She has been told it often enough; and when she IS told it, she only gives me a placid look, as if I was I don't know what--a steeple in the distance," said Caddy with a sudden idea; "and then she shakes her head and says 'Oh, Caddy, Caddy, what a tease you are!'

She has been told it often enough; but she only gives me a placid look, and then she shakes her head and says 'Oh, Caddy, what a tease you are!'


and goes on with the Borrioboola letters."


"Well, my dear Esther," she returned, drying her eyes, "I must do the best I can and trust to my dear Prince never to have an unkind remembrance of my coming so shabbily to him.

"Well, my dear Esther," she returned, drying her eyes, "I must do the best I can and trust to my dear Prince not to mind my coming so shabbily to him.


If the question concerned an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma would know all about it and would be quite excited.

If it was an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma would be quite excited.


Being what it is, she neither knows nor cares."


Caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for her mother, but mentioned this with tears as an undeniable fact, which I am afraid it was.

Caddy did not lack natural affection for her mother, but mentioned this with tears as an undeniable fact, which I am afraid it was.


We were sorry for the poor dear girl and found so much to admire in the good disposition which had survived under such discouragement that we both at once (I mean Ada and I) proposed a little scheme that made her perfectly joyful.

We were sorry for the poor dear girl and proposed a little scheme that made her joyful.


This was her staying with us for three weeks, my staying with her for one, and our all three contriving and cutting out, and repairing, and sewing, and saving, and doing the very best we could think of to make the most of her stock.

This was her staying with us for three weeks, my staying with her for one, and our all three contriving and cutting out, and repairing, and sewing, and doing the very best we could with her stock.


My guardian being as pleased with the idea as Caddy was, we took her home next day to arrange the matter and brought her out again in triumph with her boxes and all the purchases that could be squeezed out of a ten-pound note, which Mr. Jellyby had found in the docks I suppose, but which he at all events gave her.

My guardian being as pleased with the idea as Caddy was, we took her home next day to arrange the matter and brought her out again in triumph with her boxes and all the purchases that could be squeezed out of a ten-pound note, which Mr. Jellyby gave her.


What my guardian would not have given her if we had encouraged him, it would be difficult to say, but we thought it right to compound for no more than her wedding-dress and bonnet.

What my guardian would not have given her if we had encouraged him, it would be difficult to say, but we thought it right to ask for no more than her wedding-dress and bonnet.


He agreed to this compromise, and if Caddy had ever been happy in her life, she was happy when we sat down to work.


She was clumsy enough with her needle, poor girl, and pricked her fingers as much as she had been used to ink them.


She could not help reddening a little now and then, partly with the smart and partly with vexation at being able to do no better, but she soon got over that and began to improve rapidly.

vexed at being able to do no better, but she soon began to improve rapidly.


So day after day she, and my darling, and my little maid Charley, and a milliner out of the town, and I, sat hard at work, as pleasantly as possible.

So day after day she, and my darling, and my little maid Charley, and a milliner from the town, and I, sat hard at work as pleasantly as possible.


Over and above this, Caddy was very anxious "to learn housekeeping," as she said.


The idea of her learning housekeeping of a person of my vast experience was such a joke that I laughed, and coloured up, and fell into a comical confusion when she proposed it.

The idea of her learning housekeeping of a person of my vast experience was such a joke that I laughed when she proposed it.


However, I said, "Caddy, I am sure you are very welcome to learn anything that you can learn of ME, my dear," and I showed her all my books and methods and all my fidgety ways.

However, I said, "Caddy, you are very welcome to learn anything that you can of me, my dear," and I showed her all my books and methods and all my fidgety ways.


You would have supposed that I was showing her some wonderful inventions, by her study of them; and if you had seen her, whenever I jingled my housekeeping keys, get up and attend me, certainly you might have thought that there never was a greater imposter than I with a blinder follower than Caddy Jellyby.


So what with working and housekeeping, and lessons to Charley, and backgammon in the evening with my guardian, and duets with Ada, the three weeks slipped fast away.


Then I went home with Caddy to see what could be done there, and Ada and Charley remained behind to take care of my guardian.

Then I went home with Caddy to see what could be done there, and Ada and Charley remained behind.


When I say I went home with Caddy, I mean to the furnished lodging in Hatton Garden.


We went to Newman Street two or three times, where preparations were in progress too--a good many, I observed, for enhancing the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop, and a few for putting the newly married couple away cheaply at the top of the house--but our great point was to make the furnished lodging decent for the wedding-breakfast and to imbue Mrs. Jellyby beforehand with some faint sense of the occasion.

We went to Newman Street two or three times, where preparations were in progress too - many, I observed, for enhancing the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop, and a few for putting the newly married couple away cheaply at the top of the house. But our aim was to make the furnished lodging decent for the wedding-breakfast and to imbue Mrs. Jellyby beforehand with some faint sense of the occasion.


The latter was the more difficult thing of the two because Mrs. Jellyby and an unwholesome boy occupied the front sitting-room (the back one was a mere closet), and it was littered down with waste-paper and Borrioboolan documents, as an untidy stable might be littered with straw.

The latter was the more difficult thing of the two. Mrs. Jellyby and an unwholesome boy occupied the front sitting-room, which was littered with waste-paper and documents, as an untidy stable might be littered with straw.


Mrs. Jellyby sat there all day drinking strong coffee, dictating, and holding Borrioboolan interviews by appointment.

Mrs. Jellyby sat there all day drinking strong coffee and dictating.


The unwholesome boy, who seemed to me to be going into a decline, took his meals out of the house.

The unwholesome boy seemed to me to be going into a decline.


When Mr. Jellyby came home, he usually groaned and went down into the kitchen.


There he got something to eat if the servant would give him anything, and then, feeling that he was in the way, went out and walked about Hatton Garden in the wet.

to get something to eat, and then went out and walked about Hatton Garden in the wet.


The poor children scrambled up and tumbled down the house as they had always been accustomed to do.


The production of these devoted little sacrifices in any presentable condition being quite out of the question at a week's notice, I proposed to Caddy that we should make them as happy as we could on her marriage morning in the attic where they all slept, and should confine our greatest efforts to her mama and her mama's room, and a clean breakfast.

I proposed to Caddy that we should make the children as happy as we could on her marriage morning in the attic where they all slept, and should confine our greatest efforts to her mama and her mama's room, and a clean breakfast.


In truth Mrs. Jellyby required a good deal of attention, the lattice-work up her back having widened considerably since I first knew her and her hair looking like the mane of a dustman's horse.


Thinking that the display of Caddy's wardrobe would be the best means of approaching the subject, I invited Mrs. Jellyby to come and look at it spread out on Caddy's bed in the evening after the unwholesome boy was gone.

Thinking that the display of Caddy's wardrobe would be the best means of approaching the subject, I invited Mrs. Jellyby to come and look at it spread out on Caddy's bed.


"My dear Miss Summerson," said she, rising from her desk with her usual sweetness of temper, "these are really ridiculous preparations, though your assisting them is a proof of your kindness.

"My dear Miss Summerson," said she, rising from her desk with her usual sweetness of temper, "these are really ridiculous preparations, though you are kind to assist them.


There is something so inexpressibly absurd to me in the idea of Caddy being married!

There is something so absurd to me in the idea of Caddy being married!


Oh, Caddy, you silly, silly, silly puss!"


She came upstairs with us notwithstanding and looked at the clothes in her customary far-off manner.

She came upstairs with us notwithstanding and looked at the clothes in her far-off manner.


They suggested one distinct idea to her, for she said with her placid smile, and shaking her head, "My good Miss Summerson, at half the cost, this weak child might have been equipped for Africa!"

She said with her placid smile, shaking her head, "My good Miss Summerson, at half the cost, this weak child might have been equipped for Africa!"


On our going downstairs again, Mrs. Jellyby asked me whether this troublesome business was really to take place next Wednesday.


And on my replying yes, she said, "Will my room be required, my dear Miss Summerson?

, "Will my room be required for this troublesome business, my dear Miss Summerson?


For it's quite impossible that I can put my papers away."


I took the liberty of saying that the room would certainly be wanted and that I thought we must put the papers away somewhere.

I said that the room would certainly be wanted and that I thought we must put the papers away somewhere.


"Well, my dear Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Jellyby, "you know best, I dare say.


But by obliging me to employ a boy, Caddy has embarrassed me to that extent, overwhelmed as I am with public business, that I don't know which way to turn.

But I am so overwhelmed with public business, that I don't know which way to turn.


We have a Ramification meeting, too, on Wednesday afternoon, and the inconvenience is very serious."


"It is not likely to occur again," said I, smiling.


"Caddy will be married but once, probably."

"Caddy will be married only once, probably."


"That's true," Mrs. Jellyby replied; "that's true, my dear.


The next question was how Mrs. Jellyby should be dressed on the occasion.

The next question was how Mrs. Jellyby should be dressed for the wedding.


I thought it very curious to see her looking on serenely from her writing-table while Caddy and I discussed it, occasionally shaking her head at us with a half-reproachful smile like a superior spirit who could just bear with our trifling.


The state in which her dresses were, and the extraordinary confusion in which she kept them, added not a little to our difficulty; but at length we devised something not very unlike what a common-place mother might wear on such an occasion.

The state of her dresses, and the extraordinary confusion in which she kept them, added to our difficulty; but at length we devised something not very unlike what a commonplace mother might wear.


The abstracted manner in which Mrs. Jellyby would deliver herself up to having this attire tried on by the dressmaker, and the sweetness with which she would then observe to me how sorry she was that I had not turned my thoughts to Africa, were consistent with the rest of her behaviour.

Mrs. Jellyby tried on this attire in an abstracted manner, observing how sorry she was that I had not turned my thoughts to Africa.


The lodging was rather confined as to space, but I fancied that if Mrs. Jellyby's household had been the only lodgers in Saint Paul's or Saint Peter's, the sole advantage they would have found in the size of the building would have been its affording a great deal of room to be dirty in.

The lodging was rather confined, but if it had been the size of Saint Paul's it would only have afforded more room to be dirty in.


