‘Now, Sir,’ said Mr.

Skimpin, ‘have the goodness to let his Lordship

know what your name is, will you?’ and Mr. Skimpin inclined his head on
one side to listen with great sharpness to the answer, and glanced at
the jury meanwhile, as if to imply that he rather expected Mr. Winkle’s
natural taste for perjury would induce him to give some name which did
not belong to him.

‘Winkle,’ replied the witness.

‘What’s your Christian name, Sir?’ angrily inquired the little judge.

‘Nathaniel, Sir.’

‘Daniel--any other name?’

‘Nathaniel, sir--my Lord, I mean.’

‘Nathaniel Daniel, or Daniel Nathaniel?’

‘No, my Lord, only Nathaniel--not Daniel at all.’

‘What did you tell me it was Daniel for, then, sir?’ inquired the judge.

‘I didn’t, my Lord,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘You did, Sir,’ replied the judge, with a severe frown. ‘How could I
have got Daniel on my notes, unless you told me so, Sir?’

This argument was, of course, unanswerable.

‘Mr. Winkle has rather a short memory, my Lord,’ interposed Mr. Skimpin,
with another glance at the jury. ‘We shall find means to refresh it
before we have quite done with him, I dare say.’

‘You had better be careful, Sir,’ said the little judge, with a sinister
look at the witness.

Poor Mr. Winkle bowed, and endeavoured to feign an easiness of manner,

which, in his then state of confusion, gave him rather the air of a
disconcerted pickpocket.

‘Now, Mr. Winkle,’ said Mr. Skimpin, ‘attend to me, if you please, Sir;
and let me recommend you, for your own sake, to bear in mind his
Lordship’s injunctions to be careful. I believe you are a particular
friend of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant, are you not?’

‘I have known Mr. Pickwick now, as well as I recollect at this moment,

nearly--’

‘Pray, Mr. Winkle, do not evade the question. Are you, or are you not, a
particular friend of the defendant’s?’

‘I was just about to say, that--’

‘Will you, or will you not, answer my question, Sir?’

If you don’t answer the question, you’ll be committed, Sir,’ interposed

the little judge, looking over his note-book.
‘Come, Sir,’ said Mr. Skimpin, ‘yes or no, if you please.’

‘Yes, I am,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘Yes, you are. And why couldn’t you say that at once, Sir? Perhaps you
know the plaintiff too? Eh, Mr. Winkle?’

‘I don’t know her; I’ve seen her.’

‘Oh, you don’t know her, but you’ve seen her? Now, have the goodness to
tell the gentlemen of the jury what you mean by that, Mr. Winkle.’

‘I mean that I am not intimate with her, but I have seen her when I went
to call on Mr. Pickwick, in Goswell Street.’

‘How often have you seen her, Sir?’

‘How often?’

‘Yes, Mr. Winkle, how often? I’ll repeat the question for you a dozen
times, if you require it, Sir.’ And the learned gentleman, with a firm
and steady frown, placed his hands on his hips, and smiled suspiciously
to the jury.

On this question there arose the edifying brow-beating, customary on

such points. First of all, Mr. Winkle said it was quite impossible for
him to say how many times he had seen Mrs. Bardell. Then he was asked if
he had seen her twenty times, to which he replied, ‘Certainly--more than
that.’ Then he was asked whether he hadn’t seen her a hundred times--
whether he couldn’t swear that he had seen her more than fifty times--
whether he didn’t know that he had seen her at least seventy-five times,
and so forth; the satisfactory conclusion which was arrived at, at last,
being, that he had better take care of himself, and mind what he was
about. The witness having been by these means reduced to the requisite
ebb of nervous perplexity, the examination was continued as follows--

‘Pray, Mr. Winkle, do you remember calling on the defendant Pickwick at

these apartments in the plaintiff’s house in Goswell Street, on one
particular morning, in the month of July last?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Were you accompanied on that occasion by a friend of the name of

Tupman, and another by the name of Snodgrass?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘Are they here?’

Yes, they are,’ replied Mr. Winkle, looking very earnestly towards the
spot where his friends were stationed.

‘Pray attend to me, Mr. Winkle, and never mind your friends,’ said Mr.
Skimpin, with another expressive look at the jury. ‘They must tell their
stories without any previous consultation with you, if none has yet
taken place (another look at the jury). Now, Sir, tell the gentlemen of
the jury what you saw on entering the defendant’s room, on this
particular morning. Come; out with it, Sir; we must have it, sooner or
later.’

‘The defendant, Mr. Pickwick, was holding the plaintiff in his arms,
with his hands clasping her waist,’ replied Mr. Winkle with natural
hesitation, ‘and the plaintiff appeared to have fainted away.’

‘Did you hear the defendant say anything?’

‘I heard him call Mrs. Bardell a good creature, and I heard him ask her
to compose herself, for what a situation it was, if anybody should come,
or words to that effect.’

‘Now, Mr. Winkle, I have only one more question to ask you, and I beg
you to bear in mind his Lordship’s caution. Will you undertake to swear
that Pickwick, the defendant, did not say on the occasion in question--
“My dear Mrs. Bardell, you’re a good creature; compose yourself to this
situation, for to this situation you must come,” or words to that
effect?’

‘I--I didn’t understand him so, certainly,’ said Mr. Winkle, astounded
on this ingenious dove-tailing of the few words he had heard. ‘I was on
the staircase, and couldn’t hear distinctly; the impression on my mind
is--’

‘The gentlemen of the jury want none of the impressions on your mind,
Mr. Winkle, which I fear would be of little service to honest,
straightforward men,’ interposed Mr. Skimpin. ‘You were on the
staircase, and didn’t distinctly hear; but you will not swear that
Pickwick did not make use of the expressions I have quoted? Do I
understand that?’

‘No, I will not,’ replied Mr. Winkle; and down sat Mr. Skimpin with a
triumphant countenance.

Mr. Pickwick’s case had not gone off in so particularly happy a manner,
up to this point, that it could very well afford to have any additional
suspicion cast upon it. But as it could afford to be placed in a rather
better light, if possible, Mr. Phunky rose for the purpose of getting
something important out of Mr. Winkle in cross-examination. Whether he
did get anything important out of him, will immediately appear.

‘I believe, Mr. Winkle,’ said Mr. Phunky, ‘that Mr. Pickwick is not a
young man?’

‘Oh, no,’ replied Mr. Winkle; ‘old enough to be my father.’

