In Which Mr Headstone Suffers From An Excess Of Revelry

Winter, having taken occupancy of the full term of March, is refusing to relinquish his tenancy despite the expiration of his lease, and Spring is forced to shiver out of doors and shake her delicate blooms in the cold. One such unseasonably chilly morning, with snow swirling in the air, finds Mr Headstone unwilling to stir. The pedagogue is not an early riser at the brightest of times, and on this particular morning his senses are dulled by a headache compounded of strong spirits and the fermented air of a crowded tavern. His regrettable state is a consequence of having attended on the previous evening a Harmonic Meeting featuring the Comic Vocalist Little Swills, whose performances are regularly held at The Sol’s Arms under the direction of that establishment’s highly respectable landlord, Mr James George Bogsby.

Mr Headstone had been accompanied by Mr Guppy and Mr Weevle, and, as a consequence of the part these latter two gentlemen had played in obliging Mr Bogsby on a certain occasion, the landlord invited them to give their orders and to be welcome to whatever they put a name to. Thus entreated the three companions (Mr Headstone especially) put names to so many things that in the course of time they found it difficult to put a name to anything quite distinctly. At length with slow retreating steps the night departed, and the lamplighter went his rounds, snuffing out the lamps like so many guttering candles.

And now the day discerns, even with its dim London eye, that Mr Headstone has been up all night. Over and above the pale face that greets the morn, and the heels that lie prone on the hard floor instead of the bed, the brick and plaster physiognomy of the pedagogue’s very room itself looks worn and jaded. The windows peer out blearily onto the street; the hearth exhales the tainted breath of the past night’s revels; and the ceiling wears a wan and pinched expression, as if it were a mirror held up against the pedagogue’s own pale visage. Mr Headstone’s condition is not in any degree improved by a repeated and vigorous knocking at his door. His visitor has a strong arm, and performs that operation which is a traditional prelude to admittance so indefatigably that Mr Headstone feels as if the knuckles were being applied to the exterior of his skull. When at last he can stand no more, he rises and crosses the room (a feat of no small distinction) and opens the door to reveal the Game Chicken, the very picture of health and vitality, boxing his own shadow on the landing. That sporting gentleman, having being apprised of Mr Headstone’s lamentable state from the two gentlemen who presaged him into it, has come to offer aid and succor in the form of gymnastic exercises, and requires the pedagogue to dress himself and accompany him to Leicester Square for that very purpose.

The Empty Chair

The appointed time for the commencement of the celebrations had arrived. The members of the society, their guests, and the visiting dignitaries looked for their places at the tables, an operation which was protracted beyond any reasonable notion of convenience by the fact that the copying of the place cards had been performed by Mr Tony Jobling, whose frequent patronage of The Sol’s Arms was inclined to have a detrimental effect on the steadiness of his hand and, in consequence, on the legibility of his script. Once all disputes over the seating arrangements had been settled there remained but one empty chair, and that was the place reserved for the guest of honour. As Mr Headstone rose to initiate the proceedings with a speech of welcome for that absent gentleman, approaching footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and the entire company turned in anticipation of the entrance of the celebrated writer. The door opened, a loud huzzah echoed around the room, and a waiter, bearing a tray of thin slices of ham, tongue and German sausage, presented a countenance of amazement to the equally surprised assembly. When he returned to the kitchen he observed to the cook that it was gratifying to receive such vocal approbation of one’s services, and, rubbing his greasy hands vigorously, anticipated a handsome gratuity at the conclusion of the evening. A second waiter ascended with a large tureen of soup and was greeted with another cheer, albeit not quite as vociferous as the one that had heralded the cold collation. Indeed, with each course – the lobster, the veal, the beef pie – the reception became less and less enthusiastic, and by the time the marrow pudding was succeeded by the cheese, the diners had reconciled themselves to their disappointment with the aid of pints of half and half for the gentlemen and gin and water for the ladies. The members of the committee were at a loss to account for the absence of their guest of honour, and resolved to make it the theme of the first order of business at the next meeting of the society. Only Mr Benjamin Bailey, formerly of Todger’s boarding house, seemed to be able to accept the situation with equanimity as he supped on his rum and pushed the letters of invitation which he had been charged to deliver deeper into the pockets of his fustian trowsers.