by
Charles Dickens

There is a repose about Lant Street, in the borough of Southwark in the county of Surrey, which sheds a gentle melancholy upon the soul. A house in Lant Street would not come within the denomination of a first-rate residence, in the strict acceptation of the term; but if a man wished to abstract himself from the world, — to remove himself from the reach of temptation, — to place himself beyond the possibility of any inducement to look out of window, — he should by all means go to Lant Street.

In this happy retreat are colonized a few clear-starchers, a sprinkling of journeymen bookbinders, one or two prison agents for the Insolvent Court, several small housekeepers who are employed in the Docks, a handful of milliners, and a seasoning of jobbing tailors. The majority of the inhabitants either direct theur energies to the letting of furnished apartments, or devote themselves to the healthful pursuit of mangling. The chief features in the still life of the street are green shutters, lodging-bills, brass door-plates, and bell-handles; the principal specimens of animated nature are the pot-boy, the muffin youth, and the baked-potato man. The population is migratory, usually disappearing on the verge of quarter-day, and generally by night. Her Majesty’s revenues are seldom collected in this happy valley; the receipt of rent is dubious; and the water communication is frequently cut off.

Mr. Bob Sawyer embellished one side of the fire, in his first-floor front, early on the evening for which he had invited Mr. Pickwick to a friendly party; and his chum Mr. Ben Allen embellished the other side. The preparations for the reception of visitors appeared to be completed. The umbrellas in the passage had been heaped into the little comer outside the back-parlour door; the bonnet and shawl of the landlady’s servant had been removed from the banisters; there were not more than two pairs of pattens on the street-door mat; and a kitchen candle, with a long snuff, burnt cheerfully on the ledge of the staircase window. Mr. Bob Sawyer had himself purchased the spirits, and had returned home in attendance on the bearer, to preclude the possibility of their being absconded with or delivered at the wrong house. The bottles were ready in the bedroom; a little table had been got from the parlour to play at cards on; and the glasses of the establishment, together with those which had been borrowed for the occasion from the public-house, were all drawn up in a tray on the floor of the landing outside the door.

Notwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature of these arrangements, there was a cloud on the countenance of Mr. Bob Sawyer, as he sat by the fire, and there was a sympathizing expression, too, in the features of Mr. Ben Allen, and melancholy in his voice, as he said, “Well, it is unlucky that your landlady Mrs. Raddle should have taken it in her head to turn sour, just on this occasion. She might at least have waited till to-morrow.”

“That’s her malevolence, that’s her malevolence. She says that, if I can afford to give a party, I ought to be able to afford to pay her confounded ‘little bill.’”

“How long has it been running!” A bill, by the by, is the most extraordinary locomotive engine that the genius of man ever produced. It would keep on running during the longest lifetime, without ever once stopping of its owh accord.

“Only a quarter, and a month or so.”

Ben Allen coughed, and directed a searching look between the two top bars of the stove.

“It’ll be a deuced unpleasant thing if she takes it into her head to let out, when those fellows are here, won’t it?”

“Horrible, horrible.”

Here a low tap was heard at the room door, and Mr. Bob Sawyer looked expressively at his friend, and bade the tapper come in; whereupon a dirty slipshod girl, in black cotton stockings, thrust in her head, and said, “Please, Mister Sawyer, Missis Raddle wants to speak to you.”

Before Mr. Bob Sawyer could return an answer, this young person suddenly disappeared with a jerk, as if somebody had given her a violent pull behind. This mysterious exit was no sooner accomplished, than there was another tap at the door.

Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced at his friend with a look of abject apprehension, and once more cried, “Come in.”

The permission was not at all necessary, for, before Mr. Bob Sawyer had uttered the words, a little fierce woman bounced into the room, all in a tremble with passion, and pale with rage.

“Now, Mr. Sawyer, if youll have the kindness to settle that little bill of mine I’ll thank you, because I’ve got my rent to pay this afternoon, and my landlord’s a waiting below now.” Here the little woman rubbed her hands, and looked steadily over Mr. Bob Sawyer’s head at the wall behind him.

“I am very sorry to put you to any inconvenience, Mrs. Raddle, but —”

“O, it isn’t any inconvenience. I didn’t want it particular before to-day; leastways, as it has to go to my landlord directly, it was as well for you to keep it as me. You promised me this afternoon, Mr. Sawyer, and every gentleman as has ever lived here has kept his word, sir, as of course anybody as calls himself a gentleman do.” Mrs. Raddle tossed her head, bit her lips, rubbed her hands harder, and looked at the wall more steadily than ever.

“I am very sorry, Mrs. Raddle, but the fact is, that I have been disappointed in the City to-day.” — Extraordinary place that city. Astonishing number of men always getting disappointed there.

“Well, Mr. Sawyer, and what is that to me, sir?”

“I — I — have no doubt, Mrs. Raddle,” said Bob, blinking this last question, “that before the middle of next week we shall be able to set ourselves quite square, and go on, on a better system, afterwards.”

