The Pickwick Papers
the second-floor window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneath a
lofty roof which extended over one end of the yard; and another, which
was probably to commence its journey that morning, was drawn out into
the open space. A double tier of bedroom galleries, with old clumsy
balustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area, and a double
row of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weather by a little
sloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and coffee-room. Two
or three gigs and chaise-carts were wheeled up under different little
sheds and pent-houses; and the occasional heavy tread of a cart-horse,
or rattling of a chain at the farther end of the yard, announced to
anybody who cared about the matter, that the stable lay in that
direction. When we add that a few boys in smock-frocks were lying asleep
on heavy packages, wool-packs, and other articles that were scattered
about on heaps of straw, we have described as fully as need be the
general appearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, High Street,
Borough, on the particular morning in question.
A loud ringing of one of the bells was followed by the appearance of a
smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping at
one of the doors, and receiving a request from within, called over the
balustrades--
‘Sam!’
‘Hollo,’ replied the man with the white hat.
‘Number twenty-two wants his boots.’
‘Ask number twenty-two, vether he’ll have ‘em now, or vait till he gets
‘em,’ was the reply.
‘Come, don’t be a fool, Sam,’ said the girl coaxingly, ‘the gentleman
wants his boots directly.’
‘Well, you _are_ a nice young ‘ooman for a musical party, you are,’ said
the boot-cleaner. ‘Look at these here boots--eleven pair o’ boots; and
one shoe as belongs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven boots
is to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who’s number
twenty-two, that’s to put all the others out? No, no; reg’lar rotation,
as Jack Ketch said, ven he tied the men up. Sorry to keep you a-waitin’,
Sir, but I’ll attend to you directly.’
Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with
increased assiduity.
There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White
Hart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.
‘Sam,’ cried the landlady, ‘where’s that lazy, idle--why, Sam--oh, there
you are; why don’t you answer?’
‘Vouldn’t be gen-teel to answer, till you’d done talking,’ replied Sam
gruffly.
‘Here, clean these shoes for number seventeen directly, and take ‘em to
private sitting-room, number five, first floor.’
The landlady flung a pair of lady’s shoes into the yard, and bustled
away.
‘Number five,’ said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a piece
of chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on the
soles--‘Lady’s shoes and private sittin’-room! I suppose she didn’t come
in the vagin.’
‘She came in early this morning,’ cried the girl, who was still leaning
over the railing of the gallery, ‘with a gentleman in a hackney-coach,
and it’s him as wants his boots, and you’d better do ‘em, that’s all
about it.’
‘Vy didn’t you say so before,’ said Sam, with great indignation,
singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. ‘For all I
know’d he was one o’ the regular threepennies. Private room! and a lady
too! If he’s anything of a gen’l’m’n, he’s vurth a shillin’ a day, let
alone the arrands.’
Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed away with
such hearty good-will, that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, with a
polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr.
Warren (for they used Day & Martin at the White Hart), had arrived at
the door of number five.
‘Come in,’ said a man’s voice, in reply to Sam’s rap at the door. Sam
made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentleman
seated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the gentleman’s boots
right and left at his feet, and the lady’s shoes right and left at hers,
he backed towards the door.
‘Boots,’ said the gentleman.
‘Sir,’ said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of
the lock.
‘Do you know--what’s a-name--Doctors’ Commons?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Paul’s Churchyard, Sir; low archway on the carriage side, bookseller’s
at one corner, hotel on the other, and two porters in the middle as
touts for licences.’
‘Touts for licences!’ said the gentleman.
‘Touts for licences,’ replied Sam. ‘Two coves in vhite aprons--touches
their hats ven you walk in--“Licence, Sir, licence?” Queer sort, them,
and their mas’rs, too, sir--Old Bailey Proctors--and no mistake.’
‘What do they do?’ inquired the gentleman.
‘Do! You, Sir! That ain’t the worst on it, neither. They puts things
into old gen’l’m’n’s heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wos
a coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything--uncommon fat,
to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he
goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt--very smart--
top boots on--nosegay in his button-hole--broad-brimmed tile--green
shawl--quite the gen’l’m’n. Goes through the archvay, thinking how he
should inwest the money--up comes the touter, touches his hat--“Licence,
Sir, licence?”--“What’s that?” says my father.--“Licence, Sir,” says
he.--“What licence?” says my father.--“Marriage licence,” says the
touter.--“Dash my veskit,” says my father, “I never thought o’ that.”--
“I think you wants one, Sir,” says the touter. My father pulls up, and
thinks a bit--“No,” says he, “damme, I’m too old, b’sides, I’m a many
sizes too large,” says he.--“Not a bit on it, Sir,” says the touter.--
“Think not?” says my father.--“I’m sure not,” says he; “we married a
gen’l’m’n twice your size, last Monday.”--“Did you, though?” said my
father.--“To be sure, we did,” says the touter, “you’re a babby to him--
this way, sir--this way!”--and sure enough my father walks arter him,
like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back office, vere a
teller sat among dirty papers, and tin boxes, making believe he was
busy. “Pray take a seat, vile I makes out the affidavit, Sir,” says the
lawyer.--“Thank’ee, Sir,” says my father, and down he sat, and stared
with all his eyes, and his mouth vide open, at the names on the boxes.
