Chapter XXXII

DESCRIBES, FAR MORE FULLY THAN THE

COURT NEWSMAN EVER DID, A BACHELOR'S

PARTY, GIVEN BY Mr. BOB SAWYER AT HIS

LODGINGS IN THE BOROUGH

here is a repose about Lant Street, in the Borough, which

sheds a gentle melancholy upon the soul. There are always

a good many houses to let in the street: it is a by-street too,

and its dulness is soothing. A house in Lant Street would not come

within the denomination of a first-rate residence, in the strict

acceptation of the term; but it is a most desirable spot

nevertheless. If a man wished to abstract himself from the world―

to remove himself from within the reach of temptation―to place

himself beyond the possibility of any inducement to look out of the

window―we should recommend him by all means go to Lant

Street.

In this happy retreat are colonised a few clear-starchers, a

sprinkling of journeymen bookbinders, one or two prison agents

for the Insolvent Court, several small housekeepers who are

employed in the Docks, a handful of mantua-makers, and a

seasoning of jobbing tailors. The majority of the inhabitants either

direct their energies to the letting of furnished apartments, or

devote themselves to the healthful and invigorating pursuit of

mangling. The chief features in the still life of the street are green

shutters, lodging-bills, brass door-plates, and bell-handles; the

principal specimens of animated nature, the pot-boy, the muffin

youth, and the baked-potato man. The population is migratory,

usually disappearing on the verge of quarter-day, and generally by

night. His Majesty's revenues are seldom collected in this happy

valley; the rents are dubious; and the water communication is very

frequently cut off.

Mr. Bob Sawyer embellished one side of the fire, in his first-

floor front, early on the evening for which he had invited Mr.

Pickwick, and Mr. Ben Allen the other. The preparations for the

reception of visitors appeared to be completed. The umbrellas in

the passage had been heaped into the little corner outside the

back-parlour door; the bonnet and shawl of the landlady's servant

had been removed from the bannisters; there were not more than

two pairs of pattens on the street-door mat; and a kitchen candle,

with a very long snuff, burned cheerfully on the ledge of the

staircase window. Mr. Bob Sawyer had himself purchased the

spirits at a wine vaults in High Street, and had returned home

preceding the bearer thereof, to preclude the possibility of their

delivery at the wrong house. The punch was ready-made in a red

pan in the bedroom; a little table, covered with a green baize cloth,

had been borrowed from the parlour, to play at cards on; and the

glasses of the establishment, together with those which had been

borrowed for the occasion from the public-house, were all drawn

up in a tray, which was deposited on the landing outside the door.

Notwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature of all these

arrangements, there was a cloud on the countenance of Mr. Bob

Sawyer, as he sat by the fireside. There was a sympathising

expression, too, in the features of Mr. Ben Allen, as he gazed

intently on the coals, and a tone of melancholy in his voice, as he

said, after a long silence:

'Well, it is unlucky she should have taken it in her head to turn

sour, just on this occasion. She might at least have waited till to-

morrow.'

'That's her malevolence―that's her malevolence,' returned Mr.

Bob Sawyer vehemently. 'She says that if I can afford to give a

party I ought to be able to pay her confounded "little bill."'

'How long has it been running?' inquired Mr. Ben Allen. A bill,

by the bye, is the most extraordinary locomotive engine that the

genius of man ever produced. It would keep on running during the

longest lifetime, without ever once stopping of its own accord.

'Only a quarter, and a month or so,' replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.

Ben Allen coughed hopelessly, and directed a searching look

between the two top bars of the stove.

'It'll be a deuced unpleasant thing if she takes it into her head

to let out, when those fellows are here, won't it?' said Mr. Ben

Allen at length.

'Horrible,' replied Bob Sawyer, 'horrible.' A low tap was heard

at the room door. Mr. Bob Sawyer looked expressively at his

friend, and bade the tapper come in; whereupon a dirty, slipshod

girl in black cotton stockings, who might have passed for the

neglected daughter of a superannuated dustman in very reduced

circumstances, thrust in her head, and said―

'Please, Mister Sawyer, Missis Raddle wants to speak to you.'

