 Chapter 48 relates how Mr. Pickwick, with the assistance of Samuel Weller, has said to soften the heart of Mr. Benjamin Allen, and to mollify the wrath of Mr. Robert Sawyer. Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer sat together in the little surgery behind the shop, discussing minced veal and future prospects, when the discourse, not unnaturally, turned upon the practice acquired by Bob the aforesaid, at his present chances of deriving a competent independence from the honourable profession to which he had devoted himself. Which I think, observed Mr. Bob Sawyer, pursuing the threat of the subject, which I think, Ben, are rather dubious. What's rather dubious? inquired Mr. Ben Allen at the same time sharpening his intellect with a draught of beer. What's dubious? Why the chances? responded Mr. Bob Sawyer. I forgot, said Mr. Ben Allen. The beer has reminded me that I forgot, Bob. Yes, they are dubious. It's wonderful how the poor people patronise me, said Mr. Bob Sawyer reflectively. They knock me up at all hours of the night. They take medicine to an extent which I should have conceived impossible. They put on blisters and leeches with a perseverance worthy of a better cause. They make additions to their families in a manner which is quite awful. Six of those last-named little promissory notes all do you on the same day, Ben, and all entrusted to me. It's very gratifying, isn't it? Said Mr. Ben Allen, holding his plate for some more minced veal. Oh, very, replied Bob, and it not quite so much as the confidence of patients with a shilling or two to spare would be. This business was capitally described in the advertisement, Ben. It is a practice, a very extensive practice. And that's all. Bob, said Mr. Ben Allen, laying down his knife and fork and fixing his eyes on the visage of his friend. Bob, I'll tell you what it is. What is it? inquired Mr. Bob Sawyer. You must make yourself with as little delay as possible master of Arabella's one thousand pounds. Three percent consolidated bank annuities now standing in her name in the book or books of the Governor and Company of the Bank of England. Added Mr. Bob Sawyer in legal phraseology. Exactly so, said Ben. She has it when she comes of age or marries. She wants a year of coming of age, and if you plucked up a spirit she didn't want a month of being married. She's a very charming and delightful creature, quote Mr. Robert Sawyer, in reply, and has only one fault that I know of. Ben, it happens, unfortunately, that that single blemish is a want of taste. She don't like me. It's my opinion that she don't know what she does like, said Mr. Ben Allen, contemptuously. Perhaps not, replied Mr. Bob Sawyer, but it's my opinion that she does know what she doesn't like, and that's of more importance. I wish, said Mr. Ben Allen, setting his teeth together and speaking more like a savage warrior who's fed on raw wolf's flesh, which he carved with his fingers than a peaceable young gentleman who ate minced veal with a knife and fork. I wish I knew whether any rascal really has been tampering with her and attempting to engage her affections. I think I should assassinate him, Bob. I'd put a bullet in him if I found him out, said Mr. Sawyer, stopping in the course of a long draft of beer and looking malignantly out of the pot-a-pot. If that didn't do his business I'd extract it afterwards and kill him that way. Mr. Benjamin Allen gazed abstractedly on his friend for some minutes in silence, and then said, You've never proposed to her, point blank, Bob? No, because I saw it would be of no use, replied Mr. Robert Sawyer. You shall do it before you are twenty-four hours older, retorted Ben with desperate calmness. She shall have you, or I'll know the reason why. I'd exert my authority. Well, said Mr. Bob Sawyer, we shall see. We shall see, my friend, replied Mr. Ben Allen fiercely. He paused for a few seconds and added in a voice broken by emotion. You've loved her from a child, my friend. You'd loved her when we were boys at school together, and even then she was wayward and slighted your young feelings. Do you recollect, with all the eagerness of a child's love, one day pressing upon her acceptance two small, caraway-seed biscuits and one sweet apple neatly folded into a circular parcel with the leaf of a copybook? I do, replied Bob Sawyer. She slighted that, I think, said Mr. Ben Allen. She did, rejoined Bob. She said I'd kept the parcel so long in the pockets of my corduroy's that the apple was unpleasantly warm. I remember, said Mr. Allen gloomily, upon which we etched ourselves in alternate bites. Bob Sawyer intimated his recollection of the circumstance last alluded to by a melancholy frown, and the two friends remained for some time absorbed, each in his own meditations. While these observations were being exchanged between Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen, and while the boy in the gray livery marveling at the unwonted prolongation of the dinner, cast an anxious look, from time to time, towards that last door, distracted by inner misgivings regarding the amount of minced veal which would be ultimately reserved for his individual cravings, there rolled, soberly on through the streets of Bristol, a private fly, painted of a sad green colour, drawn by a chubby sort of brown horse, driven by a surly-looking man with his legs dressed like the legs of a groom, and his body attired in the coat of a coachman. Such appearances are common to many vehicles belonging to and maintained by old ladies of economic habits, and in this vehicle sat an old lady who was its mistress and proprietor. Martin, said the old lady, calling to the surly man out of the front window. Well, said the surly man, touching his hat to the old lady. Mr. Sawyer's, said the old lady. I was going there, said the surly man. The old lady nodded at the satisfaction which this proof of the surly man's foresight imparted to her feelings, and the surly man, giving a smart lash to the chubby horse, they all repaired to Mr. Bob Sawyer's together. Martin, said the old lady, when the fly stopped at the door of Mr. Robert Sawyer, late knock-em-off. Well, said Martin, asked the lad to step out and mine the horse. I'm going to mine the horse myself, said Martin, laying his whip to the roof of the fly. I can't permit it on any account, said the old lady. Your testimony will be very important. I must take you into the house with me. You must not stir from my side during the whole interview. Do you hear? I hear, replied Martin. Well, what are you stopping for? Nothing, replied Martin. So, saying the surly man leisurely descended from the wheel, on which he'd been poising himself on the tops of the toes of his right foot, and having summoned the boy in the gray livery, opened the coach door, flung down the steps, and, thrusting in a hand enveloped in a dark wash-leathered love, pulled out the old lady with as much unconcern in his manner as if she were a band-box. Dear me, exclaimed the old lady, I'm so flurried now I've got here, Martin, that I'm all in a tremble. Mr. Martin coughed behind the dark wash-leathered loves, but expressed no sympathy. So the old lady, composing herself, trotted up Mr. Bob Sawyer's steps, and Mr. Martin followed. Immediately on the old lady's entering the shop, Mr. Benjamin Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer, who'd been putting the spirits of water out of sight, and upsetting nauseous drugs to take off the smell of the tobacco smoke, issued hastily forth in a transport of pleasure and affection. My dear Aunt, exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, how kind of you to look in upon us. Mr. Sawyer, Aunt, my friend Mr. Bob Sawyer, whom I've spoken to you about regarding, you know, Aunt. And here Mr. Ben Allen, who was not at the moment extraordinarily sober, added the word Arabella in what was meant to be a whisper, which was an especially audible and distinct tone of speech which nobody could avoid hearing if anybody were so disposed. My dear Benjamin, said the old lady, struggling with a great shortness of breath, and trembling from head to foot. Don't be alarm, my dear, but I think I'd better speak to Mr. Sawyer alone for a moment, only for one moment. Bob, said Mr. Allen, would you take my aunt into the surgery? Certainly, repronded Bob in a most professional voice. Step this way, my dear ma'am. Don't be frightened, ma'am. We shall be able to set you to rights in a very short time. I have no doubt, ma'am. Hear, my dear ma'am. Now then. With this Mr. Bob Sawyer having handed the old lady to a chair, shut the door, drew another chair close to her, and waited to hear detailed the symptoms of some disorder from which he saw in perspective a long train of profits and advantages. The first thing the old lady did, which was to shake her head a great many times, and began to cry. Nervous, said Bob Sawyer complacently. Camphor, tulip, and water three times a day, and composing draught at night. I don't know how to begin, Mr. Sawyer, said the old lady. It is so very painful and distressing. You need not begin, ma'am, rejoined Mr. Bob Sawyer. I can anticipate all you would say the head is in fault. I should be very sorry to think he was the heart, said the old lady with a slight groan. Not the slightest danger of that, ma'am, replied Mr. Bob Sawyer. The stomach is the primary cause. Mr. Sawyer, exclaimed the old lady, starting. Not the least doubt of it, ma'am, rejoined Bob, looking wondrous wise. Medicine in time, my dear ma'am, would have prevented it all. Mr. Sawyer, said the old lady, more flurry than before. This conduct is either great impertinence to one in my situation, sir, or it arises from your not understanding the object of my visit. If it had been in the power of medicine or any foresight I could have used to prevent what has occurred, I should certainly have done so. I'd better see my nephew at once, said the old lady, twirling her reticule intimately and rising as she spoke. Stop a moment, ma'am, said Bob Sawyer. I'm afraid I've not understood you. What is the matter, ma'am? My niece, Mr. Sawyer, said the old lady, your friend's sister. Yes, ma'am, said Bob, all impatient, for the old lady, although much agitated, spoke with the most tantalising deliberation, as old ladies often do. Yes, ma'am. Left my home, Mr. Sawyer, three days ago, on a pretended visit to my sister, another aunt of hers, who keeps the large boarding school just beyond the third milestone, where there is a very large laburnum tree, and an oak gate, said the old lady, stopping in this place to dry her eyes. Oh, devil take the laburnum tree, ma'am, said Bob, quite forgetting his professional dignity and his anxiety. Get on a little faster, put a little small steam on, ma'am, pray. This morning, said the old lady slowly, this morning she came back, ma'am, I suppose, said Bob, with great animation. Did she come back? No, she did not, replied the old lady. She wrote. What did she say, inquire Bob eagerly? She said, Mr. Sawyer, replied the old lady, and is this I want to prepare Benjamin's mind for, gently and by degrees? She said that she was—I've got the letter in my pocket, Mr. Sawyer, but my glasses are in the carriage, and I should only waste your time if I attempted to point out the passage to you without them. She said in short, Mr. Sawyer, that she was married. What? Said, or rather shouted, Mr. Bob Sawyer. Married, repeated the old lady. Mr. Bob Sawyer had stopped to hear no more, but darting from the surgery into the outer shop, cried in a stentorium voice, Ben, my boy, she's bolted! Mr. Ben Allen, who'd been slumbering behind the counter with his head half a foot or so below his knees, no sooner heard this appalling communication than he made a precipitate rush at Mr. Martin, and twisting his hand in the neck-cloth of that tacitan servitor, expressed an obligliging intention of choking him where he stood. This intention, with a promptitude often the effect of desperation, he had once commenced carrying into execution with much vigor and surgical skill. Mr. Martin, who was a man of few words and possessed but little power of eloquence or persuasion, submitted to this operation with a very calm and agreeable expression of countenance for some seconds. Finding, however, that it threatens speedily to lead to a result which would place it beyond his power to claim any wages bored or otherwise in all time to come, he muttered an inarticulate remonstrance, and felled Mr. Benjamin Allen to the ground. As that gentleman had his hands entangled