Chapter XXXIII

Mr. WELLER THE ELDER DELIVERS SOME

CRITICAL SENTIMENTS RESPECTING

LITERARY COMPOSITION; AND, ASSISTED BY

HIS SON SAMUEL, PAYS A SMALL

INSTALMENT OF RETALIATION TO THE

ACCOUNT OF THE REVEREND GENTLEMAN

WITH THE RED NOSE

he morning of the thirteenth of February, which the

readers of this authentic narrative know, as well as we do,

to have been the day immediately preceding that which

was appointed for the trial of Mrs. Bardell’s action, was a busy

time for Mr. Samuel Weller, who was perpetually engaged in

travelling from the George and Vulture to Mr. Perker’s chambers

and back again, from and between the hours of nine o’clock in the

morning and two in the afternoon, both inclusive. Not that there

was anything whatever to be done, for the consultation had taken

place, and the course of proceeding to be adopted, had been finally

determined on; but Mr. Pickwick being in a most extreme state of

excitement, persevered in constantly sending small notes to his

attorney, merely containing the inquiry, ‘Dear Perker. Is all going

on well?’ to which Mr. Perker invariably forwarded the reply,

‘Dear Pickwick. As well as possible’; the fact being, as we have

already hinted, that there was nothing whatever to go on, either

well or ill, until the sitting of the court on the following morning.

But people who go voluntarily to law, or are taken forcibly

there, for the first time, may be allowed to labour under some

temporary irritation and anxiety; and Sam, with a due allowance

for the frailties of human nature, obeyed all his master’s behests

with that imperturbable good-humour and unruffable composure

which formed one of his most striking and amiable characteristics.

Sam had solaced himself with a most agreeable little dinner,

and was waiting at the bar for the glass of warm mixture in which

Mr. Pickwick had requested him to drown the fatigues of his

morning’s walks, when a young boy of about three feet high, or

thereabouts, in a hairy cap and fustian overalls, whose garb

bespoke a laudable ambition to attain in time the elevation of an

hostler, entered the passage of the George and Vulture, and looked

first up the stairs, and then along the passage, and then into the

bar, as if in search of somebody to whom he bore a commission;

whereupon the barmaid, conceiving it not improbable that the

said commission might be directed to the tea or table spoons of the

establishment, accosted the boy with―

‘Now, young man, what do you want?’

‘Is there anybody here, named Sam?’ inquired the youth, in a

loud voice of treble quality.

‘What’s the t’other name?’ said Sam Weller, looking round.

‘How should I know?’ briskly replied the young gentleman

below the hairy cap. ‘You’re a sharp boy, you are,’ said Mr. Weller;

‘only I wouldn’t show that wery fine edge too much, if I was you, in

case anybody took it off. What do you mean by comin’ to a hot-el,

and asking arter Sam, vith as much politeness as a vild Indian?’

‘’Cos an old gen’l’m’n told me to,’ replied the boy.

‘What old gen’l’m’n?’ inquired Sam, with deep disdain.

‘Him as drives a Ipswich coach, and uses our parlour,’ rejoined

the boy. ‘He told me yesterday mornin’ to come to the George and

Wultur this arternoon, and ask for Sam.’

‘It’s my father, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller, turning with an

explanatory air to the young lady in the bar; ‘blessed if I think he

hardly knows wot my other name is. Well, young brockiley sprout,

wot then?’

‘Why then,’ said the boy, ‘you was to come to him at six o’clock

to our ’ouse, ’cos he wants to see you―Blue Boar, Leaden’all

Markit. Shall I say you’re comin’?’

‘You may wenture on that ’ere statement, sir,’ replied Sam. And

thus empowered, the young gentleman walked away, awakening

all the echoes in George Yard as he did so, with several chaste and

extremely correct imitations of a drover’s whistle, delivered in a

tone of peculiar richness and volume.

