The Chaplain of the Fleet

by Walter Besant

  CHAPTER IV.

  HOW KITTY FIRST SAW THE DOCTOR.

  It was past seven in the evening when we arrived at the Talbot Innof Southwark, and too late to begin our search after my uncle thatevening. Mrs. Gambit, therefore, after conference with a young man ofeight-and-twenty or so, dressed in broadcloth, very kindly offered me abed at her own lodging for the night. This, she told me, was in a quietand most respectable neighbourhood, viz., Fore Street, which she beggedme not to confound with Houndsditch. I readily assured her that I wouldpreserve separate the ideas of the two streets, which was easy to onewho knew neither.

  She then informed me that the young man was no other than her husband,foreman of works to a builder, and that, to save the expense of aporter, he would himself carry my box. Mr. Gambit upon this touchedhis hat respectfully, grinned, shouldered the box, and led the way,pushing through the crowd around us, and elbowing them to right andleft without a word of excuse, as if they were so many ninepins.

  I learned afterwards that it is customary with the mechanical tradesmenof London thus to assert their right of passage, and as it is not everyone who gives way, the porter's burden is not unfrequently loweredwhile he stops to fight one who disputes his path. In evidence of thesestreet fights, most of the London carters, coachmen, chairmen, porters,and labourers, bear continually upon their faces the scars, recent orancient, of many such encounters. As for the gentlemen, it seems rightthat they should not disdain to strip and take a turn with their fistsagainst some burly ruffian who would thrust his unmannerly body pasthis betters, confident in his superior strength.

  Mr. Gambit looked round from time to time to see if we were following,and it gave me pain to observe how my box, which was long in shape,became the constant cause of sad accidents; for with it Mr. Gambiteither knocked off a hat, or deranged a wig, or struck violently somepeaceful person on the back of his head, or gave an inoffensive citizena black eye, or caused profane passengers to swear. He was, however, sobig, strong, and careless about these reproaches, that no one cared tostop him or offered to fight him until he was well on ahead.

  "It's a royal supper," he turned and nodded pleasantly, shouting thesewords to his wife: the box thus brought at right angles to the road,barred the way while he spoke, except to the very short. "Tripe--friedtripe!--with onions and carrots and potatoes. Will be done to a turn ateight. Make haste!"

  What crowds! what rushing to and fro! what jostling, pushing, andcrowding! What hurrying, and what wicked language! Sure somethingdreadful must have happened, nor could I believe Mrs. Gambit when sheassured me that this was the usual crowd of London.

  Then we came to London Bridge: and I saw the ships in the river andthe Tower of London. Oh, the forests of masts! And beyond the river,the steeples of the great city shining bright in the evening sunshine.Which of them was my uncle's church?

  We crossed the bridge; we walked up Gracechurch Street to Cornhill; wepassed through a labyrinth of narrow and winding lanes, crowded likethe wider streets. Mr. Gambit hurried along, thinking, I suppose, ofhis supper, and using my box as a kind of battering-ram with which toforce a way. Presently we came to a broad street, which was, in fact,Fore Street, where was Mrs. Gambit's lodging.

  "Eight o'clock," said Mr. Gambit, as we reached the top of the stairs."Now for supper."

  There was such a noise in the street below that we could hardly hearthe church bells as they struck the hour. Yet there were churches allround us. But their bells clanging together only added somewhat to thegeneral tumult.

  "Eight o'clock, wife--good time!"

  He dropped my box upon the floor, and hastened down the stairs.

  It was a comfortable lodging of two rooms, in one of which a cloth waslaid for supper, which Mr. Gambit speedily brought from a cookshop, andwe had a royal supper indeed, with two quarts at least of the nauseousblack beer of London, to which such men are extravagantly addicted.