I believe that nothing belonging to the family which it had been possible to break was unbroken at the time of those preparations for Caddy's marriage, that nothing which it had been possible to spoil in any way was unspoilt, and that no domestic object which was capable of collecting dirt, from a dear child's knee to the door-plate, was without as much dirt as could well accumulate upon it.

I believe that none of the family possessions which it had been possible to break was unbroken at this time, nothing which it had been possible to spoil was unspoilt, and that no domestic object which was capable of collecting dirt was free of it.


Poor Mr. Jellyby, who very seldom spoke and almost always sat when he was at home with his head against the wall, became interested when he saw that Caddy and I were attempting to establish some order among all this waste and ruin and took off his coat to help.

Poor Mr. Jellyby, who very seldom spoke and almost always sat with his head against the wall, became interested when he saw that Caddy and I were attempting to establish some order, and took off his coat to help.


But such wonderful things came tumbling out of the closets when they were opened--bits of mouldy pie, sour bottles, Mrs. Jellyby's caps, letters, tea, forks, odd boots and shoes of children, firewood, wafers, saucepan-lids, damp sugar in odds and ends of paper bags, footstools, blacklead brushes, bread, Mrs. Jellyby's bonnets, books with butter sticking to the binding, guttered candle ends put out by being turned upside down in broken candlesticks, nutshells, heads and tails of shrimps, dinner-mats, gloves, coffee-grounds, umbrellas--that he looked frightened, and left off again.

But such wonderful things came tumbling out of the closets - bits of mouldy pie, sour bottles, letters, tea, forks, odd boots and shoes, firewood, saucepan-lids, brushes, candle ends, nutshells, dinner-mats, gloves, coffee-grounds, umbrellas - that he looked frightened, and stopped again.


But he came regularly every evening and sat without his coat, with his head against the wall, as though he would have helped us if he had known how.

But he came regularly every evening and sat with his head against the wall, as though he would have helped us if he had known how.


said Caddy to me on the night before the great day, when we really had got things a little to rights.

said Caddy to me on the night before the great day.


Since I first knew you, I have tidied and tidied over and over again, but it's useless.

I have tidied over and over again, but it's useless.


Ma and Africa, together, upset the whole house directly.


We never have a servant who don't drink.


Mr. Jellyby could not hear what she said, but he seemed very low indeed and shed tears, I thought.

Mr. Jellyby could not hear what she said, but he shed tears, I thought.


"I can't help thinking to-night, Esther, how dearly I hope to be happy with Prince, and how dearly Pa hoped, I dare say, to be happy with Ma.

"I can't help thinking, Esther, how dearly I hope to be happy with Prince, and how dearly Pa hoped, I dare say, to be happy with Ma.


said Mr. Jellyby, looking slowly round from the wail.


It was the first time, I think, I ever heard him say three words together.


cried Caddy, going to him and embracing him affectionately.


I mentioned in my account of our first visit in Thavies Inn that Richard described Mr. Jellyby as frequently opening his mouth after dinner without saying anything.


He opened his mouth now a great many times and shook his head in a melancholy manner.


asked Caddy, coaxing him, with her arms round his neck.

asked Caddy, with her arms round his neck.


Mr. Jellyby groaned and laid his head against the wall again, and this was the only time I ever heard him make any approach to expressing his sentiments on the Borrioboolan question.

Mr. Jellyby groaned and laid his head against the wall again.


I suppose he had been more talkative and lively once, but he seemed to have been completely exhausted long before I knew him.


I thought Mrs. Jellyby never would have left off serenely looking over her papers and drinking coffee that night.

I thought Mrs. Jellyby never would have stopped looking over her papers and drinking coffee that night.


It was twelve o'clock before we could obtain possession of the room, and the clearance it required then was so discouraging that Caddy, who was almost tired out, sat down in the middle of the dust and cried.

It was twelve o'clock before we could obtain possession of the room, and its state was so discouraging that Caddy, who was almost tired out, sat down in the middle of the dust and cried.


But she soon cheered up, and we did wonders with it before we went to bed.


In the morning it looked, by the aid of a few flowers and a quantity of soap and water and a little arrangement, quite gay.

In the morning it looked, by the aid of a few flowers and a quantity of soap and water, quite gay.


The plain breakfast made a cheerful show, and Caddy was perfectly charming.


But when my darling came, I thought--and I think now--that I never had seen such a dear face as my beautiful pet's.

But when my darling came, I thought - and I think now - that I never had seen such a dear face as my beautiful pet's.


We made a little feast for the children upstairs, and we put Peepy at the head of the table, and we showed them Caddy in her bridal dress, and they clapped their hands and hurrahed, and Caddy cried to think that she was going away from them and hugged them over and over again until we brought Prince up to fetch her away--when, I am sorry to say, Peepy bit him.

We made a little feast for the children upstairs, and put Peepy at the head of the table, and we showed them Caddy in her bridal dress, and they clapped their hands and hurrahed, and Caddy cried and hugged them until we brought Prince up to fetch her away - when, I am sorry to say, Peepy bit him.


Then there was old Mr. Turveydrop downstairs, in a state of deportment not to be expressed, benignly blessing Caddy and giving my guardian to understand that his son's happiness was his own parental work and that he sacrificed personal considerations to ensure it.

Old Mr. Turveydrop downstairs benignly blessed Caddy, giving my guardian to understand that he was making sacrifices to ensure his son's happiness.


"My dear sir," said Mr. Turveydrop, "these young people will live with me; my house is large enough for their accommodation, and they shall not want the shelter of my roof.

"My dear sir," said Mr. Turveydrop, "these young people will live with me; they shall not lack the shelter of my roof.


I could have wished--you will understand the allusion, Mr. Jarndyce, for you remember my illustrious patron the Prince Regent--I could have wished that my son had married into a family where there was more deportment, but the will of heaven be done!"


Mr. and Mrs. Pardiggle were of the party--Mr. Pardiggle, an obstinate-looking man with a large waistcoat and stubbly hair, who was always talking in a loud bass voice about his mite, or Mrs. Pardiggle's mite, or their five boys' mites.


Mr. Quale, with his hair brushed back as usual and his knobs of temples shining very much, was also there, not in the character of a disappointed lover, but as the accepted of a young--at least, an unmarried--lady, a Miss Wisk, who was also there.

there, and Mr. Quale, with his hair brushed back and his temples shining very much, was also there, not in the character of a disappointed lover, but as the accepted of a Miss Wisk.


Miss Wisk's mission, my guardian said, was to show the world that woman's mission was man's mission and that the only genuine mission of both man and woman was to be always moving declaratory resolutions about things in general at public meetings.


The guests were few, but were, as one might expect at Mrs. Jellyby's, all devoted to public objects only.

The guests were few, but were, as one might expect at Mrs. Jellyby's, all devoted to public objects.


Besides those I have mentioned, there was an extremely dirty lady with her bonnet all awry and the ticketed price of her dress still sticking on it, whose neglected home, Caddy told me, was like a filthy wilderness, but whose church was like a fancy fair.


A very contentious gentleman, who said it was his mission to be everybody's brother but who appeared to be on terms of coolness with the whole of his large family, completed the party.


A party, having less in common with such an occasion, could hardly have been got together by any ingenuity.


Such a mean mission as the domestic mission was the very last thing to be endured among them; indeed, Miss Wisk informed us, with great indignation, before we sat down to breakfast, that the idea of woman's mission lying chiefly in the narrow sphere of home was an outrageous slander on the part of her tyrant, man.

Such a mean mission as the domestic mission was the very last thing to be endured by such a group; indeed, Miss Wisk informed us, with great indignation, that the idea of woman's mission lying chiefly in the narrow sphere of home was an outrageous slander by her tyrant, man.


One other singularity was that nobody with a mission--except Mr. Quale, whose mission, as I think I have formerly said, was to be in ecstasies with everybody's mission--cared at all for anybody's mission.


Mrs. Pardiggle being as clear that the only one infallible course was her course of pouncing upon the poor and applying benevolence to them like a strait-waistcoat; as Miss Wisk was that the only practical thing for the world was the emancipation of woman from the thraldom of her tyrant, man.


Mrs. Jellyby, all the while, sat smiling at the limited vision that could see anything but Borrioboola-Gha.


But I am anticipating now the purport of our conversation on the ride home instead of first marrying Caddy.

But I am anticipating the conversation on the ride home, instead of first marrying Caddy.


We all went to church, and Mr. Jellyby gave her away.


Of the air with which old Mr. Turveydrop, with his hat under his left arm (the inside presented at the clergyman like a cannon) and his eyes creasing themselves up into his wig, stood stiff and high-shouldered behind us bridesmaids during the ceremony, and afterwards saluted us, I could never say enough to do it justice.

Old Mr. Turveydrop, with his hat under his left arm, stood stiff and high-shouldered behind us bridesmaids during the ceremony, and afterwards saluted us with inexpressible deportment.


Miss Wisk, whom I cannot report as prepossessing in appearance, and whose manner was grim, listened to the proceedings, as part of woman's wrongs, with a disdainful face.

Miss Wisk grimly listened to the proceedings, as part of woman's wrongs, with a disdainful face.


Mrs. Jellyby, with her calm smile and her bright eyes, looked the least concerned of all the company.

Mrs. Jellyby, with her calm smile, looked the least concerned of all the company.


We duly came back to breakfast, and Mrs. Jellyby sat at the head of the table and Mr. Jellyby at the foot.


Caddy had previously stolen upstairs to hug the children again and tell them that her name was Turveydrop.

Caddy stole upstairs to hug the children again and tell them that her name was Turveydrop.


But this piece of information, instead of being an agreeable surprise to Peepy, threw him on his back in such transports of kicking grief that I could do nothing on being sent for but accede to the proposal that he should be admitted to the breakfast table.

But this piece of information, instead of being an agreeable surprise to Peepy, threw him on his back in such transports of kicking grief that he had to be admitted to the breakfast table.


So he came down and sat in my lap; and Mrs. Jellyby, after saying, in reference to the state of his pinafore, "Oh, you naughty Peepy, what a shocking little pig you are!"


