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, hot-el on the other, and two porters in the middle as
touts for licences.'
'Touts for licences!' said the gentleman.
'Touts for licences,' replied Sam. 'Two coves in vhite aprons--touches
their hats ven you walk in--"Licence, Sir, licence?" Queer sort, them,
and their mas'rs, too, sir--Old Bailey Proctors--and no mistake.'
'What do they do?' inquired the gentleman.
'Do! You, Sir! That ain't the worst on it, neither. They puts things
into old gen'l'm'n's heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wos
a coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything--uncommon fat,
to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down
he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt--very
smart--top boots on--nosegay in his button-hole--broad-brimmed
tile--green shawl--quite the gen'l'm'n. Goes through the archvay,
thinking how he should inwest the money--up comes the touter,
touches his hat--"Licence, Sir, licence?"--"What's that?" says
my father.--"Licence, Sir," says he.--"What licence?" says my
father.--"Marriage licence," says the touter.--"Dash my veskit," says my
father, "I never thought o' that."--"I think you wants one, Sir," says
the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit--"No," says he, "damme,
I'm too old, b'sides, I'm a many sizes too large," says he.--"Not a bit
on it, Sir," says the touter.--"Think not?" says my father.--"I'm
sure not," says he; "we married a gen'l'm'n twice your size, last
Monday."--"Did you, though?" said my father.--"To be sure, we did," says
the touter, "you're a babby to him--this way, sir--this way!"--and sure
enough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a horgan,
into a little back office, vere a teller sat among dirty papers, and tin
boxes, making believe he was busy. "Pray take a seat, vile I makes out
the affidavit, Sir," says the lawyer.--"Thank'ee, Sir," says my father,
and down he sat, and stared with all his eyes, and his mouth vide
open, at the names on the boxes. "What's your name, Sir," says the
lawyer.--"Tony Weller," says my father.--"Parish?" says the lawyer.
"Belle Savage," says my father; for he stopped there wen he drove up,
and he know'd nothing about parishes, he didn't.--"And what's the lady's
name?" says the lawyer. My father was struck all of a heap. "Blessed if
I know," says he.--"Not know!" says the lawyer.--"No more nor you do,"
says my father; "can't I put that in arterwards?"--"Impossible!" says
the lawyer.--"Wery well," says my father, after he'd thought a moment,
"put down Mrs. Clarke."--"What Clarke?" says the lawyer, dipping his pen
in the ink.--"Susan Clarke, Markis o' Granby, Dorking," says my father;
"she'll have me, if I ask. I des-say--I never said nothing to her, but
she'll have me, I know." The licence was made out, and she DID have
him, and what's more she's got him now; and I never had any of the four
hundred pound, worse luck. Beg your pardon, sir,' said Sam, when he had
concluded, 'but wen I gets on this here grievance, I runs on like a new
barrow with the wheel greased.' Having said which, and having paused for
an instant to see whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the
room.
'Half-past nine--just the time--off at once;' said the gentleman, whom
we need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle.
'Time--for what?' said the spinster aunt coquettishly.
'Licence, dearest of angels--give notice at the church--call you mine,
to-morrow'--said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt's hand.
'The licence!' said Rachael, blushing.
'The licence,' repeated Mr. Jingle--
'In hurry, post-haste for a licence,
In hurry, ding dong I come back.'
'How you run on,' said Rachael.
'Run on--nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years, when
we're united--run on--they'll fly
on--bolt--mizzle--steam-engine--thousand-horse power--nothing to it.'
'Can't--can't we be married before to-morrow morning?' inquired
Rachael. 'Impossible--can't be--notice at the church--leave the licence
to-day--ceremony come off to-morrow.' 'I am so terrified, lest my
brother should discover us!' said Rachael.
'Discover--nonsense--too much shaken by the break-down--besides--extreme
caution--gave up the post-chaise--walked on--took a hackney-coach--came
to the Borough--last place in the world that he'd look in--ha!
ha!--capital notion that--very.'
'Don't be long,' said the spinster affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuck
the pinched-up hat on his head.