  Supper ended, Mr. Gambit lit a pipe of tobacco and began to smoke,begging me not to mind him. His wife told him of the farm and herbrother, and I tried to listen through the dreadful noise of the streetbelow. It was a warm evening and our window was thrown open; peoplewere passing up and down, talking, singing, whistling, shouting, andswearing. I could hear nothing else; but the good man seemed as if hewas deaf to the roar of the street, and listened to his wife as quietlyas if we were in the fields. I asked him presently, with a shout, whatwas the cause of a dreadful riot and tumult? He laughed, and said thatit was always the same. It was a pity, I said, that London being sorich, could not keep the streets quiet.

  "Ay, but," said he, "there are plenty of poor people as well, and youmust first ask what they think about having their mouth shut."

  The strangeness of the place and the noise in the streets kept me awakenearly all that night, so that, when Mrs. Gambit called me in themorning, I was still tired. But it was time to be up and seeking for myuncle.

  We got everything ready: my father's last will and testament; my bagsof money, which Mrs. Gambit carried for me in her basket, and tied thebasket to her arm; and my box of clothes. Then, because Mrs. Gambitsaid that a young lady should not walk with her box carried by aporter, like a servant wench, we hired a coach and told him to drive usto St. Paul's Coffee-house.

  It is not far from Fore Street to St. Paul's Churchyard, but the crowdin the streets, the waggons and carts, and the dreadful practice ofLondon drivers to quarrel and then to stop while they abuse each other,delayed us a great deal, so that it was already half-past nine when wecame to the Coffee-house.

  We got down, leaving the coach at the door.

  It was a place the like of which I had never dreamed of. To be sure,everything was new to me just then, and my poor rustic brain wasturning with the novelty. There was a long room which smelt of tobacco,rum-punch, coffee, chocolate, and tea; it was already filled withgentlemen, sitting on the benches before small tables, at which somewere taking pipes of tobacco, some were talking, some were writing, andsome were reading the newspapers. Running along one side of the roomwas a counter covered with coffee-pots, bottles of Nantz, Jamaica rum,Hollands, and Geneva: there were also chocolate-dishes, sugar, lemons,spices, and punch-bowls. Behind the counter sat a young woman, ofgrave aspect, knitting, but holding herself in readiness to serve thecustomers.

  The gentlemen raised their heads and stared at me; some of themwhispered and laughed; all gazed as if a woman had no more businessthere than in the inner precincts of the Temple. That was what occurredto me instantly, because they were, I observed, all of them clergymen.

  They were not, certainly, clergymen who appeared to have risen inthe world, nor did their appearance speak so much in their favour astheir calling. They were mostly, in fact, clad in tattered gowns, withdisordered or shabby wigs, and bands whose whiteness might have beenrestored by the laundress, but had changed long since into a crumpledyellow. I heard afterwards that the house was the resort of those"tattered crapes," as they are irreverently called, who come to behired by the rectors, vicars, and beneficed clergy of London, for anoccasional sermon, burial, or christening, and have no regular cure ofsouls.

  On such chance employment and odd jobs these reverend ministerscontrive to live. They even vie with each other and underbid theirneighbours for such work; and some, who have not the means to spend asixpence at the Coffee-house, will, it is said, walk up and down thestreet, ready to catch a customer outside. One fears that there mustbe other reasons besides lack of interest for the ill success of thesemen. Surely, a godly life and zeal for religion should be, even in thiscountry of patronage, better rewarded than by this old age of penuryand dependence. Surely, too, those tattered gowns speak a tale ofimprovidence, and those red noses tell of a mistaken calling.

  This, however, I did not then know, and I naturally thought there mustbe some great ecclesiastical function in preparation, a confirming ona large scale, about to be celebrated in the great cathedral closebeside, whose vastness was such as amazed and confounded me. Theseclergymen, whose pove
rty was no doubt dignified by their virtues, wereprobably preparing for the sacred function after the manner practisedby my father, namely, by an hour's meditation. Perhaps my uncle wouldbe among them.

  Seeing me standing there helpless, and I daresay showing, by my face,what I immediately manifested in speech, my rusticity, the young womanbehind the counter came to my assistance, and asked me, very civilly,what I lacked.

