Chapter: The quiet seclusion of Dingley Dell, the presence of so many of the
gentler sex, and the solicitude and anxiety they evinced in his behalf,
were all favourable to the growth and development of those softer
feelings which nature had implanted deep in the bosom of Mr. Tracy
Tupman, and which now appeared destined to centre in one lovely object.
The young ladies were pretty, their manners winning, their dispositions
unexceptionable; but there was a dignity in the air, a touch-me-not-
ishness in the walk, a majesty in the eye, of the spinster aunt, to
which, at their time of life, they could lay no claim, which
distinguished her from any female on whom Mr. Tupman had ever gazed.
That there was something kindred in their nature, something congenial in
their souls, something mysteriously sympathetic in their bosoms, was
evident. Her name was the first that rose to Mr. Tupman's lips as he lay
wounded on the grass; and her hysteric laughter was the first sound that
fell upon his ear when he was supported to the house. But had her
agitation arisen from an amiable and feminine sensibility which would
have been equally irrepressible in any case; or had it been called forth
by a more ardent and passionate feeling, which he, of all men living,
could alone awaken? These were the doubts which racked his brain as he
lay extended on the sofa; these were the doubts which he determined
should be at once and for ever resolved.

It was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr. Trundle;
the deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair; the snoring of the fat
boy, penetrated in a low and monotonous sound from the distant kitchen;
the buxom servants were lounging at the side door, enjoying the
pleasantness of the hour, and the delights of a flirtation, on first
principles, with certain unwieldy animals attached to the farm; and
there sat the interesting pair, uncared for by all, caring for none, and
dreaming only of themselves; there they sat, in short, like a pair of
carefully-folded kid gloves--bound up in each other.

'I have forgotten my flowers,' said the spinster aunt.

'Water them now,' said Mr. Tupman, in accents of persuasion.

'You will take cold in the evening air,' urged the spinster aunt
affectionately.

'No, no,' said Mr. Tupman, rising; 'it will do me good. Let me accompany
you.'

The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth
was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.

There was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle, jessamine, and
creeping plants--one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for
the accommodation of spiders.

The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in one corner,
and was about to leave the arbour. Mr. Tupman detained her, and drew her
to a seat beside him.

'Miss Wardle!' said he.

The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles which had accidentally
found their way into the large watering-pot shook like an infant's
rattle.

'Miss Wardle,' said Mr. Tupman, 'you are an angel.'

'Mr. Tupman!' exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as the watering-pot
itself.

'Nay,' said the eloquent Pickwickian--'I know it but too well.'

'All women are angels, they say,' murmured the lady playfully.

'Then what can you be; or to what, without presumption, can I compare
you?' replied Mr. Tupman. 'Where was the woman ever seen who resembled
you? Where else could I hope to find so rare a combination of excellence
and beauty? Where else could I seek to--Oh!' Here Mr. Tupman paused, and
pressed the hand which clasped the handle of the happy watering-pot.

The lady turned aside her head. 'Men are such deceivers,' she softly
whispered.

'They are, they are,' ejaculated Mr. Tupman; 'but not all men. There
lives at least one being who can never change--one being who would be
content to devote his whole existence to your happiness--who lives but
in your eyes--who breathes but in your smiles--who bears the heavy
burden of life itself only for you.'

'Could such an individual be found--' said the lady.

'But he _can_ be found,' said the ardent Mr. Tupman, interposing. 'He
_is_ found. He is here, Miss Wardle.' And ere the lady was aware of his
intention, Mr. Tupman had sunk upon his knees at her feet.

'Mr. Tupman, rise,' said Rachael.

'Never!' was the valorous reply. 'Oh, Rachael!' He seized her passive
hand, and the watering-pot fell to the ground as he pressed it to his
lips.--'Oh, Rachael! say you love me.'

'Mr. Tupman,' said the spinster aunt, with averted head, 'I can hardly
speak the words; but--but--you are not wholly indifferent to me.'

Mr. Tupman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded to do what his
enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for aught we know (for we are
but little acquainted with such matters), people so circumstanced always
do. He jumped up, and, throwing his arm round the neck of the spinster
aunt, imprinted upon her lips numerous kisses, which after a due show of
struggling and resistance, she received so passively, that there is no
telling how many more Mr. Tupman might have bestowed, if the lady had
not given a very unaffected start, and exclaimed in an affrighted tone--

'Mr. Tupman, we are observed!--we are discovered!'

Mr. Tupman looked round. There was the fat boy, perfectly motionless,
with his large circular eyes staring into the arbour, but without the
slightest expression on his face that the most expert physiognomist
could have referred to astonishment, curiosity, or any other known
passion that agitates the human breast. Mr. Tupman gazed on the fat boy,
and the fat boy stared at him; and the longer Mr. Tupman observed the
utter vacancy of the fat boy's countenance, the more convinced he became
that he either did not know, or did not understand, anything that had
been going forward. Under this impression, he said with great firmness--


'What do you want here, Sir?'

'Supper's ready, sir,' was the prompt reply.

'Have you just come here, sir?' inquired Mr. Tupman, with a piercing
look.

'Just,' replied the fat boy.

Mr. Tupman looked at him very hard again; but there was not a wink in
his eye, or a curve in his face.

Mr. Tupman took the arm of the spinster aunt, and walked towards the
house; the fat boy followed behind.

'He knows nothing of what has happened,' he whispered.

'Nothing,' said the spinster aunt.

There was a sound behind them, as of an imperfectly suppressed chuckle.
Mr. Tupman turned sharply round. No; it could not have been the fat boy;
there was not a gleam of mirth, or anything but feeding in his whole
visage.

'He must have been fast asleep,' whispered Mr. Tupman.

'I have not the least doubt of it,' replied the spinster aunt.

They both laughed heartily.

Mr. Tupman was wrong. The fat boy, for once, had not been fast asleep.
He was awake--wide awake--to what had been going forward.

The supper passed off without any attempt at a general conversation. The
old lady had gone to bed; Isabella Wardle devoted herself exclusively to
Mr. Trundle; the spinster's attentions were reserved for Mr. Tupman; and
Emily's thoughts appeared to be engrossed by some distant object--
possibly they were with the absent Snodgrass.

Eleven--twelve--one o'clock had struck, and the gentlemen had not
arrived. Consternation sat on every face. Could they have been waylaid
and robbed? Should they send men and lanterns in every direction by
which they could be supposed likely to have travelled home? or should
they--Hark! there they were. What could have made them so late? A
strange voice, too! To whom could it belong? They rushed into the
kitchen, whither the truants had repaired, and at once obtained rather
more than a glimmering of the real state of the case.

Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked
completely over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser, shaking
his head from side to side, and producing a constant succession of the
blandest and most benevolent smiles without being moved thereunto by any
discernible cause or pretence whatsoever; old Mr. Wardle, with a highly-
inflamed countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange gentleman
muttering protestations of eternal friendship; Mr. Winkle, supporting
himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking destruction upon the
head of any member of the family who should suggest the propriety of his
retiring for the night; and Mr. Snodgrass had sunk into a chair, with an
expression of the most abject and hopeless misery that the human mind
can imagine, portrayed in every lineament of his expressive face.

'Is anything the matter?' inquired the three ladies.

'Nothing the matter,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'We--we're--all right.--I
say, Wardle, we're all right, ain't we?'

'I should think so,' replied the jolly host.--'My dears, here's my
friend Mr. Jingle--Mr. Pickwick's friend, Mr. Jingle, come 'pon--little
visit.'

'Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, Sir?' inquired Emily, with
great anxiety.

'Nothing the matter, ma'am,' replied the stranger. 'Cricket dinner--
glorious party--capital songs--old port--claret--good--very good--wine,
ma'am--wine.'


'It wasn't the wine,' murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. 'It was
the salmon.' (Somehow or other, it never is the wine, in these cases.)

'Hadn't they better go to bed, ma'am?' inquired Emma. 'Two of the boys
will carry the gentlemen upstairs.'

'I won't go to bed,' said Mr. Winkle firmly.

'No living boy shall carry me,' said Mr. Pickwick stoutly; and he went
on smiling as before.

'Hurrah!' gasped Mr. Winkle faintly.

'Hurrah!' echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on the
floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the
kitchen. At this humorous feat he laughed outright.