He was very good except that he brought down Noah with him (out of an ark I had given him before we went to church) and WOULD dip him head first into the wine-glasses and then put him in his mouth.

was very good except that he brought down Noah (out of an ark I had given him) and would dip him head first into the wine-glasses and then put him in his mouth.


My guardian, with his sweet temper and his quick perception and his amiable face, made something agreeable even out of the ungenial company.

My guardian, with his sweet temper, made something agreeable even out of this ungenial company.


None of them seemed able to talk about anything but his, or her, own one subject, and none of them seemed able to talk about even that as part of a world in which there was anything else; but my guardian turned it all to the merry encouragement of Caddy and the honour of the occasion, and brought us through the breakfast nobly.

None of them seemed able to talk about anything but his, or her, own subject; but my guardian turned it all to the honour of the occasion, and brought us through the breakfast nobly.


What we should have done without him, I am afraid to think, for all the company despising the bride and bridegroom and old Mr. Turveydrop--and old Mr. Thurveydrop, in virtue of his deportment, considering himself vastly superior to all the company--it was a very unpromising case.

What we should have done without him, I am afraid to think.


At last the time came when poor Caddy was to go and when all her property was packed on the hired coach and pair that was to take her and her husband to Gravesend.

At last the time came when poor Caddy had to go on the hired coach that was to take her and her husband to Gravesend.


It affected us to see Caddy clinging, then, to her deplorable home and hanging on her mother's neck with the greatest tenderness.

It affected us to see her clinging on her mother's neck with the greatest tenderness.


"I am very sorry I couldn't go on writing from dictation, Ma," sobbed Caddy.


"I have told you over and over again that I have engaged a boy, and there's an end of it."


"You are sure you are not the least angry with me, Ma?


"You foolish Caddy," returned Mrs. Jellyby, "do I look angry, or have I inclination to be angry, or time to be angry?

"You foolish Caddy," returned Mrs. Jellyby, "do I look angry, or have I time to be angry?"


"Take a little care of Pa while I am gone, Mama!"

"Take care of Pa while I am gone, Mama!"


Mrs. Jellyby positively laughed at the fancy.


"You romantic child," said she, lightly patting Caddy's back.


Now, good-bye, Caddy, and be very happy!"

Now, goodbye, Caddy, and be very happy!"


Then Caddy hung upon her father and nursed his cheek against hers as if he were some poor dull child in pain.

Then Caddy hung upon her father in the hall and nursed his cheek against hers as if he were some poor dull child in pain.


Her father released her, took out his pocket handkerchief, and sat down on the stairs with his head against the wall.

Her father released her, took out his handkerchief, and sat down on the stairs with his head against the wall.


I hope he found some consolation in walls.


And then Prince took her arm in his and turned with great emotion and respect to his father, whose deportment at that moment was overwhelming.

And then Prince took her arm and turned with great emotion and respect to his father, whose deportment at that moment was overwhelming.


"Thank you over and over again, father!"


"I am very grateful for all your kindness and consideration regarding our marriage, and so, I can assure you, is Caddy."


"My dear son," said Mr. Turveydrop, "and dear daughter, I have done my duty.


If the spirit of a sainted wooman hovers above us and looks down on the occasion, that, and your constant affection, will be my recompense.

Your constant affection will be my recompense.


You will not fail in YOUR duty, my son and daughter, I believe?"

You will not fail in your duty, my son and daughter, I believe?"


"This," returned Mr. Turveydrop, "is as it should be.


My children, my home is yours, my heart is yours, my all is yours.


I will never leave you; nothing but death shall part us.


My dear son, you contemplate an absence of a week, I think?"

My dear son, you are absent for a week, I think?"


"My dear child," said Mr. Turveydrop, "let me, even under the present exceptional circumstances, recommend strict punctuality.

"My dear child," said Mr. Turveydrop, "let me recommend strict punctuality.


It is highly important to keep the connexion together; and schools, if at all neglected, are apt to take offence."

Schools, if at all neglected, are apt to take offence."


"This day week, father, we shall be sure to be home to dinner."

"This day week, father, we shall be home."


"You will find fires, my dear Caroline, in your own room, and dinner prepared in my apartment.


anticipating some self-denying objection on his son's part with a great air.


"You and our Caroline will be strange in the upper part of the premises and will, therefore, dine that day in my apartment.

You and Caroline will dine that day in my apartment.


They drove away, and whether I wondered most at Mrs. Jellyby or at Mr. Turveydrop, I did not know.


Ada and my guardian were in the same condition when we came to talk it over.


But before we drove away too, I received a most unexpected and eloquent compliment from Mr. Jellyby.

But before we drove away too, I received a most unexpected compliment from Mr. Jellyby.


He came up to me in the hall, took both my hands, pressed them earnestly, and opened his mouth twice.


I was so sure of his meaning that I said, quite flurried, "You are very welcome, sir.


"I hope this marriage is for the best, guardian," said I when we three were on our road home.


"But it must have been this morning, I think," said I.


He answered "No" again, and this time my dear girl confidently answered "No" too and shook the lovely head which, with its blooming flowers against the golden hair, was like the very spring.

My dear girl confidently answered "No" too and shook her lovely head.


"Much YOU know of east winds, my ugly darling," said I, kissing her in my admiration--I couldn't help it.

"Much you know of east winds, my ugly darling," said I, kissing her - I couldn't help it.


It was only their love for me, I know very well, and it is a long time ago.


I must write it even if I rub it out again, because it gives me so much pleasure.


They said there could be no east wind where Somebody was; they said that wherever Dame Durden went, there was sunshine and summer air.


Mr. George has not far to ride with folded arms upon the box, for their destination is Lincoln's Inn Fields.

They have not far to go, for their destination is Lincoln's Inn Fields.


When the driver stops his horses, Mr. George alights, and looking in at the window, says, "What, Mr. Tulkinghorn's your man, is he?"


"Why, I have heard of him--seen him too, I think.


But I don't know him, and he don't know me."


There ensues the carrying of Mr. Smallweed upstairs, which is done to perfection with the trooper's help.

With the trooper's help, Mr. Smallweed is carried upstairs


He is borne into Mr. Tulkinghorn's great room and deposited on the Turkey rug before the fire.

into Mr. Tulkinghorn's great room and deposited on the rug before the fire.


Mr. Tulkinghorn is not within at the present moment but will be back directly.

They are told that Mr. Tulkinghorn is not in, but will be back directly.


The occupant of the pew in the hall, having said thus much, stirs the fire and leaves the triumvirate to warm themselves.


Mr. George is mightily curious in respect of the room.

Mr. George is mightily curious about the room.


He looks up at the painted ceiling, looks round at the old law-books, contemplates the portraits of the great clients, reads aloud the names on the boxes.

He looks round at the old law-books, contemplates the portraits of the great clients, reads aloud the names on the boxes.


"'Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,'" Mr. George reads thoughtfully.


Mr. George stands looking at these boxes a long while--as if they were pictures--and comes back to the fire repeating, "Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and Manor of Chesney Wold, hey?"

He stands looking at these boxes a long while, and comes back to the fire repeating, "Sir Leicester Dedlock, of Chesney Wold, hey?"


whispers Grandfather Smallweed, rubbing his legs.


"So I have heard; and knows a thing or two, I'll hold a wager.

"So I have heard; and knows a thing or two, I'll wager.


Not bad quarters, either," says Mr. George, looking round again.


This reply is cut short by Mr. Tulkinghorn's arrival.


Rustily drest, with his spectacles in his hand, and their very case worn threadbare.


In face, watchful behind a blind; habitually not uncensorious and contemptuous perhaps.

In face, watchful behind a blind; contemptuous perhaps.


The peerage may have warmer worshippers and faithfuller believers than Mr. Tulkinghorn, after all, if everything were known.


"Good morning, Mr. Smallweed, good morning!"


As Mr. Tulkinghorn takes off his gloves and puts them in his hat, he looks with half-closed eyes across the room to where the trooper stands and says within himself perchance, "You'll do, my friend!"

He looks with half-closed eyes to where the trooper stands,


"Sit down, sergeant," he repeats as he comes to his table, which is set on one side of the fire, and takes his easy-chair.


"Cold and raw this morning, cold and raw!"


Mr. Tulkinghorn warms before the bars, alternately, the palms and knuckles of his hands and looks (from behind that blind which is always down) at the trio sitting in a little semicircle before him.


"Now, I can feel what I am about" (as perhaps he can in two senses), "Mr.


The old gentleman is newly shaken up by Judy to bear his part in the conversation.


"You have brought our good friend the sergeant, I see."


"Yes, sir," returns Mr. Smallweed, very servile to the lawyer's wealth and influence.


"And what does the sergeant say about this business?"


"Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed with a tremulous wave of his shrivelled hand, "this is the gentleman, sir."


Mr. George salutes the gentleman but otherwise sits bolt upright and profoundly silent--very forward in his chair, as if the full complement of regulation appendages for a field-day hung about him.

Mr. George salutes the gentleman but otherwise sits bolt upright and profoundly silent.


Mr. Tulkinghorn proceeds, "Well, George--I believe your name is George?"


"I ask your pardon, sir," returns the trooper, "but I should wish to know what YOU say?"

"I ask your pardon, sir," returns the trooper, "but I should wish to know what you say?"


This is so very trying to Mr. Smallweed's temper that he suddenly breaks out with "You're a brimstone beast!"


and as suddenly asks pardon of Mr. Tulkinghorn, excusing himself for this slip of the tongue by saying to Judy, "I was thinking of your grandmother, my dear."


"I supposed, sergeant," Mr. Tulkinghorn resumes as he leans on one side of his chair and crosses his legs, "that Mr. Smallweed might have sufficiently explained the matter.

"I supposed, sergeant," Mr. Tulkinghorn says, "that Mr. Smallweed might have sufficiently explained the matter.


It lies in the smallest compass, however.


You served under Captain Hawdon at one time, and were his attendant in illness, and rendered him many little services, and were rather in his confidence, I am told.

You served under Captain Hawdon at one time, and were his attendant in illness, and were rather in his confidence, I am told.


"Yes, sir, that is so," says Mr. George with military brevity.

"Yes, sir, that is so," says Mr. George.