‘You have told my learned friend that you have known Mr. Pickwick a long
time. Had you ever any reason to suppose or believe that he was about to
be married?’

‘Oh, no; certainly not;’ replied Mr. Winkle with so much eagerness, that
Mr. Phunky ought to have got him out of the box with all possible
dispatch. Lawyers hold that there are two kinds of particularly bad
witnesses--a reluctant witness, and a too-willing witness; it was Mr.
Winkle’s fate to figure in both characters.

‘I will even go further than this, Mr. Winkle,’ continued Mr. Phunky, in
a most smooth and complacent manner. ‘Did you ever see anything in Mr.
Pickwick’s manner and conduct towards the opposite sex, to induce you to
believe that he ever contemplated matrimony of late years, in any case?’

‘Oh, no; certainly not,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘Has his behaviour, when females have been in the case, always been that
of a man, who, having attained a pretty advanced period of life, content
with his own occupations and amusements, treats them only as a father
might his daughters?’

‘Not the least doubt of it,’ replied Mr. Winkle, in the fulness of his
heart. ‘That is--yes--oh, yes--certainly.’

‘You have never known anything in his behaviour towards Mrs. Bardell, or
any other female, in the least degree suspicious?’ said Mr. Phunky,
preparing to sit down; for Serjeant Snubbin was winking at him.

‘N-n-no,’ replied Mr. Winkle, ‘except on one trifling occasion, which, I

have no doubt, might be easily explained.’

Now, if the unfortunate Mr. Phunky had sat down when Serjeant Snubbin
had winked at him, or if Serjeant Buzfuz had stopped this irregular
cross-examination at the outset (which he knew better than to do;
observing Mr. Winkle’s anxiety, and well knowing it would, in all
probability, lead to something serviceable to him), this unfortunate
admission would not have been elicited. The moment the words fell from
Mr. Winkle’s lips, Mr. Phunky sat down, and Serjeant Snubbin rather
hastily told him he might leave the box, which Mr. Winkle prepared to do
with great readiness, when Serjeant Buzfuz stopped him.

‘Stay, Mr. Winkle, stay!’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, ‘will your Lordship have
the goodness to ask him, what this one instance of suspicious behaviour
towards females on the part of this gentleman, who is old enough to be
his father, was?’

‘You hear what the learned counsel says, Sir,’ observed the judge,
turning to the miserable and agonised Mr. Winkle. ‘Describe the occasion
to which you refer.’

‘My Lord,’ said Mr. Winkle, trembling with anxiety, ‘I--I’d rather not.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said the little judge; ‘but you must.’

Amid the profound silence of the whole court, Mr. Winkle faltered out,
that the trifling circumstance of suspicion was Mr. Pickwick’s being
found in a lady’s sleeping-apartment at midnight; which had terminated,
he believed, in the breaking off of the projected marriage of the lady
in question, and had led, he knew, to the whole party being forcibly
carried before George Nupkins, Esq., magistrate and justice of the
peace, for the borough of Ipswich!

‘You may leave the box, Sir,’ said Serjeant Snubbin. Mr. Winkle did
leave the box, and rushed with delirious haste to the George and
Vulture, where he was discovered some hours after, by the waiter,
groaning in a hollow and dismal manner, with his head buried beneath the
sofa cushions.

Tracy Tupman, and Augustus Snodgrass, were severally called into the
box; both corroborated the testimony of their unhappy friend; and each
was driven to the verge of desperation by excessive badgering.
Susannah Sanders was then called, and examined by Serjeant Buzfuz, and
cross-examined by Serjeant Snubbin. Had always said and believed that
Pickwick would marry Mrs. Bardell; knew that Mrs. Bardell’s being
engaged to Pickwick was the current topic of conversation in the
neighbourhood, after the fainting in July; had been told it herself by
Mrs. Mudberry which kept a mangle, and Mrs. Bunkin which clear-starched,
but did not see either Mrs. Mudberry or Mrs. Bunkin in court. Had heard
Pickwick ask the little boy how he should like to have another father.
Did not know that Mrs. Bardell was at that time keeping company with the
baker, but did know that the baker was then a single man and is now
married. Couldn’t swear that Mrs. Bardell was not very fond of the
baker, but should think that the baker was not very fond of Mrs.
Bardell, or he wouldn’t have married somebody else. Thought Mrs. Bardell
fainted away on the morning in July, because Pickwick asked her to name
the day: knew that she (witness) fainted away stone dead when Mr.
Sanders asked her to name the day, and believed that everybody as called
herself a lady would do the same, under similar circumstances. Heard
Pickwick ask the boy the question about the marbles, but upon her oath
did not know the difference between an ‘alley tor’ and a ‘commoney.’

By the _court_.--During the period of her keeping company with Mr.

Sanders, had received love letters, like other ladies. In the course of
their correspondence Mr. Sanders had often called her a ‘duck,’ but
never ‘chops,’ nor yet ‘tomato sauce.’ He was particularly fond of
ducks. Perhaps if he had been as fond of chops and tomato sauce, he
might have called her that, as a term of affection.

Serjeant Buzfuz now rose with more importance than he had yet exhibited,
if that were possible, and vociferated; ‘Call Samuel Weller.’

It was quite unnecessary to call Samuel Weller; for Samuel Weller

stepped briskly into the box the instant his name was pronounced; and
placing his hat on the floor, and his arms on the rail, took a bird’s-
eye view of the Bar, and a comprehensive survey of the Bench, with a
remarkably cheerful and lively aspect.

‘What’s your name, sir?’ inquired the judge.

‘Sam Weller, my Lord,’ replied that gentleman.

‘Do you spell it with a “V” or a “W”?’ inquired the judge.

‘That depends upon the taste and fancy of the speller, my Lord,’ replied
Sam; ‘I never had occasion to spell it more than once or twice in my
life, but I spells it with a “V.”’

Here a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, ‘Quite right too, Samivel,
quite right. Put it down a “we,” my Lord, put it down a “we.”’

Who is that, who dares address the court?’ said the little judge,
looking up. ‘Usher.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Bring that person here instantly.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’
But as the usher didn’t find the person, he didn’t bring him; and, after
a great commotion, all the people who had got up to look for the
culprit, sat down again. The little judge turned to the witness as soon
as his indignation would allow him to speak, and said--

‘Do you know who that was, sir?’

‘I rayther suspect it was my father, my lord,’ replied Sam.

‘Do you see him here now?’ said the judge.

‘No, I don’t, my Lord,’ replied Sam, staring right up into the lantern
at the roof of the court.