Before Mr. Bob Sawyer could return any answer, the girl

suddenly disappeared with a jerk, as if somebody had given her a

violent pull behind; this mysterious exit was no sooner

accomplished, than there was another tap at the door―a smart,

pointed tap, which seemed to say, 'Here I am, and in I'm coming.'

Mr, Bob Sawyer glanced at his friend with a look of abject

apprehension, and once more cried, 'Come in.'

The permission was not at all necessary, for, before Mr. Bob

Sawyer had uttered the words, a little, fierce woman bounced into

the room, all in a tremble with passion, and pale with rage.

'Now, Mr. Sawyer,' said the little, fierce woman, trying to

appear very calm, 'if you'll have the kindness to settle that little

bill of mine I'll thank you, because I've got my rent to pay this

afternoon, and my landlord's a-waiting below now.' Here the little

woman rubbed her hands, and looked steadily over Mr. Bob

Sawyer's head, at the wall behind him.

'I am very sorry to put you to any inconvenience, Mrs. Raddle,'

said Bob Sawyer deferentially, 'but―'

'Oh, it isn't any inconvenience,' replied the little woman, with a

shrill titter. 'I didn't want it particular before to-day; leastways, as

it has to go to my landlord directly, it was as well for you to keep it

as me. You promised me this afternoon, Mr. Sawyer, and every

gentleman as has ever lived here, has kept his word, sir, as of

course anybody as calls himself a gentleman does.' Mrs. Raddle

tossed her head, bit her lips, rubbed her hands harder, and looked

at the wall more steadily than ever. It was plain to see, as Mr. Bob

Sawyer remarked in a style of Eastern allegory on a subsequent

occasion, that she was 'getting the steam up.'

'I am very sorry, Mrs. Raddle,' said Bob Sawyer, with all

imaginable humility, 'but the fact is, that I have been disappointed

in the City to-day.'―Extraordinary place that City. An astonishing

number of men always are getting disappointed there.

'Well, Mr. Sawyer,' said Mrs. Raddle, planting herself firmly on

a purple cauliflower in the Kidderminster carpet, 'and what's that

to me, sir?'

'I―I―have no doubt, Mrs. Raddle,' said Bob Sawyer, blinking

this last question, 'that before the middle of next week we shall be

able to set ourselves quite square, and go on, on a better system,

afterwards.'

This was all Mrs. Raddle wanted. She had bustled up to the

apartment of the unlucky Bob Sawyer, so bent upon going into a

passion, that, in all probability, payment would have rather

disappointed her than otherwise. She was in excellent order for a

little relaxation of the kind, having just exchanged a few

introductory compliments with Mr. R. in the front kitchen.

'Do you suppose, Mr. Sawyer,' said Mrs. Raddle, elevating her

voice for the information of the neighbours―'do you suppose that

I'm a-going day after day to let a fellar occupy my lodgings as

never thinks of paying his rent, nor even the very money laid out

for the fresh butter and lump sugar that's bought for his breakfast,

and the very milk that's took in, at the street door? Do you

suppose a hard-working and industrious woman as has lived in

this street for twenty year (ten year over the way, and nine year

and three-quarters in this very house) has nothing else to do but to

work herself to death after a parcel of lazy idle fellars, that are

always smoking and drinking, and lounging, when they ought to

be glad to turn their hands to anything that would help 'em to pay

their bills? Do you―'

'My good soul,' interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen soothingly.

'Have the goodness to keep your observashuns to yourself, sir, I

beg,' said Mrs. Raddle, suddenly arresting the rapid torrent of her

speech, and addressing the third party with impressive slowness

and solemnity. 'I am not aweer, sir, that you have any right to

address your conversation to me. I don't think I let these

apartments to you, sir.'

'No, you certainly did not,' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

'Very good, sir,' responded Mrs. Raddle, with lofty politeness.