"Therefore you may happen to have in your possession something--anything, no matter what; accounts, instructions, orders, a letter, anything--in Captain Hawdon's writing.

"Therefore you may happen to have in your possession something - anything, no matter what; accounts, instructions, a letter, anything - in Captain Hawdon's writing.


I wish to compare his writing with some that I have.


If you can give me the opportunity, you shall be rewarded for your trouble.


Three, four, five, guineas, you would consider handsome, I dare say."


cries Grandfather Smallweed, screwing up his eyes.


"If not, say how much more, in your conscience as a soldier, you can demand.


There is no need for you to part with the writing, against your inclination--though I should prefer to have it."

There is no need for you to part with the writing - though I should prefer to have it."


Mr. George sits squared in exactly the same attitude, looks at the painted ceiling, and says never a word.


The irascible Mr. Smallweed scratches the air.


"The question is," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his methodical, subdued, uninterested way, "first, whether you have any of Captain Hawdon's writing?"

"The question is," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his methodical, uninterested way, "first, whether you have any of Captain Hawdon's writing?


"First, whether I have any of Captain Hawdon's writing, sir," repeats Mr. George.


"Secondly, what will satisfy you for the trouble of producing it?"


"Secondly, what will satisfy me for the trouble of producing it, sir," repeats Mr. George.


"Thirdly, you can judge for yourself whether it is at all like that," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, suddenly handing him some sheets of written paper tied together.

Thirdly, you can judge for yourself whether it is at all like that," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, suddenly handing him some sheets of written paper.


All three repetitions Mr. George pronounces in a mechanical manner, looking straight at Mr. Tulkinghorn; nor does he so much as glance at the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, that has been given to him for his inspection (though he still holds it in his hand), but continues to look at the lawyer with an air of troubled meditation.

Mr. George looks straight at Mr. Tulkinghorn; he does not so much as glance at the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, that has been given to him for his inspection.


"Well, sir," replies Mr. George, rising erect and looking immense, "I would rather, if you'll excuse me, have nothing to do with this."

"Well, sir," replies Mr. George, rising and looking immense, "I would rather, if you'll excuse me, have nothing to do with this."


Mr. Tulkinghorn, outwardly quite undisturbed, demands, "Why not?"


"Except on military compulsion, I am not a man of business.


Among civilians I am what they call in Scotland a ne'er-do-weel.


I can stand any fire better than a fire of cross questions.


I mentioned to Mr. Smallweed, only an hour or so ago, that when I come into things of this kind I feel as if I was being smothered.


And that is my sensation," says Mr. George, looking round upon the company, "at the present moment."


With that, he takes three strides forward to replace the papers on the lawyer's table and three strides backward to resume his former station, where he stands perfectly upright, now looking at the ground and now at the painted ceiling, with his hands behind him as if to prevent himself from accepting any other document whatever.

With that, he takes three strides forward to replace the papers on the lawyer's table and three strides backward to resume his former station, where he stands perfectly upright with his hands behind him.


Under this provocation, Mr. Smallweed's favourite adjective of disparagement is so close to his tongue that he begins the words "my dear friend" with the monosyllable "brim," thus converting the possessive pronoun into brimmy and appearing to have an impediment in his speech.

Under this provocation, Mr. Smallweed's favourite adjective is so close to his tongue that he begins the words "my dear friend" with "brim," thus appearing to have an impediment in his speech.


Once past this difficulty, however, he exhorts his dear friend in the tenderest manner not to be rash, but to do what so eminent a gentleman requires, and to do it with a good grace, confident that it must be unobjectionable as well as profitable.

Once past this difficulty, however, he exhorts his dear friend not to be rash, but to do what the gentleman requires.


Mr. Tulkinghorn merely utters an occasional sentence, as, "You are the best judge of your own interest, sergeant."

Mr. Tulkinghorn merely says, "You are the best judge of your own interest, sergeant.


"If you know what you mean, that's quite enough."


These he utters with an appearance of perfect indifference as he looks over the papers on his table and prepares to write a letter.

He has an appearance of perfect indifference as he looks over the papers on his table.


Mr. George looks distrustfully from the painted ceiling to the ground, from the ground to Mr. Smallweed, from Mr. Smallweed to Mr. Tulkinghorn, and from Mr. Tulkinghorn to the painted ceiling again, often in his perplexity changing the leg on which he rests.

Mr. George looks distrustfully from one to the other.


"I do assure you, sir," says Mr. George, "not to say it offensively, that between you and Mr. Smallweed here, I really am being smothered fifty times over.


Will you allow me to ask why you want to see the captain's hand, in the case that I could find any specimen of it?"

"Will you allow me to ask why you want to see the captain's hand, if I could find any specimen of it?"


Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly shakes his head.


If you were a man of business, sergeant, you would not need to be informed that there are confidential reasons, very harmless in themselves, for many such wants in the profession to which I belong.

If you were a man of business, sergeant, you would not need to be informed that there are confidential reasons for many such requests in my profession.


But if you are afraid of doing any injury to Captain Hawdon, you may set your mind at rest about that."

But if you are afraid of doing any injury to Captain Hawdon, you may set your mind at rest."


Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly sits down to write.


"Well, sir," says the trooper, looking into his hat after another disconcerted pause, "I am sorry not to have given you more satisfaction.

"Well, sir," says the trooper, looking into his hat after a disconcerted pause, "I am sorry not to have given you more satisfaction.


If it would be any satisfaction to any one that I should be confirmed in my judgment that I would rather have nothing to do with this by a friend of mine who has a better head for business than I have, and who is an old soldier, I am willing to consult with him.

I am willing to consult with a friend of mine who has a better head for business than I have, and who is an old soldier.


I--I really am so completely smothered myself at present," says Mr. George, passing his hand hopelessly across his brow, "that I don't know but what it might be a satisfaction to me."

I - I think that might be best," says Mr. George, passing his hand hopelessly across his brow.


Mr. Smallweed, hearing that this authority is an old soldier, so strongly inculcates the expediency of the trooper's taking counsel with him, and particularly informing him of its being a question of five guineas or more, that Mr. George engages to go and see him.

Mr. Smallweed strongly urges him to consult this old soldier.


Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing either way.


"I'll consult my friend, then, by your leave, sir," says the trooper, "and I'll take the liberty of looking in again with the final answer in the course of the day.

"I'll consult my friend, then, sir," says the trooper, "and I'll take the liberty of looking in again with the final answer in the course of the day.


Mr. Smallweed, if you wish to be carried downstairs--"

Mr. Smallweed, if you wish to be carried downstairs-"


"In a moment, my dear friend, in a moment.


Will you first let me speak half a word with this gentleman in private?"

Will you first let me speak a word with this gentleman in private?"


The trooper retires to a distant part of the room and resumes his curious inspection of the boxes, strong and otherwise.

The trooper retires to a distant part of the room.


"If I wasn't as weak as a brimstone baby, sir," whispers Grandfather Smallweed, drawing the lawyer down to his level by the lapel of his coat and flashing some half-quenched green fire out of his angry eyes, "I'd tear the writing away from him.

"If I wasn't as weak as a brimstone baby, sir," whispers Grandfather Smallweed, drawing the lawyer down to his level by the lapel of his coat, "I'd tear the writing away from him.


Speak up, you crabbed image for the sign of a walking-stick shop, and say you saw him put it there!"


This vehement conjuration the old gentleman accompanies with such a thrust at his granddaughter that it is too much for his strength, and he slips away out of his chair, drawing Mr. Tulkinghorn with him, until he is arrested by Judy, and well shaken.

The old gentleman accompanies this such a thrust at his granddaughter that it is too much for his strength, and he slips out of his chair, until he is arrested by Judy, and well shaken.


"Violence will not do for me, my friend," Mr. Tulkinghorn then remarks coolly.

"Violence will not do for me, my friend," Mr. Tulkinghorn remarks coolly.


But it's chafing and galling--it's--it's worse than your smattering chattering magpie of a grandmother," to the imperturbable Judy, who only looks at the fire, "to know he has got what's wanted and won't give it up.

But it's galling to know he has got what's wanted and won't give it up.


At the most, he has only his own way for a little while.


If he won't do it with a good grace, I'll make him do it with a bad one, sir!


Now, my dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, winking at the lawyer hideously as he releases him, "I am ready for your kind assistance, my excellent friend!"

Now, my dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, winking at the lawyer hideously, "I am ready for your kind assistance, my excellent friend!"


Mr. Tulkinghorn, with some shadowy sign of amusement manifesting itself through his self-possession, stands on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, watching the disappearance of Mr. Smallweed and acknowledging the trooper's parting salute with one slight nod.

Mr. Tulkinghorn, showing some shadowy sign of amusement through his self-possession, stands on the hearth-rug watching the disappearance of Mr. Smallweed and acknowledging the trooper's parting salute with a slight nod.


It is more difficult to get rid of the old gentleman, Mr. George finds, than to bear a hand in carrying him downstairs, for when he is replaced in his conveyance, he is so loquacious on the subject of the guineas and retains such an affectionate hold of his button--having, in truth, a secret longing to rip his coat open and rob him--that some degree of force is necessary on the trooper's part to effect a separation.

Mr. George finds it difficult to get rid of the old gentleman. When he is replaced in his carriage, he retains such an affectionate hold of Mr. George's button - having, in truth, a secret longing to rip his coat open and rob him - that some force is necessary on the trooper's part to separate them.


It is accomplished at last, and he proceeds alone in quest of his adviser.

Then he proceeds alone in quest of his adviser.


By the cloisterly Temple, and by Whitefriars (there, not without a glance at Hanging-Sword Alley, which would seem to be something in his way), and by Blackfriars Bridge, and Blackfriars Road, Mr. George sedately marches to a street of little shops lying somewhere in that ganglion of roads from Kent and Surrey, and of streets from the bridges of London, centring in the far-famed elephant who has lost his castle formed of a thousand four-horse coaches to a stronger iron monster than he, ready to chop him into mince-meat any day he dares.

By Whitefriars, and by Blackfriars Bridge, Mr. George sedately marches to a street of little shops lying in that tangle of roads centring in the far-famed elephant and castle.


