CHAPTER FIVE

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_ 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 chamber-window, 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

gayly.

 

'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 landlord 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 a 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 clockwork,

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 footprint 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 newcomer, 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 apiece, 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 greatcoat

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

sitter'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 halfway 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 graveyard 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 fullness 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 recognize 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

almshouse. A jail. A church. A powder-magazine. A wine-cellar.

A portico. A summer-house. 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

chimney-sweepers 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. _

Read next: CHAPTER SIX

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