The Dickensian Rambler will well remember this hotel as the scene of Mr. Pickwick’s “romantic adventure with a middle-aged lady in yellow curl-papers,” related _in extenso_ in the same chapter as above. Information as to the exact bedroom allotted to Mr. Pickwick on the occasion of his visit to this place is, unfortunately, not afforded by local tradition; but the apartment occupied by “Miss Witherfield,” whose privacy Mr. P. inadvertently, but so unhappily, invaded, is indicated to visitors on the second floor—No. 36, according to recent rearrangement of enumeration, formerly known as No. 6. Poor Mr. Pickwick, on his escape from his awkward predicament, was unable to find his own room, but was at last rescued from his dilemma by his faithful servitor— “After groping his way a few paces down the passage, and, to his infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so doing, Mr. Pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait for morning as philosophically as he might. “He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of patience; for he had not been long ensconced in his present concealment when, to his unspeakable horror, a man, bearing a light, appeared at the end of the passage. His horror was suddenly converted into joy, however, when he recognised the form of his faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr. Samuel Weller, who after sitting up thus late, in conversation with the Boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now about to retire to rest. “‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, ‘where’s my bedroom?’ “Mr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise; and it was not until the question had been repeated three several times, that he turned round, and led the way to the long-sought apartment. “‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he got into bed. ‘I have made one of the most extraordinary mistakes to-night that were ever heard of.’ “‘Wery likely, sir,’ said Mr. Weller drily. “‘But of this I am determined, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that if I were to stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself about it alone again.’ “‘That’s the wery prudentest resolution as you could come to, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘You rayther want somebody to look arter you, sir, wen your judgment goes out a wisitin’.’” By way of _Upper Brook Street_, _Tacket Street_, and _Orwell Place_, we come to _Fore Street_, _St. Clement’s_ (a thoroughfare in which still remain several old houses of the sixteenth century), and soon reach the whereabouts of St. Clement’s Church, towards which, on the morning following the disasters of the night of their arrival, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps, and