To one of the little shops in this street, which is a musician's shop, having a few fiddles in the window, and some Pan's pipes and a tambourine, and a triangle, and certain elongated scraps of music, Mr. George directs his massive tread.

To one of the little shops in this street, which is a musician's shop, with a few fiddles and a tambourine in the window, Mr. George directs his massive tread.


And halting at a few paces from it, as he sees a soldierly looking woman, with her outer skirts tucked up, come forth with a small wooden tub, and in that tub commence a-whisking and a-splashing on the margin of the pavement, Mr. George says to himself, "She's as usual, washing greens.

He halts a few paces from it, as he sees a soldierly looking woman come forth with a small wooden tub, and commence a-whisking and a-splashing on the margin of the pavement.
Mr. George says to himself, "She's as usual, washing greens.


I never saw her, except upon a baggage-waggon, when she wasn't washing greens!"

I never saw her when she wasn't washing greens!"


The subject of this reflection is at all events so occupied in washing greens at present that she remains unsuspicious of Mr. George's approach until, lifting up herself and her tub together when she has poured the water off into the gutter, she finds him standing near her.

The subject of this reflection remains unsuspicious of Mr. George's approach until she has poured the water off into the gutter, and finds him standing near her.


"George, I never see you but I wish you was a hundred mile away!"


The trooper, without remarking on this welcome, follows into the musical-instrument shop, where the lady places her tub of greens upon the counter, and having shaken hands with him, rests her arms upon it.

The trooper, without remarking on this welcome, follows her into the shop, where the lady places her tub upon the counter, and having shaken hands with him, rests her arms upon it.


"I never," she says, "George, consider Matthew Bagnet safe a minute when you're near him.

"I never," she says, "consider Matthew Bagnet safe a minute when you're near him, George.


You are that restless and that roving--"


"The nature of the animal, I suppose," returns the trooper good-humouredly.


"But what satisfaction will the nature of the animal be to me when the animal shall have tempted my Mat away from the musical business to New Zealand or Australey?"

"But what good will that be when your nature shall have tempted my Mat away from the musical business to New Zealand or Australey?"


Mrs. Bagnet is not at all an ill-looking woman.

Mrs. Bagnet is not an ill-looking woman.


Rather large-boned, a little coarse in the grain, and freckled by the sun and wind which have tanned her hair upon the forehead, but healthy, wholesome, and bright-eyed.

Rather large-boned, and freckled by the sun and wind, but a healthy, wholesome


A strong, busy, active, honest-faced woman of from forty-five to fifty.


Clean, hardy, and so economically dressed (though substantially) that the only article of ornament of which she stands possessed appear's to be her wedding-ring, around which her finger has grown to be so large since it was put on that it will never come off again until it shall mingle with Mrs. Bagnet's dust.

Clean and economically dressed; her only ornament is her wedding-ring, around which her finger has grown to be so large since it was put on that it will never come off again.


"Mrs. Bagnet," says the trooper, "I am on my parole with you.


But the very looks of you are unsettling," Mrs. Bagnet rejoins.


If you had only settled down and married Joe Pouch's widow when he died in North America, SHE'D have combed your hair for you."

If you had only settled down and married Joe Pouch's widow!"


"It was a chance for me, certainly," returns the trooper half laughingly, half seriously, "but I shall never settle down into a respectable man now.

"It was a chance for me, certainly," returns the trooper half laughingly, "but I shall never settle down into a respectable man now.


Joe Pouch's widow might have done me good--there was something in her, and something of her--but I couldn't make up my mind to it.


If I had had the luck to meet with such a wife as Mat found!"

If I had only had the luck to meet with such a wife as Mat found!"


Mrs. Bagnet, who seems in a virtuous way to be under little reserve with a good sort of fellow, but to be another good sort of fellow herself for that matter, receives this compliment by flicking Mr. George in the face with a head of greens and taking her tub into the little room behind the shop.

Mrs. Bagnet receives this compliment by flicking Mr. George in the face with a head of greens and taking her tub into the little room behind the shop.


"Why, Quebec, my poppet," says George, following, on invitation, into that department.

"Why, Quebec, my poppet," says George, following at her invitation.


These young ladies--not supposed to have been actually christened by the names applied to them, though always so called in the family from the places of their birth in barracks--are respectively employed on three-legged stools, the younger (some five or six years old) in learning her letters out of a penny primer, the elder (eight or nine perhaps) in teaching her and sewing with great assiduity.

These young ladies - not actually christened by these names, though always so called, from the places of their birth in barracks - are sitting on stools, the younger (five or six years old) learning her letters out of a penny primer, the elder (eight or nine) teaching her and sewing.


Both hail Mr. George with acclamations as an old friend and after some kissing and romping plant their stools beside him.

Both hail Mr. George as an old friend and after some kissing and romping plant their stools beside him.


cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning about from her saucepans (for she is cooking dinner) with a bright flush on her face.


Got an engagement at the theayter, with his father, to play the fife in a military piece."


"And Mat blows away at his bassoon, and you're respectable civilians one and all," says Mr. George.

"And Mat blows away at his bassoon, and you're respectable civilians one and all.


Mat's old mother in Scotland, and your old father somewhere else, corresponded with, and helped a little, and--well, well!


To be sure, I don't know why I shouldn't be wished a hundred mile away, for I have not much to do with all this!"


Mr. George is becoming thoughtful, sitting before the fire in the whitewashed room, which has a sanded floor and a barrack smell and contains nothing superfluous and has not a visible speck of dirt or dust in it, from the faces of Quebec and Malta to the bright tin pots and pannikins upon the dresser shelves--Mr. George is becoming thoughtful, sitting here while Mrs. Bagnet is busy, when Mr. Bagnet and young Woolwich opportunely come home.

Mr. George is becoming thoughtful, sitting before the fire in the whitewashed room, which contains nothing superfluous and has not a speck of dust - Mr. George is becoming thoughtful, when Mr. Bagnet and young Woolwich come home.


Mr. Bagnet is an ex-artilleryman, tall and upright, with shaggy eyebrows and whiskers like the fibres of a coco-nut, not a hair upon his head, and a torrid complexion.

Mr. Bagnet is an ex-artilleryman, tall and upright, with shaggy eyebrows and whiskers, a bald head, and a torrid complexion.


His voice, short, deep, and resonant, is not at all unlike the tones of the instrument to which he is devoted.

His voice, deep, and resonant, is not at all unlike the tones of


Indeed there may be generally observed in him an unbending, unyielding, brass-bound air, as if he were himself the bassoon of the human orchestra.


Young Woolwich is the type and model of a young drummer.


Both father and son salute the trooper heartily.


He saying, in due season, that he has come to advise with Mr. Bagnet, Mr. Bagnet hospitably declares that he will hear of no business until after dinner and that his friend shall not partake of his counsel without first partaking of boiled pork and greens.

When he says that he has come to seek advice with Mr. Bagnet, Mr. Bagnet declares that he will hear of no business until after dinner and that his friend shall first partake of boiled pork and greens.


The trooper yielding to this invitation, he and Mr. Bagnet, not to embarrass the domestic preparations, go forth to take a turn up and down the little street, which they promenade with measured tread and folded arms, as if it were a rampart.

While dinner is being prepared, he and the trooper go forth to take a turn up and down the little street with measured tread and folded arms.


"I would sooner take her opinion than that of a college."


"College," returns Mr. Bagnet in short sentences, bassoon-like.

"College," returns Mr. Bagnet, bassoon-like.


"What college could you leave--in another quarter of the world--with nothing but a grey cloak and an umbrella--to make its way home to Europe?

"What college could you leave - in another part of the world - with nothing but a grey cloak and an umbrella - to make its way home to Europe?


"What college," pursues Bagnet, "could you set up in life--with two penn'orth of white lime--a penn'orth of fuller's earth--a ha'porth of sand--and the rest of the change out of sixpence in money?

"What college," pursues Bagnet, "could you set up in life - with three penn'orth of lime and fuller's earth?


"I am rejoiced to hear it's thriving, Mat."


"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, acquiescing, "saves.

"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "saves.


It was the old girl that brought out my musical abilities.


I should have been in the artillery now but for the old girl.

I would have been in the artillery now but for the old girl.


The old girl said it wouldn't do; intention good, but want of flexibility; try the bassoon.

The old girl said it wouldn't do; try the bassoon.


The old girl borrowed a bassoon from the bandmaster of the Rifle Regiment.


Got on, got another, get a living by it!"


George remarks that she looks as fresh as a rose and as sound as an apple.


"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet in reply, "is a thoroughly fine woman.

"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "is a thoroughly fine woman.


Consequently she is like a thoroughly fine day.


Proceeding to converse on indifferent matters, they walk up and down the little street, keeping step and time, until summoned by Quebec and Malta to do justice to the pork and greens, over which Mrs. Bagnet, like a military chaplain, says a short grace.

They walk up and down the little street, keeping step, until summoned by Quebec and Malta to do justice to the pork and greens.


In the distribution of these comestibles, as in every other household duty, Mrs. Bagnet developes an exact system, sitting with every dish before her, allotting to every portion of pork its own portion of pot-liquor, greens, potatoes, and even mustard, and serving it out complete.


Having likewise served out the beer from a can and thus supplied the mess with all things necessary, Mrs. Bagnet proceeds to satisfy her own hunger, which is in a healthy state.


The kit of the mess, if the table furniture may be so denominated, is chiefly composed of utensils of horn and tin that have done duty in several parts of the world.

The table-ware is chiefly composed of utensils of horn and tin that have done duty in several parts of the world.


Young Woolwich's knife, in particular, which is of the oyster kind, with the additional feature of a strong shutting-up movement which frequently balks the appetite of that young musician, is mentioned as having gone in various hands the complete round of foreign service.


The dinner done, Mrs. Bagnet, assisted by the younger branches (who polish their own cups and platters, knives and forks), makes all the dinner garniture shine as brightly as before and puts it all away, first sweeping the hearth, to the end that Mr. Bagnet and the visitor may not be retarded in the smoking of their pipes.

