Containing a full account of the installation of Mr.
Pecksniff's new pupil into the bosom of mr. Pecksniff's family. With all the
festivities held on that occasion, and the great enjoyment of Mr. Pinch
THE BEST OF ARCHITECTS AND LAND SURVEYORS kept a horse, in whom the enemies
already mentioned more than once in these pages pretended to detect a fanciful
resemblance to his master. Not in his outward person, for he was a raw-boned,
haggard horse, always on a much shorter allowance of corn than Mr. Pecksniff;
but in his moral character, wherein, said they, he was full of promise, but of
no performance. He was always in a manner, going to go, and never going. When at
his slowest rate of travelling he would sometimes lift up his legs so high, and
display such mighty action, that it was difficult to believe he was doing less
than fourteen miles an hour: and he was for ever so perfectly satisfied with his
own speed, and so little disconcerted by opportunities of comparing himself with
the fastest trotters, that the illusion was the more difficult of resistance. He
was a kind of animal who infused into the breasts of strangers a lively sense of
hope, and possessed all those who knew him better with a grim despair. In what
respect, having these points of character, he might be fairly likened to his
master, that good man's slanderers only can explain. But it is a melancholy
truth, and a deplorable instance of the uncharitableness of the world, that they
made the comparison.
In this horse, and the hooded vehicle, whatever its proper name might be, to
which he was usually harnessed -- it was more like a gig with a tumour, than
anything else -- all Mr. Pinch's thoughts and wishes centred, one bright frosty
morning: for with this gallant equipage he was about to drive to Salisbury
alone, there to meet with the new pupil, and thence to bring him home in
triumph.
Blessings on thy simple heart, Tom Pinch, how proudly dost thou button up
that scanty coat, called by a sad misnomer, for these many years, a `great' one;
and how thoroughly, as with thy cheerful voice thou pleasantly adjurest Sam the
hostler `not to let him go yet,' dost thou believe that quadruped desires to go,
and would go if he might! Who could repress a smile -- of love for thee, Tom
Pinch, and not in jest at thy expense, for thou art poor enough already, Heaven
knows -- to think that such a holiday as lies before thee should awaken that
quick flow and hurry of the spirits, in which thou settest down again, almost
untasted, on the kitchen window-sill, that great white mug (put by, by thy own
hands, last night, that breakfast might not hold thee late), and layest yonder
crust upon the seat beside thee, to be eaten on the road, when thou art calmer
in thy high rejoicing! Who, as thou drivest off, a happy, man, and noddest with
a grateful lovingness to Pecksniff in his nightcap at his chamberwindow, would
not cry: `Heaven speed thee, Tom, and send that thou wert going off for ever to
some quiet home where thou mightst live at peace, and sorrow should not touch
thee!'
What better time for driving, riding, walking, moving through the air by any
means, than a fresh, frosty morning, when hope runs cheerily through the veins
with the brisk blood, and tingles in the frame from head to foot! This was the
glad commencement of a bracing day in early winter, such as may put the languid
summer season (speaking of it when it can't be had) to the blush, and shame the
spring for being sometimes cold by halves. The sheep-bells rang as clearly in
the vigorous air, as if they felt its wholesome influence like living creatures;
the trees, in lieu of leaves or blossoms, shed upon the ground a frosty rime
that sparkled as it fell, and might have been the dust of diamonds. So it was to
Tom. From cottage chimneys, smoke went streaming up high, high, as if the earth
had lost its grossness, being so fair, and must not be oppressed by heavy
vapour. The crust of ice on the else rippling brook was so transparent and so
thin in texture, that the lively water might of its own free will have stopped
-- in Tom's glad mind it had -- to look upon the lovely morning. And lest the
sun should break this charm too eagerly, there moved between him and the ground,
a mist like that which waits upon the moon on summer nights -- the very same to
Tom -- and wooed him to dissolve it gently.
Tom Pinch went on; not fast, but with a sense of rapid motion, which did just
as well; and as he went, all kinds of things occurred to keep him happy. Thus
when he came within sight of the turnpike, and was -- oh a long way off! -- he
saw the tollman's wife, who had that moment checked a waggon, run back into the
little house again like mad, to say (she knew) that Mr. Pinch was coming up. And
she was right, for when he drew within hail of the gate, forth rushed the
tollman's children, shrieking in tiny chorus, `Mr. Pinch!' to Tom's intense
delight. The very tollman, though an ugly chap in general, and one whom folks
were rather shy of handling, came out himself to take the toll, and give him
rough good morning: and that with all this, and a glimpse of the family
breakfast on a little round table before the fire, the crust Tom Pinch had
brought away with him acquired as rich a flavour as though it had been cut from
a fairy loaf.
But there was more than this. It was not only the married people and the
children who gave Tom Pinch a welcome as he passed. No, no. Sparkling eyes and
snowy breasts came hurriedly to many an upper casement as he clattered by, and
gave him back his greeting: not stinted either, but sevenfold, good measure.
They were all merry. They all laughed. And some of the wickedest among them even
kissed their hands as Tom looked back. For who minded poor Mr. Pinch? There was
no harm in him.
And now the morning grew so fair, and all things were so wide awake and gay,
that the sun seeming to say -- Tom had no doubt he said -- `I can't stand it any
longer: I must have a look,' streamed out in radiant majesty. The mist, too shy
and gentle for such lusty company, fled off, quite scared, before it; and as it
swept away, the hills and mounds and distant pasture lands, teeming with placid
sheep and noisy crows, came out as bright as though they were unrolled bran new
for the occasion. In compliment to which discovery, the brook stood still no
longer, but ran briskly off to bear the tidings to the water-mill, three miles
away.