in his cravat, he had no alternative but to follow him to the floor. There they both lay struggling, when the shop door opened, and the party was increased by the arrival of two most unexpected visitors to wit, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Samuel Weller. The impression at once produced on Mr. Weller's mind by what he saw was that Mr. Martin was hard by the establishment of Sawyer, late knock-em-off, to take strong medicine, or to go into fits and be experimentalised upon, or to swallow poison now and then with the view of testing the efficacy of some new antidotes, or to do something or other to promote the great science of medicine and gratify the ardent spirit of inquiry burning in the bosom of its two young professors. So, without presuming to interfere, Sam stood perfectly still and looked on, as if he were mightily interested in the result of the then-pending experiment. Not so, Mr. Pickwick. He had once threw himself on the astonish competence, with his accustomed energy, and loudly called upon the bystanders to interpose. This roused Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been hitherto quite paralysed by the frenzy of his companion. With that gentleman's assistant, Mr. Pickwick raised Mr. Ben Allen to his feet. Mr. Martin, finding himself alone on the floor, got up and looked about him. Mr. Allen, said Mr. Pickwick, what is the matter, sir? Never mind, sir, replied Mr. Allen, with haughty defiance. What is it? inquired Mr. Pickwick, looking at Bob Sawyer. Is he unwell? Before Bob could reply, Mr. Ben Allen seized Mr. Pickwick by the hand a murmured in sorrowful accents. My sister, my dear sir, my sister! Who is that all? said Mr. Pickwick. We shall easily arrange that matter, I hope. Your sister is safe and well, and I am here, my dear sir, to— Sorry to do anything as my cause an interruption to such weary pleasant proceedings, as the King said when he dissolved the Parliament. Interposed Mr. Weller, who had been peeping through the glass door. But there is another experiment here, sir. Here is a vulnerable old lady, lying on the carpet, waiting for dissection or gullwinnism or some other reviving and scientific invention. I forgot, exclaimed Mr. Bellen. That's my aunt. Dear me, said Mr. Pickwick, poor lady, gently, Sam, gently. Strange sedivation for one of the family, observed Mr. Sam Weller, hoisting the aunt into a chair. Now, deputies, sore-bones, bring out the walletly. The latter observation was addressed to the boy in grey, who, having handed over the fly to the care of the street-keeper, had come back to see what the noise was all about. Between the boy in grey and Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen, who, having frightened his aunt into a fainting fit, was affectionately solicitous for her recovery, the old lady was at length restored to consciousness. Then Mr. Ben Allen, turning with appousal dependence to Mr. Pickwick, asked him what he was about to say when he had been so alarmingly interrupted. We are all friends here, I presume, said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his voice, and looking towards the man a few words with the surly countenance who drove the fly with the chubby horse. This reminded Mr. Bob Sawyer that the boy in grey was looking on with wide eyes open and greedy ears. This reminded Mr. Bob Sawyer that the boy in grey was looking on with eyes wide open and greedy ears. The incipient chemist having been lifted up by his coat collar and dropped outside the door, Bob Sawyer assured Mr. Pickwick that he might speak without reserve. Your sister, my dear sir, said Mr. Pickwick, turning to Benjamin Allen, is in London, well and happy. Her happiness is no object to me, sir, said Benjamin Allen, with a flourish of the hand. Her husband is an object to me, sir, said Bob Sawyer. He shall be an object to me, sir, at twelve paces and a pretty object I'll make of him, sir, a mean-spirited scoundrel. This, as it stood, was of a very pretty denunciation and magnanimous withal. But Mr. Bob Sawyer rather weakened its effect by winding up with some general observations concerning the punching of heads and knocking out of eyes, which were commonplace by comparison. Stay, sir, said Mr. Pickwick, before you apply those epithets to the gentleman in question, consider dispassionately the extent of his fault, and, above all, remember that he is a friend of mine. What, said Mr. Bob Sawyer, his name, cried Ben Allen, his name. Mr. Nathaniel Winkle, said Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Benjamin Allen deliberately crushed his spectacles beneath the heel of his boot, and, having picked up the pieces and put them into three separate pockets, folded his arms, bit his lips, and looked in a threatening manner at the bland features of Mr. Pickwick. Then it is you, is it, sir, who is encouraged and bought about this match, inquire Mr. Benjamin Allen, at length. Had it this gentleman's servant, I suppose, interrupted the old lady, who has been sculking about my house and endeavouring to entrap my servants to conspire against their mistress. Martin! Well, said the surly man, coming forward. Is that the young man you saw in the lane whom you told me about this morning? Mr. Martin, who is it already appeared, was a man of few words, looked at Sam Weller, nodded his head, and growled forth. That's the man. Mr. Weller, who is never proud, gave a smile of friendly recognition as his eyes encountered those of the surly groom, and admitted, in courteous terms, that he had nodded him before. And this is the faithful creature, exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, whom I had nearly suffocated. Mr. Pickwick, how dare you allow your fellow to be employed in the abduction of my sister! I demand that you explain this matter, sir. Explain it, sir! cried Bob Sawyer fiercely. It's a conspiracy, said Ben Allen. A regular plant, added Mr. Bob Sawyer. At his graceful imposition, observed the old lady. Nothing but a dew, remarked Martin. Pray hear me, urged Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Ben Allen fell into a chair that patients were bled in, and gave way to his pocket-hacker-chief. I have rented no assistance in this matter beyond being present at one interview between the young people which I could not prevent, and from which I conceived my presence would remove any slight colouring of impropriety that it might otherwise have had. This is the whole share I have had in this transaction, and I have no suspicion that an immediate marriage was even contemplated. They mined. Added Mr. Pickwick hastily checking himself. Mind, I do not say I should have prevented it if I had known that it was intended. You hear that, all of you? You hear that? said Mr. Benjamin Allen. I hope they do. Marbly observed Mr. Pickwick looking round. And, added that gentleman, his colour-mounting as he spoke, I hope they hear this, sir, also, that from what has been stated to me, sir, I assert that you were by no means justified in attempting to force your sister's inclinations as you did, and that you should rather have endeavoured by your kindness and forbearance to have supplied the place of other nearer relations whom she had never known from a child. As regards my young friend, I must beg to add that in every point of worldly advantage he is at least on an equal footing with yourself, if not on a much better one, and that unless I hear this question discussed with becoming temper and moderation I decline hearing any more, said upon the subject. I wish to make a very few remarks in addition to what has been put forward by the honourable gentleman, as just to give-o, said Mr. Weller, stepping forward. Which is this year? An individual in company has called me a fowler. This has nothing whatever to do with the matter, Sam. It depends, Mr. Pickwick. Pray hold your tongue. I ain't going to say nothing on that here, point, sir, replied Sam. But merely this year, perhaps that gentleman might think as there was a prior attachment, but there warn't nothing of the sort, for the young lady said in the wordy beginning of the keeping company that she couldn't abide him. Nobody's cut him out, and it'd have been just the very same for him if the young lady had never seen Mr. Winkle. That's what I wish to say, sir, and I hope I've now made that here gentleman's mind easy. A short pause followed these consolatory remarks of Mr. Weller. Then Mr. Ben Allen, rising from his chair, protested that he would never see Arabella's face again, while Mr. Bob Sawyer, despite Sam's flattering assurance, vowed dreadful vengeance on the happy bridegroom. But just when matters were at their height and threatening to remain so, Mr. Pickwick found a powerful assistant in the old lady, who evidently much struck by the mode in which she had advocated her niece's cause, ventured to approach Mr. Benjamin Allen with a few comforting reflections, of which the chief were that, after all, perhaps it was well it was not worse. The niece said the soonest mended, and upon her words she did not know that it was so very bad after all, what was over couldn't be begun, and what couldn't be cured must be endured, with various other assurances of the like novel and strengthening description. To all of these Mr. Benjamin Allen replied that he had meant no disrespect to his aunt or anybody there, but if it were all the same to them and they wouldn't allow him to have his own way, he would rather have the pleasure of hating his sister till death and after it. At length, when this determination had been announced half a hundred times, the old lady suddenly bridling up and looking very majestic, wished to know what she had done, that no respect was to be paid to her years or station, and that she should be obliged to bake and pray in that way of her own nephew, whom she remembered about five and twenty years before he was born, and whom she had known personally when he hadn't a tooth in his head to say nothing of her presence on the first occasion of his having his hair cut and assistance at numerous other times and ceremonies during his babyhood of sufficient importance to found acclaim upon his affections, obedience, and sympathies for ever. While the good lady who was bestowing this obligation on Mr. Ben Allen, Bob Sawyer and Mr. Pickwick had retired in close conversation to the inner room, where Mr. Sawyer was observed to apply himself several times to the mouth of a black bottle, under the influence of which his features gradually assumed a cheerful and even jovial expression. And at last he emerged from the room, bottle in hand, and, remarking that he was very sorry to say that he be making a fool of himself, begged to propose the health and happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, whose felicity so far from envying he would be the first to congratulate them upon. Hearing this, Mr. Ben Allen suddenly arose from his chair, and, seizing the black bottle, drank the toast so heartily that the liquor being strong he nearly became as black in the face as the bottle. Finally the black bottle went round till it was empty, and there was so much shaking of hands and interchange of compliments that even the metal visage Mr. Martin condescended to smile. And now, said Bob Sawyer, rubbing his hands, will have a jolly night. I am sorry, said Mr. Pickwick, but I must return to my inn. I have not been accustomed to fatigue lately, and my journey has tarred me exceedingly. You'll take some tea, Mr. Pickwick, said the old lady, with irresistible sweetness. Thank you, I would rather not, replied that gentleman. The truth is that the old lady's evidently increasing aberration was Mr. Pickwick's principal inducement for going away. He thought of Mrs. Bardell, and every glance of the old lady's eyes threw him into a cold perspiration. As Mr. Pickwick could by no means be prevailed upon to stay, it was arranged at once on his own proposition that Mr. Benjamin Allen should accompany him on his journey to the elder Mr. Winkles, and that the coach should be at the door at nine o'clock next morning. He then took his leave, and, followed by Samuela, repaired to the bush. It is worthy of remark that Mr. Martin's face was horribly convulsed as he shook hands with Sam at parting, and that he gave vent to a smile and an oath simultaneously, from which tokens it has been inferred by those who are best acquainted with that gentleman's peculiarities, that he expressed himself much pleased with Mr. Weller's society, and requested the honour of his further