‘If you could have pointed him out, I would have committed him
instantly,’ said the judge. Sam bowed his acknowledgments and turned,
with unimpaired cheerfulness of countenance, towards Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Now, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz.

‘Now, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘I believe you are in the service of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant in this
case? Speak up, if you please, Mr. Weller.’

‘I mean to speak up, Sir,’ replied Sam; ‘I am in the service o’ that

‘ere gen’l’man, and a wery good service it is.’

‘Little to do, and plenty to get, I suppose?’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, with
jocularity.

‘Oh, quite enough to get, Sir, as the soldier said ven they ordered him
three hundred and fifty lashes,’ replied Sam.

‘You must not tell us what the soldier, or any other man, said, Sir,’
interposed the judge; ‘it’s not evidence.’

‘Wery good, my Lord,’ replied Sam.

‘Do you recollect anything particular happening on the morning when you
were first engaged by the defendant; eh, Mr. Weller?’ said Serjeant
Buzfuz.

‘Yes, I do, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Have the goodness to tell the jury what it was.’

‘I had a reg’lar new fit out o’ clothes that mornin’, gen’l’men of the
jury,’ said Sam, ‘and that was a wery partickler and uncommon
circumstance vith me in those days.’

Hereupon there was a general laugh; and the little judge, looking with
an angry countenance over his desk, said, ‘You had better be careful,
Sir.’

‘So Mr. Pickwick said at the time, my Lord,’ replied Sam; ‘and I was
wery careful o’ that ‘ere suit o’ clothes; wery careful indeed, my
Lord.’
The judge looked sternly at Sam for full two minutes, but Sam’s features
were so perfectly calm and serene that the judge said nothing, and
motioned Serjeant Buzfuz to proceed.

‘Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, folding his
arms emphatically, and turning half-round to the jury, as if in mute
assurance that he would bother the witness yet--‘do you mean to tell me,
Mr. Weller, that you saw nothing of this fainting on the part of the
plaintiff in the arms of the defendant, which you have heard described
by the witnesses?’

Certainly not,’ replied Sam; ‘I was in the passage till they called me
up, and then the old lady was not there.’

‘Now, attend, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, dipping a large pen
into the inkstand before him, for the purpose of frightening Sam with a
show of taking down his answer. ‘You were in the passage, and yet saw
nothing of what was going forward. Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. Weller?’

‘Yes, I have a pair of eyes,’ replied Sam, ‘and that’s just it. If they
wos a pair o’ patent double million magnifyin’ gas microscopes of hextra
power, p’raps I might be able to see through a flight o’ stairs and a
deal door; but bein’ only eyes, you see, my wision ‘s limited.’

At this answer, which was delivered without the slightest appearance of

irritation, and with the most complete simplicity and equanimity of
manner, the spectators tittered, the little judge smiled, and Serjeant
Buzfuz looked particularly foolish. After a short consultation with
Dodson & Fogg, the learned Serjeant again turned towards Sam, and said,
with a painful effort to conceal his vexation, ‘Now, Mr. Weller, I’ll
ask you a question on another point, if you please.’

‘If you please, Sir,’ rejoined Sam, with the utmost good-humour.

‘Do you remember going up to Mrs. Bardell’s house, one night in November
last?’

Oh, yes, wery well.’

‘Oh, you do remember that, Mr. Weller,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, recovering
his spirits; ‘I thought we should get at something at last.’

‘I rayther thought that, too, sir,’ replied Sam; and at this the
spectators tittered again.

‘Well; I suppose you went up to have a little talk about this trial--eh,
Mr. Weller?’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking knowingly at the jury.

‘I went up to pay the rent; but we did get a-talkin’ about the trial,’
replied Sam.

‘Oh, you did get a-talking about the trial,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz,
brightening up with the anticipation of some important discovery. ‘Now,
what passed about the trial; will you have the goodness to tell us, Mr.
Weller’?’

‘Vith all the pleasure in life, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Arter a few
unimportant obserwations from the two wirtuous females as has been
examined here to-day, the ladies gets into a very great state o’
admiration at the honourable conduct of Mr. Dodson and Fogg--them two
gen’l’men as is settin’ near you now.’ This, of course, drew general
attention to Dodson & Fogg, who looked as virtuous as possible.

‘The attorneys for the plaintiff,’ said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz. ‘Well! They
spoke in high praise of the honourable conduct of Messrs. Dodson and
Fogg, the attorneys for the plaintiff, did they?’

‘Yes,’ said Sam, ‘they said what a wery gen’rous thing it was o’ them to
have taken up the case on spec, and to charge nothing at all for costs,
unless they got ‘em out of Mr. Pickwick.’

At this very unexpected reply, the spectators tittered again, and Dodson
& Fogg, turning very red, leaned over to Serjeant Buzfuz, and in a
hurried manner whispered something in his ear.

‘You are quite right,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz aloud, with affected
composure. ‘It’s perfectly useless, my Lord, attempting to get at any
evidence through the impenetrable stupidity of this witness. I will not
trouble the court by asking him any more questions. Stand down, sir.’

‘Would any other gen’l’man like to ask me anythin’?’ inquired Sam,

taking up his hat, and looking round most deliberately.

‘Not I, Mr. Weller, thank you,’ said Serjeant Snubbin, laughing.

‘You may go down, sir,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, waving his hand
impatiently. Sam went down accordingly, after doing Messrs. Dodson &
Fogg’s case as much harm as he conveniently could, and saying just as
little respecting Mr. Pickwick as might be, which was precisely the
object he had had in view all along.

‘I have no objection to admit, my Lord,’ said Serjeant Snubbin, ‘if it

will save the examination of another witness, that Mr. Pickwick has
retired from business, and is a gentleman of considerable independent
property.’

‘Very well,’ said Serjeant Buzfuz, putting in the two letters to be

read, ‘then that’s my case, my Lord.’

Serjeant Snubbin then addressed the jury on behalf of the defendant; and
a very long and a very emphatic address he delivered, in which he
bestowed the highest possible eulogiums on the conduct and character of
Mr. Pickwick; but inasmuch as our readers are far better able to form a
correct estimate of that gentleman’s merits and deserts, than Serjeant
Snubbin could possibly be, we do not feel called upon to enter at any
length into the learned gentleman’s observations. He attempted to show
that the letters which had been exhibited, merely related to Mr.
Pickwick’s dinner, or to the preparations for receiving him in his
apartments on his return from some country excursion. It is sufficient
to add in general terms, that he did the best he could for Mr. Pickwick;
and the best, as everybody knows, on the infallible authority of the old
adage, could do no more.