The dinner done, Mrs. Bagnet, assisted by the younger branches (who polish their own cups and platters, knives and forks), puts all away and sweeps the hearth, so that Mr. Bagnet and the visitor may smoke their pipes.


These household cares involve much pattening and counter-pattening in the backyard and considerable use of a pail, which is finally so happy as to assist in the ablutions of Mrs. Bagnet herself.

When Mrs. Bagnet reappears from the backyard and


That old girl reappearing by and by, quite fresh, and sitting down to her needlework, then and only then--the greens being only then to be considered as entirely off her mind--Mr. Bagnet requests the trooper to state his case.

sits down to her needlework, then and only then - the greens being entirely off her mind - Mr. Bagnet requests the trooper to state his case.


This Mr. George does with great discretion, appearing to address himself to Mr. Bagnet, but having an eye solely on the old girl all the time, as Bagnet has himself.

This Mr. George does in full, appearing to address himself to Mr. Bagnet, but having an eye solely on the old girl all the time.


She, equally discreet, busies herself with her needlework.


The case fully stated, Mr. Bagnet resorts to his standard artifice for the maintenance of discipline.


"That's the whole of it, is it, George?"


"I shall be guided," replies George, "entirely by it."


"Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "give him my opinion.


It is that he cannot have too little to do with people who are too deep for him and cannot be too careful of interference with matters he does not understand--that the plain rule is to do nothing in the dark, to be a party to nothing underhanded or mysterious, and never to put his foot where he cannot see the ground.

It is that he should have nothing to do with people who are too deep for him, and cannot be too careful of matters he does not understand - the plain rule is to be a party to nothing underhanded or mysterious, and never to put his foot where he cannot see the ground.


This, in effect, is Mr. Bagnet's opinion, as delivered through the old girl, and it so relieves Mr. George's mind by confirming his own opinion and banishing his doubts that he composes himself to smoke another pipe on that exceptional occasion and to have a talk over old times with the whole Bagnet family, according to their various ranges of experience.

This, in effect, is Mr. Bagnet's opinion, as delivered through the old girl, and it relieves Mr. George's mind by confirming his own opinion. He smokes another pipe and has a talk over old times with the whole Bagnet family.


Through these means it comes to pass that Mr. George does not again rise to his full height in that parlour until the time is drawing on when the bassoon and fife are expected by a British public at the theatre; and as it takes time even then for Mr. George, in his domestic character of Bluffy, to take leave of Quebec and Malta and insinuate a sponsorial shilling into the pocket of his godson with felicitations on his success in life, it is dark when Mr. George again turns his face towards Lincoln's Inn Fields.

Thus time draws on, until the bassoon and fife are expected at the theatre; and Mr. George takes leave of Quebec and Malta and insinuates a shilling into his godson's pocket. It is dark when he again turns his face towards Lincoln's Inn Fields.


"A family home," he ruminates as he marches along, "however small it is, makes a man like me look lonely.

"A family home," he ruminates as he marches along, "makes a man like me look lonely.


But it's well I never made that evolution of matrimony.


I am such a vagabond still, even at my present time of life, that I couldn't hold to the gallery a month together if it was a regular pursuit or if I didn't camp there, gipsy fashion.

I am such a vagabond still, even now, that I couldn't keep to the gallery a month together if I didn't camp there, gipsy fashion.


I disgrace nobody and cumber nobody; that's something.

I disgrace nobody and encumber nobody; that's something!"


I have not done that for many a long year!"


Arrived in Lincoln's Inn Fields and mounting Mr. Tulkinghorn's stair, he finds the outer door closed and the chambers shut, but the trooper not knowing much about outer doors, and the staircase being dark besides, he is yet fumbling and groping about, hoping to discover a bell-handle or to open the door for himself, when Mr. Tulkinghorn comes up the stairs (quietly, of course) and angrily asks, "Who is that?

Back in Lincoln's Inn Fields and mounting Mr. Tulkinghorn's stair, he finds the outer door closed and the chambers shut. The trooper is fumbling and groping about in the dark of the stairs, hoping to discover a bell-handle, when Mr. Tulkinghorn comes up the stairs (quietly, of course) and angrily asks, "Who is that?


"And couldn't George, the sergeant, see that my door was locked?"

"And couldn't you see that my door was locked?"


At any rate, I didn't," says the trooper, rather nettled.


So you are the man," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, opening his door with the key, "in whose hiding-place Mr. Gridley was found?"


"Yes, I AM the man," says the trooper, stopping two or three stairs down.

"Yes, I am the man," says the trooper, stopping two or three stairs down.


You should not have seen the inside of my door this morning if I had thought of your being that man.


A threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow."


With these words, spoken in an unusually high tone for him, the lawyer goes into his rooms and shuts the door with a thundering noise.

With these words, spoken in an unusually high tone for him, the lawyer goes into his rooms and slams the door.


Mr. George takes his dismissal in great dudgeon, the greater because a clerk coming up the stairs has heard the last words of all and evidently applies them to him.

Mr. George takes his dismissal in great dudgeon, the greater because a clerk coming up the stairs with a lamp has heard the last words and evidently applies them to him, by the way he studies his face.


"A pretty character to bear," the trooper growls with a hasty oath as he strides downstairs.


"A threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow!"


And looking up, he sees the clerk looking down at him and marking him as he passes a lamp.


This so intensifies his dudgeon that for five minutes he is in an ill humour.

For five minutes Mr. George is in an ill humour.


But he whistles that off like the rest of it and marches home to the shooting gallery.


A touch on the lawyer's wrinkled hand as he stands in the dark room, irresolute, makes him start and say, "What's that?"


"It's me," returns the old man of the house, whose breath is in his ear.

"It's me," returns the old man of the house.


Krook takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the red embers, and tries to get a light.

Krook takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the red embers, and tries to get a light, in vain.


The dying ashes have no light to spare, and his endeavours are vain.


Muttering, after an ineffectual call to his lodger, that he will go downstairs and bring a lighted candle from the shop, the old man departs.

Muttering that he will go downstairs and bring a lighted candle from the shop, the old man departs.


Mr. Tulkinghorn, for some new reason that he has, does not await his return in the room, but on the stairs outside.

Mr. Tulkinghorn, for some reason, does not await his return in the room, but on the stairs outside.


The welcome light soon shines upon the wall, as Krook comes slowly up with his green-eyed cat following at his heels.


"Does the man generally sleep like this?"


I don't know," says Krook, shaking his head and lifting his eyebrows.

I don't know," says Krook, shaking his head.


"I know next to nothing of his habits except that he keeps himself very close."


Thus whispering, they both go in together.


As the light goes in, the great eyes in the shutters, darkening, seem to close.

The great eyes in the shutters seem to close.


Krook drops the heavy hand he has taken up so suddenly that the arm swings over the bedside.


says Krook, with his lean hands spread out above the body like a vampire's wings.


Mr. Tulkinghorn hurries to the landing and calls, "Miss Flite!


Krook follows him with his eyes, and while he is calling, finds opportunity to steal to the old portmanteau and steal back again.

While he is calling, Krook steals across to the old portmanteau and back again.


So Mr. Krook addresses a crazy little woman who is his female lodger, who appears and vanishes in a breath, who soon returns accompanied by a testy medical man brought from his dinner, with a broad, snuffy upper lip and a broad Scotch tongue.

So Mr. Krook addresses the crazy little woman who is his female lodger, who vanishes in a breath, and soon returns accompanied by a testy medical man with a broad Scotch accent.


Bless the hearts o' ye," says the medical man, looking up at them after a moment's examination.

Bless the hearts o' ye," says the medical man, after a moment's examination.


Mr. Tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) inquires if he has been dead any time.

Mr. Tulkinghorn asks how long he has been dead.


"It's probable he wull have been dead aboot three hours."


"About that time, I should say," observes a dark young man on the other side of the bed.


"Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?"


"Then I'll just tak' my depairture," replies the other, "for I'm nae gude here!"


With which remark he finishes his brief attendance and returns to finish his dinner.


The dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the face and carefully examines the law-writer, who has established his pretensions to his name by becoming indeed No one.

The dark young surgeon carefully examines the law-writer, who has now indeed become No one.


"I knew this person by sight very well," says he.


"He has purchased opium of me for the last year and a half.

"He has purchased opium from me for the last year and a half.


glancing round upon the three bystanders.


"I was his landlord," grimly answers Krook, taking the candle from the surgeon's outstretched hand.

"I was his landlord," grimly answers Krook.


"He told me once I was the nearest relation he had."


"He has died," says the surgeon, "of an over-dose of opium, there is no doubt.


There is enough here now," taking an old tea-pot from Mr. Krook, "to kill a dozen people."

There is enough here," taking an old tea-pot from Mr. Krook, "to kill a dozen people."


Krook almost smacks his lips with the unction of a horrible interest.


I should think it unlikely, as he has been in the habit of taking so much.


His room--don't look rich," says Krook, who might have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharp glance around.


"But I have never been in it since he had it, and he was too close to name his circumstances to me."


says the young man, resuming his examination.


"It is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as Pharaoh; and to judge from his appearance and condition, I should think it a happy release.

"He is indeed as dead as Pharaoh; and I should think it a happy release.


Yet he must have been a good figure when a youth, and I dare say, good-looking."


He says this, not unfeelingly, while sitting on the bedstead's edge with his face towards that other face and his hand upon the region of the heart.


"I recollect once thinking there was something in his manner, uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall in life.

"I recollect once thinking there was something in his manner that denoted a fall in life.


Krook replies, "You might as well ask me to describe the ladies whose heads of hair I have got in sacks downstairs.


Than that he was my lodger for a year and a half and lived--or didn't live--by law-writing, I know no more of him."

only know that he was my lodger for a year and a half and lived - or didn't live - by law-writing, I know no more of him."


During this dialogue Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old portmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to all appearance, from all three kinds of interest exhibited near the bed--from the young surgeon's professional interest in death, noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as an individual; from the old man's unction; and the little crazy woman's awe.

During this dialogue Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old portmanteau, with his hands behind him, apparently unmoved.


His imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as his rusty clothes.


One could not even say he has been thinking all this while.


