CLEARING UP ALL DOUBTS (IF ANY EXISTED)OF THE DISINTERESTEDNESS OFMr. JINGLE’S CHARACTERhere are in London several old inns, once theheadquarters of celebrated coaches in the days whencoaches performed their journeys in a graver and moresolemn manner than they do in these times; but which have nowdegenerated into little more than the abiding and booking-placesof country wagons. The reader would look in vain for any of theseancient hostelries, among the Golden Crosses and Bull andMouths, which rear their stately fronts in the improved streets ofLondon. If he would light upon any of these old places, he mustdirect his steps to the obscurer quarters of the town, and there insome secluded nooks he will find several, still standing with a kindof gloomy sturdiness, amidst the modern innovations whichsurround them.

　　In the Borough especially, there still remain some half-dozenold inns, which have preserved their external features unchanged,and which have escaped alike the rage for public improvementand the encroachments of private speculation. Great, ramblingqueer old places they are, with galleries, and passages, andstaircases, wide enough and antiquated enough to furnishmaterials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we should ever bereduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any, and that theworld should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerableveracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and itsadjacent neighbourhood on the Surrey side.

　　It was in the yard of one of these inns―of no less celebrated aone than the White Hart―that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt off a pair of boots, early on the morningsucceeding the events narrated in the last chapter. He was habitedin a coarse, striped waistcoat, with black calico sleeves, and blueglass buttons; drab breeches and leggings. A bright redhandkerchief was wound in a very loose and unstudied styleround his neck, and an old white hat was carelessly thrown on oneside of his head. There were two rows of boots before him, onecleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to theclean row, he paused from his work, and contemplated its resultswith evident satisfaction.

　　The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which arethe usual characteristics of a large coach inn. Three or fourlumbering wagons, each with a pile of goods beneath its amplecanopy, about the height of the second-floor window of anordinary house, were stowed away beneath a lofty roof whichextended over one end of the yard; and another, which wasprobably to commence its journey that morning, was drawn outinto the open space. A double tier of bedroom galleries, with oldClumsy balustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area,and a double row of bells to correspond, sheltered from theweather by a little sloping roof, hung over the door leading to thebar and coffee-room. Two or three gigs and chaise-carts werewheeled up under different little sheds and pent-houses; and theoccasional heavy tread of a cart-horse, or rattling of a chain at thefarther end of the yard, announced to anybody who cared aboutthe matter, that the stable lay in that direction. When we add thata few boys in smock-frocks were lying asleep on heavy packages,wool-packs, and other articles that were scattered about on heapsof straw, we have described as fully as need be the generalappearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, High Street,Borough, on the particular morning in question.

　　A loud ringing of one of the bells was followed by theappearance of a smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery,who, after tapping at one of the doors, and receiving a requestfrom within, called over the balustrades―‘Sam!’

　　‘Hollo,’ replied the man with the white hat.

　　‘Number twenty-two wants his boots.’

　　‘Ask number twenty-two, vether he’ll have ’em now, or vait tillhe gets ’em,’ was the reply.

　　‘Come, don’t be a fool, Sam,’ said the girl coaxingly, ‘thegentleman 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 woodenleg. The eleven boots is to be called at half-past eight and the shoeat 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 menup. 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 ofthe 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,’ repliedSam gruffly.

　　‘Here, clean these shoes for number seventeen directly, andtake ’em to private sitting-room, number five, first floor.’

　　The landlady flung a pair of lady’s shoes into the yard, andbustled away.

　　‘Number five,’ said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and takinga piece of chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of theirdestination on the soles―‘Lady’s shoes and private sittin’-room! Isuppose she didn’t come in the vagin.’

　　‘She came in early this morning,’ cried the girl, who was stillleaning over the railing of the gallery, ‘with a gentleman in ahackney-coach, and it’s him as wants his boots, and you’d betterdo ’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. ‘Forall 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’ aday, let alone the arrands.’ Stimulated by this inspiring reflection,Mr. Samuel brushed away with such hearty good-will, that in afew minutes the boots and shoes, with a polish which would havestruck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr. Warren (for they usedDay & Martin at the White Hart), had arrived at the door ofnumber 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 ladyand gentleman seated at breakfast. Having officiously depositedthe gentleman’s boots right and left at his feet, and the lady’sshoes 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 theknob 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 inthe 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?” Queersort, them, and their mas’rs, too, sir―Old Bailey Proctors―and nomistake.’

　　‘What do they do?’ inquired the gentleman.

