-table, behind which the secretary stood, and
acknowledged, with a gracious smile, every addition to the rich vein of
copper which lay concealed within.

On this particular occasion the women drank tea to a most alarming
extent; greatly to the horror of Mr. Weller, senior, who, utterly
regardless of all Sam's admonitory nudgings, stared about him in every
direction with the most undisguised astonishment.

'Sammy,' whispered Mr. Weller, 'if some o' these here people don't want
tappin' to-morrow mornin', I ain't your father, and that's wot it is.
Why, this here old lady next me is a-drowndin' herself in tea.'

Be quiet, can't you?' murmured Sam.

'Sam,' whispered Mr. Weller, a moment afterwards, in a tone of deep
agitation, 'mark my vords, my boy. If that 'ere secretary fellow keeps
on for only five minutes more, he'll blow hisself up with toast and
water.'

'Well, let him, if he likes,' replied Sam; 'it ain't no bis'ness o'
yourn.'

'If this here lasts much longer, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, in the same
low voice, 'I shall feel it my duty, as a human bein', to rise and
address the cheer. There's a young 'ooman on the next form but two, as
has drunk nine breakfast cups and a half; and she's a-swellin' wisibly
before my wery eyes.'

There is little doubt that Mr. Weller would have carried his benevolent
intention into immediate execution, if a great noise, occasioned by
putting up the cups and saucers, had not very fortunately announced that
the tea-drinking was over. The crockery having been removed, the table
with the green baize cover was carried out into the centre of the room,
and the business of the evening was commenced by a little emphatic man,
with a bald head and drab shorts, who suddenly rushed up the ladder, at
the imminent peril of snapping the two little legs incased in the drab
shorts, and said--

'Ladies and gentlemen, I move our excellent brother, Mr. Anthony Humm,
into the chair.'

The ladies waved a choice selection of pocket-handkerchiefs at this
proposition; and the impetuous little man literally moved Mr. Humm into
the chair, by taking him by the shoulders and thrusting him into a
mahogany-frame which had once represented that article of furniture. The
waving of handkerchiefs was renewed; and Mr. Humm, who was a sleek,
white-faced man, in a perpetual perspiration, bowed meekly, to the great
admiration of the females, and formally took his seat. Silence was then
proclaimed by the little man in the drab shorts, and Mr. Humm rose and
said--That, with the permission of his Brick Lane Branch brothers and
sisters, then and there present, the secretary would read the report of
the Brick Lane Branch committee; a proposition which was again received
with a demonstration of pocket-handkerchiefs.

The secretary having sneezed in a very impressive manner, and the cough
which always seizes an assembly, when anything particular is going to be
done, having been duly performed, the following document was read:

'REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE OF THE BRICK LANE BRANCH OF THE UNITED GRAND
JUNCTION EBENEZER TEMPERANCE ASSOCIATION

'Your committee have pursued their grateful labours during the past
month, and have the unspeakable pleasure of reporting the following
additional cases of converts to Temperance.

'H. Walker, tailor, wife, and two children. When in better
circumstances, owns to having been in the constant habit of drinking ale
and beer; says he is not certain whether he did not twice a week, for
twenty years, taste "dog's nose," which your committee find upon
inquiry, to be compounded of warm porter, moist sugar, gin, and nutmeg
(a groan, and 'So it is!' from an elderly female). Is now out of work
and penniless; thinks it must be the porter (cheers) or the loss of the
use of his right hand; is not certain which, but thinks it very likely
that, if he had drunk nothing but water all his life, his fellow-workman
would never have stuck a rusty needle in him, and thereby occasioned his
accident (tremendous cheering). Has nothing but cold water to drink, and
never feels thirsty (great applause).

'Betsy Martin, widow, one child, and one eye. Goes out charing and
washing, by the day; never had more than one eye, but knows her mother
drank bottled stout, and shouldn't wonder if that caused it (immense
cheering). Thinks it not impossible that if she had always abstained
from spirits she might have had two eyes by this time (tremendous
applause). Used, at every place she went to, to have eighteen-pence a
day, a pint of porter, and a glass of spirits; but since she became a
member of the Brick Lane Branch, has always demanded three-and-sixpence
(the announcement of this most interesting fact was received with
deafening enthusiasm).

'Henry Beller was for many years toast-master at various corporation
dinners, during which time he drank a great deal of foreign wine; may
sometimes have carried a bottle or two home with him; is not quite
certain of that, but is sure if he did, that he drank the contents.
Feels very low and melancholy, is very feverish, and has a constant
thirst upon him; thinks it must be the wine he used to drink (cheers).
Is out of employ now; and never touches a drop of foreign wine by any
chance (tremendous plaudits).