Mr. Pinch was jogging along, full of pleasant thoughts and cheerful
influences, when he saw, upon the path before him, going in the same direction
with himself, a traveller on foot, who walked with a light quick step, and sang
as he went: for certain in a very loud voice, but not unmusically. He was a
young fellow, of some five or six-and-twenty perhaps, and was dressed in such a
free and fly-away fashion, that the long ends of his loose red neckcloth were
streaming out behind him quite as often as before; and the bunch of bright
winter berries in the buttonhole of his velveteen coat was as visible to Mr.
Pinch's rearward observation, as if he had worn that garment wrong side
foremost. He continued to sing with so much energy, that he did not hear the
sound of wheels until it was close behind him; when he turned a whimsical face
and a very merry pair of blue eyes on Mr. Pinch, and checked himself directly.
`Why, Mark?' said Tom Pinch, stopping. `Who'd have thought of seeing you
here? Well! this is surprising!'
Mark touched his hat, and said, with a very sudden decrease of vivacity, that
he was going to Salisbury.
`And how spruce you are, too!' said Mr. Pinch, surveying him with great
pleasure. `Really, I didn't think you were half such a tight-made fellow, Mark!'
`Thankee, Mr. Pinch. Pretty well for that, I believe. It's not my fault, you
know. With regard to being spruce, sir, that's where it is, you see.' And here
he looked particularly gloomy.
`Where what is?' Mr. Pinch demanded.
`Where the aggravation of it is. Any man may be in good spirits and good
temper when he's well dressed. There an't much credit in that. If I was very
ragged and very jolly, then I should begin to feel I had gained a point, Mr.
Pinch.'
`So you were singing just now, to bear up, as it were, against being well
dressed, eh, Mark?' said Pinch.
`Your conversation's always equal to print, sir,' rejoined Mark, with a broad
grin. `That was it.'
`Well!' cried Pinch, `you are the strangest young man, Mark, I ever knew in
my life. I always thought so; but now I am quite certain of it. I am going to
Salisbury, too. Will you get in? I shall be very glad of your company.'
The young fellow made his acknowledgments and accepted the offer; stepping
into the carriage directly, and seating himself on the very edge of the seat
with his body half out of it, to express his being there on sufferance, and by
the politeness of Mr. Pinch. As they went along, the conversation proceeded
after this manner.
`I more than half believed, just now, seeing you so very smart,' said Pinch,
`that you must be going to be married, Mark.'
`Well, sir, I've thought of that, too,' he replied. `There might be some
credit in being jolly with a wife,' specially if the children had the measles
and that, and was very fractious indeed. But I'm a'most afraid to try it. I
don't see my way clear.'
`You're not very fond of anybody, perhaps?' said Pinch.
`Not particular, sir, I think.'
`But the way would be, you know, Mark, according to your views of things,'
said Mr. Pinch, `to marry somebody you didn't like, and who was very
disagreeable.'
`So it would, sir; but that might be carrying out a principle a little too
far, mightn't it?'
`Perhaps it might,' said Mr. Pinch. At which they both laughed gaily.
`Lord bless you, sir,' said Mark, `you don't half know me, though. I don't
believe there ever was a man as could come out so strong under circumstances
that would make other men miserable, as I could, if I could only get a chance.
But I can't get a chance. It's my opinion that nobody never will know half of
what's in me, unless something very unexpected turns up. And I don't see any
prospect of that. I'm a-going to leave the Dragon, sir.'
`Going to leave the Dragon!' cried Mr. Pinch, looking at him with great
astonishment. `Why, Mark, you take my breath away!'
`Yes, sir,' he rejoined, looking straight before him and a long way off, as
men do sometimes when they cogitate profoundly. `What's the use of my stopping
at the Dragon? It an't at all the sort of place for me. When I left London (I'm
a Kentish man by birth, though), and took that situation here, I quite made up
my mind that it was the dullest little out-of-the-way corner in England, and
that there would be some credit in being jolly under such circumstances. But,
Lord, there's no dullness at the Dragon! Skittles, cricket, quoits, nine-pins,
comic songs, choruses, company round the chimney corner every winter's evening.
Any man could be jolly at the Dragon. There's no credit in that.'
`But if common report be true for once, Mark, as I think it is, being able to
confirm it by what I know myself,' said Mr. Pinch, `you are the cause of half
this merriment, and set it going.'
`There may be something in that, too, sir,' answered Mark. `But that's no
consolation.'
`Well!' said Mr. Pinch, after a short silence, his usually subdued tone being
even now more subdued than ever. `I can hardly think enough of what you tell me.
Why, what will become of Mrs. Lupin, Mark?'
Mark looked more fixedly before him, and further off still, as he answered
that he didn't suppose it would be much of an object to her. There were plenty
of smart young fellows as would be glad of the place. He knew a dozen himself.
`That's probable enough,' said Mr. Pinch, `but I am not at all sure that Mrs.
Lupin would be glad of them. Why, I always supposed that Mrs. Lupin and you
would make a match of it, Mark; and so did every one, as far as I know.'
`I never,' Mark replied, in some confusion, `said nothing as was in a direct
way courting-like to her, nor she to me, but I don't know what I mightn't do one
of these odd times, and what she mightn't say in answer. Well, sir, that
wouldn't suit.'
`Not to be landlord of the Dragon, Mark?' cried Mr. Pinch.
`No, sir, certainly not,' returned the other, withdrawing his gaze from the
horizon, and looking at his fellow-traveller. `Why that would be the ruin of a
man like me. I go and sit down comfortably for life, and no man never finds me
out. What would be the credit of the land-lord of the Dragon's being jolly? Why,
he couldn't help it, if he tried.'
`Does Mrs. Lupin know you are going to leave her?' Mr. Pinch inquired.