“What’s your name, Sir,” says the lawyer.--“Tony Weller,” says my
father.--“Parish?” says the lawyer. “Belle Savage,” says my father; for
he stopped there wen he drove up, and he know’d nothing about parishes,
he didn’t.--“And what’s the lady’s name?” says the lawyer. My father was
struck all of a heap. “Blessed if I know,” says he.--“Not know!” says
the lawyer.--“No more nor you do,” says my father; “can’t I put that in
arterwards?”--“Impossible!” says the lawyer.--“Wery well,” says my
father, after he’d thought a moment, “put down Mrs. Clarke.”--“What
Clarke?” says the lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink.--“Susan Clarke,
Markis o’ Granby, Dorking,” says my father; “she’ll have me, if I ask. I
des-say--I never said nothing to her, but she’ll have me, I know.” The
licence was made out, and she _did_ have him, and what’s more she’s got
him now; and I never had any of the four hundred pound, worse luck. Beg
your pardon, sir,’ said Sam, when he had concluded, ‘but wen I gets on
this here grievance, I runs on like a new barrow with the wheel
greased.’ Having said which, and having paused for an instant to see
whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the room.
‘Half-past nine--just the time--off at once;’ said the gentleman, whom
we need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle.
‘Time--for what?’ said the spinster aunt coquettishly.
‘Licence, dearest of angels--give notice at the church--call you mine,
to-morrow’--said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt’s hand.
‘The licence!’ said Rachael, blushing.
‘The licence,’ repeated Mr. Jingle--
‘In hurry, post-haste for a licence, In hurry, ding dong I come back.’
‘How you run on,’ said Rachael.
‘Run on--nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years, when we’re
united--run on--they’ll fly on--bolt--mizzle--steam-engine--thousand-
horse power--nothing to it.’
‘Can’t--can’t we be married before to-morrow morning?’ inquired Rachael.
‘Impossible--can’t be--notice at the church--leave the licence to-day--
ceremony come off to-morrow.’
I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us!’ said Rachael.
‘Discover--nonsense--too much shaken by the break-down--besides--extreme
caution--gave up the post-chaise--walked on--took a hackney-coach--came
to the Borough--last place in the world that he’d look in--ha! ha!--
capital notion that--very.’
‘Don’t be long,’ said the spinster affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuck
the pinched-up hat on his head.
‘Long away from you?--Cruel charmer,’ and Mr. Jingle skipped playfully
up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, and
danced out of the room.
‘Dear man!’ said the spinster, as the door closed after him.
‘Rum old girl,’ said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage.
It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we will
not, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle’s meditations, as he
wended his way to Doctors’ Commons. It will be sufficient for our
purpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons in white
aprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached the
vicar-general’s office in safety and having procured a highly flattering
address on parchment, from the Archbishop of Canterbury, to his ‘trusty
and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle, greeting,’ he
carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket, and retraced his
steps in triumph to the Borough.
He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentleman and
one thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of some
authorised person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel
Weller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of
painted tops, the personal property of a farmer who was refreshing
himself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a
pot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and to
him the thin gentleman straightway advanced.
‘My friend,’ said the thin gentleman.
‘You’re one o’ the adwice gratis order,’ thought Sam, ‘or you wouldn’t
be so wery fond o’ me all at once.’ But he only said--‘Well, Sir.’
‘My friend,’ said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem--‘have you
got many people stopping here now? Pretty busy. Eh?’
Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man, with a
dark squeezed-up face, and small, restless, black eyes, that kept
winking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as if
they were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature. He was
dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white
neckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch-chain, and
seals, depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves _in_ his
hands, and not ON them; and as he spoke, thrust his wrists beneath his
coat tails, with the air of a man who was in the habit of propounding
some regular posers.
‘Pretty busy, eh?’ said the little man.
‘Oh, wery well, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘we shan’t be bankrupts, and we
shan’t make our fort’ns. We eats our biled mutton without capers, and
don’t care for horse-radish ven ve can get beef.’
‘Ah,’ said the little man, ‘you’re a wag, ain’t you?’
‘My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint,’ said Sam; ‘it may
be catching--I used to sleep with him.’
‘This is a curious old house of yours,’ said the little man, looking
round him.