THE PICKWICK PAPERS
CHARLES DICKENS
CONTENTS
1. The Pickwickians
2. The first Day's Journey, and the first Evening's
Adventures; with their Consequences
3. A new Acquaintance--The Stroller's Tale--A
disagreeable Interruption, and an unpleasant
Encounter
4. A Field Day and Bivouac--More new Friends--An
Invitation to the Country
5. A short one--Showing, among other Matters, how
Mr. Pickwick undertook to drive, and Mr. Winkle
to ride, and how they both did it
6. An old-fashioned Card-party--The Clergyman's
verses--The Story of the Convict's Return
7. How Mr. Winkle, instead of shooting at the Pigeon
and killing the Crow, shot at the Crow and
wounded the Pigeon; how the Dingley Dell
Cricket Club played All-Muggleton, and how All-
Muggleton dined at the Dingley Dell Expense;
with other interesting and instructive Matters
8. Strongly illustrative of the Position, that the
Course of True Love is not a Railway
9. A Discovery and a Chase
10. Clearing up all Doubts (if any existed) of the
Disinterestedness of Mr. A. Jingle's Character
11. Involving another Journey, and an Antiquarian
Discovery; Recording Mr. Pickwick's Determination
to be present at an Election; and containing
a Manuscript of the old Clergyman's
12. Descriptive of a very important Proceeding on
the Part of Mr. Pickwick; no less an Epoch in his
Life, than in this History
13. Some Account of Eatanswill; of the State of
Parties therein; and of the Election of a Member
to serve in Parliament for that ancient, loyal,
and patriotic Borough
14. Comprising a brief Description of the Company
at the Peacock assembled; and a Tale told by a
Bagman
15. In which is given a faithful Portraiture of two
distinguished Persons; and an accurate Description
of a public Breakfast in their House and Grounds:
which public Breakfast leads to the Recognition
of an old Acquaintance, and the Commencement of
another Chapter
16. Too full of Adventure to be briefly described
17. Showing that an Attack of Rheumatism, in some
Cases, acts as a Quickener to inventive Genius
18. Briefly illustrative of two Points; first, the
Power of Hysterics, and, secondly, the Force of
Circumstances
19. A pleasant Day with an unpleasant Termination
20. Showing how Dodson and Fogg were Men of
Business, and their Clerks Men of pleasure; and
how an affecting Interview took place between
Mr. Weller and his long-lost Parent; showing also
what Choice Spirits assembled at the Magpie and
Stump, and what a Capital Chapter the next one
will be
21. In which the old Man launches forth into his
favourite Theme, and relates a Story about a
queer Client
22. Mr. Pickwick journeys to Ipswich and meets with
a romantic Adventure with a middle-aged Lady
in yellow Curl-papers
23. In which Mr. Samuel Weller begins to devote his
Energies to the Return Match between himself
and Mr. Trotter
24. Wherein Mr. Peter Magnus grows jealous, and the
middle-aged Lady apprehensive, which brings the
Pickwickians within the Grasp of the Law
25. Showing, among a Variety of pleasant Matters,
how majestic and impartial Mr. Nupkins was; and
how Mr. Weller returned Mr. Job Trotter's
Shuttlecock as heavily as it came--With another
Matter, which will be found in its Place
26. Which contains a brief Account of the Progress
of the Action of Bardell against Pickwick
27. Samuel Weller makes a Pilgrimage to Dorking,
and beholds his Mother-in-law
28. A good-humoured Christmas Chapter, containing
an Account of a Wedding, and some other Sports
beside: which although in their Way even as good
Customs as Marriage itself, are not quite so
religiously kept up, in these degenerate Times
29. The Story of the Goblins who stole a Sexton
30. How the Pickwickians made and cultivated the
Acquaintance of a Couple of nice young Men
belonging to one of the liberal Professions; how
they disported themselves on the Ice; and how
their Visit came to a Conclusion
31. Which is all about the Law, and sundry Great
Authorities learned therein
32. Describes, far more fully than the Court Newsman
ever did, a Bachelor's Party, given by Mr.
Bob Sawyer at his Lodgings in the Borough
33. Mr. Weller the elder delivers some Critical Sentiments
respecting Literary Composition; and,
assisted by his Son Samuel, pays a small Instalment
of Retaliation to the Account of the Reverend
Gentleman with the Red Nose
34. Is wholly devoted to a full and faithful Report
of the memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick
35. In which Mr. Pickwick thinks he had better go to
Bath; and goes accordingly
36. The chief Features of which will be found to be
an authentic Version of the Legend of Prince
Bladud, and a most extraordinary Calamity that
befell Mr. Winkle
37. Honourably accounts for Mr. Weller's Absence,
by describing a Soiree to which he was invited
and went; also relates how he was intrusted by
Mr. Pickwick with a Private Mission of Delicacy
and Importance
38. How Mr. Winkle, when he stepped out of the
Frying-pan, walked gently and comfortably into
the Fire
39. Mr. Samuel Weller, being intrusted with a Mission
of Love, proceeds to execute it; with what Success
will hereinafter appear
40. Introduces Mr. Pickwick to a new and not uninteresting
Scene in the great Drama of Life
41. Whatt befell Mr. Pickwick when he got into the
Fleet; what Prisoners he saw there; and how he
passed the Night
42. Illustrative, like the preceding one, of the old
Proverb, that Adversity brings a Man acquainted
with strange Bedfellows--Likewise containing Mr.
Pickwick's extraordinary and startling Announcement
to Mr. Samuel Weller
43. Showing how Mr. Samuel Weller got into Difficulties
44. Treats of divers little Matters which occurred
in the Fleet, and of Mr. Winkle's mysterious
Behaviour; and shows how the poor Chancery
Prisoner obtained his Release at last
45. Descriptive of an affecting Interview between Mr.
Samuel Weller and a Family Party. Mr. Pickwick
makes a Tour of the diminutive World he
inhabits, and resolves to mix with it, in Future,
as little as possible
46. Records a touching Act of delicate Feeling not
unmixed with Pleasantry, achieved and performed
by Messrs. Dodson and Fogg
47. Is chiefly devoted to Matters of Business,
and the temporal Advantage of Dodson and Fogg--
Mr. Winkle reappears under extraordinary
Circumstances--Mr. Pickwick's Benevolence proves
stronger than his Obstinacy
48. Relates how Mr. Pickwick, with the Assistance
of Samuel Weller, essayed to soften the Heart
of Mr. Benjamin Allen, and to mollify the Wrath
of Mr. Robert Sawyer
49. Containing the Story of the Bagman's Uncle
50. How Mr. Pickwick sped upon his Mission, and how
he was reinforced in the Outset by a most
unexpected Auxiliary
51. In which Mr. Pickwick encounters an old
Acquaintance--To which fortunate Circumstance
the Reader is mainly indebted for Matter of
thrilling Interest herein set down, concerning
two great Public Men of Might and Power
52. Involving a serious Change in the Weller Family,
and the untimely Downfall of Mr. Stiggins
53. Comprising the final Exit of Mr. Jingle and Job
Trotter, with a great Morning of business in
Gray's Inn Square--Concluding with a Double
Knock at Mr. Perker's Door
54. Containing some Particulars relative to the
Double Knock, and other Matters: among which
certain interesting Disclosures relative to Mr.
Snodgrass and a Young Lady are by no Means
irrelevant to this History
55. Mr. Solomon Pell, assisted by a Select Committee
of Coachmen, arranges the affairs of the elder
Mr. Weller
56. An important Conference takes place between
Mr. Pickwick and Samuel Weller, at which his
Parent assists--An old Gentleman in a snuff-
coloured Suit arrives unexpectedly
57. In which the Pickwick Club is finally dissolved,
and everything concluded to the Satisfaction
of Everybody
THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS
OF
THE PICKWICK CLUB
CHAPTER I
THE PICKWICKIANS
The first ray of light which illumines the gloom, and converts
into a dazzling brilliancy that obscurity in which the earlier
history of the public career of the immortal Pickwick would
appear to be involved, is derived from the perusal of the following
entry in the Transactions of the Pickwick Club, which the editor
of these papers feels the highest pleasure in laying before his
readers, as a proof of the careful attention, indefatigable assiduity,
and nice discrimination, with which his search among the multifarious
documents confided to him has been conducted.
'May 12, 1827. Joseph Smiggers, Esq., P.V.P.M.P.C. [Perpetual
Vice-President--Member Pickwick Club], presiding. The following
resolutions unanimously agreed to:--
'That this Association has heard read, with feelings of unmingled
satisfaction, and unqualified approval, the paper communicated by Samuel
Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C. [General Chairman--Member Pickwick Club],
entitled "Speculations on the Source of the Hampstead Ponds, with some
Observations on the Theory of Tittlebats;" and that this Association
does hereby return its warmest thanks to the said Samuel
Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., for the same.
'That while this Association is deeply sensible of the advantages
which must accrue to the cause of science, from the production
to which they have just adverted--no less than from the unwearied
researches of Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., in Hornsey,
Highgate, Brixton, and Camberwell--they cannot but entertain
a lively sense of the inestimable benefits which must inevitably
result from carrying the speculations of that learned man into a
wider field, from extending his travels, and, consequently,
enlarging his sphere of observation, to the advancement of
knowledge, and the diffusion of learning.
'That, with the view just mentioned, this Association has taken
into its serious consideration a proposal, emanating from the
aforesaid, Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., and three other
Pickwickians hereinafter named, for forming a new branch of
United Pickwickians, under the title of The Corresponding
Society of the Pickwick Club.
'That the said proposal has received the sanction and approval
of this Association.
'That the Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club is
therefore hereby constituted; and that Samuel Pickwick, Esq.,
G.C.M.P.C., Tracy Tupman, Esq., M.P.C., Augustus Snodgrass,
Esq., M.P.C., and Nathaniel Winkle, Esq., M.P.C., are hereby
nominated and appointed members of the same; and that they
be requested to forward, from time to time, authenticated
accounts of their journeys and investigations, of their observations
of character and manners, and of the whole of their
adventures, together with all tales and papers to which local
scenery or associations may give rise, to the Pickwick Club,
stationed in London.
'That this Association cordially recognises the principle of
every member of the Corresponding Society defraying his own
travelling expenses; and that it sees no objection whatever to the
members of the said society pursuing their inquiries for any
length of time they please, upon the same terms.
'That the members of the aforesaid Corresponding Society be,
and are hereby informed, that their proposal to pay the postage
of their letters, and the carriage of their parcels, has been
deliberated upon by this Association: that this Association
considers such proposal worthy of the great minds from which it
emanated, and that it hereby signifies its perfect acquiescence
therein.'
A casual observer, adds the secretary, to whose notes we are
indebted for the following account--a casual observer might
possibly have remarked nothing extraordinary in the bald head,
and circular spectacles, which were intently turned towards his
(the secretary's) face, during the reading of the above resolutions:
to those who knew that the gigantic brain of Pickwick was
working beneath that forehead, and that the beaming eyes of
Pickwick were twinkling behind those glasses, the sight was
indeed an interesting one. There sat the man who had traced to
their source the mighty ponds of Hampstead, and agitated the
scientific world with his Theory of Tittlebats, as calm and
unmoved as the deep waters of the one on a frosty day, or as a
solitary specimen of the other in the inmost recesses of an earthen
jar. And how much more interesting did the spectacle become,
when, starting into full life and animation, as a simultaneous call
for 'Pickwick' burst from his followers, that illustrious man
slowly mounted into the Windsor chair, on which he had been
previously seated, and addressed the club himself had founded.
What a study for an artist did that exciting scene present! The
eloquent Pickwick, with one hand gracefully concealed behind
his coat tails, and the other waving in air to assist his glowing
declamation; his elevated position revealing those tights and
gaiters, which, had they clothed an ordinary man, might have
passed without observation, but which, when Pickwick clothed
them--if we may use the expression--inspired involuntary awe
and respect; surrounded by the men who had volunteered to
share the perils of his travels, and who were destined to participate
in the glories of his discoveries. On his right sat Mr. Tracy
Tupman--the too susceptible Tupman, who to the wisdom and
experience of maturer years superadded the enthusiasm and
ardour of a boy in the most interesting and pardonable of human
weaknesses--love. Time and feeding had expanded that once
romantic form; the black silk waistcoat had become more and
more developed; inch by inch had the gold watch-chain beneath
it disappeared from within the range of Tupman's vision; and
gradually had the capacious chin encroached upon the borders of
the white cravat: but the soul of Tupman had known no change
--admiration of the fair sex was still its ruling passion. On the
left of his great leader sat the poetic Snodgrass, and near him
again the sporting Winkle; the former poetically enveloped in a
mysterious blue cloak with a canine-skin collar, and the latter
communicating additional lustre to a new green shooting-coat,
plaid neckerchief, and closely-fitted drabs.
Mr. Pickwick's oration upon this occasion, together with the
debate thereon, is entered on the Transactions of the Club. Both
bear a strong affinity to the discussions of other celebrated
bodies; and, as it is always interesting to trace a resemblance
between the proceedings of great men, we transfer the entry to
these pages.
'Mr. Pickwick observed (says the secretary) that fame was dear
to the heart of every man. Poetic fame was dear to the heart of
his friend Snodgrass; the fame of conquest was equally dear to
his friend Tupman; and the desire of earning fame in the sports
of the field, the air, and the water was uppermost in the breast of
his friend Winkle. He (Mr. Pickwick) would not deny that he was
influenced by human passions and human feelings (cheers)--
possibly by human weaknesses (loud cries of "No"); but this he
would say, that if ever the fire of self-importance broke out in his
bosom, the desire to benefit the human race in preference
effectually quenched it. The praise of mankind was his swing;
philanthropy was his insurance office. (Vehement cheering.) He
had felt some pride--he acknowledged it freely, and let his
enemies make the most of it--he had felt some pride when he
presented his Tittlebatian Theory to the world; it might be
celebrated or it might not. (A cry of "It is," and great cheering.)
He would take the assertion of that honourable Pickwickian
whose voice he had just heard--it was celebrated; but if the fame
of that treatise were to extend to the farthest confines of the
known world, the pride with which he should reflect on the
authorship of that production would be as nothing compared
with the pride with which he looked around him, on this, the
proudest moment of his existence. (Cheers.) He was a humble
individual. ("No, no.") Still he could not but feel that they had
selected him for a service of great honour, and of some danger.
Travelling was in a troubled state, and the minds of coachmen
were unsettled. Let them look abroad and contemplate the scenes
which were enacting around them. Stage-coaches were upsetting
in all directions, horses were bolting, boats were overturning, and
boilers were bursting. (Cheers--a voice "No.") No! (Cheers.)
Let that honourable Pickwickian who cried "No" so loudly
come forward and deny it, if he could. (Cheers.) Who was it that
cried "No"? (Enthusiastic cheering.) Was it some vain and
disappointed man--he would not say haberdasher (loud cheers)
--who, jealous of the praise which had been--perhaps undeservedly--
bestowed on his (Mr. Pickwick's) researches, and smarting under
the censure which had been heaped upon his own feeble attempts at
rivalry, now took this vile and calumnious mode of---
'Mr. BLOTTON (of Aldgate) rose to order. Did the honourable
Pickwickian allude to him? (Cries of "Order," "Chair," "Yes,"
"No," "Go on," "Leave off," etc.)
'Mr. PICKWICK would not put up to be put down by clamour.
He had alluded to the honourable gentleman. (Great excitement.)
'Mr. BLOTTON would only say then, that he repelled the hon.
gent.'s false and scurrilous accusation, with profound contempt.
(Great cheering.) The hon. gent. was a humbug. (Immense confusion,
and loud cries of "Chair," and "Order.")
'Mr. A. SNODGRASS rose to order. He threw himself upon the
chair. (Hear.) He wished to know whether this disgraceful
contest between two members of that club should be allowed to
continue. (Hear, hear.)
'The CHAIRMAN was quite sure the hon. Pickwickian would
withdraw the expression he had just made use of.
'Mr. BLOTTON, with all possible respect for the chair, was quite
sure he would not.
'The CHAIRMAN felt it his imperative duty to demand of the
honourable gentleman, whether he had used the expression which
had just escaped him in a common sense.
'Mr. BLOTTON had no hesitation in saying that he had not--he
had used the word in its Pickwickian sense. (Hear, hear.) He was
bound to acknowledge that, personally, he entertained the
highest regard and esteem for the honourable gentleman; he had
merely considered him a humbug in a Pickwickian point of view.
(Hear, hear.)
'Mr. PICKWICK felt much gratified by the fair, candid, and full
explanation of his honourable friend. He begged it to be at once
understood, that his own observations had been merely intended
to bear a Pickwickian construction. (Cheers.)'
Here the entry terminates, as we have no doubt the debate did
also, after arriving at such a highly satisfactory and intelligible
point. We have no official statement of the facts which the reader
will find recorded in the next chapter, but they have been carefully
collated from letters and other MS. authorities, so unquestionably
genuine as to justify their narration in a connected form.
CHAPTER II
THE FIRST DAY'S JOURNEY, AND THE FIRST EVENING'S
ADVENTURES; WITH THEIR CONSEQUENCES
That punctual servant of all work, the sun, had just risen, and
begun to strike a light on the morning of the thirteenth of May,
one thousand eight hundred and twenty-seven, when Mr. Samuel
Pickwick burst like another sun from his slumbers, threw open his
chamber window, and looked out upon the world beneath. Goswell
Street was at his feet, Goswell Street was on his right hand--as
far as the eye could reach, Goswell Street extended on his left;
and the opposite side of Goswell Street was over the way. 'Such,'
thought Mr. Pickwick, 'are the narrow views of those philosophers
who, content with examining the things that lie before them, look
not to the truths which are hidden beyond. As well might I be
content to gaze on Goswell Street for ever, without one effort to
penetrate to the hidden countries which on every side surround
it.' And having given vent to this beautiful reflection, Mr.
Pickwick proceeded to put himself into his clothes, and his
clothes into his portmanteau. Great men are seldom over
scrupulous in the arrangement of their attire; the operation of
shaving, dressing, and coffee-imbibing was soon performed; and, in
another hour, Mr. Pickwick, with his portmanteau in his hand, his
telescope in his greatcoat pocket, and his note-book in his
waistcoat, ready for the reception of any discoveries worthy of
being noted down, had arrived at the coach-stand in
St. Martin's-le-Grand.
'Cab!' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Here you are, sir,' shouted a strange specimen of the human
race, in a sackcloth coat, and apron of the same, who, with a brass
label and number round his neck, looked as if he were catalogued
in some collection of rarities. This was the waterman. 'Here you
are, sir. Now, then, fust cab!' And the first cab having been
fetched from the public-house, where he had been smoking his
first pipe, Mr. Pickwick and his portmanteau were thrown into
the vehicle.
'Golden Cross,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Only a bob's vorth, Tommy,' cried the driver sulkily, for the
information of his friend the waterman, as the cab drove off.
'How old is that horse, my friend?' inquired Mr. Pickwick,
rubbing his nose with the shilling he had reserved for the fare.
'Forty-two,' replied the driver, eyeing him askant.
'What!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand upon his
note-book. The driver reiterated his former statement. Mr.
Pickwick looked very hard at the man's face, but his features
were immovable, so he noted down the fact forthwith.
'And how long do you keep him out at a time?'inquired Mr.
Pickwick, searching for further information.
'Two or three veeks,' replied the man.
'Weeks!' said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment, and out came the
note-book again.
'He lives at Pentonwil when he's at home,' observed the driver
coolly, 'but we seldom takes him home, on account of his weakness.'
'On account of his weakness!' reiterated the perplexed Mr. Pickwick.
'He always falls down when he's took out o' the cab,' continued
the driver, 'but when he's in it, we bears him up werry
tight, and takes him in werry short, so as he can't werry well fall
down; and we've got a pair o' precious large wheels on, so ven he
does move, they run after him, and he must go on--he can't
help it.'
Mr. Pickwick entered every word of this statement in his note-
book, with the view of communicating it to the club, as a singular
instance of the tenacity of life in horses under trying circumstances.
The entry was scarcely completed when they reached the
Golden Cross. Down jumped the driver, and out got Mr. Pickwick.
Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle, who had
been anxiously waiting the arrival of their illustrious leader,
crowded to welcome him.
'Here's your fare,' said Mr. Pickwick, holding out the shilling
to the driver.
What was the learned man's astonishment, when that unaccountable
person flung the money on the pavement, and
requested in figurative terms to be allowed the pleasure of fighting
him (Mr. Pickwick) for the amount!
'You are mad,' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'Or drunk,' said Mr. Winkle.
'Or both,' said Mr. Tupman.
'Come on!' said the cab-driver, sparring away like clockwork.
'Come on--all four on you.'
'Here's a lark!' shouted half a dozen hackney coachmen. 'Go
to vork, Sam!--and they crowded with great glee round the
party.
'What's the row, Sam?' inquired one gentleman in black calico sleeves.
'Row!' replied the cabman, 'what did he want my number for?'
'I didn't want your number,' said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
'What did you take it for, then?' inquired the cabman.
'I didn't take it,' said Mr. Pickwick indignantly.
'Would anybody believe,' continued the cab-driver, appealing
to the crowd, 'would anybody believe as an informer'ud go about
in a man's cab, not only takin' down his number, but ev'ry word
he says into the bargain' (a light flashed upon Mr. Pickwick--it
was the note-book).
'Did he though?' inquired another cabman.
'Yes, did he,' replied the first; 'and then arter aggerawatin' me
to assault him, gets three witnesses here to prove it. But I'll give it
him, if I've six months for it. Come on!' and the cabman dashed
his hat upon the ground, with a reckless disregard of his own
private property, and knocked Mr. Pickwick's spectacles off, and
followed up the attack with a blow on Mr. Pickwick's nose, and
another on Mr. Pickwick's chest, and a third in Mr. Snodgrass's
eye, and a fourth, by way of variety, in Mr. Tupman's waistcoat,
and then danced into the road, and then back again to the pavement,
and finally dashed the whole temporary supply of breath
out of Mr. Winkle's body; and all in half a dozen seconds.
'Where's an officer?' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'Put 'em under the pump,' suggested a hot-pieman.
'You shall smart for this,' gasped Mr. Pickwick.
'Informers!' shouted the crowd.
'Come on,' cried the cabman, who had been sparring without
cessation the whole time.
The mob hitherto had been passive spectators of the scene, but
as the intelligence of the Pickwickians being informers was spread
among them, they began to canvass with considerable vivacity
the propriety of enforcing the heated pastry-vendor's proposition:
and there is no saying what acts of personal aggression they
might have committed, had not the affray been unexpectedly
terminated by the interposition of a new-comer.
'What's the fun?' said a rather tall, thin, young man, in a green
coat, emerging suddenly from the coach-yard.
'informers!' shouted the crowd again.
'We are not,' roared Mr. Pickwick, in a tone which, to any
dispassionate listener, carried conviction with it.
'Ain't you, though--ain't you?' said the young man, appealing
to Mr. Pickwick, and making his way through the crowd by the
infallible process of elbowing the countenances of its component members.
That learned man in a few hurried words explained the real
state of the case.
'Come along, then,' said he of the green coat, lugging Mr.
Pickwick after him by main force, and talking the whole way.
Here, No. 924, take your fare, and take yourself off--respectable
gentleman--know him well--none of your nonsense--this way,
sir--where's your friends?--all a mistake, I see--never mind--
accidents will happen--best regulated families--never say die--
down upon your luck--Pull him UP--Put that in his pipe--like
the flavour--damned rascals.' And with a lengthened string of
similar broken sentences, delivered with extraordinary volubility,
the stranger led the way to the traveller's waiting-room, whither
he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and his disciples.
'Here, waiter!' shouted the stranger, ringing the bell with
tremendous violence, 'glasses round--brandy-and-water, hot and
strong, and sweet, and plenty,--eye damaged, Sir? Waiter! raw
beef-steak for the gentleman's eye--nothing like raw beef-steak
for a bruise, sir; cold lamp-post very good, but lamp-post
inconvenient--damned odd standing in the open street half an
hour, with your eye against a lamp-post--eh,--very good--
ha! ha!' And the stranger, without stopping to take breath,
swallowed at a draught full half a pint of the reeking brandy-and-
water, and flung himself into a chair with as much ease as if
nothing uncommon had occurred.
While his three companions were busily engaged in proffering
their thanks to their new acquaintance, Mr. Pickwick had leisure
to examine his costume and appearance.
He was about the middle height, but the thinness of his body,
and the length of his legs, gave him the appearance of being
much taller. The green coat had been a smart dress garment in the
days of swallow-tails, but had evidently in those times adorned
a much shorter man than the stranger, for the soiled and faded
sleeves scarcely reached to his wrists. It was buttoned closely up
to his chin, at the imminent hazard of splitting the back; and an
old stock, without a vestige of shirt collar, ornamented his neck.
His scanty black trousers displayed here and there those shiny
patches which bespeak long service, and were strapped very
tightly over a pair of patched and mended shoes, as if to conceal
the dirty white stockings, which were nevertheless distinctly
visible. His long, black hair escaped in negligent waves from
beneath each side of his old pinched-up hat; and glimpses of his
bare wrists might be observed between the tops of his gloves and
the cuffs of his coat sleeves. His face was thin and haggard; but
an indescribable air of jaunty impudence and perfect self-
possession pervaded the whole man.
Such was the individual on whom Mr. Pickwick gazed through
his spectacles (which he had fortunately recovered), and to whom
he proceeded, when his friends had exhausted themselves, to
return in chosen terms his warmest thanks for his recent assistance.
'Never mind,' said the stranger, cutting the address very short,
'said enough--no more; smart chap that cabman--handled
his fives well; but if I'd been your friend in the green jemmy--
damn me--punch his head,--'cod I would,--pig's whisper--
pieman too,--no gammon.'
This coherent speech was interrupted by the entrance of the
Rochester coachman, to announce that 'the Commodore' was on
the point of starting.
'Commodore!' said the stranger, starting up, 'my coach--
place booked,--one outside--leave you to pay for the brandy-
and-water,--want change for a five,--bad silver--Brummagem
buttons--won't do--no go--eh?' and he shook his head most knowingly.
Now it so happened that Mr. Pickwick and his three
companions had resolved to make Rochester their first halting-place
too; and having intimated to their new-found acquaintance that
they were journeying to the same city, they agreed to occupy the
seat at the back of the coach, where they could all sit together.
'Up with you,' said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on to
the roof with so much precipitation as to impair the gravity of
that gentleman's deportment very materially.
'Any luggage, Sir?' inquired the coachman.
'Who--I? Brown paper parcel here, that's all--other luggage
gone by water--packing-cases, nailed up--big as houses--
heavy, heavy, damned heavy,' replied the stranger, as he forced
into his pocket as much as he could of the brown paper parcel,
which presented most suspicious indications of containing one
shirt and a handkerchief.
'Heads, heads--take care of your heads!' cried the loquacious
stranger, as they came out under the low archway, which in those
days formed the entrance to the coach-yard. 'Terrible place--
dangerous work--other day--five children--mother--tall lady,
eating sandwiches--forgot the arch--crash--knock--children
look round--mother's head off--sandwich in her hand--no
mouth to put it in--head of a family off--shocking, shocking!
Looking at Whitehall, sir?--fine place--little window--somebody
else's head off there, eh, sir?--he didn't keep a sharp
look-out enough either--eh, Sir, eh?'
'I am ruminating,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'on the strange
mutability of human affairs.'
'Ah! I see--in at the palace door one day, out at the window
the next. Philosopher, Sir?'
'An observer of human nature, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Ah, so am I. Most people are when they've little to do and less
to get. Poet, Sir?'
'My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a strong poetic turn,' said
Mr. Pickwick.
'So have I,' said the stranger. 'Epic poem--ten thousand lines
--revolution of July--composed it on the spot--Mars by day,
Apollo by night--bang the field-piece, twang the lyre.'
'You were present at that glorious scene, sir?' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'Present! think I was;* fired a musket--fired with an idea--
rushed into wine shop--wrote it down--back again--whiz, bang
--another idea--wine shop again--pen and ink--back again--
cut and slash--noble time, Sir. Sportsman, sir ?'abruptly turning
to Mr. Winkle.
[* A remarkable instance of the prophetic force of Mr.
Jingle's imagination; this dialogue occurring in the year
1827, and the Revolution in 1830.
'A little, Sir,' replied that gentleman.
'Fine pursuit, sir--fine pursuit.--Dogs, Sir?'
'Not just now,' said Mr. Winkle.
'Ah! you should keep dogs--fine animals--sagacious creatures
--dog of my own once--pointer--surprising instinct--out
shooting one day--entering inclosure--whistled--dog stopped--
whistled again--Ponto--no go; stock still--called him--Ponto,
Ponto--wouldn't move--dog transfixed--staring at a board--
looked up, saw an inscription--"Gamekeeper has orders to shoot
all dogs found in this inclosure"--wouldn't pass it--wonderful
dog--valuable dog that--very.'
'Singular circumstance that,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Will you
allow me to make a note of it?'
'Certainly, Sir, certainly--hundred more anecdotes of the same
animal.--Fine girl, Sir' (to Mr. Tracy Tupman, who had been
bestowing sundry anti-Pickwickian glances on a young lady by
the roadside).
'Very!' said Mr. Tupman.
'English girls not so fine as Spanish--noble creatures--jet hair
--black eyes--lovely forms--sweet creatures--beautiful.'
'You have been in Spain, sir?' said Mr. Tracy Tupman.
'Lived there--ages.'
'Many conquests, sir?' inquired Mr. Tupman.
'Conquests! Thousands. Don Bolaro Fizzgig--grandee--only
daughter--Donna Christina--splendid creature--loved me to
distraction--jealous father--high-souled daughter--handsome
Englishman--Donna Christina in despair--prussic acid--
stomach pump in my portmanteau--operation performed--old
Bolaro in ecstasies--consent to our union--join hands and floods
of tears--romantic story--very.'
'Is the lady in England now, sir?' inquired Mr. Tupman, on
whom the description of her charms had produced a powerful impression.
'Dead, sir--dead,' said the stranger, applying to his right eye
the brief remnant of a very old cambric handkerchief. 'Never
recovered the stomach pump--undermined constitution--fell a victim.'
'And her father?' inquired the poetic Snodgrass.
'Remorse and misery,' replied the stranger. 'Sudden
disappearance--talk of the whole city--search made everywhere
without success--public fountain in the great square suddenly
ceased playing--weeks elapsed--still a stoppage--workmen
employed to clean it--water drawn off--father-in-law discovered
sticking head first in the main pipe, with a full confession in his
right boot--took him out, and the fountain played away again,
as well as ever.'
'Will you allow me to note that little romance down, Sir?' said
Mr. Snodgrass, deeply affected.
'Certainly, Sir, certainly--fifty more if you like to hear 'em--
strange life mine--rather curious history--not extraordinary,
but singular.'
In this strain, with an occasional glass of ale, by way of
parenthesis, when the coach changed horses, did the stranger
proceed, until they reached Rochester bridge, by which time the
note-books, both of Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass, were
completely filled with selections from his adventures.
'Magnificent ruin!' said Mr. Augustus Snodgrass, with all the
poetic fervour that distinguished him, when they came in sight of
the fine old castle.
'What a sight for an antiquarian!' were the very words which
fell from Mr. Pickwick's mouth, as he applied his telescope to his eye.
'Ah! fine place,' said the stranger, 'glorious pile--frowning
walls--tottering arches--dark nooks--crumbling staircases--old
cathedral too--earthy smell--pilgrims' feet wore away the old
steps--little Saxon doors--confessionals like money-takers'
boxes at theatres--queer customers those monks--popes, and
lord treasurers, and all sorts of old fellows, with great red faces,
and broken noses, turning up every day--buff jerkins too--
match-locks--sarcophagus--fine place--old legends too--strange
stories: capital;' and the stranger continued to soliloquise until
they reached the Bull Inn, in the High Street, where the coach stopped.
'Do you remain here, Sir?' inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle.
'Here--not I--but you'd better--good house--nice beds--
Wright's next house, dear--very dear--half-a-crown in the bill if
you look at the waiter--charge you more if you dine at a friend's
than they would if you dined in the coffee-room--rum fellows--very.'
Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a few
words; a whisper passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass,
from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr. Tupman, and nods of assent were
exchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the stranger.
'You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir,'
said he, 'will you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude
by begging the favour of your company at dinner?'
'Great pleasure--not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and
mushrooms--capital thing! What time?'
'Let me see,' replied Mr. Pickwick, referring to his watch, 'it is
now nearly three. Shall we say five?'
'Suit me excellently,' said the stranger, 'five precisely--till then--care of
yourselves;' and lifting the pinched-up hat a few inches
from his head, and carelessly replacing it very much on one side,
the stranger, with half the brown paper parcel sticking out of his
pocket, walked briskly up the yard, and turned into the High Street.
