CONTAINING THE STORY OF THE BAGMAN’SUNCLEy uncle, gentlemen,’ said the bagman, ‘was one of themerriest, pleasantest, cleverest fellows, that everlived. I wish you had known him, gentlemen. Onsecond thoughts, gentlemen, I don’t wish you had known him, forif you had, you would have been all, by this time, in the ordinarycourse of nature, if not dead, at all events so near it, as to havetaken to stopping at home and giving up company, which wouldhave deprived me of the inestimable pleasure of addressing you atthis moment. Gentlemen, I wish your fathers and mothers hadknown my uncle. They would have been amazingly fond of him,especially your respectable mothers; I know they would. If any twoof his numerous virtues predominated over the many that adornedhis character, I should say they were his mixed punch and hisafter-supper song. Excuse my dwelling on these melancholyrecollections of departed worth; you won’t see a man like my uncleevery day in the week.

　　‘I have always considered it a great point in my uncle’scharacter, gentlemen, that he was the intimate friend andcompanion of Tom Smart, of the great house of Bilson and Slum,Cateaton Street, City. My uncle collected for Tiggin and Welps,but for a long time he went pretty near the same journey as Tom;and the very first night they met, my uncle took a fancy for Tom,and Tom took a fancy for my uncle. They made a bet of a new hatbefore they had known each other half an hour, who should brewthe best quart of punch and drink it the quickest. My uncle wasjudged to have won the making, but Tom Smart beat him in thedrinking by about half a salt-spoonful. They took another quartapiece to drink each other’s health in, and were staunch friendsever afterwards. There’s a destiny in these things, gentlemen; wecan’t help it.

　　‘In personal appearance, my uncle was a trifle shorter than themiddle size; he was a thought stouter too, than the ordinary run ofpeople, and perhaps his face might be a shade redder. He had thejolliest face you ever saw, gentleman: something like Punch, with ahandsome nose and chin; his eyes were always twinkling andsparkling with good-humour; and a smile―not one of yourunmeaning wooden grins, but a real, merry, hearty, good-tempered smile―was perpetually on his countenance. He waspitched out of his gig once, and knocked, head first, against amilestone. There he lay, stunned, and so cut about the face withsome gravel which had been heaped up alongside it, that, to usemy uncle’s own strong expression, if his mother could haverevisited the earth, she wouldn’t have known him. Indeed, when Icome to think of the matter, gentlemen, I feel pretty sure shewouldn’t. for she died when my uncle was two years and sevenmonths old, and I think it’s very likely that, even without thegravel, his top-boots would have puzzled the good lady not a little;to say nothing of his jolly red face. However, there he lay, and Ihave heard my uncle say, many a time, that the man said whopicked him up that he was smiling as merrily as if he had tumbledout for a treat, and that after they had bled him, the first faintglimmerings of returning animation, were his jumping up in bed,bursting out into a loud laugh, kissing the young woman who heldthe basin, and demanding a mutton chop and a pickled walnut. Hewas very fond of pickled walnuts, gentlemen. He said he alwaysfound that, taken without vinegar, they relished the beer.

　　‘My uncle’s great journey was in the fall of the leaf, at whichtime he collected debts, and took orders, in the north; going fromLondon to Edinburgh, from Edinburgh to Glasgow, from Glasgowback to Edinburgh, and thence to London by the smack. You areto understand that his second visit to Edinburgh was for his ownpleasure. He used to go back for a week, just to look up his oldfriends; and what with breakfasting with this one, lunching withthat, dining with the third, and supping with another, a prettytight week he used to make of it. I don’t know whether any of you,gentlemen, ever partook of a real substantial hospitable Scotchbreakfast, and then went out to a slight lunch of a bushel ofoysters, a dozen or so of bottled ale, and a noggin or two ofwhiskey to close up with. If you ever did, you will agree with methat it requires a pretty strong head to go out to dinner and supperafterwards.

　　‘But bless your hearts and eyebrows, all this sort of thing wasnothing to my uncle! He was so well seasoned, that it was merechild’s play. I have heard him say that he could see the Dundeepeople out, any day, and walk home afterwards withoutstaggering; and yet the Dundee people have as strong heads andas strong punch, gentlemen, as you are likely to meet with,between the poles. I have heard of a Glasgow man and a Dundeeman drinking against each other for fifteen hours at a sitting. Theywere both suffocated, as nearly as could be ascertained, at thesame moment, but with this trifling exception, gentlemen, theywere not a bit the worse for it.