acquaintance. Shall I order a private room, sir? inquired Sam, when they reached the bush. Why, no, Sam, replied Mr. Pickwick, as I dined in the coffee-room, and shall go to bed soon, it is hardly worth while. See who is there in the traveller's room, Sam? Mr. Weller departed on his errand, and presently returned to say that there was only a gentleman with one eye, and that he and the landlord were drinking a bowl of bishop together. I will join them, said Mr. Pickwick. He is a queer customer of one eye, one, sir, observed Mr. Weller as he led the way. He is a gammonin that their landlord, is he, sir, till he don't rightly know whether he is standing on the sole of his boots or the crown of his hat. The individual, to whom this observation referred, was sitting at the upper end of the room when Mr. Pickwick entered, and was smoking a large Dutch pipe with his eye intently fixed on the round face of the landlord, a jolly-looking old personage to whom he had recently been relating some tale of wonder, as was testified by sundry disjointed exclamations of, well, I wouldn't have believed it. The strangest thing I ever heard. Couldn't have supposed it possible. Another expressions of astonishment which burst spontaneously from his lips as he returned at the fixed gaze of the one-eyed man. Servant, sir, said the one-eyed man to Mr. Pickwick. Fine night, sir. Very much so indeed, replied Mr. Pickwick, as the waiter placed a small decanter of brandy and some hot water before him. While Mr. Pickwick was mixing his brandy and water, the one-eyed man looked round at him earnestly from time to time, and at length said, I think I've seen you before. I don't recollect you, rejoined Mr. Pickwick. I dare say not, said the one-eyed man. You didn't know me, but I knew two friends of yours and were stopping at the peacock at Eaton's will at the time of the election. Oh, indeed, exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. Yes, rejoined the one-eyed man. I mentioned a little circums of them about a friend of mine of the name of Tom Smart. Perhaps you've heard them speak of it. Often, rejoiced Mr. Pickwick, smiling, he was your uncle, I think. No, no, only a friend of my uncle's, replied the one-eyed man. He was a wonderful man, that uncle of yours, though, remarked the landlord, shaking his head. When I think he was, I think I may say he was, answered the one-eyed man. I could tell you a story about that same uncle gentleman that would rather surprise you. Could you, said Mr. Pickwick, let us hear it by all means. The one-eyed bagman ladled out a glass of neegas from the bowl and drank it. Smoked a long whiff out of the Dutch pipe. And then, calling to Sam Weller, who was lingering near the door, that he didn't go away unless he wanted to, because the story was no secret, fixed his eye upon the landlords, and proceeded in the words of the next chapter. End of Chapter 48. Recording by Simon Evers. Chapter 49 of the Pickwick Papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Simon Evers. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. Chapter 49. Containing the Story of the Bagman's Uncle. My uncle gentleman, said the bagman, was one of the merriest, pleasantest, cleverest fellows that ever lived. I wish you'd known him, gentlemen. On second thoughts, gentlemen, I don't wish you'd known him, for if you had, you would have been all by this time in the ordinary course of nature, if not dead, at all events so near it, as to have taken to stopping at home and giving up company, which would have deprived me of the inestimable pleasure of addressing you at this moment. Gentlemen, I wish your fathers and mothers had known my uncle. They would have been amazingly fond of him, especially your respectable mothers. I know they would. If any two of his numerous virtues predominated over the many that adorned his character, I should say they were his mixed punch and his after supper song. Excuse my dwelling on these melancholy recollections of departed worth. You won't see a man like my uncle every day in the week. I have always considered it a great point in my uncle's character, gentlemen, that he was the intimate friend and companion of Tom Smart, of the great house of Bilson and Slum, Cat Eaton Street, City. My uncle collected for Tigan and Whelps, but for a long time he went pretty near the same journey as Tom. And the very first night they met, my uncle took a fancy for Tom, and Tom took a fancy for my uncle. They made a bet of a new hat before they'd known each other half an hour, who should brew the best quart of punch, and drink it the quickest. My uncle was judged to have won the making, but Tom Smart beat him in the drinking by about half a salt spoonful. They took another quart apiece to drink each other's health in, and were staunch friends ever afterwards. There's a destiny in these things, gentlemen, we can't help it. In personal appearance my uncle was a trifle shorter than the middle size, he was a thought stouter, too, than the ordinary run of people, and perhaps his face might be a shade redder. He had, at the jolliest face you ever saw, gentlemen, something like punch with a handsome nose and chin. His eyes were always twinkling and sparkling with good humour, and a smile, not one of your unmeaning wooden grins, but a real merry, hearty, good tempered smile, was perpetually on his countenance. He was pitched out of his gig once and knocked headfirst against a milestone. There he lay, stunned, and so cut about the face with some gravel which had been heaped up alongside it. That, to use my uncle's own strong expression, if his mother could have revisited the earth, she wouldn't have known him. Indeed, when I come to think of the matter, gentlemen, I have preal pretty sure she wouldn't, for she died when my uncle was two years and seven months old, and I think it's very like to that, even without the gravel, his top boots would have puzzled the good lady not a little, to say nothing of his jolly red face. However, there he lay, and I've heard my uncle say many a time that the man said who picked him up, that he was smiling as merrily as if he had tumbled out for a treat, and that after they had bled him, the first faint glimmerings of returning animation were his jumping up in bed, bursting out into a loud laugh, kissing the young woman who held the basin, and demanding a mutton chop and a pickled walnut. He was very fond of pickled walnuts, gentlemen. He said he always found that, taking without vinegar, they relished the beer. My uncle's great journey was in the fall of the leaf, at which time he collected debts and took orders in the north, going from London to Edinburgh, from Edinburgh to Glasgow, from Glasgow back to Edinburgh, and thence to London by the smack. You ought to understand that his second visit to Edinburgh was for his own pleasure. He used to go back for a week just to look up his old friends, and what with breakfasting with this one, lunching with that, dining with the third, and sapping with another, a pretty tight week he used to make of it. I don't know whether any of you, gentlemen, ever partook of a real substantial hospitable scotch breakfast, and then went out to a slight lunch of a bushel of oysters, a dozen or so of bottled ale, and a noggin or two of whiskey to close up with. If you ever did, you will agree with me that it requires a pretty strong head to go out to dinner and supper afterwards. But bless your hearts and eyebrows, all this sort of thing was nothing to my uncle. He was so well seasoned that it was mere child's play. I've heard him say that he could see the Dundee people out any day and walk home afterwards without staggering, and yet the Dundee people have as strong heads and as strong punch, gentlemen, as you are likely to meet with between the poles. I've heard of a Glasgow man and a Dundee man drinking against each other for fifteen hours at a sitting, though both suffocated as nearly as could be ascertained at the same moment, but with this trifling exception, gentlemen, they were not a bit the worse for it. One night, within four and twenty hours of the time when he had settled to take shipping for London, my uncle supped at the house of a very old friend of his, a Bailey, Mack, something, and four syllables after it, who lived in the old town of Edinburgh. There were the Bailey's wife and the Bailey's three daughters, and the Bailey's grown-up son, and three or four stout, bushy-eye-browed, canny old scotch fellows that the Bailey had got together to do honour to my uncle and help to make merry. It was a glorious supper. There was kippet salmon and fin and haddocks, and a lamb's head, and a haggis, a celebrated scotch dish, gentlemen, which my uncle used to say always looked to him when it came to the table very much like a cupid's stomach, and a great many other things besides that I forget the names of, but very good things, notwithstanding. The lassies were pretty inagreable, the Bailey's wife was one of the best creatures that ever lived, and my uncle was in thoroughly good queue. The consequence of which was that the young ladies titted and giggled, and the old lady laughed out loud, and the Bailey and the other old fellows roared till they were red in the face the whole mortal time. I don't quite recollect how many tumblers of whiskey-toddy each man drank after supper, but this I know, that about one o'clock in the morning the Bailey's grown-up son became insensible while attempting the first verse of Willy-Brew de Peck-a-Mort, and he, having been for half an hour before the only other man visible above the mahogany, it occurred to my uncle that it was almost time to think about going, especially as drinking had set in at seven o'clock in order that he might get home at a decent hour. But, thinking it might not be quite polite to go just then, my uncle voted himself into the chair, mixed another glass, rose to propose his own health, addressed himself in a neat and complementary speech, and drank the toast with great enthusiasm. Still nobody woke, so my uncle took a little drop more, neat this time to prevent the toddy from disagreeing with him, and, laying violent hands on his hat, sadded forth into the street. It was a wild, gusty night when my uncle closed the Bailey's door, and, settling his hat firmly on his head to prevent the wind from taking it, thrust his hands into his pockets, and, looking upward, took a short survey of the state of the weather. The clouds were drifting over the moon at their giddiest speed, at one time wholly obscuring her, at another suffering her to burst forth in full splendour, and shed her light on all the objects around, anon driving over her again with increased velocity and shrouding everything in darkness. Really, this won't do, said my uncle, addressing himself to the weather, as if he felt himself personally offended. This is not at all the kind of thing for my voyage. It will not do at any price, said my uncle, very impressively. Having repeated this several times, he recovered his balance with some difficulty, for he was rather giddy with looking up into the sky so long, and walked merrily on. The Bailey's house was in the cannon-gate, and my uncle was going to the other end of Leith Walk, rather better than a mile's journey. On either side of him, they're shot up against the dark sky, tall, gaunt, straggling houses, with time-stained fronts, and windows that seem to have shared the lots of eyes in mortals, and have grown dim and sunken with age. Six, seven, eight stories tie with houses, story piled upon story, as children build with cards, throwing their dark shadows over the roughly paved road, and making the dark night darker. A few oil lamps were scattered at long distances, but they only served to mark the dirty entrance to some narrow close, or to show where a common stare communicated by steep and intricate windings with the various flats above. Glancing at all these things with the air of a man who had seen them too often before, to think them worthy of much notice now, my uncle walked up the middle of the street, with a thumb in each waistcoat pocket, indulging from time to time in various snatches of song, chanted forth with such goodwill and spirit, that the quiet, honest folk started from their first sleep, and laid trembling in bed till the sound died away in the distance. When, satifized from themselves, it was only some drunken ne'er do well finding his way home, they covered themselves up warm, and fell asleep again. I am particular in describing how my uncle walked up the