'Let's--have--'nother--bottle,' cried Mr. Winkle, commencing in a very
loud key, and ending in a very faint one. His head dropped upon his
breast; and, muttering his invincible determination not to go to his
bed, and a sanguinary regret that he had not 'done for old Tupman' in
the morning, he fell fast asleep; in which condition he was borne to his
apartment by two young giants under the personal superintendence of the
fat boy, to whose protecting care Mr. Snodgrass shortly afterwards
confided his own person, Mr. Pickwick accepted the proffered arm of Mr.
Tupman and quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever; and Mr. Wardle,
after taking as affectionate a leave of the whole family as if he were
ordered for immediate execution, consigned to Mr. Trundle the honour of
conveying him upstairs, and retired, with a very futile attempt to look
impressively solemn and dignified.

'What a shocking scene!' said the spinster aunt.

'Dis-gusting!' ejaculated both the young ladies.

'Dreadful--dreadful!' said Jingle, looking very grave: he was about a
bottle and a half ahead of any of his companions. 'Horrid spectacle--
very!'

'What a nice man!' whispered the spinster aunt to Mr. Tupman.

'Good-looking, too!' whispered Emily Wardle.

'Oh, decidedly,' observed the spinster aunt.

Mr. Tupman thought of the widow at Rochester, and his mind was troubled.
The succeeding half-hour's conversation was not of a nature to calm his
perturbed spirit. The new visitor was very talkative, and the number of
his anecdotes was only to be exceeded by the extent of his politeness.
Mr. Tupman felt that as Jingle's popularity increased, he (Tupman)
retired further into the shade. His laughter was forced--his merriment
feigned; and when at last he laid his aching temples between the sheets,
he thought, with horrid delight, on the satisfaction it would afford him
to have Jingle's head at that moment between the feather bed and the
mattress.

The indefatigable stranger rose betimes next morning, and, although his
companions remained in bed overpowered with the dissipation of the
previous night, exerted himself most successfully to promote the
hilarity of the breakfast-table. So successful were his efforts, that
even the deaf old lady insisted on having one or two of his best jokes
retailed through the trumpet; and even she condescended to observe to
the spinster aunt, that 'He' (meaning Jingle) 'was an impudent young
fellow:' a sentiment in which all her relations then and there present
thoroughly coincided.

It was the old lady's habit on the fine summer mornings to repair to the
arbour in which Mr. Tupman had already signalised himself, in form and
manner following: first, the fat boy fetched from a peg behind the old
lady's bedroom door, a close black satin bonnet, a warm cotton shawl,
and a thick stick with a capacious handle; and the old lady, having put
on the bonnet and shawl at her leisure, would lean one hand on the stick
and the other on the fat boy's shoulder, and walk leisurely to the
arbour, where the fat boy would leave her to enjoy the fresh air for the
space of half an hour; at the expiration of which time he would return
and reconduct her to the house.

The old lady was very precise and very particular; and as this ceremony
had been observed for three successive summers without the slightest
deviation from the accustomed form, she was not a little surprised on
this particular morning to see the fat boy, instead of leaving the
arbour, walk a few paces out of it, look carefully round him in every
direction, and return towards her with great stealth and an air of the
most profound mystery.

The old lady was timorous--most old ladies are--and her first impression
was that the bloated lad was about to do her some grievous bodily harm
with the view of possessing himself of her loose coin. She would have
cried for assistance, but age and infirmity had long ago deprived her of
the power of screaming; she, therefore, watched his motions with
feelings of intense horror which were in no degree diminished by his
coming close up to her, and shouting in her ear in an agitated, and as
it seemed to her, a threatening tone--

'Missus!'

Now it so happened that Mr. Jingle was walking in the garden close to
the arbour at that moment. He too heard the shouts of 'Missus,' and
stopped to hear more. There were three reasons for his doing so. In the
first place, he was idle and curious; secondly, he was by no means
scrupulous; thirdly, and lastly, he was concealed from view by some
flowering shrubs. So there he stood, and there he listened.

'Missus!' shouted the fat boy.

'Well, Joe,' said the trembling old lady. 'I'm sure I have been a good
mistress to you, Joe. You have invariably been treated very kindly. You
have never had too much to do; and you have always had enough to eat.'

This last was an appeal to the fat boy's most sensitive feelings. He
seemed touched, as he replied emphatically--

'I knows I has.'

'Then what can you want to do now?' said the old lady, gaining courage.

'I wants to make your flesh creep,' replied the boy.

This sounded like a very bloodthirsty mode of showing one's gratitude;
and as the old lady did not precisely understand the process by which
such a result was to be attained, all her former horrors returned.

'What do you think I see in this very arbour last night?' inquired the
boy.

'Bless us! What?' exclaimed the old lady, alarmed at the solemn manner
of the corpulent youth.

'The strange gentleman--him as had his arm hurt--a-kissin' and huggin'--
'

'Who, Joe? None of the servants, I hope.'

Worser than that,' roared the fat boy, in the old lady's ear.

'Not one of my grandda'aters?'

'Worser than that.'

'Worse than that, Joe!' said the old lady, who had thought this the
extreme limit of human atrocity. 'Who was it, Joe? I insist upon
knowing.'

The fat boy looked cautiously round, and having concluded his survey,
shouted in the old lady's ear--

'Miss Rachael.'

'What!' said the old lady, in a shrill tone. 'Speak louder.'

'Miss Rachael,' roared the fat boy.

'My da'ater!'

The train of nods which the fat boy gave by way of assent, communicated
a blanc-mange like motion to his fat cheeks.

'And she suffered him!' exclaimed the old lady. A grin stole over the
fat boy's features as he said--

'I see her a-kissin' of him agin.'

If Mr. Jingle, from his place of concealment, could have beheld the
expression which the old lady's face assumed at this communication, the
probability is that a sudden burst of laughter would have betrayed his
close vicinity to the summer-house. He listened attentively. Fragments
of angry sentences such as, 'Without my permission!'--'At her time of
life'--'Miserable old 'ooman like me'--'Might have waited till I was
dead,' and so forth, reached his ears; and then he heard the heels of
the fat boy's boots crunching the gravel, as he retired and left the old
lady alone.

It was a remarkable coincidence perhaps, but it was nevertheless a fact,
that Mr. Jingle within five minutes of his arrival at Manor Farm on the
preceding night, had inwardly resolved to lay siege to the heart of the
spinster aunt, without delay. He had observation enough to see, that his
off-hand manner was by no means disagreeable to the fair object of his
attack; and he had more than a strong suspicion that she possessed that
most desirable of all requisites, a small independence. The imperative
necessity of ousting his rival by some means or other, flashed quickly
upon him, and he immediately resolved to adopt certain proceedings
tending to that end and object, without a moment's delay. Fielding tells
us that man is fire, and woman tow, and the Prince of Darkness sets a
light to 'em. Mr. Jingle knew that young men, to spinster aunts, are as
lighted gas to gunpowder, and he determined to essay the effect of an
explosion without loss of time.

Full of reflections upon this important decision, he crept from his
place of concealment, and, under cover of the shrubs before mentioned,
approached the house. Fortune seemed determined to favour his design.
Mr. Tupman and the rest of the gentlemen left the garden by the side
gate just as he obtained a view of it; and the young ladies, he knew,
had walked out alone, soon after breakfast. The coast was clear.

The breakfast-parlour door was partially open. He peeped in. The
spinster aunt was knitting. He coughed; she looked up and smiled.
Hesitation formed no part of Mr. Alfred Jingle's character. He laid his
finger on his lips mysteriously, walked in, and closed the door.

'Miss Wardle,' said Mr. Jingle, with affected earnestness, 'forgive
intrusion--short acquaintance--no time for ceremony--all discovered.'

'Sir!' said the spinster aunt, rather astonished by the unexpected
apparition and somewhat doubtful of Mr. Jingle's sanity.

'Hush!' said Mr. Jingle, in a stage-whisper--'Large boy--dumpling face--
round eyes--rascal!' Here he shook his head expressively, and the
spinster aunt trembled with agitation.

'I presume you allude to Joseph, Sir?' said the lady, making an effort
to appear composed.

'Yes, ma'am--damn that Joe!--treacherous dog, Joe--told the old lady--
old lady furious--wild--raving--arbour--Tupman--kissing and hugging--all
that sort of thing--eh, ma'am--eh?'

'Mr. Jingle,' said the spinster aunt, 'if you come here, Sir, to insult
me--'

'Not at all--by no means,' replied the unabashed Mr. Jingle--'overheard
the tale--came to warn you of your danger--tender my services--prevent
the hubbub. Never mind--think it an insult--leave the room'--and he
turned, as if to carry the threat into execution.

'What _shall_ I do!' said the poor spinster, bursting into tears. 'My
brother will be furious.'

'Of course he will,' said Mr. Jingle pausing--'outrageous.'

Oh, Mr. Jingle, what _can_ I say!' exclaimed the spinster aunt, in
another flood of despair.

'Say he dreamt it,' replied Mr. Jingle coolly.