　　‘One night, within four-and-twenty hours of the time when hehad settled to take shipping for London, my uncle supped at thehouse of a very old friend of his, a Bailie Mac something and foursyllables after it, who lived in the old town of Edinburgh. Therewere the bailie’s wife, and the bailie’s three daughters, and thebailie’s grown-up son, and three or four stout, bushy eye-browed,canny, old Scotch fellows, that the bailie had got together to dohonour to my uncle, and help to make merry. It was a glorioussupper. There was kippered salmon, and Finnan haddocks, and alamb’s head, and a haggis―a celebrated Scotch dish, gentlemen,which my uncle used to say always looked to him, when it came totable, very much like a Cupid’s stomach―and a great many otherthings besides, that I forget the names of, but very good things,notwithstanding. The lassies were pretty and agreeable; thebailie’s wife was one of the best creatures that ever lived; and myuncle was in thoroughly good cue. The consequence of which was,that the young ladies tittered and giggled, and the old ladylaughed out loud, and the bailie and the other old fellows roaredtill they were red in the face, the whole mortal time. I don’t quiterecollect how many tumblers of whiskey-toddy each man drankafter supper; but this I know, that about one o’clock in themorning, the bailie’s grown-up son became insensible whileattempting the first verse of “Willie brewed a peck o’ maut”; andhe having been, for half an hour before, the only other man visibleabove the mahogany, it occurred to my uncle that it was almosttime to think about going, especially as drinking had set in atseven o’clock, in order that he might get home at a decent hour.

　　But, thinking it might not be quite polite to go just then, my unclevoted himself into the chair, mixed another glass, rose to proposehis own health, addressed himself in a neat and complimentaryspeech, and drank the toast with great enthusiasm. Still nobodywoke; so my uncle took a little drop more―neat this time, toprevent the toddy from disagreeing with him―and, laying violenthands on his hat, sallied forth into the street.

　　‘It was a wild, gusty night when my uncle closed the bailie’sdoor, and settling his hat firmly on his head to prevent the windfrom taking it, thrust his hands into his pockets, and lookingupward, took a short survey of the state of the weather. The cloudswere drifting over the moon at their giddiest speed; at one timewholly obscuring her; at another, suffering her to burst forth infull splendour and shed her light on all the objects around; anon,driving over her again, with increased velocity, and shroudingeverything in darkness. “Really, this won’t do,” said my uncle,addressing himself to the weather, as if he felt himself personallyoffended. “This is not at all the kind of thing for my voyage. It willnot do at any price,” said my uncle, very impressively. Havingrepeated this, several times, he recovered his balance with somedifficulty―for he was rather giddy with looking up into the sky solong―and walked merrily on.

　　‘The bailie’s house was in the Canongate, and my uncle wasgoing to the other end of Leith Walk, rather better than a mile’sjourney. On either side of him, there shot up against the dark sky,tall, gaunt, straggling houses, with time-stained fronts, andwindows that seemed to have shared the lot of eyes in mortals, andto have grown dim and sunken with age. Six, seven, eight Storeyhigh, were the houses; storey piled upon storey, as children buildwith cards―throwing their dark shadows over the roughly pavedroad, and making the dark night darker. A few oil lamps werescattered at long distances, but they only served to mark the dirtyentrance to some narrow close, or to show where a common staircommunicated, by steep and intricate windings, with the variousflats above. Glancing at all these things with the air of a man whohad seen them too often before, to think them worthy of muchnotice now, my uncle walked up the middle of the street, with athumb in each waistcoat pocket, indulging from time to time invarious snatches of song, chanted forth with such good-will andspirit, that the quiet honest folk started from their first sleep andlay trembling in bed till the sound died away in the distance;when, satisfying themselves that it was only some drunken ne’er-do-weel finding his way home, they covered themselves up warmand fell asleep again.

　　‘I am particular in describing how my uncle walked up themiddle of the street, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets,gentlemen, because, as he often used to say (and with great reasontoo) there is nothing at all extraordinary in this story, unless youdistinctly understand at the beginning, that he was not by anymeans of a marvellous or romantic turn.