Mr. Justice Stareleigh summed up, in the old-established and most

approved form. He read as much of his notes to the jury as he could
decipher on so short a notice, and made running-comments on the evidence
as he went along. If Mrs. Bardell were right, it was perfectly clear
that Mr. Pickwick was wrong, and if they thought the evidence of Mrs.
Cluppins worthy of credence they would believe it, and, if they didn’t,
why, they wouldn’t. If they were satisfied that a breach of promise of
marriage had been committed they would find for the plaintiff with such
damages as they thought proper; and if, on the other hand, it appeared
to them that no promise of marriage had ever been given, they would find
for the defendant with no damages at all. The jury then retired to their
private room to talk the matter over, and the judge retired to _his
_private room, to refresh himself with a mutton chop and a glass of
sherry.

An anxious quarter of a hour elapsed; the jury came back; the judge was
fetched in. Mr. Pickwick put on his spectacles, and gazed at the foreman
with an agitated countenance and a quickly-beating heart.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the individual in black, ‘are you all agreed upon your
verdict?’

‘We are,’ replied the foreman.

‘Do you find for the plaintiff, gentlemen, or for the defendant?’

For the plaintiff.’

‘With what damages, gentlemen?’

‘Seven hundred and fifty pounds.’

Mr. Pickwick took off his spectacles, carefully wiped the glasses,
folded them into their case, and put them in his pocket; then, having
drawn on his gloves with great nicety, and stared at the foreman all the
while, he mechanically followed Mr. Perker and the blue bag out of
court.

They stopped in a side room while Perker paid the court fees; and here,
Mr. Pickwick was joined by his friends. Here, too, he encountered
Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, rubbing their hands with every token of outward
satisfaction.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well, Sir,’ said Dodson, for self and partner.

‘You imagine you’ll get your costs, don’t you, gentlemen?’ said Mr.
Pickwick.

Fogg said they thought it rather probable. Dodson smiled, and said
they’d try.

‘You may try, and try, and try again, Messrs. Dodson and Fogg,’ said Mr.
Pickwick vehemently, ‘but not one farthing of costs or damages do you
ever get from me, if I spend the rest of my existence in a debtor’s
prison.’

‘Ha! ha!’ laughed Dodson. ‘You’ll think better of that, before next
term, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘He, he, he! We’ll soon see about that, Mr. Pickwick,’ grinned Fogg.

Speechless with indignation, Mr. Pickwick allowed himself to be led by

his solicitor and friends to the door, and there assisted into a
hackney-coach, which had been fetched for the purpose, by the ever-
watchful Sam Weller.

Sam had put up the steps, and was preparing to jump upon the box, when
he felt himself gently touched on the shoulder; and, looking round, his
father stood before him. The old gentleman’s countenance wore a mournful
expression, as he shook his head gravely, and said, in warning accents--

‘I know’d what ‘ud come o’ this here mode o’ doin’ bisness. Oh, Sammy,
Sammy, vy worn’t there a alleybi!’

CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH MR. PICKWICK THINKS HE HAD BETTER GO TO BATH; AND
GOES ACCORDINGLY

But surely, my dear sir,’ said little Perker, as he stood in Mr.

Pickwick’s apartment on the morning after the trial, ‘surely you don’t
really mean--really and seriously now, and irritation apart--that you
won’t pay these costs and damages?’

‘Not one halfpenny,’ said Mr. Pickwick firmly; ‘not one halfpenny.’

‘Hooroar for the principle, as the money-lender said ven he vouldn’t

renew the bill,’ observed Mr. Weller, who was clearing away the
breakfast-things.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘have the goodness to step downstairs.’

‘Cert’nly, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; and acting on Mr. Pickwick’s gentle
hint, Sam retired.

‘No, Perker,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with great seriousness of manner, ‘my
friends here have endeavoured to dissuade me from this determination,
but without avail. I shall employ myself as usual, until the opposite
party have the power of issuing a legal process of execution against me;
and if they are vile enough to avail themselves of it, and to arrest my
person, I shall yield myself up with perfect cheerfulness and content of
heart. When can they do this?’

‘They can issue execution, my dear Sir, for the amount of the damages
and taxed costs, next term,’ replied Perker, ‘just two months hence, my
dear sir.’

‘Very good,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Until that time, my dear fellow, let me
hear no more of the matter. And now,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, looking
round on his friends with a good-humoured smile, and a sparkle in the
eye which no spectacles could dim or conceal, ‘the only question is,
Where shall we go next?’

Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were too much affected by their friend’s
heroism to offer any reply. Mr. Winkle had not yet sufficiently
recovered the recollection of his evidence at the trial, to make any
observation on any subject, so Mr. Pickwick paused in vain.

‘Well,’ said that gentleman, ‘if you leave me to suggest our

destination, I say Bath. I think none of us have ever been there.’
Nobody had; and as the proposition was warmly seconded by Perker, who
considered it extremely probable that if Mr. Pickwick saw a little
change and gaiety he would be inclined to think better of his
determination, and worse of a debtor’s prison, it was carried
unanimously; and Sam was at once despatched to the White Horse Cellar,
to take five places by the half-past seven o’clock coach, next morning.

There were just two places to be had inside, and just three to be had
out; so Sam Weller booked for them all, and having exchanged a few
compliments with the booking-office clerk on the subject of a pewter
half-crown which was tendered him as a portion of his ‘change,’ walked
back to the George and Vulture, where he was pretty busily employed
until bed-time in reducing clothes and linen into the smallest possible
compass, and exerting his mechanical genius in constructing a variety of
ingenious devices for keeping the lids on boxes which had neither locks
nor hinges.

The next was a very unpropitious morning for a journey--muggy, damp, and
drizzly. The horses in the stages that were going out, and had come
through the city, were smoking so, that the outside passengers were
invisible. The newspaper-sellers looked moist, and smelled mouldy; the
wet ran off the hats of the orange-vendors as they thrust their heads
into the coach windows, and diluted the insides in a refreshing manner.
The Jews with the fifty-bladed penknives shut them up in despair; the
men with the pocket-books made pocket-books of them. Watch-guards and
toasting-forks were alike at a discount, and pencil-cases and sponges
were a drug in the market.