A ray of comfort darted across the mind of the spinster aunt at this
suggestion. Mr. Jingle perceived it, and followed up his advantage.

'Pooh, pooh!--nothing more easy--blackguard boy--lovely woman--fat boy
horsewhipped--you believed--end of the matter--all comfortable.'

Whether the probability of escaping from the consequences of this ill-
timed discovery was delightful to the spinster's feelings, or whether
the hearing herself described as a 'lovely woman' softened the asperity
of her grief, we know not. She blushed slightly, and cast a grateful
look on Mr. Jingle.

That insinuating gentleman sighed deeply, fixed his eyes on the spinster
aunt's face for a couple of minutes, started melodramatically, and
suddenly withdrew them.

'You seem unhappy, Mr. Jingle,' said the lady, in a plaintive voice.
'May I show my gratitude for your kind interference, by inquiring into
the cause, with a view, if possible, to its removal?'

'Ha!' exclaimed Mr. Jingle, with another start--'removal! remove my
unhappiness, and your love bestowed upon a man who is insensible to the
blessing--who even now contemplates a design upon the affections of the
niece of the creature who--but no; he is my friend; I will not expose
his vices. Miss Wardle--farewell!' At the conclusion of this address,
the most consecutive he was ever known to utter, Mr. Jingle applied to
his eyes the remnant of a handkerchief before noticed, and turned
towards the door.

'Stay, Mr. Jingle!' said the spinster aunt emphatically. 'You have made
an allusion to Mr. Tupman--explain it.'

'Never!' exclaimed Jingle, with a professional (i.e., theatrical) air.
'Never!' and, by way of showing that he had no desire to be questioned
further, he drew a chair close to that of the spinster aunt and sat
down.

'Mr. Jingle,' said the aunt, 'I entreat--I implore you, if there is any
dreadful mystery connected with Mr. Tupman, reveal it.'

'Can I,' said Mr. Jingle, fixing his eyes on the aunt's face--'can I
see--lovely creature--sacrificed at the shrine--heartless avarice!' He
appeared to be struggling with various conflicting emotions for a few
seconds, and then said in a low voice-- 'Tupman only wants your money.'

'The wretch!' exclaimed the spinster, with energetic indignation. (Mr.
Jingle's doubts were resolved. She _had_ money.)

'More than that,' said Jingle--'loves another.'

'Another!' ejaculated the spinster. 'Who?'

Short girl--black eyes--niece Emily.'

There was a pause.

Now, if there was one individual in the whole world, of whom the
spinster aunt entertained a mortal and deep-rooted jealousy, it was this
identical niece. The colour rushed over her face and neck, and she
tossed her head in silence with an air of ineffable contempt. At last,
biting her thin lips, and bridling up, she said--

'It can't be. I won't believe it.'

'Watch 'em,' said Jingle.

'I will,' said the aunt.

'Watch his looks.'

'I will.'

'His whispers.'

'I will.'

'He'll sit next her at table.'

'Let him.'

'He'll flatter her.'

'Let him.'

'He'll pay her every possible attention.'

'Let him.'

'And he'll cut you.'

'Cut _me_!' screamed the spinster aunt. '_he_ cut _me_; will he!' and
she trembled with rage and disappointment.

'You will convince yourself?' said Jingle.

'I will.'

'You'll show your spirit?'

'I will.'

You'll not have him afterwards?'

'Never.'

'You'll take somebody else?'

Yes.'

'You shall.'

Mr. Jingle fell on his knees, remained thereupon for five minutes
thereafter; and rose the accepted lover of the spinster aunt--
conditionally upon Mr. Tupman's perjury being made clear and manifest.

The burden of proof lay with Mr. Alfred Jingle; and he produced his
evidence that very day at dinner. The spinster aunt could hardly believe
her eyes. Mr. Tracy Tupman was established at Emily's side, ogling,
whispering, and smiling, in opposition to Mr. Snodgrass. Not a word, not
a look, not a glance, did he bestow upon his heart's pride of the
evening before.

'Damn that boy!' thought old Mr. Wardle to himself.--He had heard the
story from his mother. 'Damn that boy! He must have been asleep. It's
all imagination.'

'Traitor!' thought the spinster aunt. 'Dear Mr. Jingle was not deceiving
me. Ugh! how I hate the wretch!'

The following conversation may serve to explain to our readers this
apparently unaccountable alteration of deportment on the part of Mr.
Tracy Tupman.

The time was evening; the scene the garden. There were two figures
walking in a side path; one was rather short and stout; the other tall
and slim. They were Mr. Tupman and Mr. Jingle. The stout figure
commenced the dialogue.

'How did I do it?' he inquired.

'Splendid--capital--couldn't act better myself--you must repeat the part
to-morrow--every evening till further notice.'

'Does Rachael still wish it?'

'Of course--she don't like it--but must be done--avert suspicion--afraid
of her brother--says there's no help for it--only a few days more--when
old folks blinded--crown your happiness.'

'Any message?'

'Love--best love--kindest regards--unalterable affection. Can I say
anything for you?'

'My dear fellow,' replied the unsuspicious Mr. Tupman, fervently
grasping his 'friend's' hand--'carry my best love--say how hard I find
it to dissemble--say anything that's kind: but add how sensible I am of
the necessity of the suggestion she made to me, through you, this
morning. Say I applaud her wisdom and admire her discretion.'

I will. Anything more?'

'Nothing, only add how ardently I long for the time when I may call her
mine, and all dissimulation may be unnecessary.'

'Certainly, certainly. Anything more?'

'Oh, my friend!' said poor Mr. Tupman, again grasping the hand of his
companion, 'receive my warmest thanks for your disinterested kindness;
and forgive me if I have ever, even in thought, done you the injustice
of supposing that you could stand in my way. My dear friend, can I ever
repay you?'

'Don't talk of it,' replied Mr. Jingle. He stopped short, as if suddenly
recollecting something, and said--'By the bye--can't spare ten pounds,
can you?--very particular purpose--pay you in three days.'

'I dare say I can,' replied Mr. Tupman, in the fulness of his heart.
'Three days, you say?'

'Only three days--all over then--no more difficulties.' Mr. Tupman
counted the money into his companion's hand, and he dropped it piece by
piece into his pocket, as they walked towards the house.

'Be careful,' said Mr. Jingle--'not a look.'

'Not a wink,' said Mr. Tupman.

'Not a syllable.'

'Not a whisper.'

'All your attentions to the niece--rather rude, than otherwise, to the
aunt--only way of deceiving the old ones.'

'I'll take care,' said Mr. Tupman aloud.

'And _I'll_ take care,' said Mr. Jingle internally; and they entered the
house.

The scene of that afternoon was repeated that evening, and on the three
afternoons and evenings next ensuing. On the fourth, the host was in
high spirits, for he had satisfied himself that there was no ground for
the charge against Mr. Tupman. So was Mr. Tupman, for Mr. Jingle had
told him that his affair would soon be brought to a crisis. So was Mr.
Pickwick, for he was seldom otherwise. So was not Mr. Snodgrass, for he
had grown jealous of Mr. Tupman. So was the old lady, for she had been
winning at whist. So were Mr. Jingle and Miss Wardle, for reasons of
sufficient importance in this eventful history to be narrated in another
chapter.


The supper was ready laid, the chairs were drawn round the table,
bottles, jugs, and glasses were arranged upon the sideboard, and
everything betokened the approach of the most convivial period in the
whole four-and-twenty hours.

'Where's Rachael?' said Mr. Wardle.

'Ay, and Jingle?' added Mr. Pickwick.

'Dear me,' said the host, 'I wonder I haven't missed him before. Why, I
don't think I've heard his voice for two hours at least. Emily, my dear,
ring the bell.'

The bell was rung, and the fat boy appeared.

'Where's Miss Rachael?' He couldn't say.

'Where's Mr. Jingle, then?' He didn't know. Everybody looked surprised.
It was late--past eleven o'clock. Mr. Tupman laughed in his sleeve. They
were loitering somewhere, talking about him. Ha, ha! capital notion
that--funny.

'Never mind,' said Wardle, after a short pause. 'They'll turn up
presently, I dare say. I never wait supper for anybody.'

'Excellent rule, that,' said Mr. Pickwick--'admirable.'

'Pray, sit down,' said the host.

'Certainly' said Mr. Pickwick; and down they sat.

There was a gigantic round of cold beef on the table, and Mr. Pickwick
was supplied with a plentiful portion of it. He had raised his fork to
his lips, and was on the very point of opening his mouth for the
reception of a piece of beef, when the hum of many voices suddenly arose
in the kitchen. He paused, and laid down his fork. Mr. Wardle paused
too, and insensibly released his hold of the carving-knife, which
remained inserted in the beef. He looked at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick
looked at him.