　　‘Gentlemen, my uncle walked on with his thumbs in hiswaistcoat pockets, taking the middle of the street to himself, andsinging, now a verse of a love song, and then a verse of a drinkingone, and when he was tired of both, whistling melodiously, until hereached the North Bridge, which, at this point, connects the oldand new towns of Edinburgh. Here he stopped for a minute, tolook at the strange, irregular clusters of lights piled one above theother, and twinkling afar off so high, that they looked like stars,gleaming from the castle walls on the one side and the Calton Hillon the other, as if they illuminated veritable castles in the air;while the old picturesque town slept heavily on, in gloom anddarkness below: its palace and chapel of Holyrood, guarded dayand night, as a friend of my uncle’s used to say, by old Arthur’sSeat, towering, surly and dark, like some gruff genius, over theancient city he has watched so long. I say, gentlemen, my unclestopped here, for a minute, to look about him; and then, paying acompliment to the weather, which had a little cleared up, thoughthe moon was sinking, walked on again, as royally as before;keeping the middle of the road with great dignity, and looking as ifhe would very much like to meet with somebody who woulddispute possession of it with him. There was nobody at alldisposed to contest the point, as it happened; and so, on he went,with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, like a lamb.

　　‘When my uncle reached the end of Leith Walk, he had to crossa pretty large piece of waste ground which separated him from ashort street which he had to turn down to go direct to his lodging.

　　Now, in this piece of waste ground, there was, at that time, anenclosure belonging to some wheelwright who contracted with thePost Office for the purchase of old, worn-out mail coaches; and myuncle, being very fond of coaches, old, young, or middle-aged, allat once took it into his head to step out of his road for no otherpurpose than to peep between the palings at these mails―about adozen of which he remembered to have seen, crowded together ina very forlorn and dismantled state, inside. My uncle was a veryenthusiastic, emphatic sort of person, gentlemen; so, finding thathe could not obtain a good peep between the palings he got overthem, and sitting himself quietly down on an old axle-tree, beganto contemplate the mail coaches with a deal of gravity.

　　‘There might be a dozen of them, or there might be more―myuncle was never quite certain on this point, and being a man ofvery scrupulous veracity about numbers, didn’t like to say―butthere they stood, all huddled together in the most desolatecondition imaginable. The doors had been torn from their hingesand removed; the linings had been stripped off, only a shredhanging here and there by a rusty nail; the lamps were gone, thepoles had long since vanished, the ironwork was rusty, the paintwas worn away; the wind whistled through the chinks in the barewoodwork; and the rain, which had collected on the roofs, fell,drop by drop, into the insides with a hollow and melancholysound. They were the decaying skeletons of departed mails, and inthat lonely place, at that time of night, they looked chill anddismal.

　　‘My uncle rested his head upon his hands, and thought of thebusy, bustling people who had rattled about, years before, in theold coaches, and were now as silent and changed; he thought ofthe numbers of people to whom one of these crazy, moulderingvehicles had borne, night after night, for many years, and throughall weathers, the anxiously expected intelligence, the eagerlylooked-for remittance, the promised assurance of health andsafety, the sudden announcement of sickness and death. Themerchant, the lover, the wife, the widow, the mother, the school-boy, the very child who tottered to the door at the postman’sknock―how had they all looked forward to the arrival of the oldcoach. And where were they all now?

　　‘Gentlemen, my uncle used to say that he thought all this at thetime, but I rather suspect he learned it out of some bookafterwards, for he distinctly stated that he fell into a kind of doze,as he sat on the old axle-tree looking at the decayed mail coaches,and that he was suddenly awakened by some deep church bellstriking two. Now, my uncle was never a fast thinker, and if he hadthought all these things, I am quite certain it would have takenhim till full half-past two o’clock at the very least. I am, therefore,decidedly of opinion, gentlemen, that my uncle fell into a kind ofdoze, without having thought about anything at all.

　　‘Be this as it may, a church bell struck two. My uncle woke,rubbed his eyes, and jumped up in astonishment.

　　‘In one instant, after the clock struck two, the whole of thisdeserted and quiet spot had become a scene of most extraordinarylife and animation. The mail coach doors were on their hinges, thelining was replaced, the ironwork was as good as new, the paintwas restored, the lamps were alight; cushions and greatcoats wereon every coach-box, porters were thrusting parcels into everyboot, guards were stowing away letter-bags, hostlers were dashingpails of water against the renovated wheels; numbers of men werepushing about, fixing poles into every coach; passengers arrived,portmanteaus were handed up, horses were put to; in short, it wasperfectly clear that every mail there, was to be off directly.

　　Gentlemen, my uncle opened his eyes so wide at all this, that, tothe very last moment of his life, he used to wonder how it fell outthat he had ever been able to shut ’em again.