'Then p'raps, sir, you'll confine yourself to breaking the arms and

legs of the poor people in the hospitals, and keep yourself to

yourself, sir, or there may be some persons here as will make you,

sir.'

'But you are such an unreasonable woman,' remonstrated Mr.

Benjamin Allen.

'I beg your parding, young man,' said Mrs. Raddle, in a cold

perspiration of anger. 'But will you have the goodness just to call

me that again, sir?'

'I didn't make use of the word in any invidious sense, ma'am,'

replied Mr. Benjamin Allen, growing somewhat uneasy on his own

account.

'I beg your parding, young man,' demanded Mrs. Raddle, in a

louder and more imperative tone. 'But who do you call a woman?

Did you make that remark to me, sir?'

'Why, bless my heart!' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

'Did you apply that name to me, I ask of you, sir?' interrupted

Mrs. Raddle, with intensefierceness, throwing the door wide

open.

'Why, of course I did,' replied Mr. Benjamin Allen.

'Yes, of course you did,' said Mrs. Raddle, backing gradually to

the door, and raising her voice to its loudest pitch, for the special

behoof of Mr. Raddle in the kitchen. 'Yes, of course you did! And

everybody knows that they may safely insult me in my own 'ouse

while my husband sits sleeping downstairs, and taking no more

notice than if I was a dog in the streets. He ought to be ashamed of

himself (here Mrs. Raddle sobbed) to allow his wife to be treated in

this way by a parcel of young cutters and carvers of live people's

bodies, that disgraces the lodgings (another sob), and leaving her

exposed to all manner of abuse; a base, faint-hearted, timorous

wretch, that's afraid to come upstairs, and face the ruffinly

creatures―that's afraid―that's afraid to come!' Mrs. Raddle

paused to listen whether the repetition of the taunt had roused her

better half; and finding that it had not been successful, proceeded

to descend the stairs with sobs innumerable; when there came a

loud double knock at the street door; whereupon she burst into an

hysterical fit of weeping, accompanied with dismal moans, which

was prolonged until the knock had been repeated six times, when,

in an uncontrollable burst of mental agony, she threw down all the

umbrellas, and disappeared into the back parlour, closing the door

after her with an awful crash.

'Does Mr. Sawyer live here?' said Mr. Pickwick, when the door

was opened.

'Yes,' said the girl, 'first floor. It's the door straight afore you,

when you gets to the top of the stairs.' Having given this

instruction, the handmaid, who had been brought up among the

aboriginal inhabitants of Southwark, disappeared, with the candle

in her hand, down the kitchen stairs, perfectly satisfied that she

had done everything that could possibly be required of her under

the circumstances.

Mr. Snodgrass, who entered last, secured the street door, after

several ineffectual efforts, by putting up the chain; and the friends

stumbled upstairs, where they were received by Mr. Bob Sawyer,

who had been afraid to go down, lest he should be waylaid by Mrs.

Raddle.

'How are you?' said the discomfited student. 'Glad to see you―

take care of the glasses.' This caution was addressed to Mr.

Pickwick, who had put his hat in the tray.

'Dear me,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I beg your pardon.'

'Don't mention it, don't mention it,' said Bob Sawyer. 'I'm

rather confined for room here, but you must put up with all that,

when you come to see a young bachelor. Walk in. You've seen this

gentleman before, I think?' Mr. Pickwick shook hands with Mr.

Benjamin Allen, and his friends followed his example. They had

scarcely taken their seats when there was another double knock.

'I hope that's Jack Hopkins!' said Mr. Bob Sawyer. 'Hush. Yes,

it is. Come up, Jack; come up.'

A heavy footstep was heard upon the stairs, and Jack Hopkins

presented himself. He wore a black velvet waistcoat, with thunder-

and-lightning buttons; and a blue striped shirt, with a white false

collar.

'You're late, Jack?' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

'Been detained at Bartholomew's,' replied Hopkins.

'Anything new?'

'No, nothing particular. Rather a good accident brought into the

casualty ward.'