Leaving Sam Weller to rescue the luggage from the seven or eight porters
who flung themselves savagely upon it, the moment the coach stopped, and
finding that they were about twenty minutes too early, Mr. Pickwick and
his friends went for shelter into the travellers’ room--the last
resource of human dejection.

The travellers’ room at the White Horse Cellar is of course

uncomfortable; it would be no travellers’ room if it were not. It is the
right-hand parlour, into which an aspiring kitchen fireplace appears to
have walked, accompanied by a rebellious poker, tongs, and shovel. It is
divided into boxes, for the solitary confinement of travellers, and is
furnished with a clock, a looking-glass, and a live waiter, which latter
article is kept in a small kennel for washing glasses, in a corner of
the apartment.

One of these boxes was occupied, on this particular occasion, by a

stern-eyed man of about five-and-forty, who had a bald and glossy
forehead, with a good deal of black hair at the sides and back of his
head, and large black whiskers. He was buttoned up to the chin in a
brown coat; and had a large sealskin travelling-cap, and a greatcoat and
cloak, lying on the seat beside him. He looked up from his breakfast as
Mr. Pickwick entered, with a fierce and peremptory air, which was very
dignified; and, having scrutinised that gentleman and his companions to
his entire satisfaction, hummed a tune, in a manner which seemed to say
that he rather suspected somebody wanted to take advantage of him, but
it wouldn’t do.

‘Waiter,’ said the gentleman with the whiskers.

‘Sir?’ replied a man with a dirty complexion, and a towel of the same,
emerging from the kennel before mentioned.
‘Some more toast.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Buttered toast, mind,’ said the gentleman fiercely.

‘Directly, sir,’ replied the waiter.

The gentleman with the whiskers hummed a tune in the same manner as
before, and pending the arrival of the toast, advanced to the front of
the fire, and, taking his coat tails under his arms, looked at his boots
and ruminated.

‘I wonder whereabouts in Bath this coach puts up,’ said Mr. Pickwick,
mildly addressing Mr. Winkle.

‘Hum--eh--what’s that?’ said the strange man.

‘I made an observation to my friend, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, always

ready to enter into conversation. ‘I wondered at what house the Bath
coach put up. Perhaps you can inform me.’

Are you going to Bath?’ said the strange man.

‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘And those other gentlemen?’

‘They are going also,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not inside--I’ll be damned if you’re going inside,’ said the strange

man.

‘Not all of us,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, not all of you,’ said the strange man emphatically. ‘I’ve taken two
places. If they try to squeeze six people into an infernal box that only
holds four, I’ll take a post-chaise and bring an action. I’ve paid my
fare. It won’t do; I told the clerk when I took my places that it
wouldn’t do. I know these things have been done. I know they are done
every day; but I never was done, and I never will be. Those who know me
best, best know it; crush me!’ Here the fierce gentleman rang the bell
with great violence, and told the waiter he’d better bring the toast in
five seconds, or he’d know the reason why.

‘My good sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘you will allow me to observe that
this is a very unnecessary display of excitement. I have only taken
places inside for two.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said the fierce man. ‘I withdraw my expressions.

I tender an apology. There’s my card. Give me your acquaintance.’

‘With great pleasure, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘We are to be fellow-
travellers, and I hope we shall find each other’s society mutually
agreeable.’

‘I hope we shall,’ said the fierce gentleman. ‘I know we shall. I like

your looks; they please me. Gentlemen, your hands and names. Know me.’
Of course, an interchange of friendly salutations followed this gracious
speech; and the fierce gentleman immediately proceeded to inform the
friends, in the same short, abrupt, jerking sentences, that his name was
Dowler; that he was going to Bath on pleasure; that he was formerly in
the army; that he had now set up in business as a gentleman; that he
lived upon the profits; and that the individual for whom the second
place was taken, was a personage no less illustrious than Mrs. Dowler,
his lady wife.

‘She’s a fine woman,’ said Mr. Dowler. ‘I am proud of her. I have

reason.’

‘I hope I shall have the pleasure of judging,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a
smile.

‘You shall,’ replied Dowler. ‘She shall know you. She shall esteem you.
I courted her under singular circumstances. I won her through a rash
vow. Thus. I saw her; I loved her; I proposed; she refused me.--“You
love another?”--“Spare my blushes.”--“I know him.”--“You do.”--“Very
good; if he remains here, I’ll skin him.”’

‘Lord bless me!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick involuntarily.

‘Did you skin the gentleman, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, with a very pale
face.

‘I wrote him a note, I said it was a painful thing. And so it was.’

‘Certainly,’ interposed Mr. Winkle.

‘I said I had pledged my word as a gentleman to skin him. My character

was at stake. I had no alternative. As an officer in His Majesty’s
service, I was bound to skin him. I regretted the necessity, but it must
be done. He was open to conviction. He saw that the rules of the service
were imperative. He fled. I married her. Here’s the coach. That’s her
head.’

As Mr. Dowler concluded, he pointed to a stage which had just driven up,
from the open window of which a rather pretty face in a bright blue
bonnet was looking among the crowd on the pavement, most probably for
the rash man himself. Mr. Dowler paid his bill, and hurried out with his
travelling cap, coat, and cloak; and Mr. Pickwick and his friends
followed to secure their places.

Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had seated themselves at the back part of
the coach; Mr. Winkle had got inside; and Mr. Pickwick was preparing to
follow him, when Sam Weller came up to his master, and whispering in his
ear, begged to speak to him, with an air of the deepest mystery.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘what’s the matter now?’

‘Here’s rayther a rum go, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘What?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘This here, Sir,’ rejoined Sam. ‘I’m wery much afeerd, sir, that the
properiator o’ this here coach is a playin’ some imperence vith us.’
‘How is that, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘aren’t the names down on the
way-bill?’

‘The names is not only down on the vay-bill, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘but
they’ve painted vun on ‘em up, on the door o’ the coach.’ As Sam spoke,
he pointed to that part of the coach door on which the proprietor’s name
usually appears; and there, sure enough, in gilt letters of a goodly
size, was the magic name of _Pickwick_!

‘Dear me,’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite staggered by the coincidence;

‘what a very extraordinary thing!’

‘Yes, but that ain’t all,’ said Sam, again directing his master’s
attention to the coach door; ‘not content vith writin’ up “Pick-wick,”
they puts “Moses” afore it, vich I call addin’ insult to injury, as the
parrot said ven they not only took him from his native land, but made
him talk the English langwidge arterwards.’

‘It’s odd enough, certainly, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but if we stand
talking here, we shall lose our places.’