Heavy footsteps were heard in the passage; the parlour door was suddenly
burst open; and the man who had cleaned Mr. Pickwick's boots on his
first arrival, rushed into the room, followed by the fat boy and all the
domestics.

'What the devil's the meaning of this?' exclaimed the host.

'The kitchen chimney ain't a-fire, is it, Emma?' inquired the old lady.

'Lor, grandma! No,' screamed both the young ladies.

'What's the matter?' roared the master of the house.

The man gasped for breath, and faintly ejaculated--

'They ha' gone, mas'r!--gone right clean off, Sir!' (At this juncture
Mr. Tupman was observed to lay down his knife and fork, and to turn very
pale.)

'Who's gone?' said Mr. Wardle fiercely.

'Mus'r Jingle and Miss Rachael, in a po'-chay, from Blue Lion,
Muggleton. I was there; but I couldn't stop 'em; so I run off to tell
'ee.'

'I paid his expenses!' said Mr. Tupman, jumping up frantically. 'He's
got ten pounds of mine!--stop him!--he's swindled me!--I won't bear it!-
-I'll have justice, Pickwick!--I won't stand it!' and with sundry
incoherent exclamations of the like nature, the unhappy gentleman spun
round and round the apartment, in a transport of frenzy.

'Lord preserve us!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, eyeing the extraordinary
gestures of his friend with terrified surprise. 'He's gone mad! What
shall we do?'

Do!' said the stout old host, who regarded only the last words of the
sentence. 'Put the horse in the gig! I'll get a chaise at the Lion, and
follow 'em instantly. Where?'--he exclaimed, as the man ran out to
execute the commission--'where's that villain, Joe?'

'Here I am! but I hain't a willin,' replied a voice. It was the fat
boy's.

'Let me get at him, Pickwick,' cried Wardle, as he rushed at the ill-
starred youth. 'He was bribed by that scoundrel, Jingle, to put me on a
wrong scent, by telling a cock-and-bull story of my sister and your
friend Tupman!' (Here Mr. Tupman sank into a chair.) 'Let me get at
him!'

'Don't let him!' screamed all the women, above whose exclamations the
blubbering of the fat boy was distinctly audible.

'I won't be held!' cried the old man. 'Mr. Winkle, take your hands off.
Mr. Pickwick, let me go, sir!'

It was a beautiful sight, in that moment of turmoil and confusion, to
behold the placid and philosophical expression of Mr. Pickwick's face,
albeit somewhat flushed with exertion, as he stood with his arms firmly
clasped round the extensive waist of their corpulent host, thus
restraining the impetuosity of his passion, while the fat boy was
scratched, and pulled, and pushed from the room by all the females
congregated therein. He had no sooner released his hold, than the man
entered to announce that the gig was ready.

'Don't let him go alone!' screamed the females. 'He'll kill somebody!'

'I'll go with him,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'You're a good fellow, Pickwick,' said the host, grasping his hand.
'Emma, give Mr. Pickwick a shawl to tie round his neck--make haste. Look
after your grandmother, girls; she has fainted away. Now then, are you
ready?'

Mr. Pickwick's mouth and chin having been hastily enveloped in a large
shawl, his hat having been put on his head, and his greatcoat thrown
over his arm, he replied in the affirmative.

They jumped into the gig. 'Give her her head, Tom,' cried the host; and
away they went, down the narrow lanes; jolting in and out of the cart-
ruts, and bumping up against the hedges on either side, as if they would
go to pieces every moment.

'How much are they ahead?' shouted Wardle, as they drove up to the door
of the Blue Lion, round which a little crowd had collected, late as it
was.

'Not above three-quarters of an hour,' was everybody's reply.

'Chaise-and-four directly!--out with 'em! Put up the gig afterwards.'

'Now, boys!' cried the landlord--'chaise-and-four out--make haste--look
alive there!'

Away ran the hostlers and the boys. The lanterns glimmered, as the men
ran to and fro; the horses' hoofs clattered on the uneven paving of the
yard; the chaise rumbled as it was drawn out of the coach-house; and all
was noise and bustle.

'Now then!--is that chaise coming out to-night?' cried Wardle.

'Coming down the yard now, Sir,' replied the hostler.

Out came the chaise--in went the horses--on sprang the boys--in got the
travellers.

'Mind--the seven-mile stage in less than half an hour!' shouted Wardle.

'Off with you!'

The boys applied whip and spur, the waiters shouted, the hostlers
cheered, and away they went, fast and furiously.

'Pretty situation,' thought Mr. Pickwick, when he had had a moment's
time for reflection. 'Pretty situation for the general chairman of the
Pickwick Club. Damp chaise--strange horses--fifteen miles an hour--and
twelve o'clock at night!'

For the first three or four miles, not a word was spoken by either of
the gentlemen, each being too much immersed in his own reflections to
address any observations to his companion. When they had gone over that
much ground, however, and the horses getting thoroughly warmed began to
do their work in really good style, Mr. Pickwick became too much
exhilarated with the rapidity of the motion, to remain any longer
perfectly mute.

'We're sure to catch them, I think,' said he.

'Hope so,' replied his companion.

'Fine night,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking up at the moon, which was
shining brightly.

'So much the worse,' returned Wardle; 'for they'll have had all the
advantage of the moonlight to get the start of us, and we shall lose it.
It will have gone down in another hour.'

'It will be rather unpleasant going at this rate in the dark, won't it?'
inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'I dare say it will,' replied his friend dryly.

Mr. Pickwick's temporary excitement began to sober down a little, as he
reflected upon the inconveniences and dangers of the expedition in which
he had so thoughtlessly embarked. He was roused by a loud shouting of
the post-boy on the leader.

'Yo-yo-yo-yo-yoe!' went the first boy.

'Yo-yo-yo-yoe!' went the second.

'Yo-yo-yo-yoe!' chimed in old Wardle himself, most lustily, with his
head and half his body out of the coach window.

'Yo-yo-yo-yoe!' shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the burden of the cry,
though he had not the slightest notion of its meaning or object. And
amidst the yo-yoing of the whole four, the chaise stopped.

'What's the matter?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'There's a gate here,' replied old Wardle. 'We shall hear something of
the fugitives.'

After a lapse of five minutes, consumed in incessant knocking and
shouting, an old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from the
turnpike-house, and opened the gate.

'How long is it since a post-chaise went through here?' inquired Mr.
Wardle.

'How long?'

'Ah!'

'Why, I don't rightly know. It worn't a long time ago, nor it worn't a
short time ago--just between the two, perhaps.'

'Has any chaise been by at all?'

'Oh, yes, there's been a chay by.'

'How long ago, my friend,' interposed Mr. Pickwick; 'an hour?'

'Ah, I dare say it might be,' replied the man.

'Or two hours?' inquired the post--boy on the wheeler.

'Well, I shouldn't wonder if it was,' returned the old man doubtfully.

'Drive on, boys,' cried the testy old gentleman; 'don't waste any more
time with that old idiot!'

'Idiot!' exclaimed the old man with a grin, as he stood in the middle of
the road with the gate half-closed, watching the chaise which rapidly
diminished in the increasing distance. 'No--not much o' that either;
you've lost ten minutes here, and gone away as wise as you came, arter
all. If every man on the line as has a guinea give him, earns it half as
well, you won't catch t'other chay this side Mich'lmas, old short-and-
fat.' And with another prolonged grin, the old man closed the gate, re-
entered his house, and bolted the door after him.

Meanwhile the chaise proceeded, without any slackening of pace, towards
the conclusion of the stage. The moon, as Wardle had foretold, was
rapidly on the wane; large tiers of dark, heavy clouds, which had been
gradually overspreading the sky for some time past, now formed one black
mass overhead; and large drops of rain which pattered every now and then
against the windows of the chaise, seemed to warn the travellers of the
rapid approach of a stormy night. The wind, too, which was directly
against them, swept in furious gusts down the narrow road, and howled
dismally through the trees which skirted the pathway. Mr. Pickwick drew
his coat closer about him, coiled himself more snugly up into the corner
of the chaise, and fell into a sound sleep, from which he was only
awakened by the stopping of the vehicle, the sound of the hostler's
bell, and a loud cry of 'Horses on directly!'

