 CHAPTER 31 Which is all about the law, and sundry great authorities learn it therein. 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 indoor, as the case may be, who devotes the major part of his thirty shillings a week to his personal pleasure and adornments. There is half price to the Adelphi Theater 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 search-outs who feel a befitting contempt for boys at day schools, club as they go home at night, for Savaloys and Porter and think there is 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 lead subjects, and the comfort and emolument of the practitioners of the law. They are for the most part low-roofed, moldy rooms where innumerable rolls of parchment, which have been perspiring in secret for the last century, send forth an agreeable odor 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, they are 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 blusher 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 and Fogg, Freeman's Court, Cornhill. Instead of returning to the office once he came, however, he bent his steps direct to Sun Court and walking straight into the Georgian vulture demanded to know whether one Mr. Pickwick was within. Call Mr. Pickwick's servant, town, said the barmaid of the Georgian 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 d'you do, sir? said Mr. Jackson, nodding to Mr. Pickwick. That gentleman bowed and looked somewhat surprised for the physiognomy of Mr. Jackson to outnod 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 Grey's Inn, said he, waiter, show this gentleman out. Thank you 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 names 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 have 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 shelling from his waistcoat pocket. It'll come on in the sentence after term, fourteenth of February, 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 shelling into his hand. Mr. Tubman 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 Tubman, am I? Mr. Tubman looked at Mr. Pickwick, but perceiving no encouragement in that gentleman's widely opened eyes to deny his name, said, Yes, my name is Tubman, 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 shelling 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. Said 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 discriminate 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. But no one 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, perkers 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 and Fogg had not Sam's entrance at the instant interrupted him. Samuel Weller, said Mr. Jackson inquiringly, one of 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, rich, said Sam. This, replied Jackson, shaking the parchment. Oh, that's the original, is it, said Sam? Well, I'm very glad I've seen the original, because it's a gratifying sort of thing and eases one's mind so much. And here's the shilling, said Jackson. It's from Dodson and Fogg's. And it's uncommon handsome a Dodson and Fogg, as knows so little of me, to come down to the present, said Sam. I feel it as a very high compliment, sir. It's a very honorable thing to them, as they know how to reward Merritt wherever they meet it, besides which it's effected into one's feelings. 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 pathetic. 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 faint 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 air, sir, replied Sam. Why remarkable, Sam, inquired Mr. Pickwick. Valentine's Day, sir, responded Sam. Regular good day for a breach-of-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, Very nice pork shop, that air, sir. Yes, it seems so, said Mr. Pickwick. Celebrated sausage factory, said Sam. Is it? said Mr. Pickwick. It re-iterated Sam with some indignation. I should rather 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 Burke, 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 of that air shop, sir, and the inventor of the patent-never-leven-off-sausage steam engine, as it swallows up a paven stone, if you put it too near, and grinded into sausages as easy as if it was a tender young babby. Very proud of that machine he was, as it was natural he should be, and he'd stand down in the cellar looking at it when it was in full play, till he got quite melancholy with joy. A very happy man he'd have been, sir, in the procession of that air engine and two more lovely infants besides, if it hadn't been for his wife, who was a most audacious wixen. She was always a father in him about, and dinning 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 purse a weir in this here sort of amusement, he says, I'm blessed if I don't go away to America. And that's all about it. You're a idle villain, says she, and I wish the Americans joy of their bargain. Out of which she keeps on abusing of him for half an hour, and then runs into the little parlor behind the shop, sets to a screaming, says he'll be the death in her, and falls in a fit which lasts for three good hours, one of them fits, which is all screaming and kicking. Well, next morning the husband was missing. He hadn't taken nothing from the till, hadn't even put on his great coat, so it was quite clear he weren't gone to America. Didn't come back next day, didn't come back next week. Mrs. Headbills printed, saying that if he'd come back he should be forgiven everything, which was very liberal, seeing that he hadn't done nothing at all. The canals was dragged, and for two months, out of words, whenever a body turned up it was carried as a regular thing straight off to the sausage shop. However, none of them answered, so they gave out that he'd run away, and she kept on the business. One Saturday night, a little thin old gentleman comes into the shop in a great passion and says, are you the missus of this here shop? Yes, I am, says she. Well, ma'am, says he, then I just looked in to say that me and my family ain't going to be choked for nothing. And