'Thomas Burton is purveyor of cat's meat to the Lord Mayor and Sheriffs,
and several members of the Common Council (the announcement of this
gentleman's name was received with breathless interest). Has a wooden
leg; finds a wooden leg expensive, going over the stones; used to wear
second-hand wooden legs, and drink a glass of hot gin-and-water
regularly every night--sometimes two (deep sighs). Found the second-hand
wooden legs split and rot very quickly; is firmly persuaded that their
constitution was undermined by the gin-and-water (prolonged cheering).
Buys new wooden legs now, and drinks nothing but water and weak tea. The
new legs last twice as long as the others used to do, and he attributes
this solely to his temperate habits (triumphant cheers).'

Anthony Humm now moved that the assembly do regale itself with a song.
With a view to their rational and moral enjoyment, Brother Mordlin had
adapted the beautiful words of 'Who hasn't heard of a Jolly Young
Waterman?' to the tune of the Old Hundredth, which he would request them
to join him in singing (great applause). He might take that opportunity
of expressing his firm persuasion that the late Mr. Dibdin, seeing the
errors of his former life, had written that song to show the advantages
of abstinence. It was a temperance song (whirlwinds of cheers). The
neatness of the young man's attire, the dexterity of his feathering, the
enviable state of mind which enabled him in the beautiful words of the
poet, to

'Row along, thinking of nothing at all,'

all combined to prove that he must have been a water-drinker (cheers).
Oh, what a state of virtuous jollity! (rapturous cheering). And what was
the young man's reward? Let all young men present mark this:

'The maidens all flocked to his boat so readily.'

(Loud cheers, in which the ladies joined.) What a bright example! The
sisterhood, the maidens, flocking round the young waterman, and urging
him along the stream of duty and of temperance. But, was it the maidens
of humble life only, who soothed, consoled, and supported him? No!

'He was always first oars with the fine city ladies.'

(Immense cheering.) The soft sex to a man--he begged pardon, to a
female--rallied round the young waterman, and turned with disgust from
the drinker of spirits (cheers). The Brick Lane Branch brothers were
watermen (cheers and laughter). That room was their boat; that audience
were the maidens; and he (Mr. Anthony Humm), however unworthily, was
'first oars' (unbounded applause).

'Wot does he mean by the soft sex, Sammy?' inquired Mr. Weller, in a
whisper.

'The womin,' said Sam, in the same tone.

'He ain't far out there, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller; 'they _must _be a
soft sex--a wery soft sex, indeed--if they let themselves be gammoned by
such fellers as him.'

Any further observations from the indignant old gentleman were cut short
by the announcement of the song, which Mr. Anthony Humm gave out two
lines at a time, for the information of such of his hearers as were
unacquainted with the legend. While it was being sung, the little man
with the drab shorts disappeared; he returned immediately on its
conclusion, and whispered Mr. Anthony Humm, with a face of the deepest
importance.

'My friends,' said Mr. Humm, holding up his hand in a deprecatory
manner, to bespeak the silence of such of the stout old ladies as were
yet a line or two behind; 'my friends, a delegate from the Dorking
Branch of our society, Brother Stiggins, attends below.'

Out came the pocket-handkerchiefs again, in greater force than ever; for
Mr. Stiggins was excessively popular among the female constituency of
Brick Lane.

'He may approach, I think,' said Mr. Humm, looking round him, with a fat
smile. 'Brother Tadger, let him come forth and greet us.'

The little man in the drab shorts who answered to the name of Brother
Tadger, bustled down the ladder with great speed, and was immediately
afterwards heard tumbling up with the Reverend Mr. Stiggins.

'He's a-comin', Sammy,' whispered Mr. Weller, purple in the countenance
with suppressed laughter.

'Don't say nothin' to me,' replied Sam, 'for I can't bear it. He's close
to the door. I hear him a-knockin' his head again the lath and plaster
now.'

As Sam Weller spoke, the little door flew open, and Brother Tadger
appeared, closely followed by the Reverend Mr. Stiggins, who no sooner
entered, than there was a great clapping of hands, and stamping of feet,
and flourishing of handkerchiefs; to all of which manifestations of
delight, Brother Stiggins returned no other acknowledgment than staring
with a wild eye, and a fixed smile, at the extreme top of the wick of
the candle on the table, swaying his body to and fro, meanwhile, in a
very unsteady and uncertain manner.

'Are you unwell, Brother Stiggins?' whispered Mr. Anthony Humm.

'I am all right, Sir,' replied Mr. Stiggins, in a tone in which ferocity
was blended with an extreme thickness of utterance; 'I am all right,
Sir.'

'Oh, very well,' rejoined Mr. Anthony Humm, retreating a few paces.

'I believe no man here has ventured to say that I am not all right,
Sir?' said Mr. Stiggins.