Mr. Weller having obtained leave of absence from Mr. Pickwick,

who, in his then state of excitement and worry, was by no means

displeased at being left alone, set forth, long before the appointed

hour, and having plenty of time at his disposal, sauntered down as

far as the Mansion House, where he paused and contemplated,

with a face of great calmness and philosophy, the numerous cads

and drivers of short stages who assemble near that famous place

of resort, to the great terror and confusion of the old-lady

population of these realms. Having loitered here, for half an hour

or so, Mr. Weller turned, and began wending his way towards

Leadenhall Market, through a variety of by-streets and courts. As

he was sauntering away his spare time, and stopped to look at

almost every object that met his gaze, it is by no means surprising

that Mr. Weller should have paused before a small stationer’s and

print-seller’s window; but without further explanation it does

appear surprising that his eyes should have no sooner rested on

certain pictures which were exposed for sale therein, than he gave

a sudden start, smote his right leg with great vehemence, and

exclaimed, with energy, ‘if it hadn’t been for this, I should ha’

forgot all about it, till it was too late!’

The particular picture on which Sam Weller’s eyes were fixed,

as he said this, was a highly-coloured representation of a couple of

human hearts skewered together with an arrow, cooking before a

cheerful fire, while a male and female cannibal in modern attire,

the gentleman being clad in a blue coat and white trousers, and

the lady in a deep red pelisse with a parasol of the same, were

approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a serpentine gravel

path leading thereunto. A decidedly indelicate young gentleman,

in a pair of wings and nothing else, was depicted as

superintending the cooking; a representation of the spire of the

church in Langham Place, London, appeared in the distance; and

the whole formed a ‘valentine,’ of which, as a written inscription in

the window testified, there was a large assortment within, which

the shopkeeper pledged himself to dispose of, to his countrymen

generally, at the reduced rate of one-and-sixpence each.

‘I should ha’ forgot it; I should certainly ha’ forgot it!’ said Sam;

so saying, he at once stepped into the stationer’s shop, and

requested to be served with a sheet of the best gilt-edged letter-

paper, and a hard-nibbed pen which could be warranted not to

splutter. These articles having been promptly supplied, he walked

on direct towards Leadenhall Market at a good round pace, very

different from his recent lingering one. Looking round him, he

there beheld a signboard on which the painter’s art had delineated

something remotely resembling a cerulean elephant with an

aquiline nose in lieu of trunk. Rightly conjecturing that this was

the Blue Boar himself, he stepped into the house, and inquired

concerning his parent.

‘He won’t be here this three-quarters of an hour or more,’ said

the young lady who superintended the domestic arrangements of

the Blue Boar.

‘Wery good, my dear,’ replied Sam. ‘Let me have nine-penn’oth

o’ brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, will you, miss?’

The brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, having been

carried into the little parlour, and the young lady having carefully

flattened down the coals to prevent their blazing, and carried

away the poker to preclude the possibility of the fire being stirred,

without the full privity and concurrence of the Blue Boar being

first had and obtained, Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near

the stove, and pulled out the sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and

the hard-nibbed pen. Then looking carefully at the pen to see that

there were no hairs in it, and dusting down the table, so that there

might be no crumbs of bread under the paper, Sam tucked up the

cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and composed himself to

write.

To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of devoting

themselves practically to the science of penmanship, writing a

letter is no very easy task; it being always considered necessary in

such cases for the writer to recline his head on his left arm, so as

to place his eyes as nearly as possible on a level with the paper,

and, while glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, to

form with his tongue imaginary characters to correspond. These

motions, although unquestionably of the greatest assistance to

original composition, retard in some degree the progress of the

writer; and Sam had unconsciously been a full hour and a half

writing words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his

little finger, and putting in new ones which required going over

very often to render them visible through the old blots, when he

was roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of his

parent.

‘Vell, Sammy,’ said the father.

‘Vell, my Prooshan Blue,’ responded the son, laying down his

pen. ‘What’s the last bulletin about mother-in-law?’

‘Mrs. Veller passed a very good night, but is uncommon

perwerse, and unpleasant this mornin’. Signed upon oath, Tony

Veller, Esquire. That’s the last vun as was issued, Sammy,’ replied

Mr. Weller, untying his shawl.

‘No better yet?’ inquired Sam.

‘All the symptoms aggerawated,’ replied Mr. Weller, shaking his

head. ‘But wot’s that, you’re a-doin’ of? Pursuit of knowledge

under difficulties, Sammy?’

‘I’ve done now,’ said Sam, with slight embarrassment; ‘I’ve

been a-writin’.’

