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There are in London several old inns, once the headquarters ofcelebrated coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys ina graver and more solemn manner than they do in these times; butwhich have now degenerated into little more than the abiding andbooking-places of country wagons. The reader would look in vain forany of these ancient hostelries, among the Golden Crosses and Bulland Mouths, which rear their stately fronts in the improved streets ofLondon. If he would light upon any of these old places, he must directhis steps to the obscurer quarters of the town, and there in somesecluded nooks he will find several, still standing with a kind ofgloomy sturdiness, amidst the modern innovations which surround them.

In the Borough especially, there still remain some half-dozen old inns,which have preserved their external features unchanged, and which haveescaped alike the rage for public improvement and the encroachments ofprivate speculation. Great, rambling queer old places they are, withgalleries, and passages, and staircases, wide enough and antiquatedenough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing weshould ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any,and that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerableveracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and its adjacentneighbourhood on the Surrey side.

It was in the yard of one of these inns--of no less celebrated a onethan the White Hart--that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirtoff a pair of boots, early on the morning succeeding the events narratedin the last chapter. He was habited in a coarse, striped waistcoat,with black calico sleeves, and blue glass buttons; drab breeches andleggings. A bright red handkerchief was wound in a very loose andunstudied style round his neck, and an old white hat was carelesslythrown on one side of his head. There were two rows of boots before him,one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to theclean row, he paused from his work, and contemplated its results withevident satisfaction.

The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usualcharacteristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering wagons,each with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height ofthe second-floor window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneatha lofty roof which extended over one end of the yard; and another, whichwas probably to commence its journey that morning, was drawn out intothe open space. A double tier of bedroom galleries, with old Clumsybalustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area, and a doublerow of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weather by a littlesloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and coffee-room. Twoor three gigs and chaise-carts were wheeled up under different littlesheds and pent-houses; and the occasional heavy tread of a cart-horse,or rattling of a chain at the farther end of the yard, announcedto anybody who cared about the matter, that the stable lay in thatdirection. When we add that a few boys in smock-frocks were lying asleepon heavy packages, wool-packs, and other articles that were scatteredabout on heaps of straw, we have described as fully as need be thegeneral appearance 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 the appearance of asmart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping atone of the doors, and receiving a request from within, called over thebalustrades--'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 till he gets'em,' was the reply.

'Come, don't be a fool, Sam,' said the girl coaxingly, 'the gentlemanwants his boots directly.'

'Well, you ARE a nice young 'ooman for a musical party, you are,' saidthe boot-cleaner. 'Look at these here boots--eleven pair o' boots; andone shoe as belongs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven bootsis to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who's numbertwenty-two, that's to put all the others out? No, no; reg'lar rotation,as Jack Ketch said, ven he tied the men up. 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 withincreased assiduity.

There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the WhiteHart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.

'Sam,' cried the landlady, 'where's that lazy, idle--why, Sam--oh, thereyou are; why don't you answer?'

'Vouldn't be gen-teel to answer, till you'd done talking,' replied Samgruffly.

'Here, clean these shoes for number seventeen directly, and take 'em toprivate sitting-room, number five, first floor.'

The landlady flung a pair of lady's shoes into the yard, and bustledaway.

'Number five,' said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a pieceof chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on thesoles--'Lady's shoes and private sittin'-room! I suppose she didn't comein the vagin.'

'She came in early this morning,' cried the girl, who was still leaningover the railing of the gallery, 'with a gentleman in a hackney-coach,and it's him as wants his boots, and you'd better do 'em, that's allabout it.'

'Vy didn't you say so before,' said Sam, with great indignation,singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. 'For all Iknow'd he was one o' the regular threepennies. Private room! and a ladytoo! If he's anything of a gen'l'm'n, he's vurth a shillin' a day, letalone the arrands.' Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuelbrushed away with such hearty good-will, that in a few minutes the bootsand shoes, with a polish which would have struck envy to the soul of theamiable Mr. Warren (for they used Day & Martin at the White Hart), hadarrived at the door of number five.

