WHICH IS ALL ABOUT THE LAW, AND SUNDRYGREAT AUTHORITIES LEARNED THEREINcattered about, in various holes and corners of the Temple,are certain dark and dirty chambers, in and out of which,all the morning in vacation, and half the evening too interm time, there may be seen constantly hurrying with bundles ofpapers under their arms, and protruding from their pockets, analmost uninterrupted succession of lawyers’ clerks. There areseveral grades of lawyers’ clerks. There is the articled clerk, whohas paid a premium, and is an attorney in perspective, who runs atailor’s bill, receives invitations to parties, knows a family inGower Street, and another in Tavistock Square; who goes out oftown every long vacation to see his father, who keeps live horsesinnumerable; and who is, in short, the very aristocrat of clerks.

　　There is the salaried clerk―out of door, or in door, as the casemay be―who devotes the major part of his thirty shillings a weekto his Personal pleasure and adornments, repairs half-price to theAdelphi Theatre at least three times a week, dissipatesmajestically at the cider cellars afterwards, and is a dirtycaricature of the fashion which expired six months ago. There isthe middle-aged copying clerk, with a large family, who is alwaysshabby, and often drunk. And there are the office lads in their firstsurtouts, who feel a befitting contempt for boys at day-schools,club as they go home at night, for saveloys and porter, and thinkthere’s nothing like ‘life.’ There are varieties of the genus, toonumerous to recapitulate, but however numerous they may be,they are all to be seen, at certain regulated business hours,hurrying to and from the places we have just mentioned.

　　These sequestered nooks are the public offices of the legalprofession, where writs are issued, judgments signed, declarationsfiled, and numerous other ingenious machines put in motion forthe torture and torment of His Majesty’s liege subjects, and thecomfort and emolument of the practitioners of the law. They are,for the most part, low-roofed, mouldy rooms, where innumerablerolls of parchment, which have been perspiring in secret for thelast century, send forth an agreeable odour, which is mingled byday with the scent of the dry-rot, and by night with the variousexhalations which arise from damp cloaks, festering umbrellas,and the coarsest tallow candles.

　　About half-past seven o’clock in the evening, some ten days or afortnight after Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London,there hurried into one of these offices, an individual in a browncoat and brass buttons, whose long hair was scrupulously twistedround the rim of his napless hat, and whose soiled drab trouserswere so tightly strapped over his Blucher boots, that his kneesthreatened every moment to start from their concealment. Heproduced from his coat pockets a long and narrow strip ofparchment, on which the presiding functionary impressed anillegible black stamp. He then drew forth four scraps of paper, ofsimilar dimensions, each containing a printed copy of the strip ofparchment with blanks for a name; and having filled up theblanks, put all the five documents in his pocket, and hurried away.

　　The man in the brown coat, with the cabalistic documents in hispocket, was no other than our old acquaintance Mr. Jackson, ofthe house of Dodson & Fogg, Freeman’s Court, Cornhill. Insteadof returning to the office whence he came, however, he bent hissteps direct to Sun Court, and walking straight into the Georgeand Vulture, demanded to know whether one Mr. Pickwick waswithin.

　　‘Call Mr. Pickwick’s servant, Tom,’ said the barmaid of theGeorge and Vulture.

　　‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ said Mr. Jackson. ‘I’ve come onbusiness. If you’ll show me Mr. Pickwick’s room I’ll step upmyself.’

　　‘What name, sir?’ said the waiter.

　　‘Jackson,’ replied the clerk.

　　The waiter stepped upstairs to announce Mr. Jackson; but Mr.

　　Jackson saved him the trouble by following close at his heels, andwalking into the apartment before he could articulate a syllable.

　　Mr. Pickwick had, that day, invited his three friends to dinner;they were all seated round the fire, drinking their wine, when Mr.

　　Jackson presented himself, as above described.

　　‘How de do, sir?’ said Mr. Jackson, nodding to Mr. Pickwick.

　　That gentleman bowed, and looked somewhat surprised, for thephysiognomy of Mr. Jackson dwelt not in his recollection.

　　‘I have called from Dodson and Fogg’s,’ said Mr. Jackson, in anexplanatory tone.

　　Mr. Pickwick roused at the name. ‘I refer you to my attorney,sir; Mr. Perker, of Gray’s Inn,’ said he. ‘Waiter, show thisgentleman out.’