middle of the street with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, gentlemen, because, as he often used to say, and with great reason too, there is nothing at all extraordinary in this story, unless you distinctly understand at the beginning, that he is not by any means of a marvellous or romantic turn. Gentlemen, my uncle walked on with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, taking the middle of the street to himself, and singing, now a verse of a love song, and then a verse of a drinking one, and when he was tired of both whistling melodiously, until he reached the North Bridge, which, at this point, connects the old and new towns of Edinburgh. Here he stopped for a minute to look at the strange, irregular clusters of lights piled one above the other, and twinkling afar off so high, that they looked like stars, gleaming from the castle walls on the one side, and the Caughton Hill on the other, as if they illuminated veritable castles in the air, while the old picturesque town slept heavily on in bloom and darkness below. Its palace and chapel of Holyrood guarded day and night, as a friend of my uncle's used to say by old Arthur's seat, towering surly and dark like some gruff genius over the ancient city he had watched so long. I said, gentlemen, my uncle stopped here for a minute to look about him, and then, paying a compliment to the weather, which had a little cleared up, though the moon was sinking, walked on again as royally as before, keeping the middle of the road with great dignity, and looking as if he would very much like to meet with somebody who would dispute possession of it with him. There was nobody at all disposed to contest the point as it happened, and so on he went, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, like a lamb. When my uncle reached the end of Leith Walk, he had to cross a pretty large piece of waste ground which separated him from a short street, which he had to turn down to go direct to his lodging. Now, in this piece of waste ground there was, at that time, an enclosure belonging to some wheelwright who contracted with the post office for the purchase of old, worn-out male coaches. And my uncle, being very fond of coaches, old, young, or middle-aged, all at once took it into his head to step out of his road for no other purpose than to peep between the palings of these males, about a dozen of which he remembered to have seen crowded together in a very forlorn and dismantled state inside. My uncle was a very enthusiastic, emphatic sort of person, gentlemen, so finding that he could not obtain a good peep between the palings, he got over them, and sitting himself quietly down on an old axel tree, began to contemplate the male coaches with a deal of gravity. There might be a dozen of them, or there might be more. My uncle was never quite certain on this point, and being a man of very scrupulous veracity about numbers didn't like to say. But there they stood, all huddled together in the most desolate condition imaginable. The doors had been torn from their hinges and removed. The linings had been stripped off, only a shred hanging here and there by a rusty nail. The lamps were gone, the poles had long since vanished, the arm-work was rusty, the paint was worn away. The wind whistled through the chinks in the bare woodwork, and the rain, which had collected on the roofs, fell drop by drop into the insides with a hollow, a menincally sound. They were the decaying skeletons of departed males, and in that lonely place of that time of night, they looked chill and dismal. My uncle rested his head upon his hands, and thought of the busy, bustling people who had rattled about years before in the old coaches, and were now as silent and changed. He thought of the numbers of people to whom one of these crazy, mouldering vehicles had borne night after night for many years, and through all weathers, the anxiously expected intelligence, the eagerly looked-for remittance, the promised assurance of health and safety, the sudden announcement of sickness and death, the merchant, the lover, the wife, the widow, the mother, the schoolboy, the very child who tottered to the door the postman's knock. How had they all looked forward to the arrival of the old coach? And where were they all now? Gentlemen, my uncle used to say that he thought all this at the time, but I rather suspect he learned it out of some book afterwards, for he distinctly stated that he fell into a kind of dough, as he sat on the old axle-tree looking at the decay of male coaches, and that he was suddenly awakened by some deep church bell striking two. Now my uncle was never a fast thinker, and if he had thought all these things, I am quite certain it would have taken him till full half-past two o'clock at the very least. I am therefore decidedly of the opinion, gentlemen, that my uncle fell into a kind of doughs without having thought about anything at all. Be that as it may, a church bell struck two. My uncle woke, rubbed his eyes, and jumped up in astonishment. In one instant, after the clock struck two, the whole of his deserted and quiet spot had become a scene of most extraordinary life and animation. The male coach-doors were on their hinges. The lining was replaced. The arm-work was as good as new. The paint was restored. The lamps were alight. Cushions and great coats were on every coach-box. Porters were thrusting parcels into every boot. Guards were stirring away. Letter bags, hostels were dashing. Pails of water against the renovated wheels. Numbers of men were pushing about, fixing poles into every coach. Passengers arrived. Portmantos were handed up. Horses were put to. In short, it was perfectly clear that every male there was to be off directly. Gentlemen, my uncle opened his eyes so wide at all this that, to the very last moment of his life, he used to wonder how it fell out that he had ever been able to shut him again. Now, then, said a voice, as my uncle felt a hand on his shoulder. You booked for one inside. You'd better get in. I booked, said my uncle, turning round. Yes, certainly. My uncle, gentlemen, could say nothing. He was so very much astonished. The queerest thing of all was that, although there was such a crowd of persons and although fresh faces were pouring in every moment, there was no telling where they came from. They seemed to start up in some strange manner from the ground, or the air, and disappear in the same way. When a porter had put his luggage in the coat and received his fare, he turned round and was gone. And before my uncle had well begun to wonder what had become of him, half a dozen fresh ones started up and staggered along under the weight of parcels which seemed big enough to crush them. The passengers were all dressed so oddly, too. Large, broad-skirted laced coats with great cuffs and no collars, and wigs, gentlemen, great formal wigs with a tie behind. My uncle could make nothing of it. Now, are you going to get in? said the person who had dressed my uncle before. He was dressed as a male guard with a wig on his head and most enormous cuffs to his coat, and had a lantern in one hand and a huge blunder-bus in the other, which he was going to stow away in his little arm-chest. Are you going to get in, Jack Martin? said the guard, holding the lantern to my uncle's face. Hello, said my uncle, falling back a step or two. That's familiar. It's so on the way, Bill, said the guard. Isn't there a mister before it, said my uncle? For he felt, gentlemen, that for a guard he didn't know to call him Jack Martin, was a liberty which the post-office wouldn't have sanctioned if they'd known it. No, there is not, rejoined the guard coolly. Is the fare paid, inquire my uncle? Of course it is, rejoined the guard. It is, is it, said my uncle? And then here goes. Which coach? This, said the guard, pointing to an old-fashioned Edinburgh and London mail, which had the steps down and the door open. I stop. Here are the other passengers. Let them get in first. As the guard spoke, they all at once appeared, right in front of my uncle, a young gentleman in a powder wig and a sky-blue coat trimmed with silver, made very full and broad in the skirts, which were lined with buckram. Tickenham-Welps were in the printed calico and waistcoat-piece line, gentlemen, so my uncle knew all the materials at once. He wore knee-bridges and a kind of leggings rolled up over his silk stockings, and shoes with buckles. He had ruffles at his wrists, a three-cornered hat on his head, and a long taper sword by his side. The flaps of his waistcoat came halfway down his thighs, and the ends of his cravat reached to his waist. He stalked gravely to the coach-door, pulled off his hat, and held it above his head at arm's length, cocking his little finger in the air at the same time as some affected people do when they take a cup of tea. Then he drew his feet together and made a low-grave bow, and then put out his left hand. My uncle was just going to step forward and shake it heartily, when he perceived that these attentions were directed not towards him, but to a young lady who just then appeared at the foot of the steps, attired in an old-fashioned green velvet dress with a long waist and stomacher. She had no bonnet on her head, gentlemen, which was muffled in a black silk hood, but she looked round for an instant as she prepared to get into the coach, and such a beautiful face as she disclosed my uncle had never seen, not even in a picture. She got into the coach, holding up her dress with one hand, and as my uncle was said with a round oath when he told the story, he wouldn't have believed it possible that legs and feet could have been brought to such a state of perfection unless he had seen them with his own eyes. But in this one glimpse of the beautiful face, my uncle saw that the young lady asked an imploring look upon him, and that she appeared terrified and distressed. He noticed, too, that the young fellow in the powdered wig, notwithstanding his sure gallantry which was all very fine and grand, clasped her tight by the wrist when she got in, and followed himself immediately afterwards. An uncommonly ill-looking fellow in a close brown wig and a plum-colored suit, wearing a very large sword and boots up to his hips, belonged to the party, and when he sat himself down next to the young lady who shrank into a corner at his approach, my uncle was confirmed in his original impression that something dark and mysterious was going forward, or, as he always said himself, that there was a screw loose somewhere. It's quite surprising how quickly he made up his mind to help the lady at any peril if she needed any help. Death and lightning, exclaimed the young gentleman, laying his hand upon his sword as my uncle entered the chair-coach. Blood and thunder! roared the other gentleman. With this he whipped his sword out and made a lunge at my uncle without further ceremony. My uncle had no weapon about him, but with great dexterity he snatched the ill-looking gentleman's three-cornered hat from his head, and receiving the point of his sword right through the crown, squeezed the sides together, and held it tight. "'Pink him behind!' cried the ill-looking gentleman to his companion, as he struggled to regain his sword. "'He better not!' cried my uncle, displaying the heel of one of his shoes in a threatening manner. I'll kick his brains out if he has any, or fracture his skull if he hasn't.' Exerting all his strength at this moment, my uncle wrenched the ill-looking man's sword from his grasp, and flung it clean out of the coach-window, upon which the younger gentleman vociferated death and lightning again, and laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword in a very fierce manner, but didn't draw it. Perhaps, gentlemen, as my uncle used to say with a smile, perhaps he was afraid of alarming the lady. Now, gentlemen, said my uncle, taking his seat deliberately. I don't want to have any death with or without lightning in a lady's presence, and we've had quite blood and thunder enough for one journey, so if you please, we're sitting our places like quiet in the sides. Here, guard, pick up that gentleman's carving-knife. As quickly as my uncle said the words, the guard appeared at the coach-window with the gentleman's sword in his hand. He held up his lantern, and looked earnestly in my uncle's face as he handed it in, when, by its light, my uncle saw to his great surprise that an immense crowd of male coach-guards swarmed around the window, every one of whom had his