  "I was told," I stammered, "to inquire at the St. Paul's Coffee-housefor the present lodging of my uncle." As if there was but one uncle inall London!

  "Certainly, madam," said the woman, "if you will tell me your uncle'sname."

  "I was told that you knew, at this house, the residence of every Londonclergyman."

  "Yes, madam, that is true; and of a good many country clergymen. If youwill let me know his name, we will do what we can to assist you."

  "He is named" (I said this with a little pride, because I thought thatperhaps, from my own rusticity and the homeliness of my companion, shemight not have thought me so highly connected), "he is the ReverendGregory Shovel, Doctor of Divinity."

  "Lord save us!" she cried, starting back and holding up her hands,while she dropped her knitting-needle. Why did she stare, smile, andthen look upon me with a sort of pity and wonder? "Dr. Shovel is youruncle, madam?"

  "Yes," I said. "My father, who was also a clergyman, and is but latelydead, bade me come to London and seek him out."

  She shook her head at this news, and called for one William. There camefrom the other end of the room a short-legged man, with the palestcheeks and the reddest nose I had ever seen. They spoke together fora few minutes. William grinned as she spoke, and scratched his head,under the scantiest wig I had ever seen.

  "Can you tell me?" I began, when she returned. I observed that William,when he left her, ran quickly up the room, whispering to the gentlemen,who had ceased to stare at me, and that, as soon as he had whispered,they all, with one consent, put down their pipes, or their papers, ortheir coffee, stayed their conversation, and turned their clericalfaces to gaze upon me, with a universal grin, which seemed ill-bred,if one might so speak of the clergy. "Can you tell me?"

  "I can, madam; and will," she replied. "What, did your father not knowthe present residence of Dr. Shovel? I fear it will not be quite suchas a young lady of your breeding, madam, had a right to expect. Butdoubtless you have other and better friends."

  "She has, indeed," said Miss Gambit, "if his honour Sir Robert Levett,Justice of the Peace, is to be called a good friend. But if you please,tell us quickly, madam, because our coach waits at the door, andwaiting is money in London. The country for me, where a man will siton a stile the whole day long, and do nothing, content with his dailywage. And the sooner we get away from these reverend gentlemen, whostare as if they had never seen a young lady from the country before,the better."

  "Then," the young woman went on, "tell your man to drive you downLudgate Hill and up the Fleet Market on the prison side; he may stop atthe next house to the third Pen and Hand. You will find the doctor'sname written on a card in the window."

  We thanked her, and got into the coach. When we told the coachman whereto go, he smacked his leg with his hand, and burst out laughing.

  "I thought as much," cried the impudent rascal. "Ah, Mother Slylips!wouldn't the doctor serve your turn, but you must needs look out forone in the Coffee-house? I warrant the doctor is good enough for thelikes of you!"

  He cracked his whip, and we drove off slowly.

  Now, which was really extraordinary, all the reverend gentlemen of thecoffee-room had left their places and were crowded round the door,some of them almost pushing their wigs into the coach windows in theireagerness to look at us. This seemed most unseemly conduct on thepart of a collection of divines; nor did I imagine that curiosity soundignified, and so unworthy a sacred profession, could be called forthby the simple appearance of a young girl in the coffee-room.

  The faces formed a curious picture. Some of the clergymen werestooping, some standing, some mounting on chairs, the better to see, sothat the doorway of the Coffee-house seemed a pyramid of faces. Theywere old, young, fat, thin, red, pale, of every appearance and everyage; they were mostly disagreeable to look at, because their possessorswere men who had been unsuccessful, either through misfortune orthrough fault; and they all wore, as they stared, a look of delightedcuriosity, as if here was something, indeed, to make Londonerstalk--nothing less, if you please, than a girl of seventeen, just comeup from the country.

  "Bless us!" cried Mrs. Gambit, "are the men gone mad? London is awicked place indeed, when even clergymen come trooping out merely tosee a pretty girl! Fie for shame, sir, and be off with you!"