more than that, ma'am, he says, you'll allow me to observe that as you don't use the promised parts of the meat in the manufacturer of sausages, I 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 showing 20 or 30 halves of buttons. Nice seasoning for sausages is trousers buttons, ma'am. There my husband's buttons, says the waiter, beginning to faint. What? screams the little old gentleman, turning where he pale. I see it all, says the waiter, in a fit of temporary insanity he rashly converted himself into sausages. And so he had, sir, said Mr. Weller, looking steadily into Mr. Pickwick's horror-stricken countenance, or else he'd been drawn into the engine. But however that might have been, the little old gentleman, who had been remarkably partial to sausages all his life, rushed out of the shop in a wild state and was never heard on Artawards. The relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master and man to Mr. Pickwick's chambers. Loudon, holding the door half open, was in conversation with the 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 shrieked to the dark side of the staircases Mr. Pickwick approached. It's very unfortunate, said the stranger, with a sigh. Very, said Loudon, 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 Loudon, 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 center 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, hear me, how unfortunate. Don't go away, Mr. Pickwick, said Loudon, 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 too intimate that some exquisite piece of humor was going forward, though what it was Mr. Pickwick could not for the life of him divine. Step in, Mr. Pickwick, said Loudon. Well, will you leave a message, Mr. Wadi, or will you call again? Ask him to be so kind as to leave outward what has been done in my business, said the man. For God's sake, don't neglect it, Mr. Loudon. No, no, I won't forget it, replied the clerk. Walk in, Mr. Pickwick. Good morning, Mr. Wadi. 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 Loudon, throwing down his pen with the air of an injured man. These affairs haven't been in chancery quite four years yet, and I'm damned if you 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 aye. Well, we've done everything that's necessary. I have retained Sergeant Snubbin. Is he a good man, inquired Mr. Pickwick? Good man, replied Perker, bless your heart and soul, my dear sir. Sergeant Snubbin is at the very top of his profession, gets trouble 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 Sergeant 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? The two sent him up to the plaintiffs 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 the 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 Sergeant Snubbin live? In Lincoln's inn old square, replied Perker, I should like to see him, said Mr. Pickwick. See Sergeant Snubbin, my dear sir, rejoined Perker in utter amazement. Poo-poo, my dear sir, impossible. See Sergeant 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 Sergeant Snubbin himself. It was an uncarpeted room of tolerable dimensions, with a large writing-table drawn up near the fire, the base 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 color 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 in heavy gold watch chain presented imposing indications of the extensive and lucrative practice of Mr. Sergeant Snubbin. Is the sergeant in his room, Mr. Mallard, inquired Perker, offering his box with all imaginable courtesy? Yes, he is, was the reply, but he is very busy. Look here, not an opinion given yet on any one of these cases, and an expedition fee paid with all of them. 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 sergeant's writing, they are obliged to wait for the opinions when he has given them till I have copied them, ha-ha-ha. Which makes good for we know who besides the sergeant, and draws a little more out of the clients, eh, said Perker, ha-ha-ha. At this the sergeant'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 check. 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 lapel of his coat, you must persuade the sergeant to see me and my client here. Come, come, said the clerk, that's not bad either. See the sergeant? 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, once he shortly returned on tiptoe, and informed Mr. Perker and Mr. Pickwick that the sergeant had been prevailed upon in violation of all established rules and customs to admit them at once. Mr. Sergeant Snubbins was a lantern-faced, shallow-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 ribbon round his neck to warn a stranger that he was very nearsighted. 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 hair powder 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 bookcase 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. Sergeant Snubbin was far too much occupied with his professional pursuits to take any great heed or regard of his personal comforts. The sergeant 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 ink stand, nursed his left leg, and waited to be spoken to. Mr. Pickwick is the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick, Sergeant Snubbin, said Parker. I am retained in that, am I, said the sergeant. You are, sir, replied Parker. The sergeant nodded his head and waited for something else. Mr. Pickwick was anxious to call upon you, Sergeant Snubbin, said Parker, to state to you, before you entered upon the case, that he denies there being any ground or pretense 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. Sergeant 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. Parker 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 sergeant'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 sergeant's sentiments 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 an utter disregard of all Mr. Parker'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 sergeant 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 honor 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 overcautious. 