　　‘Do! You, sir! That ain’t the worst on it, neither. They putsthings into old gen’l’m’n’s heads as they never dreamed of. Myfather, sir, wos a coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough foranything―uncommon fat, to be sure. His missus dies, and leaveshim four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to seethe 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 heshould 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 myfather, “I never thought o’ that.”―“I think you wants one, sir,”

　　says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit―“No,” sayshe, “damme, I’m too old, b’sides, I’m a many sizes too large,” sayshe.―“Not a bit on it, sir,” says the touter.―“Think not?” says myfather.―“I’m sure not,” says he; “we married a gen’l’m’n twiceyour size, last Monday.”―“Did you, though?” said my father.―“To be sure, we did,” says the touter, “you’re a babby to him―thisway, sir―this way!”―and sure enough my father walks arter him,like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back office, verea teller sat among dirty papers, and tin boxes, making believe hewas busy. “Pray take a seat, vile I makes out the affidavit, sir,”

　　says the lawyer.―“Thank’ee, sir,” says my father, and down hesat, and stared with all his eyes, and his mouth vide open, at thenames on the boxes. “What’s your name, sir,” says the lawyer.―“Tony Weller,” says my father.―“Parish?” says the lawyer. “BelleSavage,” says my father; for he stopped there wen he drove up,and he know’d nothing about parishes, he didn’t.―“And what’sthe lady’s name?” says the lawyer. My father was struck all of aheap. “Blessed if I know,” says he.―“Not know!” says thelawyer.―“No more nor you do,” says my father; “can’t I put that inarterwards?”―“Impossible!” says the lawyer.―“Wery well,” saysmy father, after he’d thought a moment, “put down Mrs.

　　Clarke.”―“What Clarke?” says the lawyer, dipping his pen in theink.―“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, butshe’ll have me, I know.” The licence was made out, and she didhave him, and what’s more she’s got him now; and I never had anyof the four hundred pound, worse luck. Beg your pardon, sir,’ saidSam, when he had concluded, ‘but wen I gets on this heregrievance, I runs on like a new barrow with the wheel greased.’

　　Having said which, and having paused for an instant to seewhether 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 youmine, to-morrow’―said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinsteraunt’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!’ saidRachael.

　　‘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 theworld that he’d look in―ha! ha!―capital notion that―very.’

　　‘Don’t be long,’ said the spinster affectionately, as Mr. Jinglestuck the pinched-up hat on his head.

　　‘Long away from you?―Cruel charmer;’ and Mr. Jingle skippedplayfully up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon herlips, 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 wewill not, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle’s meditations,as he wended his way to Doctors’ Commons. It will be sufficientfor our purpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragonsin white aprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted region,he reached the vicar-general’s office in safety and having procureda highly flattering address on parchment, from the Archbishop ofCanterbury, to his ‘trusty and well-beloved Alfred Jingle andRachael Wardle, greeting,’ he carefully deposited the mysticdocument in his pocket, and retraced his steps in triumph to theBorough.

　　He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plumpgentleman and one thin one entered the yard, and looked round insearch of some authorised person of whom they could make a fewinquiries. Mr. Samuel Weller happened to be at that momentengaged in burnishing a pair of painted tops, the personalproperty of a farmer who was refreshing himself with a slightlunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a pot or two ofporter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and to him thethin gentleman straightway advanced.

　　‘My friend,’ said the thin gentleman.

　　‘You’re one o’ the adwice gratis order,’ thought Sam, ‘or youwouldn’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, thatkept winking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitivenose, as if they were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with thatfeature. He was dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as hiseyes, a low white neckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. Agold watch-chain, and seals, depended from his fob. He carried hisblack 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 whowas 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, andwe shan’t make our fort’ns. We eats our biled mutton withoutcapers, 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, lookinground 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 twoplump gentlemen. At its conclusion, the little man took a pinch ofsnuff from an oblong silver box, and was apparently on the pointof renewing the conversation, when one of the plump gentlemen,who in addition to a benevolent countenance, possessed a pair ofspectacles, and a pair of black gaiters, interfered―‘The fact of the matter is,’ said the benevolent gentleman, ‘thatmy friend here (pointing to the other plump gentleman) will giveyou half a guinea, if you’ll answer one or two―’‘Now, my dear sir―my dear sir,’ said the little man, ‘pray, allowme―my dear sir, the very first principle to be observed in thesecases, is this: if you place the matter in the hands of a professionalman, you must in no way interfere in the progress of the business;you must repose implicit confidence in him. Really, Mr.―’ Heturned to the other plump gentleman, and said, ‘I forget yourfriend’s name.’

　　‘Pickwick,’ said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that jollypersonage.

　　‘Ah, Pickwick―really Mr. Pickwick, my dear sir, excuse me―Ishall be happy to receive any private su............