He has shown neither patience nor impatience, nor attention nor abstraction.


As easily might the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred from its case, as the tone of Mr. Tulkinghorn from his case.


He now interposes, addressing the young surgeon in his unmoved, professional way.

He now addresses the young surgeon in his professional way.


"I looked in here," he observes, "just before you, with the intention of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, some employment at his trade of copying.

"I looked in here," he observes, "just before you, with the intention of giving this deceased man some employment at his trade of copying.


I had heard of him from my stationer--Snagsby of Cook's Court.

I had heard of him from my stationer - Snagsby of Cook's Court.


Since no one here knows anything about him, it might be as well to send for Snagsby.


to the little crazy woman, who has often seen him in court, and whom he has often seen, and who proposes, in frightened dumb-show, to go for the law-stationer.

to the little crazy woman, who has often seen him in court.


While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigation and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane.

While she is gone, the surgeon covers the body with the patchwork counterpane.


Mr. Krook and he interchange a word or two.

Mr. Krook and he exchange a word or two.


Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, but stands, ever, near the old portmanteau.

Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, but stands near the old portmanteau.


Mr. Snagsby arrives hastily in his grey coat and his black sleeves.


"Dear me, dear me," he says; "and it has come to this, has it!

"Dear me, dear me," he says; "and it has come to this!


"Can you give the person of the house any information about this unfortunate creature, Snagsby?"

"Can you give us any information about this unfortunate creature?"


"He was in arrears with his rent, it seems.


"Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough behind his hand, "I really don't know what advice I could offer, except sending for the beadle."

"Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, coughing apologetically, "I really don't know what advice I could offer, except sending for the beadle."


"I don't speak of advice," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn.


"No one better, sir, I am sure," says Mr. Snagsby, with his deferential cough.


"I speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to where he came from, or to anything concerning him."

"I am asking for some clue to his connexions, or to where he came from."


"I assure you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby after prefacing his reply with his cough of general propitiation, "that I no more know where he came from than I know--"

"I assure you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, "that I don't know.


"Where he has gone to, perhaps," suggests the surgeon to help him out.


Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer.


Mr. Krook, with his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next.


"As to his connexions, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, "if a person was to say to me, 'Snagsby, here's twenty thousand pound down, ready for you in the Bank of England if you'll only name one of 'em,' I couldn't do it, sir!


About a year and a half ago--to the best of my belief, at the time when he first came to lodge at the present rag and bottle shop--"


"About a year and a half ago," says Mr. Snagsby, strengthened, "he came into our place one morning after breakfast, and finding my little woman (which I name Mrs. Snagsby when I use that appellation) in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting and gave her to understand that he was in want of copying work to do and was, not to put too fine a point upon it," a favourite apology for plain speaking with Mr. Snagsby, which he always offers with a sort of argumentative frankness, "hard up!

About a year and a half ago he came into our place one morning, and finding my little woman in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting and told her that he was in want of copying work to do and was, not to put too fine a point upon it, hard up!


My little woman is not in general partial to strangers, particular--not to put too fine a point upon it--when they want anything.

My little woman is not in general partial to strangers.


But she was rather took by something about this person, whether by his being unshaved, or by his hair being in want of attention, or by what other ladies' reasons, I leave you to judge; and she accepted of the specimen, and likewise of the address.

But she was rather took by something about this person; and she accepted of the specimen.


My little woman hasn't a good ear for names," proceeds Mr. Snagsby after consulting his cough of consideration behind his hand, "and she considered Nemo equally the same as Nimrod.


In consequence of which, she got into a habit of saying to me at meals, 'Mr.


Snagsby, you haven't found Nimrod any work yet!'


Snagsby, why didn't you give that eight and thirty Chancery folio in Jarndyce to Nimrod?'


And that is the way he gradually fell into job-work at our place; and that is the most I know of him except that he was a quick hand, and a hand not sparing of night-work, and that if you gave him out, say, five and forty folio on the Wednesday night, you would have it brought in on the Thursday morning.

He gradually fell into job-work at our place; and that is the most I know of him except that he was a quick hand, and would work through the night."


All of which--" Mr. Snagsby concludes by politely motioning with his hat towards the bed, as much as to add, "I have no doubt my honourable friend would confirm if he were in a condition to do it."


"Hadn't you better see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn to Krook, "whether he had any papers that may enlighten you?


There will be an inquest, and you will be asked the question.


"No, I can't," returns the old man with a sudden grin.


"Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "look over the room for him.


He will get into some trouble or difficulty otherwise.

He will get into some difficulty otherwise.


Being here, I'll wait if you make haste, and then I can testify on his behalf, if it should ever be necessary, that all was fair and right.


If you will hold the candle for Mr. Snagsby, my friend, he'll soon see whether there is anything to help you."


"In the first place, here's an old portmanteau, sir," says Snagsby.

"Here's an old portmanteau, sir," says Snagsby.


Mr. Tulkinghorn does not appear to have seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, and though there is very little else, heaven knows.

Mr. Tulkinghorn does not appear to have seen it before, though he is standing so close to it.


The marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law-stationer conducts the search.


The surgeon leans against the corner of the chimney-piece; Miss Flite peeps and trembles just within the door.


The apt old scholar of the old school, with his dull black breeches tied with ribbons at the knees, his large black waistcoat, his long-sleeved black coat, and his wisp of limp white neckerchief tied in the bow the peerage knows so well, stands in exactly the same place and attitude.


There are some worthless articles of clothing in the old portmanteau; there is a bundle of pawnbrokers' duplicates, those turnpike tickets on the road of poverty; there is a crumpled paper, smelling of opium, on which are scrawled rough memoranda--as, took, such a day, so many grains; took, such another day, so many more--begun some time ago, as if with the intention of being regularly continued, but soon left off.

There are some worthless articles of clothing in the old portmanteau; a bundle of pawnbrokers' duplicates, a crumpled paper, smelling of opium,


There are a few dirty scraps of newspapers, all referring to coroners' inquests; there is nothing else.


They search the cupboard and the drawer of the ink-splashed table.

They search the drawer of the ink-splashed table.


There is not a morsel of an old letter or of any other writing in either.


The young surgeon examines the dress on the law-writer.

The young surgeon examines the law-writer


A knife and some odd halfpence are all he finds.

's clothes; a knife and some odd halfpence are all he finds.


Mr. Snagsby's suggestion is the practical suggestion after all, and the beadle must be called in.


So the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest come out of the room.


Mr. Krook therefore drives her out before him, and she goes furtively downstairs, winding her lithe tail and licking her lips.


says Mr. Tulkinghorn, and goes home to Allegory and meditation.


By this time the news has got into the court.


Groups of its inhabitants assemble to discuss the thing, and the outposts of the army of observation (principally boys) are pushed forward to Mr. Krook's window, which they closely invest.

Groups of its inhabitants assemble to discuss it, and several boys are pushed forward to Mr. Krook's window to see what they can.


A policeman has already walked up to the room, and walked down again to the door, where he stands like a tower, only condescending to see the boys at his base occasionally; but whenever he does see them, they quail and fall back.

A policeman stands like a tower at the door, only condescending to see the boys occasionally; but whenever he does see them, they quail and fall back.


Mrs. Perkins, who has not been for some weeks on speaking terms with Mrs. Piper in consequence for an unpleasantness originating in young Perkins' having "fetched" young Piper "a crack," renews her friendly intercourse on this auspicious occasion.


The potboy at the corner, who is a privileged amateur, as possessing official knowledge of life and having to deal with drunken men occasionally, exchanges confidential communications with the policeman and has the appearance of an impregnable youth, unassailable by truncheons and unconfinable in station-houses.


People talk across the court out of window, and bare-headed scouts come hurrying in from Chancery Lane to know what's the matter.

People talk across the court out of windows, and scouts come hurrying in from Chancery Lane to know what's the matter.


The general feeling seems to be that it's a blessing Mr. Krook warn't made away with first, mingled with a little natural disappointment that he was not.


In the midst of this sensation, the beadle arrives.

In the midst of this sensation, the beadle arrives and goes in.


The beadle, though generally understood in the neighbourhood to be a ridiculous institution, is not without a certain popularity for the moment, if it were only as a man who is going to see the body.


The policeman considers him an imbecile civilian, a remnant of the barbarous watchmen times, but gives him admission as something that must be borne with until government shall abolish him.


The sensation is heightened as the tidings spread from mouth to mouth that the beadle is on the ground and has gone in.


By and by the beadle comes out, once more intensifying the sensation, which has rather languished in the interval.


He is understood to be in want of witnesses for the inquest to-morrow who can tell the coroner and jury anything whatever respecting the deceased.

He is understood to want witnesses for the inquest tomorrow who can tell the coroner anything whatever about the deceased.


Is immediately referred to innumerable people who can tell nothing whatever.


Is made more imbecile by being constantly informed that Mrs. Green's son "was a law-writer his-self and knowed him better than anybody," which son of Mrs. Green's appears, on inquiry, to be at the present time aboard a vessel bound for China, three months out, but considered accessible by telegraph on application to the Lords of the Admiralty.


Beadle goes into various shops and parlours, examining the inhabitants, always shutting the door first, and by exclusion, delay, and general idiotcy exasperating the public.

The beadle goes into various shops and parlours, examining the inhabitants, always shutting the door first, and exasperating the public,


Public loses interest and undergoes reaction.


Taunts the beadle in shrill youthful voices with having boiled a boy, choruses fragments of a popular song to that effect and importing that the boy was made into soup for the workhouse.


Policeman at last finds it necessary to support the law and seize a vocalist, who is released upon the flight of the rest on condition of his getting out of this then, come, and cutting it--a condition he immediately observes.


So the sensation dies off for the time; and the unmoved policeman (to whom a little opium, more or less, is nothing), with his shining hat, stiff stock, inflexible great-coat, stout belt and bracelet, and all things fitting, pursues his lounging way with a heavy tread, beating the palms of his white gloves one against the other and stopping now and then at a street-corner to look casually about for anything between a lost child and a murder.

So the excitement dies off for the time; and the unmoved policeman pursues his lounging way with a heavy tread.