'Come in,' said a man's voice, in reply to Sam's rap at the door. Sammade his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentlemanseated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the gentleman's bootsright and left at his feet, and the lady's shoes 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 the knob ofthe 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'sat one corner, hot-el on the other, and two porters in the middle astouts for licences.'

'Touts for licences!' said the gentleman.

'Touts for licences,' replied Sam. 'Two coves in vhite aprons--touchestheir hats ven you walk in--"Licence, Sir, licence?" Queer sort, them,and their mas'rs, too, sir--Old Bailey Proctors--and no mistake.'

'What do they do?' inquired the gentleman.

'Do! You, Sir! That ain't the worst on it, neither. They puts thingsinto old gen'l'm'n's heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wosa coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything--uncommon fat,to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Downhe goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt--verysmart--top boots on--nosegay in his button-hole--broad-brimmedtile--green shawl--quite the gen'l'm'n. Goes through the archvay,thinking how he should inwest the money--up comes the touter,touches his hat--"Licence, Sir, licence?"--"What's that?" saysmy father.--"Licence, Sir," says he.--"What licence?" says myfather.--"Marriage licence," says the touter.--"Dash my veskit," says myfather, "I never thought o' that."--"I think you wants one, Sir," saysthe touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit--"No," says he, "damme,I'm too old, b'sides, I'm a many sizes too large," says he.--"Not a biton it, Sir," says the touter.--"Think not?" says my father.--"I'msure not," says he; "we married a gen'l'm'n twice your size, lastMonday."--"Did you, though?" said my father.--"To be sure, we did," saysthe touter, "you're a babby to him--this way, sir--this way!"--and sureenough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a horgan,into a little back office, vere a teller sat among dirty papers, and tinboxes, making believe he was busy. "Pray take a seat, vile I makes outthe affidavit, Sir," says the lawyer.--"Thank'ee, Sir," says my father,and down he sat, and stared with all his eyes, and his mouth videopen, at the names on the boxes. "What's your name, Sir," says thelawyer.--"Tony Weller," says my father.--"Parish?" says the lawyer."Belle Savage," says my father; for he stopped there wen he drove up,and he know'd nothing about parishes, he didn't.--"And what's the lady'sname?" says the lawyer. My father was struck all of a heap. "Blessed ifI know," says he.--"Not know!" says the lawyer.--"No more nor you do,"says my father; "can't I put that in arterwards?"--"Impossible!" saysthe lawyer.--"Wery well," says my father, after he'd thought a moment,"put down Mrs. Clarke."--"What Clarke?" says the lawyer, dipping his penin the ink.--"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 DID havehim, and what's more she's got him now; and I never had any of the fourhundred pound, worse luck. Beg your pardon, sir,' said Sam, when he hadconcluded, 'but wen I gets on this here grievance, I runs on like a newbarrow with the wheel greased.' Having said which, and having paused foran instant to see whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left theroom.

'Half-past nine--just the time--off at once;' said the gentleman, whomwe need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle.

'Time--for what?' said the spinster aunt coquettishly.

'Licence, dearest of angels--give notice at the church--call you mine,to-morrow'--said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt'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, whenwe're united--run on--they'll flyon--bolt--mizzle--steam-engine--thousand-horse power--nothing to it.'

'Can't--can't we be married before to-morrow morning?' inquiredRachael. 'Impossible--can't be--notice at the church--leave the licenceto-day--ceremony come off to-morrow.' 'I am so terrified, lest mybrother should discover us!' said Rachael.

'Discover--nonsense--too much shaken by the break-down--besides--extremecaution--gave up the post-chaise--walked on--took a hackney-coach--cameto the Borough--last place in the world that he'd look in--ha!ha!--capital notion that--very.'

'Don't be long,' said the spinster affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuckthe pinched-up hat on his head.