eyes earnestly fixed upon him too. He'd never seen such a sea of white faces, red bodies, and earnest eyes in all his born days. This is the strangest sort of thing I've ever had anything to do with, thought my uncle. Allow me to return you your hat, sir. The old-looking gentleman received his three-cornered hat in silence, looked at the hole in the middle with an inquiring air, and finally stuck it on the top of his wig with a solemnity, the effect of which was a trifle impaired by his sneezing violently at the moment, and jerking it off again. All right! cried the guard with the lantern, mounting into his little seat behind. Away they went. My uncle peeped out of the coach-window as they emerged from the yard and observed that the other males, with coachmen, guards, horses, and passengers complete, were driving round and round in circles at a slow trot of about five miles an hour. My uncle burned with indignation, gentlemen. As a commercial man, he felt that the mailbags were not to be trifled with, and it resolved to memorialise the post-office on the subject the very instant he reached London. At present, however, his thoughts were occupied with the young lady who sat in the furthest corner of the coach with her face muffled closely in her hood. The gentleman, with a sky-blue coat sitting opposite to her, the other man in the plum-coloured suit by her side, and both watching her intently. If she so much as rustled the folds of her hood, he could hear the ill-looking man clap his hand upon his sword, and could tell by the other's breathing it was so dark he couldn't see his face, and he was looking as big as if he were going to devour her at a mouthful. This roused my uncle more and more, and he resolved, come what might, to see the end of it. He had a great aberration for bright eyes, and sweet faces, and pretty legs and feet, in short, he was fond of the whole sex. It runs in our family, gentlemen, so am I. Many were the devices which my uncle practised to attract the ladies' attention, or at all events to engage the mysterious gentleman in conversation. They were all in vain, the gentleman wouldn't talk, and the lady didn't dare. He thrust his head out of the coach window at intervals, and bawled out to know why they didn't go faster. But he called till he was hoarse nobody paid the least attention to him. He leaned back in the coach, and thought of the beautiful face and the feet and legs. This answered better, it wild away the time, and kept him from wondering where he was going, and how it was that he found himself in such an odd situation. Not that this would have worried him much, anyway. He was a mighty free and easy, roving devil-may-care sort of person, was my uncle, gentlemen. All of a sudden the coach stopped. Hello, said my uncle, what's in the wind now? A light ear, said the guard, letting down the steps. Here, cried my uncle, ear rejoined the guard. I'll do nothing of the sort, said my uncle. Very well, then stop where you are, said the guard. I will, said my uncle, do, said the guard. The passengers had regarded this colloquy with great attention, and finding that my uncle was determined not to alight, the younger man squeezed past him to hand the lady out. At this moment the ill-looking man was inspecting the hole and the crown of his three-cornered hat. As the young lady brushed past, she dropped one of her gloves into my uncle's hand, and softly whispered, with her lips so close to his face that he felt her warm breath on his nose, the single word, help. Gentlemen, my uncle leaped out of the coach at once with such violence that it rocked on the springs again. Ah, you thought better of it, have you? said the guard, when he saw my uncle standing on the ground. My uncle looked at the guard for a few seconds in some doubt whether it would be better to wrench his blunderbuss from him, fire it in the face of the man with the big sword, and knock the rest of the company over the head with the stock, snatch up the young lady and go off in the smoke. On second thought, however, he abandoned this plan as being a shade too melodramatic at the execution, and followed the two mysterious men who, keeping the lady between them, were now entering an old house in front of which the coach had stopped. They turned in the passage, and my uncle followed. Of all the ruinous and desolate places my uncle had ever beheld, this was the most so. It looked as if it had once been a large house of entertainment, but the roof had fallen in in many places and the stairs were steep, rugged and broken. There was a huge fireplace in the room into which they were, and the chimney was blackened with smoke, but no warm place lighted it up now. The whole feathery dust of burned wood was still strewed over the hearth, but the stove was cold, and all was dark and gloomy. Well, said my uncle as he looked about him. A male, traveling at the rate of six miles and a half an hour and stopping for an indefinite time at such a whole as this is rather an irregular sort of proceeding, I've had to say. This shall be made known, all right, to the papers. My uncle said this in a pretty loud voice, and in an open, unreserved sort of manner, with the view of engaging the two strangers in conversation, if he could. But neither of them took any more notice of him than whispering to each other and scarring at him as they did so. The lady was at the farther end of the room, and once she ventured to wave her hand as if beseeching my uncle's assistance. At length the two strangers advanced a little, and the conversation began in earnest. You don't know this is a private room, I suppose, fellow? said the gentleman in sky blue. No, I do not, fellow, rejoin my uncle. Only, if this is a private room, especially ordered for the occasion, I should think the public room must be a very comfortable one. With this my uncle sat himself down in a high-backed chair, and took such an accurate measure of the gentleman with his eyes that Tigan and Welps could have supplied him with printed calico for a suit and not an inch too much or too little from that estimate alone. Quit this room! said both men together, grasping their swords. Hey! said my uncle, not at all appearing to comprehend their meaning. Quit this room, or you are a dead man! said the ill-looking fellow with the large sword, drawing it at the same time and flourishing it in the air. Down with him! cried the gentleman in sky blue, drawing his sword also, and falling back two or three yards. Down with him! The lady gave a loud scream. Now my uncle was always remarkable for great boldness and great presence of mind. All the time that he'd appeared so indifferent to what was going on, he'd been looking slyly about for some missile or weapon of defence, and at the very instant when the swords were drawn, he aspired, standing in the chimney-corner, an old basket-hilted rapier in a rusty scabbard. At one bound, my uncle caught it in his hand, drew it, flourished it gallantly above his head, called aloud to the lady to keep out of the way, hurled the chair at the man in sky blue and the scabbard at the man in plum colour, and, taking advantage of the confusion, fell upon them both pel-mel. Gentlemen, there is an old story—none the worse for being true—regarding a fine young Irish gentleman who, being asked if he could play the fiddle, replied he had no doubt he could, but he couldn't exactly say for certain, because he had never tried. This is not inapplicable to my uncle and his fencing. He had never had a sword in his hand before, except once when he played which to the third at a private theatre, upon which occasion it was arranged with Richmond that he was to be run through from behind without showing fight at all. But here he was, cutting and slashing with two experienced swordsmen, thrusting and guarding and poking and slicing and acquitting himself in the most manful and dexterous manner possible, although up to that time he had never been aware that he had the least notion of the sards. It only shows how true the old saying is, that a man never knows what he can do till he tries, gentlemen. The noise of the combat was terrific, each of the three competence swearing like troopers, and their swords clashing with as much noise as if all the knives and steels in Newport Market were rattling together at the same time. When it was at its very height, the lady, to encourage my uncle most probably, withdrew her hood entirely from her face and disclosed a countenance of such dazzling beauty that he would have fought against fifty men to win one smile from it and die. He had done wonders before, but now he began to powder away like a raving mad giant. At this very moment the gentleman in sky blue turned round, and, seeing the young lady with her face uncovered, vented an exclamation of rage and jealousy, and turning his weapon against her beautiful bosom pointed a thrust at her heart, which caused my uncle to utter a cry of apprehension that made the building ring. The lady stepped lightly aside, and, snatching the young man's sword from his hand before he had recovered his balance, drove him to the wall, and running it through him and the panelling up to the very hilt, pinned him there hard and fast. It was a splendid example. My uncle, with a loud shout of triumph and a strength that was irresistible, made his aversory retreat in the same direction, and plunging the old rapier into the very centre of a large red flower in the pattern of his waistcoat, nailed him beside his friend. There they both stood, gentlemen, jerking their arms and legs about in agony, like the toy-shop figures that are moved by a piece of pack-thread. My uncle always said afterwards that this was one of the surest means he knew of for disposing of an enemy, but it was liable to one objection on the grind of expense, inasmuch as it involved the loss of a sword for every man disabled. The male, the male, cried the lady, running up to my uncle and throwing her beautiful arms round his neck. We may yet escape. May, cried my uncle, why, my dear, there's nobody else to kill, is there? My uncle was rather disappointed, gentlemen, for he thought a little quiet bit of love-making would be agreeable after the slaughtering, if it were only to change the subject. We have not an instance to lose here, said the young lady. He, pointed the young gentleman in sky blue, is the only son of the powerful Marquis of Fileterville. Well then, my dear, I am afraid he'll never come to the title, said my uncle, looking coolly at the young gentleman, as he stood fixed up against the wall in the cockchafer fashion that I have described. You have cut off the entail, my love. I have been torn from my home and my friends by these villains, said the young lady, have features glowing with indignation. That wretch would have married me by violence in another hour. Confound his impudence, said my uncle, bestowing a very contemptuous look on the dying air of Fileterville. As you may guess from what you have seen, said the young lady, the party will prepare to murder me if I appeal to any one for assistance. If their accomplices find us here, we are lost. Two minutes hence, maybe too late. The male! With these words, overpiled by her feelings, and the exertion of sticking the young Marquis of Fileterville, she sank into my uncle's arms. My uncle caught her up, and bore her to the house door. There stood the male, with four long-tailed, flowing, mained, black horses, ready harnessed. But no coachman, no guard, no hostler even at the horse's heads. Gentlemen, I hope I do note an injustice to my uncle's memory, when I express my opinion, that although he was a bachelor, he had held some ladies in his arms before this time. I believe indeed that he had rather a habit of kissing barmaids. And I know that in one or two instances he had been seen by credible witnesses to hug a landlady in a very perceptible manner. I mention the circumstance to show what a very uncommon sort of person this beautiful young lady must have been to have affected my uncle in the way she did. He used to say that as her long, dark hair trailed over his arm, and her beautiful dark eyes fixed themselves upon his face when she recovered, he felt so strange and nervous that his legs trembled beneath him. But who can look in a sweet, soft pair of dark eyes without feeling queer? I can't, gentlemen. I'm afraid to look at some eyes I know, and that's the truth of it. You will never leave me, murmured the young lady. Never, said my uncle, and he meant it, too. My dear preserver, exclaimed