  These last words were addressed to one old clergyman with an immensewig, who was actually thrusting his face through the coach window. Hedrew it back on this reprimand, and we went on our way.

  I looked round once more. The young woman of the counter was still inthe doorway, and with her William, with the scrubby wig and the rednose; round them were the clergymen, and they were all talking aboutme, and looking after me. Some of them wagged their heads, some shooktheirs, some nodded, some were holding their heads on one side, andsome were hanging theirs. Some were laughing, some smiling, some weregrave. What did it mean?

  "If," said Mrs. Gambit, "they were not clergymen, I should say theywere all tomfools. And this for a pretty girl--for you are pretty,Miss Kitty, with your rosy cheeks and the bright eyes which were neveryet spoiled by the London smoke. But there must be plenty other prettygirls in London. And them to call themselves clergymen!"

  "Perhaps they were looking at you, Mrs. Gambit."

  The idea did not seem to displease her. She smiled, smoothed the foldsof her gown, and pulled down the ends of her neckerchief.

  "Five years ago, child, they might. But I doubt it is too late. Setthem up, indeed! As if nothing would suit them to look at but the wifeof a respectable builder's foreman. They must go into the country, mustthey, after the pretty faces?"

  But oh, the noise and tumult of the streets! For as we came to the westfront of St. Paul's, we found Ludgate Hill crowded with such a throngas I had never before believed possible. The chairmen jostled eachother up and down the way. The carts, coaches, drays, barrows, waggons,trucks, going up the hill, met those going down, and there was sucha crush of carriages, as, it seemed, would never be cleared. All thedrivers were swearing at each other at the top of their voices.

  "Shut your ears, child!" cried Mrs. Gambit. But, immediatelyafterwards: "There! it's no use; they could be heard through mygrandfather's nightcap! Oh, this London wickedness!"

  There are many kinds of wickedness in London; but the worst, as I havealways thought, because I have seen and heard so much of it, is thegreat and terrible vice of blasphemy and profane swearing, so that, ifyou listen to the ragamuffin boys or to the porters, or to the chairand coach men, it would seem as if it were impossible for them to utterthree words without two, at least, being part of an oath.

  Then some of the drivers fought with each other; the people in thecoaches looked out of the windows--swore, if they were men; if theywere ladies, they shrieked. Most of those who were walking up and downthe hill took no manner of notice of the confusion; they pushed ontheir way, bearing parcels and bundles, looking neither to the rightnor to the left, but straight in front, as if they had not a moment tospare, and must push on or lose their chance of fortune. Some therewere, it is true, who lingered, looking at the crush in the road andthe men fighting; or, if they were women, stopping before the shops,in the windows of which were hoods, cardinals, sashes, pinners, andshawls, would make the mouth of any girl to water only to look at them.At the doors stood shopmen, bravely habited in full-dressed wigs withbroad ribbon ties behind, who bowed and invited the gazers to enter.And there were a few who loitered as they went. These carried theirhats beneath their arms, and dangled canes in their right hands.

  There was plenty of time for us to notice all that passed, because the
block in the way took fully half an hour to clear away. We were delayedten minutes of this time through the obstinacy of a drayman, who,after exchanging with a carter oaths which clashed, and clanged, andechoed in the air like the bombshells at the siege of Mans, declaredthat he could not possibly go away satisfied until he had fought hisman. The mob willingly met his views, applauding so delicate a senseof honour. They made a ring, and we presently heard the shouts ofthose who encouraged the combatants, but happily could not see them,by reason of the press. Mrs. Gambit would fain have witnessed thefight; and, indeed, few country people there are who do not love to seetwo sturdy fellows thwack and belabour each other with quarterstaff,singlestick, or fists. But I was glad that we could not see the battle,being, I hope, better taught. My father, indeed, and Lady Levett wereagreed that in these things we English were little better than the poorpagan Romans, who crowded to see gladiators do battle to the death,or prisoners fight till they fell, cruelly torn and mangled by thelions; and no better at all than the poor Spanish papists who flock toa circus where men fight with bulls. It is hard to think that Romangentlewomen and Spanish ladies would go to see such sights, whatevermen may do. Yet in this eighteenth century, when we have left behindus, as we flatter ourselves, the Gothic barbarisms of our ancestors, westill run after such cruelties and cruel sports as fights with fists,sticks, or swords, baitings of bull, bear, and badger, throwing stonesat cocks, killing of rats by dogs and ferrets, fights of cocks, dogs,cats, and whatever other animals can be persuaded to fight and killeach other.