'Long away from you?--Cruel charmer;' and Mr. Jingle skipped playfullyup to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, anddanced 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 we willnot, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle's meditations, ashe wended his way to Doctors' Commons. It will be sufficient for ourpurpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons in whiteaprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached thevicar-general's office in safety and having procured a highly flatteringaddress on parchment, from the Archbishop of Canterbury, to his 'trustyand well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle, greeting,' hecarefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket, and retraced hissteps in triumph to the Borough.

He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentlemanand one thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of someauthorised person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. SamuelWeller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair ofpainted tops, the personal property of a farmer who was refreshinghimself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and apot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and tohim the thin gentleman straightway advanced.

'My friend,' said the thin gentleman.

'You're one o' the adwice gratis order,' thought Sam, 'or you wouldn'tbe 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 yougot many people stopping here now? Pretty busy. Eh?'

Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man, witha dark squeezed-up face, and small, restless, black eyes, that keptwinking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as ifthey were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature. Hewas dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low whiteneckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch-chain,and seals, depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves IN hishands, and not ON them; and as he spoke, thrust his wrists beneath hiscoat tails, with the air of a man who was in the habit of propoundingsome regular posers.

'Pretty busy, eh?' said the little man.

'Oh, wery well, Sir,' replied Sam, 'we shan't be bankrupts, and weshan't make our fort'ns. We eats our biled mutton without capers, anddon'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 maybe 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;' repliedthe imperturbable Sam.

The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses, and ashort consultation took place between him and the two plump gentlemen.At its conclusion, the little man took a pinch of snuff from anoblong silver box, and was apparently on the point of renewing theconversation, when one of the plump gentlemen, who in addition to abenevolent countenance, possessed a pair of spectacles, and a pair ofblack gaiters, interfered--

'The fact of the matter is,' said the benevolent gentleman, 'that myfriend here (pointing to the other plump gentleman) will give you half aguinea, 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 these cases,is this: if you place the matter in the hands of a professional man,you must in no way interfere in the progress of the business; you mustrepose implicit confidence in him. Really, Mr.--' He turned to the otherplump gentleman, and said, 'I forget your friend's name.'

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

'Ah, Pickwick--really Mr. Pickwick, my dear Sir, excuse me--I shall behappy to receive any private suggestions of yours, as AMICUS CURIAE, butyou must see the impropriety of your interfering with my conduct in thiscase, with such an AD CAPTANDUM argument as the offer of half a guinea.Really, my dear Sir, really;' and the little man took an argumentativepinch of snuff, and looked very profound.

'My only wish, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'was to bring this veryunpleasant matter to as speedy a close as possible.'

'Quite right--quite right,' said the little man.

'With which view,' continued Mr. Pickwick, 'I made use of the argumentwhich my experience of men has taught me is the most likely to succeedin any case.'

'Ay, ay,' said the little man, 'very good, very good, indeed; but youshould have suggested it to me. My dear sir, I'm quite certain youcannot be ignorant of the extent of confidence which must be placed inprofessional men. If any authority can be necessary on such a point, mydear sir, let me refer you to the well-known case in Barnwell and--'

'Never mind George Barnwell,' interrupted Sam, who had remained awondering listener during this short colloquy; 'everybody knows whatsort of a case his was, tho' it's always been my opinion, mind you, thatthe young 'ooman deserved scragging a precious sight more than he did.Hows'ever, that's neither here nor there. You want me to accept of halfa guinea. Wery well, I'm agreeable: I can't say no fairer than that,can I, sir?' (Mr. Pickwick smiled.) Then the next question is, what thedevil do you want with me, as the man said, wen he see the ghost?'

'We want to know--' said Mr. Wardle.

'Now, my dear sir--my dear sir,' interposed the busy little man.

Mr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders, and was silent.

'We want to know,' said the little man solemnly; 'and we ask thequestion of you, in order that we may not awaken apprehensionsinside--we want to know who you've got in this house at present?'