the young lady, my dear, kind, brave preserver. Don't, said my uncle, interrupting her. Why? inquired the young lady. Because your mouth looks so beautiful when you speak, rejoined my uncle, that I'm afraid I should be rude enough to kiss it. The young lady put up her hand as if to caution my uncle not to do so, and said, no, she didn't say anything. She smiled. When you are looking at a pair of the most delicious lips in the world, and see them gently break into a rogueish smile, if you are very near them and nobody else by, you cannot better testify your admiration of their beautiful form and color than by kissing them at once. My uncle did so, and I honour him for it. Hark! cried the young lady, starting the noise of wheels and horses. So it is, said my uncle, listening. He had a good ear for wheels and the trembling of hoofs, but there appeared to be so many horses and carriages rattling towards them from a distance that it was impossible to form a guess at their number. The sound was like that of fifty breaks with six blood-cattle in each. We are pursued! cried the young lady, clasping her hands. We are pursued! I have no hope but in you! There was such an expression of terror in her beautiful face that my uncle made up his mind at once. He lifted her into the coach, told her not to be frightened, pressed his lips to hers once more, and then advising her to draw up the window to keep the cold air out, mounted to the box. Stay, love! cried the young lady. What's the matter? said my uncle from the coach box. I want to speak to you, said the young lady, only a word, only one word, dearest. Must I get down? inquired my uncle. The lady made no answer, but she smiled again. Such a smile, gentlemen! It beat the other one all to nothing. My uncle descended from his perch in a twinkling. What is it, my dear? said my uncle, looking into the coach window. The lady happened to bend forward at the same time. My uncle thought she looked more beautiful than she had done yet. He was very close to her, just then, gentlemen, so he really ought to know. What is it, my dear? said my uncle. Will you never love anyone but me? never marry anyone beside? said the young lady. My uncle swore a great oath that he never would marry anybody else, and the young lady drew in her head and pulled up the window. He jumped upon the box, squared his elbows, adjusted the ribbons, seized the whip which lay on the roof, gave one flick to the off-leader, and away went the four long-tailed, flowing-meined black horses, at fifteen good English miles an hour, with the old male coach behind them. Few how they tore along! The noise behind grew louder. The faster the old male went, the faster came the pursuers, men, horses, dogs, were leagued in the pursuit. The noise was frightful, but above all rose the voice of the young lady, urging my uncle on and shrieking, faster, faster! They whirled past the dark trees, as feathers would be swept before a hurricane. Houses, gates, churches, haystacks, objects of every kind they shot by, with a velocity and noise like roaring water suddenly let loose. But still the noise of pursuit grew louder, and still my uncle could hear the young lady wildly screaming, faster, faster! My uncle plied, whipped, and reigned, and the horses flew onward till they were white with foam. And yet the noise behind increased, and yet the young lady cried, faster, faster! My uncle gave a loud stamp on the boot in the energy of the horse, my uncle gave a loud stamp on the boot in the energy of the moment, and found that it was grey morning, and he was sitting in the wheel-right's yard on the box of an old Edinburgh mail, shivering with the cold and wet, and stamping his feet to warm them. He got down and looked eagerly inside for the beautiful young lady. Alas! there was neither door nor seat to the coach. He was a mere shell. Of course, my uncle knew very well that there was some mystery in the matter, and that everything had passed exactly as he used to relate it. He remained staunch to the great oath he had sworn to the beautiful young lady, refusing several eligible landlady's on her account, and dying a bachelor at last. He always said what a curious thing it was that he should have found out by such a mere accident as his clambering over the palings, that the ghosts of male coaches and horses, guards, coachmen, passengers were in the habit of making journeys regularly every night. He used to add that he believed he was the only living person who had ever been taken as a passenger on one of these excursions. And I think he was right, gentlemen. At least I never heard of any other. I wonder what these ghosts of male coaches carried in their bags, said the landlord, who had listened to the whole story with profound attention. The dead letters, of course, said the bagman. I, to be sure, rejoined the landlord. I never thought of that. End of Chapter 49, Recording by Simon Evers Chapter 50 of the Pickwick Papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For all more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Simon Evers The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens Chapter 50 How Mr Pickwick sped upon his mission, and how he was reinforced in the outset by a most unexpected auxiliary. The horses were put to, punctually at a quarter before nine next morning, and Mr Pickwick and Sam Weller having each taken his seat, the one inside and the other out, the postillium was duly directed to repair, in the first instance, to Mr Bob Sawyer's house, for the purpose of taking up Mr Benjamin Allen. It was with feelings of no small astonishment, when the carriage drew up before the door with the red lamp, and the very legible inscription of Sawyer, late knock-a-morph, that Mr Pickwick saw on popping his head out of the coach window, the boy in the grey livery very busily employed in putting up the shutters, the which, being unusual and an unbusiest light proceeding at that hour of the morning, at once suggested to his mind two inferences, the one that some good friend and patient of Mr Bob Sawyer's was dead, the other that Mr Bob Sawyer himself was bankrupt. What is the matter? said Mr Pickwick to the boy. Nothing's the matter, sir, replied the boy, expanding his mouth to the whole breath of his countenance. All right, all right! cried Bob Sawyer, suddenly appearing at the door, with a small leather knapsack, limper and dirty in one hand, and a rough coat and shawl thrown over the other arm. I'm going, old fellow. You! exclaimed Mr Pickwick. Yes, replied Bob Sawyer, and a regular expedition will make of it. Yes, Sam, look out! Thus, briefly bespeaking Mr Weller's attention, Mr Bob Sawyer jerked the leather knapsack into the dickey, where it was immediately stowed away under the seat by Sam, who regarded the proceeding with great admiration. This done, Mr Bob Sawyer, with the assistance of the boy, forcibly worked himself into the rough coat, which was a few sizes too small for him, and then, advancing to the coach window, thrust in his head, and laughed boisterously. What a start it is, isn't it? cried Bob, wiping the tears out of his eyes with one of the cuffs of the rough coat. My dear sir! said Mr Pickwick, with some embarrassment. I had no idea of your accompanies. No, that's just the very thing! replied Bob, seizing Mr Pickwick by the lapel of his coat. That's the joke. Oh, that's a joke, is it? said Mr Pickwick. Of course! replied Bob. It's the whole point of the thing, you know, that, and leaving the business to take care of itself, as it seems to have made up its mind not to take care of me. With this explanation of the phenomenon of the shutters, Mr Bob Sawyer pointed to the shop, and relapsed into an ecstasy of mirth. Bless me! you are surely not mad enough to think of leaving your patients without anybody to attend them, remonstrated Mr Pickwick in a very serious tone. Why not? asked Bob in reply. I shall save by it, you know, and none of them ever pay. Besides, said Bob, luring his voice to a confidential whisper, they will all be the better for it, for being nearly out of drugs and not able to increase my account just now, I should have been obliged to give them Calamel all round, and it would have been certain to have disagreed with some of them. So it's all for the best. There was a philosophy and a strength of reasoning about this reply, which Mr Pickwick was not prepared for. He paused a few moments, and added, less firmly than before. But this chase, my young friend, will only hold to, and I am pledged to Mr Allen. Oh, don't think of me for a minute, replied Bob. I have arranged it all. Sam and I will share the dickie between us. Look here. This little bill is to be waifed on the shop door. Sawyer, late knock-em-off, inquire of Mrs Cripps over the way. Mrs Cripps is my boy's mother. Mr Sawyer's very sorry, says Mrs Cripps, couldn't help it. Fetched away early this morning to a consultation of the very first surgeons in the country. Couldn't do without him? Would have him at any price? Tremendous operation. The fact is, said Bob in conclusion, it'll do me more good than otherwise, I expect. If it gets into one of the local papers, it'll be the making of me. Now here's Ben. Now then, jump in. With these hurried words, Mr Bob Sawyer pushed the post boy on one side, jerked his friend into the vehicle, slammed the door, put up the steps, waifed the bill on the street door, locked it, put the key in his pocket, jumped into the dickie, gave the word for starting, and did the hull with such extraordinary precipitation that before Mr Pickwick had well begun to consider whether Mr Bob Sawyer ought to go or not, they were really away, with Mr Bob Sawyer thoroughly established as part and parcel of the equi-page. So long as their progress was confined to the streets of Bristol, the facetious Bob kept his professional green spectacles on, and conducted himself with becoming steadiness and gravity of demeanor, merely giving utterance to diver's verbal witticisms for the exclusive behoof and entertainment of Mr Samuel Weller. But when they emerged on the open road, he threw off his green spectacles and his gravity together, and performed a great variety of practical jokes, which were calculated to attract the attention of the passers-by, and to render the carriage and those it contained objects of more than ordinary curiosity. The least conspicuous among these feats being a most vociferous imitation of a key bugle, and the ostentatious display of a crimson silk pocket-hacker-chief attached to a walking-stick, which was occasionally waved in the air with various gestures indicative of supremacy and defiance. I wonder, said Mr Pickwick, stopping in the midst of a most sedate conversation with Ben Allen, bearing reference to the numerous good qualities of Mr Winkle and his sister, I wonder what all the people we pass can see in us to make them stare so. It's a neat turnout, replied Ben Allen, with something of pride in his tone. They're not used to see this sort of thing every day, I daresay. Possibly, replied Mr Pickwick, it may be so, perhaps it is. Mr Pickwick might very properly have reasoned himself into the belief that it really was. Had he not, just then, happening to look out of the coach window, observed that the looks of the passengers be tokened anything but respectful astonishment, and that various telegraphic communications appear to be passing between them and some persons outside the vehicle, whereupon it occurred to him that these demonstrations might be, in some remote degree, referable to the humorous deportment of Mr Robert Sawyer. I hope, said Mr Pickwick, that our volatile friend is committing no absurdities in that dickey behind. Oh, dear no! replied Ben Allen, except when he's elevated Bob's the quietest creature breathing. Here a prolonged imitation of a key bugle broke upon the ear, succeeded by cheers and screams, all of which evidently proceeded from the throat and lungs of the quietest creature breathing, or in plainer designation of Mr Bob Sawyer himself. Mr Pickwick and Mr Ben Allen looked expressively at each other, and the former gentleman taking off his hat and leaning out of the coach window until nearly the hole of his waistcoat was outside it was at length enabled to catch a glimpse of his facetious friend. Mr Bob Sawyer was seated not in the dickey, but on the roof of the chase, with his legs as far as sunda as they would conveniently go, wearing Mr Samuel Weller's hat on one side of his head, and bearing in one hand a most enormous sandwich, while in the