　　‘Beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Jackson, deliberatelydepositing his hat on the floor, and drawing from his pocket thestrip of parchment. ‘But personal service, by clerk or agent, inthese cases, you know, Mr. Pickwick―nothing like caution, sir, inall legal forms―eh?’

　　Here Mr. Jackson cast his eye on the parchment; and, restinghis hands on the table, and looking round with a winning andpersuasive smile, said, ‘Now, come; don’t let’s have no wordsabout such a little matter as this. Which of you gentlemen’s name’sSnodgrass?’

　　At this inquiry, Mr. Snodgrass gave such a very undisguisedand palpable start, that no further reply was needed.

　　‘Ah! I thought so,’ said Mr. Jackson, more affably than before.

　　‘I’ve a little something to trouble you with, sir.’

　　‘Me!’ exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass.

　　‘It’s only a subpoena in Bardell and Pickwick on behalf of theplaintiff,’ replied Jackson, singling out one of the slips of paper,and producing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket. ‘It’ll come on,in the settens after Term: fourteenth of Febooary, we expect;we’ve marked it a special jury cause, and it’s only ten down thepaper. That’s yours, Mr. Snodgrass.’ As Jackson said this, hepresented the parchment before the eyes of Mr. Snodgrass, andslipped the paper and the shilling into his hand.

　　Mr. Tupman had witnessed this process in silent astonishment,when Jackson, turning sharply upon him, said―‘I think I ain’t mistaken when I say your name’s Tupman, amI?’

　　Mr. Tupman looked at Mr. Pickwick; but, perceiving noencouragement in that gentleman’s widely-opened eyes to denyhis name, said―‘Yes, my name is Tupman, sir.’

　　‘And that other gentleman’s Mr. Winkle, I think?’ said Jackson.

　　Mr. Winkle faltered out a reply in the affirmative; and bothgentlemen were forthwith invested with a slip of paper, and ashilling each, by the dexterous Mr. Jackson.

　　‘Now,’ said Jackson, ‘I’m afraid you’ll think me rathertroublesome, but I want somebody else, if it ain’t inconvenient. Ihave Samuel Weller’s name here, Mr. Pickwick.’

　　‘Send my servant here, waiter,’ said Mr. Pickwick. The waiterretired, considerably astonished, and Mr. Pickwick motionedJackson to a seat.

　　There was a painful pause, which was at length broken by theinnocent defendant. ‘I suppose, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, hisindignation rising while he spoke―‘I suppose, sir, that it is theintention of your employers to seek to criminate me upon thetestimony of my own friends?’

　　Mr. Jackson struck his forefinger several times against the leftside of his nose, to intimate that he was not there to disclose thesecrets of the prison house, and playfully rejoined―‘Not knowin’, can’t say.’

　　‘For what other reason, sir,’ pursued Mr. Pickwick, ‘are thesesubpoenas served upon them, if not for this?’

　　‘Very good plant, Mr. Pickwick,’ replied Jackson, slowlyshaking his head. ‘But it won’t do. No harm in trying, but there’slittle to be got out of me.’

　　Here Mr. Jackson smiled once more upon the company, and,applying his left thumb to the tip of his nose, worked a visionarycoffee-mill with his right hand, thereby performing a very gracefulpiece of pantomime (then much in vogue, but now, unhappily,almost obsolete) which was familiarly denominated ‘taking agrinder.’

　　‘No, no, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Jackson, in conclusion; ‘Perker’speople must guess what we’ve served these subpoenas for. If theycan’t, they must wait till the action comes on, and then they’ll findout.’ Mr. Pickwick bestowed a look of excessive disgust on hisunwelcome visitor, and would probably have hurled sometremendous anathema at the heads of Messrs. Dodson & Fogg,had not Sam’s entrance at the instant interrupted him.

　　‘Samuel Weller?’ said Mr. Jackson, inquiringly.

　　‘Vun o’ the truest things as you’ve said for many a long year,’

　　replied Sam, in a most composed manner.

　　‘Here’s a subpoena for you, Mr. Weller,’ said Jackson.

　　‘What’s that in English?’ inquired Sam.

　　‘Here’s the original,’ said Jackson, declining the requiredexplanation.

　　‘Which?’ said Sam.