'Who there is in the house!' said Sam, in whose mind the inmates werealways represented by that particular article of their costume, whichcame under his immediate superintendence. 'There's a vooden leg innumber six; there's a pair of Hessians in thirteen; there's two pairof halves in the commercial; there's these here painted tops in thesnuggery inside the bar; and five more tops in the coffee-room.'

'Nothing more?' said the little man.

'Stop a bit,' replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. 'Yes; there'sa pair of Vellingtons a good deal worn, and a pair o' lady's shoes, innumber five.'

'What sort of shoes?' hastily inquired Wardle, who, together with Mr.Pickwick, had been lost in bewilderment at the singular catalogue ofvisitors.

'Country make,' replied Sam.

'Any maker's name?'

'Brown.'

'Where of?'

'Muggleton.

'It is them,' exclaimed Wardle. 'By heavens, we've found them.'

'Hush!' said Sam. 'The Vellingtons has gone to Doctors' Commons.'

'No,' said the little man.

'Yes, for a licence.'

'We're in time,' exclaimed Wardle. 'Show us the room; not a moment is tobe lost.'

'Pray, my dear sir--pray,' said the little man; 'caution, caution.' Hedrew from his pocket a red silk purse, and looked very hard at Sam as hedrew out a sovereign.

Sam grinned expressively.

'Show us into the room at once, without announcing us,' said the littleman, 'and it's yours.'

Sam threw the painted tops into a corner, and led the way through adark passage, and up a wide staircase. He paused at the end of a secondpassage, and held out his hand.

'Here it is,' whispered the attorney, as he deposited the money on thehand of their guide.

The man stepped forward for a few paces, followed by the two friends andtheir legal adviser. He stopped at a door.

'Is this the room?' murmured the little gentleman.

Sam nodded assent.

Old Wardle opened the door; and the whole three walked into the roomjust as Mr. Jingle, who had that moment returned, had produced thelicence to the spinster aunt.

The spinster uttered a loud shriek, and throwing herself into a chair,covered her face with her hands. Mr. Jingle crumpled up the licence, andthrust it into his coat pocket. The unwelcome visitors advanced into themiddle of the room. 'You--you are a nice rascal, arn't you?' exclaimedWardle, breathless with passion.

'My dear Sir, my dear sir,' said the little man, laying his hat onthe table, 'pray, consider--pray. Defamation of character: action fordamages. Calm yourself, my dear sir, pray--'

'How dare you drag my sister from my house?' said the old man.

Ay--ay--very good,' said the little gentleman, 'you may ask that. Howdare you, sir?--eh, sir?'

'Who the devil are you?' inquired Mr. Jingle, in so fierce a tone, thatthe little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two.

'Who is he, you scoundrel,' interposed Wardle. 'He's my lawyer,Mr. Perker, of Gray's Inn. Perker, I'll have this fellowprosecuted--indicted--I'll--I'll--I'll ruin him. And you,' continued Mr.Wardle, turning abruptly round to his sister--'you, Rachael, at a timeof life when you ought to know better, what do you mean by running awaywith a vagabond, disgracing your family, and making yourself miserable?Get on your bonnet and come back. Call a hackney-coach there, directly,and bring this lady's bill, d'ye hear--d'ye hear?' 'Cert'nly, Sir,'replied Sam, who had answered Wardle's violent ringing of the bell witha degree of celerity which must have appeared marvellous to anybody whodidn't know that his eye had been applied to the outside of the keyholeduring the whole interview.

'Get on your bonnet,' repeated Wardle.

'Do nothing of the kind,' said Jingle. 'Leave the room, Sir--no businesshere--lady's free to act as she pleases--more than one-and-twenty.'

'More than one-and-twenty!' ejaculated Wardle contemptuously. 'More thanone-and-forty!'

'I ain't,' said the spinster aunt, her indignation getting the better ofher determination to faint.

'You are,' replied Wardle; 'you're fifty if you're an hour.'

Here the spinster aunt uttered a loud shriek, and became senseless.

'A glass of water,' said the humane Mr. Pickwick, summoning thelandlady.