other he supported a good-sized case-bottle, to both of which he applied himself with intense relish, varying the monotony of the occupation by an occasional howl, or the interchange of some lively badinage with any passing stranger. The crimson flag was carefully tied in an erect position to the rail of the dickey, and Mr Samuel Weller, decorated with Mr Bob Sawyer's hat, was seated in the centre thereof, discussing a twin sandwich with an animated countenance, the expression of which betokened his entire and perfect approval of the whole arrangement. This was enough to irritate up-gentleman with Mr Pickwitz's sense of propriety, but it was not the whole extent of the aggravation, for a stagecoach full inside and out was meeting them at the moment, and the astonishment of the passengers was very palpably evinced. The congratulations of an Irish family, too, who were keeping up with the chase and begging all the time, were rather a boisterous description, especially those of its male head, who appeared to consider the display as part and parcel of some political or other procession of triumph. Mr Sawyer, cried Mr Pickwick in a state of great excitement, Mr Sawyer, sir. Oh! responded that gentleman, looking at the side of the chase with all the coolness in life. Are you mad, sir? demanded Mr Pickwick. Not a bit of it, replied Bob, only cheerful. Cheerful, sir? ejaculated Mr Pickwick. Take down that scandalous red-hacker chief I beg. I insist, sir. Sam, take it down. Before Sam could interpose, Mr Bob Sawyer gracefully struck his colours, and, having put them in his pocket, nodded in a courteous manner to Mr Pickwick, wiped the mouth of the case-bottle and applied it to his own, thereby informing him, without any unnecessary waste of words, that he devoted that draft to wishing him all manner of happiness and prosperity. Having done this, Bob replaced the cork with great care, and looking benignly down on Mr Pickwick, took a large bite out of the sandwich, and smiled. Come! said Mr Pickwick, whose mimicry anger was not quite proof against Bob's immovable self-possession. Pray let us have no more of this absurdity. No, no, replied Bob, once more exchanging hats with Mr Weller. I didn't mean to do it, only I got so enliven with the rye that I couldn't help it. Think of the look of the thing, expostulated Mr Pickwick, have some regard to appearances. Oh, certainly, said Bob, is not the sort of thing at all, all over Govner. Satisfied with this assurance, Mr Pickwick once more drew his head into the chase and pulled up the glass. But he had scarcely resumed the conversation which Mr Bob Sawyer had interrupted, when he was somewhat startled by the apparition of a small, dark body of an oblong form on the outside of the window which gave sundry taps against it, as if impatient of admission. What's this? exclaimed Mr Pickwick. It looks like a case-bottle, remarked Ben Allen, eyeing the objecting question through his spectacles with some interest. I rather think it belongs to Bob. The impression was perfectly accurate, for Mr Bob Sawyer, having attached the case-bottle to the end of the walking-stick, was battering the window with it, in token of his wish that his friends inside would partake of its contents in all good fellowship and harmony. What's to be done? said Mr Pickwick, looking at the bottle. This proceeding is more absurder than the other. I think it would be best to take it in, replied Mr Ben Allen. It would serve him right to take it in and keep it, wouldn't it? It would, said Mr Pickwick. Shall I? I think it is the most proper course we could possibly adopt, replied Ben. This advice, quite coinciding with his own opinion, Mr Pickwick gently let down the window and disengaged the bottle from the stick, upon which the latter was drawn up, and Mr Bob Sawyer was heard to laugh heartily. What a middy-dog it is, said Mr Pickwick, looking round at his companion with the bottle in his hand. He is, said Mr Allen. You cannot possibly be angry with him, remarked Mr Pickwick. Quite out of the question, observed Benjamin Allen. During this short interchange of sentiments, Mr Pickwick had, in an abstracted mood, uncorked the bottle. What is it? inquired Mr Ben Allen carelessly. I don't know, replied Mr Pickwick, with equal carelessness. It smells, I think, like milk-punch. Oh, indeed, said Ben. I think so, rejoined Mr Pickwick, very properly guarding himself against the possibility of stating an untruth. Mind, I could not undertake to say certainly, without tasting it. You better do so, said Ben. We may as well know what it is. Do you think so? replied Mr Pickwick. Well, if you are curious to know, of course I have no objection. Ever-winning to sacrifice his own feelings to the wishes of his friend, Mr Pickwick at once took a pretty long taste. What is it? inquired Ben Allen, interrupting him with some impatience. Curious, said Mr Pickwick, smacking his lips. I hardly know now. Oh, yes, said Mr Pickwick, after a second taste. It is punch. Mr Ben Allen looked at Mr Pickwick. Mr Pickwick looked at Mr Ben Allen. Mr Ben Allen smiled. Mr Pickwick did not. It would serve him right, said the last main gentleman, with some severity. It would serve him right to drink it every drop. The very thing that occurred to me, said Ben Allen. Is it indeed rejoin, Mr Pickwick? Then here's his health. With these words, that excellent person took a most energetic pull at the bottle, and handed it to Ben Allen, who was not slow to imitate his example. The smiles became mutual, and the milk-punch was gradually and cheerfully disposed of. After all, said Mr Pickwick, as he drained the last drop, his pranks are really very amusing, very entertaining indeed. You may say that, rejoined Mr Ben Allen. In proof of Bob Sawyer's being one of the funniest fellows alive, he proceeded to entertain Mr Pickwick with a long and circumstantial account, how that gentleman once drank himself into a fever, and got his head shaved. The relation of which pleasant and agreeable history was only stopped by the stoppage of the chase at the bell at a Berkeley heath to change horses. I say, we're going to dine here, aren't we? said Bob, looking in at the window. Dine? said Mr Pickwick. Why, we've only come nineteen miles, and have eighty-seven and a half to go. Just the reason why we should take something to enable us to bear up against the fatigue, remonstrated Mr Bob Sawyer. Oh, it's quite impossible to dine at half-past eleven o'clock in the day, replied Mr Pickwick, looking at his watch. So it is, rejoined Bob, lunch is the very thing. Hello, user, lunch for three directly, and keep the horses back for a quarter of an hour. Tell them to put everything they have cold on the table, and some bottled ale, and let us taste your very best Madeira. Issuing these orders with monstrous importance and bustle, Mr Bob Sawyer at once hurried into the house to superintend the arrangements. In less than five minutes he returned, and declared them to be excellent. The quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bob had pronounced, and very great justice was done to it, not only by that gentleman, but Mr Ben Aron and Mr Pickwick also. Under the auspices of the three, the bottled ale and the Madeira were promptly disposed of, and when the horses being once more put to, they resumed their seats, with the case-bottle full of the best substitute for milk punch that could be procured on so short a notice, the key bugle sounded, and the red flag waved, without the slightest opposition on Mr Pickwick's part. At the hop-pole at Tewkesbury they stopped to dine. Upon medication there was more bottled ale, with some more Madeira, and some port besides, and here the case-bottle was replenished for the fourth time. Under the influence of these combined stimulants, Mr Pickwick and Mr Ben Aron fell fast asleep for thirty miles, while Bob and Mr Weller sang duets in the dickey. It was quite dark when Mr Pickwick roused himself sufficiently to look out of the window. The straggling cottages by the roadside, the dingy hue of every object visible, the murky atmosphere, the paths of cinders and brick dust, the deep red glow of furnace fires in the distance, the volumes of dense smoke eschewing heavily forth from high-toppling chimneys, blackening and obscuring everything around, the glare of distant lights, the ponderous wagons which toiled along the road laden with clashing rods of iron, or piled with heavy goods, all betokened their rapid approach to the great working town of Birmingham. As they rattled through the narrow thoroughfares leading to the heart of the turmoil, the sights and sounds of earnest occupation struck more forcibly on the senses. The streets were thronged with working people. The hum of labour resounded from every house, lights gleamed from the long casement windows in the attic stories, and the whirl of wheels and noisier machinery shook the trembling walls. The fires whose lurid sun and light had been visible for miles blazed fiercely up in the great works and factories of the town. The din of hammers, the rushing of steam, and the dead heavy clanking of engines was the harsh music which arose from every quarter. The postboy was driving bristly through the open streets, and passed the handsome and well-lighted shops that intervened between the outskirts of the town and the old royal hotel, before Mr. Pickwick had begun to consider the very difficult and delicate nature of the commission which had carried him thither. The delicate nature of this commission and the difficulty of executing it in a satisfactory manner were by no means lessened by the voluntary companionship of Mr. Bob Sawyer. Truth to tell, Mr. Pickwick felt that his presence on the occasion, however considerate and gratifying, was by no means an honour he would willingly have sought. In fact, he would cheerfully have given a reasonable sum of money to have had Mr. Bob Sawyer removed to any place at not less than fifty miles distance without delay. Mr. Pickwick had never held any personal communication with Mr. Winkle, senior, although he had once or twice corresponded with him by letter, and returned satisfactory answers to his inquiries concerning the moral character and behaviour of his son. He felt nervously sensible that to wait upon him for the first time, attended by Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen, both slightly fuddled, was not the most ingenious and likely means that could have been hit upon to pre-possess him in his favour. However, said Mr. Pickwick, endeavouring to reassure himself, I must do the best I can. I must see him tonight, for I faithfully promised to do so. If they persist in accompanying me, I must make the interview as brief as possible and be content that, for their own sakes, they will not expose themselves. As he comforted himself with these reflections, the chase stopped at the door of the old royal. Ben Allen, having been partially awakened from a stupendous sleep and dragged out by the collar by Mr. Samuel Weller, Mr. Pickwick was enabled to alight. They were shown to a very comfortable apartment, and Mr. Pickwick had once propounded a question to the waiter concerning the whereabouts of Mr. Winkle's residence. Close by, sir, said the waiter, not above five hundred yards, sir. Mr. Winkle is a warfinger, sir, at the canal, sir. Private residence is not all dear now, sir, not five hundred yards, sir. Here the waiter blew a candle out and made a faint of lighting it again in order to afford Mr. Pickwick an opportunity to ask any further questions, if he felt so disposed. Take anything now, sir, said the waiter, lighting the candle in desperation of Mr. Pickwick's silence. Tea or coffee, sir? Dinner, sir? Nothing now. Very good, sir. Liked water supper, sir. Not just now. Very good, sir. Here he walked slowly to the door, and then, stopping short, turned round and said with great suavity, Shall I send the chambermaid, gentlemen? You may view, please, replied Mr. Pickwick. If you, please, sir. And bring some soda water, said Bob Sawyer. Soda water, sir? Yes, sir. With his mind apparently relieved from an overwhelming wait by having at last got an order for something, the waiter imperceptibly melted away. Waiters never walk or run. They have a peculiar and mysterious power of skimming out of rooms, which other mortals possess not. Some slight symptoms of vitality have been awakened in Mr. Ben Allen by the soda water. He set of it himself to be prevailed upon to wash his face and hands, and to submit to be brushed by Sam. Mr. Pickwick