Mr. PICKWICK JOURNEYS TO IPSWICH ANDMEETS WITH A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE WITHA MIDDLE-AGED LADY IN YELLOWCURL-PAPERShat ’ere your governor’s luggage, Sammy?’ inquired Mr.

　　Weller of his affectionate son, as he entered the yard ofthe Bull Inn, Whitechapel, with a travelling-bag and asmall portmanteau.

　　‘You might ha’ made a worser guess than that, old feller,’

　　replied Mr. Weller the younger, setting down his burden in theyard, and sitting himself down upon it afterwards. ‘The governorhisself’ll be down here presently.’

　　‘He’s a-cabbin’ it, I suppose?’ said the father.

　　‘Yes, he’s a havin’ two mile o’ danger at eight-pence,’ respondedthe son. ‘How’s mother-in-law this mornin’?’

　　‘Queer, Sammy, queer,’ replied the elder Mr. Weller, withimpressive gravity. ‘She’s been gettin’ rayther in the Methodisticalorder lately, Sammy; and she is uncommon pious, to be sure.

　　She’s too good a creetur for me, Sammy. I feel I don’t deserve her.’

　　‘Ah,’ said Mr. Samuel. ‘that’s wery self-denyin’ o’ you.’

　　‘Wery,’ replied his parent, with a sigh. ‘She’s got hold o’ someinwention for grown-up people being born again, Sammy―thenew birth, I think they calls it. I should wery much like to see thatsystem in haction, Sammy. I should wery much like to see yourmother-in-law born again. Wouldn’t I put her out to nurse!’

　　‘What do you think them women does t’other day,’ continuedMr. Weller, after a short pause, during which he had significantlystruck the side of his nose with his forefinger some half-dozentimes. ‘What do you think they does, t’other day, Sammy?’

　　‘Don’t know,’ replied Sam, ‘what?’

　　‘Goes and gets up a grand tea drinkin’ for a feller they callstheir shepherd,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘I was a-standing starin’ in at thepictur shop down at our place, when I sees a little bill about it;“tickets half-a-crown. All applications to be made to thecommittee. Secretary, Mrs. Weller”; and when I got home therewas the committee a-sittin’ in our back parlour. Fourteen women;I wish you could ha’ heard ’em, Sammy. There they was, a-passin’

　　resolutions, and wotin’ supplies, and all sorts o’ games. Well, whatwith your mother-in-law a-worrying me to go, and what with mylooking for’ard to seein’ some queer starts if I did, I put my namedown for a ticket; at six o’clock on the Friday evenin’ I dressesmyself out wery smart, and off I goes with the old ’ooman, and upwe walks into a fust-floor where there was tea-things for thirty,and a whole lot o’ women as begins whisperin’ to one another, andlookin’ at me, as if they’d never seen a rayther stout gen’l’m’n ofeight-and-fifty afore. By and by, there comes a great bustledownstairs, and a lanky chap with a red nose and a whiteneckcloth rushes up, and sings out, “Here’s the shepherd a-coming to wisit his faithful flock;” and in comes a fat chap in black,vith a great white face, a-smilin’ avay like clockwork. Such goin’son, Sammy! “The kiss of peace,” says the shepherd; and then hekissed the women all round, and ven he’d done, the man vith thered nose began. I was just a-thinkin’ whether I hadn’t better begintoo―’specially as there was a wery nice lady a-sittin’ next me―venin comes the tea, and your mother-in-law, as had been makin’ thekettle bile downstairs. At it they went, tooth and nail. Such aprecious loud hymn, Sammy, while the tea was a brewing; such agrace, such eatin’ and drinkin’! I wish you could ha’ seen theshepherd walkin’ into the ham and muffins. I never see such achap to eat and drink―never. The red-nosed man warn’t by nomeans the sort of person you’d like to grub by contract, but he wasnothin’ to the shepherd. Well; arter the tea was over, they sanganother hymn, and then the shepherd began to preach: and werywell he did it, considerin’ how heavy them muffins must have liedon his chest. Presently he pulls up, all of a sudden, and hollers out,“Where is the sinner; where is the mis’rable sinner?” Upon which,all the women looked at me, and began to groan as if they was a-dying. I thought it was rather sing’ler, but howsoever, I saysnothing. Presently he pulls up again, and lookin’ wery hard at me,says, “Where is the sinner; where is the mis’rable sinner?” and allthe women groans again, ten times louder than afore. I got rathersavage at this, so I takes a step or two for’ard and says, “Myfriend,” says I, “did you apply that ’ere obserwation to me?” ‘Steadof beggin’ my pardon as any gen’l’m’n would ha’ done, he got moreabusive than ever:―called me a wessel, Sammy―a wessel ofwrath―and all sorts o’ names. So my blood being reg’larly up, Ifirst gave him two or three for himself, and then two or three moreto hand over to the man with the red nose, and walked off. I wishyou could ha’ heard how the women screamed, Sammy, ven theypicked up the shepherd from underneath the table―Hollo! here’sthe governor, the size of life.’