　　‘This,’ replied Jackson, shaking the parchment.

　　‘Oh, that’s the ’rig’nal, is it?’ said Sam. ‘Well, I’m wery glad I’veseen the ’rig’nal, ’cos it’s a gratifyin’ sort o’ thing, and eases vun’smind so much.’

　　‘And here’s the shilling,’ said Jackson. ‘It’s from Dodson andFogg’s.’

　　‘And it’s uncommon handsome o’ Dodson and Fogg, as knowsso little of me, to come down vith a present,’ said Sam. ‘I feel it as awery high compliment, sir; it’s a wery honorable thing to them, asthey knows how to reward merit werever they meets it. Besideswhich, it’s affectin’ to one’s feelin’s.’

　　As Mr. Weller said this, he inflicted a little friction on his righteyelid, with the sleeve of his coat, after the most approved mannerof actors when they are in domestic pathetics. Mr. Jackson seemed rather puzzled by Sam’s proceedings; but,as he had served the subpoenas, and had nothing more to say, hemade a feint of putting on the one glove which he usually carriedin his hand, for the sake of appearances; and returned to the officeto report progress.

　　Mr. Pickwick slept little that night; his memory had received avery disagreeable refresher on the subject of Mrs. Bardell’s action.

　　He breakfasted betimes next morning, and, desiring Sam toaccompany him, set forth towards Gray’s Inn Square.

　　‘Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking round, when they got to theend of Cheapside.

　　‘Sir?’ said Sam, stepping up to his master.

　　‘Which way?’

　　‘Up Newgate Street.’

　　Mr. Pickwick did not turn round immediately, but lookedvacantly in Sam’s face for a few seconds, and heaved a deep sigh.

　　‘What’s the matter, sir?’ inquired Sam.

　　‘This action, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘is expected to come on,on the fourteenth of next month.’

　　‘Remarkable coincidence that ’ere, sir,’ replied Sam.

　　‘Why remarkable, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Walentine’s day, sir,’ responded Sam; ‘reg’lar good day for abreach o’ promise trial.’

　　Mr. Weller’s smile awakened no gleam of mirth in his master’scountenance. Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly round, and led theway in silence.

　　They had walked some distance, Mr. Pickwick trotting onbefore, plunged in profound meditation, and Sam followingbehind, with a countenance expressive of the most enviable andeasy defiance of everything and everybody, when the latter, whowas always especially anxious to impart to his master anyexclusive information he possessed, quickened his pace until hewas close at Mr. Pickwick’s heels; and, pointing up at a house theywere passing, said―‘Wery nice pork-shop that ’ere, sir.’

　　‘Yes, it seems so,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Celebrated sassage factory,’ said Sam.

　　‘Is it?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Is it!’ reiterated Sam,with some indignation; ‘I should raytherthink it was. Why, sir, bless your innocent eyebrows, that’s wherethe mysterious disappearance of a ’spectable tradesman took placefour years ago.’

　　‘You don’t mean to say he was burked, Sam?’ said Mr.

　　Pickwick, looking hastily round.

　　‘No, I don’t indeed, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘I wish I did; farworse than that. He was the master o’ that ’ere shop, sir, and theinwentor o’ the patent-never-leavin’-off sassage steam-ingin, as ’udswaller up a pavin’ stone if you put it too near, and grind it intosassages as easy as if it was a tender young babby. Wery proud o’

　　that machine he was, as it was nat’ral he should be, and he’d standdown in the celler a-lookin’ at it wen it was in full play, till he gotquite melancholy with joy. A wery happy man he’d ha’ been, sir, inthe procession o’ that ’ere ingin and two more lovely hinfantsbesides, if it hadn’t been for his wife, who was a most owdaciouswixin. She was always a-follerin’ him about, and dinnin’ in hisears, till at last he couldn’t stand it no longer. “I’ll tell you what itis, my dear,” he says one day; “if you persewere in this here sort ofamusement,” he says, “I’m blessed if I don’t go away to ’Merriker;and that’s all about it.” “You’re a idle willin,” says she, “and I wishthe ’Merrikins joy of their bargain.” Arter which she keeps onabusin’ of him for half an hour, and then runs into the littleparlour behind the shop, sets to a-screamin’, says he’ll be thedeath on her, and falls in a fit, which lasts for three good hours―one o’ them fits wich is all screamin’ and kickin’. Well, nextmornin’, the husband was missin’. He hadn’t taken nothin’ fromthe till―hadn’t even put on his greatcoat―so it was quite clear hewarn’t gone to ’Merriker. Didn’t come back next day; didn’t comeback next week; missis had bills printed, sayin’ that, if he’d comeback, he should be forgiven everythin’ (which was very liberal,seein’ that he hadn’t done nothin’ at all); the canals was dragged,and for two months arterwards, wenever a body turned up, it wascarried, as a reg’lar thing, straight off to the sassage shop.

