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 windows — 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 their 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 corner 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 own 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, having just exchanged a few introductory compliments with Mr. Raddle 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 curious accident last night. A child was brought in who had swallowed a necklace.”
“Swallowed what, sir?”
“A necklace; not all at once, you know, that would be too much - you couldn’t swallow that, if the child did — eh, Mr. Pickwick, ha! ha! No, the way was this. Child’s parents, poor people, lived in a court. Child’s eldest sister bought a necklace, common necklace, large black wooden beads. Child, being fond of toys, cribbed necklace, hid necklace, played with necklace, cut string of necklace, and swallowed a bead. Child thought it capital fun, went back next day and swallowed another bead.”

“Bless my heart, what a dreadful thing! I beg your pardon, sir. Go on.”
“Next day, child swallowed two beads; day after that, treated himself to three beads; so on, till in a week’s time he had got through the necklace, — five-and-twenty beads. Sister, industrious girl, seldom treated herself to bit of finery, cried eyes out at loss of necklace; looked high and low for necklace; but, I needn’t say, didn’t find necklace. Few days afterwards, family at dinner, — baked shoulder of mutton, and potatoes; child wasn’t hungry, playing about the room, when family suddenly heard devil of a noise, like small hail-storm. ‘Don’t do that, my boy,’ says father. ‘I ain’t a doin’ nothing,’ says child. ‘Well, don’t do it again,’ says father. Short silence, and then noise worse than ever. ‘If you don’t mind what I say, my boy,’ says father, ‘you’ll find yourself in bed, in something less than a pig’s whisper.’ Gave child a shake to make him obedient, and such a rattling ensued as nobody ever heard before. ‘Why, damme, it’s in the child!’ said father; ‘he’s got the croup in the wrong place!’ ‘No, I haven’t, father,’ said child, beginning to cry; ‘it’s the necklace; I swallowed it, father.’

Father caught child up, and ran with him to hospital; beads in boy’s stomach rattling all the way with the jolting; and people looking up in the air, and down in the cellars, to see where unusual sound came from. He’s in the hospital now, and makes such a devil of a noise when he walks about, that they’re obliged to muffle him in a watchman’s coat for fear he should wake the patients!”

Here another knock at the door announced the rest of the company, five in number, among whom there was, as presently appeared, a sentimental young gentleman with a very nice sense of honour. The little table was wheeled out; the bottles were brought in, and the succeeding three hours were devoted to a round game at sixpence a dozen.

When the last deal had been declared, and the profit-and-loss account of fish and sixpences adjusted to the satisfaction of all parties, Mr. Bob Sawyer rang for supper, and the visitors squeezed themselves into corners while it was getting ready. It was not so easily got ready as some people may imagine. First of all, it was necessary to awaken the girl, who had fallen asleep with her face on the kitchen table; this took time, and, even when she did answer the bell, another quarter of an hour was consumed in fruitless endeavours to impart to her a distant glimmering of reason. The man to whom the order for the oysters had been sent had not been told to open them; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyster with a limp knife or a two-pronged fork, and very little was done in this way. Very little of the beef was done either; and the ham (which was also from the German-sausage shop round the corner) was in a similar predicament. However, there was plenty of porter in a tin can; and the cheese went a great way, for it was very strong.

After supper more bottles were put upon the table, together with a paper of cigars. Then there was an awful pause; and this awful pause was occasioned by an embarrassing occurrence.

The fact is, the girl was washing the glasses. The establishment boasted four; which is not mentioned to its disparagement, for there never was a lodging-house yet that was not short of glasses. The establishment’s glasses were little thin, feeble tumblers; and those which had been borrowed from the public-house were great, dropsical, bloated articles, each supported on a huge gouty leg. This would have been in itself sufficient to have possessed the company with the real state of affairs; even if the young person of all work had not prevented the possibility of any misconception arising in the mind of any gentleman upon the subject, by forcibly dragging every man’s glass away long before he had finished his beer, and audibly stating, despite the winks of Mr. Bob Sawyer, that it was to be conveyed down stairs and washed forthwith.

It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good. The prim man in the cloth boots, who had been unsuccessfully attempting to make a joke during the whole time the round game lasted, saw his opportunity, and seized it. The instant the glasses disappeared, he commenced a long story “about a great public character, whose name I have forgotten, making a particularly happy reply to another eminent and illustrious individual whom I have never been able to identify.” He enlarged with great minuteness upon divers collateral circumstances, distantly connected with the anecdote in hand, but said, “For the life of me I cannot recollect at this precise moment what the anecdote is, although I have been in the habit of telling the story with great applause for the last ten years. Dear me, it is a very extraordinary circumstance.”

“I am sorry you have forgotten it,” said Mr. Bob Sawyer, glancing eagerly at the door, as he thought he heard the noise of glasses jingling; “very sorry.”
“So am I, because I know it would have afforded so much amusement. Never mind; I dare say I shall manage to recollect it, in the course of half an hour or so.”
The prim man arrived at this point just as the glasses came back, when Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been absorbed in attention, said he should very much like to hear the end of it, for, so far as it went, it was, without exception, the very best story he had ever heard.