This was all Mrs. Raddle wanted. She had bustled up to the apartment of the unluckly Bob, so bent upon going into a passion, that, in all probability, payment would have rather disappointed her. She was in excellent order for a little relaxation of the kind, haying just exchanged a few introductory compliments with Mr. Baddle in the front kitchen.

“Do you suppose, Mr. Sawyer,” elevating her voice for the information of the neighbours, — “do you suppose that I’m a going day after day to let a fellar occupy my lodgings as never thinks of paying his rent, nor even the very money laid out for the fresh butter and lump sugar that’s bought for his breakfast, nor the very milk that’s took in at the street door? Do you suppose as a hard-working and industrious woman which has lived in this street for twenty year (ten year over the way, and nine year and three quarter in this very house) has nothing else to do but to work herself to death after a parcel of lazy idle fellars, that are always smoking and drinking and lounging, when they ought to be glad to turn their hands to anything that would help ’em to pay their bills?”

“My good soul,” interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen.

“Have the goodness to keep your observashuns to yourself, sir, I beg,” suddenly arresting the rapid torrent of her speech, and addressing the third party with impressive slowness and solemnity. “I am not aweer, sir, that you have any right to address your conversation to me. I don’t think I let these apartments to you, sir.”

“No, you certainly did not.”

“Very good, sir. Then p’r’aps, sir, as a medical studient, you’ll confine yourself to breaking the arms and legs of the poor people in the hospitals, and will keep yourself to yourself, sir, or there may be some persons here as will make you, sir.”

“But you are such an unreasonable woman.”

“I beg your parding, young man; but will you have the goodness to call me that again, sir?”

“I didn’t make use of the word in any invidious sense, ma’am”

“I beg your parding, young man; but who do you call a woman? Did you make that remark to me, sir?”

“Why, bless my heart!”

“Did you apply that name to me, I ask of you, sir?” — with intense ferocity, and throwing the door wide open.

“Why, of course I did.”

“Yes, of course you did,” backing gradually to the door, and raising her voice, for the special behoof of Mr. Raddle in the kitchen — “yes, of course you did! And everybody knows that they may safely insult me in my own ouse, while my husband sits sleeping down stairs, and taking no more notice than if I was a dog in the streets. He ought to be ashamed of himself (sob) to allow his wife to be treated in this way by a parcel of young cutters and carvers of live people’s bodies, that disgraces the lodgings (another sob), and leaving her exposed to all manner of abuse; a base, faint-hearted, timorous wretch, that’s afraid to come up stairs and face the ruffinly creatures — that’s afraid — that’s afraid to come! “Mrs. Raddle paused to listen whether the repetition of the taunt had roused her better half; and, finding that it had not been successful, proceeded to descend the stairs with sobs innumerable, when there came a loud double-knock at the street door. Hereupon she burst into a fit of weeping, which was prolonged until the knock had been repeated six times, when, in an uncontrollable burst of mental agony, she threw down all the umbrellas, and disappeared into the back parlour.

“Does Mr. Sawyer live here?” said Mr. Pickwick, when the door was opened.

“Yes, first floor. It’s the door straight afore you, when you gets to the top of the stairs.” Having given this instruction, the handmaid, who had been brought up among the aboriginal inhabitants of Southwark, disappeared, with the candle in her hand, down the kitchen stairs.

Mr. Pickwick and his two friends stumbled up stairs, where they were received by the wretched Bob, who had been afraid to go down, lest he should be waylaid by Mrs. Raddle.

“How are you? Glad to see you, — take care of the glasses.” This caution was addressed to Mr. Pickwick, who had put his foot in the tray.

“Dear me, I beg your pardon.”

“Don’t mention it, — don’t mention it. I’m rather confined for room here, but you must put up with all that when you come to see a young bachelor. Walk in. You’ve seen Mr. Ben Allen before, I think?” Mr. Pickwick shook hands with Mr. Benjamin Allen, and his friends followed his example. They had scarcely taken their seats when there was another double-knock.

“I hope that’s Jack Hopkins! Hush. Yes, it is. Come up, Jack; come up.”

A heavy footstep was heard upon the stairs, and Jack Hopkins presented himself.

“You’re late, Jack?”

“Been detained at Bartholomew’s.”

“Anything new?”

“No, nothing particular. Rather a good accident brought into the casualty ward.”

“What was that, sir?”

“Only a man fallen out of a four pair of stairs’ window; but it’s a very fair case, very fair case, indeed.”

“Do you mean that the patient is in a fair way to recover?”

“No; no, I should rather say he wouldn’t. There must be a splendid operation though, to-morrow, — magnificent sight, if Slasher does it.”

“You consider Mr. Slasher a good operator?”

“Best alive. Took a boy’s leg out of the socket last week — boy ate five apples and a gingerbread cake — exactly two minutes after it was all over, boy said he wouldn’t lie there to be made game of, and he’d tell his mother if they didn’t begin.”

“Dear me!”

“Pooh! That’s nothing; is it, Bob?”

“Nothing at all.”

“By the by, Bob,” said Hopkins, with a scarcely perceptible glance at Mr. Pickwick’s attentive face, “we had a curions accident last night. A child was brought in who had swallowed a necklace.”