`I haven't broke it to her yet, sir, but I must. I'm looking out this morning
for something new and suitable,' he said, nodding towards the city.
`What kind of thing now?' Mr. Pinch demanded.
`I was thinking,' Mark replied, `of something in the grave-digging. way.'
`Good gracious, Mark?' cried Mr. Pinch.
`It's a good damp, wormy sort of business, sir,' said Mark, shaking his head
argumentatively, `and there might be some credit in being jolly, with one's mind
in that pursuit, unless grave-diggers is usually given that way; which would be
a drawback. You don't happen to know how that is in general, do you, sir?'
`No,' said Mr. Pinch, `I don't indeed. I never thought upon the subject.'
`In case of that not turning out as well as one could wish, you know,' said
Mark, musing again, `there's other businesses. Undertaking now. That's gloomy.
There might be credit to be gained there. A broker's man in a poor neighbourhood
wouldn't be bad perhaps. A jailor sees a deal of misery. A doctor's man is in
the very midst of murder. A bailiff's an't lively office nat'rally. Even a
tax-gatherer must find his feelings rather worked upon, at times. There's lots
of trades in which I should have an opportunity, I think.'
Mr. Pinch was so perfectly overwhelmed by these remarks that he could do
nothing but occasionally exchange a word or two on some indifferent subject, and
cast sidelong glances at the bright face of his odd friend (who seemed quite
unconscious of his observation), until they reached a certain corner of the
road, close upon the outskirts of the city, when Mark said he would jump down
there, if he pleased.
`But bless my soul, Mark,' said Mr. Pinch, who in the progress of his
observation just then made the discovery that the bosom of his companion's shirt
was as much exposed as if it was Midsummer, and was ruffled by every breath of
air, `why don't you wear a waistcoat?'
`What's the good of one, sir?' asked Mark.
`Good of one?' said Mr. Pinch. `Why, to keep your chest warm.'
`Lord love you, sir!' cried Mark, `you don't know me. My chest don't want no
warming. Even if it did, what would no waistcoat bring it to? Inflammation of
the lungs, perhaps? Well, there'd be some credit in being jolly, with a
inflammation of the lungs.'
As Mr. Pinch returned no other answer than such as was conveyed in his
breathing very hard, and opening his eyes very wide, and nodding his head very
much, Mark thanked him for his ride, and without troubling him to stop, jumped
lightly down. And away he fluttered, with his red neckerchief, and his open
coat, down a cross-lane: turning back from time to time to nod to Mr. Pinch, and
looking one of the most careless, good-humoured comical fellows in life. His
late companion, with a thoughtful face pursued his way to Salisbury.
Mr. Pinch had a shrewd notion that Salisbury was a very desperate sort of
place; an exceeding wild and dissipated city: and when he had put up the horse,
and given the hostler to understand that he would look in again in the course of
an hour or two to see him take his corn, he set forth on a stroll about the
streets with a vague and not unpleasant idea that they teemed with all kinds of
mystery and bedevilment. To one of his quiet habits this little delusion was
greatly assisted by the circumstance of its being market-day, and the
thoroughfares about the market-place being filled with carts, horses donkeys,
baskets, waggons, garden-stuff, meat, tripe, pies, poultry and huckster's wares
of every opposite description and possible variety of character. Then there were
young farmers and old farmers with smock-frocks, brown great-coats, drab
great-coats, red worsted comforters, leather-leggings, wonderful shaped hats,
hunting-whips, and rough sticks, standing about in groups, or talking noisily
together on the tavern steps, or paying and receiving huge amounts of greasy
wealth, with the assistance of such bulky pocket-books that when they were in
their pockets it was apoplexy to get them out, and when they were out it was
spasms to get them in again. Also there were farmers' wives in beaver bonnets
and red cloaks, riding shaggy horses purged of all earthly passions, who went
soberly into all manner of places without desiring to know why, and who, if
required, would have stood stock still in a china-shop, with a complete
dinner-service at each hoof. Also a great many dogs, who were strongly
interested in the state of the market and the bargains of their masters and a
great confusion of tongues, both brute and human
Mr. Pinch regarded everything exposed for sale with great delight and was
particularly struck by the itinerant cutlery, which he considered of the very
keenest kind insomuch that he purchased a pocket knife with seven blades in it,
and not a cut (as he afterwards found out) among them. When he had exhausted the
market-place, and watched the farmers safe into the market dinner, he went back
to look after the horse. Having seen him eat unto his heart's content he issued
forth again, to wander round the town and regale himself with the shop windows:
previously taking a long stare at the bank, and wondering in what direction
underground the caverns might be where they kept the money; and turning to look
back at one or two young men who passed him, whom he knew to be articled to
solicitors in the town; and who had a sort of fearful interest in his eyes, as
jolly dogs who knew a thing or two, and kept it up tremendously.
But the shops. First of all there were the jewellers' shops, with all the
treasures of the earth displayed therein, and such large silver watches hanging
up in every pane of glass, that if they were anything but first-rate goers it
certainly was not because the works could decently complain of want of room. In
good sooth they were big enough, and perhaps, as the saying is, ugly enough, to
be the most correct of all mechanical performers; in Mr. Pinch's eyes, however
they were smaller than Geneva ware; and when he saw one very bloated watch
announced as a repeater, gifted with the uncommon power of striking every
quarter of an hour inside the pocket of its happy owner, he almost wished that
he were rich enough to buy it.