But here another delay occurred. The boys were sleeping with such
mysterious soundness, that it took five minutes a-piece to wake them.
The hostler had somehow or other mislaid the key of the stable, and even
when that was found, two sleepy helpers put the wrong harness on the
wrong horses, and the whole process of harnessing had to be gone through
afresh. Had Mr. Pickwick been alone, these multiplied obstacles would
have completely put an end to the pursuit at once, but old Wardle was
not to be so easily daunted; and he laid about him with such hearty
good-will, cuffing this man, and pushing that; strapping a buckle here,
and taking in a link there, that the chaise was ready in a much shorter
time than could reasonably have been expected, under so many
difficulties.

They resumed their journey; and certainly the prospect before them was
by no means encouraging. The stage was fifteen miles long, the night was
dark, the wind high, and the rain pouring in torrents. It was impossible
to make any great way against such obstacles united; it was hard upon
one o'clock already; and nearly two hours were consumed in getting to
the end of the stage. Here, however, an object presented itself, which
rekindled their hopes, and reanimated their drooping spirits.

'When did this chaise come in?' cried old Wardle, leaping out of his own
vehicle, and pointing to one covered with wet mud, which was standing in
the yard.

'Not a quarter of an hour ago, sir,' replied the hostler, to whom the
question was addressed.

'Lady and gentleman?' inquired Wardle, almost breathless with
impatience.

'Yes, sir.'

'Tall gentleman--dress-coat--long legs--thin body?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Elderly lady--thin face--rather skinny--eh?'

'Yes, sir.'

'By heavens, it's the couple, Pickwick,' exclaimed the old gentleman.

'Would have been here before,' said the hostler, 'but they broke a
trace.'

''Tis them!' said Wardle, 'it is, by Jove! Chaise-and-four instantly! We
shall catch them yet before they reach the next stage. A guinea a-piece,
boys-be alive there--bustle about--there's good fellows.'

And with such admonitions as these, the old gentleman ran up and down
the yard, and bustled to and fro, in a state of excitement which
communicated itself to Mr. Pickwick also; and under the influence of
which, that gentleman got himself into complicated entanglements with
harness, and mixed up with horses and wheels of chaises, in the most
surprising manner, firmly believing that by so doing he was materially
forwarding the preparations for their resuming their journey.

'Jump in--jump in!' cried old Wardle, climbing into the chaise, pulling
up the steps, and slamming the door after him. 'Come along! Make haste!'
And before Mr. Pickwick knew precisely what he was about, he felt
himself forced in at the other door, by one pull from the old gentleman
and one push from the hostler; and off they were again.

'Ah! we are moving now,' said the old gentleman exultingly. They were
indeed, as was sufficiently testified to Mr. Pickwick, by his constant
collision either with the hard wood-work of the chaise, or the body of
his companion.

'Hold up!' said the stout old Mr. Wardle, as Mr. Pickwick dived head
foremost into his capacious waistcoat.

'I never did feel such a jolting in my life,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Never mind,' replied his companion, 'it will soon be over. Steady,
steady.'

Mr. Pickwick planted himself into his own corner, as firmly as he could;
and on whirled the chaise faster than ever.

They had travelled in this way about three miles, when Mr. Wardle, who
had been looking out of the Window for two or three minutes, suddenly
drew in his face, covered with splashes, and exclaimed in breathless
eagerness--

'Here they are!'

Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of his window. Yes: there was a chaise-
and-four, a short distance before them, dashing along at full gallop.

'Go on, go on,' almost shrieked the old gentleman. 'Two guineas a-piece,
boys--don't let 'em gain on us--keep it up--keep it up.'

The horses in the first chaise started on at their utmost speed; and
those in Mr. Wardle's galloped furiously behind them.

'I see his head,' exclaimed the choleric old man; 'damme, I see his
head.'

'So do I' said Mr. Pickwick; 'that's he.'

Mr. Pickwick was not mistaken. The countenance of Mr. Jingle, completely
coated with mud thrown up by the wheels, was plainly discernible at the
window of his chaise; and the motion of his arm, which was waving
violently towards the postillions, denoted that he was encouraging them
to increased exertion.

The interest was intense. Fields, trees, and hedges, seemed to rush past
them with the velocity of a whirlwind, so rapid was the pace at which
they tore along. They were close by the side of the first chaise.
Jingle's voice could be plainly heard, even above the din of the wheels,
urging on the boys. Old Mr. Wardle foamed with rage and excitement. He
roared out scoundrels and villains by the dozen, clenched his fist and
shook it expressively at the object of his indignation; but Mr. Jingle
only answered with a contemptuous smile, and replied to his menaces by a
shout of triumph, as his horses, answering the increased application of
whip and spur, broke into a faster gallop, and left the pursuers behind.

Mr. Pickwick had just drawn in his head, and Mr. Wardle, exhausted with
shouting, had done the same, when a tremendous jolt threw them forward
against the front of the vehicle. There was a sudden bump--a loud crash-
-away rolled a wheel, and over went the chaise.

After a very few seconds of bewilderment and confusion, in which nothing
but the plunging of horses, and breaking of glass could be made out, Mr.
Pickwick felt himself violently pulled out from among the ruins of the
chaise; and as soon as he had gained his feet, extricated his head from
the skirts of his greatcoat, which materially impeded the usefulness of
his spectacles, the full disaster of the case met his view.

Old Mr. Wardle without a hat, and his clothes torn in several places,
stood by his side, and the fragments of the chaise lay scattered at
their feet. The post-boys, who had succeeded in cutting the traces, were
standing, disfigured with mud and disordered by hard riding, by the
horses' heads. About a hundred yards in advance was the other chaise,
which had pulled up on hearing the crash. The postillions, each with a
broad grin convulsing his countenance, were viewing the adverse party
from their saddles, and Mr. Jingle was contemplating the wreck from the
coach window, with evident satisfaction. The day was just breaking, and
the whole scene was rendered perfectly visible by the grey light of the
morning.


'Hollo!' shouted the shameless Jingle, 'anybody damaged?--elderly
gentlemen--no light weights--dangerous work--very.'

'You're a rascal,' roared Wardle.

'Ha! ha!' replied Jingle; and then he added, with a knowing wink, and a
jerk of the thumb towards the interior of the chaise--'I say--she's very
well--desires her compliments--begs you won't trouble yourself--love to
_Tuppy_--won't you get up behind?--drive on, boys.'

The postillions resumed their proper attitudes, and away rattled the
chaise, Mr. Jingle fluttering in derision a white handkerchief from the
coach window.

Nothing in the whole adventure, not even the upset, had disturbed the
calm and equable current of Mr. Pickwick's temper. The villainy,
however, which could first borrow money of his faithful follower, and
then abbreviate his name to 'Tuppy,' was more than he could patiently
bear. He drew his breath hard, and coloured up to the very tips of his
spectacles, as he said, slowly and emphatically--

'If ever I meet that man again, I'll--'

'Yes, yes,' interrupted Wardle, 'that's all very well; but while we
stand talking here, they'll get their licence, and be married in
London.'

Mr. Pickwick paused, bottled up his vengeance, and corked it down. 'How
far is it to the next stage?' inquired Mr. Wardle, of one of the boys.

'Six mile, ain't it, Tom?'

'Rayther better.'

'Rayther better nor six mile, Sir.'

'Can't be helped,' said Wardle, 'we must walk it, Pickwick.'

'No help for it,' replied that truly great man.

So sending forward one of the boys on horseback, to procure a fresh
chaise and horses, and leaving the other behind to take care of the
broken one, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Wardle set manfully forward on the
walk, first tying their shawls round their necks, and slouching down
their hats to escape as much as possible from the deluge of rain, which
after a slight cessation had again begun to pour heavily down.


There are in London several old inns, once the headquarters of
celebrated coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys in
a graver and more solemn manner than they do in these times; but which
have now degenerated into little more than the abiding and booking-
places of country wagons. The reader would look in vain for any of these
ancient hostelries, among the Golden Crosses and Bull and Mouths, which
rear their stately fronts in the improved streets of London. If he would
light upon any of these old places, he must direct his steps to the
obscurer quarters of the town, and there in some secluded nooks he will
find several, still standing with a kind of gloomy sturdiness, amidst
the modern innovations which surround them.

In the Borough especially, there still remain some half-dozen old inns,
which have preserved their external features unchanged, and which have
escaped alike the rage for public improvement and the encroachments of
private speculation. Great, rambling queer old places they are, with
galleries, and passages, and staircases, wide enough and antiquated
enough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we
should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any, and
that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerable
veracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and its adjacent
neighbourhood on the Surrey side.

It was in the yard of one of these inns--of no less celebrated a one
than the White Hart--that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt
off a pair of boots, early on the morning succeeding the events narrated
in the last chapter. He was habited in a coarse, striped waistcoat, with
black calico sleeves, and blue glass buttons; drab breeches and
leggings. A bright red handkerchief was wound in a very loose and
unstudied style round his neck, and an old white hat was carelessly
thrown on one side of his head. There were two rows of boots before him,
one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to the
clean row, he paused from his work, and contemplated its results with
evident satisfaction.