  When the fight was over, and one man defeated--I know not which, butboth were horribly bruised and stained with blood--the carts clearedaway rapidly, and we were able to go on. Is it not strange to thinkthat the honour of such a common fellow should be "satisfied" when hehath gotten black eyes, bloody nose, and teeth knocked down his throat?

  We got to the bottom of the hill, and passed without further adventurethrough the old gate of Lud, with its narrow arch and the statelyeffigy of Queen Elizabeth looking across the Fleet Bridge. Pity it isthat the old gate has since been removed. For my own part, I thinkthe monuments of old times should be carefully guarded, and kept, nottaken away to suit the convenience of draymen and coaches. What wouldFleet Street be without its bar? or the Thames without its river-gates?Outside, there was a broad space before us. The Fleet river ran, filthyand muddy, to the left, the road crossing it by a broad and handsomestone bridge, where the way was impeded by the stalls of those whosold hot furmety and medicines warranted to cure every disease. On theright, the Fleet had been recently covered in, and was now built overwith a long row of booths and stalls. On either side the market wererows of houses.

  "Fleet Market," said the driver, looking round. "Patience, young lady.Five minutes, and we are there."

  There was another delay here of two or three minutes. The crowd wasdenser, and I saw among them two or three men with eager faces, whowore white aprons, and ran about whispering in the ears of the people,especially of young people. I saw one couple, a young man and a girl,whom they all, one after the other, addressed, whispering, pointing,and inviting. The girl blushed and turned away her head, and the youngman, though he marched on stoutly, seemed not ill pleased with theirproposals. Presently one of them came to our coach, and put his headin at the window. It was as impudent and ugly a head as ever I saw. Hesquinted, one eye rolling about by itself, as if having quarrelled withthe other; he had had the bridge of his nose crushed in some fight;some of his teeth stuck out like fangs, but most were broken; his chinwas bristly with a three days' beard; his voice was thick and hoarse;and when he began to speak, his hearers began to think of rum.

  "Pity it is," he said, "that so pretty a pair cannot find gallanthusbands. Now, ladies, if you will come with me I warrant that in halfan hour the doctor will bestow you upon a couple of the young noblemenwhom he most always keeps in readiness."

  Here the driver roughly bade him begone about his business for an ass,for the young lady was on her way to the doctor's. At this the fellowlaughed and nodded his head.

  "Aha!" he said, "no doubt we shall find the gentleman waiting. Yourladyship will remember that I spoke to you first. The fees of usmessengers are but half-a-crown, even at the doctor's, where alone thework is secure."

  "What means the fellow?" cried Mrs. Gambit. "What have we to do withgentlemen?"

  "All right, mother," he replied, with another laugh. Then he mountedthe door-step, and continued to talk while the coach slowly made itsway.

  We were now driving along the city side of the Fleet Market, thatside on which stands the prison. The market was crowded with buyersand sellers, the smell of the meat, the poultry, and the fruit, alltogether, being strong rather than delicate.

  "This," said Mrs. Gambit, "is not quite like the smell of thehoneysuckle in the Kentish hedges."

  The houses on our right seemed to consist of nothing but taverns, wheresigns where hoisted up before the doors. At the corner, close to theditch was the Rainbow, and four doors higher up was the Hand and Pen,next to that the Bull and Garter, then another Hand and Pen, then theBishop Blaize, a third Hand and Pen, the Fighting Cocks, and the NakedBoy. One called the White Horse had a verse written up under the sign:

  "My White Horse shall beat the Bear, And make the Angel fly; Turn the Ship with its bottom up, And drink the Three Cups dry."

