‘To my shame, I must say that I am perfectly serious,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘I really never was here before.’
‘Oh, I see,’ exclaimed the Grand Master, looking extremely pleased; ‘yes, yes—good, good—better and better. You are the gentleman of whom we have heard. Yes; we know you, Mr. Pickwick; we know you.’
‘The reports of the trial in those confounded papers,’ thought Mr. Pickwick. ‘They have heard all about me.’ ‘You are the gentleman residing on Clapham Green,’ resumed Bantam, ‘who lost the use of his limbs from imprudently taking cold after port wine; who could not be moved in consequence of acute suffering, and who had the water from the king’s bath bottled at one hundred and three degrees, and sent by wagon to his bedroom in town, where he bathed, sneezed, and the same day recovered. Very remarkable!’
Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment which the supposition implied, but had the self–denial to repudiate it, notwithstanding; and taking advantage of a moment’s silence on the part of the M.C., begged to introduce his friends, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. An introduction which overwhelmed the M.C. with delight and honour.
‘Bantam,’ said Mr. Dowler, ‘Mr. Pickwick and his friends are strangers. They must put their names down. Where’s the book?’
‘The register of the distinguished visitors in Ba–ath will be at the Pump Room this morning at two o’clock,’ replied the M.C. ‘Will you guide our friends to that splendid building, and enable me to procure their autographs?’
‘I will,’ rejoined Dowler. ‘This is a long call. It’s time to go. I shall be here again in an hour. Come.’
‘This is a ball–night,’ said the M.C., again taking Mr. Pickwick’s hand, as he rose to go. ‘The ball–nights in Ba–ath are moments snatched from paradise; rendered bewitching by music, beauty, elegance, fashion, etiquette, and—and—above all, by the absence of tradespeople, who are quite inconsistent with paradise, and who have an amalgamation of themselves at the Guildhall every fortnight, which is, to say the least, remarkable. Good–bye, good–bye!’ and protesting all the way downstairs that he was most satisfied, and most delighted, and most overpowered, and most flattered, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C., stepped into a very elegant chariot that waited at the door, and rattled off.
At the appointed hour, Mr. Pickwick and his friends, escorted by Dowler, repaired to the Assembly Rooms, and wrote their names down in the book—an instance of condescension at which Angelo Bantam was even more overpowered than before. Tickets of admission to that evening’s assembly were to have been prepared for the whole party, but as they were not ready, Mr. Pickwick undertook, despite all the protestations to the contrary of Angelo Bantam, to send Sam for them at four o’clock in the afternoon, to the M.C.‘s house in Queen Square. Having taken a short walk through the city, and arrived at the unanimous conclusion that Park Street was very much like the perpendicular streets a man sees in a dream, which he cannot get up for the life of him, they returned to the White Hart, and despatched Sam on the errand to which his master had pledged him.
Sam Weller put on his hat in a very easy and graceful manner, and, thrusting his hands in his waistcoat pockets, walked with great deliberation to Queen Square, whistling as he went along, several of the most popular airs of the day, as arranged with entirely new movements for that noble instrument the organ, either mouth or barrel. Arriving at the number in Queen Square to which he had been directed, he left off whistling and gave a cheerful knock, which was instantaneously answered by a powdered–headed footman in gorgeous livery, and of symmetrical stature.
‘is this here Mr. Bantam’s, old feller?’ inquired Sam Weller, nothing abashed by the blaze of splendour which burst upon his sight in the person of the powdered–headed footman with the gorgeous livery.
‘Why, young man?’ was the haughty inquiry of the powdered–headed footman.
‘‘Cos if it is, jist you step in to him with that ‘ere card, and say Mr. Veller’s a–waitin’, will you?’ said Sam. And saying it, he very coolly walked into the hall, and sat down.
The powdered–headed footman slammed the door very hard, and scowled very grandly; but both the slam and the scowl were lost upon Sam, who was regarding a mahogany umbrella–stand with every outward token of critical approval.
Apparently his master’s reception of the card had impressed the powdered–headed footman in Sam’s favour, for when he came back from delivering it, he smiled in a friendly manner, and said that the answer would be ready directly.
‘Wery good,’ said Sam. ‘Tell the old gen’l’m’n not to put himself in a perspiration. No hurry, six–foot. I’ve had my dinner.’
‘You dine early, sir,’ said the powdered–headed footman.
‘I find I gets on better at supper when I does,’ replied Sam.
‘Have you been long in Bath, sir?’ inquired the powdered–headed footman. ‘I have not had the pleasure of hearing of you before.’
‘I haven’t created any wery surprisin’ sensation here, as yet,’ rejoined Sam, ‘for me and the other fash’nables only come last night.’
‘Nice place, Sir,’ said the powdered–headed footman.
‘Seems so,’ observed Sam.
‘Pleasant society, sir,’ remarked the powdered–headed footman. ‘Very agreeable servants, sir.’
‘I should think they wos,’ replied Sam. ‘Affable, unaffected, say–nothin’–to–nobody sorts o’ fellers.’
‘Oh, very much so, indeed, sir,’ said the powdered–headed footman, taking Sam’s remarks as a high compliment. ‘Very much so indeed. Do you do anything in this way, Sir?’ inquired the tall footman, producing a small snuff–box with a fox’s head on the top of it.
‘Not without sneezing,’ replied Sam.
‘Why, it is difficult, sir, I confess,’ said the tall footman. ‘It may be done by degrees, Sir. Coffee is the best practice. I carried coffee, Sir, for a long time. It looks very like rappee, sir.’
Here, a sharp peal at the bell reduced the powdered–headed footman to the ignominious necessity of putting the fox’s head in his pocket, and hastening with a humble countenance to Mr. Bantam’s ‘study.’ By the bye, who ever knew a man who never read or wrote either, who hadn’t got some small back parlour which he would call a study!
‘There is the answer, sir,’ said the powdered–headed footman. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find it inconveniently large.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Sam, taking a letter with a small enclosure. ‘It’s just possible as exhausted natur’ may manage to surwive it.’
‘I hope we shall meet again, Sir,’ said the powdered–headed footman, rubbing his hands, and following Sam out to the door–step.
‘You are wery obligin’, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘Now, don’t allow yourself to be fatigued beyond your powers; there’s a amiable bein’. Consider what you owe to society, and don’t let yourself be injured by too much work. For the sake o’ your feller–creeturs, keep yourself as quiet as you can; only think what a loss you would be!’ With these pathetic words, Sam Weller departed.
‘A very singular young man that,’ said the powdered–headed footman, looking after Mr. Weller, with a countenance which clearly showed he could make nothing of him.
Sam said nothing at all. He winked, shook his head, smiled, winked again; and, with an expression of countenance which seemed to denote that he was greatly amused with something or other, walked merrily away.
At precisely twenty minutes before eight o’clock that night, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esq., the Master of the Ceremonies, emerged from his chariot at the door of the Assembly Rooms in the same wig, the same teeth, the same eye–glass, the same watch and