The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual
characteristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering wagons,
each with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height of
the second-floor window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneath a
lofty roof which extended over one end of the yard; and another, which
was probably to commence its journey that morning, was drawn out into
the open space. A double tier of bedroom galleries, with old clumsy
balustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area, and a double
row of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weather by a little
sloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and coffee-room. Two
or three gigs and chaise-carts were wheeled up under different little
sheds and pent-houses; and the occasional heavy tread of a cart-horse,
or rattling of a chain at the farther end of the yard, announced to
anybody who cared about the matter, that the stable lay in that
direction. When we add that a few boys in smock-frocks were lying asleep
on heavy packages, wool-packs, and other articles that were scattered
about on heaps of straw, we have described as fully as need be the
general appearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, High Street,
Borough, on the particular morning in question.

A loud ringing of one of the bells was followed by the appearance of a
smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping at
one of the doors, and receiving a request from within, called over the
balustrades--

'Sam!'

'Hollo,' replied the man with the white hat.

'Number twenty-two wants his boots.'

'Ask number twenty-two, vether he'll have 'em now, or vait till he gets
'em,' was the reply.

'Come, don't be a fool, Sam,' said the girl coaxingly, 'the gentleman
wants his boots directly.'

'Well, you _are_ a nice young 'ooman for a musical party, you are,' said
the boot-cleaner. 'Look at these here boots--eleven pair o' boots; and
one shoe as belongs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven boots
is to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who's number
twenty-two, that's to put all the others out? No, no; reg'lar rotation,
as Jack Ketch said, ven he tied the men up. Sorry to keep you a-waitin',
Sir, but I'll attend to you directly.'

Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with
increased assiduity.

There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White
Hart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.

'Sam,' cried the landlady, 'where's that lazy, idle--why, Sam--oh, there
you are; why don't you answer?'

'Vouldn't be gen-teel to answer, till you'd done talking,' replied Sam
gruffly.

'Here, clean these shoes for number seventeen directly, and take 'em to
private sitting-room, number five, first floor.'

The landlady flung a pair of lady's shoes into the yard, and bustled
away.

'Number five,' said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a piece
of chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on the
soles--'Lady's shoes and private sittin'-room! I suppose she didn't come
in the vagin.'

'She came in early this morning,' cried the girl, who was still leaning
over the railing of the gallery, 'with a gentleman in a hackney-coach,
and it's him as wants his boots, and you'd better do 'em, that's all
about it.'

'Vy didn't you say so before,' said Sam, with great indignation,
singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. 'For all I
know'd he was one o' the regular threepennies. Private room! and a lady
too! If he's anything of a gen'l'm'n, he's vurth a shillin' a day, let
alone the arrands.'

Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed away with
such hearty good-will, that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, with a
polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr.
Warren (for they used Day & Martin at the White Hart), had arrived at
the door of number five.

'Come in,' said a man's voice, in reply to Sam's rap at the door. Sam
made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentleman
seated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the gentleman's boots
right and left at his feet, and the lady's shoes right and left at hers,
he backed towards the door.

'Boots,' said the gentleman.

'Sir,' said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of
the lock.

'Do you know--what's a-name--Doctors' Commons?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Where is it?'

'Paul's Churchyard, Sir; low archway on the carriage side, bookseller's
at one corner, hotel on the other, and two porters in the middle as
touts for licences.'

'Touts for licences!' said the gentleman.

'Touts for licences,' replied Sam. 'Two coves in vhite aprons--touches
their hats ven you walk in--"Licence, Sir, licence?" Queer sort, them,
and their mas'rs, too, sir--Old Bailey Proctors--and no mistake.'

'What do they do?' inquired the gentleman.

'Do! You, Sir! That ain't the worst on it, neither. They puts things
into old gen'l'm'n's heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wos
a coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything--uncommon fat,
to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he
goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt--very smart--
top boots on--nosegay in his button-hole--broad-brimmed tile--green
shawl--quite the gen'l'm'n. Goes through the archvay, thinking how he
should inwest the money--up comes the touter, touches his hat--"Licence,
Sir, licence?"--"What's that?" says my father.--"Licence, Sir," says
he.--"What licence?" says my father.--"Marriage licence," says the
touter.--"Dash my veskit," says my father, "I never thought o' that."--
"I think you wants one, Sir," says the touter. My father pulls up, and
thinks a bit--"No," says he, "damme, I'm too old, b'sides, I'm a many
sizes too large," says he.--"Not a bit on it, Sir," says the touter.--
"Think not?" says my father.--"I'm sure not," says he; "we married a
gen'l'm'n twice your size, last Monday."--"Did you, though?" said my
father.--"To be sure, we did," says the touter, "you're a babby to him--
this way, sir--this way!"--and sure enough my father walks arter him,
like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back office, vere a
teller sat among dirty papers, and tin boxes, making believe he was
busy. "Pray take a seat, vile I makes out the affidavit, Sir," says the
lawyer.--"Thank'ee, Sir," says my father, and down he sat, and stared
with all his eyes, and his mouth vide open, at the names on the boxes.
"What's your name, Sir," says the lawyer.--"Tony Weller," says my
father.--"Parish?" says the lawyer. "Belle Savage," says my father; for
he stopped there wen he drove up, and he know'd nothing about parishes,
he didn't.--"And what's the lady's name?" says the lawyer. My father was
struck all of a heap. "Blessed if I know," says he.--"Not know!" says
the lawyer.--"No more nor you do," says my father; "can't I put that in
arterwards?"--"Impossible!" says the lawyer.--"Wery well," says my
father, after he'd thought a moment, "put down Mrs. Clarke."--"What
Clarke?" says the lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink.--"Susan Clarke,
Markis o' Granby, Dorking," says my father; "she'll have me, if I ask. I
des-say--I never said nothing to her, but she'll have me, I know." The
licence was made out, and she _did_ have him, and what's more she's got
him now; and I never had any of the four hundred pound, worse luck. Beg
your pardon, sir,' said Sam, when he had concluded, 'but wen I gets on
this here grievance, I runs on like a new barrow with the wheel
greased.' Having said which, and having paused for an instant to see
whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the room.

'Half-past nine--just the time--off at once;' said the gentleman, whom
we need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle.

'Time--for what?' said the spinster aunt coquettishly.

'Licence, dearest of angels--give notice at the church--call you mine,
to-morrow'--said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt's hand.

'The licence!' said Rachael, blushing.

'The licence,' repeated Mr. Jingle--


'In hurry, post-haste for a licence, In hurry, ding dong I come back.'

'How you run on,' said Rachael.

'Run on--nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years, when we're
united--run on--they'll fly on--bolt--mizzle--steam-engine--thousand-
horse power--nothing to it.'

'Can't--can't we be married before to-morrow morning?' inquired Rachael.

'Impossible--can't be--notice at the church--leave the licence to-day--
ceremony come off to-morrow.'

I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us!' said Rachael.

'Discover--nonsense--too much shaken by the break-down--besides--extreme
caution--gave up the post-chaise--walked on--took a hackney-coach--came
to the Borough--last place in the world that he'd look in--ha! ha!--
capital notion that--very.'

'Don't be long,' said the spinster affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuck
the pinched-up hat on his head.

'Long away from you?--Cruel charmer,' and Mr. Jingle skipped playfully
up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, and
danced out of the room.

'Dear man!' said the spinster, as the door closed after him.

'Rum old girl,' said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage.

It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we will
not, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle's meditations, as he
wended his way to Doctors' Commons. It will be sufficient for our
purpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons in white
aprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached the
vicar-general's office in safety and having procured a highly flattering
address on parchment, from the Archbishop of Canterbury, to his 'trusty
and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle, greeting,' he
carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket, and retraced his
steps in triumph to the Borough.

He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentleman and
one thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of some
authorised person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel
Weller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of
painted tops, the personal property of a farmer who was refreshing
himself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a
pot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and to
him the thin gentleman straightway advanced.


'My friend,' said the thin gentleman.

'You're one o' the adwice gratis order,' thought Sam, 'or you wouldn't
be so wery fond o' me all at once.' But he only said--'Well, Sir.'

'My friend,' said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem--'have you
got many people stopping here now? Pretty busy. Eh?'

Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man, with a
dark squeezed-up face, and small, restless, black eyes, that kept
winking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as if
they were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature. He was
dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white
neckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch-chain, and
seals, depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves _in_ his
hands, and not ON them; and as he spoke, thrust his wrists beneath his
coat tails, with the air of a man who was in the habit of propounding
some regular posers.