'Evidently a traveller in many countries, and a close observer of
men and things,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'I should like to see his poem,' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'I should like to have seen that dog,' said Mr. Winkle.
Mr. Tupman said nothing; but he thought of Donna Christina,
the stomach pump, and the fountain; and his eyes filled with tears.
A private sitting-room having been engaged, bedrooms
inspected, and dinner ordered, the party walked out to view the
city and adjoining neighbourhood.
We do not find, from a careful perusal of Mr. Pickwick's notes
of the four towns, Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton,
that his impressions of their appearance differ in any material
point from those of other travellers who have gone over the same
ground. His general description is easily abridged.
'The principal productions of these towns,' says Mr. Pickwick,
'appear to be soldiers, sailors, Jews, chalk, shrimps, officers, and
dockyard men. The commodities chiefly exposed for sale in the
public streets are marine stores, hard-bake, apples, flat-fish, and
oysters. The streets present a lively and animated appearance,
occasioned chiefly by the conviviality of the military. It is truly
delightful to a philanthropic mind to see these gallant men
staggering along under the influence of an overflow both of
animal and ardent spirits; more especially when we remember
that the following them about, and jesting with them, affords a
cheap and innocent amusement for the boy population. Nothing,'
adds Mr. Pickwick, 'can exceed their good-humour. It was
but the day before my arrival that one of them had been most
grossly insulted in the house of a publican. The barmaid
had positively refused to draw him any more liquor; in return
for which he had (merely in playfulness) drawn his bayonet,
and wounded the girl in the shoulder. And yet this fine fellow
was the very first to go down to the house next morning and
express his readiness to overlook the matter, and forget what
had occurred!
'The consumption of tobacco in these towns,' continues Mr.
Pickwick, 'must be very great, and the smell which pervades the
streets must be exceedingly delicious to those who are extremely
fond of smoking. A superficial traveller might object to the dirt,
which is their leading characteristic; but to those who view it as
an indication of traffic and commercial prosperity, it is
truly gratifying.'
Punctual to five o'clock came the stranger, and shortly afterwards
the dinner. He had divested himself of his brown paper
parcel, but had made no alteration in his attire, and was, if
possible, more loquacious than ever.
'What's that?' he inquired, as the waiter removed one of the covers.
'Soles, Sir.'
'Soles--ah!--capital fish--all come from London-stage-
coach proprietors get up political dinners--carriage of soles--
dozens of baskets--cunning fellows. Glass of wine, Sir.'
'With pleasure,' said Mr. Pickwick; and the stranger took
wine, first with him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with
Mr. Tupman, and then with Mr. Winkle, and then with the
whole party together, almost as rapidly as he talked.
'Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter,' said the stranger.
'Forms going up--carpenters coming down--lamps, glasses,
harps. What's going forward?'
'Ball, Sir,' said the waiter.
'Assembly, eh?'
'No, Sir, not assembly, Sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, Sir.'
'Many fine women in this town, do you know, Sir?' inquired
Mr. Tupman, with great interest.
'Splendid--capital. Kent, sir--everybody knows Kent--
apples, cherries, hops, and women. Glass of wine, Sir!'
'With great pleasure,' replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled,
and emptied.
'I should very much like to go,' said Mr. Tupman, resuming
the subject of the ball, 'very much.'
'Tickets at the bar, Sir,' interposed the waiter; 'half-a-guinea
each, Sir.'
Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at
the festivity; but meeting with no response in the darkened eye of
Mr. Snodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he
applied himself with great interest to the port wine and dessert,
which had just been placed on the table. The waiter withdrew,
and the party were left to enjoy the cosy couple of hours
succeeding dinner.
'Beg your pardon, sir,' said the stranger, 'bottle stands--pass
it round--way of the sun--through the button-hole--no heeltaps,'
and he emptied his glass, which he had filled about two
minutes before, and poured out another, with the air of a man
who was used to it.
The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor
talked, the Pickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment
more disposed for the ball. Mr. Pickwick's countenance glowed
with an expression of universal philanthropy, and Mr. Winkle
and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast asleep.
'They're beginning upstairs,' said the stranger--'hear the
company--fiddles tuning--now the harp--there they go.' The
various sounds which found their way downstairs announced the
commencement of the first quadrille.
'How I should like to go,' said Mr. Tupman again.
'So should I,' said the stranger--'confounded luggage,--heavy
smacks--nothing to go in--odd, ain't it?'
Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of the
Pickwickian theory, and no one was more remarkable for the
zealous manner in which he observed so noble a principle than
Mr. Tracy Tupman. The number of instances recorded on the
Transactions of the Society, in which that excellent man referred
objects of charity to the houses of other members for left-off
garments or pecuniary relief is almost incredible.
'I should be very happy to lend you a change of apparel for the
purpose,' said Mr. Tracy Tupman, 'but you are rather slim, and
I am--'
'Rather fat--grown-up Bacchus--cut the leaves--dismounted
from the tub, and adopted kersey, eh?--not double distilled, but
double milled--ha! ha! pass the wine.'
Whether Mr. Tupman was somewhat indignant at the peremptory
tone in which he was desired to pass the wine which the
stranger passed so quickly away, or whether he felt very properly
scandalised at an influential member of the Pickwick Club being
ignominiously compared to a dismounted Bacchus, is a fact not
yet completely ascertained. He passed the wine, coughed twice,
and looked at the stranger for several seconds with a stern intensity;
as that individual, however, appeared perfectly collected,
and quite calm under his searching glance, he gradually relaxed,
and reverted to the subject of the ball.
'I was about to observe, Sir,' he said, 'that though my apparel
would be too large, a suit of my friend Mr. Winkle's would,
perhaps, fit you better.'
The stranger took Mr. Winkle's measure with his eye, and that
feature glistened with satisfaction as he said, 'Just the thing.'
Mr. Tupman looked round him. The wine, which had exerted
its somniferous influence over Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle,
had stolen upon the senses of Mr. Pickwick. That gentleman had
gradually passed through the various stages which precede the
lethargy produced by dinner, and its consequences. He had
undergone the ordinary transitions from the height of conviviality
to the depth of misery, and from the depth of misery to the height
of conviviality. Like a gas-lamp in the street, with the wind in the
pipe, he had exhibited for a moment an unnatural brilliancy, then
sank so low as to be scarcely discernible; after a short interval, he
had burst out again, to enlighten for a moment; then flickered
with an uncertain, staggering sort of light, and then gone out
altogether. His head was sunk upon his bosom, and perpetual
snoring, with a partial choke occasionally, were the only audible
indications of the great man's presence.
The temptation to be present at the ball, and to form his first
impressions of the beauty of the Kentish ladies, was strong upon
Mr. Tupman. The temptation to take the stranger with him was
equally great. He was wholly unacquainted with the place and its
inhabitants, and the stranger seemed to possess as great a
knowledge of both as if he had lived there from his infancy.
Mr. Winkle was asleep, and Mr. Tupman had had sufficient
experience in such matters to know that the moment he awoke he
would, in the ordinary course of nature, roll heavily to bed. He
was undecided. 'Fill your glass, and pass the wine,' said the
indefatigable visitor.
Mr. Tupman did as he was requested; and the additional
stimulus of the last glass settled his determination.
'Winkle's bedroom is inside mine,' said Mr. Tupman; 'I
couldn't make him understand what I wanted, if I woke him now,
but I know he has a dress-suit in a carpet bag; and supposing you
wore it to the ball, and took it off when we returned, I could
replace it without troubling him at all about the matter.'
'Capital,' said the stranger, 'famous plan--damned odd
situation--fourteen coats in the packing-cases, and obliged to
wear another man's--very good notion, that--very.'
'We must purchase our tickets,' said Mr. Tupman.
'Not worth while splitting a guinea,' said the stranger, 'toss
who shall pay for both--I call; you spin--first time--woman--
woman--bewitching woman,' and down came the sovereign with
the dragon (called by courtesy a woman) uppermost.
Mr. Tupman rang the bell, purchased the tickets, and ordered
chamber candlesticks. In another quarter of an hour the stranger
was completely arrayed in a full suit of Mr. Nathaniel Winkle's.
'It's a new coat,' said Mr. Tupman, as the stranger surveyed
himself with great complacency in a cheval glass; 'the first that's
been made with our club button,' and he called his companions'
attention to the large gilt button which displayed a bust of Mr.
Pickwick in the centre, and the letters 'P. C.' on either side.
'"P. C."' said the stranger--'queer set out--old fellow's
likeness, and "P. C."--What does "P. C." stand for--Peculiar
Coat, eh?'
Mr. Tupman, with rising indignation and great importance,
explained the mystic device.
'Rather short in the waist, ain't it?' said the stranger, screwing
himself round to catch a glimpse in the glass of the waist buttons,
which were half-way up his back. 'Like a general postman's coat
--queer coats those--made by contract--no measuring--
mysterious dispensations of Providence--all the short men get
long coats--all the long men short ones.' Running on in this way,
Mr. Tupman's new companion adjusted his dress, or rather the
dress of Mr. Winkle; and, accompanied by Mr. Tupman,
ascended the staircase leading to the ballroom.
'What names, sir?' said the man at the door. Mr. Tracy
Tupman was stepping forward to announce his own titles, when
the stranger prevented him.
'No names at all;' and then he whispered Mr. Tupman,
'names won't do--not known--very good names in their way,
but not great ones--capital names for a small party, but won't
make an impression in public assemblies--incog. the thing--
gentlemen from London--distinguished foreigners--anything.'
The door was thrown open, and Mr. Tracy Tupman and the
stranger entered the ballroom.
It was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax
candles in glass chandeliers. The musicians were securely confined
in an elevated den, and quadrilles were being systematically
got through by two or three sets of dancers. Two card-tables were
made up in the adjoining card-room, and two pair of old ladies,
and a corresponding number of stout gentlemen, were executing
whist therein.
The finale concluded, the dancers promenaded the room, and
Mr. Tupman and his companion stationed themselves in a corner
to observe the company.
'Charming women,' said Mr. Tupman.
'Wait a minute,' said the stranger, 'fun presently--nobs not
come yet--queer place--dockyard people of upper rank don't
know dockyard people of lower rank--dockyard people of lower
rank don't know small gentry--small gentry don't know
tradespeople--commissioner don't know anybody.'
'Who's that little boy with the light hair and pink eyes, in a
fancy dress?'inquired Mr. Tupman.
'Hush, pray--pink eyes--fancy dress--little boy--nonsense--
ensign 97th--Honourable Wilmot Snipe--great family--Snipes--very.'
'Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber, and the Misses Clubber!'
shouted the man at the door in a stentorian voice. A great
sensation was created throughout the room by the entrance of a
tall gentleman in a blue coat and bright buttons, a large lady in
blue satin, and two young ladies, on a similar scale, in fashionably-
made dresses of the same hue.
'Commissioner--head of the yard--great man--remarkably
great man,' whispered the stranger in Mr. Tupman's ear, as the
charitable committee ushered Sir Thomas Clubber and family to
the top of the room. The Honourable Wilmot Snipe, and other
distinguished gentlemen crowded to render homage to the Misses
Clubber; and Sir Thomas Clubber stood bolt upright, and looked
majestically over his black kerchief at the assembled company.
'Mr. Smithie, Mrs. Smithie, and the Misses Smithie,' was the
next announcement.
'What's Mr. Smithie?' inquired Mr. Tracy Tupman.
'Something in the yard,' replied the stranger. Mr. Smithie
bowed deferentially to Sir Thomas Clubber; and Sir Thomas
Clubber acknowledged the salute with conscious condescension.
Lady Clubber took a telescopic view of Mrs. Smithie and family
through her eye-glass and Mrs. Smithie stared in her turn at
Mrs. Somebody-else, whose husband was not in the dockyard
at all.
'Colonel Bulder, Mrs. Colonel Bulder, and Miss Bulder,' were
the next arrivals.
'Head of the garrison,' said the stranger, in reply to Mr. Tupman's
inquiring look.
Miss Bulder was warmly welcomed by the Misses Clubber; the
greeting between Mrs. Colonel Bulder and Lady Clubber was of
the most affectionate description; Colonel Bulder and Sir Thomas
Clubber exchanged snuff-boxes, and looked very much like a pair
of Alexander Selkirks--'Monarchs of all they surveyed.'
While the aristocracy of the place--the Bulders, and Clubbers,
and Snipes--were thus preserving their dignity at the upper end
of the room, the other classes of society were imitating their
example in other parts of it. The less aristocratic officers of the
97th devoted themselves to the families of the less important
functionaries from the dockyard. The solicitors' wives, and the
wine-merchant's wife, headed another grade (the brewer's wife
visited the Bulders); and Mrs. Tomlinson, the post-office keeper,
seemed by mutual consent to have been chosen the leader of the
trade party.
One of the most popular personages, in his own circle, present,
was a little fat man, with a ring of upright black hair round his
head, and an extensive bald plain on the top of it--Doctor
Slammer, surgeon to the 97th. The doctor took snuff with
everybody, chatted with everybody, laughed, danced, made jokes,
played whist, did everything, and was everywhere. To these
pursuits, multifarious as they were, the little doctor added a
more important one than any--he was indefatigable in paying
the most unremitting and devoted attention to a little old widow,
whose rich dress and profusion of ornament bespoke her a most
desirable addition to a limited income.
Upon the doctor, and the widow, the eyes of both Mr. Tupman
and his companion had been fixed for some time, when the
stranger broke silence.
'Lots of money--old girl--pompous doctor--not a bad idea--
good fun,' were the intelligible sentences which issued from his
lips. Mr. Tupman looked inquisitively in his face.
'I'll dance with the widow,' said the stranger.
'Who is she?' inquired Mr. Tupman.
'Don't know--never saw her in all my life--cut out the doctor
--here goes.' And the stranger forthwith crossed the room; and,
leaning against a mantel-piece, commenced gazing with an air of
respectful and melancholy admiration on the fat countenance of
the little old lady. Mr. Tupman looked on, in mute astonishment.
The stranger progressed rapidly; the little doctor danced with
another lady; the widow dropped her fan; the stranger picked it
up, and presented it--a smile--a bow--a curtsey--a few words
of conversation. The stranger walked boldly up to, and returned
with, the master of the ceremonies; a little introductory pantomime;
and the stranger and Mrs. Budger took their places in a quadrille.
The surprise of Mr. Tupman at this summary proceeding, great
as it was, was immeasurably exceeded by the astonishment of the
doctor. The stranger was young, and the widow was flattered.
The doctor's attentions were unheeded by the widow; and the
doctor's indignation was wholly lost on his imperturbable rival.
Doctor Slammer was paralysed. He, Doctor Slammer, of the
97th, to be extinguished in a moment, by a man whom nobody
had ever seen before, and whom nobody knew even now! Doctor
Slammer--Doctor Slammer of the 97th rejected! Impossible! It
could not be! Yes, it was; there they were. What! introducing his
friend! Could he believe his eyes! He looked again, and was
under the painful necessity of admitting the veracity of his optics;
Mrs. Budger was dancing with Mr. Tracy Tupman; there was no
mistaking the fact. There was the widow before him, bouncing
bodily here and there, with unwonted vigour; and Mr. Tracy
Tupman hopping about, with a face expressive of the most
intense solemnity, dancing (as a good many people do) as if a
quadrille were not a thing to be laughed at, but a severe trial to
the feelings, which it requires inflexible resolution to encounter.
Silently and patiently did the doctor bear all this, and all the
handings of negus, and watching for glasses, and darting for
biscuits, and coquetting, that ensued; but, a few seconds after the
stranger had disappeared to lead Mrs. Budger to her carriage, he
darted swiftly from the room with every particle of his hitherto-
bottled-up indignation effervescing, from all parts of his countenance,
in a perspiration of passion.
The stranger was returning, and Mr. Tupman was beside him.
He spoke in a low tone, and laughed. The little doctor thirsted
for his life. He was exulting. He had triumphed.
'Sir!' said the doctor, in an awful voice, producing a card, and
retiring into an angle of the passage, 'my name is Slammer,
Doctor Slammer, sir--97th Regiment--Chatham Barracks--my
card, Sir, my card.' He would have added more, but his indignation
choked him.
'Ah!' replied the stranger coolly, 'Slammer--much obliged--
polite attention--not ill now, Slammer--but when I am--knock
you up.'
'You--you're a shuffler, sir,' gasped the furious doctor, 'a
poltroon--a coward--a liar--a--a--will nothing induce you to
give me your card, sir!'
'Oh! I see,' said the stranger, half aside, 'negus too strong here
--liberal landlord--very foolish--very--lemonade much better
--hot rooms--elderly gentlemen--suffer for it in the morning--
cruel--cruel;' and he moved on a step or two.
'You are stopping in this house, Sir,' said the indignant little
man; 'you are intoxicated now, Sir; you shall hear from me in the
morning, sir. I shall find you out, sir; I shall find you out.'
'Rather you found me out than found me at home,' replied the
unmoved stranger.
Doctor Slammer looked unutterable ferocity, as he fixed his
hat on his head with an indignant knock; and the stranger and
Mr. Tupman ascended to the bedroom of the latter to restore the
borrowed plumage to the unconscious Winkle.
That gentleman was fast asleep; the restoration was soon made.
The stranger was extremely jocose; and Mr. Tracy Tupman,
being quite bewildered with wine, negus, lights, and ladies,
thought the whole affair was an exquisite joke. His new friend
departed; and, after experiencing some slight difficulty in finding
the orifice in his nightcap, originally intended for the reception of
his head, and finally overturning his candlestick in his struggles to
put it on, Mr. Tracy Tupman managed to get into bed by a series
of complicated evolutions, and shortly afterwards sank into repose.
Seven o'clock had hardly ceased striking on the following
morning, when Mr. Pickwick's comprehensive mind was aroused
from the state of unconsciousness, in which slumber had plunged
it, by a loud knocking at his chamber door.
'Who's there?' said Mr. Pickwick, starting up in bed.
'Boots, sir.'
'What do you want?'
'Please, sir, can you tell me which gentleman of your party
wears a bright blue dress-coat, with a gilt button with "P. C."
on it?'
'It's been given out to brush,' thought Mr. Pickwick, 'and the
man has forgotten whom it belongs to.' 'Mr. Winkle,'he called
out, 'next room but two, on the right hand.'
'Thank'ee, sir,' said the Boots, and away he went.
'What's the matter?' cried Mr. Tupman, as a loud knocking at
his door roused hint from his oblivious repose.
'Can I speak to Mr. Winkle, sir?' replied Boots from the outside.
'Winkle--Winkle!' shouted Mr. Tupman, calling into the
inner room.
'Hollo!' replied a faint voice from within the bed-clothes.
'You're wanted--some one at the door;' and, having exerted
himself to articulate thus much, Mr. Tracy Tupman turned
round and fell fast asleep again.
'Wanted!' said Mr. Winkle, hastily jumping out of bed, and
putting on a few articles of clothing; 'wanted! at this distance
from town--who on earth can want me?'
'Gentleman in the coffee-room, sir,' replied the Boots, as
Mr. Winkle opened the door and confronted him; 'gentleman
says he'll not detain you a moment, Sir, but he can take no denial.'
'Very odd!' said Mr. Winkle; 'I'll be down directly.'
He hurriedly wrapped himself in a travelling-shawl and
dressing-gown, and proceeded downstairs. An old woman and a
couple of waiters were cleaning the coffee-room, and an officer in
undress uniform was looking out of the window. He turned
round as Mr. Winkle entered, and made a stiff inclination of the
head. Having ordered the attendants to retire, and closed the
door very carefully, he said, 'Mr. Winkle, I presume?'
'My name is Winkle, sir.'
'You will not be surprised, sir, when I inform you that I have
called here this morning on behalf of my friend, Doctor Slammer,
of the 97th.'
'Doctor Slammer!' said Mr. Winkle.
'Doctor Slammer. He begged me to express his opinion that
your conduct of last evening was of a description which no
gentleman could endure; and' (he added) 'which no one gentleman
would pursue towards another.'
Mr. Winkle's astonishment was too real, and too evident, to
escape the observation of Doctor Slammer's friend; he therefore
proceeded--'My friend, Doctor Slammer, requested me to add,
that he was firmly persuaded you were intoxicated during a
portion of the evening, and possibly unconscious of the extent of
the insult you were guilty of. He commissioned me to say, that
should this be pleaded as an excuse for your behaviour, he will
consent to accept a written apology, to be penned by you, from
my dictation.'
'A written apology!' repeated Mr. Winkle, in the most
emphatic tone of amazement possible.
'Of course you know the alternative,' replied the visitor coolly.
'Were you intrusted with this message to me by name?'
inquired Mr. Winkle, whose intellects were hopelessly confused
by this extraordinary conversation.
'I was not present myself,' replied the visitor, 'and in consequence
of your firm refusal to give your card to Doctor Slammer,
I was desired by that gentleman to identify the wearer of a very
uncommon coat--a bright blue dress-coat, with a gilt button
displaying a bust, and the letters "P. C."'
Mr. Winkle actually staggered with astonishment as he heard
his own costume thus minutely described. Doctor Slammer's
friend proceeded:--'From the inquiries I made at the bar, just
now, I was convinced that the owner of the coat in question
arrived here, with three gentlemen, yesterday afternoon. I
immediately sent up to the gentleman who was described as
appearing the head of the party, and he at once referred me to you.'
If the principal tower of Rochester Castle had suddenly walked
from its foundation, and stationed itself opposite the coffee-room
window, Mr. Winkle's surprise would have been as nothing
compared with the profound astonishment with which he had
heard this address. His first impression was that his coat had been
stolen. 'Will you allow me to detain you one moment?' said he.
'Certainly,' replied the unwelcome visitor.
Mr. Winkle ran hastily upstairs, and with a trembling hand
opened the bag. There was the coat in its usual place, but
exhibiting, on a close inspection, evident tokens of having been
worn on the preceding night.
'It must be so,' said Mr. Winkle, letting the coat fall from his
hands. 'I took too much wine after dinner, and have a very vague
recollection of walking about the streets, and smoking a cigar
afterwards. The fact is, I was very drunk;--I must have changed
my coat--gone somewhere--and insulted somebody--I have no
doubt of it; and this message is the terrible consequence.' Saying
which, Mr. Winkle retraced his steps in the direction of the
coffee-room, with the gloomy and dreadful resolve of accepting
the challenge of the warlike Doctor Slammer, and abiding by the
worst consequences that might ensue.
To this determination Mr. Winkle was urged by a variety of
considerations, the first of which was his reputation with the
club. He had always been looked up to as a high authority on all
matters of amusement and dexterity, whether offensive, defensive,
or inoffensive; and if, on this very first occasion of being put
to the test, he shrunk back from the trial, beneath his leader's eye,
his name and standing were lost for ever. Besides, he remembered
to have heard it frequently surmised by the uninitiated in such
matters that by an understood arrangement between the seconds,
the pistols were seldom loaded with ball; and, furthermore, he
reflected that if he applied to Mr. Snodgrass to act as his second,
and depicted the danger in glowing terms, that gentleman might
possibly communicate the intelligence to Mr. Pickwick, who
would certainly lose no time in transmitting it to the local
authorities, and thus prevent the killing or maiming of his follower.
Such were his thoughts when he returned to the coffee-room,
and intimated his intention of accepting the doctor's challenge.
'Will you refer me to a friend, to arrange the time and place of
meeting?' said the officer.
'Quite unnecessary,' replied Mr. Winkle; 'name them to me,
and I can procure the attendance of a friend afterwards.'
'Shall we say--sunset this evening?' inquired the officer, in a
careless tone.
'Very good,' replied Mr. Winkle, thinking in his heart it was
very bad.
'You know Fort Pitt?'
'Yes; I saw it yesterday.'
'If you will take the trouble to turn into the field which borders
the trench, take the foot-path to the left when you arrive at an
angle of the fortification, and keep straight on, till you see me, I
will precede you to a secluded place, where the affair can be
conducted without fear of interruption.'
'Fear of interruption!' thought Mr. Winkle.
'Nothing more to arrange, I think,' said the officer.
'I am not aware of anything more,' replied Mr. Winkle.
'Good-morning.'
'Good-morning;' and the officer whistled a lively air as he
strode away.
That morning's breakfast passed heavily off. Mr. Tupman was
not in a condition to rise, after the unwonted dissipation of the
previous night; Mr. Snodgrass appeared to labour under a
poetical depression of spirits; and even Mr. Pickwick evinced an
unusual attachment to silence and soda-water. Mr. Winkle
eagerly watched his opportunity: it was not long wanting. Mr.
Snodgrass proposed a visit to the castle, and as Mr. Winkle was
the only other member of the party disposed to walk, they went
out together.
'Snodgrass,' said Mr. Winkle, when they had turned out of the
public street. 'Snodgrass, my dear fellow, can I rely upon your
secrecy?' As he said this, he most devoutly and earnestly hoped
he could not.
'You can,' replied Mr. Snodgrass. 'Hear me swear--'
'No, no,' interrupted Winkle, terrified at the idea of his
companion's unconsciously pledging himself not to give information;
'don't swear, don't swear; it's quite unnecessary.'
Mr. Snodgrass dropped the hand which he had, in the spirit of
poesy, raised towards the clouds as he made the above appeal,
and assumed an attitude of attention.
'I want your assistance, my dear fellow, in an affair of
honour,' said Mr. Winkle.
'You shall have it,' replied Mr. Snodgrass, clasping his friend's hand.
'With a doctor--Doctor Slammer, of the 97th,' said Mr.
Winkle, wishing to make the matter appear as solemn as possible;
'an affair with an officer, seconded by another officer, at sunset
this evening, in a lonely field beyond Fort Pitt.'
'I will attend you,' said Mr. Snodgrass.
He was astonished, but by no means dismayed. It is extraordinary
how cool any party but the principal can be in such cases. Mr. Winkle
had forgotten this. He had judged of his friend's feelings by his own.
'The consequences may be dreadful,' said Mr. Winkle.
'I hope not,' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'The doctor, I believe, is a very good shot,' said Mr. Winkle.
'Most of these military men are,' observed Mr. Snodgrass
calmly; 'but so are you, ain't you?'
Mr. Winkle replied in the affirmative; and perceiving that he
had not alarmed his companion sufficiently, changed his ground.
'Snodgrass,' he said, in a voice tremulous with emotion, 'if I
fall, you will find in a packet which I shall place in your hands a
note for my-- for my father.'
This attack was a failure also. Mr. Snodgrass was affected, but
he undertook the delivery of the note as readily as if he had been
a twopenny postman.
'If I fall,' said Mr. Winkle, 'or if the doctor falls, you, my dear
friend, will be tried as an accessory before the fact. Shall I
involve my friend in transportation--possibly for life!'
Mr. Snodgrass winced a little at this, but his heroism was
invincible. 'In the cause of friendship,' he fervently exclaimed, 'I
would brave all dangers.'
How Mr. Winkle cursed his companion's devoted friendship
internally, as they walked silently along, side by side, for some
minutes, each immersed in his own meditations! The morning
was wearing away; he grew desperate.
'Snodgrass,' he said, stopping suddenly, 'do not let me be
balked in this matter--do not give information to the local
authorities--do not obtain the assistance of several peace
officers, to take either me or Doctor Slammer, of the 97th
Regiment, at present quartered in Chatham Barracks, into
custody, and thus prevent this duel!--I say, do not.'
Mr. Snodgrass seized his friend's hand warmly, as he
enthusiastically replied, 'Not for worlds!'
A thrill passed over Mr. Winkle's frame as the conviction that
he had nothing to hope from his friend's fears, and that he was
destined to become an animated target, rushed forcibly upon him.
The state of the case having been formally explained to Mr.
Snodgrass, and a case of satisfactory pistols, with the satisfactory
accompaniments of powder, ball, and caps, having been hired
from a manufacturer in Rochester, the two friends returned to
their inn; Mr. Winkle to ruminate on the approaching struggle,
and Mr. Snodgrass to arrange the weapons of war, and put them
into proper order for immediate use.
it was a dull and heavy evening when they again sallied forth
on their awkward errand. Mr. Winkle was muffled up in a huge
cloak to escape observation, and Mr. Snodgrass bore under his
the instruments of destruction.
'Have you got everything?' said Mr. Winkle, in an agitated tone.
'Everything,' replied Mr. Snodgrass; 'plenty of ammunition, in
case the shots don't take effect. There's a quarter of a pound of
powder in the case, and I have got two newspapers in my pocket
for the loadings.'
These were instances of friendship for which any man might
reasonably feel most grateful. The presumption is, that the
gratitude of Mr. Winkle was too powerful for utterance, as he
said nothing, but continued to walk on--rather slowly.
'We are in excellent time,' said Mr. Snodgrass, as they climbed
the fence of the first field;'the sun is just going down.' Mr. Winkle
looked up at the declining orb and painfully thought of the
probability of his 'going down' himself, before long.
'There's the officer,' exclaimed Mr. Winkle, after a few minutes walking.
'Where?' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'There--the gentleman in the blue cloak.' Mr. Snodgrass
looked in the direction indicated by the forefinger of his friend,
and observed a figure, muffled up, as he had described. The
officer evinced his consciousness of their presence by slightly
beckoning with his hand; and the two friends followed him at a
little distance, as he walked away.
The evening grew more dull every moment, and a melancholy
wind sounded through the deserted fields, like a distant giant
whistling for his house-dog. The sadness of the scene imparted a
sombre tinge to the feelings of Mr. Winkle. He started as they
passed the angle of the trench--it looked like a colossal grave.
The officer turned suddenly from the path, and after climbing a
paling, and scaling a hedge, entered a secluded field. Two gentlemen
were waiting in it; one was a little, fat man, with black hair;
and the other--a portly personage in a braided surtout--was
sitting with perfect equanimity on a camp-stool.
'The other party, and a surgeon, I suppose,' said Mr. Snodgrass;
'take a drop of brandy.' Mr. Winkle seized the wicker
bottle which his friend proffered, and took a lengthened pull at
the exhilarating liquid.
'My friend, Sir, Mr. Snodgrass,' said Mr. Winkle, as the officer
approached. Doctor Slammer's friend bowed, and produced a
case similar to that which Mr. Snodgrass carried.
'We have nothing further to say, Sir, I think,' he coldly remarked,
as he opened the case; 'an apology has been resolutely declined.'
'Nothing, Sir,' said Mr. Snodgrass, who began to feel rather
uncomfortable himself.
'Will you step forward?' said the officer.
'Certainly,' replied Mr. Snodgrass. The ground was measured,
and preliminaries arranged.
'You will find these better than your own,' said the opposite
second, producing his pistols. 'You saw me load them. Do you
object to use them?'
'Certainly not,' replied Mr. Snodgrass. The offer relieved him
from considerable embarrassment, for his previous notions of
loading a pistol were rather vague and undefined.
'We may place our men, then, I think,' observed the officer,
with as much indifference as if the principals were chess-men, and
the seconds players.
'I think we may,' replied Mr. Snodgrass; who would have
assented to any proposition, because he knew nothing about the
matter. The officer crossed to Doctor Slammer, and Mr. Snodgrass
went up to Mr. Winkle.
'It's all ready,' said he, offering the pistol. 'Give me your cloak.'
'You have got the packet, my dear fellow,' said poor Winkle.
'All right,' said Mr. Snodgrass. 'Be steady, and wing him.'
It occurred to Mr. Winkle that this advice was very like that
which bystanders invariably give to the smallest boy in a street
fight, namely, 'Go in, and win'--an admirable thing to recommend,
if you only know how to do it. He took off his cloak,
however, in silence--it always took a long time to undo that cloak
--and accepted the pistol. The seconds retired, the gentleman on
the camp-stool did the same, and the belligerents approached
each other.
Mr. Winkle was always remarkable for extreme humanity. It is
conjectured that his unwillingness to hurt a fellow-creature
intentionally was the cause of his shutting his eyes when he
arrived at the fatal spot; and that the circumstance of his eyes
being closed, prevented his observing the very extraordinary and
unaccountable demeanour of Doctor Slammer. That gentleman
started, stared, retreated, rubbed his eyes, stared again, and,
finally, shouted, 'Stop, stop!'
'What's all this?' said Doctor Slammer, as his friend and Mr.
Snodgrass came running up; 'that's not the man.'
'Not the man!' said Doctor Slammer's second.
'Not the man!' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'Not the man!' said the gentleman with the camp-stool in his hand.
'Certainly not,' replied the little doctor. 'That's not the person
who insulted me last night.'
'Very extraordinary!' exclaimed the officer.
'Very,' said the gentleman with the camp-stool. 'The only
question is, whether the gentleman, being on the ground, must
not be considered, as a matter of form, to be the individual who
insulted our friend, Doctor Slammer, yesterday evening, whether
he is really that individual or not;' and having delivered this
suggestion, with a very sage and mysterious air, the man with the
camp-stool took a large pinch of snuff, and looked profoundly
round, with the air of an authority in such matters.