'A glass of water!' said the passionate Wardle. 'Bring a bucket, andthrow it all over her; it'll do her good, and she richly deserves it.'

'Ugh, you brute!' ejaculated the kind-hearted landlady. 'Poor dear.' Andwith sundry ejaculations of 'Come now, there's a dear--drink a little ofthis--it'll do you good--don't give way so--there's a love,' etc.etc., the landlady, assisted by a chambermaid, proceeded to vinegar theforehead, beat the hands, titillate the nose, and unlace the stays ofthe spinster aunt, and to administer such other restoratives as areusually applied by compassionate females to ladies who are endeavouringto ferment themselves into hysterics.

'Coach is ready, Sir,' said Sam, appearing at the door.

'Come along,' cried Wardle. 'I'll carry her downstairs.'

At this proposition, the hysterics came on with redoubled violence.The landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against thisproceeding, and had already given vent to an indignant inquiry whetherMr. Wardle considered himself a lord of the creation, when Mr. Jingleinterposed--

'Boots,' said he, 'get me an officer.'

'Stay, stay,' said little Mr. Perker. 'Consider, Sir, consider.'

'I'll not consider,' replied Jingle. 'She's her own mistress--see whodares to take her away--unless she wishes it.'

'I WON'T be taken away,' murmured the spinster aunt. 'I DON'T wish it.'(Here there was a frightful relapse.)

'My dear Sir,' said the little man, in a low tone, taking Mr. Wardleand Mr. Pickwick apart--'my dear Sir, we're in a very awkward situation.It's a distressing case--very; I never knew one more so; but really,my dear sir, really we have no power to control this lady's actions. Iwarned you before we came, my dear sir, that there was nothing to lookto but a compromise.'

There was a short pause.

'What kind of compromise would you recommend?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Why, my dear Sir, our friend's in an unpleasant position--very much so.We must be content to suffer some pecuniary loss.'

'I'll suffer any, rather than submit to this disgrace, and let her, foolas she is, be made miserable for life,' said Wardle.

'I rather think it can be done,' said the bustling little man. 'Mr.Jingle, will you step with us into the next room for a moment?'

Mr. Jingle assented, and the quartette walked into an empty apartment.

'Now, sir,' said the little man, as he carefully closed the door, 'isthere no way of accommodating this matter--step this way, sir, for amoment--into this window, Sir, where we can be alone--there, sir, there,pray sit down, sir. Now, my dear Sir, between you and I, we know verywell, my dear Sir, that you have run off with this lady for the sake ofher money. Don't frown, Sir, don't frown; I say, between you and I, WEknow it. We are both men of the world, and WE know very well that ourfriends here, are not--eh?'

Mr. Jingle's face gradually relaxed; and something distantly resemblinga wink quivered for an instant in his left eye.

'Very good, very good,' said the little man, observing the impressionhe had made. 'Now, the fact is, that beyond a few hundreds, the lady haslittle or nothing till the death of her mother--fine old lady, my dearSir.'

'OLD,' said Mr. Jingle briefly but emphatically.

'Why, yes,' said the attorney, with a slight cough. 'You are right, mydear Sir, she is rather old. She comes of an old family though, my dearSir; old in every sense of the word. The founder of that family cameinto Kent when Julius Caesar invaded Britain;--only one member of it,since, who hasn't lived to eighty-five, and he was beheaded by one ofthe Henrys. The old lady is not seventy-three now, my dear Sir.' Thelittle man paused, and took a pinch of snuff.

'Well,' cried Mr. Jingle.

'Well, my dear sir--you don't take snuff!--ah! so much thebetter--expensive habit--well, my dear Sir, you're a fine young man, manof the world--able to push your fortune, if you had capital, eh?'

'Well,' said Mr. Jingle again.

'Do you comprehend me?'

'Not quite.'

'Don't you think--now, my dear Sir, I put it to you don't youthink--that fifty pounds and liberty would be better than Miss Wardleand expectation?'