　　Hows’ever, none on ’em answered; so they gave out that he’d runaway, and she kep’ on the bis’ness. One Saturday night, a little,thin, old gen’l’m’n comes into the shop in a great passion and says,“Are you the missis o’ this here shop?” “Yes, I am,” says she.

　　“Well, ma’am,” says he, “then I’ve just looked in to say that me andmy family ain’t a-goin’ to be choked for nothin’; and more thanthat, ma’am,” he says, “you’ll allow me to observe that as you don’tuse the primest parts of the meat in the manafacter o’ sassages, I’dthink you’d find beef come nearly as cheap as buttons.” “Asbuttons, sir!” says she. “Buttons, ma’am,” says the little, oldgentleman, unfolding a bit of paper, and showin’ twenty or thirtyhalves o’ buttons. “Nice seasonin’ for sassages, is trousers’

　　buttons, ma’am.” “They’re my husband’s buttons!” says thewidder beginnin’ to faint, “What!” screams the little old gen’l’m’n,turnin’ wery pale. “I see it all,” says the widder; “in a fit oftemporary insanity he rashly converted hisself into sassages!” Andso he had, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, looking steadily into Mr.

　　Pickwick’s horror-stricken countenance, ‘or else he’d been draw’dinto the ingin; but however that might ha’ been, the little, oldgen’l’m’n, who had been remarkably partial to sassages all his life,rushed out o’ the shop in a wild state, and was never heerd onarterwards!’

　　The relation of this affecting incident of private life broughtmaster and man to Mr. Perker’s chambers. Lowten, holding thedoor half open, was in conversation with a rustily-clad, miserable-looking man, in boots without toes and gloves without fingers.

　　There were traces of privation and suffering―almost of despair―in his lank and care-worn countenance; he felt his poverty, for heshrank to the dark side of the staircase as Mr. Pickwickapproached.

　　‘It’s very unfortunate,’ said the stranger, with a sigh.

　　‘Very,’ said Lowten, scribbling his name on the doorpost withhis pen, and rubbing it out again with the feather. ‘Will you leave amessage for him?’

　　‘When do you think he’ll be back?’ inquired the stranger.

　　‘Quite uncertain,’ replied Lowten, winking at Mr. Pickwick, asthe stranger cast his eyes towards the ground.

　　‘You don’t think it would be of any use my waiting for him?’

　　said the stranger, looking wistfully into the office.

　　‘Oh, no, I’m sure it wouldn’t,’ replied the clerk, moving a littlemore into the centre of the doorway. ‘He’s certain not to be backthis week, and it’s a chance whether he will be next; for whenPerker once gets out of town, he’s never in a hurry to come backagain.’

　　‘Out of town!’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘dear me, how unfortunate!’

　　‘Don’t go away, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Lowten, ‘I’ve got a letter foryou.’ The stranger, seeming to hesitate, once more looked towardsthe ground, and the clerk winked slyly at Mr. Pickwick, as if tointimate that some exquisite piece of humour was going forward,though what it was Mr. Pickwick could not for the life of himdivine. ‘Step in, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Lowten. ‘Well, will you leave amessage, Mr. Watty, or will you call again?’

　　‘Ask him to be so kind as to leave out word what has been donein my business,’ said the man; ‘for God’s sake don’t neglect it, Mr.

　　Lowten.’

　　‘No, no; I won’t forget it,’ replied the clerk. ‘Walk in, Mr.

　　Pickwick. Good-morning, Mr. Watty; it’s a fine day for walking,isn’t it?’ Seeing that the stranger still lingered, he beckoned SamWeller to follow his master in, and shut the door in his face.

　　‘There never was such a pestering bankrupt as that since theworld began, I do believe!’ said Lowten, throwing down his ............