“Is Mr. Lowten here, ma’am?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“Yes, he is, sir,” replied the landlady. “Here, Charley, show the gentleman in to Mr. Lowten.”
“The gen’lm’n can’t go in just now,” said a shambling pot-boy, with a red head, “’cos Mr. Lowten’s singin’ a comic song, and he’ll put him out. He’ll be done d’rectly, sir.”
Well, you know, respectable solicitors (clerks) don’t sing comic songs at public houses nowadays, but that is how Mr. Pickwick found Mr. Lowten.
“Would you like to join us?” said Mr. Lowten, when at length he had finished his comic song and been introduced to Mr. Pickwick. And I am very glad that Mr. Pickwick did join them, as he heard something of the old Inns from old Jack Bamber.
“I have been to-night, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pickwick, hoping to start a subject which all the company could take a part in discussing—“I have been to-night in a place which you all know very well, doubtless, but which I have not been in for some years, and know very little of; I mean Gray’s Inn, gentlemen. Curious little nooks in a great place, like London, these old Inns are.”
“By Jove!” said the chairman, whispering across the table to Mr. Pickwick, “you have hit upon something that one of us, at least, would talk upon for ever. You’ll draw old Jack Bamber out; he was never heard to talk about anything else but the Inns, and he has lived alone in them till he’s half crazy.”
“Aha!” said the old man, a brief description of whose manner and appearance concluded the last chapter, “aha! who was talking about the Inns?”
“I was, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick; “I was observing what singular old places they are.”
“You!” said the old man, contemptuously. “What do you know of the time when young men shut themselves up in those lonely rooms, and read and read, hour after hour, and night after night, till their reason wandered beneath their midnight studies; till their mental powers were exhausted: till morning’s light brought no freshness or health to them; and they sank beneath the unnatural devotion of their youthful energies to their dry old books? Coming down to a later time, and a very different day, what do you know of the gradual sinking beneath consumption, or the quick wasting of fever—the grand results of ‘life’ and dissipation—which men have undergone in these same rooms? How many vain pleaders for mercy, do you think, have turned away heart-sick from the lawyer’s office, to find a resting-place in the Thames, or a refuge in the gaol? They are no ordinary houses, those. There is not a panel in the old wainscoting but what, if it were endowed with the powers of speech and memory, could start from the wall and tell its tale of horror—the romance of life, sir, the romance of life! Commonplace as they may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, and I would rather hear many a legend with a terrific-sounding name than the true history of one old set of chambers.”
There was something so odd in the old man’s sudden energy, and the subject which had called it forth, that Mr. Pickwick was prepared with no observation in reply; and the old man checking his impetuosity, and resuming the leer, which had disappeared during his previous excitement, said,—
“Look at them in another light; their most common-place and least romantic. What fine places of slow torture they are! Think of the needy man who has spent his all, beggared himself and pinched his friends to enter the profession, which will never yield him a morsel of bread. The waiting—the hope—the disappointment—the fear—the misery—the poverty—the blight on his hopes and end to his career—the suicide, perhaps, or the shabby, slipshod drunkard. Am I not right about them?” And the old man rubbed his hands, and leered as if in delight at having found another point of view in which to place his favourite subject.
Mr. Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and the remainder of the company smiled, and looked on in silence.
“Talk of your German universities,” said the little old man. “Pooh! pooh! there’s romance enough at home without going half a mile for it; only people never think of it.’”
“I never thought of the romance of this particular subject before, certainly,” said Mr. Pickwick, laughing.
“To be sure you didn’t,” said the little old man, “of course not. As a friend of mine used to say to me, ‘What is there in chambers in particular?’ ‘Queer old places,’ said I. ‘Not at all,’ said he. ‘Lonely,’ said I. ‘Not a bit of it,’ said he. He died one morning of apoplexy, as he was going to open his outer door. Fell with his head in his own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen months. Everybody thought he’d gone out of town.
“And how was he found out at last?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“The benchers determined to have his door broken open, as he hadn’t paid any rent for two years. So they did. Forced the lock; and a very dusty skeleton in a blue coat, black knee-shorts, and silks, fell forward in the arms of the porter who opened the door. Queer, that. Rather, perhaps?” The little old man put his head more on one side, and rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee.