  But what was more remarkable was that of the repetition in every windowof a singular announcement. Two hands were painted, or drawn rudely,clasping each other, and below them was written, printed, or scrawled,some such remarkable legend as the following:

  "Weddings Performed Here." "A Church of England Clergyman always on the Premises." "Weddings performed Cheap." "The Only Safe House." "The Old and True Register." "Marriage by Church Service and Ordained Clergymen." "Safety and Cheapness." "The Licensed Clergyman of the Fleet." "Weddings by a late Chaplain to a Nobleman--one familiar with the Quality." "No Imposition." "Not a Common Fleet Parson;"

  with other statements which puzzled me exceedingly.

  "You do well, ladies," the man with us went on, talking with his headthrust into the coach, "you do well to come to Doctor Shovel, whosehumble servant, or clerk, I am. The Doctor is no ordinary Fleet parson.He does not belong to the beggarly gentry--not regular clergymen atall who live in a tavern, and do odd jobs as they come, for a guinea aweek and the run of the landlord's rum. Not he, madam. The Doctor is agentleman and a scholar: Master of Arts of the University of Cambridgehe was, where, by reason of their great respect for his learning andpiety, they have made him Doctor of Divinity. There is the Rev. Mr.Arkwell, who will read the service for you for half-a-crown; he wasfined five shillings last week for drunkenness and profane swearing.Would it be agreeable to your ladyship to be turned off by such animpious rogue? There is the Rev. Mr. Wigmore will do it for less, ifyou promise to lay out your wedding money afterwards on what he callshis Nantz: he hath twice been fined for selling spirituous drinkswithout a license. Who would trust herself to a man so regardless ofhis profession? Or the Rev. John Mottram--but there, your ladyshipwould not like to have it read in a prison. Now, at the Doctor's is asnug room with hassocks. There is, forsooth, the Rev. Walter Wyatt,brother of him who keeps the first Pen and Hand after you turn thecorner; but sure, such a sweet young lady would scorn to look fordrink after the service; or the Rev. John Grierson, or Mr. Walker, orMr. Alexander Keith, will do it for what they can get, ay! even--it isreported--down to eighteenpence or a shilling, with a sixpennyworth ofGeneva. But your ladyship must think of your lines; and where is yoursecurity against treachery? No, ladies. The Doctor is the only man; agentleman enjoying the liberties of the Fleet, for which he hath givensecurity; a Cambridge scholar; who receives at his lodging none but thequality; no less a fee than a guinea, with half-a-crown for the clerk,ever enters his house. The
guinea, ladies, includes the five-shillingstamp, with the blessing of the Archbishop of Canterbury, which bindsthe happy pair like an act of parliament or a piece of cobbler's wax.This cheapness is certainly due to the benevolence and piety of theDoctor, who would be loth indeed to place obstacles in the way of soChristian and religious a ceremony."

  "We have certainly," cried Mrs. Gambit, in dismay at such a flow ofwords, "got into Tom Fool's Land. This man is worse than the parsons atthe Coffee-house."

  "Now, ladies," the fellow went on, throwing the door wide open witha fling, and letting down the steps, "this is the house. Look at it,ladies!"

  We got down and stood looking at it.

  It was a low house of mean appearance, built in two stories of brickand timber, the first floor overhanging the lower, as was the fashionuntil the present comfortable and handsome mode of using stucco andflat front was adopted. The brick had been once covered with a coat ofyellow wash, which had crumbled away over most of the front; the timberhad once been painted, but the paint had fallen off. The roof wasgabled; like the rest of the house, it looked decaying and neglected.The window of the room which looked out upon the street was broad, butit was set with leaden frames of the kind called diamond, providedwith the common greenish glass, every other pane being those thickbull's-eye panes, which would stand a blow with a club without beingbroken. Little light would enter at that window but for the bright sunwhich shone full upon it; the casement, however, was set open to catchthe air.