‘So I see,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Not to any young ’ooman, I hope,

Sammy?’

‘Why, it’s no use a-sayin’ it ain’t,’ replied Sam; ‘it’s a walentine.’

‘A what!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken by

the word.

‘A walentine,’ replied Sam. ‘Samivel, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller,

in reproachful accents, ‘I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it. Arter the

warnin’ you’ve had o’ your father’s wicious propensities; arter all

I’ve said to you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally seein’

and bein’ in the company o’ your own mother-in-law, vich I should

ha’ thought wos a moral lesson as no man could never ha’

forgotten to his dyin’ day! I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it, Sammy,

I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it!’ These reflections were too much

for the good old man. He raised Sam’s tumbler to his lips and

drank off its contents.

‘Wot’s the matter now?’ said Sam.

‘Nev’r mind, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘it’ll be a wery

agonisin’ trial to me at my time of life, but I’m pretty tough, that’s

vun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked wen the farmer

said he wos afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London

market.’

‘Wot’ll be a trial?’ inquired Sam. ‘To see you married, Sammy―

to see you a dilluded wictim, and thinkin’ in your innocence that

it’s all wery capital,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘It’s a dreadful trial to a

father’s feelin’s, that ’ere, Sammy―’

‘Nonsense,’ said Sam. ‘I ain’t a-goin’ to get married, don’t you

fret yourself about that; I know you’re a judge of these things.

Order in your pipe and I’ll read you the letter. There!’

We cannot distinctly say whether it was the prospect of the

pipe, or the consolatory reflection that a fatal disposition to get

married ran in the family, and couldn’t be helped, which calmed

Mr. Weller’s feelings, and caused his grief to subside. We should

be rather disposed to say that the result was attained by

combining the two sources of consolation, for he repeated the

second in a low tone, very frequently; ringing the bell meanwhile,

to order in the first. He then divested himself of his upper coat;

and lighting the pipe and placing himself in front of the fire with

his back towards it, so that he could feel its full heat, and recline

against the mantel-piece at the same time, turned towards Sam,

and, with a countenance greatly mollified by the softening

influence of tobacco, requested him to ‘fire away.’

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections,

and began with a very theatrical air―

‘“Lovely―“‘

‘Stop,’ said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. ‘A double glass o’ the

inwariable, my dear.’

‘Very well, sir,’ replied the girl; who with great quickness

appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared.

‘They seem to know your ways here,’ observed Sam.

‘Yes,’ replied his father, ‘I’ve been here before, in my time. Go

on, Sammy.’

‘“Lovely creetur,”’ repeated Sam.

‘’Tain’t in poetry, is it?’ interposed his father.

‘No, no,’ replied Sam.

‘Wery glad to hear it,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Poetry’s unnat’ral; no

man ever talked poetry ’cept a beadle on boxin’-day, or Warren’s

blackin’, or Rowland’s oil, or some of them low fellows; never you

let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin agin, Sammy.’

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam

once more commenced, and read as follows:

‘“Lovely creetur I feel myself a damned―”’

‘That ain’t proper,’ said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his

mouth.

‘No; it ain’t “damned,”’ observed Sam, holding the letter up to

the light, ‘it’s “shamed,” there’s a blot there―“I feel myself

ashamed.”’

‘Wery good,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Go on.’

‘“Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir―’ I forget what this

here word is,’ said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain

attempts to remember.

‘Why don’t you look at it, then?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘So I am a-lookin’ at it,’ replied Sam, ‘but there’s another blot.

Here’s a “c,” and a “i,” and a “d.”’

‘Circumwented, p’raps,’ suggested Mr. Weller.

‘No, it ain’t that,’ said Sam, ‘“circumscribed”; that’s it.’

‘That ain’t as good a word as “circumwented,” Sammy,’ said

Mr. Weller gravely.

‘Think not?’ said Sam.

‘Nothin’ like it,’ replied his father.

‘But don’t you think it means more?’ inquired Sam.

‘Vell p’raps it’s a more tenderer word,’ said Mr. Weller, after a

few moments’ reflection.

‘Go on, Sammy.’

‘“Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a-

dressin’ of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin’ but it.”’

‘That’s a wery pretty sentiment,’ said the elder Mr. Weller,

removing his pipe to make way for the remark.