But what were even gold and silver, precious stones and clock-work, to the
bookshops, whence a pleasant smell of paper freshly pressed came issuing forth,
awakening instant recollections of some new grammar had at school, long time
ago, with `Master Pinch, Grove House Academy,' inscribed in faultless writing on
the fly-leaf! That whiff of russia leather, too, and all those rows on rows of
volumes neatly ranged within: what happiness did they suggest! And in the window
were the spick-and-span new works from London, with the title-pages, and
sometimes even the first page of the first chapter, laid wide open: tempting
unwary men to begin to read the book, and then, in the impossibility of turning
over, to rush blindly in, and buy it! Here too were the dainty frontispiece and
trim vignette, pointing like handposts on the outskirts of great cities, to the
rich stock of incident beyond; and store of books, with many a grave portrait
and time-honoured name, whose matter he knew well, and would have given mines to
have, in any form, upon the narrow shell beside his bed at Mr. Pecksniff's. What
a heart-breaking shop it was!
There was another; not quite so bad at first, but still a trying shop; where
children's books were sold, and where poor Robinson Crusoe stood alone in his
might, with dog and hatchet, goat-skin cap and fowling-pieces; calmly surveying
Philip Quarn and the host of imitators round him, and calling Mr. Pinch to
witness that he, of all the crowd, impressed one solitary foot-print on the
shore of boyish memory, whereof the tread of generations should not stir the
lightest grain of sand. And there too were the Persian tales, with flying chests
and students of enchanted books shut up for years in caverns: and there too was
Abudah, the merchant, with the terrible little old woman hobbling out of the box
in his bedroom: and there the mighty talisman, the rare Arabian Nights, with
Cassim Baba, divided by four, like the ghost of a dreadful sum, hanging up, all
gory, in the robbers' cave. Which matchless wonders, coming fast on Mr. Pinch's
mind, did so rub up and chafe that wonderful lamp within him, that when he
turned his face towards the busy street, a crowd of phantoms waited on his
pleasure, and he lived again, with new delight, the happy days before the
Pecksniff era.
He had less interest now in the chemists' shops, with their great glowing
bottles (with smaller repositories of brightness in their very stoppers); and in
their agreeable compromises between medicine and perfumery, in the shape of
toothsome lozenges and virgin honey. Neither had he the least regard but he
never had much) for the tailors', where the newest metropolitan waistcoat
patterns were hanging up, which by some strange transformation always looked
amazing there, and never appeared at all like the same thing anywhere else. But
he stopped to read the playbill at the theatre and surveyed the doorway with a
kind of awe, which was not diminished when a sallow gentleman with long dark
hair came out, and told a boy to run home to his lodgings and bring down his
broadsword. Mr. Pinch stood rooted to the spot on hearing this, and might have
stood there until dark, but that the old cathedral bell began to ring for vesper
service, on which he tore himself away.
Now, the organist's assistant was a friend of Mr. Pinch's, which was a good
thing, for he too was a very quiet gentle soul, and had been, like Tom, a kind
of old-fashioned boy at school, though well-liked by the noisy fellow too. As
good luck would have it (Tom always said he had great good luck) the assistant
chanced that very afternoon to be on duty by himself, with no one in the dusty
organ loft but Tom: so while he played, Tom helped him with the stops; and
finally, the service being just over, Tom took the organ himself. It was then
turning dark, and the yellow light that streamed in through the ancient windows
in the choir was mingled with a murky red. As the grand tones resounded through
the church, they seemed, to Tom, to find an echo in the depth of every ancient
tomb, no less than in the deep mystery of his own heart. Great thoughts and
hopes came crowding on his mind as the rich music rolled upon the air and yet
among them -- something more grave and solemn in their purpose, but the same --
were all the images of that day, down to its very lightest recollection of
childhood. The feeling that the sounds awakened, in the moment of their
existence, seemed to include his whole life and being; and as the surrounding
realities of stone and wood and glass grew dimmer in the darkness, these visions
grew so much the brighter that Tom might have forgotten the new pupil and the
expectant master, and have sat there pouring out his grateful heart till
midnight, but for a very earthy old verger insisting on locking up the cathedral
forthwith. So he took leave of his friend, with many thanks, groped his way out,
as well as he could, into the now lamp-lighted streets, and hurried off to get
his dinner.
All the farmers being by this time jogging homewards, there was nobody in the
sanded parlour of the tavern where he had left the horse; so he had his little
table drawn out close before the fire, and fell to work upon a well-cooked steak
and smoking hot potatoes, with a strong appreciation of their excellence, and a
very keen sense of enjoyment. Beside him, too, there stood a jug of most
stupendous Wiltshire beer; and the effect of the whole was so transcendent, that
he was obliged every now and then to lay down his knife and fork, rub his hands,
and think about it. By the time the cheese and celery came, Mr. Pinch had taken
a book out of his pocket, and could afford to trifle with the viands; now eating
a little, now drinking a little, now reading a little, and now stopping to
wonder what sort of a young man the new pupil would turn out to be. He had
passed from this latter theme and was deep in his book again, when the door
opened, and another guest came in, bringing with him such a quantity of cold
air, that he positively seemed at first to put the fire out.
`Very hard frost to-night, sir,' said the new-comer, courteously
acknowledging Mr. Pinch's withdrawal of the little table, that he might have
place: `Don't disturb yourself, I beg.'
Though he said this with a vast amount of consideration for Mr. Pinch's
comfort, he dragged one of the great leather-bottomed chairs to the very centre
of the hearth, notwithstanding; and sat down in front of the fire, with a foot
on each hob.
`My feet are quite numbed. Ah! Bitter cold to be sure.'
`You have been in the air some considerable time, I dare say?' said Mr.
Pinch.
`All day. Outside a coach, too.'
`That accounts for his making the room so cool,' thought Mr. Pinch. `Poor
fellow! How thoroughly chilled he must be!'