'Pretty busy, eh?' said the little man.

'Oh, wery well, Sir,' replied Sam, 'we shan't be bankrupts, and we
shan't make our fort'ns. We eats our biled mutton without capers, and
don't care for horse-radish ven ve can get beef.'

'Ah,' said the little man, 'you're a wag, ain't you?'

'My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint,' said Sam; 'it may
be catching--I used to sleep with him.'

'This is a curious old house of yours,' said the little man, looking
round him.

'If you'd sent word you was a-coming, we'd ha' had it repaired;' replied
the imperturbable Sam.

The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses, and a
short consultation took place between him and the two plump gentlemen.
At its conclusion, the little man took a pinch of snuff from an oblong
silver box, and was apparently on the point of renewing the
conversation, when one of the plump gentlemen, who in addition to a
benevolent countenance, possessed a pair of spectacles, and a pair of
black gaiters, interfered--

'The fact of the matter is,' said the benevolent gentleman, 'that my
friend here (pointing to the other plump gentleman) will give you half a
guinea, if you'll answer one or two--'

'Now, my dear sir--my dear Sir,' said the little man, 'pray, allow me--
my dear Sir, the very first principle to be observed in these cases, is
this: if you place the matter in the hands of a professional man, you
must in no way interfere in the progress of the business; you must
repose implicit confidence in him. Really, Mr.--' He turned to the other
plump gentleman, and said, 'I forget your friend's name.'

'Pickwick,' said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that jolly
personage.

'Ah, Pickwick--really Mr. Pickwick, my dear Sir, excuse me--I shall be
happy to receive any private suggestions of yours, as AMICUS CURIAE, but
you must see the impropriety of your interfering with my conduct in this
case, with such an AD CAPTANDUM argument as the offer of half a guinea.
Really, my dear Sir, really;' and the little man took an argumentative
pinch of snuff, and looked very profound.

'My only wish, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'was to bring this very
unpleasant matter to as speedy a close as possible.'

'Quite right--quite right,' said the little man.

'With which view,' continued Mr. Pickwick, 'I made use of the argument
which my experience of men has taught me is the most likely to succeed
in any case.'

'Ay, ay,' said the little man, 'very good, very good, indeed; but you
should have suggested it to me. My dear sir, I'm quite certain you
cannot be ignorant of the extent of confidence which must be placed in
professional men. If any authority can be necessary on such a point, my
dear sir, let me refer you to the well-known case in Barnwell and--'

'Never mind George Barnwell,' interrupted Sam, who had remained a
wondering listener during this short colloquy; 'everybody knows what
sort of a case his was, tho' it's always been my opinion, mind you, that
the young 'ooman deserved scragging a precious sight more than he did.
Hows'ever, that's neither here nor there. You want me to accept of half
a guinea. Wery well, I'm agreeable: I can't say no fairer than that, can
I, sir?' (Mr. Pickwick smiled.) Then the next question is, what the
devil do you want with me, as the man said, wen he see the ghost?'

'We want to know--' said Mr. Wardle.

'Now, my dear sir--my dear sir,' interposed the busy little man.

Mr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders, and was silent.

'We want to know,' said the little man solemnly; 'and we ask the
question of you, in order that we may not awaken apprehensions inside--
we want to know who you've got in this house at present?'

'Who there is in the house!' said Sam, in whose mind the inmates were
always represented by that particular article of their costume, which
came under his immediate superintendence. 'There's a vooden leg in
number six; there's a pair of Hessians in thirteen; there's two pair of
halves in the commercial; there's these here painted tops in the
snuggery inside the bar; and five more tops in the coffee-room.'

'Nothing more?' said the little man.

'Stop a bit,' replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. 'Yes; there's
a pair of Vellingtons a good deal worn, and a pair o' lady's shoes, in
number five.'

'What sort of shoes?' hastily inquired Wardle, who, together with Mr.
Pickwick, had been lost in bewilderment at the singular catalogue of
visitors.

'Country make,' replied Sam.

'Any maker's name?'

'Brown.'

'Where of?'

'Muggleton.

'It is them,' exclaimed Wardle. 'By heavens, we've found them.'

'Hush!' said Sam. 'The Vellingtons has gone to Doctors' Commons.'

'No,' said the little man.

'Yes, for a licence.'

'We're in time,' exclaimed Wardle. 'Show us the room; not a moment is to
be lost.'

'Pray, my dear sir--pray,' said the little man; 'caution, caution.' He
drew from his pocket a red silk purse, and looked very hard at Sam as he
drew out a sovereign.

Sam grinned expressively.

'Show us into the room at once, without announcing us,' said the little
man, 'and it's yours.'

Sam threw the painted tops into a corner, and led the way through a dark
passage, and up a wide staircase. He paused at the end of a second
passage, and held out his hand.

'Here it is,' whispered the attorney, as he deposited the money on the
hand of their guide.

The man stepped forward for a few paces, followed by the two friends and
their legal adviser. He stopped at a door.

'Is this the room?' murmured the little gentleman.

Sam nodded assent.

Old Wardle opened the door; and the whole three walked into the room
just as Mr. Jingle, who had that moment returned, had produced the
licence to the spinster aunt.

The spinster uttered a loud shriek, and throwing herself into a chair,
covered her face with her hands. Mr. Jingle crumpled up the licence, and
thrust it into his coat pocket. The unwelcome visitors advanced into the
middle of the room.

'You--you are a nice rascal, arn't you?' exclaimed Wardle, breathless
with passion.

'My dear Sir, my dear sir,' said the little man, laying his hat on the
table, 'pray, consider--pray. Defamation of character: action for
damages. Calm yourself, my dear sir, pray--'

'How dare you drag my sister from my house?' said the old man.

Ay--ay--very good,' said the little gentleman, 'you may ask that. How
dare you, sir?--eh, sir?'

'Who the devil are you?' inquired Mr. Jingle, in so fierce a tone, that
the little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two.

'Who is he, you scoundrel,' interposed Wardle. 'He's my lawyer, Mr.
Perker, of Gray's Inn. Perker, I'll have this fellow prosecuted--
indicted--I'll--I'll--I'll ruin him. And you,' continued Mr. Wardle,
turning abruptly round to his sister--'you, Rachael, at a time of life
when you ought to know better, what do you mean by running away with a
vagabond, disgracing your family, and making yourself miserable? Get on
your bonnet and come back. Call a hackney-coach there, directly, and
bring this lady's bill, d'ye hear--d'ye hear?'

Cert'nly, Sir,' replied Sam, who had answered Wardle's violent ringing
of the bell with a degree of celerity which must have appeared
marvellous to anybody who didn't know that his eye had been applied to
the outside of the keyhole during the whole interview.

'Get on your bonnet,' repeated Wardle.

'Do nothing of the kind,' said Jingle. 'Leave the room, Sir--no business
here--lady's free to act as she pleases--more than one-and-twenty.'

'More than one-and-twenty!' ejaculated Wardle contemptuously. 'More than
one-and-forty!'

'I ain't,' said the spinster aunt, her indignation getting the better of
her determination to faint.

'You are,' replied Wardle; 'you're fifty if you're an hour.'

Here the spinster aunt uttered a loud shriek, and became senseless.

'A glass of water,' said the humane Mr. Pickwick, summoning the
landlady.

'A glass of water!' said the passionate Wardle. 'Bring a bucket, and
throw it all over her; it'll do her good, and she richly deserves it.'

'Ugh, you brute!' ejaculated the kind-hearted landlady. 'Poor dear.' And
with sundry ejaculations of 'Come now, there's a dear--drink a little of
this--it'll do you good--don't give way so--there's a love,' etc. etc.,
the landlady, assisted by a chambermaid, proceeded to vinegar the
forehead, beat the hands, titillate the nose, and unlace the stays of
the spinster aunt, and to administer such other restoratives as are
usually applied by compassionate females to ladies who are endeavouring
to ferment themselves into hysterics.

'Coach is ready, Sir,' said Sam, appearing at the door.

'Come along,' cried Wardle. 'I'll carry her downstairs.'

At this proposition, the hysterics came on with redoubled violence.

The landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against this
proceeding, and had already given vent to an indignant inquiry whether
Mr. Wardle considered himself a lord of the creation, when Mr. Jingle
interposed--

'Boots,' said he, 'get me an officer.'

'Stay, stay,' said little Mr. Perker. 'Consider, Sir, consider.'

'I'll not consider,' replied Jingle. 'She's her own mistress--see who
dares to take her away--unless she wishes it.'

