He rose early next morning, and was afoot soon after sunrise. But it was of no use; the whole place was up to see Mark Tapley off; the boys, the dogs, the children, the old men, the busy people and the idlers; there they were, all calling out “Good-by’e, Mark,” after their own manner, and all sorry he was going. Somehow he had a kind of sense that his old mistress was peeping from her chamber-window, but he couldn’t make up his mind to look back.
“Good-by’e one, good-by’e all!” cried Mark, waving his hat on the top of his walking-stick, as he strode at a quick pace up the little street. “Hearty chaps them wheelwrights—hurrah! Here’s the butcher’s dog a-coming out of the garden—down, old fellow! And Mr. Pinch a-going to his organ—good-b’ye, sir! And the terrier-bitch from over the way—hie, then, lass! And children enough to hand down human natur to the latest posterity—good-b’ye, boys and girls! There’s some credit in it now. I’m a-coming out strong at last. These are the circumstances that would try a ordinary mind; but I’m uncommon jolly. Not quite as jolly as I could wish to be, but very near. Good-by’e! good-by’e!”
VIII
Accompanies Mr. Pecksniff and his charming daughters to the city of London; and relates what fell out upon their way thither.
When Mr. Pecksniff and the two young ladies got into the heavy coach at the end of the lane, they found it empty, which was a great comfort; particularly as the outside was quite full and the passengers looked very frosty. For as Mr. Pecksniff justly observed—when he and his daughters had burrowed their feet deep in the straw, wrapped themselves to the chin, and pulled up both windows—it is always satisfactory to feel, in keen weather, that many other people are not as warm as you are. And this, he said, was quite natural, and a very beautiful arrangement; not confined to coaches, but extending itself into many social ramifications. “For” (he observed), “if everyone were warm and well-fed, we should lose the satisfaction of admiring the fortitude with which certain conditions of men bear cold and hunger. And if we were no better off than anybody else, what would become of our sense of gratitude; which,” said Mr. Pecksniff with tears in his eyes, as he shook his fist at a beggar who wanted to get up behind, “is one of the holiest feelings of our common nature.”
His children heard with becoming reverence these moral precepts from the lips of their father, and signified their acquiescence in the same, by smiles. That he might the better feed and cherish that sacred flame of gratitude in his breast, Mr. Pecksniff remarked that he would trouble his eldest daughter, even in this early stage of their journey, for the brandy-bottle. And from the narrow neck of that stone vessel he imbibed a copious refreshment.
“What are we?” said Mr. Pecksniff, “but coaches? Some of us are slow coaches”—
“Goodness, Pa!” cried Charity.
“Some of us, I say,” resumed her parent with increased emphasis, “are slow coaches; some of us are fast coaches. Our passions are the horses; and rampant animals too—!”
“Really, Pa,” cried both the daughters at once. “How very unpleasant.”
“And rampant animals too” repeated Mr. Pecksniff with so much determination, that he may be said to have exhibited, at the moment, a sort of moral rampancy himself; “—and Virtue is the drag. We start from The Mother’s Arms, and we run to The Dust Shovel.”
When he had said this, Mr. Pecksniff, being exhausted, took some further refreshment. When he had done that, he corked the bottle tight, with the air of a man who had effectually corked the subject also; and went to sleep for three stages.
The tendency of mankind when it falls asleep in coaches, is to wake up cross; to find its legs in its way; and its corns an aggravation. Mr. Pecksniff not being exempt from the common lot of humanity, found himself, at the end of his nap, so decidedly the victim of these infirmities, that he had an irresistible inclination to visit them upon his daughters; which he had already begun to do in the shape of divers random kicks, and other unexpected motions of his shoes, when the coach stopped, and after a short delay the door was opened.
“Now mind,” said a thin sharp voice in the dark. “I and my son go inside, because the roof is full, but you agree only to charge us outside prices. It’s quite understood that we won’t pay more. Is it?”
“All right, sir,” replied the guard.
“Is there anybody inside now?” inquired the voice.
“Three passengers,” returned the guard.
“Then I ask the three passengers to witness this bargain, if they will be so good,” said the voice. “My boy, I think we may safely get in.”
In pursuance of which opinion, two people took their seats in the vehicle, which was solemnly licensed by Act of Parliament to carry any six persons who could be got in at the door.
“That was lucky!” whispered the old man, when they moved on again. “And a great stroke of policy in you to observe it. He, he, he! We couldn’t have gone outside. I should have died of the rheumatism!”
Whether it occurred to the dutiful son that he had in some degree overreached himself by contributing to the prolongation of his father’s days; or whether the cold had effected his temper; is doubtful. But he gave his father such a nudge in reply, that that good old gentleman was taken with a cough which lasted for full five minutes without intermission, and goaded Mr. Pecksniff to that pitch of irritation, that he said at last—and very suddenly:
“There is no room! There is really no room in this coach for any gentleman with a cold in his head!”
“Mine,” said the old man, after a moment’s pause, “is upon my chest, Pecksniff.”
The voice and manner, together, now that he spoke
