The tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane was carried

out in a rural establishment one story high, which had the benefit of

the air from the yards of Horsemonger Lane jail, and the advantage of a

retired walk under the wall of that pleasant establishment. The business

was of too modest a character to support a life-size Highlander, but it

maintained a little one on a bracket on the door-post, who looked like

a fallen Cherub that had found it necessary to take to a kilt. From the

portal thus decorated, one Sunday after an early dinner of baked viands,

Young John issued forth on his usual Sunday errand; not empty-handed,

but with his offering of cigars. He was neatly attired in a

plum-coloured coat, with as large a collar of black velvet as his figure

could carry; a silken waistcoat, bedecked with golden sprigs; a chaste

neckerchief much in vogue at that day, representing a preserve of

lilac pheasants on a buff ground; pantaloons so highly decorated with

side-stripes that each leg was a three-stringed lute; and a hat of

state very high and hard.

When the prudent Mrs Chivery perceived that

in addition to these adornments her John carried a pair of white kid

gloves, and a cane like a little finger-post, surmounted by an ivory

hand marshalling him the way that he should go; and when she saw him, in

this heavy marching order, turn the corner to the right; she remarked to

Mr Chivery, who was at home at the time, that she thought she knew which

way the wind blew.

The Collegians were entertaining a considerable number of visitors that

Sunday afternoon, and their Father kept his room for the purpose of

receiving presentations. After making the tour of the yard, Little

Dorrit's lover with a hurried heart went up-stairs, and knocked with his

knuckles at the Father's door. 'Come in, come in!' said a gracious voice.

The Father's voice, her

father's, the Marshalsea's father's. He was seated in his black velvet

cap, with his newspaper, three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the

table, and two chairs arranged. Everything prepared for holding his

Court. 'Ah, Young John! How do you do, how do you do!'

'Pretty well, I thank you, sir. I hope you are the same.' 'Yes, John Chivery; yes. Nothing to complain of.' 'I have taken the liberty, sir, of--'

'Eh?' The Father of the Marshalsea always lifted up his eyebrows at this

point, and became amiably distraught and smilingly absent in mind. '--

A few cigars, sir.' 'Oh!' (For the moment, excessively surprised.) 'Thank you, Young John,

thank you. But really, I am afraid I am too--No? Well then, I will say

no more about it. Put them on the mantelshelf, if you please, Young

John. And sit down, sit down. You are not a stranger, John.'




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