'Won't do--not half enough!' said Mr. Jingle, rising.

'Nay, nay, my dear Sir,' remonstrated the little attorney, seizing himby the button. 'Good round sum--a man like you could treble it in notime--great deal to be done with fifty pounds, my dear Sir.'

'More to be done with a hundred and fifty,' replied Mr. Jingle coolly.

'Well, my dear Sir, we won't waste time in splitting straws,' resumedthe little man, 'say--say--seventy.' 'Won't do,' said Mr. Jingle.

'Don't go away, my dear sir--pray don't hurry,' said the little man.'Eighty; come: I'll write you a cheque at once.'

'Won't do,' said Mr. Jingle.

'Well, my dear Sir, well,' said the little man, still detaining him;'just tell me what WILL do.'

'Expensive affair,' said Mr. Jingle. 'Money out of pocket--posting, ninepounds; licence, three--that's twelve--compensation, a hundred--hundredand twelve--breach of honour--and loss of the lady--'

'Yes, my dear Sir, yes,' said the little man, with a knowing look,'never mind the last two items. That's a hundred and twelve--say ahundred--come.'

'And twenty,' said Mr. Jingle.

'Come, come, I'll write you a cheque,' said the little man; and down hesat at the table for that purpose.

'I'll make it payable the day after to-morrow,' said the littleman, with a look towards Mr. Wardle; 'and we can get the lady away,meanwhile.' Mr. Wardle sullenly nodded assent.

'A hundred,' said the little man.

'And twenty,' said Mr. Jingle.

'My dear Sir,' remonstrated the little man.

'Give it him,' interposed Mr. Wardle, 'and let him go.'

The cheque was written by the little gentleman, and pocketed by Mr.Jingle.

'Now, leave this house instantly!' said Wardle, starting up.

'My dear Sir,' urged the little man.

'And mind,' said Mr. Wardle, 'that nothing should have induced me tomake this compromise--not even a regard for my family--if I had notknown that the moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you'dgo to the devil faster, if possible, than you would without it--'

'My dear sir,' urged the little man again.

'Be quiet, Perker,' resumed Wardle. 'Leave the room, Sir.'

'Off directly,' said the unabashed Jingle. 'Bye bye, Pickwick.' Ifany dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance of theillustrious man, whose name forms the leading feature of the title ofthis work, during the latter part of this conversation, he would havebeen almost induced to wonder that the indignant fire which flashed fromhis eyes did not melt the glasses of his spectacles--so majestic was hiswrath. His nostrils dilated, and his fists clenched involuntarily, ashe heard himself addressed by the villain. But he restrained himselfagain--he did not pulverise him.

'Here,' continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at Mr.Pickwick's feet; 'get the name altered--take home the lady--do forTuppy.'

Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men inarmour, after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through hisphilosophical harness, to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, hehurled the inkstand madly forward, and followed it up himself. But Mr.Jingle had disappeared, and he found himself caught in the arms of Sam.

'Hollo,' said that eccentric functionary, 'furniter's cheap where youcome from, Sir. Self-acting ink, that 'ere; it's wrote your mark uponthe wall, old gen'l'm'n. Hold still, Sir; wot's the use o' runnin' artera man as has made his lucky, and got to t'other end of the Borough bythis time?'

Mr. Pickwick's mind, like those of all truly great men, was opento conviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner; and a moment'sreflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. Itsubsided as quickly as it had been roused. He panted for breath, andlooked benignantly round upon his friends.

Shall we tell the lamentations that ensued when Miss Wardle foundherself deserted by the faithless Jingle? Shall we extract Mr.Pickwick's masterly description of that heartrending scene? Hisnote-book, blotted with the tears of sympathising humanity, lies openbefore us; one word, and it is in the printer's hands. But, no! we willbe resolute! We will not wring the public bosom, with the delineation ofsuch suffering!

Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady returnnext day in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the sombreshadows of a summer's night fallen upon all around, when they againreached Dingley Dell, and stood within the entrance to Manor Farm.