'Oh, certainly not,' said Mr. Humm.

'I should advise him not to, Sir; I should advise him not,' said Mr.
Stiggins.

By this time the audience were perfectly silent, and waited with some
anxiety for the resumption of business.

'Will you address the meeting, brother?' said Mr. Humm, with a smile of
invitation.

'No, sir,' rejoined Mr. Stiggins; 'No, sir. I will not, sir.'

The meeting looked at each other with raised eyelids; and a murmur of
astonishment ran through the room.

'It's my opinion, sir,' said Mr. Stiggins, unbuttoning his coat, and
speaking very loudly--'it's my opinion, sir, that this meeting is drunk,
sir. Brother Tadger, sir!' said Mr. Stiggins, suddenly increasing in
ferocity, and turning sharp round on the little man in the drab shorts,
'_you _are drunk, sir!' With this, Mr. Stiggins, entertaining a
praiseworthy desire to promote the sobriety of the meeting, and to
exclude therefrom all improper characters, hit Brother Tadger on the
summit of the nose with such unerring aim, that the drab shorts
disappeared like a flash of lightning. Brother Tadger had been knocked,
head first, down the ladder.

Upon this, the women set up a loud and dismal screaming; and rushing in
small parties before their favourite brothers, flung their arms around
them to preserve them from danger. An instance of affection, which had
nearly proved fatal to Humm, who, being extremely popular, was all but
suffocated, by the crowd of female devotees that hung about his neck,
and heaped caresses upon him. The greater part of the lights were
quickly put out, and nothing but noise and confusion resounded on all
sides.

'Now, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, taking off his greatcoat with much
deliberation, 'just you step out, and fetch in a watchman.'

'And wot are you a-goin' to do, the while?' inquired Sam.

'Never you mind me, Sammy,' replied the old gentleman; 'I shall ockipy
myself in havin' a small settlement with that 'ere Stiggins.' Before Sam
could interfere to prevent it, his heroic parent had penetrated into a
remote corner of the room, and attacked the Reverend Mr. Stiggins with
manual dexterity.

'Come off!' said Sam.

'Come on!' cried Mr. Weller; and without further invitation he gave the
Reverend Mr. Stiggins a preliminary tap on the head, and began dancing
round him in a buoyant and cork-like manner, which in a gentleman at his
time of life was a perfect marvel to behold.

Finding all remonstrances unavailing, Sam pulled his hat firmly on,
threw his father's coat over his arm, and taking the old man round the
waist, forcibly dragged him down the ladder, and into the street; never
releasing his hold, or permitting him to stop, until they reached the
corner. As they gained it, they could hear the shouts of the populace,
who were witnessing the removal of the Reverend Mr. Stiggins to strong
lodgings for the night, and could hear the noise occasioned by the
dispersion in various directions of the members of the Brick Lane Branch
of the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: One evening in January, Dodson and Fogg's clerk, Mr. Jackson, barges into Mr. Pickwick's hotel room, tells him the trial will be held on February 14, and serves Tupman, Snodgrass, Winkle, and Sam with subpoenas to appear as witnesses for Mrs. Bardell. Mr. Pickwick then goes to see his lawyer, Mr. Perker, and learns that his case is doubtful. Pickwick insists on seeing his courtroom attorney, Serjeant Snubbin, a disorderly, untidy man with a big reputation. Mr. Pickwick insists he is innocent of the charge but receives little reassurance from Perker, Snubbin, or Mr. Phunky, who is Snubbin's nervous, self-effacing assistant in the case. Living in a dismal, impoverished neighborhood, Bob Sawyer is harangued by his vituperative landlady, Mrs. Raddle, because he cannot pay the rent. The Pickwickians arrive at his party, to which a number of medical students have been invited. One named Jack Hopkins relates some lugubrious anecdotes about medical curiosities. The party is a disaster. An angry dispute arises at cards. The dinner is a failure. Sawyer cannot obtain hot water to make drinks. A long, tedious story is told in which the point has been forgotten. Two men are ready to duel. There is no harmony to the singing. And Mrs. Raddle enters the room screaming, which puts an end to the party. On February 13, Sam Weller writes a valentine to Mary the housemaid, which dismays his father, who thinks Sam should avoid women. Sam is deterred and signs the valentine, "Your love-sick Pickwick." Mr. Weller also thinks that Mr. Pickwick needs an alibi. Tony then invites Sam to a temperance meeting. After much tea is consumed, and after absurd testimonials to the harmfulness of liquor and an equally absurd song, Stiggins enters, drunk and belligerent. He starts fighting and throws the meeting into an uproar. The lights go out and Mr. Weller lands some punches on Stiggins. Sam has to grab his father and the pair make a quick getaway.