'What was that, sir?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Only a man fallen out of a four pair of stairs' window; but it's a

very fair case indeed.'

'Do you mean that the patient is in a fair way to recover?'

inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'No,' replied Mr. Hopkins carelessly. 'No, I should rather say he

wouldn't. There must be a splendid operation, though, to-

morrow―magnificent sight if Slasher does it.'

'You consider Mr. Slasher a good operator?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Best alive,' replied Hopkins. 'Took a boy's leg out of the socket

last week―boy ate five apples and a gingerbread cake―exactly

two minutes after it was all over, boy said he wouldn't lie there to

be made game of, and he'd tell his mother if they didn't begin.'

'Dear me!' said Mr. Pickwick, astonished.

'Pooh! That's nothing, that ain't,' said Jack Hopkins. 'Is it,

Bob?'

'Nothing at all,' replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.

'By the bye, Bob,' said Hopkins, with a scarcely perceptible

glance at Mr. Pickwick's attentive face, 'we had a curious accident

last night. A child was brought in, who had swallowed a necklace.'

'Swallowed what, sir?' interrupted Mr. Pickwick.

'A necklace,' replied Jack Hopkins. 'Not all at once, you know,

that would be too much―you couldn't swallow that, if the child

did―eh, Mr. Pickwick? ha, ha!' Mr. Hopkins appeared highly

gratified with his own pleasantry, and continued―'No, the way

was this. Child's parents were poor people who lived in a court.

Child's eldest sister bought a necklace―common necklace, made

of large black wooden beads. Child being fond of toys, cribbed the

necklace, hid it, played with it, cut the string, and swallowed a

bead. Child thought it capital fun, went back next day, and

swallowed another bead.'

'Bless my heart,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'what a dreadful thing! I

beg your pardon, sir. Go on.'

'Next day, child swallowed two beads; the day after that, he

treated himself to three, and so on, till in a week's time he had got

through the necklace―five-and-twenty beads in all. The sister,

who was an industrious girl, and seldom treated herself to a bit of

finery, cried her eyes out, at the loss of the necklace; looked high

and low for it; but, I needn't say, didn't find it. A few days

afterwards, the family were at dinner―baked shoulder of mutton,

and potatoes under it―the child, who wasn't hungry, was playing

about the room, when suddenly there was heard a devil of a noise,

like a small hailstorm. "Don't do that, my boy," said the father. "I

ain't a-doin' nothing," said the child. "Well, don't do it again," said

the father. There was a short silence, and then the noise began

again, worse than ever. "If you don't mind what I say, my boy,"

said the father, "you'll find yourself in bed, in something less than

a pig's whisper." He gave the child a shake to make him obedient,

and such a rattling ensued as nobody ever heard before. "Why,

damme, it's in the child!" said the father, "he's got the croup in the

wrong place!" "No, I haven't, father," said the child, beginning to

cry, "it's the necklace; I swallowed it, father."―The father caught

the child up, and ran with him to the hospital; the beads in the

boy's stomach rattling all the way with the jolting; and the people

looking up in the air, and down in the cellars, to see where the

unusual sound came from. He's in the hospital now,' said Jack

Hopkins, 'and he makes such a devil of a noise when he walks

about, that they're obliged to muffle him in a watchman's coat, for

fear he should wake the patients.'

'That's the most extraordinary case I ever heard of,' said Mr.

Pickwick, with an emphatic blow on the table.

'Oh, that's nothing,' said Jack Hopkins. 'Is it, Bob?'

'Certainly not,' replied Bob Sawyer.

'Very singular things occur in our profession, I can assure you,

sir,' said Hopkins.

'So I should be disposed to imagine,' replied Mr. Pickwick.

Another knock at the door announced a large-headed young

man in a black wig, who brought with him a scorbutic youth in a

long stock. The next comer was a gentleman in a shirt emblazoned

with pink anchors, who was closely followed by a pale youth with a

plated watchguard. The arrival of a prim personage in clean linen