Now Mr. Winkle had opened his eyes, and his ears too, when
he heard his adversary call out for a cessation of hostilities; and
perceiving by what he had afterwards said that there was, beyond
all question, some mistake in the matter, he at once foresaw the
increase of reputation he should inevitably acquire by concealing
the real motive of his coming out; he therefore stepped boldly
forward, and said--
'I am not the person. I know it.'
'Then, that,' said the man with the camp-stool, 'is an affront
to Doctor Slammer, and a sufficient reason for proceeding immediately.'
'Pray be quiet, Payne,' said the doctor's second. 'Why did you
not communicate this fact to me this morning, Sir?'
'To be sure--to be sure,' said the man with the camp-stool
indignantly.
'I entreat you to be quiet, Payne,' said the other. 'May I repeat
my question, Sir?'
'Because, Sir,' replied Mr. Winkle, who had had time to
deliberate upon his answer, 'because, Sir, you described an
intoxicated and ungentlemanly person as wearing a coat which I
have the honour, not only to wear but to have invented--the
proposed uniform, Sir, of the Pickwick Club in London. The
honour of that uniform I feel bound to maintain, and I therefore,
without inquiry, accepted the challenge which you offered me.'
'My dear Sir,' said the good-humoured little doctor advancing
with extended hand, 'I honour your gallantry. Permit me to say,
Sir, that I highly admire your conduct, and extremely regret
having caused you the inconvenience of this meeting, to no purpose.'
'I beg you won't mention it, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle.
'I shall feel proud of your acquaintance, Sir,' said the little doctor.
'It will afford me the greatest pleasure to know you, sir,' replied
Mr. Winkle. Thereupon the doctor and Mr. Winkle shook
hands, and then Mr. Winkle and Lieutenant Tappleton (the
doctor's second), and then Mr. Winkle and the man with the
camp-stool, and, finally, Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass--the
last-named gentleman in an excess of admiration at the noble
conduct of his heroic friend.
'I think we may adjourn,' said Lieutenant Tappleton.
'Certainly,' added the doctor.
'Unless,' interposed the man with the camp-stool, 'unless Mr.
Winkle feels himself aggrieved by the challenge; in which case, I
submit, he has a right to satisfaction.'
Mr. Winkle, with great self-denial, expressed himself quite
satisfied already.
'Or possibly,' said the man with the camp-stool, 'the gentleman's
second may feel himself affronted with some observations
which fell from me at an early period of this meeting; if so, I shall
be happy to give him satisfaction immediately.'
Mr. Snodgrass hastily professed himself very much obliged
with the handsome offer of the gentleman who had spoken last,
which he was only induced to decline by his entire contentment
with the whole proceedings. The two seconds adjusted the cases,
and the whole party left the ground in a much more lively
manner than they had proceeded to it.
'Do you remain long here?' inquired Doctor Slammer of
Mr. Winkle, as they walked on most amicably together.
'I think we shall leave here the day after to-morrow,' was the reply.
'I trust I shall have the pleasure of seeing you and your friend
at my rooms, and of spending a pleasant evening with you, after
this awkward mistake,' said the little doctor; 'are you
disengaged this evening?'
'We have some friends here,' replied Mr. Winkle, 'and I should
not like to leave them to-night. Perhaps you and your friend will
join us at the Bull.'
'With great pleasure,' said the little doctor; 'will ten o'clock be
too late to look in for half an hour?'
'Oh dear, no,' said Mr. Winkle. 'I shall be most happy to
introduce you to my friends, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman.'
'It will give me great pleasure, I am sure,' replied Doctor
Slammer, little suspecting who Mr. Tupman was.
'You will be sure to come?' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'Oh, certainly.'
By this time they had reached the road. Cordial farewells were
exchanged, and the party separated. Doctor Slammer and his
friends repaired to the barracks, and Mr. Winkle, accompanied by
Mr. Snodgrass, returned to their inn.
CHAPTER III
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE--THE STROLLER'S TALE--A
DISAGREEABLE INTERRUPTION, AND AN UNPLEASANT
ENCOUNTER
Mr. Pickwick had felt some apprehensions in consequence of the
unusual absence of his two friends, which their mysterious
behaviour during the whole morning had by no means tended to
diminish. It was, therefore, with more than ordinary pleasure
that he rose to greet them when they again entered; and with more
than ordinary interest that he inquired what had occurred to
detain them from his society. In reply to his questions on this
point, Mr. Snodgrass was about to offer an historical account of
the circumstances just now detailed, when he was suddenly checked
by observing that there were present, not only Mr. Tupman and
their stage-coach companion of the preceding day, but another
stranger of equally singular appearance. It was a careworn-looking
man, whose sallow face, and deeply-sunken eyes, were rendered
still more striking than Nature had made them, by the straight
black hair which hung in matted disorder half-way down his face.
His eyes were almost unnaturally bright and piercing; his
cheek-bones were high and prominent; and his jaws were so long and
lank, that an observer would have supposed that he was drawing the
flesh of his face in, for a moment, by some contraction of the
muscles, if his half-opened mouth and immovable expression had not
announced that it was his ordinary appearance. Round his neck he
wore a green shawl, with the large ends straggling over his chest,
and making their appearance occasionally beneath the worn
button-holes of his old waistcoat. His upper garment was a long
black surtout; and below it he wore wide drab trousers, and large
boots, running rapidly to seed.
It was on this uncouth-looking person that Mr. Winkle's eye
rested, and it was towards him that Mr. Pickwick extended his
hand when he said, 'A friend of our friend's here. We discovered
this morning that our friend was connected with the theatre in
this place, though he is not desirous to have it generally known,
and this gentleman is a member of the same profession. He was
about to favour us with a little anecdote connected with it, when
you entered.'
'Lots of anecdote,' said the green-coated stranger of the day
before, advancing to Mr. Winkle and speaking in a low and
confidential tone. 'Rum fellow--does the heavy business--no
actor--strange man--all sorts of miseries--Dismal Jemmy, we
call him on the circuit.' Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass politely
welcomed the gentleman, elegantly designated as 'Dismal
Jemmy'; and calling for brandy-and-water, in imitation of the
remainder of the company, seated themselves at the table.
'Now sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'will you oblige us by proceeding
with what you were going to relate?'
The dismal individual took a dirty roll of paper from his
pocket, and turning to Mr. Snodgrass, who had just taken out
his note-book, said in a hollow voice, perfectly in keeping with his
outward man--'Are you the poet?'
'I--I do a little in that way,' replied Mr. Snodgrass, rather
taken aback by the abruptness of the question.
'Ah! poetry makes life what light and music do the stage--
strip the one of the false embellishments, and the other of its
illusions, and what is there real in either to live or care for?'
'Very true, Sir,' replied Mr. Snodgrass.
'To be before the footlights,' continued the dismal man, 'is like
sitting at a grand court show, and admiring the silken dresses of
the gaudy throng; to be behind them is to be the people who
make that finery, uncared for and unknown, and left to sink or
swim, to starve or live, as fortune wills it.'
'Certainly,' said Mr. Snodgrass: for the sunken eye of the
dismal man rested on him, and he felt it necessary to say something.
'Go on, Jemmy,' said the Spanish traveller, 'like black-eyed
Susan--all in the Downs--no croaking--speak out--look lively.'
'Will you make another glass before you begin, Sir ?' said Mr. Pickwick.
The dismal man took the hint, and having mixed a glass of
brandy-and-water, and slowly swallowed half of it, opened the
roll of paper and proceeded, partly to read, and partly to relate,
the following incident, which we find recorded on the Transactions
of the Club as 'The Stroller's Tale.'
THE STROLLER'S TALE
'There is nothing of the marvellous in what I am going to relate,'
said the dismal man; 'there is nothing even uncommon in it.
Want and sickness are too common in many stations of life to
deserve more notice than is usually bestowed on the most
ordinary vicissitudes of human nature. I have thrown these few
notes together, because the subject of them was well known to me
for many years. I traced his progress downwards, step by step,
until at last he reached that excess of destitution from which he
never rose again.
'The man of whom I speak was a low pantomime actor; and,
like many people of his class, an habitual drunkard. in his better
days, before he had become enfeebled by dissipation and
emaciated by disease, he had been in the receipt of a good salary,
which, if he had been careful and prudent, he might have continued
to receive for some years--not many; because these men
either die early, or by unnaturally taxing their bodily energies,
lose, prematurely, those physical powers on which alone they can
depend for subsistence. His besetting sin gained so fast upon him,
however, that it was found impossible to employ him in the
situations in which he really was useful to the theatre. The
public-house had a fascination for him which he could not resist.
Neglected disease and hopeless poverty were as certain to be his
portion as death itself, if he persevered in the same course; yet he
did persevere, and the result may be guessed. He could obtain no
engagement, and he wanted bread.
'Everybody who is at all acquainted with theatrical matters
knows what a host of shabby, poverty-stricken men hang about
the stage of a large establishment--not regularly engaged actors,
but ballet people, procession men, tumblers, and so forth, who
are taken on during the run of a pantomime, or an Easter piece,
and are then discharged, until the production of some heavy
spectacle occasions a new demand for their services. To this
mode of life the man was compelled to resort; and taking the
chair every night, at some low theatrical house, at once put him
in possession of a few more shillings weekly, and enabled him to
gratify his old propensity. Even this resource shortly failed him;
his irregularities were too great to admit of his earning the
wretched pittance he might thus have procured, and he was
actually reduced to a state bordering on starvation, only procuring
a trifle occasionally by borrowing it of some old companion,
or by obtaining an appearance at one or other of the commonest
of the minor theatres; and when he did earn anything it was
spent in the old way.
'About this time, and when he had been existing for upwards
of a year no one knew how, I had a short engagement at one of
the theatres on the Surrey side of the water, and here I saw this
man, whom I had lost sight of for some time; for I had been
travelling in the provinces, and he had been skulking in the lanes
and alleys of London. I was dressed to leave the house, and was
crossing the stage on my way out, when he tapped me on the
shoulder. Never shall I forget the repulsive sight that met my eye
when I turned round. He was dressed for the pantomimes in all
the absurdity of a clown's costume. The spectral figures in the
Dance of Death, the most frightful shapes that the ablest painter
ever portrayed on canvas, never presented an appearance half so
ghastly. His bloated body and shrunken legs--their deformity
enhanced a hundredfold by the fantastic dress--the glassy eyes,
contrasting fearfully with the thick white paint with which the
face was besmeared; the grotesquely-ornamented head, trembling
with paralysis, and the long skinny hands, rubbed with white
chalk--all gave him a hideous and unnatural appearance, of
which no description could convey an adequate idea, and which,
to this day, I shudder to think of. His voice was hollow and
tremulous as he took me aside, and in broken words recounted a
long catalogue of sickness and privations, terminating as usual
with an urgent request for the loan of a trifling sum of money. I
put a few shillings in his hand, and as I turned away I heard the
roar of laughter which followed his first tumble on the stage.
'A few nights afterwards, a boy put a dirty scrap of paper in
my hand, on which were scrawled a few words in pencil,
intimating that the man was dangerously ill, and begging me, after
the performance, to see him at his lodgings in some street--I
forget the name of it now--at no great distance from the theatre.
I promised to comply, as soon as I could get away; and after the
curtain fell, sallied forth on my melancholy errand.
'It was late, for I had been playing in the last piece; and, as it
was a benefit night, the performances had been protracted to an
unusual length. It was a dark, cold night, with a chill, damp wind,
which blew the rain heavily against the windows and house-
fronts. Pools of water had collected in the narrow and little-
frequented streets, and as many of the thinly-scattered oil-lamps
had been blown out by the violence of the wind, the walk was not
only a comfortless, but most uncertain one. I had fortunately
taken the right course, however, and succeeded, after a little
difficulty, in finding the house to which I had been directed--a
coal-shed, with one Storey above it, in the back room of which
lay the object of my search.
'A wretched-looking woman, the man's wife, met me on the
stairs, and, telling me that he had just fallen into a kind of doze,
led me softly in, and placed a chair for me at the bedside. The sick
man was lying with his face turned towards the wall; and as he
took no heed of my presence, I had leisure to observe the place in
which I found myself.
'He was lying on an old bedstead, which turned up during the
day. The tattered remains of a checked curtain were drawn round
the bed's head, to exclude the wind, which, however, made its
way into the comfortless room through the numerous chinks in
the door, and blew it to and fro every instant. There was a low
cinder fire in a rusty, unfixed grate; and an old three-cornered
stained table, with some medicine bottles, a broken glass, and a
few other domestic articles, was drawn out before it. A little child
was sleeping on a temporary bed which had been made for it on
the floor, and the woman sat on a chair by its side. There were
a couple of shelves, with a few plates and cups and saucers; and
a pair of stage shoes and a couple of foils hung beneath them.
With the exception of little heaps of rags and bundles which had
been carelessly thrown into the corners of the room, these were
the only things in the apartment.
'I had had time to note these little particulars, and to mark the
heavy breathing and feverish startings of the sick man, before he
was aware of my presence. In the restless attempts to procure
some easy resting-place for his head, he tossed his hand out of the
bed, and it fell on mine. He started up, and stared eagerly in my face.
'"Mr. Hutley, John," said his wife; "Mr. Hutley, that you sent
for to-night, you know."
'"Ah!" said the invalid, passing his hand across his forehead;
"Hutley--Hutley--let me see." He seemed endeavouring to
collect his thoughts for a few seconds, and then grasping me
tightly by the wrist said, "Don't leave me--don't leave me, old
fellow. She'll murder me; I know she will."
'"Has he been long so?" said I, addressing his weeping wife.
'"Since yesterday night," she replied. "John, John, don't you
know me?"
'"Don't let her come near me," said the man, with a shudder,
as she stooped over him. "Drive her away; I can't bear her near
me." He stared wildly at her, with a look of deadly apprehension,
and then whispered in my ear, "I beat her, Jem; I beat her
yesterday, and many times before. I have starved her and the boy
too; and now I am weak and helpless, Jem, she'll murder me for
it; I know she will. If you'd seen her cry, as I have, you'd know it
too. Keep her off." He relaxed his grasp, and sank back exhausted
on the pillow.
'I knew but too well what all this meant. If I could have
entertained any doubt of it, for an instant, one glance at the
woman's pale face and wasted form would have sufficiently
explained the real state of the case. "You had better stand aside,"
said I to the poor creature. "You can do him no good. Perhaps he
will be calmer, if he does not see you." She retired out of the
man's sight. He opened his eyes after a few seconds, and looked
anxiously round.
'"Is she gone?" he eagerly inquired.
'"Yes--yes," said I; "she shall not hurt you."
'"I'll tell you what, Jem," said the man, in a low voice, "she
does hurt me. There's something in her eyes wakes such a dreadful
fear in my heart, that it drives me mad. All last night, her large,
staring eyes and pale face were close to mine; wherever I turned,
they turned; and whenever I started up from my sleep, she was at
the bedside looking at me." He drew me closer to him, as he said
in a deep alarmed whisper, "Jem, she must be an evil spirit--a
devil! Hush! I know she is. If she had been a woman she would
have died long ago. No woman could have borne what she has."
'I sickened at the thought of the long course of cruelty and
neglect which must have occurred to produce such an impression
on such a man. I could say nothing in reply; for who could offer
hope, or consolation, to the abject being before me?
'I sat there for upwards of two hours, during which time he
tossed about, murmuring exclamations of pain or impatience,
restlessly throwing his arms here and there, and turning
constantly from side to side. At length he fell into that state of partial
unconsciousness, in which the mind wanders uneasily from scene
to scene, and from place to place, without the control of reason,
but still without being able to divest itself of an indescribable
sense of present suffering. Finding from his incoherent wanderings
that this was the case, and knowing that in all probability the
fever would not grow immediately worse, I left him, promising
his miserable wife that I would repeat my visit next evening, and,
if necessary, sit up with the patient during the night.
'I kept my promise. The last four-and-twenty hours had
produced a frightful alteration. The eyes, though deeply sunk
and heavy, shone with a lustre frightful to behold. The lips were
parched, and cracked in many places; the hard, dry skin glowed
with a burning heat; and there was an almost unearthly air of
wild anxiety in the man's face, indicating even more strongly the
ravages of the disease. The fever was at its height.
'I took the seat I had occupied the night before, and there I sat
for hours, listening to sounds which must strike deep to the heart
of the most callous among human beings--the awful ravings of a
dying man. From what I had heard of the medical attendant's
opinion, I knew there was no hope for him: I was sitting by his
death-bed. I saw the wasted limbs--which a few hours before
had been distorted for the amusement of a boisterous gallery,
writhing under the tortures of a burning fever--I heard the
clown's shrill laugh, blending with the low murmurings of the
dying man.
'It is a touching thing to hear the mind reverting to the
ordinary occupations and pursuits of health, when the body lies
before you weak and helpless; but when those occupations are of
a character the most strongly opposed to anything we associate
with grave and solemn ideas, the impression produced is
infinitely more powerful. The theatre and the public-house were the
chief themes of the wretched man's wanderings. It was evening,
he fancied; he had a part to play that night; it was late, and he
must leave home instantly. Why did they hold him, and prevent
his going?--he should lose the money--he must go. No! they
would not let him. He hid his face in his burning hands, and
feebly bemoaned his own weakness, and the cruelty of his
persecutors. A short pause, and he shouted out a few doggerel
rhymes--the last he had ever learned. He rose in bed, drew up
his withered limbs, and rolled about in uncouth positions; he was
acting--he was at the theatre. A minute's silence, and he murmured
the burden of some roaring song. He had reached the old
house at last--how hot the room was. He had been ill, very ill,
but he was well now, and happy. Fill up his glass. Who was that,
that dashed it from his lips? It was the same persecutor that had
followed him before. He fell back upon his pillow and moaned
aloud. A short period of oblivion, and he was wandering through
a tedious maze of low-arched rooms--so low, sometimes, that he
must creep upon his hands and knees to make his way along; it
was close and dark, and every way he turned, some obstacle
impeded his progress. There were insects, too, hideous crawling
things, with eyes that stared upon him, and filled the very air
around, glistening horribly amidst the thick darkness of the place.
The walls and ceiling were alive with reptiles--the vault expanded
to an enormous size--frightful figures flitted to and fro--and the
faces of men he knew, rendered hideous by gibing and mouthing,
peered out from among them; they were searing him with
heated irons, and binding his head with cords till the blood
started; and he struggled madly for life.
'At the close of one of these paroxysms, when I had with great
difficulty held him down in his bed, he sank into what appeared
to be a slumber. Overpowered with watching and exertion, I had
closed my eyes for a few minutes, when I felt a violent clutch on
my shoulder. I awoke instantly. He had raised himself up, so as to
seat himself in bed--a dreadful change had come over his face,
but consciousness had returned, for he evidently knew me. The
child, who had been long since disturbed by his ravings, rose
from its little bed, and ran towards its father, screaming with
fright--the mother hastily caught it in her arms, lest he should
injure it in the violence of his insanity; but, terrified by the
alteration of his features, stood transfixed by the bedside. He
grasped my shoulder convulsively, and, striking his breast with
the other hand, made a desperate attempt to articulate. It was
unavailing; he extended his arm towards them, and made another
violent effort. There was a rattling noise in the throat--a glare of
the eye--a short stifled groan--and he fell back--dead!'
It would afford us the highest gratification to be enabled to
record Mr. Pickwick's opinion of the foregoing anecdote. We
have little doubt that we should have been enabled to present it
to our readers, but for a most unfortunate occurrence.
Mr. Pickwick had replaced on the table the glass which, during
the last few sentences of the tale, he had retained in his hand;
and had just made up his mind to speak--indeed, we have the
authority of Mr. Snodgrass's note-book for stating, that he had
actually opened his mouth--when the waiter entered the room,
and said--
'Some gentlemen, Sir.'
It has been conjectured that Mr. Pickwick was on the point of
delivering some remarks which would have enlightened the
world, if not the Thames, when he was thus interrupted; for he
gazed sternly on the waiter's countenance, and then looked round
on the company generally, as if seeking for information relative
to the new-comers.
'Oh!' said Mr. Winkle, rising, 'some friends of mine--show
them in. Very pleasant fellows,' added Mr. Winkle, after the
waiter had retired--'officers of the 97th, whose acquaintance I
made rather oddly this morning. You will like them very much.'
Mr. Pickwick's equanimity was at once restored. The waiter
returned, and ushered three gentlemen into the room.
'Lieutenant Tappleton,' said Mr. Winkle, 'Lieutenant Tappleton,
Mr. Pickwick--Doctor Payne, Mr. Pickwick--Mr. Snodgrass
you have seen before, my friend Mr. Tupman, Doctor
Payne--Doctor Slammer, Mr. Pickwick--Mr. Tupman, Doctor
Slam--'
Here Mr. Winkle suddenly paused; for strong emotion was
visible on the countenance both of Mr. Tupman and the doctor.
'I have met THIS gentleman before,' said the Doctor, with
marked emphasis.
'Indeed!' said Mr. Winkle.
'And--and that person, too, if I am not mistaken,' said the
doctor, bestowing a scrutinising glance on the green-coated
stranger. 'I think I gave that person a very pressing invitation last
night, which he thought proper to decline.' Saying which the
doctor scowled magnanimously on the stranger, and whispered
his friend Lieutenant Tappleton.
'You don't say so,' said that gentleman, at the conclusion of
the whisper.
'I do, indeed,' replied Doctor Slammer.
'You are bound to kick him on the spot,' murmured the
owner of the camp-stool, with great importance.
'Do be quiet, Payne,' interposed the lieutenant. 'Will you
allow me to ask you, sir,' he said, addressing Mr. Pickwick, who
was considerably mystified by this very unpolite by-play--'will
you allow me to ask you, Sir, whether that person belongs to your party?'
'No, Sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'he is a guest of ours.'
'He is a member of your club, or I am mistaken?' said the
lieutenant inquiringly.
'Certainly not,' responded Mr. Pickwick.
'And never wears your club-button?' said the lieutenant.
'No--never!' replied the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
Lieutenant Tappleton turned round to his friend Doctor
Slammer, with a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulder, as if
implying some doubt of the accuracy of his recollection. The little
doctor looked wrathful, but confounded; and Mr. Payne gazed
with a ferocious aspect on the beaming countenance of the
unconscious Pickwick.
'Sir,' said the doctor, suddenly addressing Mr. Tupman, in a
tone which made that gentleman start as perceptibly as if a pin
had been cunningly inserted in the calf of his leg, 'you were at the
ball here last night!'
Mr. Tupman gasped a faint affirmative, looking very hard at
Mr. Pickwick all the while.
'That person was your companion,' said the doctor, pointing
to the still unmoved stranger.
Mr. Tupman admitted the fact.
'Now, sir,' said the doctor to the stranger, 'I ask you once
again, in the presence of these gentlemen, whether you choose to
give me your card, and to receive the treatment of a gentleman;
or whether you impose upon me the necessity of personally
chastising you on the spot?'
'Stay, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I really cannot allow this matter
to go any further without some explanation. Tupman, recount the
circumstances.'
Mr. Tupman, thus solemnly adjured, stated the case in a few
words; touched slightly on the borrowing of the coat; expatiated
largely on its having been done 'after dinner'; wound up with a
little penitence on his own account; and left the stranger to clear
himself as best he could.
He was apparently about to proceed to do so, when Lieutenant
Tappleton, who had been eyeing him with great curiosity, said
with considerable scorn, 'Haven't I seen you at the theatre, Sir?'
'Certainly,' replied the unabashed stranger.
'He is a strolling actor!' said the lieutenant contemptuously,
turning to Doctor Slammer.--'He acts in the piece that the
officers of the 52nd get up at the Rochester Theatre to-morrow
night. You cannot proceed in this affair, Slammer--impossible!'
'Quite!' said the dignified Payne.
'Sorry to have placed you in this disagreeable situation,' said
Lieutenant Tappleton, addressing Mr. Pickwick; 'allow me to
suggest, that the best way of avoiding a recurrence of such scenes
in future will be to be more select in the choice of your companions.
Good-evening, Sir!' and the lieutenant bounced out of the room.
'And allow me to say, Sir,' said the irascible Doctor Payne,
'that if I had been Tappleton, or if I had been Slammer, I would
have pulled your nose, Sir, and the nose of every man in this
company. I would, sir--every man. Payne is my name, sir--
Doctor Payne of the 43rd. Good-evening, Sir.' Having concluded
this speech, and uttered the last three words in a loud key, he
stalked majestically after his friend, closely followed by Doctor
Slammer, who said nothing, but contented himself by withering
the company with a look.
Rising rage and extreme bewilderment had swelled the noble
breast of Mr. Pickwick, almost to the bursting of his waistcoat,
during the delivery of the above defiance. He stood transfixed to
the spot, gazing on vacancy. The closing of the door recalled him
to himself. He rushed forward with fury in his looks, and fire in
his eye. His hand was upon the lock of the door; in another
instant it would have been on the throat of Doctor Payne of the
43rd, had not Mr. Snodgrass seized his revered leader by the coat
tail, and dragged him backwards.
'Restrain him,' cried Mr. Snodgrass; 'Winkle, Tupman--he
must not peril his distinguished life in such a cause as this.'
'Let me go,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Hold him tight,' shouted Mr. Snodgrass; and by the united
efforts of the whole company, Mr. Pickwick was forced into an arm-chair.
'Leave him alone,' said the green-coated stranger; 'brandy-
and-water--jolly old gentleman--lots of pluck--swallow this--
ah!--capital stuff.' Having previously tested the virtues of a
bumper, which had been mixed by the dismal man, the stranger
applied the glass to Mr. Pickwick's mouth; and the remainder of
its contents rapidly disappeared.
There was a short pause; the brandy-and-water had done its
work; the amiable countenance of Mr. Pickwick was fast
recovering its customary expression.
'They are not worth your notice,' said the dismal man.
'You are right, sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'they are not. I am
ashamed to have been betrayed into this warmth of feeling. Draw
your chair up to the table, Sir.'
The dismal man readily complied; a circle was again formed
round the table, and harmony once more prevailed. Some
lingering irritability appeared to find a resting-place in Mr.
Winkle's bosom, occasioned possibly by the temporary abstraction
of his coat--though it is scarcely reasonable to suppose that
so slight a circumstance can have excited even a passing feeling of
anger in a Pickwickian's breast. With this exception, their good-
humour was completely restored; and the evening concluded
with the conviviality with which it had begun.
CHAPTER IV
A FIELD DAY AND BIVOUAC--MORE NEW FRIENDS--AN
INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY
Many authors entertain, not only a foolish, but a really dishonest
objection to acknowledge the sources whence they derive much
valuable information. We have no such feeling. We are merely
endeavouring to discharge, in an upright manner, the responsible
duties of our editorial functions; and whatever ambition we might
have felt under other circumstances to lay claim to the authorship
of these adventures, a regard for truth forbids us to do more
than claim the merit of their judicious arrangement and impartial
narration. The Pickwick papers are our New River Head; and we may
be compared to the New River Company. The labours of others have
raised for us an immense reservoir of important facts. We merely
lay them on, and communicate them, in a clear and gentle stream,
through the medium of these pages, to a world thirsting for
Pickwickian knowledge.
Acting in this spirit, and resolutely proceeding on our
determination to avow our obligations to the authorities we have
consulted, we frankly say, that to the note-book of Mr. Snodgrass
are we indebted for the particulars recorded in this and the
succeeding chapter--particulars which, now that we have disburdened
our consciences, we shall proceed to detail without further comment.
The whole population of Rochester and the adjoining towns
rose from their beds at an early hour of the following morning,
in a state of the utmost bustle and excitement. A grand
review was to take place upon the lines. The manoeuvres of half
a dozen regiments were to be inspected by the eagle eye of
the commander-in-chief; temporary fortifications had been
erected, the citadel was to be attacked and taken, and a mine was
to be sprung.
Mr. Pickwick was, as our readers may have gathered from the
slight extract we gave from his description of Chatham, an
enthusiastic admirer of the army. Nothing could have been more
delightful to him--nothing could have harmonised so well with
the peculiar feeling of each of his companions--as this sight.
Accordingly they were soon afoot, and walking in the direction
of the scene of action, towards which crowds of people were
already pouring from a variety of quarters.
The appearance of everything on the lines denoted that the
approaching ceremony was one of the utmost grandeur and
importance. There were sentries posted to keep the ground for
the troops, and servants on the batteries keeping places for the
ladies, and sergeants running to and fro, with vellum-covered
books under their arms, and Colonel Bulder, in full military
uniform, on horseback, galloping first to one place and then to
another, and backing his horse among the people, and prancing,
and curvetting, and shouting in a most alarming manner, and
making himself very hoarse in the voice, and very red in the face,
without any assignable cause or reason whatever. Officers were
running backwards and forwards, first communicating with
Colonel Bulder, and then ordering the sergeants, and then
running away altogether; and even the very privates themselves
looked from behind their glazed stocks with an air of mysterious
solemnity, which sufficiently bespoke the special nature of the occasion.
Mr. Pickwick and his three companions stationed themselves
in the front of the crowd, and patiently awaited the commencement
of the proceedings. The throng was increasing every
moment; and the efforts they were compelled to make, to retain
the position they had gained, sufficiently occupied their attention
during the two hours that ensued. At one time there was a sudden
pressure from behind, and then Mr. Pickwick was jerked forward
for several yards, with a degree of speed and elasticity highly
inconsistent with the general gravity of his demeanour; at
another moment there was a request to 'keep back' from the
front, and then the butt-end of a musket was either dropped
upon Mr. Pickwick's toe, to remind him of the demand, or
thrust into his chest, to insure its being complied with. Then some
facetious gentlemen on the left, after pressing sideways in a body,
and squeezing Mr. Snodgrass into the very last extreme of human
torture, would request to know 'vere he vos a shovin' to'; and
when Mr. Winkle had done expressing his excessive indignation
at witnessing this unprovoked assault, some person behind
would knock his hat over his eyes, and beg the favour of his
putting his head in his pocket. These, and other practical
witticisms, coupled with the unaccountable absence of Mr.
Tupman (who had suddenly disappeared, and was nowhere to be
found), rendered their situation upon the whole rather more
uncomfortable than pleasing or desirable.
At length that low roar of many voices ran through the crowd
which usually announces the arrival of whatever they have been
waiting for. All eyes were turned in the direction of the sally-port.
A few moments of eager expectation, and colours were seen
fluttering gaily in the air, arms glistened brightly in the sun,
column after column poured on to the plain. The troops halted
and formed; the word of command rang through the line; there
was a general clash of muskets as arms were presented; and the
commander-in-chief, attended by Colonel Bulder and numerous
officers, cantered to the front. The military bands struck up
altogether; the horses stood upon two legs each, cantered backwards,
and whisked their tails about in all directions; the dogs
barked, the mob screamed, the troops recovered, and nothing
was to be seen on either side, as far as the eye could reach, but a
long perspective of red coats and white trousers, fixed and motionless.
Mr. Pickwick had been so fully occupied in falling about, and
disentangling himself, miraculously, from between the legs of
horses, that he had not enjoyed sufficient leisure to observe the
scene before him, until it assumed the appearance we have just
described. When he was at last enabled to stand firmly on his legs,
his gratification and delight were unbounded.
'Can anything be finer or more delightful?' he inquired of
Mr. Winkle.
'Nothing,' replied that gentleman, who had had a short man
standing on each of his feet for the quarter of an hour
immediately preceding.
'It is indeed a noble and a brilliant sight,' said Mr. Snodgrass,
in whose bosom a blaze of poetry was rapidly bursting forth, 'to
see the gallant defenders of their country drawn up in brilliant
array before its peaceful citizens; their faces beaming--not with
warlike ferocity, but with civilised gentleness; their eyes flashing
--not with the rude fire of rapine or revenge, but with the soft
light of humanity and intelligence.'
Mr. Pickwick fully entered into the spirit of this eulogium, but
he could not exactly re-echo its terms; for the soft light of
intelligence burned rather feebly in the eyes of the warriors,
inasmuch as the command 'eyes front' had been given, and all
the spectator saw before him was several thousand pair of optics,
staring straight forward, wholly divested of any expression whatever.
'We are in a capital situation now,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking
round him. The crowd had gradually dispersed in their
immediate vicinity, and they were nearly alone.
'Capital!' echoed both Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle.
'What are they doing now?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, adjusting
his spectacles.
'I--I--rather think,' said Mr. Winkle, changing colour--'I
rather think they're going to fire.'
'Nonsense,' said Mr. Pickwick hastily.
'I--I--really think they are,' urged Mr. Snodgrass, somewhat
alarmed.
'Impossible,' replied Mr. Pickwick. He had hardly uttered the
word, when the whole half-dozen regiments levelled their muskets
as if they had but one common object, and that object the
Pickwickians, and burst forth with the most awful and tremendous
discharge that ever shook the earth to its centres, or an
elderly gentleman off his.