‘Yes, I think it is rayther good,’ observed Sam, highly flattered.

‘Wot I like in that ’ere style of writin’,’ said the elder Mr. Weller,

‘is, that there ain’t no callin’ names in it―no Wenuses, nor nothin’

o’ that kind. Wot’s the good o’ callin’ a young ’ooman a Wenus or a

angel, Sammy?’

‘Ah! what, indeed?’ replied Sam.

‘You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king’s

arms at once, which is wery well known to be a collection o’

fabulous animals,’ added Mr. Weller.

The Pickwick Papers

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

634

‘Just as well,’ replied Sam.

‘Drive on, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller.

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows; his

father continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom

and complacency, which was particularly edifying.

‘“Afore I see you, I thought all women was alike.”’

‘So they are,’ observed the elder Mr. Weller parenthetically.

‘“But now,”’ continued Sam, ‘“now I find what a reg’lar soft-

headed, inkred’lous turnip I must ha’ been; for there ain’t nobody

like you, though I like you better than nothin’ at all.” I thought it

best to make that rayther strong,’ said Sam, looking up.

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.

‘“So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear―as the

gen’l’m’n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday―to tell

you that the first and only time I see you, your likeness was took

on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colours than ever a

likeness was took by the profeel macheen (wich p’raps you may

have heerd on Mary my dear) altho it does finish a portrait and put

the frame and glass on complete, with a hook at the end to hang it

up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.”’

‘I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,’ said Mr.

Weller dubiously.

‘No, it don’t,’ replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid

contesting the point―

‘“Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine and think over

what I’ve said.―My dear Mary I will now conclude.” That’s all,’

said Sam.

‘That’s rather a Sudden pull-up, ain’t it, Sammy?’ inquired Mr.

Weller.

‘Not a bit on it,’ said Sam; ‘she’ll vish there wos more, and that’s the great art o’ letter-writin’.’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘there’s somethin’ in that; and I wish

your mother-in-law ’ud only conduct her conwersation on the

same gen-teel principle. Ain’t you a-goin’ to sign it?’

‘That’s the difficulty,’ said Sam; ‘I don’t know what to sign it.’

‘Sign it―“Veller”,’ said the oldest surviving proprietor of that

name.

‘Won’t do,’ said Sam. ‘Never sign a walentine with your own

name.’

‘Sign it “Pickwick,” then,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘it’s a wery good

name, and a easy one to spell.’

‘The wery thing,’ said Sam. ‘I could end with a werse; what do

you think?’

‘I don’t like it, Sam,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘I never know’d a

respectable coachman as wrote poetry, ’cept one, as made an

affectin’ copy o’ werses the night afore he was hung for a highway

robbery; and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that’s no

rule.’

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that

had occurred to him, so he signed the letter―

‘Your love-sick

Pickwick.’

And having folded it, in a very intricate manner, squeezed a

downhill direction in one corner: ‘To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr.

Nupkins’s, Mayor’s, Ipswich, Suffolk’; and put it into his pocket,

wafered, and ready for the general post. This important business

having been transacted, Mr. Weller the elder proceeded to open

that, on which he had summoned his son.

‘The first matter relates to your governor, Sammy,’ said Mr.

Weller. ‘He’s a-goin’ to be tried to-morrow, ain’t he?’

‘The trial’s a-comin’ on,’ replied Sam.

‘Vell,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘Now I s’pose he’ll want to call some

witnesses to speak to his character, or p’rhaps to prove a alleybi.

I’ve been a-turnin’ the bis’ness over in my mind, and he may make

his-self easy, Sammy. I’ve got some friends as’ll do either for him,

but my adwice ’ud be this here―never mind the character, and

stick to the alleybi. Nothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing.’ Mr.

Weller looked very profound as he delivered this legal opinion;

and burying his nose in his tumbler, winked over the top thereof,

at his astonished son. ‘Why, what do you mean?’ said Sam; ‘you

don’t think he’s a-goin’ to be tried at the Old Bailey, do you?’

