Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller

work. No visitor could have denied that the Dolphin was dying by

inches, but he showed no bright colours. He had once served

another master; there was a newer streak of paint below him,

displaying with inconsistent freshness the legend, By J. MELLOWS.

Page 150

Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller

My door opened again, and J. Mellows’s representative came back. I

had asked her what I could have for dinner, and she now returned

with the counter question, what would I like? As the Dolphin stood

possessed of nothing that I do like, I was fain to yield to the

suggestion of a duck, which I don’t like. J. Mellows’s

representative was a mournful young woman with eye susceptible of

guidance, and one uncontrollable eye; which latter, seeming to

wander in quest of stage-coaches, deepened the melancholy in which

the Dolphin was steeped.

This young woman had but shut the door on retiring again when I

bethought me of adding to my order, the words, ‘with nice

vegetables.’ Looking out at the door to give them emphatic

utterance, I found her already in a state of pensive catalepsy in

the deserted gallery, picking her teeth with a pin.

At the Railway Station seven miles off, I had been the subject of

wonder when I ordered a fly in which to come here. And when I gave

the direction ‘To the Dolphin’s Head,’ I had observed an ominous

stare on the countenance of the strong young man in velveteen, who

was the platform servant of the Company. He had also called to my

driver at parting, ‘All ri-ight! Don’t hang yourself when you get

there, Geo-o-rge!’ in a sarcastic tone, for which I had entertained

some transitory thoughts of reporting him to the General Manager.

I had no business in the town – I never have any business in any

town – but I had been caught by the fancy that I would come and

look at it in its degeneracy. My purpose was fitly inaugurated by

the Dolphin’s Head, which everywhere expressed past coachfulness

and present coachlessness. Coloured prints of coaches, starting,

arriving, changing horses, coaches in the sunshine, coaches in the

snow, coaches in the wind, coaches in the mist and rain, coaches on

the King’s birthday, coaches in all circumstances compatible with

their triumph and victory, but never in the act of breaking down or

overturning, pervaded the house. Of these works of art, some,

framed and not glazed, had holes in them; the varnish of others had

become so brown and cracked, that they looked like overdone piecrust;

the designs of others were almost obliterated by the flies

of many summers. Broken glasses, damaged frames, lop-sided

hanging, and consignment of incurable cripples to places of refuge

in dark corners, attested the desolation of the rest. The old room

on the ground floor where the passengers of the Highflyer used to

dine, had nothing in it but a wretched show of twigs and flowerpots

in the broad window to hide the nakedness of the land, and in

a corner little Mellows’s perambulator, with even its parasol-head

turned despondently to the wall. The other room, where post-horse

company used to wait while relays were getting ready down the yard,

still held its ground, but was as airless as I conceive a hearse to

be: insomuch that Mr. Pitt, hanging high against the partition

(with spots on him like port wine, though it is mysterious how port

wine ever got squirted up there), had good reason for perking his

nose and sniffing. The stopperless cruets on the spindle-shanked

sideboard were in a miserably dejected state: the anchovy sauce

having turned blue some years ago, and the cayenne pepper (with a

scoop in it like a small model of a wooden leg) having turned

solid. The old fraudulent candles which were always being paid for

and never used, were burnt out at last; but their tall stilts of

candlesticks still lingered, and still outraged the human intellect

by pretending to be silver. The mouldy old unreformed Borough

Member, with his right hand buttoned up in the breast of his coat,

and his back characteristically turned on bales of petitions from

his constituents, was there too; and the poker which never had been

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