It was in this trying situation, exposed to a galling fire of blank
cartridges, and harassed by the operations of the military, a fresh
body of whom had begun to fall in on the opposite side, that
Mr. Pickwick displayed that perfect coolness and self-possession,
which are the indispensable accompaniments of a great mind. He
seized Mr. Winkle by the arm, and placing himself between that
gentleman and Mr. Snodgrass, earnestly besought them to
remember that beyond the possibility of being rendered deaf by
the noise, there was no immediate danger to be apprehended
from the firing.
'But--but--suppose some of the men should happen to have
ball cartridges by mistake,' remonstrated Mr. Winkle, pallid at
the supposition he was himself conjuring up. 'I heard something
whistle through the air now--so sharp; close to my ear.'
'We had better throw ourselves on our faces, hadn't we?' said
Mr. Snodgrass.
'No, no--it's over now,' said Mr. Pickwick. His lip might
quiver, and his cheek might blanch, but no expression of fear or
concern escaped the lips of that immortal man.
Mr. Pickwick was right--the firing ceased; but he had scarcely
time to congratulate himself on the accuracy of his opinion, when
a quick movement was visible in the line; the hoarse shout of the
word of command ran along it, and before either of the party
could form a guess at the meaning of this new manoeuvre, the
whole of the half-dozen regiments, with fixed bayonets, charged
at double-quick time down upon the very spot on which Mr.
Pickwick and his friends were stationed.
Man is but mortal; and there is a point beyond which human
courage cannot extend. Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles
for an instant on the advancing mass, and then fairly turned his
back and--we will not say fled; firstly, because it is an ignoble
term, and, secondly, because Mr. Pickwick's figure was by no
means adapted for that mode of retreat--he trotted away, at as
quick a rate as his legs would convey him; so quickly, indeed,
that he did not perceive the awkwardness of his situation, to the
full extent, until too late.
The opposite troops, whose falling-in had perplexed Mr.
Pickwick a few seconds before, were drawn up to repel the mimic
attack of the sham besiegers of the citadel; and the consequence
was that Mr. Pickwick and his two companions found themselves
suddenly inclosed between two lines of great length, the one
advancing at a rapid pace, and the other firmly waiting the
collision in hostile array.
'Hoi!' shouted the officers of the advancing line.
'Get out of the way!' cried the officers of the stationary one.
'Where are we to go to?' screamed the agitated Pickwickians.
'Hoi--hoi--hoi!' was the only reply. There was a moment of
intense bewilderment, a heavy tramp of footsteps, a violent
concussion, a smothered laugh; the half-dozen regiments were
half a thousand yards off, and the soles of Mr. Pickwick's boots
were elevated in air.
Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle had each performed a
compulsory somerset with remarkable agility, when the first object
that met the eyes of the latter as he sat on the ground, staunching
with a yellow silk handkerchief the stream of life which issued
from his nose, was his venerated leader at some distance off,
running after his own hat, which was gambolling playfully away
in perspective.
There are very few moments in a man's existence when he
experiences so much ludicrous distress, or meets with so little
charitable commiseration, as when he is in pursuit of his own hat.
A vast deal of coolness, and a peculiar degree of judgment, are
requisite in catching a hat. A man must not be precipitate, or he
runs over it; he must not rush into the opposite extreme, or he
loses it altogether. The best way is to keep gently up with the
object of pursuit, to be wary and cautious, to watch your opportunity
well, get gradually before it, then make a rapid dive, seize it
by the crown, and stick it firmly on your head; smiling pleasantly
all the time, as if you thought it as good a joke as anybody else.
There was a fine gentle wind, and Mr. Pickwick's hat rolled
sportively before it. The wind puffed, and Mr. Pickwick puffed,
and the hat rolled over and over as merrily as a lively porpoise
in a strong tide: and on it might have rolled, far beyond
Mr. Pickwick's reach, had not its course been providentially
stopped, just as that gentleman was on the point of resigning it
to its fate.
Mr. Pickwick, we say, was completely exhausted, and about to
give up the chase, when the hat was blown with some violence
against the wheel of a carriage, which was drawn up in a line with
half a dozen other vehicles on the spot to which his steps had been
directed. Mr. Pickwick, perceiving his advantage, darted briskly
forward, secured his property, planted it on his head, and paused
to take breath. He had not been stationary half a minute, when
he heard his own name eagerly pronounced by a voice, which he
at once recognised as Mr. Tupman's, and, looking upwards, he
beheld a sight which filled him with surprise and pleasure.
in an open barouche, the horses of which had been taken out,
the better to accommodate it to the crowded place, stood a stout
old gentleman, in a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy
breeches and top-boots, two young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a
young gentleman apparently enamoured of one of the young
ladies in scarfs and feathers, a lady of doubtful age, probably the
aunt of the aforesaid, and Mr. Tupman, as easy and unconcerned
as if he had belonged to the family from the first moments of his
infancy. Fastened up behind the barouche was a hamper of
spacious dimensions--one of those hampers which always
awakens in a contemplative mind associations connected with
cold fowls, tongues, and bottles of wine--and on the box sat a
fat and red-faced boy, in a state of somnolency, whom no
speculative observer could have regarded for an instant without
setting down as the official dispenser of the contents of the
before-mentioned hamper, when the proper time for their
consumption should arrive.
Mr. Pickwick had bestowed a hasty glance on these interesting
objects, when he was again greeted by his faithful disciple.
'Pickwick--Pickwick,' said Mr. Tupman; 'come up here. Make haste.'
'Come along, Sir. Pray, come up,' said the stout gentleman.
'Joe!--damn that boy, he's gone to sleep again.--Joe, let down
the steps.' The fat boy rolled slowly off the box, let down the
steps, and held the carriage door invitingly open. Mr. Snodgrass
and Mr. Winkle came up at the moment.
'Room for you all, gentlemen,' said the stout man. 'Two inside,
and one out. Joe, make room for one of these gentlemen on the
box. Now, Sir, come along;' and the stout gentleman extended
his arm, and pulled first Mr. Pickwick, and then Mr. Snodgrass,
into the barouche by main force. Mr. Winkle mounted to the
box, the fat boy waddled to the same perch, and fell fast asleep
instantly.
'Well, gentlemen,' said the stout man, 'very glad to see you.
Know you very well, gentlemen, though you mayn't remember
me. I spent some ev'nin's at your club last winter--picked up my
friend Mr. Tupman here this morning, and very glad I was to see
him. Well, Sir, and how are you? You do look uncommon well,
to be sure.'
Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment, and cordially
shook hands with the stout gentleman in the top-boots.
'Well, and how are you, sir?' said the stout gentleman,
addressing Mr. Snodgrass with paternal anxiety. 'Charming, eh?
Well, that's right--that's right. And how are you, sir (to Mr.
Winkle)? Well, I am glad to hear you say you are well; very glad
I am, to be sure. My daughters, gentlemen--my gals these are;
and that's my sister, Miss Rachael Wardle. She's a Miss, she is;
and yet she ain't a Miss--eh, Sir, eh?' And the stout gentleman
playfully inserted his elbow between the ribs of Mr. Pickwick, and
laughed very heartily.
'Lor, brother!' said Miss Wardle, with a deprecating smile.
'True, true,' said the stout gentleman; 'no one can deny it.
Gentlemen, I beg your pardon; this is my friend Mr. Trundle.
And now you all know each other, let's be comfortable and
happy, and see what's going forward; that's what I say.' So the
stout gentleman put on his spectacles, and Mr. Pickwick pulled
out his glass, and everybody stood up in the carriage, and looked
over somebody else's shoulder at the evolutions of the military.
Astounding evolutions they were, one rank firing over the
heads of another rank, and then running away; and then the
other rank firing over the heads of another rank, and running
away in their turn; and then forming squares, with officers in the
centre; and then descending the trench on one side with scaling-
ladders, and ascending it on the other again by the same means;
and knocking down barricades of baskets, and behaving in the
most gallant manner possible. Then there was such a ramming
down of the contents of enormous guns on the battery, with
instruments like magnified mops; such a preparation before they
were let off, and such an awful noise when they did go, that the
air resounded with the screams of ladies. The young Misses
Wardle were so frightened, that Mr. Trundle was actually obliged
to hold one of them up in the carriage, while Mr. Snodgrass
supported the other; and Mr. Wardle's sister suffered under such
a dreadful state of nervous alarm, that Mr. Tupman found it
indispensably necessary to put his arm round her waist, to keep
her up at all. Everybody was excited, except the fat boy, and he
slept as soundly as if the roaring of cannon were his ordinary lullaby.
'Joe, Joe!' said the stout gentleman, when the citadel was
taken, and the besiegers and besieged sat down to dinner. 'Damn
that boy, he's gone to sleep again. Be good enough to pinch him,
sir--in the leg, if you please; nothing else wakes him--thank you.
Undo the hamper, Joe.'
The fat boy, who had been effectually roused by the
compression of a portion of his leg between the finger and thumb of
Mr. Winkle, rolled off the box once again, and proceeded to
unpack the hamper with more expedition than could have been
expected from his previous inactivity.
'Now we must sit close,' said the stout gentleman. After a
great many jokes about squeezing the ladies' sleeves, and a vast
quantity of blushing at sundry jocose proposals, that the ladies
should sit in the gentlemen's laps, the whole party were stowed
down in the barouche; and the stout gentleman proceeded to
hand the things from the fat boy (who had mounted up behind
for the purpose) into the carriage.
'Now, Joe, knives and forks.' The knives and forks were
handed in, and the ladies and gentlemen inside, and Mr. Winkle
on the box, were each furnished with those useful instruments.
'Plates, Joe, plates.' A similar process employed in the
distribution of the crockery.
'Now, Joe, the fowls. Damn that boy; he's gone to sleep again.
Joe! Joe!' (Sundry taps on the head with a stick, and the fat boy,
with some difficulty, roused from his lethargy.) 'Come, hand in
the eatables.'
There was something in the sound of the last word which
roused the unctuous boy. He jumped up, and the leaden eyes
which twinkled behind his mountainous cheeks leered horribly
upon the food as he unpacked it from the basket.
'Now make haste,' said Mr. Wardle; for the fat boy was
hanging fondly over a capon, which he seemed wholly unable to
part with. The boy sighed deeply, and, bestowing an ardent gaze
upon its plumpness, unwillingly consigned it to his master.
'That's right--look sharp. Now the tongue--now the pigeon
pie. Take care of that veal and ham--mind the lobsters--take the
salad out of the cloth--give me the dressing.' Such were the
hurried orders which issued from the lips of Mr. Wardle, as he
handed in the different articles described, and placed dishes in
everybody's hands, and on everybody's knees, in endless number.
'Now ain't this capital?' inquired that jolly personage, when
the work of destruction had commenced.
'Capital!' said Mr. Winkle, who was carving a fowl on the box.
'Glass of wine?'
'With the greatest pleasure.'
'You'd better have a bottle to yourself up there, hadn't you?'
'You're very good.'
'Joe!'
'Yes, Sir.' (He wasn't asleep this time, having just succeeded in
abstracting a veal patty.)
'Bottle of wine to the gentleman on the box. Glad to see you, Sir.'
'Thank'ee.' Mr. Winkle emptied his glass, and placed the bottle
on the coach-box, by his side.
'Will you permit me to have the pleasure, Sir?' said Mr. Trundle
to Mr. Winkle.
'With great pleasure,' replied Mr. Winkle to Mr. Trundle,
and then the two gentlemen took wine, after which they took a
glass of wine round, ladies and all.
'How dear Emily is flirting with the strange gentleman,'
whispered the spinster aunt, with true spinster-aunt-like envy, to
her brother, Mr. Wardle.
'Oh! I don't know,' said the jolly old gentleman; 'all very
natural, I dare say--nothing unusual. Mr. Pickwick, some wine,
Sir?' Mr. Pickwick, who had been deeply investigating the
interior of the pigeon-pie, readily assented.
'Emily, my dear,' said the spinster aunt, with a patronising air,
'don't talk so loud, love.'
'Lor, aunt!'
'Aunt and the little old gentleman want to have it all to
themselves, I think,' whispered Miss Isabella Wardle to her sister
Emily. The young ladies laughed very heartily, and the old one
tried to look amiable, but couldn't manage it.
'Young girls have such spirits,' said Miss Wardle to Mr. Tupman,
with an air of gentle commiseration, as if animal spirits
were contraband, and their possession without a permit a high
crime and misdemeanour.
'Oh, they have,' replied Mr. Tupman, not exactly making the
sort of reply that was expected from him. 'It's quite delightful.'
'Hem!' said Miss Wardle, rather dubiously.
'Will you permit me?' said Mr. Tupman, in his blandest
manner, touching the enchanting Rachael's wrist with one hand,
and gently elevating the bottle with the other. 'Will you permit me?'
'Oh, sir!' Mr. Tupman looked most impressive; and Rachael
expressed her fear that more guns were going off, in which case,
of course, she should have required support again.
'Do you think my dear nieces pretty?' whispered their
affectionate aunt to Mr. Tupman.
'I should, if their aunt wasn't here,' replied the ready
Pickwickian, with a passionate glance.
'Oh, you naughty man--but really, if their complexions were a
little better, don't you think they would be nice-looking girls--
by candlelight?'
'Yes; I think they would,' said Mr. Tupman, with an air
of indifference.
'Oh, you quiz--I know what you were going to say.'
'What?' inquired Mr. Tupman, who had not precisely made
up his mind to say anything at all.
'You were going to say that Isabel stoops--I know you were--
you men are such observers. Well, so she does; it can't be denied;
and, certainly, if there is one thing more than another that makes
a girl look ugly it is stooping. I often tell her that when she gets a
little older she'll be quite frightful. Well, you are a quiz!'
Mr. Tupman had no objection to earning the reputation at so
cheap a rate: so he looked very knowing, and smiled mysteriously.
'What a sarcastic smile,' said the admiring Rachael; 'I declare
I'm quite afraid of you.'
'Afraid of me!'
'Oh, you can't disguise anything from me--I know what that
smile means very well.'
'What?' said Mr. Tupman, who had not the slightest notion himself.
'You mean,' said the amiable aunt, sinking her voice still
lower--'you mean, that you don't think Isabella's stooping is as
bad as Emily's boldness. Well, she is bold! You cannot think how
wretched it makes me sometimes--I'm sure I cry about it for
hours together--my dear brother is SO good, and so unsuspicious,
that he never sees it; if he did, I'm quite certain it would break
his heart. I wish I could think it was only manner--I hope it may
be--' (Here the affectionate relative heaved a deep sigh, and
shook her head despondingly).
'I'm sure aunt's talking about us,' whispered Miss Emily
Wardle to her sister--'I'm quite certain of it--she looks so malicious.'
'Is she?' replied Isabella.--'Hem! aunt, dear!'
'Yes, my dear love!'
'I'm SO afraid you'll catch cold, aunt--have a silk handkerchief
to tie round your dear old head--you really should take care of
yourself--consider your age!'
However well deserved this piece of retaliation might have
been, it was as vindictive a one as could well have been resorted
to. There is no guessing in what form of reply the aunt's indignation
would have vented itself, had not Mr. Wardle unconsciously changed
the subject, by calling emphatically for Joe.
'Damn that boy,' said the old gentleman, 'he's gone to sleep again.'
'Very extraordinary boy, that,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'does he
always sleep in this way?'
'Sleep!' said the old gentleman, 'he's always asleep. Goes on
errands fast asleep, and snores as he waits at table.'
'How very odd!' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Ah! odd indeed,' returned the old gentleman; 'I'm proud of
that boy--wouldn't part with him on any account--he's a
natural curiosity! Here, Joe--Joe--take these things away, and
open another bottle--d'ye hear?'
The fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of
pie he had been in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep,
and slowly obeyed his master's orders--gloating languidly over
the remains of the feast, as he removed the plates, and deposited
them in the hamper. The fresh bottle was produced, and speedily
emptied: the hamper was made fast in its old place--the fat
boy once more mounted the box--the spectacles and pocket-
glass were again adjusted--and the evolutions of the military
recommenced. There was a great fizzing and banging of
guns, and starting of ladies--and then a Mine was sprung, to
the gratification of everybody--and when the mine had gone
off, the military and the company followed its example, and
went off too.
'Now, mind,' said the old gentleman, as he shook hands with
Mr. Pickwick at the conclusion of a conversation which had been
carried on at intervals, during the conclusion of the proceedings,
"we shall see you all to-morrow.'
'Most certainly,' replied Mr. Pickwick.
'You have got the address?'
'Manor Farm, Dingley Dell,' said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his
pocket-book.
'That's it,' said the old gentleman. 'I don't let you off, mind,
under a week; and undertake that you shall see everything worth
seeing. If you've come down for a country life, come to me, and
I'll give you plenty of it. Joe--damn that boy, he's gone to sleep
again--Joe, help Tom put in the horses.'
The horses were put in--the driver mounted--the fat
boy clambered up by his side--farewells were exchanged--
and the carriage rattled off. As the Pickwickians turned round
to take a last glimpse of it, the setting sun cast a rich glow on
the faces of their entertainers, and fell upon the form of the
fat boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom; and he slumbered again.
CHAPTER V
A SHORT ONE--SHOWING, AMONG OTHER MATTERS, HOW
Mr. PICKWICK UNDERTOOK TO DRIVE, AND Mr. WINKLE
TO RIDE, AND HOW THEY BOTH DID IT
Bright and pleasant was the sky, balmy the air, and beautiful
the appearance of every object around, as Mr. Pickwick leaned
over the balustrades of Rochester Bridge, contemplating nature,
and waiting for breakfast. The scene was indeed one which might
well have charmed a far less reflective mind, than that to which
it was presented.
On the left of the spectator lay the ruined wall, broken in many
places, and in some, overhanging the narrow beach below in rude
and heavy masses. Huge knots of seaweed hung upon the jagged
and pointed stones, trembling in every breath of wind; and the
green ivy clung mournfully round the dark and ruined battlements.
Behind it rose the ancient castle, its towers roofless, and
its massive walls crumbling away, but telling us proudly of its old
might and strength, as when, seven hundred years ago, it rang
with the clash of arms, or resounded with the noise of feasting
and revelry. On either side, the banks of the Medway, covered
with cornfields and pastures, with here and there a windmill, or a
distant church, stretched away as far as the eye could see,
presenting a rich and varied landscape, rendered more beautiful
by the changing shadows which passed swiftly across it as the
thin and half-formed clouds skimmed away in the light of the
morning sun. The river, reflecting the clear blue of the sky,
glistened and sparkled as it flowed noiselessly on; and the oars of
the fishermen dipped into the water with a clear and liquid sound,
as their heavy but picturesque boats glided slowly down the stream.
Mr. Pickwick was roused from the agreeable reverie into which
he had been led by the objects before him, by a deep sigh, and a
touch on his shoulder. He turned round: and the dismal man was
at his side.
'Contemplating the scene?' inquired the dismal man.
'I was,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'And congratulating yourself on being up so soon?'
Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.
'Ah! people need to rise early, to see the sun in all his splendour,
for his brightness seldom lasts the day through. The
morning of day and the morning of life are but too much alike.'
'You speak truly, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'How common the saying,' continued the dismal man, '"The
morning's too fine to last." How well might it be applied to our
everyday existence. God! what would I forfeit to have the days of
my childhood restored, or to be able to forget them for ever!'
'You have seen much trouble, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick compassionately.
'I have,' said the dismal man hurriedly; 'I have. More than
those who see me now would believe possible.' He paused for an
instant, and then said abruptly--
'Did it ever strike you, on such a morning as this, that drowning
would be happiness and peace?'
'God bless me, no!' replied Mr. Pickwick, edging a little from
the balustrade, as the possibility of the dismal man's tipping him
over, by way of experiment, occurred to him rather forcibly.
'I have thought so, often,' said the dismal man, without
noticing the action. 'The calm, cool water seems to me to murmur
an invitation to repose and rest. A bound, a splash, a brief
struggle; there is an eddy for an instant, it gradually subsides into
a gentle ripple; the waters have closed above your head, and the
world has closed upon your miseries and misfortunes for ever.'
The sunken eye of the dismal man flashed brightly as he spoke,
but the momentary excitement quickly subsided; and he turned
calmly away, as he said--
'There--enough of that. I wish to see you on another subject.
You invited me to read that paper, the night before last, and
listened attentively while I did so.'
'I did,' replied Mr. Pickwick; 'and I certainly thought--'
'I asked for no opinion,' said the dismal man, interrupting him,
'and I want none. You are travelling for amusement and instruction.
Suppose I forward you a curious manuscript--observe, not
curious because wild or improbable, but curious as a leaf from
the romance of real life--would you communicate it to the club,
of which you have spoken so frequently?'
'Certainly,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'if you wished it; and it
would be entered on their transactions.'
'You shall have it,' replied the dismal man. 'Your address;'
and, Mr. Pickwick having communicated their probable route, the
dismal man carefully noted it down in a greasy pocket-book,
and, resisting Mr. Pickwick's pressing invitation to breakfast,
left that gentleman at his inn, and walked slowly away.
Mr. Pickwick found that his three companions had risen, and
were waiting his arrival to commence breakfast, which was ready
laid in tempting display. They sat down to the meal; and broiled
ham, eggs, tea, coffee and sundries, began to disappear with a
rapidity which at once bore testimony to the excellence of the
fare, and the appetites of its consumers.
'Now, about Manor Farm,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'How shall we go ?'
'We had better consult the waiter, perhaps,' said Mr. Tupman;
and the waiter was summoned accordingly.
'Dingley Dell, gentlemen--fifteen miles, gentlemen--cross
road--post-chaise, sir?'
'Post-chaise won't hold more than two,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'True, sir--beg your pardon, sir.--Very nice four-wheel chaise,
sir--seat for two behind--one in front for the gentleman that
drives--oh! beg your pardon, sir--that'll only hold three.'
'What's to be done?' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like to ride, sir?' suggested
the waiter, looking towards Mr. Winkle; 'very good
saddle-horses, sir--any of Mr. Wardle's men coming to Rochester,
bring 'em back, Sir.'
'The very thing,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Winkle, will you go on
horseback ?'
Now Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable misgivings in the
very lowest recesses of his own heart, relative to his equestrian
skill; but, as he would not have them even suspected, on any
account, he at once replied with great hardihood, 'Certainly. I
should enjoy it of all things.'
Mr. Winkle had rushed upon his fate; there was no resource.
'Let them be at the door by eleven,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Very well, sir,' replied the waiter.
The waiter retired; the breakfast concluded; and the travellers
ascended to their respective bedrooms, to prepare a change of
clothing, to take with them on their approaching expedition.
Mr. Pickwick had made his preliminary arrangements, and
was looking over the coffee-room blinds at the passengers
in the street, when the waiter entered, and announced that
the chaise was ready--an announcement which the vehicle itself
confirmed, by forthwith appearing before the coffee-room blinds
aforesaid.
It was a curious little green box on four wheels, with a low
place like a wine-bin for two behind, and an elevated perch for
one in front, drawn by an immense brown horse, displaying
great symmetry of bone. An hostler stood near, holding by the
bridle another immense horse--apparently a near relative of the
animal in the chaise--ready saddled for Mr. Winkle.
'Bless my soul!' said Mr. Pickwick, as they stood upon the
pavement while the coats were being put in. 'Bless my soul! who's
to drive? I never thought of that.'
'Oh! you, of course,' said Mr. Tupman.
'Of course,' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'I!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
'Not the slightest fear, Sir,' interposed the hostler. 'Warrant
him quiet, Sir; a hinfant in arms might drive him.'
'He don't shy, does he?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'Shy, sir?-he wouldn't shy if he was to meet a vagin-load of
monkeys with their tails burned off.'
The last recommendation was indisputable. Mr. Tupman and
Mr. Snodgrass got into the bin; Mr. Pickwick ascended to his
perch, and deposited his feet on a floor-clothed shelf, erected
beneath it for that purpose.
'Now, shiny Villiam,' said the hostler to the deputy hostler,
'give the gen'lm'n the ribbons.' 'Shiny Villiam'--so called,
probably, from his sleek hair and oily countenance--placed the
reins in Mr. Pickwick's left hand; and the upper hostler thrust a
whip into his right.
'Wo-o!' cried Mr. Pickwick, as the tall quadruped evinced a
decided inclination to back into the coffee-room window.
'Wo-o!' echoed Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass, from the bin.
'Only his playfulness, gen'lm'n,' said the head hostler
encouragingly; 'jist kitch hold on him, Villiam.' The deputy
restrained the animal's impetuosity, and the principal ran to
assist Mr. Winkle in mounting.
'T'other side, sir, if you please.'
'Blowed if the gen'lm'n worn't a-gettin' up on the wrong side,'
whispered a grinning post-boy to the inexpressibly gratified waiter.
Mr. Winkle, thus instructed, climbed into his saddle, with
about as much difficulty as he would have experienced in getting
up the side of a first-rate man-of-war.
'All right?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, with an inward presentiment
that it was all wrong.
'All right,' replied Mr. Winkle faintly.
'Let 'em go,' cried the hostler.--'Hold him in, sir;' and away
went the chaise, and the saddle-horse, with Mr. Pickwick on the
box of the one, and Mr. Winkle on the back of the other, to the
delight and gratification of the whole inn-yard.
'What makes him go sideways?' said Mr. Snodgrass in the bin,
to Mr. Winkle in the saddle.
'I can't imagine,' replied Mr. Winkle. His horse was drifting
up the street in the most mysterious manner--side first, with
his head towards one side of the way, and his tail towards the other.
Mr. Pickwick had no leisure to observe either this or any other
particular, the whole of his faculties being concentrated in the
management of the animal attached to the chaise, who displayed
various peculiarities, highly interesting to a bystander, but by no
means equally amusing to any one seated behind him. Besides
constantly jerking his head up, in a very unpleasant and uncomfortable
manner, and tugging at the reins to an extent which
rendered it a matter of great difficulty for Mr. Pickwick to hold
them, he had a singular propensity for darting suddenly every
now and then to the side of the road, then stopping short, and
then rushing forward for some minutes, at a speed which it was
wholly impossible to control.
'What CAN he mean by this?' said Mr. Snodgrass, when the
horse had executed this manoeuvre for the twentieth time.
'I don't know,' replied Mr. Tupman; 'it looks very like shying,
don't it?' Mr. Snodgrass was about to reply, when he was interrupted
by a shout from Mr. Pickwick.
'Woo!' said that gentleman; 'I have dropped my whip.'
'Winkle,' said Mr. Snodgrass, as the equestrian came trotting
up on the tall horse, with his hat over his ears, and shaking all
over, as if he would shake to pieces, with the violence of the
exercise, 'pick up the whip, there's a good fellow.' Mr. Winkle
pulled at the bridle of the tall horse till he was black in the face;
and having at length succeeded in stopping him, dismounted,
handed the whip to Mr. Pickwick, and grasping the reins,
prepared to remount.
Now whether the tall horse, in the natural playfulness of his
disposition, was desirous of having a little innocent recreation
with Mr. Winkle, or whether it occurred to him that he could
perform the journey as much to his own satisfaction without a
rider as with one, are points upon which, of course, we can
arrive at no definite and distinct conclusion. By whatever motives
the animal was actuated, certain it is that Mr. Winkle had no
sooner touched the reins, than he slipped them over his head, and
darted backwards to their full length.
'Poor fellow,' said Mr. Winkle soothingly--'poor fellow--
good old horse.' The 'poor fellow' was proof against flattery; the
more Mr. Winkle tried to get nearer him, the more he sidled
away; and, notwithstanding all kinds of coaxing and wheedling,
there were Mr. Winkle and the horse going round and round each
other for ten minutes, at the end of which time each was at
precisely the same distance from the other as when they first
commenced--an unsatisfactory sort of thing under any circumstances,
but particularly so in a lonely road, where no assistance
can be procured.
'What am I to do?' shouted Mr. Winkle, after the dodging had
been prolonged for a considerable time. 'What am I to do? I
can't get on him.'
'You had better lead him till we come to a turnpike,' replied
Mr. Pickwick from the chaise.
'But he won't come!' roared Mr. Winkle. 'Do come and hold him.'
Mr. Pickwick was the very personation of kindness and
humanity: he threw the reins on the horse's back, and having
descended from his seat, carefully drew the chaise into the hedge,
lest anything should come along the road, and stepped back to
the assistance of his distressed companion, leaving Mr. Tupman
and Mr. Snodgrass in the vehicle.
The horse no sooner beheld Mr. Pickwick advancing towards
him with the chaise whip in his hand, than he exchanged the
rotary motion in which he had previously indulged, for a retrograde
movement of so very determined a character, that it at once
drew Mr. Winkle, who was still at the end of the bridle, at a
rather quicker rate than fast walking, in the direction from which
they had just come. Mr. Pickwick ran to his assistance, but the
faster Mr. Pickwick ran forward, the faster the horse ran backward.
There was a great scraping of feet, and kicking up of
the dust; and at last Mr. Winkle, his arms being nearly pulled
out of their sockets, fairly let go his hold. The horse paused,
stared, shook his head, turned round, and quietly trotted
home to Rochester, leaving Mr. Winkle and Mr. Pickwick
gazing on each other with countenances of blank dismay. A
rattling noise at a little distance attracted their attention. They
looked up.
'Bless my soul!' exclaimed the agonised Mr. Pickwick; 'there's
the other horse running away!'
It was but too true. The animal was startled by the noise, and
the reins were on his back. The results may be guessed. He tore
off with the four-wheeled chaise behind him, and Mr. Tupman
and Mr. Snodgrass in the four-wheeled chaise. The heat was a
short one. Mr. Tupman threw himself into the hedge, Mr. Snodgrass
followed his example, the horse dashed the four--wheeled
chaise against a wooden bridge, separated the wheels from the
body, and the bin from the perch; and finally stood stock still to
gaze upon the ruin he had made.
The first care of the two unspilt friends was to extricate their
unfortunate companions from their bed of quickset--a process
which gave them the unspeakable satisfaction of discovering that
they had sustained no injury, beyond sundry rents in their
garments, and various lacerations from the brambles. The next
thing to be done was to unharness the horse. This complicated
process having been effected, the party walked slowly forward,
leading the horse among them, and abandoning the chaise to its fate.
An hour's walk brought the travellers to a little road-side
public-house, with two elm-trees, a horse trough, and a signpost,
in front; one or two deformed hay-ricks behind, a kitchen garden
at the side, and rotten sheds and mouldering outhouses jumbled
in strange confusion all about it. A red-headed man was working
in the garden; and to him Mr. Pickwick called lustily, 'Hollo there!'
The red-headed man raised his body, shaded his eyes with his hand,
and stared, long and coolly, at Mr. Pickwick and his companions.
'Hollo there!' repeated Mr. Pickwick.
'Hollo!' was the red-headed man's reply.
'How far is it to Dingley Dell?'
'Better er seven mile.'
'Is it a good road?'
'No, 'tain't.' Having uttered this brief reply, and apparently
satisfied himself with another scrutiny, the red-headed man
resumed his work.
'We want to put this horse up here,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I
suppose we can, can't we?'
'Want to put that ere horse up, do ee?' repeated the red-
headed man, leaning on his spade.
'Of course,' replied Mr. Pickwick, who had by this time
advanced, horse in hand, to the garden rails.
'Missus'--roared the man with the red head, emerging from
the garden, and looking very hard at the horse--'missus!'
A tall, bony woman--straight all the way down--in a coarse,
blue pelisse, with the waist an inch or two below her arm-pits,
responded to the call.
'Can we put this horse up here, my good woman?' said Mr.
Tupman, advancing, and speaking in his most seductive tones.
The woman looked very hard at the whole party; and the red-
headed man whispered something in her ear.
'No,' replied the woman, after a little consideration, 'I'm
afeerd on it.'
'Afraid!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, 'what's the woman afraid of ?'
'It got us in trouble last time,' said the woman, turning into the
house; 'I woan't have nothin' to say to 'un.'
'Most extraordinary thing I have ever met with in my life,' said
the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
'I--I--really believe,' whispered Mr. Winkle, as his friends
gathered round him, 'that they think we have come by this horse
in some dishonest manner.'
'What!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in a storm of indignation.
Mr. Winkle modestly repeated his suggestion.
'Hollo, you fellow,' said the angry Mr. Pickwick,'do you think
we stole the horse?'
'I'm sure ye did,' replied the red-headed man, with a grin which
agitated his countenance from one auricular organ to the other.
Saying which he turned into the house and banged the door after him.
'It's like a dream,' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, 'a hideous dream.
The idea of a man's walking about all day with a dreadful horse
that he can't get rid of!' The depressed Pickwickians turned
moodily away, with the tall quadruped, for which they all felt the
most unmitigated disgust, following slowly at their heels.