‘That ain’t no part of the present consideration, Sammy,’

replied Mr. Weller. ‘Verever he’s a-goin’ to be tried, my boy, a

alleybi’s the thing to get him off. Ve got Tom Vildspark off that ’ere

manslaughter, with a alleybi, ven all the big vigs to a man said as

nothing couldn’t save him. And my ’pinion is, Sammy, that if your

governor don’t prove a alleybi, he’ll be what the Italians call

reg’larly flummoxed, and that’s all about it.’

As the elder Mr. Weller entertained a firm and unalterable

conviction that the Old Bailey was the supreme court of judicature

in this country, and that its rules and forms of proceeding

regulated and controlled the practice of all other courts of justice

whatsoever, he totally disregarded the assurances and arguments

of his son, tending to show that the alibi was inadmissible; and

vehemently protested that Mr. Pickwick was being ‘wictimised.’

Finding that it was of no use to discuss the matter further, Sam

changed the subject, and inquired what the second topic was, on

which his revered parent wished to consult him.

‘That’s a pint o’ domestic policy, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘This

here Stiggins―’

‘Red-nosed man?’ inquired Sam.

‘The wery same,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘This here red-nosed man,

Sammy, wisits your mother-in-law vith a kindness and constancy I

never see equalled. He’s sitch a friend o’ the family, Sammy, that

wen he’s avay from us, he can’t be comfortable unless he has

somethin’ to remember us by.’

‘And I’d give him somethin’ as ’ud turpentine and beeswax his

memory for the next ten years or so, if I wos you,’ interposed Sam.

‘Stop a minute,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘I wos a-going to say, he always

brings now, a flat bottle as holds about a pint and a half, and fills it

vith the pine-apple rum afore he goes avay.’

‘And empties it afore he comes back, I s’pose?’ said Sam.

‘Clean!’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘never leaves nothin’ in it but the

cork and the smell; trust him for that, Sammy. Now, these here

fellows, my boy, are a-goin’ to-night to get up the monthly meetin’

o’ the Brick Lane Branch o’ the United Grand Junction Ebenezer

Temperance Association. Your mother-in-law wos a-goin’, Sammy,

but she’s got the rheumatics, and can’t; and I, Sammy―I’ve got

the two tickets as wos sent her.’ Mr. Weller communicated this

secret with great glee, and winked so indefatigably after doing so,

that Sam began to think he must have got the tic doloureux in his

right eyelid.

‘Well?’ said that young gentleman. ‘Well,’ continued his

progenitor, looking round him very cautiously, ‘you and I’ll go,

punctiwal to the time. The deputy-shepherd won’t, Sammy; the

deputy-shepherd won’t.’ Here Mr. Weller was seized with a

paroxysm of chuckles, which gradually terminated in as near an

approach to a choke as an elderly gentleman can, with safety,

sustain.

‘Well, I never see sitch an old ghost in all my born days,’

exclaimed Sam, rubbing the old gentleman’s back, hard enough to

set him on fire with the friction. ‘What are you a-laughin’ at,

corpilence?’

‘Hush! Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, looking round him with

increased caution, and speaking in a whisper. ‘Two friends o’

mine, as works the Oxford Road, and is up to all kinds o’ games,

has got the deputy-shepherd safe in tow, Sammy; and ven he does

come to the Ebenezer Junction (vich he’s sure to do: for they’ll see

him to the door, and shove him in, if necessary), he’ll be as far

gone in rum-and-water, as ever he wos at the Markis o’ Granby,

Dorkin’, and that’s not sayin’ a little neither.’ And with this, Mr.

Weller once more laughed immoderately, and once more relapsed

into a state of partial suffocation, in consequence.

Nothing could have been more in accordance with Sam

Weller’s feelings than the projected exposure of the real

propensities and qualities of the red-nosed man; and it being very

near the appointed hour of meeting, the father and son took their

way at once to Brick Lane, Sam not forgetting to drop his letter

into a general post-office as they walked along.

The monthly meetings of the Brick Lane Branch of the United

Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association were held in a

large room, pleasantly and airily situated at the top of a safe and

commodious ladder. The president was the straight-walking Mr.

Anthony Humm, a converted fireman, now a schoolmaster, and

occasionally an itinerant preacher; and the secretary was Mr.