“I know another case,” said the little old man, when his chuckles had in some degree subsided. “It occurred in Clifford’s Inn. Tenant of a top set—bad character—shut himself up in his bedroom closet, and took a dose of arsenic. The steward thought he had run away; opened the door and put a bill up. Another man came, took the chambers, furnished them, and went to live there. Somehow or other he couldn’t sleep—always restless and uncomfortable. ‘Odd,’ says he. ‘I’ll make the other room my bedchamber, and this my sitting-room.’ He made the change, and slept very well at night, but suddenly found that, somehow, he couldn’t read in the evening; he got nervous and uncomfortable, and used to be always snuffing his candles and staring about him. ‘I can’t make this out,’ said he, when he came home from the play one night, and was drinking a glass of cold grog, with his back to the wall, in order that he mightn’t be able to fancy there was any one behind him—‘I can’t make it out,’ said he; and just then his eyes rested on the little closet that had been always locked up, and a shudder ran through his whole frame from top to toe. ‘I have felt this strange feeling before,’ said he. ‘I can’t help thinking there’s something wrong about that closet.’ He made a strong effort, plucked up his courage, shivered the lock with a blow or two of the poker, opened the door, and there, sure enough, standing bolt upright in the corner, was the last tenant, with a little bottle clasped firmly in his hand, and his face—well!” As the little old man concluded he looked round on the attentive faces of his wondering auditory with a smile of grim delight.
“What strange things these are you tell us of, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, minutely scanning the old man’s countenance by the aid of his glasses.
“Strange!” said the little old man. “Nonsense; you think them strange because you know nothing about it. They are funny, but not uncommon.”
“Funny!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, involuntarily.
“Yes, funny, are they not?” replied the little old man, with a diabolical leer; and then, without pausing for an answer, he continued,—
“I knew another man—let me see—forty years ago now—who took an old, damp, rotten set of chambers in one of the most ancient Inns, that had been shut up and empty for years and years before. There were lots of old women’s stories about the place, and it certainly was very far from being a cheerful one; but he was poor, and the rooms were cheap, and that would have been quite a sufficient reason for him, if they had been ten times worse than they really were. He was obliged to take some mouldering fixtures that were on the place, and, among the rest, was a great lumbering wooden press for papers, with large glass doors, and a green curtain inside; a pretty useless thing for him, for he had no papers to put in it; and as to his clothes, he carried them about with him, and that wasn’t very hard work either. Well, he had moved in all his furniture—it wasn’t quite a truck-full—and had sprinkled it about the room, so as to make the four chairs look as much like a dozen as possible, and was sitting down before the fire at night, drinking the first glass of two gallons of whisky he had ordered on credit, wondering whether it would ever be paid for, and if so, in how many years’ time, when his eyes encountered the glass doors of the wooden press. ‘Ah,’ says he, ‘if I hadn’t been obliged to take that ugly article at the old broker’s valuation I might have got something comfortable for the money. I’ll tell you what it is, old fellow,’ he said, speaking aloud to the press, having nothing else to speak to, ‘if it wouldn’t cost more to break up your old carcase than it would ever be worth afterwards, I’d have a fire out of you in less than no time.’ He had hardly spoken the words when a sound, resembling a faint groan, appeared to issue from the interior of the case. It startled him at first, but thinking, on a moment’s reflection, that it must be some young fellow in the next chamber, who had been dining out, he put his feet on the fender, and raised the poker to stir the fire. At that moment the sound was repeated, and one of the glass doors slowly opening disclosed a pale and emaciated figure in soiled and worn apparel standing erect in the press. The figure was tall and thin, and the countenance expressive of care and anxiety; but there was something in the hue of the skin, and gaunt and unearthly appearance of the whole form, which no being of this world was ever seen to wear. ‘Who are you?’ said the new tenant, turning very pale, poising the poker in his hand, however, and taking a very decent aim at the countenance of the figure. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Don’t throw that poker at me,’ replied the form. ‘If you hurled it with ever so sure an aim, it would pass through me without resistance, and expend its force on the wood behind. I am a spirit.’ ‘And, pray, what do you want here?’ faltered the tenant. ‘In this room,’ replied the apparition, ‘my worldly ruin was worked, and I and my children beggared. In this press the papers in a long, long suit, which accumulated for years, were deposited. In this room, when I had died of grief and long-deferred hope, two wily harpies divided the wealth for which I had contested during a wretched existence, and of which, at last, not one farthing was left for my unhappy descendants. I terrified them from the spot, and since that day have prowled by night—the only period at which I can re-visit the earth—about the scenes of my long-protracted misery. This apartment is mine; leave it to me.’ ‘If you insist on making your appearance here,’ said the tenant, who had time to collect his presence of mind during this prosy statement of the ghost’s, ‘I shall give up possession with the greatest pleasure; but I should like to ask you one question, if you will allow me.’ ‘Say on,’ said the apparition, sternly. ‘Well,’ said the tenant, ‘I don’t apply the observation personally to you, because it is equally applicable to most of the ghosts I ever heard of; but it does appear to me somewhat inconsistent that when you have an opportunity of visiting the fairest spots of earth—for I suppose space is nothing to you—you should always return exactly to the very places where you have been most miserable.’ ‘Egad, that’s very true; I never thought of that before,’ said the ghost. ‘You see, sir,’ pursued the tenant, ‘this is a very uncomfortable room. From the appearance of that press I should be disposed to say that it is not wholly free from bugs; and I really think you might find much more comfortable quarters, to say nothing of the climate of London, which is extremely disagreeable.’ ‘You are very right, sir,’ said the ghost, politely; ‘it never struck me till now; I’ll try a change of air directly.’ In fact, he began to vanish as he spoke—his legs, indeed, had quite disappeared. ‘And if, sir,’ said the tenant, calling after him, ‘if you would have the goodness to suggest to the other ladies and gentlemen who are now engaged in haunting old empty houses, that they might be much more comfortable elsewhere, you will confer a very great benefit on society.’ ‘I will,’ replied the ghost; ‘we must be dull fellows, very dull fellows indeed; I can’t imagine how we can have been so stupid.’ With these words the spirit disappeared; and what is rather remarkable,” added the old man, with a shrewd look round the table, “he never came back again.”
But I must not delay longer over where the lawyers live. The lawyers of Dickens furnish me with three types of the practising solicitor or attorney,
each admirable in its way. First, Mr. Perker, whose aid Mr. Wardle seeks to release Miss Rachel Wardle from that scoundrel Jingle. He is described as 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.
He lived at Montague Place, Russell
Square, and had offices in Gray’s Inn, and appears to have had a large and very respectable business, into the details of which we have not time to travel; but perhaps the cleverest piece of business he ever did was when, as Agent to the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, he brought about the return of that honourable gentleman as Member of Parliament. I suppose we have all read the account of that memorable election, which is a pretty accurate record of what went on at Eatanswill, and I am credibly informed at many other places.
Mr. Pickwick and his companions, in their quest for experience, set out for the excitement of a contested election, and found their way to the agent’s room.
“Ah—ah, my dear sir,” said the little man, advancing to meet him; “very happy to see you, my dear sir, very. Pray sit down. So you have carried your intention into effect. You have come down here to see an election—eh?”
Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.
“Spirited contest, my dear sir,” said the little man.
“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands. “I like to see sturdy patriotism, on whatever side it is called forth;—and so it’s a spirited contest?”
“Oh, yes,” said the little man, “very much so indeed. We have opened all the public-houses in the place, and left our adversary nothing but the beer-shops—masterly stroke of policy that, my dear sir, eh?”
The little man smiled complacently, and took a large pinch of snuff.
“And what are the probabilities as to the result of the contest?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“Why, doubtful, my dear sir; rather doubtful as yet,” replied the little man. “Fizkin’s people have got three-and-thirty voters in the lock-up coach-house at the White Hart.”
“In the coach-house!” said Mr. Pickwick, considerably astonished by this second stroke of policy.
“They keep ’em locked up there till they want ’em,” resumed the little man. “The effect of that is, you see, to prevent our getting at them; and even if we could, it would be of no use, for they keep them very drunk on purpose. Smart fellow Fizkin’s agent—very smart fellow indeed.”
Mr. Pickwick stared, but said nothing.