The stranger became thoughtful likewise, and sat for five or ten minutes
looking at the fire in silence. At length he rose and divested himself of his
shawl and great-coat, which (far different from Mr. Pinch's) was a very warm and
thick one; but he was not a whit more conversational out of his great-coat than
in it, for he sat down again in the same place and attitude, and leaning back in
his chair, began to bite his nails. He was young -- one-and-twenty, perhaps --
and handsome; with a keen dark eye, and a quickness of look and manner which
made Tom sensible of a great contrast in his own bearing, and caused him to feel
even more shy than usual.
There was a clock in the room, which the stranger often turned to look at.
Tom made frequent reference to it also; partly from a nervous sympathy with its
taciturn companion; and partly because the new pupil was to inquire for him at
half after six, and the hands were getting on towards that hour. Whenever the
stranger caught him looking at this clock, a kind of confusion came upon Tom as
if he had been found out in something; and it was a perception of his uneasiness
which caused the younger man to say, perhaps, with a smile:
`We both appear to be rather particular about the time. The fact is, I have
an engagement to meet a gentleman here.'
`So have I,' said Mr. Pinch.
`At half-past six,' said the stranger.
`At half-past six,' said Tom in the very same breath; whereupon the other
looked at him with some surprise.
`The young gentleman, I expect,' remarked Tom, timidly, `was to inquire at
that time for a person by the name of Pinch.'
`Dear me!' cried the other, jumping up. `And I have been keeping the fire
from you all this while! I had no idea you were Mr. Pinch. I am the Mr. Martin
for whom you were to inquire. Pray excuse me. How do you do? Oh, do draw nearer,
pray!'
`Thank you,' said Tom, `thank you. I am not at all cold, and you are: and we
have a cold ride before us. Well, if you wish it, I will. I--I am very glad,'
said Tom, smiling with an embarrassed frankness peculiarly his, and which was as
plainly a confession of his own imperfections, and an appeal to the kindness of
the person he addressed, as if he had drawn one up in simple language and
committed it to paper: `I am very glad indeed that you turn out to be the party
I expected. I was thinking, but a minute ago, that I could wish him to be like
you.'
`I am very glad to hear it,' returned Martin, shaking hands with him again;
`for I assure you, I was thinking there could be no such luck as Mr. Pinch's
turning out like you.'
`No, really!' said Tom, with great pleasure. `Are you serious?'
`Upon my word I am,' replied his new acquaintance. `You and I will get on
excellently well, I know: which it's no small relief to me to feel, for to tell
you the truth, I am not at all the sort of fellow who could get on with
everybody, and that's the point on which I had the greatest doubts. But they're
quite relieved now.--Do me the favour to ring the bell, will you?'
Mr. Pinch rose, and complied with great alacrity--the handle hung just over
Martin's head, as he warmed himself--and listened with a smiling face to what
his friend went on to say. It was:
`If you like punch, you'll allow me to order a glass a-piece, as hot as it
can be made, that we may usher in our friendship in a becoming manner. To let
you into a secret, Mr. Pinch, I never was so much in want of something warm and
cheering in my life; but I didn't like to run the chance of being found drinking
it, without knowing what kind of person you were; for first impressions, you
know, often go a long way, and last a long time.'
Mr. Pinch assented, and the punch was ordered. In due course it came: hot and
strong. After drinking to each other in the steaming mixture, they became quite
confidential.
`I'm a sort of relation of Pecksniff's, you know,' said the young man.
`Indeed!' cried Mr. Pinch.
`Yes. My grandfather is his cousin, so he's kith and kin to me, somehow, if
you can make that out. I can't.'
`Then Martin is your Christian name?' said Mr. Pinch, thoughtfully. `Oh!'
`Of course it is,' returned his friend: `I wish it was my surname for my own
is not a very pretty one, and it takes a long time to sign Chuzzlewit is my
name.'
`Dear me!' cried Mr. Pinch, with an involuntary start.
`You're not surprised at my having two names, I suppose?' returned the other,
setting his glass to his lips. `Most people have.'
`Oh, no,' said Mr. Pinch, `not at all. Oh dear no! Well!' And then
remembering that Mr. Pecksniff had privately cautioned him to say nothing in
reference to the old gentleman of the same name who had lodged at the Dragon,
but to reserve all mention of that person for him, he had no better means of
hiding his confusion than by raising his own glass to his mouth. They looked at
each other out of their respective tumblers for a few seconds, and then put them
down empty.
`I told them in the stable to be ready for us ten minutes ago,' said Mr.
Pinch, glancing at the clock again. `Shall we go?'
`If you please,' returned the other.
`Would you like to drive?' said Mr. Pinch; his whole face beaming with a
consciousness of the splendour of his offer. `You shall, if you wish.'
`Why, that depends, Mr. Pinch,' said Martin, laughing, `upon what sort of a
horse you have. Because if he's a bad one, I would rather keep my hands warm by
holding them comfortably in my great-coat pockets.'
He appeared to think this such a good joke, that Mr. Pinch was quite sure it
must be a capital one. Accordingly, he laughed too, and was fully persuaded that
he enjoyed it very much. Then he settled his bill, and Mr. Chuzzlewit paid for
the punch; and having wrapped themselves up, to the extent of their respective
means, they went out together to the front door, where Mr. Pecksniff's property
stopped the way.
`I won't drive, thank you, Mr. Pinch,' said Martin, getting into the sister's
place. `By-the-bye, there's a box of mine. Can we manage to take it?'
`Oh, certainly,' said Tom. `Put it in, Dick, anywhere!'
It was not precisely of that convenient size which would admit of its being
squeezed into any odd corner, but Dick the hostler got it in somehow, and Mr.