'Long away from you?--Cruel charmer;' and Mr. Jingle skipped playfully
up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, and
danced out of the room.
'Dear man!' said the spinster, as the door closed after him.
'Rum old girl,' said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage.
It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we will
not, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle's meditations, as
he wended his way to Doctors' Commons. It will be sufficient for our
purpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons in white
aprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached the
vicar-general's office in safety and having procured a highly flattering
address on parchment, from the Archbishop of Canterbury, to his 'trusty
and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle, greeting,' he
carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket, and retraced his
steps in triumph to the Borough.
He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentleman
and one thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of some
authorised person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel
Weller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of
painted tops, the personal property of a farmer who was refreshing
himself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a
pot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and to
him the thin gentleman straightway advanced.
'My friend,' said the thin gentleman.
'You're one o' the adwice gratis order,' thought Sam, 'or you wouldn't
be so wery fond o' me all at once.' But he only said--'Well, Sir.'
'My friend,' said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem--'have you
got many people stopping here now? Pretty busy. Eh?'
Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man, with
a dark squeezed-up face, and small, restless, black eyes, that kept
winking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as if
they were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature. He
was dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white
neckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch-chain,
and seals, depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves IN his
hands, and not ON them; and as he spoke, thrust his wrists beneath his
coat tails, with the air of a man who was in the habit of propounding
some regular posers.
'Pretty busy, eh?' said the little man.
'Oh, wery well, Sir,' replied Sam, 'we shan't be bankrupts, and we
shan't make our fort'ns. We eats our biled mutton without capers, and
don't care for horse-radish ven ve can get beef.'
'Ah,' said the little man, 'you're a wag, ain't you?'
'My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint,' said Sam; 'it may
be catching--I used to sleep with him.'
'This is a curious old house of yours,' said the little man, looking
round him.
'If you'd sent word you was a-coming, we'd ha' had it repaired;' replied
the imperturbable Sam.
The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses, and a
short consultation took place between him and the two plump gentlemen.
At its conclusion, the little man took a pinch of snuff from an
oblong silver box, and was apparently on the point of renewing the
conversation, when one of the plump gentlemen, who in addition to a
benevolent countenance, possessed a pair of spectacles, and a pair of
black gaiters, interfered--
'The fact of the matter is,' said the benevolent gentleman, 'that my
friend here (pointing to the other plump gentleman) will give you half a
guinea, if you'll answer one or two--'
'Now, my dear sir--my dear Sir,' said the little man, 'pray, allow
me--my dear Sir, the very first principle to be observed in these cases,
is this: if you place the matter in the hands of a professional man,
you must in no way interfere in the progress of the business; you must
repose implicit confidence in him. Really, Mr.--' He turned to the other
plump gentleman, and said, 'I forget your friend's name.'
'Pickwick,' said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that jolly
personage.
'Ah, Pickwick--really Mr. Pickwick, my dear Sir, excuse me--I shall be
happy to receive any private suggestions of yours, as AMICUS CURIAE, but
you must see the impropriety of your interfering with my conduct in this
case, with such an AD CAPTANDUM argument as the offer of half a guinea.
Really, my dear Sir, really;' and the little man took an argumentative
pinch of snuff, and looked very profound.
'My only wish, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'was to bring this very
unpleasant matter to as speedy a close as possible.'
'Quite right--quite right,' said the little man.
'With which view,' continued Mr. Pickwick, 'I made use of the argument
which my experience of men has taught me is the most likely to succeed
in any case.'
'Ay, ay,' said the little man, 'very good, very good, indeed; but you
should have suggested it to me. My dear sir, I'm quite certain you
cannot be ignorant of the extent of confidence which must be placed in
professional men. If any authority can be necessary on such a point, my
dear sir, let me refer you to the well-known case in Barnwell and--'
'Never mind George Barnwell,' interrupted Sam, who had remained a
wondering listener during this short colloquy; 'everybody knows what
sort of a case his was, tho' it's always been my opinion, mind you, that
the young 'ooman deserved scragging a precious sight more than he did.
