CLEARING UP ALL DOUBTS (IF ANY EXISTED) OF THE DISINTERESTEDNESSOF MR.JINGLE'S CHARACTER
T HERE are in London several old inns, once the head-quarters of celebrated coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys in a graver and more solemn manner than they do in these times; but which have now degenerated into little more than the abiding and booking places of country waggons.The reader would look in vain for any of these ancient hostelries, among the Golden Crosses and Bull and Mouths, which rear their stately fronts in the improved streets of London.
If he would light upon any of these old places, he must direct his steps to the obscurer quarters of the town; and there in some secluded nooks he will find several, still standing with a kind of gloomy sturdiness, amidst the modern innovations which surround them.
In the Borough especially, there still remain some half dozen old inns, which have preserved their external features unchanged, and which have escaped alike the rage for public improvement, and the encroachments of private speculation.Great, rambling, queer, old places they are, with galleries, and passages, and staircases, wide enough and antiquated enough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any, and that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerable veracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and its adjacent neighbourhood on the Surrey side.
It was in the yard of one of these inns--of no less celebrated a one than the White Hart--that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt off a pair of boots, early on the morning succeeding the events narrated in the last chapter.He was habited in a coarse-striped waistcoat, with black calico sleeves, and blue glass buttons; drab breeches and leggings.
A bright red handkerchief was wound in a very loose and unstudied style round his neck, and an old white hat was carelessly thrown on one side of his head.There were two rows of boots before him, one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to the clean row, he paused from his work, and contemplated its results with evident satisfaction.
The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual characteristics of a large coach inn.Three or four lumbering waggons, each with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height of the second-floor window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneath a lofty roof which extended over one end of the yard: and another, which was probably to commence its journey that morning, was drawn out into the open space.A double tier of bedroom galleries, with old clumsy balustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area, and a double row of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weather by a little sloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and coffee-room.Two or three gigs and chaise-carts were wheeled up under different little sheds and pent-houses; and the occasional heavy tread of a cart-horse, or rattling of a chain at the further end of the yard, announced to anybody who cared about the matter, that the stable lay in that direction.When we add that a few boys in smock frocks were lying asleep on heavy packages, woolpacks, and other articles that were scattered about on heaps of straw, we have described as fully as need be the general appearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, High Street, Borough, on the particular morning in question.
A loud ringing of one of the bells, was followed by the appearance of a smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping at one of the doors, and receiving a request from within, called over the balustrades--"Sam!"
"Hallo," replied the man with the white hat.
"Number twenty-two wants his boots."
"Ask number twenty-two, wether he'll have 'em now, or wait till he gets 'em," was the reply.
"Come, don't be a fool, Sam," said the girl, coaxingly, "the gentleman wants his boots directly.""Well, you are a nice young 'ooman for a musical party, you are,"said the boot-cleaner."Look at these here boots--eleven pair o' boots;and one shoe as b'longs to number six, with the wooden leg.The eleven boots is to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine.Who's number twenty-two, that's to put all the others out? No, no; reg'lar rotation, as Jack Ketch said, wen he tied the men up.Sorry to keep you a waitin', sir, but I'll attend to you directly."Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with increased assiduity.
There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White Hart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.
"Sam," cried the landlady, "where's that lazy, idle--why, Sam--oh, there you are; why don't you answer?""Wouldn't be gen-teel to answer, 'till you'd done talking," replied Sam, gruffly.
"Here, clean them shoes for number seventeen directly, and take 'em to private sitting-room, number five, first floor."The landlady flung a pair of lady's shoes into the yard, and bustled away.