Under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes flitting about Chancery Lane with his summonses, in which every juror's name is wrongly spelt, and nothing rightly spelt but the beadle's own name, which nobody can read or wants to know.

Under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes flitting about Chancery Lane with his summonses, in which every juror's name is wrongly spelt.


The summonses served and his witnesses forewarned, the beadle goes to Mr. Krook's to keep a small appointment he has made with certain paupers, who, presently arriving, are conducted upstairs, where they leave the great eyes in the shutter something new to stare at, in that last shape which earthly lodgings take for No one--and for Every one.


And all that night the coffin stands ready by the old portmanteau; and the lonely figure on the bed, whose path in life has lain through five and forty years, lies there with no more track behind him that any one can trace than a deserted infant.

And all that night the coffin stands ready by the old portmanteau; and the lonely figure on the bed, whose path in life has lain through five and forty years, lies there with no track behind him.


Next day the court is all alive--is like a fair, as Mrs. Perkins, more than reconciled to Mrs. Piper, says in amicable conversation with that excellent woman.


The coroner is to sit in the first-floor room at the Sol's Arms, where the Harmonic Meetings take place twice a week and where the chair is filled by a gentleman of professional celebrity, faced by Little Swills, the comic vocalist, who hopes (according to the bill in the window) that his friends will rally round him and support first-rate talent.


The Sol's Arms does a brisk stroke of business all the morning.

which does brisk business all the morning.


Even children so require sustaining under the general excitement that a pieman who has established himself for the occasion at the corner of the court says his brandy-balls go off like smoke.

A pieman has established himself for the occasion at the corner of the court


What time the beadle, hovering between the door of Mr. Krook's establishment and the door of the Sol's Arms, shows the curiosity in his keeping to a few discreet spirits and accepts the compliment of a glass of ale or so in return.

; and the beadle, hovering at the door, accepts a glass of ale.


At the appointed hour arrives the coroner, for whom the jurymen are waiting and who is received with a salute of skittles from the good dry skittle-ground attached to the Sol's Arms.

At the appointed hour arrives the coroner, for whom the jurymen are waiting.


The coroner frequents more public-houses than any man alive.


The smell of sawdust, beer, tobacco-smoke, and spirits is inseparable in his vocation from death in its most awful shapes.


He is conducted by the beadle and the landlord to the Harmonic Meeting Room, where he puts his hat on the piano and takes a Windsor-chair at the head of a long table formed of several short tables put together and ornamented with glutinous rings in endless involutions, made by pots and glasses.

He is conducted by the beadle and the landlord to the Harmonic Meeting Room, where he puts his hat on the piano and takes a chair at the head of a long table formed of several short tables put together and ornamented with glutinous rings made by pots and glasses.


As many of the jury as can crowd together at the table sit there.


The rest get among the spittoons and pipes or lean against the piano.


Over the coroner's head is a small iron garland, the pendant handle of a bell, which rather gives the majesty of the court the appearance of going to be hanged presently.


While the ceremony is in progress, sensation is created by the entrance of a chubby little man in a large shirt-collar, with a moist eye and an inflamed nose, who modestly takes a position near the door as one of the general public, but seems familiar with the room too.


A whisper circulates that this is Little Swills.


It is considered not unlikely that he will get up an imitation of the coroner and make it the principal feature of the Harmonic Meeting in the evening.


Not to the coroner, though it might appear so.


"You are impanelled here to inquire into the death of a certain man.

"You are to inquire into the death of a certain man.


Evidence will be given before you as to the circumstances attending that death, and you will give your verdict according to the--skittles; they must be stopped, you know, beadle!--evidence, and not according to anything else.

Evidence will be given as to the circumstances attending that death, and you will give your verdict according to the evidence.


The first thing to be done is to view the body."


So they go out in a loose procession, something after the manner of a straggling funeral, and make their inspection in Mr. Krook's back second floor, from which a few of the jurymen retire pale and precipitately.

So they go out in a loose procession, like a straggling funeral, and make their inspection in Mr. Krook's back second floor, from which a few of the jurymen retire pale and precipitately.


The beadle is very careful that two gentlemen not very neat about the cuffs and buttons (for whose accommodation he has provided a special little table near the coroner in the Harmonic Meeting Room) should see all that is to be seen.


For they are the public chroniclers of such inquiries by the line; and he is not superior to the universal human infirmity, but hopes to read in print what "Mooney, the active and intelligent beadle of the district," said and did and even aspires to see the name of Mooney as familiarly and patronizingly mentioned as the name of the hangman is, according to the latest examples.


Little Swills is waiting for the coroner and jury on their return.


Mr. Tulkinghorn is received with distinction and seated near the coroner between that high judicial officer, a bagatelle-board, and the coal-box.

When the jurymen return, Mr. Tulkinghorn is seated near the coroner.


The jury learn how the subject of their inquiry died, and learn no more about him.


"A very eminent solicitor is in attendance, gentlemen," says the coroner, "who, I am informed, was accidentally present when discovery of the death was made, but he could only repeat the evidence you have already heard from the surgeon, the landlord, the lodger, and the law-stationer, and it is not necessary to trouble him.

"This eminent solicitor, gentlemen," says the coroner, "was accidentally present when the death was discovered, but he could only repeat the evidence you have already heard.


Is anybody in attendance who knows anything more?"


Mrs. Piper pushed forward by Mrs. Perkins.


"Now, Mrs. Piper, what have you got to say about this?"


Why, Mrs. Piper has a good deal to say, chiefly in parentheses and without punctuation, but not much to tell.

Why, Mrs. Piper has a good deal to say, chiefly without punctuation, but not much to tell.


Mrs. Piper lives in the court (which her husband is a cabinet-maker), and it has long been well beknown among the neighbours (counting from the day next but one before the half-baptizing of Alexander James Piper aged eighteen months and four days old on accounts of not being expected to live such was the sufferings gentlemen of that child in his gums) as the plaintive--so Mrs. Piper insists on calling the deceased--was reported to have sold himself.

Mrs. Piper lives in the court and it has long been well known among the neighbours as the plaintive - so Mrs. Piper insists on calling the deceased - was reported to have sold himself.


Thinks it was the plaintive's air in which that report originatinin.


See the plaintive often and considered as his air was feariocious and not to be allowed to go about some children being timid (and if doubted hoping Mrs. Perkins may be brought forard for she is here and will do credit to her husband and herself and family).

She see the plaintive often and considered as his air was feariocious and not to be allowed to go about some children being timid.


Has seen the plaintive wexed and worrited by the children (for children they will ever be and you cannot expect them specially if of playful dispositions to be Methoozellers which you was not yourself).

Has seen the plaintive wexed and worrited by the children.


On accounts of this and his dark looks has often dreamed as she see him take a pick-axe from his pocket and split Johnny's head (which the child knows not fear and has repeatually called after him close at his eels).


Never however see the plaintive take a pick-axe or any other wepping far from it.


Has seen him hurry away when run and called after as if not partial to children and never see him speak to neither child nor grown person at any time (excepting the boy that sweeps the crossing down the lane over the way round the corner which if he was here would tell you that he has been seen a-speaking to him frequent).

Has seen him hurry away as if not partial to children and never see him speak to neither child nor grown person at any time excepting the boy that sweeps the crossing down the lane over the way round the corner which if he was here would tell you that he has been seen a-speaking to him frequent.


Says the beadle, no, sir, he is not here.


Says the coroner, go and fetch him then.

Says the coroner, go and fetch that boy.


In the absence of the active and intelligent, the coroner converses with Mr. Tulkinghorn.

While waiting, he converses with Mr. Tulkinghorn.


Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged.


This boy must be put through a few preliminary paces.

He must be put through a few preliminary paces.


Don't know that everybody has two names.


Don't know that Jo is short for a longer name.


Knows a broom's a broom, and knows it's wicked to tell a lie.


Don't recollect who told him about the broom or about the lie, but knows both.


Can't exactly say what'll be done to him arter he's dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen here, but believes it'll be something wery bad to punish him, and serve him right--and so he'll tell the truth.

Can't exactly say what'll be done to him arter he's dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen here, but believes it'll be something wery bad to punish him, so he'll tell the truth.


says the coroner with a melancholy shake of the head.


"Don't you think you can receive his evidence, sir?"


"Out of the question," says the coroner.


We can't take THAT in a court of justice, gentlemen.


Boy put aside, to the great edification of the audience, especially of Little Swills, the comic vocalist.


Here's a man unknown, proved to have been in the habit of taking opium in large quantities for a year and a half, found dead of too much opium.


If you think you have any evidence to lead you to the conclusion that he committed suicide, you will come to that conclusion.

If you think you have any evidence that he committed suicide, you will come to that conclusion.


If you think it is a case of accidental death, you will find a verdict accordingly.


While the coroner buttons his great-coat, Mr. Tulkinghorn and he give private audience to the rejected witness in a corner.

While the coroner buttons his great-coat, he and Mr. Tulkinghorn speak privately to the rejected witness, Jo, in a corner.


That graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom he recognized just now by his yellow face and black hair) was sometimes hooted and pursued about the streets.

That graceless creature only knows that the dead man was sometimes hooted and pursued about the streets.


That one cold winter night when he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, the man turned to look at him, and came back, and having questioned him and found that he had not a friend in the world, said, "Neither have I.

That one cold winter night when he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway, the man turned to look at him, and came back, and having questioned him and found that he had not a friend in the world, said, "Neither have I.


and gave him the price of a supper and a night's lodging.


That the man had often spoken to him since and asked him whether he slept sound at night, and how he bore cold and hunger, and whether he ever wished to die, and similar strange questions.


That when the man had no money, he would say in passing, "I am as poor as you to-day, Jo," but that when he had any, he had always (as the boy most heartily believes) been glad to give him some.

That when the man had no money, he would say in passing, "I am as poor as you today, Jo," but that when he had any, he had always been glad to give him some.


"He was wery good to me," says the boy, wiping his eyes with his wretched sleeve.


"Wen I see him a-layin' so stritched out just now, I wished he could have heerd me tell him so.


As he shuffles downstairs, Mr. Snagsby, lying in wait for him, puts a half-crown in his hand.