and Bob Sawyer had he also repaired that his order, which the journey had made in their apparel, the three started forth, arm in arm, to Mr. Winkles. Bob Sawyer impregnating the atmosphere with tobacco smoke as he walked along. A matter of a quarter of a mile off in a quiet, substantial looking street stood an old red brick house with three steps before the door, and a brass plate upon it bearing in fat Roman capitals the words Mr. Winkle. The steps were very white, and the bricks were very red, and the house was very clean. And here stood Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Benjamin Allen, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, as the clock struck ten. A smart, servant girl answered the knock and started on beholding the three strangers. Is Mr. Winkle at home, my dear? inquired Mr. Pickwick. He's just going to supple, sir, replied the girl. Give him that card, if you please, rejoined Mr. Pickwick. Say I am sorry to trouble him at so late an hour, but I am anxious to see him to-night, and have only just arrived. The girl looked timidly at Mr. Bob Sawyer, who is expressing his admiration of her personal charms by a variety of wonderful grimaces, and casting an eye at the hats and great-coats which hung in the passage called another girl to mind the door while she went upstairs. The sentinel was speedily relieved, for the girl returned immediately, and, baking pardon of the gentleman for leaving them in the street, ushered them into a floor-clothed back parlour, half-office and half-dressing-room, in which the principal useful and ornamental articles of furniture were a desk, a wash-hand stand and shaving-glass, a boot rack and boot jack, a high stool, four chairs, a table, and an old eight-day clock. Over the mantelpiece were the sunken doors of an iron safe, while a couple of hanging shelves for books and almanac and several fires of dusty papers decorated at the walls. "'Very sorry to leave you standing at the door, sir,' said the girl, lighting a lamp and addressing Mr. Pickwick with a winning smile. But she was quite strange as to me, and we have such a many trampers that only come to see what they can lay their hands on that really—' There is not the least occasion for any apology, my dear,' said Mr. Pickwick, good-humouredly. "'Not the slightest, my love,' said Bob Sawyer, playfully stretching forth his arms and skipping from side to side as if to prevent the young lady leaving the room. The young lady was not at all softened by these allurements, for she at once expressed her opinion that Mr. Bob Sawyer was an odourous creature, and on his becoming rather more pressing in his attentions, imprinted her fair fingers upon his face and bounced out of the room with many expressions of aversion and contempt. Deprived of the young lady's society, Mr. Bob Sawyer proceeded to divert himself by peeping into the desk, looking into all the table-draws, failing to pick the lock of the iron safe, turning the almanac with its face to the wall, trying on the boots of Mr. Winkle, Sr., over his own, and making several other humorous experiments upon the furniture, all of which afforded Mr. Pickwick unspeakable horror and agony, and yielded Mr. Bob Sawyer proportionate delight. At length the door opened, and a little old gentleman, a snuff-colored suit, with a head and face the precise counterpart of those belonging to Mr. Winkle, Jr., accepting that he was rather bald, trotted into the room with Mr. Pickwick's card in one hand, and a silver candlestick in the other. Mr. Pickwick, sir, how do you do? said Winkle the elder, putting down the candlestick and proffering his hand. Hope I see you well, sir. Glad to see you. Be seated, Mr. Pickwick. I beg sir. This gentleman is my friend, Mr. Sawyer, interposed Mr. Pickwick, your son's friend. Oh! said Mr. Winkle the elder, looking rather grimly at Bob. I hope you are well, sir. Right as a trivix, sir! replied Bob Sawyer. This other gentleman, cry Mr. Pickwick, is, as you will see when you have read the letter with which I am entrusted, a very near relative, or I should rather say, a very particular friend of your son's. His name is Allen. That gentleman, inquired Mr. Winkle, pointing with the card towards Ben Allen, who had fallen asleep in an attitude which led nothing of him visible, but his spine and his coat collar. Mr. Pickwick was on the point of replying to the question, and reciting Mr. Benjamin Allen's name and honourable distinctions at full length, when the sprightly Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a view of rousing his friend to a sense of his situation, inflicted a startling pinch upon the fleshly part of his arm, which caused him to jump up with a shriek. Suddenly aware that he was in the presence of a stranger, Mr. Ben Allen advanced, and, shaking Mr. Winkle most affectionately by both hands for about five minutes, murmured in some half-inteligible fragments of sentences, the great delight he felt in seeing him, and a hospitable inquiry whether he felt disposed to take anything after his walk, or would prefer waiting till dinnertime, which done he sat down and gazed upon him with a petrified stare, as if he had not the remotest idea where he was, which indeed he had not. All this was most embarrassing to Mr. Pickwick, the more especially as Mr. Winkle, Sr., evinced palpable astonishment at the eccentric, not to say, extraordinary behaviour of his two companions. To bring the matter to an issue at once, he drew a letter from his pocket, and presenting it to Mr. Winkle Sr., said, This letter, sir, is from your son. You will see by its contents that on your favourable and fatherly consideration of it depend his future happiness and welfare. Would you oblige me by giving it the calmest and coolest perusal, and by discussing the subject afterwards with me, in the tone and spirit in which I learn it ought to be discussed? You may judge of the importance of your decision to your son and his intense anxiety upon the subject by my waiting upon you without any previous warning at so late an hour, and, added Mr. Pickwick, glancing slightly at his two companions, and under such unfavourable circumstances. With this prelude, Mr. Pickwick placed four closely written sides of extra-superfine wire-wove penitence in the hands of the astounded Mr. Winkle Sr. Then, receding himself in his chair, he watched his looks and manner. Anxiously it is true, but with the open front of a gentleman who feels he has taken no part which he need excuse or palliate. The old warfinger turned the letter over, looked at the front, back and side, made a macroscopic examination of the fat little boy on the seal, raised his eyes to Mr. Pickwick's face, and then, seating himself on the high stool and drawing the lamp closer to him, broke the wax, unfolded the epistle, and, lifting it to the light, prepared to read. Just at this moment Mr. Bob Bessoyer, whose wit had lain dormant for some minutes, placed his hands on his knees, and made a face after the portraits of the late Mr. Grimaldi as clown. It so happened that Mr. Winkle Sr., instead of being deeply engaged in reading the letter, as Mr. Bob Bessoyer thought, chanced to be looking over the top of it at no lesser person than Mr. Bob Bessoyer himself. Rightly conjecturing that the face aforesaid was made in ridicule and derision of his own person, he fixed his eyes on Bob with such expressive sternness that the late Mr. Grimaldi's liniments gradually resolved themselves into a very fine expression of humility and confusion. "'Did you speak, sir?' inquired Mr. Winkle Sr., after an awful silence. "'No, sir,' replied Bob, with no remains of the clown about him, save and expect the extreme redness of his cheeks. "'You're sure you did not, sir?' said Mr. Winkle Sr. "'Oh, dear, yes, sir, quite,' replied Bob. "'I thought you did, sir,' replied the old gentleman with indignant emphasis. "'Perhaps you looked at me, sir.' "'Oh, no, sir, not at all,' replied Bob, with extreme civility. "'I'm very glad to hear it, sir,' said Mr. Winkle Sr. Having frowned upon the abashed Bob with great magnificence, the old gentleman again brought the letter to the light, and began to read it seriously. Mr. Pickwick eyed him intently as he turned from the bottom line of the first page to the top line of the second, and from the bottom of the second to the top of the third, and from the bottom of the third to the top of the fourth. But not the slightest alteration of countenance afforded a clue to the feelings with which he received the announcement of his son's marriage, which Mr. Pickwick knew was in the very first half-dozen lines. He read the letter to the last word, folded it again with all the carefulness and precision of a man of business, and, just when Mr. Pickwick expected some great outbreak of feeling, dipped a pen in the ink-stand, and said, as quietly as if he were speaking on the most ordinary counting-house topic, "'What is Nathaniel's address, Mr. Pickwick?' The George and Vulture at present replied that gentleman. George and Vulture—where is that? George Yard, Lombard Street. In the city? Yes. The old gentleman methodically endorsed the address on the back of the letter, and then, placing it in the desk, which he locked, said, as he got off the stool and put the bunch of keys in his pocket, "'I suppose there is nothing else which need detain us, Mr. Pickwick?' "'Nothing else, my dear sir,' observed that warm-hearted person in indignant amazement. "'Nothing else? Have you no opinion to express on this momentous event in our young friend's life? No assurance to convey to him, through me, of the continuance of your affection and protection? Nothing to say, which will cheer and sustain him, and the anxious girl who looks to him for comfort and support? My dear sir, consider.' "'I will consider,' replied the old gentleman. "'I have nothing to say just now. I am a man of business, Mr. Pickwick. I never commit myself hastily in any affair, and for what I see of this, I by no means like the appearance of it. A thousand pounds is not much, Mr. Pickwick.' "'You're very right, sir,' interposed Ben Allen, just awake enough to know that he'd spent his thousand pounds without the smallest difficulty. You're an intelligent man. Bobby's a very knowing fellow, this.' "'I am very happy to find that you do me the justice to make the admissions, sir,' said Mr. Wakewell, senior, looking contemptuously at Ben Allen, who was shaking his head profoundly. The fact is, Mr. Pickwick, that when I gave my son a roving license for a year or two to see something of men and manners, which he has done under your auspices, so that he might not enter life a mere boarding-school milk-shop to be gulled by everybody, I never bargained for this. He knows that very well, so if I withdraw my countenance from him on this account, he has no call to be surprised. He shall hear from him, Mr. Pickwick. Good night, sir.' Margaret opened the door. All this time, Bob Sawyer had been nudging Mr. Ben Allen to say something on the right side. Ben, accordingly, now burst without the slightest preliminary notice into a brief but impassioned piece of eloquence. "'Sir,' said Mr. Ben Allen, staring at the old gentleman, out of a pair of very dim and languid eyes, and working his right arm vehemently up and down, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.' "'As the lady's brother, of course, you are an excellent judge of the question,' retorted Mr. Wakewell, senior. There, that's enough. Praise say no more, Mr. Pickwick. Good night, gentlemen.' With these words, the old gentleman took up the candlestick and opening the room door, but likely motioned towards the passage. "'You will regret this, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, setting his teeth close together to keep down his collar, for he felt how important the effect might prove to his young friend. "'I am at a present of a different opinion,' calmly replied Mr. Wakewell, senior. "'Once again, gentlemen, I wish you a good night.' Mr. Pickwick walked with angry strides into the street. Mr. Bob Sawyer, completely quelled by the decision of the old gentleman's manner, took the same course. Mr. Ben Allen's hat rolled down the steps immediately afterwards, and Mr. Ben Allen's body followed it directly. The whole party went silent and suppolous to bed, and Mr. Pickwick thought just before he fell asleep. That if he had known Mr. Wakewell's senior had been quite so much a man of business, it was extremely probable he might never have waited upon him on such an errand.