‘Boots,’ said the gentleman.
‘Sir,’ said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of the lock. ‘Do you know — what’s a-name — Doctors’ Commons?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Paul’s Churchyard, Sir; low archway on the carriage side, bookseller’s at one corner, hot-el on the other, and two porters in the middle as touts for licences.’
‘Touts for licences!’ said the gentleman.
‘Touts for licences,’ replied Sam. ‘Two coves in vhite aprons — touches their hats ven you walk in — “Licence, Sir, licence?” Queer sort, them, and their mas’rs, too, sir — Old Bailey Proctors — and no mistake.’
‘What do they do?’ inquired the gentleman.
‘Do! You, Sir! That ain’t the worst on it, neither. They puts things into old gen’l’m’n’s heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wos a coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything — uncommon fat, to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt — very smart — top boots on — nosegay in his buttonhole — broadbrimmed tile — green shawl — quite the gen’l’m’n. Goes through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money — up comes the touter, touches his hat — “Licence, Sir, licence?” — “What’s that?” says my father. — “Licence, Sir,” says he. — “What licence?” says my father. — “Marriage licence,” says the touter. — “Dash my veskit,” says my father, “I never thought o’ that.” — “I think you wants one, Sir,” says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit — “No,” says he, “damme, I’m too old, b’sides, I’m a many sizes too large,” says he. — “Not a bit on it, Sir,” says the touter. — “Think not?” says my father. — “I’m sure not,” says he; “we married a gen’l’m’n twice your size, last Monday.” — “Did you, though?” said my father. — “To be sure, we did,” says the touter, “you’re a babby to him — this way, sir — this way!” — and sure enough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back office, vere a teller sat among dirty papers, and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. “Pray take a seat, vile I makes out the affidavit, Sir,” says the lawyer. — “Thank’ee, Sir,” says my father, and down he sat, and stared with all his eyes, and his mouth vide open, at the names on the boxes. “What’s your name, Sir,” says the lawyer. — “Tony Weller,” says my father. — “Parish?” says the lawyer. “Belle Savage,” says my father; for he stopped there wen he drove up, and he know’d nothing about parishes, he didn’t. — “And what’s the lady’s name?” says the lawyer. My father was struck all of a heap. “Blessed if I know,” says he. — “Not know!” says the lawyer. — “No more nor you do,” says my father; “can’t I put that in arterwards?” — “Impossible!” says the lawyer. — “Wery well,” says my father, after he’d thought a moment, “put down Mrs. Clarke.” — “What Clarke?” says the lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink. — “Susan Clarke, Markis o’ Granby, Dorking,” says my father; “she’ll have me, if I ask. I des-say — I never said nothing to her, but she’ll have me, I know.” The licence was made out, and she DID have him, and what’s more she’s got him now; and I never had any of the four hundred pound, worse luck. Beg your pardon, sir,’ said Sam, when he had concluded, ‘but wen I gets on this here grievance, I runs on like a new barrow with the wheel greased.’ Having said which, and having paused for an instant to see whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the room.
‘Half-past nine — just the time — off at once;’ said the gentleman, whom we need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle.
‘Time — for what?’ said the spinster aunt coquettishly.
‘Licence, dearest of angels — give notice at the church — call you mine, tomorrow’ — said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt’s hand.
‘The licence!’ said Rachael, blushing.
‘The licence,’ repeated Mr. Jingle —
‘In hurry, post-haste for a licence,
In hurry, ding dong I come back.’
‘How you run on,’ said Rachael.
‘Run on — nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years, when we’re united — run on — they’ll fly on — bolt — mizzle — steam-engine — thousand-horse power — nothing to it.’
‘Can’t — can’t we be married before tomorrow morning?’ inquired Rachael. ‘Impossible — can’t be — notice at the church — leave the licence to-day — ceremony come off tomorrow.’ ‘I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us!’ said Rachael.
‘Discover — nonsense — too much shaken by the breakdown — besides — extreme caution — gave up the postchaise — walked on — took a hackney-coach — came to the Borough — last place in the world that he’d look in — ha! ha! — capital notion that — very.’
‘Don’t be long,’ said the spinster affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuck the pinched-up hat on his head.
‘Long away from you? — Cruel charmer;’ and Mr. Jingle skipped playfully up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, and danced out of the room.
‘Dear man!’ said the spinster, as the door closed after him.
‘Rum old girl,’ said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage.
It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we will not, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle’s meditations, as he wended his way to Doctors’ Commons. It will be sufficient for our purpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons in white aprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached the vicar-general’s office in safety and having procured a highly flattering address on parchment, from the Archbishop of Canterbury, to his ‘trusty and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle, greeting,’ he carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket, and retraced his steps in triumph to the Borough.
He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentleman and one thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of some authorised person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel Weller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of painted tops, the personal property of a farmer who was refreshing himself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a pot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and to him the thin gentleman straightway advanced.
‘My friend,’ said the thin gentleman.
‘You’re one o’ the adwice gratis order,’ thought Sam, ‘or you wouldn’t be so wery fond o’ me all at once.’ But he only said — ‘Well, Sir.’
‘My friend,’ said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem — ‘have you got many people stopping here now? Pretty busy. Eh?’
Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man, with a dark squeezed-up face, and small, restless, black eyes, that kept winking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as if they were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature. He was dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white neckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch-chain, and seals, depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves IN his hands, and not ON them; and as he spoke, thrust his wrists beneath his coat tails, with the air of a man who was in the habit of propounding some regular posers.
‘Pretty busy, eh?’ said the little man.
‘Oh, wery well, Sir,’