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 sergeant had relapsed into a state of abstraction. After some minutes, however, during which he had re-assumed 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. Funke, sergeant Snubbin, replied the attorney. Funke, Funke, said the sergeant, 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 sergeant, in that sort of pitying tone in which ordinary folks would speak of a very helpless little child. Mr. Mallard, send round to Mr. Funke's Holborn Court, graze in, interposed perker. Holborn Court, by the by, is south square now. Mr. Funke, and say I should be glad if he'd step here a moment. Mr. Mallard departed to execute his commission, and sergeant Snubbin relapsed into abstraction until Mr. Funke 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 sergeant and profoundly courteous to the attorney. I have not had the pleasure of seeing you before, Mr. Funke, said sergeant Snubbin, with haughty condescension. Mr. Funke bowed. He had had the pleasure of seeing the sergeant 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 sergeant. If Mr. Funke 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 endeavored 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. Funke, inquired the sergeant? Here again Mr. Funke 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. Sergeant Snubbin's junior, he turned a deeper red and bowed again. This is Mr. Pickwick, said the sergeant, waving his pen in the direction in which that gentleman was standing. Mr. Funke 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 sergeant, 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. Sergeant 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. Funke 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 along 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 Sergeant 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 a due to Loudon, they returned to the city. End of Chapter 31. Chapter 32 of the Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Deborah Lynn. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. Chapter 32 describes far more fully than the court newsman ever did, a bachelor's party given by Mr. Bob Sawyer at his lodgings in the borough. There was 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 dullness 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 colonized a few clear starches, a sprinkling of journeyman 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 in 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 parlor door. The bonnet and shawl of the landlady's servant had been removed from the banisters. There were not more than two pairs of patents on the street doormat, 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 vault 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 bay's cloth had been borrowed from the parlor 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 sympathizing 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 tomorrow. 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 by, 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 caulked hopelessly and directed a searching look between the two top bars of the stove. It'll be a deucid, 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 made the tapper come in, whereupon a dirty, slipshied 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, Mr. Sawyer, Mrs. 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 landlords are 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 today, least ways 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 has called 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 this city today. 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 Kidermanster carpet. And what's that to me, sir? 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 an 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 neighbors, do you suppose that I am going day after day to let a fellow occupy my lodgings as never thinks of paying his rent nor even the very money laid out for the fresh butter and lumped 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 20 years, 10 years over the way, and nine years and three quarters in this very house has nothing else to do but to work herself to death after a parcel of lazy idle fellows that are always smoking and drinking and lounging when they ought to be glad to turn their hands to anything that would help them to pay their bills? Do you, my good soul, interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen soothingly. Have the goodness to keep your observations 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 aware, 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 perhaps, 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 parting, 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 parting, 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? I blessed 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 house 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 roughenly 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 parlor, 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 straighter for you when you get to the top of the stairs. Having given this instruction the handmaid, who had been brought up among the aboriginal inhabitants of Southwick, 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 a 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-enlightening 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, tomorrow. A magnificent sight of 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. Poo, that's nothing that ain't, said Jack Hopkins. Is it, Bob? Nothing at all, replied Mr. Bob Sawyer. By the by, 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. Hey, Mr. Pickwick. 