  As for the air, that was hardly worth catching, so foul was it withthe fumes of the market. Right in front of the door stood a greatheap of cabbage leaves, stalks, and vegetable refuse, which sometimeswas collected, put in barrows, and carted into the Fleet Ditch, butsometimes remained for months.

  Mrs. Gambit sniffed disdainfully.

  "Give me Fore Street," she said. "There's noise, if you like, but nocabbage-stalks."

  "This, ladies," said the man after a pause, so that we might beoverpowered with the grandeur of the house; "this is no other than thegreat Dr. Shovel's house. Here shall you find a service as regular andas truly read as if you were in the cathedral itself. Not so much asan amen dropped. They do say that the Doctor is a private friend ofthe dean, and hand-in-glove with the bishop. This way. Your ladyship'sbox? I will carry it. This is the good Doctor's door. The clerk'sfee half-a-crown; your ladyship will not forget, unless the younggentleman, which is most likely, should like to make it half-a-guinea.I follow your ladyships. Doubt not that, early as it is, his reverencewill be found up and ready for good works."

  "I believe," said Mrs. Gambit, "that this man would talk the hind legsoff a donkey. Keep close to me, Miss Kitty. Here may be villainy; andif there is, there's one at least that shall feel the weight of my tennails. Young man," she addressed the fellow with sharpness, "you letthat box alone, or if you carry it, go before; I trust Londoners as faras I can see them, and no farther."

  "Pray, ladies," cried the man, "have no suspicion."

  "It's all right," said the coachman, grinning. "Lord! I've brought themhere by dozens. Go in, madam. Go in, young lady."

  "This way, ladies," cried the man. "The Doctor will see you within."

  "A clergyman," continued Mrs. Gambit, taking no manner of notice ofthese interruptions, "may not always, no more than a builder's foreman,choose where he would live. And if his parish is the Fleet Market,among the cabbages, as I suppose the Doctor's is, or about the FleetPrison, among the miserable debtors, as I suppose it may be, why hemust fain live here with the cabbage-stalks beneath his nose, and makethe best of it."

  "Your ladyship," the messenger went on, addressing himself to me, "willshortly, no doubt, be made happy. The gentleman, however, hath not yetcome. Pray step within, ladies."

  "You see, Miss Kitty," said Mrs. Gambit, pointing to the window, witha disdainful look at this impertinent fellow, "this is certainly thehouse. So far, therefore, we are safe."

  In the window there hung a card, on which was written in largecharacters, so that all might read:

  +-------------------------------------+ | REVEREND GREGORY SHOVEL, | | DOCTOR OF DIVINITY, | | FORMERLY OF CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY. | +-------------------------------------+

  Now, without any reason, I immediately connected this announcement withthose curious advertisements I had seen in the tavern windows. And yet,what could my uncle have to do with marrying? And what did the man meanby his long rigmarole and nonsense about the Reverend This and theReverend That?

  However, Mrs. Gambit led the way, and I followed.

  The messenger pushed a door open, and we found ourselves in a low roomlit by the broad window with the diamond panes, of which I have spoken.The air in the room was close, and smelt of tobacco and rum: thefloor was sanded: the wainscoting of the walls was broken in places;walls, floors, and ceiling were all alike unwashed and dirty: the onlyfurniture was a table, half-a-dozen cushions or hassocks, and onegreat chair with arms and back of carved wood. On the table was a largevolume. It was the Prayer-book of the Established Church of England andIreland, and it was lying open, I could plainly see, at the MarriageService.

  At the head of the table, a reflection of the sunlight from the windowfalling full upon his face, sat a man of middle age, about fifty-fiveyears or so, who rose when we came in, and bowed with great gravity.Could this be my uncle?