It was late in the afternoon when the four friends and their
four-footed companion turned into the lane leading to Manor
Farm; and even when they were so near their place of destination,
the pleasure they would otherwise have experienced was materially
damped as they reflected on the singularity of their appearance,
and the absurdity of their situation. Torn clothes, lacerated faces,
dusty shoes, exhausted looks, and, above all, the horse. Oh, how
Mr. Pickwick cursed that horse: he had eyed the noble animal
from time to time with looks expressive of hatred and revenge;
more than once he had calculated the probable amount of the
expense he would incur by cutting his throat; and now the
temptation to destroy him, or to cast him loose upon the world,
rushed upon his mind with tenfold force. He was roused from a
meditation on these dire imaginings by the sudden appearance of
two figures at a turn of the lane. It was Mr. Wardle, and his
faithful attendant, the fat boy.
'Why, where have you been ?' said the hospitable old gentleman;
'I've been waiting for you all day. Well, you DO look tired. What!
Scratches! Not hurt, I hope--eh? Well, I AM glad to hear that--
very. So you've been spilt, eh? Never mind. Common accident in
these parts. Joe--he's asleep again!--Joe, take that horse from
the gentlemen, and lead it into the stable.'
The fat boy sauntered heavily behind them with the animal;
and the old gentleman, condoling with his guests in homely
phrase on so much of the day's adventures as they thought proper
to communicate, led the way to the kitchen.
'We'll have you put to rights here,' said the old gentleman, 'and
then I'll introduce you to the people in the parlour. Emma, bring
out the cherry brandy; now, Jane, a needle and thread here;
towels and water, Mary. Come, girls, bustle about.'
Three or four buxom girls speedily dispersed in search of the
different articles in requisition, while a couple of large-headed,
circular-visaged males rose from their seats in the chimney-
corner (for although it was a May evening their attachment to the
wood fire appeared as cordial as if it were Christmas), and dived
into some obscure recesses, from which they speedily produced a
bottle of blacking, and some half-dozen brushes.
'Bustle!' said the old gentleman again, but the admonition was
quite unnecessary, for one of the girls poured out the cherry
brandy, and another brought in the towels, and one of the men
suddenly seizing Mr. Pickwick by the leg, at imminent hazard of
throwing him off his balance, brushed away at his boot till his
corns were red-hot; while the other shampooed Mr. Winkle with
a heavy clothes-brush, indulging, during the operation, in that
hissing sound which hostlers are wont to produce when engaged
in rubbing down a horse.
Mr. Snodgrass, having concluded his ablutions, took a survey
of the room, while standing with his back to the fire, sipping his
cherry brandy with heartfelt satisfaction. He describes it as a
large apartment, with a red brick floor and a capacious chimney;
the ceiling garnished with hams, sides of bacon, and ropes of
onions. The walls were decorated with several hunting-whips,
two or three bridles, a saddle, and an old rusty blunderbuss, with
an inscription below it, intimating that it was 'Loaded'--as it had
been, on the same authority, for half a century at least. An old
eight-day clock, of solemn and sedate demeanour, ticked gravely
in one corner; and a silver watch, of equal antiquity, dangled
from one of the many hooks which ornamented the dresser.
'Ready?' said the old gentleman inquiringly, when his guests
had been washed, mended, brushed, and brandied.
'Quite,' replied Mr. Pickwick.
'Come along, then;' and the party having traversed several
dark passages, and being joined by Mr. Tupman, who had
lingered behind to snatch a kiss from Emma, for which he had
been duly rewarded with sundry pushings and scratchings,
arrived at the parlour door.
'Welcome,' said their hospitable host, throwing it open and
stepping forward to announce them, 'welcome, gentlemen, to
Manor Farm.'
CHAPTER VI
AN OLD-FASHIONED CARD-PARTY--THE CLERGYMAN'S
VERSES--THE STORY OF THE CONVICT'S RETURN
Several guests who were assembled in the old parlour rose to
greet Mr. Pickwick and his friends upon their entrance; and during
the performance of the ceremony of introduction, with all due
formalities, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to observe the appearance,
and speculate upon the characters and pursuits, of the persons by
whom he was surrounded--a habit in which he, in common with many
other great men, delighted to indulge.
A very old lady, in a lofty cap and faded silk gown--no less a
personage than Mr. Wardle's mother--occupied the post of
honour on the right-hand corner of the chimney-piece; and
various certificates of her having been brought up in the way she
should go when young, and of her not having departed from it
when old, ornamented the walls, in the form of samplers of
ancient date, worsted landscapes of equal antiquity, and crimson
silk tea-kettle holders of a more modern period. The aunt, the two
young ladies, and Mr. Wardle, each vying with the other in
paying zealous and unremitting attentions to the old lady,
crowded round her easy-chair, one holding her ear-trumpet,
another an orange, and a third a smelling-bottle, while a fourth
was busily engaged in patting and punching the pillows which
were arranged for her support. On the opposite side sat a bald-
headed old gentleman, with a good-humoured, benevolent face--
the clergyman of Dingley Dell; and next him sat his wife, a stout,
blooming old lady, who looked as if she were well skilled, not
only in the art and mystery of manufacturing home-made
cordials greatly to other people's satisfaction, but of tasting them
occasionally very much to her own. A little hard-headed,
Ripstone pippin-faced man, was conversing with a fat old
gentleman in one corner; and two or three more old gentlemen,
and two or three more old ladies, sat bolt upright and motionless
on their chairs, staring very hard at Mr. Pickwick and his
fellow-voyagers.
'Mr. Pickwick, mother,' said Mr. Wardle, at the very top of
his voice.
'Ah!' said the old lady, shaking her head; 'I can't hear you.'
'Mr. Pickwick, grandma!' screamed both the young ladies together.
'Ah!' exclaimed the old lady. 'Well, it don't much matter. He
don't care for an old 'ooman like me, I dare say.'
'I assure you, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, grasping the old
lady's hand, and speaking so loud that the exertion imparted a
crimson hue to his benevolent countenance--'I assure you,
ma'am, that nothing delights me more than to see a lady of your
time of life heading so fine a family, and looking so young and well.'
'Ah!' said the old lady, after a short pause: 'it's all very fine, I
dare say; but I can't hear him.'
'Grandma's rather put out now,' said Miss Isabella Wardle, in
a low tone; 'but she'll talk to you presently.'
Mr. Pickwick nodded his readiness to humour the infirmities
of age, and entered into a general conversation with the other
members of the circle.
'Delightful situation this,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Delightful!' echoed Messrs. Snodgrass, Tupman, and Winkle.
'Well, I think it is,' said Mr. Wardle.
'There ain't a better spot o' ground in all Kent, sir,' said the
hard-headed man with the pippin--face; 'there ain't indeed, sir--
I'm sure there ain't, Sir.' The hard-headed man looked triumphantly
round, as if he had been very much contradicted by somebody,
but had got the better of him at last.
'There ain't a better spot o' ground in all Kent,' said the
hard-headed man again, after a pause.
''Cept Mullins's Meadows,' observed the fat man solemnly.
'Mullins's Meadows!' ejaculated the other, with profound contempt.
'Ah, Mullins's Meadows,' repeated the fat man.
'Reg'lar good land that,' interposed another fat man.
'And so it is, sure-ly,' said a third fat man.
'Everybody knows that,' said the corpulent host.
The hard-headed man looked dubiously round, but finding
himself in a minority, assumed a compassionate air and said no more.
'What are they talking about?' inquired the old lady of one of
her granddaughters, in a very audible voice; for, like many deaf
people, she never seemed to calculate on the possibility of other
persons hearing what she said herself.
'About the land, grandma.'
'What about the land?--Nothing the matter, is there?'
'No, no. Mr. Miller was saying our land was better than
Mullins's Meadows.'
'How should he know anything about it?'inquired the old lady
indignantly. 'Miller's a conceited coxcomb, and you may tell him
I said so.' Saying which, the old lady, quite unconscious that she
had spoken above a whisper, drew herself up, and looked
carving-knives at the hard-headed delinquent.
'Come, come,' said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to
change the conversation, 'what say you to a rubber, Mr. Pickwick?'
'I should like it of all things,' replied that gentleman; 'but pray
don't make up one on my account.'
'Oh, I assure you, mother's very fond of a rubber,' said Mr.
Wardle; 'ain't you, mother?'
The old lady, who was much less deaf on this subject than on
any other, replied in the affirmative.
'Joe, Joe!' said the gentleman; 'Joe--damn that--oh, here he
is; put out the card--tables.'
The lethargic youth contrived without any additional rousing
to set out two card-tables; the one for Pope Joan, and the other
for whist. The whist-players were Mr. Pickwick and the old lady,
Mr. Miller and the fat gentleman. The round game comprised the
rest of the company.
The rubber was conducted with all that gravity of deportment
and sedateness of demeanour which befit the pursuit entitled
'whist'--a solemn observance, to which, as it appears to us, the
title of 'game' has been very irreverently and ignominiously
applied. The round-game table, on the other hand, was so
boisterously merry as materially to interrupt the contemplations
of Mr. Miller, who, not being quite so much absorbed as he
ought to have been, contrived to commit various high crimes and
misdemeanours, which excited the wrath of the fat gentleman to
a very great extent, and called forth the good-humour of the old
lady in a proportionate degree.
'There!' said the criminal Miller triumphantly, as he took up
the odd trick at the conclusion of a hand; 'that could not have
been played better, I flatter myself; impossible to have made
another trick!'
'Miller ought to have trumped the diamond, oughtn't he, Sir?'
said the old lady.
Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.
'Ought I, though?' said the unfortunate, with a doubtful appeal
to his partner.
'You ought, Sir,' said the fat gentleman, in an awful voice.
'Very sorry,' said the crestfallen Miller.
'Much use that,' growled the fat gentleman.
'Two by honours--makes us eight,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Another hand. 'Can you one?' inquired the old lady.
'I can,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Double, single, and the rub.'
'Never was such luck,' said Mr. Miller.
'Never was such cards,' said the fat gentleman.
A solemn silence; Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious,
the fat gentleman captious, and Mr. Miller timorous.
'Another double,' said the old lady, triumphantly making a
memorandum of the circumstance, by placing one sixpence and a
battered halfpenny under the candlestick.
'A double, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Quite aware of the fact, Sir,' replied the fat gentleman sharply.
Another game, with a similar result, was followed by a revoke
from the unlucky Miller; on which the fat gentleman burst into a
state of high personal excitement which lasted until the
conclusion of the game, when he retired into a corner, and remained
perfectly mute for one hour and twenty-seven minutes; at the end
of which time he emerged from his retirement, and offered
Mr. Pickwick a pinch of snuff with the air of a man who had
made up his mind to a Christian forgiveness of injuries sustained.
The old lady's hearing decidedly improved and the unlucky
Miller felt as much out of his element as a dolphin in a sentry-box.
Meanwhile the round game proceeded right merrily. Isabella
Wardle and Mr. Trundle 'went partners,' and Emily Wardle and
Mr. Snodgrass did the same; and even Mr. Tupman and the
spinster aunt established a joint-stock company of fish and
flattery. Old Mr. Wardle was in the very height of his jollity; and
he was so funny in his management of the board, and the old
ladies were so sharp after their winnings, that the whole table was
in a perpetual roar of merriment and laughter. There was one old
lady who always had about half a dozen cards to pay for, at
which everybody laughed, regularly every round; and when the
old lady looked cross at having to pay, they laughed louder than
ever; on which the old lady's face gradually brightened up, till at
last she laughed louder than any of them, Then, when the spinster
aunt got 'matrimony,' the young ladies laughed afresh, and the
Spinster aunt seemed disposed to be pettish; till, feeling Mr.
Tupman squeezing her hand under the table, she brightened up
too, and looked rather knowing, as if matrimony in reality were
not quite so far off as some people thought for; whereupon
everybody laughed again, and especially old Mr. Wardle, who
enjoyed a joke as much as the youngest. As to Mr. Snodgrass, he
did nothing but whisper poetical sentiments into his partner's
ear, which made one old gentleman facetiously sly, about
partnerships at cards and partnerships for life, and caused the
aforesaid old gentleman to make some remarks thereupon,
accompanied with divers winks and chuckles, which made the
company very merry and the old gentleman's wife especially so.
And Mr. Winkle came out with jokes which are very well known
in town, but are not all known in the country; and as everybody
laughed at them very heartily, and said they were very capital,
Mr. Winkle was in a state of great honour and glory. And the
benevolent clergyman looked pleasantly on; for the happy faces
which surrounded the table made the good old man feel happy
too; and though the merriment was rather boisterous, still it
came from the heart and not from the lips; and this is the right
sort of merriment, after all.
The evening glided swiftly away, in these cheerful recreations;
and when the substantial though homely supper had been
despatched, and the little party formed a social circle round the
fire, Mr. Pickwick thought he had never felt so happy in his life,
and at no time so much disposed to enjoy, and make the most of,
the passing moment.
'Now this,' said the hospitable host, who was sitting in great
state next the old lady's arm-chair, with her hand fast clasped in
his--'this is just what I like--the happiest moments of my life
have been passed at this old fireside; and I am so attached to it,
that I keep up a blazing fire here every evening, until it actually
grows too hot to bear it. Why, my poor old mother, here, used
to sit before this fireplace upon that little stool when she was a
girl; didn't you, mother?'
The tear which starts unbidden to the eye when the recollection
of old times and the happiness of many years ago is suddenly
recalled, stole down the old lady's face as she shook her head with
a melancholy smile.
'You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr. Pickwick,'
resumed the host, after a short pause, 'for I love it dearly,
and know no other--the old houses and fields seem like living
friends to me; and so does our little church with the ivy, about
which, by the bye, our excellent friend there made a song when
he first came amongst us. Mr. Snodgrass, have you anything in
your glass?'
'Plenty, thank you,' replied that gentleman, whose poetic
curiosity had been greatly excited by the last observation of his
entertainer. 'I beg your pardon, but you were talking about the
song of the Ivy.'
'You must ask our friend opposite about that,' said the host
knowingly, indicating the clergyman by a nod of his head.
'May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir?' said
Mr. Snodgrass.
'Why, really,' replied the clergyman, 'it's a very slight affair;
and the only excuse I have for having ever perpetrated it is, that
I was a young man at the time. Such as it is, however, you shall
hear it, if you wish.'
A murmur of curiosity was of course the reply; and the old
gentleman proceeded to recite, with the aid of sundry promptings
from his wife, the lines in question. 'I call them,' said he,
THE IVY GREEN
Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim;
And the mouldering dust that years have made,
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy's food at last.
Creeping on where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
While the old gentleman repeated these lines a second time, to
enable Mr. Snodgrass to note them down, Mr. Pickwick perused
the lineaments of his face with an expression of great interest.
The old gentleman having concluded his dictation, and Mr.
Snodgrass having returned his note-book to his pocket, Mr.
Pickwick said--
'Excuse me, sir, for making the remark on so short an
acquaintance; but a gentleman like yourself cannot fail, I should
think, to have observed many scenes and incidents worth
recording, in the course of your experience as a minister of the
Gospel.'
'I have witnessed some certainly,' replied the old gentleman,
'but the incidents and characters have been of a homely and
ordinary nature, my sphere of action being so very limited.'
'You did make some notes, I think, about John Edmunds, did
you not?' inquired Mr. Wardle, who appeared very desirous to
draw his friend out, for the edification of his new visitors.
The old gentleman slightly nodded his head in token of assent,
and was proceeding to change the subject, when Mr. Pickwick
said--
'I beg your pardon, sir, but pray, if I may venture to inquire,
who was John Edmunds?'
'The very thing I was about to ask,' said Mr. Snodgrass eagerly.
'You are fairly in for it,' said the jolly host. 'You must satisfy
the curiosity of these gentlemen, sooner or later; so you had
better take advantage of this favourable opportunity, and do so
at once.'
The old gentleman smiled good-humouredly as he drew his
chair forward--the remainder of the party drew their chairs
closer together, especially Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt,
who were possibly rather hard of hearing; and the old lady's
ear-trumpet having been duly adjusted, and Mr. Miller (who had
fallen asleep during the recital of the verses) roused from his
slumbers by an admonitory pinch, administered beneath the
table by his ex-partner the solemn fat man, the old gentleman,
without further preface, commenced the following tale, to which
we have taken the liberty of prefixing the title of
THE CONVICT'S RETURN
'When I first settled in this village,' said the old gentleman,
'which is now just five-and-twenty years ago, the most notorious
person among my parishioners was a man of the name of
Edmunds, who leased a small farm near this spot. He was a
morose, savage-hearted, bad man; idle and dissolute in his
habits; cruel and ferocious in his disposition. Beyond the few
lazy and reckless vagabonds with whom he sauntered away his
time in the fields, or sotted in the ale-house, he had not a single
friend or acquaintance; no one cared to speak to the man whom
many feared, and every one detested--and Edmunds was
shunned by all.
'This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here,
was about twelve years old. Of the acuteness of that woman's
sufferings, of the gentle and enduring manner in which she bore
them, of the agony of solicitude with which she reared that boy,
no one can form an adequate conception. Heaven forgive me the
supposition, if it be an uncharitable one, but I do firmly and in
my soul believe, that the man systematically tried for many years
to break her heart; but she bore it all for her child's sake, and,
however strange it may seem to many, for his father's too; for
brute as he was, and cruelly as he had treated her, she had loved
him once; and the recollection of what he had been to her,
awakened feelings of forbearance and meekness under suffering
in her bosom, to which all God's creatures, but women, are strangers.
'They were poor--they could not be otherwise when the man
pursued such courses; but the woman's unceasing and
unwearied exertions, early and late, morning, noon, and night, kept
them above actual want. These exertions were but ill repaid.
People who passed the spot in the evening--sometimes at a late
hour of the night--reported that they had heard the moans and
sobs of a woman in distress, and the sound of blows; and more
than once, when it was past midnight, the boy knocked softly at
the door of a neighbour's house, whither he had been sent, to
escape the drunken fury of his unnatural father.
'During the whole of this time, and when the poor creature
often bore about her marks of ill-usage and violence which she
could not wholly conceal, she was a constant attendant at our
little church. Regularly every Sunday, morning and afternoon, she
occupied the same seat with the boy at her side; and though they
were both poorly dressed--much more so than many of their
neighbours who were in a lower station--they were always neat
and clean. Every one had a friendly nod and a kind word for
"poor Mrs. Edmunds"; and sometimes, when she stopped to
exchange a few words with a neighbour at the conclusion of the
service in the little row of elm-trees which leads to the church
porch, or lingered behind to gaze with a mother's pride and
fondness upon her healthy boy, as he sported before her with
some little companions, her careworn face would lighten up with
an expression of heartfelt gratitude; and she would look, if not
cheerful and happy, at least tranquil and contented.
'Five or six years passed away; the boy had become a robust
and well-grown youth. The time that had strengthened the child's
slight frame and knit his weak limbs into the strength of manhood
had bowed his mother's form, and enfeebled her steps;
but the arm that should have supported her was no longer locked
in hers; the face that should have cheered her, no more looked
upon her own. She occupied her old seat, but there was a vacant
one beside her. The Bible was kept as carefully as ever, the places
were found and folded down as they used to be: but there was no
one to read it with her; and the tears fell thick and fast upon the
book, and blotted the words from her eyes. Neighbours were as
kind as they were wont to be of old, but she shunned their
greetings with averted head. There was no lingering among the
old elm-trees now-no cheering anticipations of happiness yet in
store. The desolate woman drew her bonnet closer over her face,
and walked hurriedly away.
'Shall I tell you that the young man, who, looking back to the
earliest of his childhood's days to which memory and consciousness
extended, and carrying his recollection down to that moment,
could remember nothing which was not in some way connected
with a long series of voluntary privations suffered by his mother
for his sake, with ill-usage, and insult, and violence, and all
endured for him--shall I tell you, that he, with a reckless
disregard for her breaking heart, and a sullen, wilful forgetfulness of
all she had done and borne for him, had linked himself with
depraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing a
headlong career, which must bring death to him, and shame to
her? Alas for human nature! You have anticipated it long since.
'The measure of the unhappy woman's misery and misfortune
was about to be completed. Numerous offences had been
committed in the neighbourhood; the perpetrators remained
undiscovered, and their boldness increased. A robbery of a daring
and aggravated nature occasioned a vigilance of pursuit, and a
strictness of search, they had not calculated on. Young Edmunds
was suspected, with three companions. He was apprehended--
committed--tried--condemned--to die.
'The wild and piercing shriek from a woman's voice, which
resounded through the court when the solemn sentence was
pronounced, rings in my ears at this moment. That cry struck a
terror to the culprit's heart, which trial, condemnation--the
approach of death itself, had failed to awaken. The lips which
had been compressed in dogged sullenness throughout, quivered
and parted involuntarily; the face turned ashy pale as the cold
perspiration broke forth from every pore; the sturdy limbs of the
felon trembled, and he staggered in the dock.
'In the first transports of her mental anguish, the suffering
mother threw herself on her knees at my feet, and fervently
sought the Almighty Being who had hitherto supported her in
all her troubles to release her from a world of woe and misery,
and to spare the life of her only child. A burst of grief, and a
violent struggle, such as I hope I may never have to witness
again, succeeded. I knew that her heart was breaking from
that hour; but I never once heard complaint or murmur escape
her lips.
'It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison-yard
from day to day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection
and entreaty, to soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. It was
in vain. He remained moody, obstinate, and unmoved. Not even
the unlooked-for commutation of his sentence to transportation
for fourteen years, softened for an instant the sullen hardihood
of his demeanour.
'But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so long
upheld her, was unable to contend against bodily weakness and
infirmity. She fell sick. She dragged her tottering limbs from the
bed to visit her son once more, but her strength failed her, and
she sank powerless on the ground.
'And now the boasted coldness and indifference of the young
man were tested indeed; and the retribution that fell heavily upon
him nearly drove him mad. A day passed away and his mother
was not there; another flew by, and she came not near him; a
third evening arrived, and yet he had not seen her--, and in four-
and-twenty hours he was to be separated from her, perhaps for
ever. Oh! how the long-forgotten thoughts of former days rushed
upon his mind, as he almost ran up and down the narrow yard--
as if intelligence would arrive the sooner for his hurrying--and
how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolation rushed
upon him, when he heard the truth! His mother, the only parent
he had ever known, lay ill--it might be, dying--within one mile
of the ground he stood on; were he free and unfettered, a few
minutes would place him by her side. He rushed to the gate, and
grasping the iron rails with the energy of desperation, shook it
till it rang again, and threw himself against the thick wall as if to
force a passage through the stone; but the strong building
mocked his feeble efforts, and he beat his hands together and
wept like a child.
'I bore the mother's forgiveness and blessing to her son in
prison; and I carried the solemn assurance of repentance, and his
fervent supplication for pardon, to her sick-bed. I heard, with
pity and compassion, the repentant man devise a thousand little
plans for her comfort and support when he returned; but I knew
that many months before he could reach his place of destination,
his mother would be no longer of this world.
'He was removed by night. A few weeks afterwards the poor
woman's soul took its flight, I confidently hope, and solemnly
believe, to a place of eternal happiness and rest. I performed the
burial service over her remains. She lies in our little churchyard.
There is no stone at her grave's head. Her sorrows were known to
man; her virtues to God.
'it had been arranged previously to the convict's departure,
that he should write to his mother as soon as he could obtain
permission, and that the letter should be addressed to me. The
father had positively refused to see his son from the moment of
his apprehension; and it was a matter of indifference to him
whether he lived or died. Many years passed over without any
intelligence of him; and when more than half his term of
transportation had expired, and I had received no letter, I concluded
him to be dead, as, indeed, I almost hoped he might be.
'Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up
the country on his arrival at the settlement; and to this circumstance,
perhaps, may be attributed the fact, that though several
letters were despatched, none of them ever reached my hands.
He remained in the same place during the whole fourteen years.
At the expiration of the term, steadily adhering to his old
resolution and the pledge he gave his mother, he made his way
back to England amidst innumerable difficulties, and returned,
on foot, to his native place.
'On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John
Edmunds set foot in the village he had left with shame and
disgrace seventeen years before. His nearest way lay through the
churchyard. The man's heart swelled as he crossed the stile. The
tall old elms, through whose branches the declining sun cast here
and there a rich ray of light upon the shady part, awakened the
associations of his earliest days. He pictured himself as he was
then, clinging to his mother's hand, and walking peacefully to
church. He remembered how he used to look up into her pale
face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she
gazed upon his features--tears which fell hot upon his forehead
as she stooped to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he
little knew then what bitter tears hers were. He thought how
often he had run merrily down that path with some childish
playfellow, looking back, ever and again, to catch his mother's
smile, or hear her gentle voice; and then a veil seemed lifted from
his memory, and words of kindness unrequited, and warnings
despised, and promises broken, thronged upon his recollection
till his heart failed him, and he could bear it no longer.
'He entered the church. The evening service was concluded and
the congregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed. His
steps echoed through the low building with a hollow sound, and
he almost feared to be alone, it was so still and quiet. He looked
round him. Nothing was changed. The place seemed smaller than
it used to be; but there were the old monuments on which he had
gazed with childish awe a thousand times; the little pulpit with
its faded cushion; the Communion table before which he had so
often repeated the Commandments he had reverenced as a child,
and forgotten as a man. He approached the old seat; it looked
cold and desolate. The cushion had been removed, and the Bible
was not there. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer seat, or
possibly she had grown infirm and could not reach the church
alone. He dared not think of what he feared. A cold feeling crept
over him, and he trembled violently as he turned away.
'An old man entered the porch just as he reached it. Edmunds
started back, for he knew him well; many a time he had watched
him digging graves in the churchyard. What would he say to the
returned convict?
'The old man raised his eyes to the stranger's face, bade him
"good-evening," and walked slowly on. He had forgotten him.
'He walked down the hill, and through the village. The weather
was warm, and the people were sitting at their doors, or strolling
in their little gardens as he passed, enjoying the serenity of the
evening, and their rest from labour. Many a look was turned
towards him, and many a doubtful glance he cast on either side
to see whether any knew and shunned him. There were strange
faces in almost every house; in some he recognised the burly form
of some old schoolfellow--a boy when he last saw him--surrounded
by a troop of merry children; in others he saw, seated in
an easy-chair at a cottage door, a feeble and infirm old man,
whom he only remembered as a hale and hearty labourer; but
they had all forgotten him, and he passed on unknown.
'The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth,
casting a rich glow on the yellow corn sheaves, and lengthening
the shadows of the orchard trees, as he stood before the old house
--the home of his infancy--to which his heart had yearned with
an intensity of affection not to be described, through long and
weary years of captivity and sorrow. The paling was low, though
he well remembered the time that it had seemed a high wall to
him; and he looked over into the old garden. There were more
seeds and gayer flowers than there used to be, but there were the
old trees still--the very tree under which he had lain a thousand
times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft, mild sleep
of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices
within the house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear;
he knew them not. They were merry too; and he well knew that
his poor old mother could not be cheerful, and he away. The door
opened, and a group of little children bounded out, shouting and
romping. The father, with a little boy in his arms, appeared at the
door, and they crowded round him, clapping their tiny hands,
and dragging him out, to join their joyous sports. The convict
thought on the many times he had shrunk from his father's sight
in that very place. He remembered how often he had buried his
trembling head beneath the bedclothes, and heard the harsh word,
and the hard stripe, and his mother's wailing; and though the
man sobbed aloud with agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist
was clenched, and his teeth were set, in a fierce and deadly passion.
'And such was the return to which he had looked through the
weary perspective of many years, and for which he had undergone
so much suffering! No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness,
no house to receive, no hand to help him--and this too in the old
village. What was his loneliness in the wild, thick woods, where
man was never seen, to this!
'He felt that in the distant land of his bondage and infamy, he
had thought of his native place as it was when he left it; and not
as it would be when he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at
his heart, and his spirit sank within him. He had not courage to
make inquiries, or to present himself to the only person who was
likely to receive him with kindness and compassion. He walked
slowly on; and shunning the roadside like a guilty man, turned
into a meadow he well remembered; and covering his face with
his hands, threw himself upon the grass.
'He had not observed that a man was lying on the bank beside
him; his garments rustled as he turned round to steal a look at
the new-comer; and Edmunds raised his head.
'The man had moved into a sitting posture. His body was much
bent, and his face was wrinkled and yellow. His dress denoted
him an inmate of the workhouse: he had the appearance of being
very old, but it looked more the effect of dissipation or disease,
than the length of years. He was staring hard at the stranger, and
though his eyes were lustreless and heavy at first, they appeared
to glow with an unnatural and alarmed expression after they had
been fixed upon him for a short time, until they seemed to be
starting from their sockets. Edmunds gradually raised himself to
his knees, and looked more and more earnestly on the old man's
face. They gazed upon each other in silence.
'The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered and tottered to
his feet. Edmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two.
Edmunds advanced.
'"Let me hear you speak," said the convict, in a thick, broken voice.
'"Stand off!" cried the old man, with a dreadful oath. The
convict drew closer to him.
'"Stand off!" shrieked the old man. Furious with terror, he
raised his stick, and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face.
'"Father--devil!" murmured the convict between his set
teeth. He rushed wildly forward, and clenched the old man by
the throat--but he was his father; and his arm fell powerless by
his side.
'The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the
lonely fields like the howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black,
the gore rushed from his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a
deep, dark red, as he staggered and fell. He had ruptured a
blood-vessel, and he was a dead man before his son could raise him.
'In that corner of the churchyard,' said the old gentleman, after
a silence of a few moments, 'in that corner of the churchyard of
which I have before spoken, there lies buried a man who was in
my employment for three years after this event, and who was
truly contrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever man was. No one
save myself knew in that man's lifetime who he was, or whence he
came--it was John Edmunds, the returned convict.'
CHAPTER VII
HOW Mr. WINKLE, INSTEAD OF SHOOTING AT THE PIGEON
AND KILLING THE CROW, SHOT AT THE CROW AND
WOUNDED THE PIGEON; HOW THE DINGLEY DELL
CRICKET CLUB PLAYED ALL-MUGGLETON, AND HOW ALL-
MUGGLETON DINED AT THE DINGLEY DELL EXPENSE;
WITH OTHER INTERESTING AND INSTRUCTIVE MATTERS
The fatiguing adventures of the day or the somniferous influence
of the clergyman's tale operated so strongly on the drowsy
tendencies of Mr. Pickwick, that in less than five minutes
after he had been shown to his comfortable bedroom he fell
into a sound and dreamless sleep, from which he was only awakened
by the morning sun darting his bright beams reproachfully into the
apartment. Mr. Pickwick was no sluggard, and he sprang like an
ardent warrior from his tent-bedstead.
'Pleasant, pleasant country,' sighed the enthusiastic gentleman,
as he opened his lattice window. 'Who could live to gaze from
day to day on bricks and slates who had once felt the influence of
a scene like this? Who could continue to exist where there are no
cows but the cows on the chimney-pots; nothing redolent of Pan
but pan-tiles; no crop but stone crop? Who could bear to drag
out a life in such a spot? Who, I ask, could endure it?' and,
having cross-examined solitude after the most approved precedents,
at considerable length, Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out
of the lattice and looked around him.
The rich, sweet smell of the hay-ricks rose to his chamber
window; the hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden
beneath scented the air around; the deep-green meadows shone
in the morning dew that glistened on every leaf as it trembled
in the gentle air; and the birds sang as if every sparkling drop
were to them a fountain of inspiration. Mr. Pickwick fell into an
enchanting and delicious reverie.
'Hollo!' was the sound that roused him.
He looked to the right, but he saw nobody; his eyes wandered
to the left, and pierced the prospect; he stared into the sky, but he
wasn't wanted there; and then he did what a common mind
would have done at once--looked into the garden, and there saw
Mr. Wardle.
'How are you?' said the good-humoured individual, out of
breath with his own anticipations of pleasure.'Beautiful morning,
ain't it? Glad to see you up so early. Make haste down, and
come out. I'll wait for you here.'
Mr. Pickwick needed no second invitation. Ten minutes
sufficed for the completion of his toilet, and at the expiration of
that time he was by the old gentleman's side.
'Hollo!' said Mr. Pickwick in his turn, seeing that his
companion was armed with a gun, and that another lay ready on the
grass; 'what's going forward?'
'Why, your friend and I,' replied the host, 'are going out rook-
shooting before breakfast. He's a very good shot, ain't he?'
'I've heard him say he's a capital one,' replied Mr. Pickwick,
'but I never saw him aim at anything.'
'Well,' said the host, 'I wish he'd come. Joe--Joe!'
The fat boy, who under the exciting influence of the morning
did not appear to be more than three parts and a fraction asleep,
emerged from the house.
'Go up, and call the gentleman, and tell him he'll find me and
Mr. Pickwick in the rookery. Show the gentleman the way there;
d'ye hear?'
The boy departed to execute his commission; and the host,
carrying both guns like a second Robinson Crusoe, led the way
from the garden.
'This is the place,' said the old gentleman, pausing after a few
minutes walking, in an avenue of trees. The information was
unnecessary; for the incessant cawing of the unconscious rooks
sufficiently indicated their whereabouts.
The old gentleman laid one gun on the ground, and loaded the other.