Chuzzlewit helped him. It was all on Mr. Pinch's side, and Mr. Chuzzlewit said
he was very much afraid it would encumber him; to which Tom said, `Not at all;'
though it forced him into such an awkward position, that he had much ado to see
anything but his own knees. But it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good;
and the wisdom of the saying was verified in this instance; for the cold air
came from Mr. Pinch's side of the carriage, and by interposing a perfect wall of
box and man between it and the new pupil, he shielded that young gentleman
effectually: which was a great comfort.
It was a clear evening, with a bright moon. The whole landscape was silvered
by its light and by the hoar-frost; and everything looked exquisitely beautiful.
At first, the great serenity and peace through which they travelled, disposed
them both to silence; but in a very short time the punch within them and the
healthful air without, made them loquacious, and they talked incessantly. When
they were half-way home, and stopped to give the horse some water, Martin (who
was very generous with his money) ordered another glass of punch, which they
drank between them, and which had not the effect of making them less
conversational than before. Their principal topic of discourse was naturally Mr.
Pecksniff and his family; of whom, and of the great obligations they had heaped
upon him, Tom Pinch, with the tears standing in his eyes, drew such a picture as
would have inclined any one of common feeling almost to revere them: and of
which Mr. Pecksniff had not the slightest foresight or preconceived idea, or he
certainly (being very humble) would not have sent Tom Pinch to bring the pupil
home.
In this way they went on, and on, and on--in the language of the
story-books--until at last the village lights appeared before them, and the
church spire cast a long reflection on the grave-yard grass: as if it were a
dial (alas, the truest in the world!) marking, whatever light shone out of
Heaven, the flight of days and weeks and years, by some new shadow on that
solemn ground.
`A pretty church!' said Martin, observing that his companion slackened the
slack pace of the horse, as they approached.
`Is it not?' cried Tom, with great pride. `There's the sweetest little organ
there you ever heard. I play it for them.'
`Indeed?' said Martin. `It is hardly worth the trouble, I should think. What
do you get for that, now?'
`Nothing,' answered Tom.
`Well,' returned his friend, `you are a very strange fellow!'
To which remark there succeeded a brief silence.
`When I say nothing,' observed Mr. Pinch, cheerfully, `I am wrong, and don't
say what I mean, because I get a great deal of pleasure from it, and the means
of passing some of the happiest hours I know. It led to something else the other
day; but you will not care to hear about that I dare say?'
`Oh yes I shall. What?'
`It led to my seeing,' said Tom, in a lower voice, `one of the loveliest and
most beautiful faces you can possibly picture to yourself.'
`And yet I am able to picture a beautiful one,' said his friend,
thoughtfully, `or should be, if I have any memory.'
`She came' said Tom, laying his hand upon the other's arm, `for the first
time very early in the morning, when it was hardly light; and when I saw her,
over my shoulder, standing just within the porch, I turned quite cold, almost
believing her to be a spirit. A moment's reflection got the better of that, of
course, and fortunately it came to my relief so soon, that I didn't leave off
playing.'
`Why fortunately?'
`Why? Because she stood there, listening. I had my spectacles on, and saw her
through the chinks in the curtains as plainly as I see you; and she was
beautiful. After a while she glided off, and I continued to play until she was
out of hearing.'
`Why did you do that?'
`Don't you see?' responded Tom. `Because she might suppose I hadn't seen her;
and might return.'
`And did she?'
`Certainly she did. Next morning, and next evening too: but always when there
were no people about, and always alone. I rose earlier and sat there later, that
when she came, she might find the church door open, and the organ playing, and
might not be disappointed. She strolled that way for some days, and always
stayed to listen. But she is gone now, and of all unlikely things in this wide
world, it is perhaps the most improbable that I shall ever look upon her face
again.'
`You don't know anything more about her?'
`No.'
`And you never followed her when she went away?'
`Why should I distress her by doing that?' said Tom Pinch. `Is it likely that
she wanted my company? She came to hear the organ, not to see me; and would you
have had me scare her from a place she seemed to grow quite fond of? Now, Heaven
bless her!' cried Tom, `to have given her but a minute's pleasure every day, I
would have gone on playing the organ at those times until I was an old man:
quite contented if she sometimes thought of a poor fellow like me, as a part of
the music; and more than recompensed if she ever mixed me up with anything she
liked as well as she liked that!'
The new pupil was clearly very much amazed by Mr. Pinch's weakness, and would
probably have told him so, and given him some good advice, but for their
opportune arrival at Mr. Pecksniff's door: the front door this time, on account
of the occasion being one of ceremony and rejoicing. The same man was in waiting
for the horse who had been adjured by Mr. Pinch in the morning not to yield to
his rabid desire to start; and after delivering the animal into his charge, and
beseeching Mr. Chuzzlewit in a whisper never to reveal a syllable of what he had
just told him in the fulness of his heart, Tom led the pupil in, for instant
presentation.
Mr. Pecksniff had clearly not expected them for hours to come: for he was
surrounded by open books, and was glancing from volume to volume, with a
black-lead pencil in his mouth, and a pair of compasses in his hand, at a vast
number of mathematical diagrams, of such extraordinary shapes that they looked
like designs for fireworks. Neither had Miss Charity expected them, for she was
busied, with a capacious wicker basket before her, in making impracticable
nightcaps for the poor. Neither had Miss Mercy expected them, for she was
sitting upon her stool, tying on the--oh good gracious!--the petticoat of a
large doll that she was dressing for a neighbour's child: really, quite a
grown-up doll, which made it more confusing: and had its little bonnet dangling
by the ribbon from one of her fair curls, to which she had fastened it lest it
should be lost or sat upon. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to
conceive a family so thoroughly taken by surprise as the Pecksniffs were, on
this occasion.
Bless my life!' said Mr. Pecksniff, looking up, and gradually exchanging his
abstracted face for one of joyful recognition. `Here already! Martin, my dear
boy, I am delighted to welcome you to my poor house!'