  He was a very big and stout man--one of the biggest men I have everseen. He was clad in a rich silk gown, flowing loosely and freely abouthim, white bands, clean and freshly starched, and a very full wig.He had the reddest face possible: it was of a deep crimson colour,tinged with purple, and the colour extended even to the ears, and theneck--so much of it as could be seen--was as crimson as the cheeks.He had a full nose, long and broad, a nose of great strength and verydeep in colour; but his eyes, which were large, reminded me of thatverse in the Psalms, wherein the divine poet speaks of those whose eyesswell out with fatness: his lips were gross and protruded; he had alarge square forehead and a great amplitude of cheek. He was broad inthe shoulders, deep-chested and portly--a man of great presence; whenhe stood upright he not only seemed almost to touch the ceiling, butalso to fill up the breadth of the room. My heart sank as I looked athim; for he was not the manner of man I expected, and I was afraid.Where were the outward signs and tokens of that piety which my fatherhad led me to expect in my uncle? I had looked for a gentle scholar,a grave and thoughtful bearing. But, even to my inexperienced eyes,the confident carriage of the Doctor appeared braggart: the roll ofhis eyes when we entered the room could not be taken even by a simplecountry girl for the grave contemplation of a humble and ferventChristian: the smell of the room was inconsistent with the thoughtof religious meditation: there were no books or papers, or any otheroutward signs of scholarship; and even the presence of the Prayer-bookon the table, with the hassocks, seemed a mockery of sacred things.

  "So, good Roger," he said, in a voice loud and sonorous, yet musical asthe great bell of St. Paul's, so deep was it and full--"So, good Roger,whom have we here?"

  "A young lady, sir, whom I had the good fortune to meet on LudgateHill. She was on her way to your reverence's, to ask your good offices.She is--ahem!--fully acquainted with the customary fees of theEstablishment."

  "That is well," he replied. "My dear young lady, I am fortunate inbeing the humble instrument of making so sweet a creature happy. But Ido not see ... in fact ... the other party."

  "The young lady expects the gentleman every minute," said the excellentRoger.

  "Oh!" cried Mrs. Gambit, "the man is stark mad--staring mad!"

  "Sir," I faltered--"there is, I fear, some mistake."

  He waved both of his hands with a gesture reassuring and grand.

  "No mistake, madam, at all. I am that Dr. Shovel before whom thesmaller pretenders in these Liberties give place and hide diminishedheads. If by any unlucky accident your lover has fallen a prey to someof those (self-styled)
clerical gentry, who are in fact impostors andsharpers, we will speedily rescue him from their talons. Describe thegentleman, madam, and my messenger shall go and seek him at the Pen andHand, or at some other notorious place."

  The clerk, meanwhile, had placed himself beside his master, and nowproduced a greasy Prayer-book, with the aid of which, I suppose, hemeant to give the responses of the Church. At the mention of the word"mistake" a look of doubt and anxiety crossed his face.

  "There is, indeed, some mistake, sir," I repeated. "My errand here isnot of the kind you think."

  "Then, madam, your business with me must be strange indeed. Sirrah!" headdressed his clerk, in a voice of thunder, "hast thou been playing thefool? What was it this young lady sought of you?"

  "Oh, sir! this good person is not to blame, perhaps. Are you indeed theRev. Gregory Shovel, Doctor of Divinity?"

  "No other, madam." He spread out both his arms, proudly lifting hisgown, so that he really seemed to cover the whole of the end of theroom. "No other: I assure you I am Dr. Gregory Shovel, known andbeloved by many a happy pair."

  "And the brother-in-law of the late Reverend Lawrence Pleydell, latevicar of----"

  He interrupted me. "Late vicar? Is, then, my brother-in-law dead? orhave they, which is a thing incredible, conferred preferment upon sheerpiety?"

  "Alas! sir," I cried, with tears, "my father is dead."

  "Thy father, child!"

  "Yes, sir; I am Kitty Pleydell, at your service."

  "Kitty Pleydell!" He bent over me across the table, and looked into myface not unkindly. "My sister's child! then how----" He turned upon hisclerk, who now stood with staring eyes and open mouth, chapfallen andterrified. "FOOL!" he thundered. "Get thee packing, lest I do thee amischief!"