'Here they are,' said Mr. Pickwick; and, as he spoke, the
forms of Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle appeared
in the distance. The fat boy, not being quite certain which
gentleman he was directed to call, had with peculiar sagacity, and
to prevent the possibility of any mistake, called them all.
'Come along,' shouted the old gentleman, addressing Mr.
Winkle; 'a keen hand like you ought to have been up long ago,
even to such poor work as this.'
Mr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up the
spare gun with an expression of countenance which a metaphysical
rook, impressed with a foreboding of his approaching
death by violence, may be supposed to assume. It might have
been keenness, but it looked remarkably like misery.
The old gentleman nodded; and two ragged boys who had
been marshalled to the spot under the direction of the infant
Lambert, forthwith commenced climbing up two of the trees.
'What are these lads for?' inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly. He
was rather alarmed; for he was not quite certain but that the
distress of the agricultural interest, about which he had often
heard a great deal, might have compelled the small boys attached
to the soil to earn a precarious and hazardous subsistence by
making marks of themselves for inexperienced sportsmen.
'Only to start the game,' replied Mr. Wardle, laughing.
'To what?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'Why, in plain English, to frighten the rooks.'
'Oh, is that all?'
'You are satisfied?'
'Quite.'
'Very well. Shall I begin?'
'If you please,' said Mr. Winkle, glad of any respite.
'Stand aside, then. Now for it.'
The boy shouted, and shook a branch with a nest on it. Half a
dozen young rooks in violent conversation, flew out to ask what
the matter was. The old gentleman fired by way of reply. Down
fell one bird, and off flew the others.
'Take him up, Joe,' said the old gentleman.
There was a smile upon the youth's face as he advanced.
Indistinct visions of rook-pie floated through his imagination.
He laughed as he retired with the bird--it was a plump one.
'Now, Mr. Winkle,' said the host, reloading his own gun.
'Fire away.'
Mr. Winkle advanced, and levelled his gun. Mr. Pickwick and
his friends cowered involuntarily to escape damage from the
heavy fall of rooks, which they felt quite certain would be
occasioned by the devastating barrel of their friend. There was a
solemn pause--a shout--a flapping of wings--a faint click.
'Hollo!' said the old gentleman.
'Won't it go?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'Missed fire,' said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale--probably
from disappointment.
'Odd,' said the old gentleman, taking the gun. 'Never knew one
of them miss fire before. Why, I don't see anything of the cap.'
'Bless my soul!' said Mr. Winkle, 'I declare I forgot the cap!'
The slight omission was rectified. Mr. Pickwick crouched
again. Mr. Winkle stepped forward with an air of determination
and resolution; and Mr. Tupman looked out from behind a tree.
The boy shouted; four birds flew out. Mr. Winkle fired. There
was a scream as of an individual--not a rook--in corporal
anguish. Mr. Tupman had saved the lives of innumerable
unoffending birds by receiving a portion of the charge in his left arm.
To describe the confusion that ensued would be impossible.
To tell how Mr. Pickwick in the first transports of emotion called
Mr. Winkle 'Wretch!' how Mr. Tupman lay prostrate on the
ground; and how Mr. Winkle knelt horror-stricken beside him;
how Mr. Tupman called distractedly upon some feminine
Christian name, and then opened first one eye, and then the
other, and then fell back and shut them both--all this would be
as difficult to describe in detail, as it would be to depict the
gradual recovering of the unfortunate individual, the binding up
of his arm with pocket-handkerchiefs, and the conveying him
back by slow degrees supported by the arms of his anxious friends.
They drew near the house. The ladies were at the garden gate,
waiting for their arrival and their breakfast. The spinster aunt
appeared; she smiled, and beckoned them to walk quicker. 'Twas
evident she knew not of the disaster. Poor thing! there are times
when ignorance is bliss indeed.
They approached nearer.
'Why, what is the matter with the little old gentleman?' said
Isabella Wardle. The spinster aunt heeded not the remark; she
thought it applied to Mr. Pickwick. In her eyes Tracy Tupman
was a youth; she viewed his years through a diminishing glass.
'Don't be frightened,' called out the old host, fearful of
alarming his daughters. The little party had crowded so
completely round Mr. Tupman, that they could not yet clearly
discern the nature of the accident.
'Don't be frightened,' said the host.
'What's the matter?' screamed the ladies.
'Mr. Tupman has met with a little accident; that's all.'
The spinster aunt uttered a piercing scream, burst into an
hysteric laugh, and fell backwards in the arms of her nieces.
'Throw some cold water over her,' said the old gentleman.
'No, no,' murmured the spinster aunt; 'I am better now.
Bella, Emily--a surgeon! Is he wounded?--Is he dead?--Is
he-- Ha, ha, ha!' Here the spinster aunt burst into fit number
two, of hysteric laughter interspersed with screams.
'Calm yourself,' said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by
this expression of sympathy with his sufferings. 'Dear, dear
madam, calm yourself.'
'It is his voice!' exclaimed the spinster aunt; and strong
symptoms of fit number three developed themselves forthwith.
'Do not agitate yourself, I entreat you, dearest madam,' said
Mr. Tupman soothingly. 'I am very little hurt, I assure you.'
'Then you are not dead!' ejaculated the hysterical lady. 'Oh,
say you are not dead!'
'Don't be a fool, Rachael,' interposed Mr. Wardle, rather
more roughly than was consistent with the poetic nature of the
scene. 'What the devil's the use of his saying he isn't dead?'
'No, no, I am not,' said Mr. Tupman. 'I require no assistance
but yours. Let me lean on your arm.' He added, in a whisper,
'Oh, Miss Rachael!' The agitated female advanced, and offered
her arm. They turned into the breakfast parlour. Mr. Tracy
Tupman gently pressed her hand to his lips, and sank upon the sofa.
'Are you faint?' inquired the anxious Rachael.
'No,' said Mr. Tupman. 'It is nothing. I shall be better
presently.' He closed his eyes.
'He sleeps,' murmured the spinster aunt. (His organs of vision
had been closed nearly twenty seconds.) 'Dear--dear--Mr. Tupman!'
Mr. Tupman jumped up--'Oh, say those words again!' he exclaimed.
The lady started. 'Surely you did not hear them!' she
said bashfully.
'Oh, yes, I did!' replied Mr. Tupman; 'repeat them. If you
would have me recover, repeat them.'
'Hush!' said the lady. 'My brother.'
Mr. Tracy Tupman resumed his former position; and Mr.
Wardle, accompanied by a surgeon, entered the room.
The arm was examined, the wound dressed, and pronounced
to be a very slight one; and the minds of the company having
been thus satisfied, they proceeded to satisfy their appetites with
countenances to which an expression of cheerfulness was again
restored. Mr. Pickwick alone was silent and reserved. Doubt and
distrust were exhibited in his countenance. His confidence in
Mr. Winkle had been shaken--greatly shaken--by the proceedings
of the morning.
'Are you a cricketer?' inquired Mr. Wardle of the marksman.
At any other time, Mr. Winkle would have replied in the
affirmative. He felt the delicacy of his situation, and modestly
replied, 'No.'
'Are you, sir?' inquired Mr. Snodgrass.
'I was once upon a time,' replied the host; 'but I have given it
up now. I subscribe to the club here, but I don't play.'
'The grand match is played to-day, I believe,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'It is,' replied the host. 'Of course you would like to see it.'
'I, sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'am delighted to view any sports
which may be safely indulged in, and in which the impotent
effects of unskilful people do not endanger human life.' Mr.
Pickwick paused, and looked steadily on Mr. Winkle, who
quailed beneath his leader's searching glance. The great man
withdrew his eyes after a few minutes, and added: 'Shall we be
justified in leaving our wounded friend to the care of the ladies?'
'You cannot leave me in better hands,' said Mr. Tupman.
'Quite impossible,' said Mr. Snodgrass.
It was therefore settled that Mr. Tupman should be left at
home in charge of the females; and that the remainder of the
guests, under the guidance of Mr. Wardle, should proceed to the
spot where was to be held that trial of skill, which had roused all
Muggleton from its torpor, and inoculated Dingley Dell with a
fever of excitement.
As their walk, which was not above two miles long, lay
through shady lanes and sequestered footpaths, and as their
conversation turned upon the delightful scenery by which they
were on every side surrounded, Mr. Pickwick was almost
inclined to regret the expedition they had used, when he found
himself in the main street of the town of Muggleton.
Everybody whose genius has a topographical bent knows
perfectly well that Muggleton is a corporate town, with a mayor,
burgesses, and freemen; and anybody who has consulted the
addresses of the mayor to the freemen, or the freemen to the
mayor, or both to the corporation, or all three to Parliament, will
learn from thence what they ought to have known before, that
Muggleton is an ancient and loyal borough, mingling a zealous
advocacy of Christian principles with a devoted attachment to
commercial rights; in demonstration whereof, the mayor,
corporation, and other inhabitants, have presented at divers
times, no fewer than one thousand four hundred and twenty
petitions against the continuance of negro slavery abroad, and
an equal number against any interference with the factory system
at home; sixty-eight in favour of the sale of livings in the Church,
and eighty-six for abolishing Sunday trading in the street.
Mr. Pickwick stood in the principal street of this illustrious
town, and gazed with an air of curiosity, not unmixed with
interest, on the objects around him. There was an open square
for the market-place; and in the centre of it, a large inn with a
sign-post in front, displaying an object very common in art, but
rarely met with in nature--to wit, a blue lion, with three bow legs
in the air, balancing himself on the extreme point of the centre
claw of his fourth foot. There were, within sight, an auctioneer's
and fire-agency office, a corn-factor's, a linen-draper's, a
saddler's, a distiller's, a grocer's, and a shoe-shop--the last-
mentioned warehouse being also appropriated to the diffusion of
hats, bonnets, wearing apparel, cotton umbrellas, and useful
knowledge. There was a red brick house with a small paved
courtyard in front, which anybody might have known belonged
to the attorney; and there was, moreover, another red brick
house with Venetian blinds, and a large brass door-plate with a
very legible announcement that it belonged to the surgeon. A few
boys were making their way to the cricket-field; and two or three
shopkeepers who were standing at their doors looked as if they
should like to be making their way to the same spot, as indeed to
all appearance they might have done, without losing any great
amount of custom thereby. Mr. Pickwick having paused to make
these observations, to be noted down at a more convenient
period, hastened to rejoin his friends, who had turned out
of the main street, and were already within sight of the field
of battle.
The wickets were pitched, and so were a couple of marquees
for the rest and refreshment of the contending parties. The game
had not yet commenced. Two or three Dingley Dellers, and All-
Muggletonians, were amusing themselves with a majestic air by
throwing the ball carelessly from hand to hand; and several other
gentlemen dressed like them, in straw hats, flannel jackets, and
white trousers--a costume in which they looked very much like
amateur stone-masons--were sprinkled about the tents, towards
one of which Mr. Wardle conducted the party.
Several dozen of 'How-are-you's?' hailed the old gentleman's
arrival; and a general raising of the straw hats, and bending
forward of the flannel jackets, followed his introduction of his
guests as gentlemen from London, who were extremely anxious
to witness the proceedings of the day, with which, he had no
doubt, they would be greatly delighted.
'You had better step into the marquee, I think, Sir,' said one
very stout gentleman, whose body and legs looked like half a
gigantic roll of flannel, elevated on a couple of inflated pillow-cases.
'You'll find it much pleasanter, Sir,' urged another stout
gentleman, who strongly resembled the other half of the roll of
flannel aforesaid.
'You're very good,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'This way,' said the first speaker; 'they notch in here--it's the
best place in the whole field;' and the cricketer, panting on before,
preceded them to the tent.
'Capital game--smart sport--fine exercise--very,' were the
words which fell upon Mr. Pickwick's ear as he entered the tent;
and the first object that met his eyes was his green-coated friend
of the Rochester coach, holding forth, to the no small delight and
edification of a select circle of the chosen of All-Muggleton. His
dress was slightly improved, and he wore boots; but there was no
mistaking him.
The stranger recognised his friends immediately; and, darting
forward and seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand, dragged him to a
seat with his usual impetuosity, talking all the while as if the
whole of the arrangements were under his especial patronage
and direction.
'This way--this way--capital fun--lots of beer--hogsheads;
rounds of beef--bullocks; mustard--cart-loads; glorious day--
down with you--make yourself at home--glad to see you--
very.'
Mr. Pickwick sat down as he was bid, and Mr. Winkle and
Mr. Snodgrass also complied with the directions of their
mysterious friend. Mr. Wardle looked on in silent wonder.
'Mr. Wardle--a friend of mine,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Friend of yours!--My dear sir, how are you?--Friend of my
friend's--give me your hand, sir'--and the stranger grasped
Mr. Wardle's hand with all the fervour of a close intimacy of
many years, and then stepped back a pace or two as if to take a
full survey of his face and figure, and then shook hands with him
again, if possible, more warmly than before.
'Well; and how came you here?' said Mr. Pickwick, with a
smile in which benevolence struggled with surprise.
'Come,' replied the stranger--'stopping at Crown--Crown at
Muggleton--met a party--flannel jackets--white trousers--
anchovy sandwiches--devilled kidney--splendid fellows--glorious.'
Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently versed in the stranger's system of
stenography to infer from this rapid and disjointed communication
that he had, somehow or other, contracted an acquaintance
with the All-Muggletons, which he had converted, by a process
peculiar to himself, into that extent of good-fellowship on which
a general invitation may be easily founded. His curiosity was
therefore satisfied, and putting on his spectacles he prepared
himself to watch the play which was just commencing.
All-Muggleton had the first innings; and the interest became
intense when Mr. Dumkins and Mr. Podder, two of the most
renowned members of that most distinguished club, walked, bat
in hand, to their respective wickets. Mr. Luffey, the highest
ornament of Dingley Dell, was pitched to bowl against the
redoubtable Dumkins, and Mr. Struggles was selected to do the
same kind office for the hitherto unconquered Podder. Several
players were stationed, to 'look out,' in different parts of the
field, and each fixed himself into the proper attitude by placing
one hand on each knee, and stooping very much as if he were
'making a back' for some beginner at leap-frog. All the regular
players do this sort of thing;--indeed it is generally supposed that
it is quite impossible to look out properly in any other position.
The umpires were stationed behind the wickets; the scorers
were prepared to notch the runs; a breathless silence ensued.
Mr. Luffey retired a few paces behind the wicket of the passive
Podder, and applied the ball to his right eye for several seconds.
Dumkins confidently awaited its coming with his eyes fixed on the
motions of Luffey.
'Play!' suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his hand
straight and swift towards the centre stump of the wicket. The
wary Dumkins was on the alert: it fell upon the tip of the bat, and
bounded far away over the heads of the scouts, who had just
stooped low enough to let it fly over them.
'Run--run--another.--Now, then throw her up--up with her--stop
there--another--no--yes--no--throw her up, throw her
up!'--Such were the shouts which followed the stroke; and at the
conclusion of which All-Muggleton had scored two. Nor was
Podder behindhand in earning laurels wherewith to garnish
himself and Muggleton. He blocked the doubtful balls, missed the
bad ones, took the good ones, and sent them flying to all parts of
the field. The scouts were hot and tired; the bowlers were
changed and bowled till their arms ached; but Dumkins and
Podder remained unconquered. Did an elderly gentleman essay
to stop the progress of the ball, it rolled between his legs or
slipped between his fingers. Did a slim gentleman try to catch it,
it struck him on the nose, and bounded pleasantly off with
redoubled violence, while the slim gentleman's eyes filled with
water, and his form writhed with anguish. Was it thrown straight
up to the wicket, Dumkins had reached it before the ball. In
short, when Dumkins was caught out, and Podder stumped out,
All-Muggleton had notched some fifty-four, while the score of
the Dingley Dellers was as blank as their faces. The advantage
was too great to be recovered. In vain did the eager Luffey, and
the enthusiastic Struggles, do all that skill and experience could
suggest, to regain the ground Dingley Dell had lost in the contest
--it was of no avail; and in an early period of the winning game
Dingley Dell gave in, and allowed the superior prowess of All-Muggleton.
The stranger, meanwhile, had been eating, drinking, and
talking, without cessation. At every good stroke he expressed his
satisfaction and approval of the player in a most condescending
and patronising manner, which could not fail to have been
highly gratifying to the party concerned; while at every bad
attempt at a catch, and every failure to stop the ball, he launched
his personal displeasure at the head of the devoted individual in
such denunciations as--'Ah, ah!--stupid'--'Now, butter-
fingers'--'Muff'--'Humbug'--and so forth--ejaculations which
seemed to establish him in the opinion of all around, as a most
excellent and undeniable judge of the whole art and mystery of
the noble game of cricket.
'Capital game--well played--some strokes admirable,' said the
stranger, as both sides crowded into the tent, at the conclusion of
the game.
'You have played it, sir?' inquired Mr. Wardle, who had been
much amused by his loquacity.
'Played it! Think I have--thousands of times--not here--West
Indies--exciting thing--hot work--very.'
'It must be rather a warm pursuit in such a climate,' observed
Mr. Pickwick.
'Warm!--red hot--scorching--glowing. Played a match once--single wicket--friend the
colonel--Sir Thomas Blazo--who
should get the greatest number of runs.--Won the toss--first
innings--seven o'clock A.m.--six natives to look out--went in;
kept in--heat intense--natives all fainted--taken away--fresh
half-dozen ordered--fainted also--Blazo bowling--supported by
two natives--couldn't bowl me out--fainted too--cleared away
the colonel--wouldn't give in--faithful attendant--Quanko
Samba--last man left--sun so hot, bat in blisters, ball scorched
brown--five hundred and seventy runs--rather exhausted--
Quanko mustered up last remaining strength--bowled me out--
had a bath, and went out to dinner.'
'And what became of what's-his-name, Sir?' inquired an
old gentleman.
'Blazo?'
'No--the other gentleman.'
'Quanko Samba?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Poor Quanko--never recovered it--bowled on, on my account
--bowled off, on his own--died, sir.' Here the stranger buried his
countenance in a brown jug, but whether to hide his emotion or
imbibe its contents, we cannot distinctly affirm. We only know
that he paused suddenly, drew a long and deep breath, and
looked anxiously on, as two of the principal members of the
Dingley Dell club approached Mr. Pickwick, and said--
'We are about to partake of a plain dinner at the Blue Lion,
Sir; we hope you and your friends will join us.'
'Of course,' said Mr. Wardle, 'among our friends we include
Mr.--;' and he looked towards the stranger.
'Jingle,' said that versatile gentleman, taking the hint at once.
'Jingle--Alfred Jingle, Esq., of No Hall, Nowhere.'
'I shall be very happy, I am sure,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'So shall I,' said Mr. Alfred Jingle, drawing one arm through
Mr. Pickwick's, and another through Mr. Wardle's, as he
whispered confidentially in the ear of the former gentleman:--
'Devilish good dinner--cold, but capital--peeped into the
room this morning--fowls and pies, and all that sort of thing--
pleasant fellows these--well behaved, too--very.'
There being no further preliminaries to arrange, the company
straggled into the town in little knots of twos and threes; and
within a quarter of an hour were all seated in the great room of
the Blue Lion Inn, Muggleton--Mr. Dumkins acting as chairman,
and Mr. Luffey officiating as vice.
There was a vast deal of talking and rattling of knives and
forks, and plates; a great running about of three ponderous-
headed waiters, and a rapid disappearance of the substantial
viands on the table; to each and every of which item of confusion,
the facetious Mr. Jingle lent the aid of half-a-dozen ordinary men
at least. When everybody had eaten as much as possible, the cloth
was removed, bottles, glasses, and dessert were placed on the
table; and the waiters withdrew to 'clear away,'or in other words,
to appropriate to their own private use and emolument whatever
remnants of the eatables and drinkables they could contrive to
lay their hands on.
Amidst the general hum of mirth and conversation that ensued,
there was a little man with a puffy Say-nothing-to-me,-or-I'll-
contradict-you sort of countenance, who remained very quiet;
occasionally looking round him when the conversation slackened,
as if he contemplated putting in something very weighty; and
now and then bursting into a short cough of inexpressible
grandeur. At length, during a moment of comparative silence, the
little man called out in a very loud, solemn voice,--
'Mr. Luffey!'
Everybody was hushed into a profound stillness as the individual
addressed, replied--
'Sir!'
'I wish to address a few words to you, Sir, if you will entreat the
gentlemen to fill their glasses.'
Mr. Jingle uttered a patronising 'Hear, hear,' which was
responded to by the remainder of the company; and the glasses
having been filled, the vice-president assumed an air of wisdom
in a state of profound attention; and said--
'Mr. Staple.'
'Sir,' said the little man, rising, 'I wish to address what I have
to say to you and not to our worthy chairman, because our
worthy chairman is in some measure--I may say in a great degree
--the subject of what I have to say, or I may say to--to--'
'State,' suggested Mr. Jingle.
'Yes, to state,' said the little man, 'I thank my honourable
friend, if he will allow me to call him so (four hears and one
certainly from Mr. Jingle), for the suggestion. Sir, I am a Deller
--a Dingley Deller (cheers). I cannot lay claim to the honour of
forming an item in the population of Muggleton; nor, Sir, I will
frankly admit, do I covet that honour: and I will tell you why, Sir
(hear); to Muggleton I will readily concede all these honours and
distinctions to which it can fairly lay claim--they are too numerous
and too well known to require aid or recapitulation from me.
But, sir, while we remember that Muggleton has given birth to a
Dumkins and a Podder, let us never forget that Dingley Dell can
boast a Luffey and a Struggles. (Vociferous cheering.) Let me not
be considered as wishing to detract from the merits of the former
gentlemen. Sir, I envy them the luxury of their own feelings on
this occasion. (Cheers.) Every gentleman who hears me, is
probably acquainted with the reply made by an individual, who
--to use an ordinary figure of speech--"hung out" in a tub, to
the emperor Alexander:--"if I were not Diogenes," said he, "I
would be Alexander." I can well imagine these gentlemen to say,
"If I were not Dumkins I would be Luffey; if I were not Podder
I would be Struggles." (Enthusiasm.) But, gentlemen of Muggleton,
is it in cricket alone that your fellow-townsmen stand pre-eminent?
Have you never heard of Dumkins and determination?
Have you never been taught to associate Podder with property?
(Great applause.) Have you never, when struggling for your
rights, your liberties, and your privileges, been reduced, if only
for an instant, to misgiving and despair? And when you have
been thus depressed, has not the name of Dumkins laid afresh
within your breast the fire which had just gone out; and has not a
word from that man lighted it again as brightly as if it had never
expired? (Great cheering.) Gentlemen, I beg to surround with a
rich halo of enthusiastic cheering the united names of "Dumkins
and Podder."'
Here the little man ceased, and here the company commenced
a raising of voices, and thumping of tables, which lasted with
little intermission during the remainder of the evening. Other
toasts were drunk. Mr. Luffey and Mr. Struggles, Mr. Pickwick
and Mr. Jingle, were, each in his turn, the subject of unqualified
eulogium; and each in due course returned thanks for the honour.
Enthusiastic as we are in the noble cause to which we have
devoted ourselves, we should have felt a sensation of pride which
we cannot express, and a consciousness of having done something
to merit immortality of which we are now deprived, could we
have laid the faintest outline on these addresses before our ardent
readers. Mr. Snodgrass, as usual, took a great mass of notes,
which would no doubt have afforded most useful and valuable
information, had not the burning eloquence of the words or the
feverish influence of the wine made that gentleman's hand so
extremely unsteady, as to render his writing nearly unintelligible,
and his style wholly so. By dint of patient investigation, we have
been enabled to trace some characters bearing a faint resemblance
to the names of the speakers; and we can only discern an entry of
a song (supposed to have been sung by Mr. Jingle), in which the
words 'bowl' 'sparkling' 'ruby' 'bright' and 'wine' are frequently
repeated at short intervals. We fancy, too, that we can discern at
the very end of the notes, some indistinct reference to 'broiled
bones'; and then the words 'cold' 'without' occur: but as any
hypothesis we could found upon them must necessarily rest upon
mere conjecture, we are not disposed to indulge in any of the
speculations to which they may give rise.
We will therefore return to Mr. Tupman; merely adding that
within some few minutes before twelve o'clock that night, the
convocation of worthies of Dingley Dell and Muggleton were
heard to sing, with great feeling and emphasis, the beautiful and
pathetic national air of
'We won't go home till morning,
We won't go home till morning,
We won't go home till morning,
Till daylight doth appear.'
CHAPTER VIII
STRONGLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE POSITION, THAT THE
COURSE OF TRUE LOVE IS NOT A RAILWAY
The quiet seclusion of Dingley Dell, the presence of so many
of the gentler sex, and the solicitude and anxiety they evinced
in his behalf, were all favourable to the growth and development
of those softer feelings which nature had implanted deep in the
bosom of Mr. Tracy Tupman, and which now appeared destined to
centre in one lovely object. The young ladies were pretty,
their manners winning, their dispositions unexceptionable; but
there was a dignity in the air, a touch-me-not-ishness in the
walk, a majesty in the eye, of the spinster aunt, to which, at their
time of life, they could lay no claim, which distinguished her
from any female on whom Mr. Tupman had ever gazed. That there
was something kindred in their nature, something congenial in
their souls, something mysteriously sympathetic in their bosoms,
was evident. Her name was the first that rose to Mr. Tupman's
lips as he lay wounded on the grass; and her hysteric laughter
was the first sound that fell upon his ear when he was supported
to the house. But had her agitation arisen from an amiable and
feminine sensibility which would have been equally irrepressible
in any case; or had it been called forth by a more ardent and
passionate feeling, which he, of all men living, could alone
awaken? These were the doubts which racked his brain as he lay
extended on the sofa; these were the doubts which he determined
should be at once and for ever resolved.
it was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with
Mr. Trundle; the deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair; the
snoring of the fat boy, penetrated in a low and monotonous
sound from the distant kitchen; the buxom servants were
lounging at the side door, enjoying the pleasantness of the hour,
and the delights of a flirtation, on first principles, with certain
unwieldy animals attached to the farm; and there sat the interesting
pair, uncared for by all, caring for none, and dreaming only
of themselves; there they sat, in short, like a pair of carefully-
folded kid gloves--bound up in each other.
'I have forgotten my flowers,' said the spinster aunt.
'Water them now,' said Mr. Tupman, in accents of persuasion.
'You will take cold in the evening air,' urged the spinster aunt
affectionately.
'No, no,' said Mr. Tupman, rising; 'it will do me good. Let me
accompany you.'
The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the
youth was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.
There was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle,
jessamine, and creeping plants--one of those sweet retreats
which humane men erect for the accommodation of spiders.
The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in
one corner, and was about to leave the arbour. Mr. Tupman
detained her, and drew her to a seat beside him.
'Miss Wardle!' said he.
The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles which had
accidentally found their way into the large watering-pot shook
like an infant's rattle.
'Miss Wardle,' said Mr. Tupman, 'you are an angel.'
'Mr. Tupman!' exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as the
watering-pot itself.
'Nay,' said the eloquent Pickwickian--'I know it but too well.'
'All women are angels, they say,' murmured the lady playfully.
'Then what can you be; or to what, without presumption, can
I compare you?' replied Mr. Tupman. 'Where was the woman
ever seen who resembled you? Where else could I hope to find so
rare a combination of excellence and beauty? Where else could
I seek to-- Oh!' Here Mr. Tupman paused, and pressed the
hand which clasped the handle of the happy watering-pot.
The lady turned aside her head. 'Men are such deceivers,' she
softly whispered.
'They are, they are,' ejaculated Mr. Tupman; 'but not all men.
There lives at least one being who can never change--one being
who would be content to devote his whole existence to your
happiness--who lives but in your eyes--who breathes but in your
smiles--who bears the heavy burden of life itself only for you.'
'Could such an individual be found--' said the lady.
'But he CAN be found,' said the ardent Mr. Tupman, interposing.
'He IS found. He is here, Miss Wardle.' And ere the lady
was aware of his intention, Mr. Tupman had sunk upon his knees
at her feet.
'Mr. Tupman, rise,' said Rachael.
'Never!' was the valorous reply. 'Oh, Rachael!' He seized her
passive hand, and the watering-pot fell to the ground as he
pressed it to his lips.--'Oh, Rachael! say you love me.'
'Mr. Tupman,' said the spinster aunt, with averted head, 'I
can hardly speak the words; but--but--you are not wholly
indifferent to me.'
Mr. Tupman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded
to do what his enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for
aught we know (for we are but little acquainted with such
matters), people so circumstanced always do. He jumped up, and,
throwing his arm round the neck of the spinster aunt, imprinted
upon her lips numerous kisses, which after a due show of
struggling and resistance, she received so passively, that there is
no telling how many more Mr. Tupman might have bestowed, if
the lady had not given a very unaffected start, and exclaimed in
an affrighted tone--
'Mr. Tupman, we are observed!--we are discovered!'
Mr. Tupman looked round. There was the fat boy, perfectly
motionless, with his large circular eyes staring into the arbour, but
without the slightest expression on his face that the most expert
physiognomist could have referred to astonishment, curiosity, or
any other known passion that agitates the human breast. Mr.
Tupman gazed on the fat boy, and the fat boy stared at him; and
the longer Mr. Tupman observed the utter vacancy of the fat
boy's countenance, the more convinced he became that he either
did not know, or did not understand, anything that had been
going forward. Under this impression, he said with great firmness--
'What do you want here, Sir?'
'Supper's ready, sir,' was the prompt reply.
'Have you just come here, sir?' inquired Mr. Tupman, with a
piercing look.
'Just,' replied the fat boy.
Mr. Tupman looked at him very hard again; but there was not
a wink in his eye, or a curve in his face.
Mr. Tupman took the arm of the spinster aunt, and walked
towards the house; the fat boy followed behind.
'He knows nothing of what has happened,'he whispered.
'Nothing,' said the spinster aunt.
There was a sound behind them, as of an imperfectly suppressed
chuckle. Mr. Tupman turned sharply round. No; it could not
have been the fat boy; there was not a gleam of mirth, or anything
but feeding in his whole visage.
'He must have been fast asleep,' whispered Mr. Tupman.
'I have not the least doubt of it,' replied the spinster aunt.
They both laughed heartily.
Mr, Tupman was wrong. The fat boy, for once, had not been
fast asleep. He was awake--wide awake--to what had been going forward.
The supper passed off without any attempt at a general
conversation. The old lady had gone to bed; Isabella Wardle
devoted herself exclusively to Mr. Trundle; the spinster's attentions
were reserved for Mr. Tupman; and Emily's thoughts
appeared to be engrossed by some distant object--possibly they
were with the absent Snodgrass.
Eleven--twelve--one o'clock had struck, and the gentlemen
had not arrived. Consternation sat on every face. Could they
have been waylaid and robbed? Should they send men and
lanterns in every direction by which they could be supposed
likely to have travelled home? or should they-- Hark! there
they were. What could have made them so late? A strange voice,
too! To whom could it belong? They rushed into the kitchen,
whither the truants had repaired, and at once obtained rather
more than a glimmering of the real state of the case.
Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat
cocked completely over his left eye, was leaning against the
dresser, shaking his head from side to side, and producing a
constant succession of the blandest and most benevolent smiles
without being moved thereunto by any discernible cause or
pretence whatsoever; old Mr. Wardle, with a highly-inflamed
countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange gentleman
muttering protestations of eternal friendship; Mr. Winkle,
supporting himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking
destruction upon the head of any member of the family who
should suggest the propriety of his retiring for the night; and
Mr. Snodgrass had sunk into a chair, with an expression of the
most abject and hopeless misery that the human mind can
imagine, portrayed in every lineament of his expressive face.
'is anything the matter?' inquired the three ladies.
'Nothing the matter,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'We--we're--all
right.--I say, Wardle, we're all right, ain't we?'
'I should think so,' replied the jolly host.--'My dears, here's my
friend Mr. Jingle--Mr. Pickwick's friend, Mr. Jingle, come 'pon
--little visit.'
'Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, Sir?' inquired
Emily, with great anxiety.
'Nothing the matter, ma'am,' replied the stranger. 'Cricket
dinner--glorious party--capital songs--old port--claret--good
--very good--wine, ma'am--wine.'
'It wasn't the wine,' murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken
voice. 'It was the salmon.' (Somehow or other, it never is the
wine, in these cases.)
'Hadn't they better go to bed, ma'am?' inquired Emma. 'Two
of the boys will carry the gentlemen upstairs.'
'I won't go to bed,' said Mr. Winkle firmly.
'No living boy shall carry me,' said Mr. Pickwick stoutly; and
he went on smiling as before.
'Hurrah!' gasped Mr. Winkle faintly.
'Hurrah!' echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing
it on the floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle
of the kitchen. At this humorous feat he laughed outright.