With this kind greeting, Mr. Pecksniff fairly took him to his arms, and
patted him several times upon the back with his right hand the while, as if to
express that his feelings during the embrace were too much for utterance.
`But here,' he said, recovering, `are my daughters, Martin; my two only
children, whom (if you ever saw them) you have not beheld--ah, these sad family
divisions!--since you were infants together. Nay, my dears, why blush at being
detected in your everyday pursuits? We had prepared to give you the reception of
a visitor, Martin, in our little room of state,' said Mr. Pecksniff, smiling,
`but I like this better, I like this better!'
Oh blessed star of Innocence, wherever you may be, how did you glitter in
your home of ether, when the two Miss Pecksniffs put forth each her lily hand,
and gave the same, with mantling cheeks, to Martin! How did you twinkle, as if
fluttering with sympathy, when Mercy, reminded of the bonnet in her hair, hid
her fair face and turned her head aside: the while her gentle sister plucked it
out, and smote her with a sister's soft reproof, upon her buxom shoulder!
`And how,' said Mr. Pecksniff, turning round after the contemplation of these
passages, and taking Mr. Pinch in a friendly manner by the elbow, `how has our
friend used you, Martin?'
`Very well indeed, sir. We are on the best terms, I assure you.'
`Old Tom Pinch!' said Mr. Pecksniff, looking on him with affectionate
sadness. `Ah! It seems but yesterday that Thomas was a boy fresh from a
scholastic course. Yet years have passed, I think, since Thomas Pinch and I
first walked the world together!'
Mr. Pinch could say nothing. He was too much moved. But he pressed his
master's hand, and tried to thank him.
`And Thomas Pinch and I,' said Mr. Pecksniff, in a deeper voice, `will walk
it yet, in mutual faithfulness and friendship! And if it comes to pass that
either of us be run over in any of those busy crossings which divide the streets
of life, the other will convey him to the hospital in Hope, and sit beside his
bed in Bounty!'
`Well, well, well!' he added in a happier tone, as he shook Mr. Pinch's elbow
hard. `No more of this! Martin, my dear friend, that you may be at home within
these walls, let me show you how we live, and where. Come!'
With that he took up a lighted candle, and, attended by his young relative,
prepared to leave the room. At the door, he stopped.
`You'll bear us company, Tom Pinch?'
Aye, cheerfully, though it had been to death, would Tom have followed him:
glad to lay down his life for such a man!
`This,' said Mr. Pecksniff, opening the door of an opposite parlour, `is the
little room of state, I mentioned to you. My girls have pride in it, Martin!
This,' opening another door, `is the little chamber in which my works (slight
things at best) have been concocted. Portrait of myself by Spiller. Bust by
Spoker. The latter is considered a good likeness. I seem to recognise something
about the left-hand corner of the nose, myself.'
Martin thought it was very like, but scarcely intellectual enough. Mr.
Pecksniff observed that the same fault had been found with it before. it was
remarkable it should have struck his young relation too. He was glad to see he
had an eye for art.
`Various books you observe,' said Mr. Pecksniff, waving his hand towards the
wall, `connected with our pursuit. I have scribbled myself, but have not yet
published. Be careful how you come upstairs. This,' opening another door, `is my
chamber. I read here when the family suppose I have retired to rest. Sometimes I
injure my health rather more than I can quite justify to myself, by doing so:
but art is long and time is short. Every facility you see for jotting down crude
notions, even here.'
These latter words were explained by his pointing to a small round table on
which were a lamp, divers sheets of paper, a piece of India rubber, and a case
of instruments: all put ready, in case an architectural idea should come into
Mr. Pecksniff's head in the night; in which event he would instantly leap out of
bed, and fix it for ever.
Mr. Pecksniff opened another door on the same floor, and shut it again, all
at once, as if it were a Blue Chamber. But before he had well done so, he looked
smilingly round, and said, `Why not?'
Martin couldn't say why not, because he didn't know anything at all about it.
So Mr. Pecksniff answered himself, by throwing open the door, and saying:
`My daughters' room. A poor first-floor to us, but a bower to them. Very
neat. Very airy. Plants you observe; hyacinths; books again; birds.' These
birds, by-the-bye, comprised, in all, one staggering old sparrow without a tail,
which had been borrowed expressly from the kitchen. `Such trifles as girls love
are here. Nothing more. Those who seek heartless splendour, would seek here in
vain.'
With that he led them to the floor above.
`This,' said Mr. Pecksniff, throwing wide the door of the memorable two-pair
front; `is a room where some talent has been developed I believe. This is a room
in which an idea for a steeple occurred to me that I may one day give to the
world. We work here, my dear Martin. Some architects have been bred in this
room: a few, I think, Mr. Pinch?'
Tom fully assented; and, what is more, fully believed it.
`You see,' said Mr. Pecksniff, passing the candle rapidly from roll to roll
of paper, `some traces of our doings here. Salisbury Cathedral from the north.
From the south. From the east. From the west. From the south-east. From the
nor'-west. A bridge. An alms-house. A jail. A church. A powder-magazine. A
wine-cellar. A portico. A summerhouse. An ice-house. Plans, elevations,
sections, every kind of thing. And this,' he added, having by this time reached
another large chamber on the same story, with four little beds in it, `this is
your room, of which Mr. Pinch here is the quiet sharer. A southern aspect; a
charming prospect; Mr. Pinch's little library, you perceive; everything
agreeable and appropriate. If there is any additional comfort you would desire
to have here at anytime, pray mention it. Even to strangers, far less to you, my
dear Martin, there is no restriction on that point.'
It was undoubtedly true, and may be stated in corroboration of Mr. Pecksniff,
that any pupil had the most liberal permission to mention anything in this way
that suggested itself to his fancy. Some young gentlemen had gone on mentioning
the very same thing for five years without ever being stopped.
