"Yes.Consequence of vich, they retires from the world, and shuts themselves up in pikes; partly with the view of being solitary, and partly to rewenge themselves on mankind, by takin' tolls.""Dear me," said Mr.Pickwick, "I never knew that before.""Fact, sir," said Mr.Weller; "if they was gen'l'm'n you'd call 'em misanthropes, but as it is, they only takes to pikekeepin'."With such conversation, possessing the inestimable charm of blending amusement with instruction, did Mr.Weller beguile the tediousness of the journey, during the greater part of the day.Topics of conversation were never wanting, for even when any pause occurred in Mr.Weller's loquacity, it was abundantly supplied by the desire evinced by Mr.Magnus to make himself acquainted with the whole of the personal history of his fellow-travellers, and his loudly-expressed anxiety at every stage, respecting the safety and well-being of the two bags, the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel.
In the main street of Ipswich, on the left-hand side of the way, a short distance after you have passed through the open space fronting the Town Hall, stands an inn known far and wide by the appellation of The Great White Horse, rendered the more conspicuous by a stone statue of some rampacious animal with flowing mane and tail, distantly resembling an insane cart-horse, which is elevated above the principal door.The Great White Horse is famous in the neighbourhood, in the same degree as a prize ox, or county paper-chronicled turnip, or unwieldy pig--for its enormous size.Never were such labyrinths of uncarpeted passages, such clusters of mouldy, ill-lighted rooms, such huge numbers of small dens for eating or sleeping in, beneath any one roof, as are collected together between the four walls of the Great White Horse at Ipswich.
It was at the door of this overgrown tavern that the London coach stopped, at the same hour every evening; and it was from this same London coach, that Mr.Pickwick, Sam Weller, and Mr.Peter Magnus dismounted, on the particular evening to which this chapter of our history bears reference.
"Do you stop here, sir?" inquired Mr.Peter Magnus, when the striped bag, and the red bag, and the brown-paper parcel, and the leather hat-box, had all been deposited in the passage."Do you stop here, sir?""I do," said Mr.Pickwick.
"Dear me," said Mr.Magnus, "I never knew anything like these extraordinary coincidences.Why, I stop here too.I hope we dine together.""With pleasure," replied Mr.Pickwick."I am not quite certain whether I have any friends here or not, though.Is there any gentleman of the name of Tupman here, waiter?"A corpulent man, with a fortnight's napkin under his arm, and coeval stockings on his legs, slowly desisted from his occupation of staring down the street, on this question being put to him by Mr.Pickwick; and, after minutely inspecting that gentleman's appearance, from the crown of his hat to the lowest button of his gaiters, replied emphatically:
"No."
"Nor any gentleman of the name of Snodgrass?" inquired Mr.Pickwick.
"No!"
"Nor Winkle?"
"No."
"My friends have not arrived to-day, sir," said Mr.Pickwick."We will dine alone, then.Shew us a private room, waiter."On this request being preferred, the corpulent man condescended to order the boots to bring in the gentlemen's luggage; and preceding them down a long dark passage, ushered them into a large badly-furnished apartment, with a dirty grate, in which a small fire was making a wretched attempt to be cheerful, but was fast sinking beneath the dispiriting influence of the place.After the lapse of an hour, a bit of fish and a steak were served up to the travellers, and when the dinner was cleared away, Mr.
Pickwick and Mr.Peter Magnus drew their chairs up to the fire, and having ordered a bottle of the worst possible port wine, at the highest possible price, for the good of the house, drank brandy and water for their own.
Mr.Peter Magnus was naturally of a very communicative disposition, and the brandy and water operated with wonderful effect in warming into life the deepest hidden secrets of his bosom.After sundry accounts of himself, his family, his connexions, his friends, his jokes, his business, and his brothers (most talkative men have a great deal to say about their brothers), Mr.Peter Magnus took a blue view of Mr.Pickwick through his coloured spectacles for several minutes, and then said, with an air of modesty:
"And what do you think--what do you think, Mr.Pickwick--I have come down here for?""Upon my word," said Mr.Pickwick, "it is wholly impossible for me to guess; on business, perhaps.""Partly right, sir," replied Mr.Peter Magnus, "but partly wrong, at the same time: try again, Mr.Pickwick.""Really," said Mr.Pickwick, "I must throw myself on your mercy, to tell me or not, as you may think best; for I should never guess, if I were to try all night.""Why, then, he--he--he!" said Mr.Peter Magnus, with a bashful titter, "what would you think, Mr.Pickwick, if I had come down here, to make a proposal, sir, eh? He--he--he!""Think! That you are very likely to succeed," replied Mr.Pickwick, with one of his beaming smiles.
"Ah!" said Mr.Magnus."But do you really think so, Mr.Pickwick? Do you, though?""Certainly," said Mr.Pickwick.
"No; but you're joking, though."
"I am not, indeed."
"Why, then," said Mr.Magnus, "to let you into a little secret, I think so too.I don't mind telling you, Mr.Pickwick, although I'm dreadful jealous by nature--horrid--that the lady is in this house." Here Mr.Magnus took off his spectacles, on purpose to wink, and then put them on again.
"That's what you were running out of the room for, before dinner, then, so often," said Mr.Pickwick, archly.
"Hush! Yes, you're right, that was it; not such a fool as to see her, though.""No!"