　　As Mr. Weller spoke, Mr. Pickwick dismounted from a cab, andentered the yard. ‘Fine mornin’, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, senior.

　　‘Beautiful indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Beautiful indeed,’ echoes a red-haired man with an inquisitivenose and green spectacles, who had unpacked himself from a cabat the same moment as Mr. Pickwick. ‘Going to Ipswich, sir?’

　　‘I am,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Extraordinary coincidence. So am I.’

　　Mr. Pickwick bowed.

　　‘Going outside?’ said the red-haired man. Mr. Pickwick bowedagain.

　　‘Bless my soul, how remarkable―I am going outside, too,’ saidthe red-haired man; ‘we are positively going together.’ And thered-haired man, who was an important-looking, sharp-nosed,mysterious-spoken personage, with a bird-like habit of giving hishead a jerk every time he said anything, smiled as if he had madeone of the strangest discoveries that ever fell to the lot of humanwisdom.

　　‘I am happy in the prospect of your company, sir,’ said Mr.

　　Pickwick.

　　‘Ah,’ said the new-comer, ‘it’s a good thing for both of us, isn’tit? Company, you see―company―is―is―it’s a very differentthing from solitude―ain’t it?’

　　‘There’s no denying that ’ere,’ said Mr. Weller, joining in theconversation, with an affable smile. ‘That’s what I call a self-evident proposition, as the dog’s-meat man said, when thehousemaid told him he warn’t a gentleman.’

　　‘Ah,’ said the red-haired man, surveying Mr. Weller from headto foot with a supercilious look. ‘Friend of yours, sir?’

　　‘Not exactly a friend,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, in a low tone. ‘Thefact is, he is my servant, but I allow him to take a good manyliberties; for, between ourselves, I flatter myself he is an original,and I am rather proud of him.’

　　‘Ah,’ said the red-haired man, ‘that, you see, is a matter of taste.

　　I am not fond of anything original; I don’t like it; don’t see thenecessity for it. What’s your name, sir?’

　　‘Here is my card, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, much amused bythe abruptness of the question, and the singular manner of thestranger.

　　‘Ah,’ said the red-haired man, placing the card in his pocket-book, ‘Pickwick; very good. I like to know a man’s name, it savesso much trouble. That’s my card, sir. Magnus, you will perceive,sir―Magnus is my name. It’s rather a good name, I think, sir.’

　　‘A very good name, indeed,’ said Mr. Pickwick, wholly unable torepress a smile.

　　‘Yes, I think it is,’ resumed Mr. Magnus. ‘There’s a good namebefore it, too, you will observe. Permit me, sir―if you hold thecard a little slanting, this way, you catch the light upon the up-stroke. There―Peter Magnus―sounds well, I think, sir.’

　　‘Very,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Curious circumstance about those initials, sir,’ said Mr.

　　Magnus. ‘You will observe―P.M.―post meridian. In hasty notesto intimate acquaintance, I sometimes sign myself “Afternoon.” Itamuses my friends very much, Mr. Pickwick.’

　　‘It is calculated to afford them the highest gratification, I shouldconceive,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rather envying the ease with whichMr. Magnus’s friends were entertained.

　　‘Now, gen’l’m’n,’ said the hostler, ‘coach is ready, if you please.’

　　‘Is all my luggage in?’ inquired Mr. Magnus.

　　‘All right, sir.’

　　‘Is the red bag in?’

　　‘All right, sir.’

　　‘And the striped bag?’

　　‘Fore boot, sir.’

　　‘And the brown-paper parcel?’

　　‘Under the seat, sir.’

　　‘And the leather hat-box?’