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 at 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 hail storm. Don't do that, my boy, said the father. I ain't a doin' nothin', 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, dammit, it's in the child, said the father. He's got the group 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 there 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 scorbidic 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 personaging clean linen and cloth boots rendered the party complete. The little table with the green bay's cover was wheeled out. The first installment of punch was brought in, in a white jug, and the succeeding three hours were devoted to being et un at six pence a dozen, which was only once interrupted by a slight dispute between the scorbidic youth and the gentleman with the pink anchors. In the course of which, the scorbidic 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 scorbidic countenance or any other person who was ornamented with a head. When the last natural had been declared in the profit and loss account of fish and six pence as 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 endeavors to impart to her a fate 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 around 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. Rattle, 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 dropsicle-bloated articles, each supported on a huge, gaudy 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 and 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 diverse collateral circumstances, distantly connected with the anecdote in hand, but for the life of him he couldn't recollect with 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 and 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 glass as the girl had collected in the center 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. Mrs. Raddle said you want it 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. Mrs. Raddle raked out the kitchen fire afore she went to bed and locked up the kiddle. 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 gasly 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 tomorrow morning. Poor fellow, how devoutly he wished he could. Mr. Bob Sawyer's heart-sickening attempts to rally under this last low 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 score-butic 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 score-butic youth felt it necessary to come to a more explicit understanding on the matter, when the following clear understanding took place. Sawyer, said the score-butic youth in a loud voice. Well, Naughty, replied Mr. Bob Sawyer. I should be very sorry, Sawyer, said Mr. Naughty, 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 neighbors by throwing the person who has just spoken out a window. What do you mean by that, sir? inquired Mr. Naughty. What I say, sir? replied Mr. Gunter. I should like to see you do it, sir, said Mr. Naughty. You shall feel me do it in half a minute, sir, replied Mr. Gunter. I request that you'll favor me with your card, sir, said Mr. Naughty. I'll do nothing of the kind, sir, replied Mr. Gunter. Why not, sir? inquired Mr. Naughty. 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. Naughty. 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. Naughty 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. Naughty's father, and that his father's son was as good a man as Mr. Naughty, 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 clamoring ensued, in the course of which Mr. Naughty 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. Naughty to his own brother. On hearing which admission Mr. Naughty magnanimously rose from his seat and proffered his hand to Mr. Gunter. Mr. Gunter grasped it with effecting fervor, and everybody said that the whole dispute had been conducted in a manner which was highly honorable 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 there too 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, aided 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 bedclothes. Ashamed of themselves, said Mrs. Raddle, why don't you go down and knock them everyone downstairs? You would have you as a man. I should have I was a dozen men, my dear, replied Mr. Raddle pacifically, but they have the advantage of me in numbers, my dear. Oh, 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'm 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 born, said the prim man, looking round. Hardly to be born, 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'm 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're going directly. Going, said Mrs. Raddle, thrusting her nightcap over the banisters, just as Mr. Pickwick, followed by Mr. Tubman, 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, you old wretch, replied Mrs. Raddle hastily withdrawing the nightcap. Old enough to be his grandfather, you villain! You're worse than any of them. Mr. Pickwick found it in vain to protest his innocence, so hurried downstairs into the street, whether he was closely followed by Mr. Tubman, 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 entrust 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 head 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 tomorrow and the pleasures of the evening. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens Chapter 33 Mr. Weller the Elder delivers some critical sentiments respecting literary composition, and assisted by his son Samuel, pays a small installment of retaliation to the account of the Reverend Gentleman with the red nose. The morning of the thirteenth of February, which the readers of this authentic narrative know, as well as we do, to have been the day immediately preceding that which was appointed for the trial of Mrs. Bardell's actions, was a busy time for Mr. Samuel Weller, who was perpetually engaged in traveling 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 labor 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 humor and unruffable composure which formed one of his most striking and amiable characteristics. Sam had solaced himself for the 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 fushion overalls, whose garb bespoke a laudable