`The domestic assistants,' said Mr. Pecksniff, `sleep above; and that is
all.' After which, and listening complacently as he went, to the encomiums
passed by his young friend on the arrangements generally, he led the way to the
parlour again.
Here a great change had taken place; for festive preparations on a rather
extensive scale were already completed, and the two Miss Pecksniffs were
awaiting their return with hospitable looks. There were two bottles of currant
wine, white and red; a dish of sandwiches (very long and very slim); another of
apples; another of captain's biscuits (which are always a moist and jovial sort
of viand). a plate of oranges cut up small and gritty; with powdered sugar, and
a highly geological home-made cake. The magnitude of these preparations quite
took away Tom Pinch's breath: for though the new pupils were usually let down
softly, as one may say, particularly in the wine department, which had so many
stages of declension, that sometimes a young gentleman was a whole fortnight in
getting to the pump; still this was a banquet; a sort of Lord Mayor's feast in
private life; a something to think of, and hold on by, afterwards.
To this entertainment, which apart from its own intrinsic merits, had the
additional choice quality, that it was in strict keeping with the night, being
both light and cool, Mr. Pecksniff besought the company to do full justice.
`Martin,' he said, `will seat himself between you two, my dears, and Mr.
Pinch will come by me. Let us drink to our new inmate, and may we be happy
together! Martin, my dear friend, my love to you! Mr. Pinch, if you spare the
bottle we shall quarrel.'
And trying (in his regard for the feelings of the rest) to look as if the
wine were not acid and didn't make him wink, Mr. Pecksniff did honour to his own
toast.
`This,' he said, in allusion to the party, not the wine, `is a Mingling that
repays one for much disappointment and vexation. Let us be merry.' Here he took
a captain's biscuit. `It is a poor heart that never rejoices; and our hearts are
not poor. No!'
With such stimulants to merriment did he beguile the time, and do the honours
of the table; while Mr. Pinch, perhaps to assure himself that what he saw and
heard was holiday reality, and not a charming dream, ate of everything, and in
particular disposed of the slim sandwiches to a surprising extent. Nor was he
stinted in his draughts of wine; but on the contrary, remembering Mr.
Pecksniff's speech, attacked the bottle with such vigour, that every time he
filled his glass anew, Miss Charity, despite her amiable resolves, could not
repress a fixed and stony glare, as if her eyes had rested on a ghost. Mr.
Pecksniff also became thoughtful at those moments, not to say dejected: but as
he knew the vintage, it is very likely he may have been speculating on the
probable condition of Mr. Pinch upon the morrow, and discussing within himself
the best remedies for colic.
Martin and the young ladies were excellent friends already, and compared
recollections of their childish days, to their mutual liveliness and
entertainment. Miss Mercy laughed immensely at everything that was said; and
sometimes, after glancing at the happy face of Mr. Pinch, was seized with such
fits of mirth as brought her to the very confines of hysterics. But for these
bursts of gaiety her sister, in her better sense, reproved her; observing, in an
angry whisper, that it was far from being a theme for jest; and that she had no
patience with the creature; though it generally ended in her laughing too--but
much more moderately--and saying that indeed it was a little too ridiculous and
intolerable to be serious about.
At length it became high time to remember the first clause of that great
discovery made by the ancient philosopher, for securing health, riches, and
wisdom; the infallibility of which has been for generations verified by the
enormous fortunes constantly amassed by chimneysweepers and other persons who
get up early and go to bed betimes. The young ladies accordingly rose, and
having taken leave of Mr. Chuzzlewit with much sweetness, and of their father
with much duty and of Mr. Pinch with much condescension, retired to their bower.
Mr. Pecksniff insisted on accompanying his young friend upstairs for personal
superintendence of his comforts; and taking him by the arm, conducted him once
more to his bedroom, followed by Mr. Pinch, who bore the light.
`Mr. Pinch,' said Pecksniff, seating himself with folded arms on one of the
spare beds. `I don't see any snuffers in that candlestick. Will you oblige me by
going down, and asking for a pair?'
Mr. Pinch, only too happy to be useful, went off directly.
`You will excuse Thomas Pinch's want of polish, Martin,' said Mr. Pecksniff,
with a smile of patronage and pity, as soon as he had left the room. `He means
well.'
`He is a very good fellow, sir.'
`Oh, yes,' said Mr. Pecksniff. `Yes. Thomas Pinch means well. He is very
grateful. I have never regretted having befriended Thomas Pinch.'
`I should think you never would, sir.'
`No,' said Mr. Pecksniff. `No. I hope not. Poor fellow, he is always disposed
to do his best; but he is not gifted. You will make him useful to you, Martin,
if you please. If Thomas has a fault, it is that he is sometimes a little apt to
forget his position. But that is soon checked. Worthy soul! You will find him
easy to manage. Good night!'
`Good night, sir.'
By this time Mr. Pinch had returned with the snuffers.
`And good night to you, Mr. Pinch,' said Pecksniff. `And sound sleep to you
both. Bless you! Bless you!'
Invoking this benediction on the heads of his young friends with great
fervour, he withdrew to his own room; while they, being tired, soon fell asleep.
If Martin dreamed at all, some clue to the matter of his visions may possibly be
gathered from the after-pages of this history. Those of Thomas Pinch were all of
holidays, church organs, and seraphic Pecksniffs. It was some time before Mr.
Pecksniff dreamed at all, or even sought his pillow, as he sat for full two
hours before the fire in his own chamber, looking at the coals and thinking
deeply. But he, too, slept and dreamed at last. Thus in the quiet hours of the
night, one house shuts in as many incoherent and incongruous fancies as a
madman's head.
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