Jonas Mudge, chandler’s shopkeeper, an enthusiastic and

disinterested vessel, who sold tea to the members. Previous to the

commencement of business, the ladies sat upon forms, and drank

tea, till such time as they considered it expedient to leave off; and

a large wooden money-box was conspicuously placed upon the

green baize cloth of the business-table, behind which the secretary

stood, and acknowledged, with a gracious smile, every addition to

the rich vein of copper which lay concealed within.

On this particular occasion the women drank tea to a most

alarming extent; greatly to the horror of Mr. Weller, senior, who,

utterly regardless of all Sam’s admonitory nudgings, stared about

him in every direction with the most undisguised astonishment.

‘Sammy,’ whispered Mr. Weller, ‘if some o’ these here people

don’t want tappin’ to-morrow mornin’, I ain’t your father, and

that’s wot it is. Why, this here old lady next me is a-drowndin’

herself in tea.’

‘Be quiet, can’t you?’ murmured Sam.

‘Sam,’ whispered Mr. Weller, a moment afterwards, in a tone of

deep agitation, ‘mark my vords, my boy. If that ’ere secretary

fellow keeps on for only five minutes more, he’ll blow hisself up

with toast and water.’

‘Well, let him, if he likes,’ replied Sam; ‘it ain’t no bis’ness o’

yourn.’

‘If this here lasts much longer, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, in the

same low voice, ‘I shall feel it my duty, as a human bein’, to rise

and address the cheer. There’s a young ’ooman on the next form

but two, as has drunk nine breakfast cups and a half; and she’s a-

swellin’ wisibly before my wery eyes.’

There is little doubt that Mr. Weller would have carried his

benevolent intention into immediate execution, if a great noise,

occasioned by putting up the cups and saucers, had not very

fortunately announced that the tea-drinking was over. The

crockery having been removed, the table with the green baize

cover was carried out into the centre of the room, and the business

of the evening was commenced by a little emphatic man, with a

bald head and drab shorts, who suddenly rushed up the ladder, at

the imminent peril of snapping the two little legs incased in the

drab shorts, and said―

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I move our excellent brother, Mr.

Anthony Humm, into the chair.’

The ladies waved a choice selection of pocket-handkerchiefs at

this proposition; and the impetuous little man literally moved Mr.

Humm into the chair, by taking him by the shoulders and

thrusting him into a mahogany-frame which had once represented

that article of furniture. The waving of handkerchiefs was

renewed; and Mr. Humm, who was a sleek, white-faced man, in a

perpetual perspiration, bowed meekly, to the great admiration of

the females, and formally took his seat. Silence was then

proclaimed by the little man in the drab shorts, and Mr. Humm

rose and said―That, with the permission of his Brick Lane

Branch brothers and sisters, then and there present, the secretary

would read the report of the Brick Lane Branch committee; a

proposition which was again received with a demonstration of

pocket-handkerchiefs.

The secretary having sneezed in a very impressive manner, and

the cough which always seizes an assembly, when anything

particular is going to be done, having been duly performed, the

following document was read:

‘REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE OF THE BRICK LANE

BRANCH OF THE UNITED GRAND JUNCTION EBENEZER

TEMPERANCE ASSOCIATION

‘Your committee have pursued their grateful labours during the

past month, and have the unspeakable pleasure of reporting the

following additional cases of converts to Temperance.

‘H. Walker, tailor, wife, and two children. When in better

circumstances, owns to having been in the constant habit of

drinking ale and beer; says he is not certain whether he did not

twice a week, for twenty years, taste “dog’s nose,” which your

committee find upon inquiry, to be compounded of warm porter,

moist sugar, gin, and nutmeg (a groan, and ‘So it is!’ from an

elderly female). Is now out of work and penniless; thinks it must

be the porter (cheers) or the loss of the use of his right hand; is not

certain which, but thinks it very likely that, if he had drunk

nothing but water all his life, his fellow-workman would never

have stuck a rusty needle in him, and thereby occasioned his

accident (tremendous cheering). Has nothing but cold water to

drink, and never feels thirsty (great applause).

‘Betsy Martin, widow, one child, and one eye. Goes out charing

and washing, by the day; never had more than one eye, but knows

her mother drank bottled stout, and shouldn’t wonder if that

caused it (immense cheering). Thinks it not impossible that if she

had always abstained from spirits she might have had two eyes by

this time (tremendous applause). Used, at every place she went to,

to have eighteen-pence a day, a pint of porter, and a glass of

spirits; but since she became a member of the Brick Lane Branch,

has always demanded three-and-sixpence (the announcement of

this most interesting fact was received with deafening

enthusiasm).