ambition to attain in time the elevation of an hostler, entered the passage of the Georgian 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 bar made, conceiving it not improbable that the said commission might be directed to the tea or tablespoons 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 trouble quality. What's the tether 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 worry fine edge too much if I was you, in case anybody took it off. What do you mean by coming to a hotel and asking utter Sam with as much politeness as a vile Indian? Cousin old gentleman told me to, replied the boy. What old gentleman? inquired Sam with deep disdain. Him as drives the Ipswich coat, and uses our parlor rejoins the boy, he told me yesterday morning to come to the Georgian vulture this hour to noon 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 what my other name is. Well, young broccoli sprout, what then? Why then, said the boy, he was to come to him at six o'clock to our house, because he wants to see you, blue boar, led an all market. Shall I say you're coming? You may winter on that air statement, sir, replied Sam, and thus empowered the young gentleman walked away, awakening all the echoes in George's 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 cadds and drivers of short stages who assembled 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 winding his way towards Ledinall 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 printseller's window. But without further explanation it does appear surprising that his eyes should have no soon arrested on certain pictures which were exposed for sale therein, then 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 have 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 colored 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 police with a parasol of the same, were approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a serpentine gravel path leading therein too. 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 hall 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 six pence each. I should have forgot it. I should certainly have 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 guilt-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 Leadinall 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-bore 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-bore. Very good, my dear, replied Sam. Let me have nine penneth of brandy and water, Luke, and the ink-stand, will you miss? The brandy and water, Luke, and the ink-stand, having been carried into the little parlor, 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 privacy and concurrence of the blue-bore 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 blot when he was roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of his parent. Vell, Sammy, said the father. Vell, my Prussian 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 per worse and unpleasant this morning. Signed upon old Tony Veller Esquire, that's the last one as was issued, Sammy, replied Mr. Weller, untieing his shawl. No better yet, inquired Sam. All the symptoms agorawaited, replied Mr. Weller, shaking his head. But what's that you're a-doing of? Pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, Sammy? I've done now, said Sam, with slight embarrassment. I've been a-writing. So I see, replied Mr. Weller. Not to any young woman, I hope, Sammy. Why, it's no use of saying it ain't, replied Sam. It's a valentine. A what? exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken by the word. A valentine, replied Sam. Sammoval, Sammoval, said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents. I didn't think you'd had done it. Art of the warning you've had, your father's wishes propensities. Art of all I've said to you upon this, your weary subject. Art of actively seeing and being in the company of your own mother-in-law, which I should have thought was some oral lesson as no man could never have forgotten to his dying day. I didn't think you'd had done it, Sammy. I didn't think you'd had 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. What's the matter now, said Sam. Never mind, Sammy, replied Mr. Weller. It'll be a weary agonizing trial to me at my time of life, but I'm pretty tough. That's fun consolation, as the weary old turkey remarked when the farmer said he was afraid he should be obliged to kill him for the London market. What'll be a trial, inquired Sam? To see you married, Sammy. To see you a deluded victim and thinking in your innocence that it's all weary capital, replied Mr. Weller. It's a dreadful trial to a father's feelings, that air, Sammy. Nonsense, said Sam. I ain't going 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 mantlepiece at the same time, turned towards Sam and with a countenance greatly modified 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 of the unwariable, my dear. Very well, sir, replied the girl, who with great quickness appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared. They seemed to know your ways here, observed Sam. Yes, replied his father, I've been here before in my time. Go on, Sammy. Lovely creedor, repeated Sam. Tainted poetry, is it? And opposed his father. No, no, replied Sam. Very glad to hear it, said Mr. Weller. Poetry's unnatural. No man ever talked poetry except a beetle on Boxing Day, or Warren's Blacken, or Rowland's Oil, or some of them low fellows. Never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin again, Sammy. Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more commenced and read as follows. Lovely creedor, I feel myself a-dammed. That ain't proper, said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth. No one ain't damned, observed Sam, holding the letter up to the light. It's shamed. There's a blot there. I feel myself ashamed. Very good, said Mr. Weller. Go on. Feel myself ashamed and completely ser— 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 why am I looking at it? replied Sam. But there's another blot. Here's a C and an I and a D. Circumvented, perhaps, suggested Mr. Weller. No one ain't that, said Sam, circumscribed. That's it. That ain't as good a word as circumvented, Sammy, said Mr. Weller gravely. Think not, said Sam. Nothing like it, replied his father. But don't you think it means more, inquired Sam? Thou, perhaps, it's a more tenderer word, said Mr. Weller, after a few moments' reflection. Go on, Sammy. Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in addressing of you, for you are a nice gal and nothing but it. That's a very pretty sentiment, said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark. Yes, I think it is rather good, observed Sam, highly flattered. What I like in that heirs' style of writing, said the elder Mr. Weller, is that there ain't no call and names in it, no weenuses, nor nothing of that kind. What's the good of calling a young woman a weenus or an angel, Sammy? Ah, what indeed, replied Sam. You might just as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's arms at once, which is very well known to be a collection of 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. Before I see you, I thought all women was a light. So they are, observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically. But now, continued Sam, now I find what a regular, soft-headed, incredulous turnip I must hub in, for there ain't nobody like you, though I like you better than nothing at all. I thought it best to make that razor strong, said Sam, looking up. Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. So I take the privilege of the day, Mary, my dear, as the gentlemen in difficulties did, when he walked out of a Sunday, to tell you that the first and only time I see you, your lightness was took on my heart in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a lightness was took by the profile machine, which perhaps you may have heard on, Mary, my dear. Although 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 afeard that word is on the poetical, Sammy, said Mr. Weller dubiously. No, it don't, replied Sam, reading on very quickly to avoid contesting the point. Accept of me, Mary, my dear, as your Valentine, 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 in it, said Sam. She'll wish there was more, and that's the great art, a letter writing. Well, said Mr. Weller, there's something in that, and I wish your mother-in-law had only conduct her conversation on the same gentile principle. Ain't you going to sign it? That's the difficulty, said Sam. I don't know what to sign it. Sign it, Weller, said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name. Won't do, said Sam. Never sign a well on time with your own name. Sign it, Pickwick, then, said Mr. Weller. It's a very good name, and an easy one to spell. The wary thing, said Sam. I could end with a worse. What do you think? I don't like it, Sam, rejoined Mr. Weller. I never know the respectable coachman, as wrote poetry. Sept. 1 has made an effective copy of worse as the night before he was hung for a highway robbery, and he was only a Camberville man, so even that's no rule. But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the political idea that had occurred to him. So he signed the letter, your love's sick, Pickwick. And, having folded it in a very intricate manner, squeezed a downhill direction in one corner to Mary, housemaid, and Mr. Knupkins' 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 is going to be tried tomorrow, ain't he? The trials are coming on, replied Sam. Well, said Mr. Weller, now I suppose he'll want to call some witnesses to speak to his character, or perhaps to prove a alibi. I've been a-turning the business over in my mind, and he may make himself easy, Sammy. I've got some friends, as'll do either for him, but my advice would be this here. Never mind the character, and stick to the alibi. Nothing like an alibi, Sammy. Nothing. Mr. Weller looked very profound as he delivered this legal opinion, and bearing 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-going to be tried at the old Bailey, do you? That ain't no part of the present consideration, Sammy, replied Mr. Weller. Wherever he's a-going to be tried, my boy, alibi is the thing to get him off. He got town-villed spark off that airman slaughter with the alibi, then all the big-vigs to a man said as nothing couldn't save him. In my opinion, is, Sammy, that if your governor don't prove a alibi, he'll be what the Italians call regularly 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 victimized. 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 of domestic policy, Sammy, said Mr. Weller. This here stiggens. Red-nosed man, inquired Sam. The wary same, replied Mr. Weller. This here red-nosed man, Sammy, was at your mother-in-law, for the kindness and constancy I never see equaled. He's such a friend of the family, Sammy, that when he's a vape from us, he can't be comfortable unless he has something to remember us by. And I give him something as a turpentine in beeswax's memory for the next ten years or so, if I was you, interposed Sam. Stop a minute, said Mr. Weller. I was going to say he always brings now a flat bottle as holds about a pint and a half and fills it with the pineapple rum before he goes of A. And empties it before he comes back, I suppose, said Sam. Clean, replied Mr. Weller. Never leaves nothing in it but the cork and the smell. Trust him for that, Sammy. Now these here fellows, my boy, are going tonight to get up the monthly meeting of the Brick Lane Branch of the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association. Your mother-in-law was a going, Sammy, but she's got the rheumatics and can't. And I, Sammy, I've got the two tickets, as was 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 tick doleroo in his right eyelid. Well, said that young gentleman. Well, continued his progenitor, looking round him very cautiously. You and I'll go, punctual to the time. The deputy shepherd won't, Sammy. The deputy