　　‘They’re all in, sir.’

　　‘Now, will you get up?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Excuse me,’ replied Magnus, standing on the wheel. ‘Excuseme, Mr. Pickwick. I cannot consent to get up, in this state ofuncertainty. I am quite satisfied from that man’s manner, that theleather hat-box is not in.’

　　The solemn protestations of the hostler being whollyunavailing, the leather hat-box was obliged to be raked up fromthe lowest depth of the boot, to satisfy him that it had been safelypacked; and after he had been assured on this head, he felt asolemn presentiment, first, that the red bag was mislaid, and nextthat the striped bag had been stolen, and then that the brown-paper parcel ‘had come untied.’ At length when he had receivedocular demonstration of the groundless nature of each and everyof these suspicions, he consented to climb up to the roof of thecoach, observing that now he had taken everything off his mind,he felt quite comfortable and happy.

　　‘You’re given to nervousness, ain’t you, sir?’ inquired Mr.

　　Weller, senior, eyeing the stranger askance, as he mounted to hisplace.

　　‘Yes; I always am rather about these little matters,’ said thestranger, ‘but I am all right now―quite right.’

　　 ‘Well, that’s a blessin’, said Mr. Weller. ‘Sammy, help yourmaster up to the box; t’other leg, sir, that’s it; give us your hand,sir. Up with you. You was a lighter weight when you was a boy,sir.’

　　‘True enough, that, Mr. Weller,’ said the breathless Mr.

　　Pickwick good-humouredly, as he took his seat on the box besidehim.

　　‘Jump up in front, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Now Villam, run’em out. Take care o’ the archvay, gen’l’m’n. “Heads,” as thepieman says. That’ll do, Villam. Let ’em alone.’ And away went thecoach up Whitechapel, to the admiration of the whole populationof that pretty densely populated quarter.

　　‘Not a wery nice neighbourhood, this, sir,’ said Sam, with atouch of the hat, which always preceded his entering intoconversation with his master.

　　‘It is not indeed, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying thecrowded and filthy street through which they were passing.

　　‘It’s a wery remarkable circumstance, sir,’ said Sam, ‘thatpoverty and oysters always seem to go together.’

　　‘I don’t understand you, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘What I mean, sir,’ said Sam, ‘is, that the poorer a place is, thegreater call there seems to be for oysters. Look here, sir; here’s aoyster-stall to every half-dozen houses. The street’s lined vith ’em.

　　Blessed if I don’t think that ven a man’s wery poor, he rushes outof his lodgings, and eats oysters in reg’lar desperation.’

　　‘To be sure he does,’ said Mr. Weller, senior; ‘and it’s just thesame vith pickled salmon!’

　　‘Those are two very remarkable facts, which never occurred tome before,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘The very first place we stop at, I’llmake a note of them.’

　　By this time they had reached the turnpike at Mile End; aprofound silence prevailed until they had got two or three milesfarther on, when Mr. Weller, senior, turning suddenly to Mr.

　　Pickwick, said―‘Wery queer life is a pike-keeper’s, sir.’

　　‘A what?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘A pike-keeper.’

　　‘What do you mean by a pike-keeper?’ inquired Mr. PeterMagnus.

　　‘The old ’un means a turnpike-keeper, gen’l’m’n,’ observed Mr.

　　Samuel Weller, in explanation.

　　‘Oh,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I see. Yes; very curious life. Veryuncomfortable.’

　　‘They’re all on ’em men as has met vith some disappointment inlife,’ said Mr. Weller, senior.

　　‘Ay, ay,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Yes. Consequence of vich, they retires from the world, andshuts themselves up in pikes; partly with the view of beingsolitary, and partly to rewenge themselves on mankind by takin’

　　tolls.’

　　‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I never knew that before.’

　　‘Fact, sir,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘if they was gen’l’m’n, you’d call ’emmisanthropes, but as it is, they only takes to pike-keepin’.’

　　With such conversation, possessing the inestimable charm ofblending amusement with instruction, did Mr. Weller beguile thetediousness of the journey, during the greater part of the day.

　　Topics of conversation were never wanting, for even when anypause occurred in Mr. Weller’s loquacity, it was abundantlysupplied by the desire evinced by Mr. Magnus to make himselfacquainted with the whole of the personal history of his fellow-travellers, and his loudly-expressed anxiety at every stage,respecting the safety and well-being of the two bags, the leatherhat-box, and the brown-paper parcel.