‘Wot, ain’t nothin’ to be done in consequence, sir?’ exclaimed Sam,

perfectly aghast at the coolness with which Mr. Pickwick prepared to
ensconce himself inside.

‘Done!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘What should be done?’

Ain’t nobody to be whopped for takin’ this here liberty, sir?’ said Mr.
Weller, who had expected that at least he would have been commissioned
to challenge the guard and the coachman to a pugilistic encounter on the
spot.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick eagerly; ‘not on any account. Jump
up to your seat directly.’

‘I am wery much afeered,’ muttered Sam to himself, as he turned away,

‘that somethin’ queer’s come over the governor, or he’d never ha’ stood
this so quiet. I hope that ‘ere trial hasn’t broke his spirit, but it
looks bad, wery bad.’ Mr. Weller shook his head gravely; and it is
worthy of remark, as an illustration of the manner in which he took this
circumstance to heart, that he did not speak another word until the
coach reached the Kensington turnpike. Which was so long a time for him
to remain taciturn, that the fact may be considered wholly
unprecedented.

Nothing worthy of special mention occurred during the journey. Mr.

Dowler related a variety of anecdotes, all illustrative of his own
personal prowess and desperation, and appealed to Mrs. Dowler in
corroboration thereof; when Mrs. Dowler invariably brought in, in the
form of an appendix, some remarkable fact or circumstance which Mr.
Dowler had forgotten, or had perhaps through modesty, omitted; for the
addenda in every instance went to show that Mr. Dowler was even a more
wonderful fellow than he made himself out to be. Mr. Pickwick and Mr.
Winkle listened with great admiration, and at intervals conversed with
Mrs. Dowler, who was a very agreeable and fascinating person. So, what
between Mr. Dowler’s stories, and Mrs. Dowler’s charms, and Mr.
Pickwick’s good-humour, and Mr. Winkle’s good listening, the insides
contrived to be very companionable all the way.
The outsides did as outsides always do. They were very cheerful and
talkative at the beginning of every stage, and very dismal and sleepy in
the middle, and very bright and wakeful again towards the end. There was
one young gentleman in an India-rubber cloak, who smoked cigars all day;
and there was another young gentleman in a parody upon a greatcoat, who
lighted a good many, and feeling obviously unsettled after the second
whiff, threw them away when he thought nobody was looking at him. There
was a third young man on the box who wished to be learned in cattle; and
an old one behind, who was familiar with farming. There was a constant
succession of Christian names in smock-frocks and white coats, who were
invited to have a ‘lift’ by the guard, and who knew every horse and
hostler on the road and off it; and there was a dinner which would have
been cheap at half-a-crown a mouth, if any moderate number of mouths
could have eaten it in the time. And at seven o’clock P.M. Mr. Pickwick
and his friends, and Mr. Dowler and his wife, respectively retired to
their private sitting-rooms at the White Hart Hotel, opposite the Great
Pump Room, Bath, where the waiters, from their costume, might be
mistaken for Westminster boys, only they destroy the illusion by
behaving themselves much better.

Breakfast had scarcely been cleared away on the succeeding morning, when
a waiter brought in Mr. Dowler’s card, with a request to be allowed
permission to introduce a friend. Mr. Dowler at once followed up the
delivery of the card, by bringing himself and the friend also.

The friend was a charming young man of not much more than fifty, dressed
in a very bright blue coat with resplendent buttons, black trousers, and
the thinnest possible pair of highly-polished boots. A gold eye-glass
was suspended from his neck by a short, broad, black ribbon; a gold
snuff-box was lightly clasped in his left hand; gold rings innumerable
glittered on his fingers; and a large diamond pin set in gold glistened
in his shirt frill. He had a gold watch, and a gold curb chain with
large gold seals; and he carried a pliant ebony cane with a gold top.
His linen was of the very whitest, finest, and stiffest; his wig of the
glossiest, blackest, and curliest. His snuff was princes’ mixture; his
scent _bouquet du roi_. His features were contracted into a perpetual
smile; and his teeth were in such perfect order that it was difficult at
a small distance to tell the real from the false.

‘Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mr. Dowler; ‘my friend, Angelo Cyrus Bantam,
Esquire, M.C.; Bantam; Mr. Pickwick. Know each other.’

‘Welcome to Ba--ath, Sir. This is indeed an acquisition. Most welcome to

Ba--ath, sir. It is long--very long, Mr. Pickwick, since you drank the
waters. It appears an age, Mr. Pickwick. Re-markable!’

Such were the expressions with which Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C.,
took Mr. Pickwick’s hand; retaining it in his, meantime, and shrugging
up his shoulders with a constant succession of bows, as if he really
could not make up his mind to the trial of letting it go again.

‘It is a very long time since I drank the waters, certainly,’ replied
Mr. Pickwick; ‘for, to the best of my knowledge, I was never here
before.’

‘Never in Ba--ath, Mr. Pickwick!’ exclaimed the Grand Master, letting

the hand fall in astonishment. ‘Never in Ba--ath! He! he! Mr. Pickwick,
you are a wag. Not bad, not bad. Good, good. He! he! he! Re-markable!’
‘To my shame, I must say that I am perfectly serious,’ rejoined Mr.
Pickwick. ‘I really never was here before.’

‘Oh, I see,’ exclaimed the Grand Master, looking extremely pleased;

‘yes, yes--good, good--better and better. You are the gentleman of whom
we have heard. Yes; we know you, Mr. Pickwick; we know you.’

‘The reports of the trial in those confounded papers,’ thought Mr.

Pickwick. ‘They have heard all about me.’

You are the gentleman residing on Clapham Green,’ resumed Bantam, ‘who
lost the use of his limbs from imprudently taking cold after port wine;
who could not be moved in consequence of acute suffering, and who had
the water from the king’s bath bottled at one hundred and three degrees,
and sent by wagon to his bedroom in town, where he bathed, sneezed, and
the same day recovered. Very remarkable!’

Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment which the supposition implied,

but had the self-denial to repudiate it, notwithstanding; and taking
advantage of a moment’s silence on the part of the M.C., begged to
introduce his friends, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. An
introduction which overwhelmed the M.C. with delight and honour.

‘Bantam,’ said Mr. Dowler, ‘Mr. Pickwick and his friends are strangers.
They must put their names down. Where’s the book?’

‘The register of the distinguished visitors in Ba--ath will be at the

Pump Room this morning at two o’clock,’ replied the M.C. ‘Will you guide
our friends to that splendid building, and enable me to procure their
autographs?’