shepherd won't. Here, Mr. Weller was seized with the paroxysm of chuckles, which gradually terminated and as near an approach to a choke as an elderly gentleman can with safety sustain. Well, I never see such 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 laughing at, corpulence? Hush, Sammy, said Mr. Weller, looking round him with increased caution and speaking in a whisper. Two friends of mine, as works the Oxford Road, and it's up to all kinds of games, has got the deputy shepherd safe in tow, Sammy, and that he does come to the Ebenezer Junction, which 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 was at the Marcus of Grandby-Dorken, and that's not saying a little, neither. And with this, Mr. Weller once more laughed immoderately and once more relapsed into a state of partial suffocation and 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 at 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 eerily situated at the top of a safe and commodious ladder. The president was the straight walking Mr. Anthony Holm, 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-based 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 Sr., 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 of these here people don't want to happen tomorrow morning, I ain't your father, and that's what it is. Why, this here old lady next to me is a drowned-in-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 words, my boy, if that air secretary fellow keeps on for only five minutes more, he'll blow his self up with toast and water. Well, let him if he likes, replied Sam, it ain't no business a yarn. If this here lasts much longer, Sammy, said Mr. Weller in the same low voice, I shall feel at my duty as a human being to rise and address the cheer. There's a young woman on the next form, but two is his drunk nine breakfast cups and a half, and she's a swollen wisdomly before my wary 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 base cover was carried out into the center 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 encased in the drab shorts, and said, Ladies and gentlemen, I move our excellent brother, Mr. Anthony Hum, into the chair. The ladies waved a choice selection of pocket handkerchiefs at this proposition, and the impetuous little man literally moved Mr. Hum 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. Hum, 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. Hum rose and said that with the permission of his Brick Lane Branch brothers and sisters, then in their 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 in 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 labors during the past month, and have the unspeakable pleasure of reporting the following additional cases of converts to temperance. H. Walker, Taylor, 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 dogs, 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 workmen 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 cheering 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 18 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 six pence. 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 too deep size, found in 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 Holm now moved at the assembly due regale itself with the song, with the view to their rational and moral enjoyment, Brother Mordland had adapted the beautiful words of who hasn't heard of the 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. Dibdon, 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. And that's 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 bricklaying branch brothers were watermen. Cheers and laughter! That room was their boat, that audience were the maidens and he, Mr. Anthony Hum, however unworthily, was first oars. Unbounded applause! What does he mean by the soft sex, Sammy, inquired Mr. Weller in a whisper? The woman, said Sam in the same tone. He ain't far out there, Sammy, replied Mr. Weller. They must be a soft sex, a wary 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 Hum 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 Hum with a face of the deepest importance. My friends, said Mr. Hum, holding up his hand in a deprecatory manner to bespeak the silence of such of the stout old ladies as were yet a liner to behind, my friends, a delegate from the dorking branch of our society, Brother Stiggins, attends below. Out came the pocket-hanker-tiffs 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. Hum, 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 revered Mr. Stiggins. He's a common Sammy, whispered Mr. Weller, purple in the countenance with suppressed laughter. Don't say nothing to me, replied Sam, for I can't bear it. He's close to the door. I hear him a knock on his head against the laugh and plaster now. As Sam Weller spoke, the little door flew open and Brother Tadger appeared, closely followed by the revered 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 acknowledgement 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 Hum. Hum, 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 Hum, 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. Hum. 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. Hum, 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 there from 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 headfirst down the ladder. Upon this, the women set up a loud and dismal screaming and rushing in small parties before their favorite brothers flung their arms around them to preserve them from danger. An instance of affection which had nearly proved fatal to Hum, 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 great coat with much deliberation, just you step out and fetch in a watchman. And what are you going to do the while, inquired Sam? Never you mind me, Sammy, replied the old gentleman. I shall occupy myself in having a small settlement with that heirs 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 through 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.