'Let's--have--'nother--bottle,'cried Mr. Winkle, commencing
in a very loud key, and ending in a very faint one. His head
dropped upon his breast; and, muttering his invincible determination
not to go to his bed, and a sanguinary regret that he had
not 'done for old Tupman' in the morning, he fell fast asleep; in
which condition he was borne to his apartment by two young
giants under the personal superintendence of the fat boy, to
whose protecting care Mr. Snodgrass shortly afterwards confided
his own person, Mr. Pickwick accepted the proffered arm of
Mr. Tupman and quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever;
and Mr. Wardle, after taking as affectionate a leave of the whole
family as if he were ordered for immediate execution, consigned
to Mr. Trundle the honour of conveying him upstairs, and
retired, with a very futile attempt to look impressively solemn
and dignified.
'What a shocking scene!' said the spinster aunt.
'Dis-gusting!' ejaculated both the young ladies.
'Dreadful--dreadful!' said Jingle, looking very grave: he was
about a bottle and a half ahead of any of his companions.
'Horrid spectacle--very!'
'What a nice man!' whispered the spinster aunt to Mr. Tupman.
'Good-looking, too!' whispered Emily Wardle.
'Oh, decidedly,' observed the spinster aunt.
Mr. Tupman thought of the widow at Rochester, and his mind
was troubled. The succeeding half-hour's conversation was not
of a nature to calm his perturbed spirit. The new visitor was very
talkative, and the number of his anecdotes was only to be
exceeded by the extent of his politeness. Mr. Tupman felt that as
Jingle's popularity increased, he (Tupman) retired further into the
shade. His laughter was forced--his merriment feigned; and
when at last he laid his aching temples between the sheets, he
thought, with horrid delight, on the satisfaction it would afford
him to have Jingle's head at that moment between the feather bed
and the mattress.
The indefatigable stranger rose betimes next morning, and,
although his companions remained in bed overpowered with the
dissipation of the previous night, exerted himself most successfully
to promote the hilarity of the breakfast-table. So successful
were his efforts, that even the deaf old lady insisted on having one
or two of his best jokes retailed through the trumpet; and even
she condescended to observe to the spinster aunt, that 'He'
(meaning Jingle) 'was an impudent young fellow:' a sentiment in
which all her relations then and there present thoroughly
coincided.
It was the old lady's habit on the fine summer mornings to
repair to the arbour in which Mr. Tupman had already signalised
himself, in form and manner following: first, the fat boy fetched
from a peg behind the old lady's bedroom door, a close black
satin bonnet, a warm cotton shawl, and a thick stick with a
capacious handle; and the old lady, having put on the bonnet and
shawl at her leisure, would lean one hand on the stick and the
other on the fat boy's shoulder, and walk leisurely to the arbour,
where the fat boy would leave her to enjoy the fresh air for the
space of half an hour; at the expiration of which time he would
return and reconduct her to the house.
The old lady was very precise and very particular; and as this
ceremony had been observed for three successive summers
without the slightest deviation from the accustomed form,
she was not a little surprised on this particular morning to see
the fat boy, instead of leaving the arbour, walk a few paces out
of it, look carefully round him in every direction, and return
towards her with great stealth and an air of the most profound mystery.
The old lady was timorous--most old ladies are--and her first
impression was that the bloated lad was about to do her some
grievous bodily harm with the view of possessing himself of her
loose coin. She would have cried for assistance, but age and
infirmity had long ago deprived her of the power of screaming;
she, therefore, watched his motions with feelings of intense horror
which were in no degree diminished by his coming close up to her,
and shouting in her ear in an agitated, and as it seemed to her, a
threatening tone--
'Missus!'
Now it so happened that Mr. Jingle was walking in the garden
close to the arbour at that moment. He too heard the shouts of
'Missus,' and stopped to hear more. There were three reasons for
his doing so. In the first place, he was idle and curious; secondly,
he was by no means scrupulous; thirdly, and lastly, he was
concealed from view by some flowering shrubs. So there he
stood, and there he listened.
'Missus!' shouted the fat boy.
'Well, Joe,' said the trembling old lady. 'I'm sure I have been
a good mistress to you, Joe. You have invariably been treated
very kindly. You have never had too much to do; and you have
always had enough to eat.'
This last was an appeal to the fat boy's most sensitive feelings.
He seemed touched, as he replied emphatically--
'I knows I has.'
'Then what can you want to do now?' said the old lady,
gaining courage.
'I wants to make your flesh creep,' replied the boy.
This sounded like a very bloodthirsty mode of showing one's
gratitude; and as the old lady did not precisely understand the
process by which such a result was to be attained, all her former
horrors returned.
'What do you think I see in this very arbour last night?'
inquired the boy.
'Bless us! What?' exclaimed the old lady, alarmed at the
solemn manner of the corpulent youth.
'The strange gentleman--him as had his arm hurt--a-kissin'
and huggin'--'
'Who, Joe? None of the servants, I hope.'
'Worser than that,' roared the fat boy, in the old lady's ear.
'Not one of my grandda'aters?'
'Worser than that.'
'Worse than that, Joe!' said the old lady, who had thought this
the extreme limit of human atrocity. 'Who was it, Joe? I insist
upon knowing.'
The fat boy looked cautiously round, and having concluded
his survey, shouted in the old lady's ear--
'Miss Rachael.'
'What!' said the old lady, in a shrill tone. 'Speak louder.'
'Miss Rachael,' roared the fat boy.
'My da'ater!'
The train of nods which the fat boy gave by way of assent,
communicated a blanc-mange like motion to his fat cheeks.
'And she suffered him!' exclaimed the old lady.
A grin stole over the fat boy's features as he said--
'I see her a-kissin' of him agin.'
If Mr. Jingle, from his place of concealment, could have
beheld the expression which the old lady's face assumed at this
communication, the probability is that a sudden burst of
laughter would have betrayed his close vicinity to the summer-
house. He listened attentively. Fragments of angry sentences such
as, 'Without my permission!'--'At her time of life'--'Miserable
old 'ooman like me'--'Might have waited till I was dead,' and so
forth, reached his ears; and then he heard the heels of the fat
boy's boots crunching the gravel, as he retired and left the old
lady alone.
It was a remarkable coincidence perhaps, but it was nevertheless
a fact, that Mr. Jingle within five minutes of his arrival at Manor
Farm on the preceding night, had inwardly resolved to lay siege
to the heart of the spinster aunt, without delay. He had observation
enough to see, that his off-hand manner was by no means
disagreeable to the fair object of his attack; and he had more
than a strong suspicion that she possessed that most desirable of
all requisites, a small independence. The imperative necessity of
ousting his rival by some means or other, flashed quickly upon
him, and he immediately resolved to adopt certain proceedings
tending to that end and object, without a moment's delay.
Fielding tells us that man is fire, and woman tow, and the Prince
of Darkness sets a light to 'em. Mr. Jingle knew that young men,
to spinster aunts, are as lighted gas to gunpowder, and he
determined to essay the effect of an explosion without loss of time.
Full of reflections upon this important decision, he crept from
his place of concealment, and, under cover of the shrubs before
mentioned, approached the house. Fortune seemed determined to
favour his design. Mr. Tupman and the rest of the gentlemen left
the garden by the side gate just as he obtained a view of it; and
the young ladies, he knew, had walked out alone, soon after
breakfast. The coast was clear.
The breakfast-parlour door was partially open. He peeped in.
The spinster aunt was knitting. He coughed; she looked up and
smiled. Hesitation formed no part of Mr. Alfred Jingle's
character. He laid his finger on his lips mysteriously, walked in,
and closed the door.
'Miss Wardle,' said Mr. Jingle, with affected earnestness,
'forgive intrusion--short acquaintance--no time for ceremony--
all discovered.'
'Sir!' said the spinster aunt, rather astonished by the unexpected
apparition and somewhat doubtful of Mr. Jingle's sanity.
'Hush!' said Mr. Jingle, in a stage-whisper--'Large boy--
dumpling face--round eyes--rascal!' Here he shook his head
expressively, and the spinster aunt trembled with agitation.
'I presume you allude to Joseph, Sir?' said the lady, making an
effort to appear composed.
'Yes, ma'am--damn that Joe!--treacherous dog, Joe--told the
old lady--old lady furious--wild--raving--arbour--Tupman--
kissing and hugging--all that sort of thing--eh, ma'am--eh?'
'Mr. Jingle,' said the spinster aunt, 'if you come here, Sir, to
insult me--'
'Not at all--by no means,' replied the unabashed Mr. Jingle--
'overheard the tale--came to warn you of your danger--tender
my services--prevent the hubbub. Never mind--think it an
insult--leave the room'--and he turned, as if to carry the threat
into execution.
'What SHALL I do!' said the poor spinster, bursting into tears.
'My brother will be furious.'
'Of course he will,' said Mr. Jingle pausing--'outrageous.'
'Oh, Mr. Jingle, what CAN I say!' exclaimed the spinster aunt, in
another flood of despair.
'Say he dreamt it,' replied Mr. Jingle coolly.
A ray of comfort darted across the mind of the spinster aunt at
this suggestion. Mr. Jingle perceived it, and followed up his advantage.
'Pooh, pooh!--nothing more easy--blackguard boy--lovely
woman--fat boy horsewhipped--you believed--end of the
matter--all comfortable.'
Whether the probability of escaping from the consequences of
this ill-timed discovery was delightful to the spinster's feelings, or
whether the hearing herself described as a 'lovely woman'
softened the asperity of her grief, we know not. She blushed
slightly, and cast a grateful look on Mr. Jingle.
That insinuating gentleman sighed deeply, fixed his eyes on the
spinster aunt's face for a couple of minutes, started melodramatically,
and suddenly withdrew them.
'You seem unhappy, Mr. Jingle,' said the lady, in a plaintive
voice. 'May I show my gratitude for your kind interference,
by inquiring into the cause, with a view, if possible, to its removal?'
'Ha!' exclaimed Mr. Jingle, with another start--'removal!
remove my unhappiness, and your love bestowed upon a man
who is insensible to the blessing--who even now contemplates a
design upon the affections of the niece of the creature who--but
no; he is my friend; I will not expose his vices. Miss Wardle--
farewell!' At the conclusion of this address, the most consecutive
he was ever known to utter, Mr. Jingle applied to his eyes the
remnant of a handkerchief before noticed, and turned towards
the door.
'Stay, Mr. Jingle!' said the spinster aunt emphatically. 'You
have made an allusion to Mr. Tupman--explain it.'
'Never!' exclaimed Jingle, with a professional (i.e., theatrical)
air. 'Never!' and, by way of showing that he had no desire to be
questioned further, he drew a chair close to that of the spinster
aunt and sat down.
'Mr. Jingle,' said the aunt, 'I entreat--I implore you, if there
is any dreadful mystery connected with Mr. Tupman, reveal it.'
'Can I,' said Mr. Jingle, fixing his eyes on the aunt's face--
'can I see--lovely creature--sacrificed at the shrine--
heartless avarice!' He appeared to be struggling with various
conflicting emotions for a few seconds, and then said in a low voice--
'Tupman only wants your money.'
'The wretch!' exclaimed the spinster, with energetic indignation.
(Mr. Jingle's doubts were resolved. She HAD money.)
'More than that,' said Jingle--'loves another.'
'Another!' ejaculated the spinster. 'Who?'
'Short girl--black eyes--niece Emily.'
There was a pause.
Now, if there was one individual in the whole world, of whom
the spinster aunt entertained a mortal and deep-rooted jealousy,
it was this identical niece. The colour rushed over her face and
neck, and she tossed her head in silence with an air of ineffable
contempt. At last, biting her thin lips, and bridling up, she said--
'It can't be. I won't believe it.'
'Watch 'em,' said Jingle.
'I will,' said the aunt.
'Watch his looks.'
'I will.'
'His whispers.'
'I will.'
'He'll sit next her at table.'
'Let him.'
'He'll flatter her.'
'Let him.'
'He'll pay her every possible attention.'
'Let him.'
'And he'll cut you.'
'Cut ME!' screamed the spinster aunt. 'HE cut ME; will he!' and
she trembled with rage and disappointment.
'You will convince yourself?' said Jingle.
'I will.'
'You'll show your spirit?'
'I will.'
'You'll not have him afterwards?'
'Never.'
'You'll take somebody else?'
'Yes.'
'You shall.'
Mr. Jingle fell on his knees, remained thereupon for five
minutes thereafter; and rose the accepted lover of the spinster
aunt--conditionally upon Mr. Tupman's perjury being made
clear and manifest.
The burden of proof lay with Mr. Alfred Jingle; and he
produced his evidence that very day at dinner. The spinster aunt
could hardly believe her eyes. Mr. Tracy Tupman was established
at Emily's side, ogling, whispering, and smiling, in opposition to
Mr. Snodgrass. Not a word, not a look, not a glance, did he
bestow upon his heart's pride of the evening before.
'Damn that boy!' thought old Mr. Wardle to himself.--He had
heard the story from his mother. 'Damn that boy! He must have
been asleep. It's all imagination.'
'Traitor!' thought the spinster aunt. 'Dear Mr. Jingle was not
deceiving me. Ugh! how I hate the wretch!'
The following conversation may serve to explain to our readers
this apparently unaccountable alteration of deportment on the
part of Mr. Tracy Tupman.
The time was evening; the scene the garden. There were two
figures walking in a side path; one was rather short and stout;
the other tall and slim. They were Mr. Tupman and Mr. Jingle.
The stout figure commenced the dialogue.
'How did I do it?' he inquired.
'Splendid--capital--couldn't act better myself--you must
repeat the part to-morrow--every evening till further notice.'
'Does Rachael still wish it?'
'Of course--she don't like it--but must be done--avert
suspicion--afraid of her brother--says there's no help for it--
only a few days more--when old folks blinded--crown your happiness.'
'Any message?'
'Love--best love--kindest regards--unalterable affection.
Can I say anything for you?'
'My dear fellow,' replied the unsuspicious Mr. Tupman,
fervently grasping his 'friend's' hand--'carry my best love--say
how hard I find it to dissemble--say anything that's kind: but add
how sensible I am of the necessity of the suggestion she made to
me, through you, this morning. Say I applaud her wisdom and
admire her discretion.'
'I will. Anything more?'
'Nothing, only add how ardently I long for the time when I
may call her mine, and all dissimulation may be unnecessary.'
'Certainly, certainly. Anything more?'
'Oh, my friend!' said poor Mr. Tupman, again grasping the
hand of his companion, 'receive my warmest thanks for your
disinterested kindness; and forgive me if I have ever, even in
thought, done you the injustice of supposing that you could stand
in my way. My dear friend, can I ever repay you?'
'Don't talk of it,' replied Mr. Jingle. He stopped short, as if
suddenly recollecting something, and said--'By the bye--can't
spare ten pounds, can you?--very particular purpose--pay you
in three days.'
'I dare say I can,' replied Mr. Tupman, in the fulness of his
heart. 'Three days, you say?'
'Only three days--all over then--no more difficulties.'
Mr. Tupman counted the money into his companion's hand,
and he dropped it piece by piece into his pocket, as they walked
towards the house.
'Be careful,' said Mr. Jingle--'not a look.'
'Not a wink,' said Mr. Tupman.
'Not a syllable.'
'Not a whisper.'
'All your attentions to the niece--rather rude, than otherwise,
to the aunt--only way of deceiving the old ones.'
'I'll take care,' said Mr. Tupman aloud.
'And I'LL take care,' said Mr. Jingle internally; and they
entered the house.
The scene of that afternoon was repeated that evening, and on
the three afternoons and evenings next ensuing. On the fourth,
the host was in high spirits, for he had satisfied himself that there
was no ground for the charge against Mr. Tupman. So was Mr.
Tupman, for Mr. Jingle had told him that his affair would soon
be brought to a crisis. So was Mr. Pickwick, for he was seldom
otherwise. So was not Mr. Snodgrass, for he had grown jealous
of Mr. Tupman. So was the old lady, for she had been winning
at whist. So were Mr. Jingle and Miss Wardle, for reasons of
sufficient importance in this eventful history to be narrated in
another chapter.
CHAPTER IX
A DISCOVERY AND A CHASE
The supper was ready laid, the chairs were drawn round the
table, bottles, jugs, and glasses were arranged upon the
sideboard, and everything betokened the approach of the most
convivial period in the whole four-and-twenty hours.
'Where's Rachael?' said Mr. Wardle.
'Ay, and Jingle?' added Mr. Pickwick.
'Dear me,' said the host, 'I wonder I haven't missed him before.
Why, I don't think I've heard his voice for two hours at least.
Emily, my dear, ring the bell.'
The bell was rung, and the fat boy appeared.
'Where's Miss Rachael?' He couldn't say.
'Where's Mr. Jingle, then?' He didn't know.
Everybody looked surprised. It was late--past eleven o'clock.
Mr. Tupman laughed in his sleeve. They were loitering somewhere,
talking about him. Ha, ha! capital notion that--funny.
'Never mind,' said Wardle, after a short pause. 'They'll turn up
presently, I dare say. I never wait supper for anybody.'
'Excellent rule, that,' said Mr. Pickwick--'admirable.'
'Pray, sit down,' said the host.
'Certainly' said Mr. Pickwick; and down they sat.
There was a gigantic round of cold beef on the table, and
Mr. Pickwick was supplied with a plentiful portion of it. He had
raised his fork to his lips, and was on the very point of opening
his mouth for the reception of a piece of beef, when the hum of
many voices suddenly arose in the kitchen. He paused, and laid
down his fork. Mr. Wardle paused too, and insensibly released
his hold of the carving-knife, which remained inserted
in the beef. He looked at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick looked
at him.
Heavy footsteps were heard in the passage; the parlour door
was suddenly burst open; and the man who had cleaned Mr.
Pickwick's boots on his first arrival, rushed into the room,
followed by the fat boy and all the domestics.
'What the devil's the meaning of this?' exclaimed the host.
'The kitchen chimney ain't a-fire, is it, Emma?' inquired the
old lady.
'Lor, grandma! No,' screamed both the young ladies.
'What's the matter?' roared the master of the house.
The man gasped for breath, and faintly ejaculated--
'They ha' gone, mas'r!--gone right clean off, Sir!' (At this
juncture Mr. Tupman was observed to lay down his knife and
fork, and to turn very pale.)
'Who's gone?' said Mr. Wardle fiercely.
'Mus'r Jingle and Miss Rachael, in a po'-chay, from Blue Lion,
Muggleton. I was there; but I couldn't stop 'em; so I run off to
tell 'ee.'
'I paid his expenses!' said Mr. Tupman, jumping up frantically.
'He's got ten pounds of mine!--stop him!--he's swindled me!--
I won't bear it!--I'll have justice, Pickwick!--I won't stand it!'
and with sundry incoherent exclamations of the like nature, the
unhappy gentleman spun round and round the apartment, in a
transport of frenzy.
'Lord preserve us!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, eyeing the
extraordinary gestures of his friend with terrified surprise. 'He's
gone mad! What shall we do?'
'Do!' said the stout old host, who regarded only the last words
of the sentence. 'Put the horse in the gig! I'll get a chaise at the
Lion, and follow 'em instantly. Where?'--he exclaimed, as the
man ran out to execute the commission--'where's that villain, Joe?'
'Here I am! but I hain't a willin,' replied a voice. It was the
fat boy's.
'Let me get at him, Pickwick,' cried Wardle, as he rushed at the
ill-starred youth. 'He was bribed by that scoundrel, Jingle, to put
me on a wrong scent, by telling a cock-and-bull story of my
sister and your friend Tupman!' (Here Mr. Tupman sank into a
chair.) 'Let me get at him!'
'Don't let him!' screamed all the women, above whose
exclamations the blubbering of the fat boy was distinctly audible.
'I won't be held!' cried the old man. 'Mr. Winkle, take your
hands off. Mr. Pickwick, let me go, sir!'
It was a beautiful sight, in that moment of turmoil and confusion,
to behold the placid and philosophical expression of
Mr. Pickwick's face, albeit somewhat flushed with exertion, as he
stood with his arms firmly clasped round the extensive waist of
their corpulent host, thus restraining the impetuosity of his
passion, while the fat boy was scratched, and pulled, and pushed
from the room by all the females congregated therein. He had no
sooner released his hold, than the man entered to announce that
the gig was ready.
'Don't let him go alone!' screamed the females. 'He'll kill
somebody!'
'I'll go with him,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'You're a good fellow, Pickwick,' said the host, grasping his
hand. 'Emma, give Mr. Pickwick a shawl to tie round his neck--
make haste. Look after your grandmother, girls; she has fainted
away. Now then, are you ready?'
Mr. Pickwick's mouth and chin having been hastily enveloped
in a large shawl, his hat having been put on his head, and his
greatcoat thrown over his arm, he replied in the affirmative.
They jumped into the gig. 'Give her her head, Tom,' cried the
host; and away they went, down the narrow lanes; jolting in and
out of the cart-ruts, and bumping up against the hedges on either
side, as if they would go to pieces every moment.
'How much are they ahead?' shouted Wardle, as they drove up
to the door of the Blue Lion, round which a little crowd had
collected, late as it was.
'Not above three-quarters of an hour,' was everybody's reply.
'Chaise-and-four directly!--out with 'em! Put up the gig
afterwards.'
'Now, boys!' cried the landlord--'chaise-and-four out--make
haste--look alive there!'
Away ran the hostlers and the boys. The lanterns glimmered,
as the men ran to and fro; the horses' hoofs clattered on the
uneven paving of the yard; the chaise rumbled as it was drawn out
of the coach-house; and all was noise and bustle.
'Now then!--is that chaise coming out to-night?' cried Wardle.
'Coming down the yard now, Sir,' replied the hostler.
Out came the chaise--in went the horses--on sprang the boys
--in got the travellers.
'Mind--the seven-mile stage in less than half an hour!'
shouted Wardle.
'Off with you!'
The boys applied whip and spur, the waiters shouted, the
hostlers cheered, and away they went, fast and furiously.
'Pretty situation,' thought Mr. Pickwick, when he had had a
moment's time for reflection. 'Pretty situation for the general
chairman of the Pickwick Club. Damp chaise--strange horses--
fifteen miles an hour--and twelve o'clock at night!'
For the first three or four miles, not a word was spoken by
either of the gentlemen, each being too much immersed in his own
reflections to address any observations to his companion. When
they had gone over that much ground, however, and the horses
getting thoroughly warmed began to do their work in really
good style, Mr. Pickwick became too much exhilarated with the
rapidity of the motion, to remain any longer perfectly mute.
'We're sure to catch them, I think,' said he.
'Hope so,' replied his companion.
'Fine night,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking up at the moon, which
was shining brightly.
'So much the worse,' returned Wardle; 'for they'll have had all
the advantage of the moonlight to get the start of us, and we shall
lose it. It will have gone down in another hour.'
'It will be rather unpleasant going at this rate in the dark,
won't it?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'I dare say it will,' replied his friend dryly.
Mr. Pickwick's temporary excitement began to sober down a
little, as he reflected upon the inconveniences and dangers of
the expedition in which he had so thoughtlessly embarked.
He was roused by a loud shouting of the post-boy on the leader.
'Yo-yo-yo-yo-yoe!' went the first boy.
'Yo-yo-yo-yoe!' went the second.
'Yo-yo-yo-yoe!' chimed in old Wardle himself, most
lustily, with his head and half his body out of the coach window.
'Yo-yo-yo-yoe!' shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the
burden of the cry, though he had not the slightest notion of its
meaning or object. And amidst the yo-yoing of the whole four,
the chaise stopped.
'What's the matter?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'There's a gate here,' replied old Wardle. 'We shall hear something
of the fugitives.'
After a lapse of five minutes, consumed in incessant knocking
and shouting, an old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from
the turnpike-house, and opened the gate.
'How long is it since a post-chaise went through here?'
inquired Mr. Wardle.
'How long?'
'ah!'
'Why, I don't rightly know. It worn't a long time ago, nor it
worn't a short time ago--just between the two, perhaps.'
'Has any chaise been by at all?'
'Oh, yes, there's been a Shay by.'
'How long ago, my friend,' interposed Mr. Pickwick; 'an hour?'
'Ah, I dare say it might be,' replied the man.
'Or two hours?' inquired the post--boy on the wheeler.
'Well, I shouldn't wonder if it was,' returned the old man
doubtfully.
'Drive on, boys,' cried the testy old gentleman; 'don't waste
any more time with that old idiot!'
'Idiot!' exclaimed the old man with a grin, as he stood in the
middle of the road with the gate half-closed, watching the chaise
which rapidly diminished in the increasing distance. 'No--not
much o' that either; you've lost ten minutes here, and gone away
as wise as you came, arter all. If every man on the line as has a
guinea give him, earns it half as well, you won't catch t'other shay
this side Mich'lmas, old short-and-fat.' And with another
prolonged grin, the old man closed the gate, re-entered his house,
and bolted the door after him.
Meanwhile the chaise proceeded, without any slackening of
pace, towards the conclusion of the stage. The moon, as Wardle
had foretold, was rapidly on the wane; large tiers of dark, heavy
clouds, which had been gradually overspreading the sky for some
time past, now formed one black mass overhead; and large drops
of rain which pattered every now and then against the windows
of the chaise, seemed to warn the travellers of the rapid approach
of a stormy night. The wind, too, which was directly against them,
swept in furious gusts down the narrow road, and howled
dismally through the trees which skirted the pathway. Mr. Pickwick
drew his coat closer about him, coiled himself more snugly
up into the corner of the chaise, and fell into a sound sleep, from
which he was only awakened by the stopping of the vehicle,
the sound of the hostler's bell, and a loud cry of 'Horses on
directly!'
But here another delay occurred. The boys were sleeping with
such mysterious soundness, that it took five minutes a-piece to
wake them. The hostler had somehow or other mislaid the key of
the stable, and even when that was found, two sleepy helpers put
the wrong harness on the wrong horses, and the whole process of
harnessing had to be gone through afresh. Had Mr. Pickwick been
alone, these multiplied obstacles would have completely put an end to
the pursuit at once, but old Wardle was not to be so easily daunted;
and he laid about him with such hearty good-will, cuffing this man,
and pushing that; strapping a buckle here, and taking in a link
there, that the chaise was ready in a much shorter time than could
reasonably have been expected, under so many difficulties.
They resumed their journey; and certainly the prospect before
them was by no means encouraging. The stage was fifteen miles
long, the night was dark, the wind high, and the rain pouring in
torrents. It was impossible to make any great way against such
obstacles united; it was hard upon one o'clock already; and
nearly two hours were consumed in getting to the end of the
stage. Here, however, an object presented itself, which rekindled
their hopes, and reanimated their drooping spirits.
'When did this chaise come in?' cried old Wardle, leaping out
of his own vehicle, and pointing to one covered with wet mud,
which was standing in the yard.
'Not a quarter of an hour ago, sir,' replied the hostler, to whom
the question was addressed.
'Lady and gentleman?' inquired Wardle, almost breathless
with impatience.
'Yes, sir.'
'Tall gentleman--dress-coat--long legs--thin body?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Elderly lady--thin face--rather skinny--eh?'
'Yes, sir.'
'By heavens, it's the couple, Pickwick,' exclaimed the old
gentleman.
'Would have been here before,' said the hostler, 'but they broke
a trace.'
''Tis them!' said Wardle, 'it is, by Jove! Chaise-and-four
instantly! We shall catch them yet before they reach the next
stage. A guinea a-piece, boys-be alive there--bustle about--
there's good fellows.'
And with such admonitions as these, the old gentleman ran up
and down the yard, and bustled to and fro, in a state of excitement
which communicated itself to Mr. Pickwick also; and
under the influence of which, that gentleman got himself into
complicated entanglements with harness, and mixed up with
horses and wheels of chaises, in the most surprising manner,
firmly believing that by so doing he was materially forwarding the
preparations for their resuming their journey.
'Jump in--jump in!' cried old Wardle, climbing into the
chaise, pulling up the steps, and slamming the door after him.
'Come along! Make haste!' And before Mr. Pickwick knew
precisely what he was about, he felt himself forced in at the other
door, by one pull from the old gentleman and one push from the
hostler; and off they were again.
'Ah! we are moving now,' said the old gentleman exultingly.
They were indeed, as was sufficiently testified to Mr. Pickwick, by
his constant collision either with the hard wood-work of the
chaise, or the body of his companion.
'Hold up!' said the stout old Mr. Wardle, as Mr. Pickwick
dived head foremost into his capacious waistcoat.
'I never did feel such a jolting in my life,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Never mind,' replied his companion, 'it will soon be over.
Steady, steady.'
Mr. Pickwick planted himself into his own corner, as firmly as
he could; and on whirled the chaise faster than ever.
They had travelled in this way about three miles, when Mr.
Wardle, who had been looking out of the Window for two or
three minutes, suddenly drew in his face, covered with splashes,
and exclaimed in breathless eagerness--
'Here they are!'
Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of his window. Yes: there
was a chaise-and-four, a short distance before them, dashing
along at full gallop.
'Go on, go on,' almost shrieked the old gentleman. 'Two
guineas a-piece, boys--don't let 'em gain on us--keep it up--
keep it up.'
The horses in the first chaise started on at their utmost speed;
and those in Mr. Wardle's galloped furiously behind them.
'I see his head,' exclaimed the choleric old man; 'damme, I see
his head.'
'So do I' said Mr. Pickwick; 'that's he.'
Mr. Pickwick was not mistaken. The countenance of Mr. Jingle,
completely coated with mud thrown up by the wheels, was plainly
discernible at the window of his chaise; and the motion of his arm,
which was waving violently towards the postillions, denoted that
he was encouraging them to increased exertion.
The interest was intense. Fields, trees, and hedges, seemed to
rush past them with the velocity of a whirlwind, so rapid was the
pace at which they tore along. They were close by the side of the
first chaise. Jingle's voice could be plainly heard, even above the
din of the wheels, urging on the boys. Old Mr. Wardle foamed
with rage and excitement. He roared out scoundrels and villains
by the dozen, clenched his fist and shook it expressively at the
object of his indignation; but Mr. Jingle only answered with a
contemptuous smile, and replied to his menaces by a shout of
triumph, as his horses, answering the increased application of whip
and spur, broke into a faster gallop, and left the pursuers behind.
Mr. Pickwick had just drawn in his head, and Mr. Wardle,
exhausted with shouting, had done the same, when a tremendous
jolt threw them forward against the front of the vehicle. There was
a sudden bump--a loud crash--away rolled a wheel, and over
went the chaise.
After a very few seconds of bewilderment and confusion, in
which nothing but the plunging of horses, and breaking of glass
could be made out, Mr. Pickwick felt himself violently pulled out
from among the ruins of the chaise; and as soon as he had gained
his feet, extricated his head from the skirts of his greatcoat,
which materially impeded the usefulness of his spectacles, the full
disaster of the case met his view.
Old Mr. Wardle without a hat, and his clothes torn in several
places, stood by his side, and the fragments of the chaise lay
scattered at their feet. The post-boys, who had succeeded in
cutting the traces, were standing, disfigured with mud and disordered
by hard riding, by the horses' heads. About a hundred
yards in advance was the other chaise, which had pulled up on
hearing the crash. The postillions, each with a broad grin
convulsing his countenance, were viewing the adverse party from
their saddles, and Mr. Jingle was contemplating the wreck from
the coach window, with evident satisfaction. The day was just
breaking, and the whole scene was rendered perfectly visible by
the grey light of the morning.
'Hollo!' shouted the shameless Jingle, 'anybody damaged?--
elderly gentlemen--no light weights--dangerous work--very.'
'You're a rascal,' roared Wardle.
'Ha! ha!' replied Jingle; and then he added, with a knowing
wink, and a jerk of the thumb towards the interior of the chaise--
'I say--she's very well--desires her compliments--begs you won't
trouble yourself--love to TUPPY--won't you get up behind?--
drive on, boys.'
The postillions resumed their proper attitudes, and away
rattled the chaise, Mr. Jingle fluttering in derision a white
handkerchief from the coach window.
Nothing in the whole adventure, not even the upset, had
disturbed the calm and equable current of Mr. Pickwick's
temper. The villainy, however, which could first borrow money
of his faithful follower, and then abbreviate his name to 'Tuppy,'
was more than he could patiently bear. He drew his breath hard,
and coloured up to the very tips of his spectacles, as he said,
slowly and emphatically--
'If ever I meet that man again, I'll--'
'Yes, yes,' interrupted Wardle, 'that's all very well; but while we
stand talking here, they'll get their licence, and be married in London.'
Mr. Pickwick paused, bottled up his vengeance, and corked it down.
'How far is it to the next stage?' inquired Mr. Wardle, of one
of the boys.
'Six mile, ain't it, Tom?'
'Rayther better.'
'Rayther better nor six mile, Sir.'
'Can't be helped,' said Wardle, 'we must walk it, Pickwick.'
'No help for it,' replied that truly great man.