“We are pretty confident, though,” said Mr. Perker, sinking his voice almost to a whisper. “We had a little tea-party here last night—five-and-forty women, my dear sir—and gave every one of ’em a green parasol when she went away.”
“A parasol?” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Fact, my dear sir, fact. Five-and-forty green parasols at seven and sixpence a-piece. All women like finery—extraordinary the effect of those parasols. Secured all their husbands, and half their brothers—beat stockings, and flannel, and all that sort of thing hollow. My idea, my dear sir, entirely. Hail, rain, or sunshine, you can’t walk half-a-dozen yards up the street without encountering half-a-dozen green parasols.”
On the day of the election the stable yard exhibited unequivocal symptoms of the glory and strength of the Eatanswill Blues. There was a regular army of blue flags, some with one handle, and some with two, exhibiting appropriate devices, in golden characters four feet high, and stout in proportion. There was a grand band of trumpets, bassoons, and drums, marshalled four abreast, and earning their money, if ever men did, especially the drum beaters, who were very muscular. There were bodies of constables with blue staves, twenty committee men with blue scarves, and a mob of voters with blue cockades. There were electors on horseback and electors on foot. There was an open carriage and four, for the Honourable Samuel Slumkey; and there were four carriages and pair, for his friends and supporters; and the flags were rustling, and the band was playing, and the constables were swearing, and the twenty committee men were squabbling, and the mob were shouting, and the horses were backing, and the post-boys were perspiring; and everybody, and everything, then and there assembled, was for the special use, behoof, honour, and renown, of the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, one of the candidates for the representation of the Borough of Eatanswill, in the Commons House of Parliament of the United Kingdom.
Loud and long were the cheers, and mighty was the rustling of one of the blue flags, with “Liberty of the Press” inscribed thereon, when the sandy head of Mr. Pott was discerned in one of the windows by the mob beneath; and tremendous was the enthusiasm when the Honourable Samuel Slumkey himself, in top boots, and a blue neckerchief, advanced and seized the hand of the said Pott, and melodramatically testified by gestures to the crowd his ineffaceable obligations to the Eatanswill Gazette.
“Is everything ready?” said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey to Mr. Perker.
“Everything, my dear sir,” was the little man’s reply.
“Nothing has been omitted, I hope?” said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.
“Nothing has been left undone, my dear sir—nothing whatever. There are twenty washed men at the street door for you to shake hands with; and six children in arms that you’re to pat on the head, and inquire the age of; be particular about the children, my dear sir,—it has always a great effect, that sort of thing.”
“I’ll take care,” said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.
“And perhaps, my dear sir,” said the cautious little man, “perhaps if you could—I don’t mean to say it’s indispensable—but if you could manage to kiss one of ’em it would produce a very great impression on the crowd.”
“Wouldn’t it have as good an effect if the proposer or seconder did that?” said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.
“Why, I am afraid it wouldn’t,” replied the agent; “if it were done by yourself, my dear sir, I think it would make you very popular.”
“Very well,” said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, with a resigned air, “then it must be done. That’s all.”
“Arrange the procession,” cried the twenty committee men.
Amidst the cheers of the assembled throng, the band, and the constables, and the committee men, and the voters, and the horsemen, and the carriages took their places—each of the two-horse vehicles being closely packed with as many gentlemen as could manage to stand upright in it; and that assigned to Mr. Perker containing Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and about half-a-dozen of the committee beside.
There was a moment of awful suspense as the procession waited for the Honourable Samuel Slumkey to step into his carriage. Suddenly the crowd set up a great cheering.
“He has come out,” said little Mr. Perker, greatly excited; the more so as their position did not enable them to see what was going forward.
“He has shaken hands with the men,” cried the little agent.
Another cheer, far more vehement.
“He has patted the babies on the head,” said Mr. Perker, trembling with anxiety.
A roar of applause that rent the air.
“He has kissed one of ’em!” exclaimed the delighted little man.
A second roar.
“He has kissed another,” gasped the excited manager.
A third roar.
“He’s kissing ’em all!” screamed the enthusiastic little gentleman. And hailed by the deafening shouts of the multitude the procession moved on.
Ladies and gentlemen, according to our modern ideas this account does not do much to raise Mr. Perker in our estimation; but the best testimonial to his memory is to be found