‘I will,’ rejoined Dowler. ‘This is a long call. It’s time to go. I

shall be here again in an hour. Come.’

‘This is a ball-night,’ said the M.C., again taking Mr. Pickwick’s hand,
as he rose to go. ‘The ball-nights in Ba--ath are moments snatched from
paradise; rendered bewitching by music, beauty, elegance, fashion,
etiquette, and--and--above all, by the absence of tradespeople, who are
quite inconsistent with paradise, and who have an amalgamation of
themselves at the Guildhall every fortnight, which is, to say the least,
remarkable. Good-bye, good-bye!’ and protesting all the way downstairs
that he was most satisfied, and most delighted, and most overpowered,
and most flattered, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C., stepped into a
very elegant chariot that waited at the door, and rattled off.

At the appointed hour, Mr. Pickwick and his friends, escorted by Dowler,
repaired to the Assembly Rooms, and wrote their names down in the book--
an instance of condescension at which Angelo Bantam was even more
overpowered than before. Tickets of admission to that evening’s assembly
were to have been prepared for the whole party, but as they were not
ready, Mr. Pickwick undertook, despite all the protestations to the
contrary of Angelo Bantam, to send Sam for them at four o’clock in the
afternoon, to the M.C.’s house in Queen Square. Having taken a short
walk through the city, and arrived at the unanimous conclusion that Park
Street was very much like the perpendicular streets a man sees in a
dream, which he cannot get up for the life of him, they returned to the
White Hart, and despatched Sam on the errand to which his master had
pledged him.
Sam Weller put on his hat in a very easy and graceful manner, and,
thrusting his hands in his waistcoat pockets, walked with great
deliberation to Queen Square, whistling as he went along, several of the
most popular airs of the day, as arranged with entirely new movements
for that noble instrument the organ, either mouth or barrel. Arriving at
the number in Queen Square to which he had been directed, he left off
whistling and gave a cheerful knock, which was instantaneously answered
by a powdered-headed footman in gorgeous livery, and of symmetrical
stature.

‘Is this here Mr. Bantam’s, old feller?’ inquired Sam Weller, nothing
abashed by the blaze of splendour which burst upon his sight in the
person of the powdered-headed footman with the gorgeous livery.

‘Why, young man?’ was the haughty inquiry of the powdered-headed

footman.

‘’Cos if it is, jist you step in to him with that ‘ere card, and say Mr.
Veller’s a-waitin’, will you?’ said Sam. And saying it, he very coolly
walked into the hall, and sat down.

The powdered-headed footman slammed the door very hard, and scowled very
grandly; but both the slam and the scowl were lost upon Sam, who was
regarding a mahogany umbrella-stand with every outward token of critical
approval.

Apparently his master’s reception of the card had impressed the

powdered-headed footman in Sam’s favour, for when he came back from
delivering it, he smiled in a friendly manner, and said that the answer
would be ready directly.

‘Wery good,’ said Sam. ‘Tell the old gen’l’m’n not to put himself in a
perspiration. No hurry, six-foot. I’ve had my dinner.’

‘You dine early, sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman.

‘I find I gets on better at supper when I does,’ replied Sam.

‘Have you been long in Bath, sir?’ inquired the powdered-headed footman.
‘I have not had the pleasure of hearing of you before.’

‘I haven’t created any wery surprisin’ sensation here, as yet,’ rejoined

Sam, ‘for me and the other fash’nables only come last night.’

‘Nice place, Sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman.

‘Seems so,’ observed Sam.

‘Pleasant society, sir,’ remarked the powdered-headed footman. ‘Very

agreeable servants, sir.’

‘I should think they wos,’ replied Sam. ‘Affable, unaffected, say-

nothin’-to-nobody sorts o’ fellers.’

‘Oh, very much so, indeed, sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman,
taking Sam’s remarks as a high compliment. ‘Very much so indeed. Do you
do anything in this way, Sir?’ inquired the tall footman, producing a
small snuff-box with a fox’s head on the top of it.
‘Not without sneezing,’ replied Sam.

‘Why, it _is_ difficult, sir, I confess,’ said the tall footman. ‘It may
be done by degrees, Sir. Coffee is the best practice. I carried coffee,
Sir, for a long time. It looks very like rappee, sir.’

Here, a sharp peal at the bell reduced the powdered-headed footman to

the ignominious necessity of putting the fox’s head in his pocket, and
hastening with a humble countenance to Mr. Bantam’s ‘study.’ By the bye,
who ever knew a man who never read or wrote either, who hadn’t got some
small back parlour which he _would _call a study!

‘There is the answer, sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman. ‘I’m

afraid you’ll find it inconveniently large.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Sam, taking a letter with a small enclosure.
‘It’s just possible as exhausted natur’ may manage to surwive it.’

‘I hope we shall meet again, Sir,’ said the powdered-headed footman,

rubbing his hands, and following Sam out to the door-step.

‘You are wery obligin’, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Now, don’t allow yourself to
be fatigued beyond your powers; there’s a amiable bein’. Consider what
you owe to society, and don’t let yourself be injured by too much work.
For the sake o’ your feller-creeturs, keep yourself as quiet as you can;
only think what a loss you would be!’ With these pathetic words, Sam
Weller departed.

‘A very singular young man that,’ said the powdered-headed footman,

looking after Mr. Weller, with a countenance which clearly showed he
could make nothing of him.

Sam said nothing at all. He winked, shook his head, smiled, winked
again; and, with an expression of countenance which seemed to denote
that he was greatly amused with something or other, walked merrily away.

At precisely twenty minutes before eight o’clock that night, Angelo

Cyrus Bantam, Esq., the Master of the Ceremonies, emerged from his
chariot at the door of the Assembly Rooms in the same wig, the same
teeth, the same eye-glass, the same watch and seals, the same rings, the
same shirt-pin, and the same cane. The only observable alterations in
his appearance were, that he wore a brighter blue coat, with a white
silk lining, black tights, black silk stockings, and pumps, and a white
waistcoat, and was, if possible, just a thought more scented.

Thus attired, the Master of the Ceremonies, in strict discharge of the

important duties of his all-important office, planted himself in the
room to receive the company.