The sight of the tumblers restored Bob to a degree of equanimity he had not possessed since his interview with his landlady. His face brightened up, and he began to feel quite convivial.
“Now, Betsey,” dispersing the tumultuous little mob of glasses the girl had collected in the centre of the table, — “now, Betsey, the warm water. Be brisk, there’s a good girl.”
“You can’t have no warm water.”
“No warm water!”
“No; Missis Raddle said you warn’t to have none.”
“Bring up the warm water instantly, — instantly!”
“No, I can’t. Missis Raddle raked out the kitchen fire afore she went to bed, and locked up the kittle.”

“Never mind, — never mind. Pray don’t disturb yourself about such a trifle,” said Mr. Pickwick, observing the conflict of Bob Sawyer’s passions as depicted in his countenance; “cold water will do very well.”
“My landlady is subject to some slight attacks of mental derangement. I fear I must give her warning.”
“No, don’t.”
“I fear I must. Yes, I’ll pay her what I owe her, and give her warning to-morrow morning.” Poor fellow! how devoutly he wished he could!

Mr. Bob Sawyer’s attempts to rally under this last blow communicated a dispiriting influence to the company, the greater part of whom, with the view of raising their spirits, attached themselves with extra cordiality to the cold brandy and water. The first effects of these libations were displayed in an outbreak of hostilities between the youth with the nice sense of honour and Mr. Hopkins. At last the youth with the nice sense of honour felt it necessary to come to an understanding on the matter; when the following clear understand-took place.

“Sawyer.”
“Well, Noddy.”
“I should be very sorry. Sawyer, to create any unpleasantness at my friend’s table, and much less at yours, Sawyer, — very; but I must take this opportunity of informing Mr. Hopkins that he is no gentleman.”
“And I should be very sorry, Sawyer, to create any disturbance in the street in which you reside; but I’m afraid I shall be under the necessity of alarming the neighbours by pitching the person who has just spoken out o’ window.”
“I should like to see you do it, sir.”
“You shall feel me do it in half a minute, sir.”
“I request that you will favour me with your card, sir.”
“I’ll do nothing of the kind, sir.”
“Why not, sir?”
“Because you’ll stick it up over your chimney-piece, and delude your visitors into the false belief that a gentleman has been to see you, sir.”
“Sir, a friend of mine shall wait on you in the morning.”
“Sir, I am very much obliged to you for the caution, and I’ll leave particular directions with the servant to lock up the spoons.”

At this point the remainder of the guests interposed, and remonstrated with both parties on the impropriety of their conduct. A vast quantity of talking ensued, in the course of which Mr. Noddy gradually allowed his feelings to overpower him, and professed that he had ever entertained a devoted personal attachment towards Mr. Hopkins. To this Mr. Hopkins replied that, on the whole, he preferred Mr. Noddy to his own mother. On hearing this admission, Mr. Noddy magnanimously rose from his seat, and proffered his hand to Mr. Hopkins. Mr. Hopkins grasped it; and everybody said the whole dispute had been conducted in a manner which was highly honourable to both parties concerned.

“And now, just to set us going again, Bob, I don’t mind singing a song.” Hopkins, incited by applause, plunged at once into “The King, God bless him,” which he sang as loud as he could to a novel air, compounded of the “Bay of Biscay” and “A frog he would a wooing go.” The chorus was the essence of the song; and, as every gentleman sang it to the tune he knew best, the effect was very striking.

It was at the end of the chorus to the first verse that Mr. Pickwick held up his hand in a listening attitude, and said, as soon as silence was restored: “Hush! I beg your pardon. I thought I heard somebody calling from up stairs.”

A profound silence ensued; and Mr. Bob Sawyer was observed to turn pale.
“I think I hear it now. Have the goodness to open the door.”

The door was no sooner opened than all doubt on the subject was removed by a voice screaming from the two-pair landing, “Mr. Sawyer! Mr. Sawyer!”
“It’s my landlady. I thought you were making too much noise. — Yes, Mrs. Raddle.”

“What do you mean by this, Mr. Sawyer? Ain’t it enough to be swindled out of one’s rent, and money lent out of pocket besides, and insulted by your friends that dares to call themselves men, without having the house turned out of window, and noise enough made to bring the fire-engines here at two o’clock in the morning? — Turn them wretches away.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” said the voice of Mr. Raddle, which appeared to proceed from beneath some distant bedclothes.
“Ashamed of themselves! Why don’t you go down and knock ’em every one down stairs? You would if you was a man.”
“I should if I was a dozen men, my dear, but they’ve the advantage of me in numbers, my dear.”
“Ugh, you coward! Do you mean to turn them wretches out, Mr. Sawyer?”
“They’re going, Mrs. Raddle, they’re going. — I am afraid you’d better go. I thought you were making too much noise. — They’re only looking for their hats, Mrs. Raddle; they are going directly.”

Mrs. Raddle, thrusting her nightcap over the banisters just as Mr. Pickwick emerged from the sitting-room. “Going; what did they ever come for?”
“My dear ma’am,” remonstrated Mr. Pickwick, looking up.
“Get along with you, you old wretch!” said Mrs. Raddle, hastily withdrawing the nightcap. “Old enough to be his grandfather, you villin! You’re worse than any of ’em.”

Mr. Pickwick found it in vain to protest his innocence, so hurried down stairs into the street, closely followed by the rest. The visitors having all departed, in compliance with this rather pressing request of Mrs. Raddle, the luckless Mr. Bob Sawyer was left alone, to meditate on the probable events of the morrow, and the pleasures of the evening.