‘Henry Beller was for many years toast-master at various

corporation dinners, during which time he drank a great deal of

foreign wine; may sometimes have carried a bottle or two home

with him; is not quite certain of that, but is sure if he did, that he

drank the contents. Feels very low and melancholy, is very

feverish, and has a constant thirst upon him; thinks it must be the

wine he used to drink (cheers). Is out of employ now; and never

touches a drop of foreign wine by any chance (tremendous

plaudits).

‘Thomas Burton is purveyor of cat’s meat to the Lord Mayor

and Sheriffs, and several members of the Common Council (the

announcement of this gentleman’s name was received with

breathless interest). Has a wooden leg; finds a wooden leg

expensive, going over the stones; used to wear second-hand

wooden legs, and drink a glass of hot gin-and-water regularly

every night―sometimes two (deep sighs). Found the second-hand

wooden legs split and rot very quickly; is firmly persuaded that

their constitution was undermined by the gin-and-water

(prolonged cheering). Buys new wooden legs now, and drinks

nothing but water and weak tea. The new legs last twice as long as

the others used to do, and he attributes this solely to his temperate

habits (triumphant cheers).’

Anthony Humm now moved that the assembly do regale itself

with a song. With a view to their rational and moral enjoyment,

Brother Mordlin had adapted the beautiful words of ‘Who hasn’t

heard of a Jolly Young Waterman?’ to the tune of the Old

Hundredth, which he would request them to join him in singing

(great applause). He might take that opportunity of expressing his

firm persuasion that the late Mr. Dibdin, seeing the errors of his

former life, had written that song to show the advantages of

abstinence. It was a temperance song (whirlwinds of cheers). The

neatness of the young man’s attire, the dexterity of his feathering,

the enviable state of mind which enabled him in the beautiful

words of the poet, to

‘Row along, thinking of nothing at all,’

all combined to prove that he must have been a water-drinker

(cheers). Oh, what a state of virtuous jollity! (rapturous cheering).

And what was the young man’s reward? Let all young men

present mark this:

‘The maidens all flock’d to his boat so readily.’

(Loud cheers, in which the ladies joined.) What a bright example!

The sisterhood, the maidens, flocking round the young waterman,

and urging him along the stream of duty and of temperance. But,

was it the maidens of humble life only, who soothed, consoled, and

supported him? No!

‘He was always first oars with the fine city ladies.’

(Immense cheering.) The soft sex to a man―he begged pardon, to

a female―rallied round the young waterman, and turned with

disgust from the drinker of spirits (cheers). The Brick Lane

Branch brothers were watermen (cheers and laughter). That room

was their boat; that audience were the maidens; and he (Mr.

Anthony Humm), however unworthily, was ‘first oars’ (unbounded applause).

‘Wot does he mean by the soft sex, Sammy?’ inquired Mr.

Weller, in a whisper.

‘The womin,’ said Sam, in the same tone.

‘He ain’t far out there, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘they must

be a soft sex―a wery soft sex, indeed―if they let themselves be

gammoned by such fellers as him.’

Any further observations from the indignant old gentleman

were cut short by the announcement of the song, which Mr.

Anthony Humm gave out two lines at a time, for the information of

such of his hearers as were unacquainted with the legend. While it

was being sung, the little man with the drab shorts disappeared;

he returned immediately on its conclusion, and whispered Mr.

Anthony Humm, with a face of the deepest importance. ‘My

friends,’ said Mr. Humm, holding up his hand in a deprecatory

manner, to bespeak the silence of such of the stout old ladies as

were yet a line or two behind; ‘my friends, a delegate from the

Dorking Branch of our society, Brother Stiggins, attends below.’

Out came the pocket-handkerchiefs again, in greater force than

ever; for Mr. Stiggins was excessively popular among the female

constituency of Brick Lane.

‘He may approach, I think,’ said Mr. Humm, looking round him,

with a fat smile. ‘Brother Tadger, let him come forth and greet us.’