　　In the main street of Ipswich, on the left-hand side of the way, ashort distance after you have passed through the open spacefronting the Town Hall, stands an inn known far and wide by theappellation of the Great White Horse, rendered the moreconspicuous by a stone statue of some rampacious animal withflowing mane and tail, distantly resembling an insane cart-horse,which is elevated above the principal door. The Great White Horseis famous in the neighbourhood, in the same degree as a prize ox,or a county-paper-chronicled turnip, or unwieldy pig―for itsenormous size. Never was such labyrinths of uncarpeted passages,such clusters of mouldy, ill-lighted rooms, such huge numbers ofsmall dens for eating or sleeping in, beneath any one roof, as arecollected together between the four walls of the Great White Horseat Ipswich.

　　It was at the door of this overgrown tavern that the Londoncoach stopped, at the same hour every evening; and it was fromthis same London coach that Mr. Pickwick, Sam Weller, and Mr.

　　Peter Magnus dismounted, on the particular evening to which thischapter of our history bears reference.

　　‘Do you stop here, sir?’ inquired Mr. Peter Magnus, when thestriped bag, and the red bag, and the brown-paper parcel, and theleather hat-box, had all been deposited in the passage. ‘Do youstop here, sir?’

　　‘I do,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Magnus, ‘I never knew anything like theseextraordinary coincidences. Why, I stop here too. I hope we dinetogether?’

　　‘With pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am not quite certainwhether I have any friends here or not, though. Is there anygentleman of the name of Tupman here, waiter?’

　　A corpulent man, with a fortnight’s napkin under his arm, andcoeval stockings on his legs, slowly desisted from his occupation ofstaring down the street, on this question being put to him by Mr.

　　Pickwick; and, after minutely inspecting that gentleman’sappearance, from the crown of his hat to the lowest button of hisgaiters, replied emphatically―‘No!’

　　‘Nor any gentleman of the name of Snodgrass?’ inquired Mr.

　　Pickwick.

　　‘No!’

　　‘Nor Winkle?’

　　‘No!’

　　‘My friends have not arrived to-day, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Wewill dine alone, then. Show us a private room, waiter.’

　　On this request being preferred, the corpulent mancondescended to order the boots to bring in the gentlemen’sluggage; and preceding them down a long, dark passage, usheredthem into a large, badly-furnished apartment, with a dirty grate, inwhich a small fire was making a wretched attempt to be cheerful,but was fast sinking beneath the dispiriting influence of the place.

　　After the lapse of an hour, a bit of fish and a steak was served upto the travellers, and when the dinner was cleared away, Mr.

　　Pickwick and Mr. Peter Magnus drew their chairs up to the fire,and having ordered a bottle of the worst possible port wine, at thehighest possible price, for the good of the house, drank brandy-and-water for their own.

　　Mr. Peter Magnus was naturally of a very communicativedisposition, and the brandy-and-water operated with wonderfuleffect in warming into life the deepest hidden secrets of his bosom.

　　After sundry accounts of himself, his family, his connections, hisfriends, his jokes, his business, and his brothers (most talkativemen have a great deal to say about their brothers), Mr. PeterMagnus took a view of Mr. Pickwick through his colouredspectacles for several minutes, and then said, with an air ofmodesty―‘And what do you think―what do you think, Mr. Pickwick―Ihave come down here for?’

　　‘Upon my word,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘it is wholly impossible forme to guess; on business, perhaps.’

　　‘Partly right, sir,’ replied Mr. Peter Magnus, ‘but partly wrongat the same time; try again, Mr. Pickwick.’

　　‘Really,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I must throw myself on your mercy,to tell me or not, as you may think best; for I should never guess, ifI were to try all night.’

　　‘Why , then, he-he-he!’ said Mr. Peter Magnus, with a bashfultitter, ‘what should you think, Mr. Pickwick, if I had come downhere to make a proposal, sir, eh? He, he, he!’

　　‘Think! That you are very likely to succeed,’ replied Mr.

　　Pickwick, with one of his beaming smiles. ‘Ah!’ said Mr. Magnus.

　　‘But do you really think so, Mr. Pickwick? Do you, though?’

　　‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘No; but you’re joking, though.’

　　‘I am not, indeed.’

　　‘Why, th............