Bath being full, the company, and the sixpences for tea, poured in, in
shoals. In the ballroom, the long card-room, the octagonal card-room,
the staircases, and the passages, the hum of many voices, and the sound
of many feet, were perfectly bewildering. Dresses rustled, feathers
waved, lights shone, and jewels sparkled. There was the music--not of
the quadrille band, for it had not yet commenced; but the music of soft,
tiny footsteps, with now and then a clear, merry laugh--low and gentle,
but very pleasant to hear in a female voice, whether in Bath or
elsewhere. Brilliant eyes, lighted up with pleasurable expectation,
gleamed from every side; and, look where you would, some exquisite form
glided gracefully through the throng, and was no sooner lost, than it
was replaced by another as dainty and bewitching.

In the tea-room, and hovering round the card-tables, were a vast number
of queer old ladies, and decrepit old gentlemen, discussing all the
small talk and scandal of the day, with a relish and gusto which
sufficiently bespoke the intensity of the pleasure they derived from the
occupation. Mingled with these groups, were three or four match-making
mammas, appearing to be wholly absorbed by the conversation in which
they were taking part, but failing not from time to time to cast an
anxious sidelong glance upon their daughters, who, remembering the
maternal injunction to make the best use of their youth, had already
commenced incipient flirtations in the mislaying scarves, putting on
gloves, setting down cups, and so forth; slight matters apparently, but
which may be turned to surprisingly good account by expert
practitioners.

Lounging near the doors, and in remote corners, were various knots of
silly young men, displaying various varieties of puppyism and stupidity;
amusing all sensible people near them with their folly and conceit; and
happily thinking themselves the objects of general admiration--a wise
and merciful dispensation which no good man will quarrel with.

And lastly, seated on some of the back benches, where they had already
taken up their positions for the evening, were divers unmarried ladies
past their grand climacteric, who, not dancing because there were no
partners for them, and not playing cards lest they should be set down as
irretrievably single, were in the favourable situation of being able to
abuse everybody without reflecting on themselves. In short, they could
abuse everybody, because everybody was there. It was a scene of gaiety,
glitter, and show; of richly-dressed people, handsome mirrors, chalked
floors, girandoles and wax-candles; and in all parts of the scene,
gliding from spot to spot in silent softness, bowing obsequiously to
this party, nodding familiarly to that, and smiling complacently on all,
was the sprucely-attired person of Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, the
Master of the Ceremonies.

‘Stop in the tea-room. Take your sixpenn’orth. Then lay on hot water,
and call it tea. Drink it,’ said Mr. Dowler, in a loud voice, directing
Mr. Pickwick, who advanced at the head of the little party, with Mrs.
Dowler on his arm. Into the tea-room Mr. Pickwick turned; and catching
sight of him, Mr. Bantam corkscrewed his way through the crowd and
welcomed him with ecstasy.

‘My dear Sir, I am highly honoured. Ba--ath is favoured. Mrs. Dowler,

you embellish the rooms. I congratulate you on your feathers. Re-
markable!’

‘Anybody here?’ inquired Dowler suspiciously.

‘Anybody! The _elite _of Ba--ath. Mr. Pickwick, do you see the old lady
in the gauze turban?’

‘The fat old lady?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick innocently.

‘Hush, my dear sir--nobody’s fat or old in Ba--ath. That’s the Dowager

Lady Snuphanuph.’

‘Is it, indeed?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No less a person, I assure you,’ said the Master of the Ceremonies.
‘Hush. Draw a little nearer, Mr. Pickwick. You see the splendidly-
dressed young man coming this way?’

‘The one with the long hair, and the particularly small forehead?’
inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘The same. The richest young man in Ba--ath at this moment. Young Lord
Mutanhed.’

‘You don’t say so?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes. You’ll hear his voice in a moment, Mr. Pickwick. He’ll speak to
me. The other gentleman with him, in the red under-waistcoat and dark
moustache, is the Honourable Mr. Crushton, his bosom friend. How do you
do, my Lord?’

‘Veway hot, Bantam,’ said his Lordship.

‘It _is_ very warm, my Lord,’ replied the M.C.

‘Confounded,’ assented the Honourable Mr. Crushton.

‘Have you seen his Lordship’s mail-cart, Bantam?’ inquired the

Honourable Mr. Crushton, after a short pause, during which young Lord
Mutanhed had been endeavouring to stare Mr. Pickwick out of countenance,
and Mr. Crushton had been reflecting what subject his Lordship could
talk about best.

‘Dear me, no,’ replied the M.C. ‘A mail-cart! What an excellent idea.
Re-markable!’

‘Gwacious heavens!’ said his Lordship, ‘I thought evewebody had seen the
new mail-cart; it’s the neatest, pwettiest, gwacefullest thing that ever
wan upon wheels. Painted wed, with a cweam piebald.’

‘With a real box for the letters, and all complete,’ said the Honourable
Mr. Crushton.

‘And a little seat in fwont, with an iwon wail, for the dwiver,’ added
his Lordship. ‘I dwove it over to Bwistol the other morning, in a
cwimson coat, with two servants widing a quarter of a mile behind; and
confound me if the people didn’t wush out of their cottages, and awest
my pwogwess, to know if I wasn’t the post. Glorwious--glorwious!’

At this anecdote his Lordship laughed very heartily, as did the

listeners, of course. Then, drawing his arm through that of the
obsequious Mr. Crushton, Lord Mutanhed walked away.

‘Delightful young man, his Lordship,’ said the Master of the Ceremonies.

‘So I should think,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick drily.

The dancing having commenced, the necessary introductions having been

made, and all preliminaries arranged, Angelo Bantam rejoined Mr.
Pickwick, and led him into the card-room.

Just at the very moment of their entrance, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph
and two other ladies of an ancient and whist-like appearance, were
hovering over an unoccupied card-table; and they no sooner set eyes upon
Mr. Pickwick under the convoy of Angelo Bantam, than they exchanged
glances with each other, seeing that he was precisely the very person
they wanted, to make up the rubber.

‘My dear Bantam,’ said the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph coaxingly, ‘find us
some nice creature to make up this table; there’s a good soul.’ Mr.
Pickwick happened to be looking another way at the moment, so her
Ladyship nodded her head towards him, and frowned expressively.

‘My friend Mr. Pickwick, my Lady, will be most happy, I am sure,

remarkably so,’ said the M.C., taking the hint. ‘Mr. Pickwick, Lady
Snuphanuph--Mrs. Colonel Wugsby--Miss Bolo.’

Mr. Pickwick bowed to each of the ladies, and, finding escape

impossible, cut. Mr. Pickwick and Miss Bolo against Lady Snuphanuph and
Mrs. Colonel Wugsby.