The little man in the drab shorts who answered to the name of

Brother Tadger, bustled down the ladder with great speed, and

was immediately afterwards heard tumbling up with the Reverend

Mr. Stiggins.

‘He’s a-comin’, Sammy,’ whispered Mr. Weller, purple in the

countenance with suppressed laughter.

‘Don’t say nothin’ to me,’ replied Sam, ‘for I can’t bear it. He’s

close to the door. I hear him a-knockin’ his head again the lath and

plaster now.’

As Sam Weller spoke, the little door flew open, and Brother

Tadger appeared, closely followed by the Reverend Mr. Stiggins,

who no sooner entered, than there was a great clapping of hands,

and stamping of feet, and flourishing of handkerchiefs; to all of

which manifestations of delight, Brother Stiggins returned no

other acknowledgment than staring with a wild eye, and a fixed

smile, at the extreme top of the wick of the candle on the table,

swaying his body to and fro, meanwhile, in a very unsteady and

uncertain manner.

‘Are you unwell, Brother Stiggins?’ whispered Mr. Anthony

Humm.

‘I am all right, sir,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, in a tone in which

ferocity was blended with an extreme thickness of utterance; ‘I am

all right, sir.’

‘Oh, very well,’ rejoined Mr. Anthony Humm, retreating a few

paces.

‘I believe no man here has ventured to say that I am not all

right, sir?’ said Mr. Stiggins.

‘Oh, certainly not,’ said Mr. Humm. ‘I should advise him not to,

sir; I should advise him not,’ said Mr. Stiggins.

By this time the audience were perfectly silent, and waited with

some anxiety for the resumption of business.

‘Will you address the meeting, brother?’ said Mr. Humm, with a

smile of invitation.

‘No, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Stiggins; ‘No, sir. I will not, sir.’

The meeting looked at each other with raised eyelids; and a

murmur of astonishment ran through the room.

‘It’s my opinion, sir,’ said Mr. Stiggins, unbuttoning his coat,

and speaking very loudly―‘it’s my opinion, sir, that this meeting is

drunk, sir. Brother Tadger, sir!’ said Mr. Stiggins, suddenly

increasing in ferocity, and turning sharp round on the little man in

the drab shorts, ‘you are drunk, sir!’ With this, Mr. Stiggins,

entertaining a praiseworthy desire to promote the sobriety of the

meeting, and to exclude therefrom all improper characters, hit

Brother Tadger on the summit of the nose with such unerring aim,

that the drab shorts disappeared like a flash of lightning. Brother

Tadger had been knocked, head first, down the ladder.

Upon this, the women set up a loud and dismal screaming; and

rushing in small parties before their favourite brothers, flung their

arms around them to preserve them from danger. An instance of

affection, which had nearly proved fatal to Humm, who, being

extremely popular, was all but suffocated, by the crowd of female

devotees that hung about his neck, and heaped caresses upon him.

The greater part of the lights were quickly put out, and nothing

but noise and confusion resounded on all sides.

‘Now, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, taking off his greatcoat with

much deliberation, ‘just you step out, and fetch in a watchman.’

‘And wot are you a-goin’ to do, the while?’ inquired Sam.

‘Never you mind me, Sammy,’ replied the old gentleman; ‘I

shall ockipy myself in havin’ a small settlement with that ’ere

Stiggins.’ Before Sam could interfere to prevent it, his heroic

parent had penetrated into a remote corner of the room, and

attacked the Reverend Mr. Stiggins with manual dexterity.

‘Come off!’ said Sam.

‘Come on!’ cried Mr. Weller; and without further invitation he

gave the Reverend Mr. Stiggins a preliminary tap on the head, and

began dancing round him in a buoyant and cork-like manner,

which in a gentleman at his time of life was a perfect marvel to

behold.

Finding all remonstrances unavailing, Sam pulled his hat firmly

on, threw his father’s coat over his arm, and taking the old man

round the waist, forcibly dragged him down the ladder, and into

the street; never releasing his hold, or permitting him to stop, until

they reached the corner. As they gained it, they could hear the

shouts of the populace, who were witnessing the removal of the

Reverend Mr. Stiggins to strong lodgings for the night, and could

hear the noise occasioned by the dispersion in various directions

of the members of the Brick Lane Branch of the United Grand

Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association.

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