　　‘“Now then!” said a voice, as my uncle felt a hand on hisshoulder, “you’re booked for one inside. You’d better get in.”

　　‘“I booked!” said my uncle, turning round.

　　‘“Yes, certainly.”

　　‘My uncle, gentlemen, could say nothing, he was so very muchastonished. The queerest thing of all was that although there wassuch a crowd of persons, and although fresh faces were pouring in,every moment, there was no telling where they came from. Theyseemed to start up, in some strange manner, from the ground, orthe air, and disappear in the same way. When a porter had put hisluggage in the coach, and received his fare, he turned round andwas gone; and before my uncle had well begun to wonder whathad become of him, half a dozen fresh ones started up, andstaggered along under the weight of parcels, which seemed bigenough to crush them. The passengers were all dressed so oddlytoo! Large, broad-skirted laced coats, with great cuffs and nocollars; and wigs, gentlemen―great formal wigs with a tie behind.

　　My uncle could make nothing of it.

　　‘“Now, are you going to get in?” said the person who hadaddressed my uncle before. He was dressed as a mail guard, with awig on his head and most enormous cuffs to his coat, and had alantern in one hand, and a huge blunderbuss in the other, whichhe was going to stow away in his little arm-chest. “Are you going toget in, Jack Martin?” said the guard, holding the lantern to myuncle’s face.

　　‘“Hollo!” said my uncle, falling back a step or two. “That’sfamiliar!”

　　‘“It’s so on the way-bill,” said the guard.

　　‘“Isn’t there a ‘Mister’ before it?” said my uncle. For he felt,gentlemen, that for a guard he didn’t know, to call him JackMartin, was a liberty which the Post Office wouldn’t havesanctioned if they had known it.

　　‘“No, there is not,” rejoined the guard coolly.

　　‘“Is the fare paid?” inquired my uncle.

　　‘“Of course it is,” rejoined the guard.

　　‘“It is, is it?” said my uncle. “Then here goes! Which coach?”

　　‘“This,” said the guard, pointing to an old-fashioned Edinburghand London mail, which had the steps down and the door open.

　　“Stop! Here are the other passengers. Let them get in first.”

　　‘As the guard spoke, there all at once appeared, right in front ofmy uncle, a young gentleman in a powdered wig, and a sky-bluecoat trimmed with silver, made very full and broad in the skirts,which were lined with buckram. Tiggin and Welps were in theprinted calico and waistcoat piece line, gentlemen, so my uncleknew all the materials at once. He wore knee breeches, and a kindof leggings rolled up over his silk stockings, and shoes withbuckles; he had ruffles at his wrists, a three-cornered hat on hishead, and a long taper sword by his side. The flaps of his waist-coat came half-way down his thighs, and the ends of his cravatreached to his waist. He stalked gravely to the coach door, pulledoff his hat, and held it above his head at arm’s length, cocking hislittle finger in the air at the same time, as some affected people do,when they take a cup of tea. Then he drew his feet together, andmade a low, grave bow, and then put out his left hand. My unclewas just going to step forward, and shake it heartily, when heperceived that these attentions were directed, not towards him,but to a young lady who just then appeared at the foot of the steps,attired in an old-fashioned green velvet dress with a long waistand stomacher. She had no bonnet on her head, gentlemen, whichwas muffled in a black silk hood, but she looked round for aninstant as she prepared to get into the coach, and such a beautifulface as she disclosed, my uncle had never seen―not even in apicture. She got into the coach, holding up her dress with onehand; and as my uncle always said with a round oath, when hetold the story, he wouldn’t have believed it possible that legs andfeet could have been brought to such a state of perfection unlesshe had seen them with his own eyes.

　　‘But, in this one glimpse of the beautiful face, my uncle saw thatthe young lady cast an imploring look upon him, and that sheappeared terrified and distressed. He noticed, too, that the youngfellow in the powdered wig, notwithstanding his show of gallantry,which was all very fine and grand, clasped her tight by the wristwhen she got in, and followed himself immediately afterwards. Anuncommonly ill-looking fellow, in a close brown wig, and a plum-coloured suit, wearing a very large sword, and boots up to his hips,belonged to the party; and when he sat himself down next to theyoung lady, who shrank into a corner at his approach, my unclewas confirmed in his original impression that something dark andmysterious was going forward, or, as he always said himself, that“there was a screw loose somewhere.” It’s quite surprising howquickly he made up his mind to help the lady at any peril, if sheneeded any help.

　　‘“Death and lightning!” exclaimed the young gen............