'I _won't_ be taken away,' murmured the spinster aunt. 'I _don't_ wish
it.' (Here there was a frightful relapse.)

'My dear Sir,' said the little man, in a low tone, taking Mr. Wardle and
Mr. Pickwick apart--'my dear Sir, we're in a very awkward situation.
It's a distressing case--very; I never knew one more so; but really, my
dear sir, really we have no power to control this lady's actions. I
warned you before we came, my dear sir, that there was nothing to look
to but a compromise.'

There was a short pause.

'What kind of compromise would you recommend?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Why, my dear Sir, our friend's in an unpleasant position--very much so.
We must be content to suffer some pecuniary loss.'

'I'll suffer any, rather than submit to this disgrace, and let her, fool
as she is, be made miserable for life,' said Wardle.

'I rather think it can be done,' said the bustling little man. 'Mr.
Jingle, will you step with us into the next room for a moment?'

Mr. Jingle assented, and the quartette walked into an empty apartment.

'Now, sir,' said the little man, as he carefully closed the door, 'is
there no way of accommodating this matter--step this way, sir, for a
moment--into this window, Sir, where we can be alone--there, sir, there,
pray sit down, sir. Now, my dear Sir, between you and I, we know very
well, my dear Sir, that you have run off with this lady for the sake of
her money. Don't frown, Sir, don't frown; I say, between you and I, _we_
know it. We are both men of the world, and WE know very well that our
friends here, are not--eh?'

Mr. Jingle's face gradually relaxed; and something distantly resembling
a wink quivered for an instant in his left eye.

'Very good, very good,' said the little man, observing the impression he
had made. 'Now, the fact is, that beyond a few hundreds, the lady has
little or nothing till the death of her mother--fine old lady, my dear
Sir.'

'_Old_,' said Mr. Jingle briefly but emphatically.

'Why, yes,' said the attorney, with a slight cough. 'You are right, my
dear Sir, she is rather old. She comes of an old family though, my dear
Sir; old in every sense of the word. The founder of that family came
into Kent when Julius Caesar invaded Britain;--only one member of it,
since, who hasn't lived to eighty-five, and he was beheaded by one of
the Henrys. The old lady is not seventy-three now, my dear Sir.' The
little man paused, and took a pinch of snuff.

'Well,' cried Mr. Jingle.

'Well, my dear sir--you don't take snuff!--ah! so much the better--
expensive habit--well, my dear Sir, you're a fine young man, man of the
world--able to push your fortune, if you had capital, eh?'

'Well,' said Mr. Jingle again.

'Do you comprehend me?'

'Not quite.'

'Don't you think--now, my dear Sir, I put it to you don't you think--
that fifty pounds and liberty would be better than Miss Wardle and
expectation?'

'Won't do--not half enough!' said Mr. Jingle, rising.

'Nay, nay, my dear Sir,' remonstrated the little attorney, seizing him
by the button. 'Good round sum--a man like you could treble it in no
time--great deal to be done with fifty pounds, my dear Sir.'

'More to be done with a hundred and fifty,' replied Mr. Jingle coolly.

'Well, my dear Sir, we won't waste time in splitting straws,' resumed
the little man, 'say--say--seventy.'

Won't do,' said Mr. Jingle.

'Don't go away, my dear sir--pray don't hurry,' said the little man.
'Eighty; come: I'll write you a cheque at once.'

'Won't do,' said Mr. Jingle.

'Well, my dear Sir, well,' said the little man, still detaining him;
'just tell me what _will_ do.'

'Expensive affair,' said Mr. Jingle. 'Money out of pocket--posting, nine
pounds; licence, three--that's twelve--compensation, a hundred--hundred
and twelve--breach of honour--and loss of the lady--'

'Yes, my dear Sir, yes,' said the little man, with a knowing look,
'never mind the last two items. That's a hundred and twelve--say a
hundred--come.'

'And twenty,' said Mr. Jingle.

'Come, come, I'll write you a cheque,' said the little man; and down he
sat at the table for that purpose.

'I'll make it payable the day after to-morrow,' said the little man,
with a look towards Mr. Wardle; 'and we can get the lady away,
meanwhile.' Mr. Wardle sullenly nodded assent.

'A hundred,' said the little man.

'And twenty,' said Mr. Jingle.

'My dear Sir,' remonstrated the little man.

'Give it him,' interposed Mr. Wardle, 'and let him go.'

The cheque was written by the little gentleman, and pocketed by Mr.
Jingle.

'Now, leave this house instantly!' said Wardle, starting up.

'My dear Sir,' urged the little man.

'And mind,' said Mr. Wardle, 'that nothing should have induced me to
make this compromise--not even a regard for my family--if I had not
known that the moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you'd
go to the devil faster, if possible, than you would without it--'

'My dear sir,' urged the little man again.

'Be quiet, Perker,' resumed Wardle. 'Leave the room, Sir.'

'Off directly,' said the unabashed Jingle. 'Bye bye, Pickwick.'

If any dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance of the
illustrious man, whose name forms the leading feature of the title of
this work, during the latter part of this conversation, he would have
been almost induced to wonder that the indignant fire which flashed from
his eyes did not melt the glasses of his spectacles--so majestic was his
wrath. His nostrils dilated, and his fists clenched involuntarily, as he
heard himself addressed by the villain. But he restrained himself again-
-he did not pulverise him.

'Here,' continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at Mr.
Pickwick's feet; 'get the name altered--take home the lady--do for
Tuppy.'

Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in armour,
after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his
philosophical harness, to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, he
hurled the inkstand madly forward, and followed it up himself. But Mr.
Jingle had disappeared, and he found himself caught in the arms of Sam.

'Hollo,' said that eccentric functionary, 'furniter's cheap where you
come from, Sir. Self-acting ink, that 'ere; it's wrote your mark upon
the wall, old gen'l'm'n. Hold still, Sir; wot's the use o' runnin' arter
a man as has made his lucky, and got to t'other end of the Borough by
this time?'

Mr. Pickwick's mind, like those of all truly great men, was open to
conviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner; and a moment's
reflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. It
subsided as quickly as it had been roused. He panted for breath, and
looked benignantly round upon his friends.

Shall we tell the lamentations that ensued when Miss Wardle found
herself deserted by the faithless Jingle? Shall we extract Mr.
Pickwick's masterly description of that heartrending scene? His note-
book, blotted with the tears of sympathising humanity, lies open before
us; one word, and it is in the printer's hands. But, no! we will be
resolute! We will not wring the public bosom, with the delineation of
such suffering!

Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady return next
day in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the sombre
shadows of a summer's night fallen upon all around, when they again
reached Dingley Dell, and stood within the entrance to Manor Farm.

 Left at Wardle's, Tupman takes Rachael to a bower and declares his love for her. He is seen kissing her by Joe the Fat Boy. Late that night Wardle and the rest come home from the cricket match hopelessly intoxicated, bringing Jingle with them. Jingle, with his appearance of sobriety, makes a favorable impression on the spinster Rachael. The next day Joe reports Tupman's romance to old Mrs. Wardle, who becomes indignant, and Jingle overhears. Assuming that Rachael has money, Jingle tells her that Tupman is a greedy deceiver. He also tells Tupman that he should ignore Rachael, since he has been discovered, and he borrows ten pounds from Tupman. Thus, Jingle easily replaces Tupman as Rachael's suitor. A few days later Jingle elopes with Rachael Wardle, and Mr. Wardle is furious. Mr. Pickwick resolves to go along with Wardle to save his sister from an unhappy marriage. After obtaining a chaise, being misled by a bribed gatekeeper, and delayed at an inn in changing horses, they learn that Jingle is directly ahead, so they charge on through the night. They are about to catch Jingle when a wheel falls off their chaise, which puts a temporary halt to the pursuit. Jingle utters some impertinent remarks from his carriage and drives on gaily, while Wardle and Pickwick are forced to walk. Sam Weller is blacking hoots in the courtyard of the White Hart Inn in London, and Alfred Jingle asks him the way to the Doctors' Commons for a marriage license. Sam then tells him of his father, who was taken in by a marriage license tout and married to a widow that he had no intention of wedding. Jingle purchases the license; Wardle meanwhile arrives at the inn with his lawyer, Mr. Perker, and with Mr. Pickwick. They learn from Sam Weller where Jingle is staying and confront him in the room with Rachael, who tries to throw a fit. Mr. Perker suggests that Wardle compromise with Jingle, since Rachael is over legal age. So, for some 120 pounds, Wardle buys Jingle off. Jingle, on leaving, enrages Mr. Pickwick with an impudent gibe about "Tuppy," and Pickwick hurls an inkstand at him. Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Wardle then return to Manor Farm with the humiliated Rachael.