So sending forward one of the boys on horseback, to procure
a fresh chaise and horses, and leaving the other behind to take
care of the broken one, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Wardle set
manfully forward on the walk, first tying their shawls round their
necks, and slouching down their hats to escape as much as
possible from the deluge of rain, which after a slight cessation
had again begun to pour heavily down.
CHAPTER X
CLEARING UP ALL DOUBTS (IF ANY EXISTED) OF THE
DISINTERESTEDNESS OF Mr. A. JINGLE'S CHARACTER
There are in London several old inns, once the headquarters
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 wagons. 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 wagons, 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 farther 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, wool-packs, 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!'
'Hollo,' replied the man with the white hat.
'Number twenty-two wants his boots.'
'Ask number twenty-two, vether he'll have 'em now, or vait
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 belongs 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, ven 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?'
'Vouldn't be gen-teel to answer, till you'd done talking,'
replied Sam gruffly.
'Here, clean these 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.
'Number five,' said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking
a piece of chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their
destination on the soles--'Lady's shoes and private sittin'-
room! I suppose she didn't come in the vagin.'
'She came in early this morning,' cried the girl, who was still
leaning over the railing of the gallery, 'with a gentleman in a
hackney-coach, and it's him as wants his boots, and you'd better
do 'em, that's all about it.'
'Vy didn't you say so before,' said Sam, with great indignation,
singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. 'For
all I know'd he was one o' the regular threepennies. Private room!
and a lady too! If he's anything of a gen'l'm'n, he's vurth a
shillin' a day, let alone the arrands.'
Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed
away with such hearty good-will, that in a few minutes the boots
and shoes, with a polish which would have struck envy to the soul
of the amiable Mr. Warren (for they used Day & Martin at the
White Hart), had arrived at the door of number five.
'Come in,' said a man's voice, in reply to Sam's rap at the door.
Sam made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a
lady and gentleman seated at breakfast. Having officiously
deposited the gentleman's boots right and left at his feet, and
the lady's shoes right and left at hers, he backed towards the door.
'Boots,' said the gentleman.
'Sir,' said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the
knob of the lock.
'Do you know--what's a-name--Doctors' Commons?'
'Yes, Sir.'
'Where is it?'
'Paul's Churchyard, Sir; low archway on the carriage side,
bookseller's at one corner, hot-el on the other, and two porters
in the middle as touts for licences.'
'Touts for licences!' said the gentleman.
'Touts for licences,' replied Sam. 'Two coves in vhite aprons--
touches their hats ven you walk in--"Licence, Sir, licence?"
Queer sort, them, and their mas'rs, too, sir--Old Bailey Proctors
--and no mistake.'
'What do they do?' inquired the gentleman.
'Do! You, Sir! That ain't the worst on it, neither. They puts
things into old gen'l'm'n's heads as they never dreamed of. My
father, Sir, wos a coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough
for anything--uncommon fat, to be sure. His missus dies, and
leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons,
to see the lawyer and draw the blunt--very smart--top boots on
--nosegay in his button-hole--broad-brimmed tile--green shawl
--quite the gen'l'm'n. Goes through the archvay, thinking how
he should inwest the money--up comes the touter, touches his
hat--"Licence, Sir, licence?"--"What's that?" says my father.--
"Licence, Sir," says he.--"What licence?" says my father.--
"Marriage licence," says the touter.--"Dash my veskit," says my
father, "I never thought o' that."--"I think you wants one, Sir,"
says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit--"No," says
he, "damme, I'm too old, b'sides, I'm a many sizes too large,"
says he.--"Not a bit on it, Sir," says the touter.--"Think not?"
says my father.--"I'm sure not," says he; "we married a gen'l'm'n
twice your size, last Monday."--"Did you, though?" said my
father.--"To be sure, we did," says the touter, "you're a babby
to him--this way, sir--this way!"--and sure enough my father
walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little
back office, vere a teller sat among dirty papers, and tin boxes,
making believe he was busy. "Pray take a seat, vile I makes out
the affidavit, Sir," says the lawyer.--"Thank'ee, Sir," says my
father, and down he sat, and stared with all his eyes, and his
mouth vide open, at the names on the boxes. "What's your name,
Sir," says the lawyer.--"Tony Weller," says my father.--"Parish?"
says the lawyer. "Belle Savage," says my father; for he stopped
there wen he drove up, and he know'd nothing about parishes, he
didn't.--"And what's the lady's name?" says the lawyer. My
father was struck all of a heap. "Blessed if I know," says he.--
"Not know!" says the lawyer.--"No more nor you do," says my
father; "can't I put that in arterwards?"--"Impossible!" says
the lawyer.--"Wery well," says my father, after he'd thought a
moment, "put down Mrs. Clarke."--"What Clarke?" says the
lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink.--"Susan Clarke, Markis o'
Granby, Dorking," says my father; "she'll have me, if I ask. I
des-say--I never said nothing to her, but she'll have me, I know."
The licence was made out, and she DID have him, and what's more
she's got him now; and I never had any of the four hundred
pound, worse luck. Beg your pardon, sir,' said Sam, when he had
concluded, 'but wen I gets on this here grievance, I runs on like a
new barrow with the wheel greased.' Having said which, and
having paused for an instant to see whether he was wanted for
anything more, Sam left the room.
'Half-past nine--just the time--off at once;' said the gentleman,
whom we need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle.
'Time--for what?' said the spinster aunt coquettishly.
'Licence, dearest of angels--give notice at the church--call you
mine, to-morrow'--said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster
aunt's hand.
'The licence!' said Rachael, blushing.
'The licence,' repeated Mr. Jingle--
'In hurry, post-haste for a licence,
In hurry, ding dong I come back.'
'How you run on,' said Rachael.
'Run on--nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years,
when we're united--run on--they'll fly on--bolt--mizzle--
steam-engine--thousand-horse power--nothing to it.'
'Can't--can't we be married before to-morrow morning?'
inquired Rachael.
'Impossible--can't be--notice at the church--leave the licence
to-day--ceremony come off to-morrow.'
'I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us!' said Rachael.
'Discover--nonsense--too much shaken by the break-down--
besides--extreme caution--gave up the post-chaise--walked on
--took a hackney-coach--came to the Borough--last place in the
world that he'd look in--ha! ha!--capital notion that--very.'
'Don't be long,' said the spinster affectionately, as Mr. Jingle
stuck the pinched-up hat on his head.
'Long away from you?--Cruel charmer;' and Mr. Jingle
skipped playfully up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss
upon her lips, and danced out of the room.
'Dear man!' said the spinster, as the door closed after him.
'Rum old girl,' said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage.
It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we
will not, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle's meditations,
as he wended his way to Doctors' Commons. It will be sufficient
for our purpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons
in white aprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted
region, he reached the vicar-general's office in safety and having
procured a highly flattering address on parchment, from the
Archbishop of Canterbury, to his 'trusty and well-beloved Alfred
Jingle and Rachael Wardle, greeting,' he carefully deposited the
mystic document in his pocket, and retraced his steps in triumph
to the Borough.
He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump
gentleman and one thin one entered the yard, and looked round
in search of some authorised person of whom they could make a
few inquiries. Mr. Samuel Weller happened to be at that moment
engaged in burnishing a pair of painted tops, the personal
property of a farmer who was refreshing himself with a slight
lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a pot or two of
porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and to him the
thin gentleman straightway advanced.
'My friend,' said the thin gentleman.
'You're one o' the adwice gratis order,' thought Sam, 'or you
wouldn't be so wery fond o' me all at once.' But he only said--
'Well, Sir.'
'My friend,' said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem--
'have you got many people stopping here now? Pretty busy. Eh?'
Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried
man, with a dark squeezed-up face, and small, restless, black
eyes, that kept winking and twinkling on each side of his little
inquisitive nose, as if they were playing a perpetual game of
peep-bo with that feature. He was dressed all in black, with boots
as shiny as his eyes, a low white neckcloth, and a clean shirt with
a frill to it. A gold watch-chain, and seals, depended from his fob.
He carried his black kid gloves IN his hands, and not ON them;
and as he spoke, thrust his wrists beneath his coat tails, with the
air of a man who was in the habit of propounding some regular posers.
'Pretty busy, eh?' said the little man.
'Oh, wery well, Sir,' replied Sam, 'we shan't be bankrupts, and
we shan't make our fort'ns. We eats our biled mutton without
capers, and don't care for horse-radish ven ve can get beef.'
'Ah,' said the little man, 'you're a wag, ain't you?'
'My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint,' said
Sam; 'it may be catching--I used to sleep with him.'
'This is a curious old house of yours,' said the little man,
looking round him.
'If you'd sent word you was a-coming, we'd ha' had it repaired;'
replied the imperturbable Sam.
The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses,
and a short consultation took place between him and the two
plump gentlemen. At its conclusion, the little man took a pinch
of snuff from an oblong silver box, and was apparently on the
point of renewing the conversation, when one of the plump
gentlemen, who in addition to a benevolent countenance,
possessed a pair of spectacles, and a pair of black gaiters,
interfered--
'The fact of the matter is,' said the benevolent gentleman, 'that
my friend here (pointing to the other plump gentleman) will give
you half a guinea, if you'll answer one or two--'
'Now, my dear sir--my dear Sir,' said the little man, 'pray,
allow me--my dear Sir, the very first principle to be observed in
these cases, is this: if you place the matter in the hands of a
professional man, you must in no way interfere in the progress of
the business; you must repose implicit confidence in him. Really,
Mr.--' He turned to the other plump gentleman, and said, 'I
forget your friend's name.'
'Pickwick,' said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that jolly
personage.
'Ah, Pickwick--really Mr. Pickwick, my dear Sir, excuse me--
I shall be happy to receive any private suggestions of yours, as
AMICUS CURIAE, but you must see the impropriety of your interfering
with my conduct in this case, with such an AD CAPTANDUM argument as the
offer of half a guinea. Really, my dear Sir, really;' and the little
man took an argumentative pinch of snuff, and looked very profound.
'My only wish, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'was to bring this very
unpleasant matter to as speedy a close as possible.'
'Quite right--quite right,' said the little man.
'With which view,' continued Mr. Pickwick, 'I made use of the
argument which my experience of men has taught me is the most
likely to succeed in any case.'
'Ay, ay,' said the little man, 'very good, very good, indeed; but
you should have suggested it to me. My dear sir, I'm quite certain
you cannot be ignorant of the extent of confidence which must be
placed in professional men. If any authority can be necessary on
such a point, my dear sir, let me refer you to the well-known case
in Barnwell and--'
'Never mind George Barnwell,' interrupted Sam, who had
remained a wondering listener during this short colloquy;
'everybody knows what sort of a case his was, tho' it's always
been my opinion, mind you, that the young 'ooman deserved
scragging a precious sight more than he did. Hows'ever, that's
neither here nor there. You want me to accept of half a guinea.
Wery well, I'm agreeable: I can't say no fairer than that, can I,
sir?' (Mr. Pickwick smiled.) Then the next question is, what the
devil do you want with me, as the man said, wen he see the ghost?'
'We want to know--' said Mr. Wardle.
'Now, my dear sir--my dear sir,' interposed the busy little man.
Mr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders, and was silent.
'We want to know,' said the little man solemnly; 'and we ask
the question of you, in order that we may not awaken apprehensions
inside--we want to know who you've got in this house at present?'
'Who there is in the house!' said Sam, in whose mind the
inmates were always represented by that particular article of their
costume, which came under his immediate superintendence.
'There's a vooden leg in number six; there's a pair of Hessians in
thirteen; there's two pair of halves in the commercial; there's
these here painted tops in the snuggery inside the bar; and five
more tops in the coffee-room.'
'Nothing more?' said the little man.
'Stop a bit,' replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. 'Yes;
there's a pair of Vellingtons a good deal worn, and a pair o'
lady's shoes, in number five.'
'What sort of shoes?' hastily inquired Wardle, who, together
with Mr. Pickwick, had been lost in bewilderment at the singular
catalogue of visitors.
'Country make,' replied Sam.
'Any maker's name?'
'Brown.'
'Where of?'
'Muggleton.
'It is them,' exclaimed Wardle. 'By heavens, we've found them.'
'Hush!' said Sam. 'The Vellingtons has gone to Doctors' Commons.'
'No,' said the little man.
'Yes, for a licence.'
'We're in time,' exclaimed Wardle. 'Show us the room; not a
moment is to be lost.'
'Pray, my dear sir--pray,' said the little man; 'caution,
caution.' He drew from his pocket a red silk purse, and looked
very hard at Sam as he drew out a sovereign.
Sam grinned expressively.
'Show us into the room at once, without announcing us,' said
the little man, 'and it's yours.'
Sam threw the painted tops into a corner, and led the way
through a dark passage, and up a wide staircase. He paused at
the end of a second passage, and held out his hand.
'Here it is,' whispered the attorney, as he deposited the money
on the hand of their guide.
The man stepped forward for a few paces, followed by the two
friends and their legal adviser. He stopped at a door.
'Is this the room?' murmured the little gentleman.
Sam nodded assent.
Old Wardle opened the door; and the whole three walked into
the room just as Mr. Jingle, who had that moment returned, had
produced the licence to the spinster aunt.
The spinster uttered a loud shriek, and throwing herself into a
chair, covered her face with her hands. Mr. Jingle crumpled up
the licence, and thrust it into his coat pocket. The unwelcome
visitors advanced into the middle of the room.
'You--you are a nice rascal, arn't you?' exclaimed Wardle,
breathless with passion.
'My dear Sir, my dear sir,' said the little man, laying his hat on
the table, 'pray, consider--pray. Defamation of character: action
for damages. Calm yourself, my dear sir, pray--'
'How dare you drag my sister from my house?' said the old man.
Ay--ay--very good,' said the little gentleman, 'you may ask
that. How dare you, sir?--eh, sir?'
'Who the devil are you?' inquired Mr. Jingle, in so fierce a
tone, that the little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two.
'Who is he, you scoundrel,' interposed Wardle. 'He's my
lawyer, Mr. Perker, of Gray's Inn. Perker, I'll have this fellow
prosecuted--indicted--I'll--I'll--I'll ruin him. And you,' continued
Mr. Wardle, turning abruptly round to his sister--'you,
Rachael, at a time of life when you ought to know better, what
do you mean by running away with a vagabond, disgracing your
family, and making yourself miserable? Get on your bonnet and
come back. Call a hackney-coach there, directly, and bring this
lady's bill, d'ye hear--d'ye hear?'
'Cert'nly, Sir,' replied Sam, who had answered Wardle's
violent ringing of the bell with a degree of celerity which must
have appeared marvellous to anybody who didn't know that his
eye had been applied to the outside of the keyhole during the
whole interview.
'Get on your bonnet,' repeated Wardle.
'Do nothing of the kind,' said Jingle. 'Leave the room, Sir--
no business here--lady's free to act as she pleases--more than
one-and-twenty.'
'More than one-and-twenty!' ejaculated Wardle contemptuously.
'More than one-and-forty!'
'I ain't,' said the spinster aunt, her indignation getting the
better of her determination to faint.
'You are,' replied Wardle; 'you're fifty if you're an hour.'
Here the spinster aunt uttered a loud shriek, and became senseless.
'A glass of water,' said the humane Mr. Pickwick, summoning
the landlady.
'A glass of water!' said the passionate Wardle. 'Bring a
bucket, and throw it all over her; it'll do her good, and she
richly deserves it.'
'Ugh, you brute!' ejaculated the kind-hearted landlady. 'Poor
dear.' And with sundry ejaculations of 'Come now, there's a dear
--drink a little of this--it'll do you good--don't give way so--
there's a love,' etc. etc., the landlady, assisted by a chambermaid,
proceeded to vinegar the forehead, beat the hands, titillate the
nose, and unlace the stays of the spinster aunt, and to administer
such other restoratives as are usually applied by compassionate
females to ladies who are endeavouring to ferment themselves
into hysterics.
'Coach is ready, Sir,' said Sam, appearing at the door.
'Come along,' cried Wardle. 'I'll carry her downstairs.'
At this proposition, the hysterics came on with redoubled violence.
The landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against
this proceeding, and had already given vent to an indignant
inquiry whether Mr. Wardle considered himself a lord of the
creation, when Mr. Jingle interposed--
'Boots,' said he, 'get me an officer.'
'Stay, stay,' said little Mr. Perker. 'Consider, Sir, consider.'
'I'll not consider,' replied Jingle. 'She's her own mistress--see
who dares to take her away--unless she wishes it.'
'I WON'T be taken away,' murmured the spinster aunt. 'I DON'T
wish it.' (Here there was a frightful relapse.)
'My dear Sir,' said the little man, in a low tone, taking Mr.
Wardle and Mr. Pickwick apart--'my dear Sir, we're in a very
awkward situation. It's a distressing case--very; I never knew
one more so; but really, my dear sir, really we have no power to
control this lady's actions. I warned you before we came, my dear
sir, that there was nothing to look to but a compromise.'
There was a short pause.
'What kind of compromise would you recommend?' inquired
Mr. Pickwick.
'Why, my dear Sir, our friend's in an unpleasant position--very
much so. We must be content to suffer some pecuniary loss.'
'I'll suffer any, rather than submit to this disgrace, and let her,
fool as she is, be made miserable for life,' said Wardle.
'I rather think it can be done,' said the bustling little man.
'Mr. Jingle, will you step with us into the next room for a
moment?'
Mr. Jingle assented, and the quartette walked into an empty apartment.
'Now, sir,' said the little man, as he carefully closed the door,
'is there no way of accommodating this matter--step this way,
sir, for a moment--into this window, Sir, where we can be alone
--there, sir, there, pray sit down, sir. Now, my dear Sir, between
you and I, we know very well, my dear Sir, that you have run off
with this lady for the sake of her money. Don't frown, Sir, don't
frown; I say, between you and I, WE know it. We are both men of
the world, and WE know very well that our friends here, are not--eh?'
Mr. Jingle's face gradually relaxed; and something distantly
resembling a wink quivered for an instant in his left eye.
'Very good, very good,' said the little man, observing the
impression he had made. 'Now, the fact is, that beyond a few
hundreds, the lady has little or nothing till the death of her
mother--fine old lady, my dear Sir.'
'OLD,' said Mr. Jingle briefly but emphatically.
'Why, yes,' said the attorney, with a slight cough. 'You are
right, my dear Sir, she is rather old. She comes of an old family
though, my dear Sir; old in every sense of the word. The founder
of that family came into Kent when Julius Caesar invaded
Britain;--only one member of it, since, who hasn't lived to eighty-five,
and he was beheaded by one of the Henrys. The old lady
is not seventy-three now, my dear Sir.' The little man paused, and
took a pinch of snuff.
'Well,' cried Mr. Jingle.
'Well, my dear sir--you don't take snuff!--ah! so much the
better--expensive habit--well, my dear Sir, you're a fine young
man, man of the world--able to push your fortune, if you had
capital, eh?'
'Well,' said Mr. Jingle again.
'Do you comprehend me?'
'Not quite.'
'Don't you think--now, my dear Sir, I put it to you don't you
think--that fifty pounds and liberty would be better than Miss
Wardle and expectation?'
'Won't do--not half enough!' said Mr. Jingle, rising.
'Nay, nay, my dear Sir,' remonstrated the little attorney,
seizing him by the button. 'Good round sum--a man like you
could treble it in no time--great deal to be done with fifty pounds,
my dear Sir.'
'More to be done with a hundred and fifty,' replied Mr. Jingle coolly.
'Well, my dear Sir, we won't waste time in splitting straws,'
resumed the little man, 'say--say--seventy.'
'Won't do,' said Mr. Jingle.
'Don't go away, my dear sir--pray don't hurry,' said the little
man. 'Eighty; come: I'll write you a cheque at once.'
'Won't do,' said Mr. Jingle.
'Well, my dear Sir, well,' said the little man, still detaining him;
'just tell me what WILL do.'
'Expensive affair,' said Mr. Jingle. 'Money out of pocket--
posting, nine pounds; licence, three--that's twelve--compensation,
a hundred--hundred and twelve--breach of honour--and
loss of the lady--'
'Yes, my dear Sir, yes,' said the little man, with a knowing look,
'never mind the last two items. That's a hundred and twelve--say
a hundred--come.'
'And twenty,' said Mr. Jingle.
'Come, come, I'll write you a cheque,' said the little man; and
down he sat at the table for that purpose.
'I'll make it payable the day after to-morrow,' said the little
man, with a look towards Mr. Wardle; 'and we can get the lady
away, meanwhile.' Mr. Wardle sullenly nodded assent.
'A hundred,' said the little man.
'And twenty,' said Mr. Jingle.
'My dear Sir,' remonstrated the little man.
'Give it him,' interposed Mr. Wardle, 'and let him go.'
The cheque was written by the little gentleman, and pocketed
by Mr. Jingle.
'Now, leave this house instantly!' said Wardle, starting up.
'My dear Sir,' urged the little man.
'And mind,' said Mr. Wardle, 'that nothing should have
induced me to make this compromise--not even a regard for my
family--if I had not known that the moment you got any money
in that pocket of yours, you'd go to the devil faster, if possible,
than you would without it--'
'My dear sir,' urged the little man again.
'Be quiet, Perker,' resumed Wardle. 'Leave the room, Sir.'
'Off directly,' said the unabashed Jingle. 'Bye bye, Pickwick.'
If any dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance
of the illustrious man, whose name forms the leading
feature of the title of this work, during the latter part of this
conversation, he would have been almost induced to wonder that
the indignant fire which flashed from his eyes did not melt the
glasses of his spectacles--so majestic was his wrath. His nostrils
dilated, and his fists clenched involuntarily, as he heard himself
addressed by the villain. But he restrained himself again--he did
not pulverise him.
'Here,' continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at
Mr. Pickwick's feet; 'get the name altered--take home the lady
--do for Tuppy.'
Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only
men in armour, after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated
through his philosophical harness, to his very heart. In the frenzy
of his rage, he hurled the inkstand madly forward, and followed
it up himself. But Mr. Jingle had disappeared, and he found
himself caught in the arms of Sam.
'Hollo,' said that eccentric functionary, 'furniter's cheap
where you come from, Sir. Self-acting ink, that 'ere; it's wrote
your mark upon the wall, old gen'l'm'n. Hold still, Sir; wot's the
use o' runnin' arter a man as has made his lucky, and got to
t'other end of the Borough by this time?'
Mr. Pickwick's mind, like those of all truly great men, was open
to conviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner; and
a moment's reflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency
of his rage. It subsided as quickly as it had been roused.
He panted for breath, and looked benignantly round upon his
friends.
Shall we tell the lamentations that ensued when Miss Wardle
found herself deserted by the faithless Jingle? Shall we extract
Mr. Pickwick's masterly description of that heartrending scene?
His note-book, blotted with the tears of sympathising humanity,
lies open before us; one word, and it is in the printer's hands.
But, no! we will be resolute! We will not wring the public
bosom, with the delineation of such suffering!
Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady
return next day in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and
darkly had the sombre shadows of a summer's night fallen upon
all around, when they again reached Dingley Dell, and stood
within the entrance to Manor Farm.
CHAPTER XI
INVOLVING ANOTHER JOURNEY, AND AN ANTIQUARIAN
DISCOVERY; RECORDING Mr. PICKWICK'S DETERMINATION
TO BE PRESENT AT AN ELECTION; AND CONTAINING
A MANUSCRIPT OF THE OLD CLERGYMAN'S
A night of quiet and repose in the profound silence of Dingley
Dell, and an hour's breathing of its fresh and fragrant air
on the ensuing morning, completely recovered Mr. Pickwick
from the effects of his late fatigue of body and anxiety of mind.
That illustrious man had been separated from his friends and
fol lowers for two whole days; and it was with a degree of pleasure
and delight, which no common imagination can adequately
conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkle and Mr.
Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen on his return from
his early walk. The pleasure was mutual; for who could ever gaze
on Mr. Pickwick's beaming face without experiencing the
sensation? But still a cloud seemed to hang over his companions
which that great man could not but be sensible of, and was wholly
at a loss to account for. There was a mysterious air about them
both, as unusual as it was alarming.
'And how,' said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his
followers by the hand, and exchanged warm salutations of
welcome--'how is Tupman?'
Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly
addressed, made no reply. He turned away his head, and appeared
absorbed in melancholy reflection.
'Snodgrass,' said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, 'how is our friend--
he is not ill?'
'No,' replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his
sentimental eyelid, like a rain-drop on a window-frame-'no; he
is not ill.'
Mr. Pickwick stopped, and gazed on each of his friends in turn.
'Winkle--Snodgrass,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'what does this
mean? Where is our friend? What has happened? Speak--I
conjure, I entreat--nay, I command you, speak.'
There was a solemnity--a dignity--in Mr. Pickwick's manner,
not to be withstood.
'He is gone,' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'Gone!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 'Gone!'
'Gone,' repeated Mr. Snodgrass.
'Where!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.
'We can only guess, from that communication,' replied Mr.
Snodgrass, taking a letter from his pocket, and placing it in his
friend's hand. 'Yesterday morning, when a letter was received
from Mr. Wardle, stating that you would be home with his sister
at night, the melancholy which had hung over our friend during
the whole of the previous day, was observed to increase. He
shortly afterwards disappeared: he was missing during the whole
day, and in the evening this letter was brought by the hostler
from the Crown, at Muggleton. It had been left in his charge in
the morning, with a strict injunction that it should not be
delivered until night.'
Mr. Pickwick opened the epistle. It was in his friend's hand-
writing, and these were its contents:--
'MY DEAR PICKWICK,--YOU, my dear friend, are placed far
beyond the reach of many mortal frailties and weaknesses which
ordinary people cannot overcome. You do not know what it
is, at one blow, to be deserted by a lovely and fascinating
creature, and to fall a victim to the artifices of a villain, who had
the grin of cunning beneath the mask of friendship. I hope you
never may.
'Any letter addressed to me at the Leather Bottle, Cobham,
Kent, will be forwarded--supposing I still exist. I hasten from
the sight of that world, which has become odious to me. Should
I hasten from it altogether, pity--forgive me. Life, my dear
Pickwick, has become insupportable to me. The spirit which
burns within us, is a porter's knot, on which to rest the heavy
load of worldly cares and troubles; and when that spirit fails us,
the burden is too heavy to be borne. We sink beneath it. You
may tell Rachael--Ah, that name!--
'TRACY TupmAN.'
'We must leave this place directly,' said Mr. Pickwick, as he
refolded the note. 'It would not have been decent for us to
remain here, under any circumstances, after what has happened;
and now we are bound to follow in search of our friend.' And
so saying, he led the way to the house.
His intention was rapidly communicated. The entreaties to
remain were pressing, but Mr. Pickwick was inflexible. Business,
he said, required his immediate attendance.
The old clergyman was present.
'You are not really going?' said he, taking Mr. Pickwick aside.
Mr. Pickwick reiterated his former determination.
'Then here,' said the old gentleman, 'is a little manuscript,
which I had hoped to have the pleasure of reading to you myself.
I found it on the death of a friend of mine--a medical man,
engaged in our county lunatic asylum--among a variety of
papers, which I had the option of destroying or preserving, as I
thought proper. I can hardly believe that the manuscript is
genuine, though it certainly is not in my friend's hand. However,
whether it be the genuine production of a maniac, or founded
upon the ravings of some unhappy being (which I think more
probable), read it, and judge for yourself.'
Mr. Pickwick received the manuscript, and parted from the
benevolent old gentleman with many expressions of good-will
and esteem.
It was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates of
Manor Farm, from whom they had received so much hospitality
and kindness. Mr. Pickwick kissed the young ladies--we were
going to say, as if they were his own daughters, only, as he might
possibly have infused a little more warmth into the salutation, the
comparison would not be quite appropriate--hugged the old lady
with filial cordiality; and patted the rosy cheeks of the female
servants in a most patriarchal manner, as he slipped into the
hands of each some more substantial expression of his approval.
The exchange of cordialities with their fine old host and Mr.
Trundle was even more hearty and prolonged; and it was not
until Mr. Snodgrass had been several times called for, and at last
emerged from a dark passage followed soon after by Emily
(whose bright eyes looked unusually dim), that the three friends
were enabled to tear themselves from their friendly entertainers.
Many a backward look they gave at the farm, as they walked
slowly away; and many a kiss did Mr. Snodgrass waft in the air,
in acknowledgment of something very like a lady's handkerchief,
which was waved from one of the upper windows, until a turn of
the lane hid the old house from their sight.
At Muggleton they procured a conveyance to Rochester. By
the time they reached the last-named place, the violence of their
grief had sufficiently abated to admit of their making a very
excellent early dinner; and having procured the necessary information
relative to the road, the three friends set forward again in
the afternoon to walk to Cobham.
A delightful walk it was; for it was a pleasant afternoon in
June, and their way lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled
by the light wind which gently rustled the thick foliage, and
enlivened by the songs of the birds that perched upon the boughs.
The ivy and the moss crept in thick clusters over the old trees,
and the soft green turf overspread the ground like a silken
mat. They emerged upon an open park, with an ancient hall,
displaying the quaint and picturesque architecture of Elizabeth's
time. Long vistas of stately oaks and elm trees appeared on
every side; large herds of deer were cropping the fresh grass;
and occasionally a startled hare scoured along the ground,
with the speed of the shadows thrown by the light clouds
which swept across a sunny landscape like a passing breath of summer.
'If this,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him--'if this were
the place to which all who are troubled with our friend's complaint
came, I fancy their old attachment to this world would very
soon return.'
'I think so too,' said Mr. Winkle.
'And really,' added Mr. Pickwick, after half an hour's walking
had brought them to the village, 'really, for a misanthrope's
choice, this is one of the prettiest and most desirable places of
residence I ever met with.'
In this opinion also, both Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass
expressed their concurrence; and having been directed to the
Leather Bottle, a clean and commodious village ale-house, the
three travellers entered, and at once inquired for a gentleman of
the name of Tupman.
'Show the gentlemen into the parlour, Tom,' said the landlady.
A stout country lad opened a door at the end of the passage,
and the three friends entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished
with a large number of high-backed leather-cushioned chairs, of
fantastic shapes, and embellished with a great variety of old
portraits and roughly-coloured prints of some antiquity. At the
upper end of the room was a table, with a white cloth upon it,
well covered with a roast fowl, bacon, ale, and et ceteras; and at
the table sat Mr. Tupman, looking as unlike a man who had
taken his leave of the world, as possible.
On the entrance of his friends, that gentleman laid down his
knife and fork, and with a mournful air advanced to meet them.
'I did not expect to see you here,' he said, as he grasped Mr.
Pickwick's hand. 'It's very kind.'
'Ah!' said Mr. Pickwick, sitting down, and wiping from his
forehead the perspiration which the walk had engendered. 'Finish
your dinner, and walk out with me. I wish to speak to you alone.'
Mr. Tupman did as he was desired; and Mr. Pickwick having refreshed
himself with a copious draught of ale, waited his friend's leisure.
The dinner was quickly despatched, and they walked out together.
For half an hour, their forms might have been seen pacing the
churchyard to and fro, while Mr. Pickwick was engaged in
combating his companion's resolution. Any repetition of his
arguments would be useless; for what language could convey to
them that energy and force which their great originator's manner
communicated? Whether Mr. Tupman was already tired of
retirement, or whether he was wholly unable to resist the eloquent
appeal which was made to him, matters not, he did NOT resist it
at last.
'It mattered little to him,' he said, 'where he dragged out the
miserable remainder of his days; and since his friend laid so
much stress upon his humble companionship, he was willing to
share his adventures.'
Mr. Pickwick smiled; they shook hands, and walked back to
rejoin their companions.
It was at this moment that Mr. Pickwick made that immortal
discovery, which has been the pride and boast of his friends, and
the envy of every antiquarian in this or any other country. They
had passed the door of their inn, and walked a little way down
the village, before they recollected the precise spot in which it
stood. As they turned back, Mr. Pickwick's eye fell upon a small
broken stone, partially buried in the ground, in front of a cottage
door. He paused.
'This is very strange,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'What is strange?' inquired Mr. Tupman, staring eagerly at
every object near him, but the right one. 'God bless me, what's
the matter?'
This last was an ejaculation of irrepressible astonishment,
occasioned by seeing Mr. Pickwick, in his enthusiasm for
discovery, fall on his knees before the little stone, and commence
wiping the dust off it with his pocket-handkerchief.
'There is an inscription here,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Is it possible?' said Mr. Tupman.
'I can discern,'continued Mr. Pickwick, rubbing away with all
his might, and gazing intently through his spectacles--'I can
discern a cross, and a 13, and then a T. This is important,'
continued Mr. Pickwick, starting up. 'This is some very old
inscription, existing perhaps long before the ancient alms-houses
in this place. It must not be lost.'
He tapped at the cottage door. A labouring man opened it.
'Do you know how this stone came here, my friend?' inquired
the benevolent Mr. Pickwick.
'No, I doan't, Sir,' replied the man civilly. 'It was here long
afore I was born, or any on us.'
Mr. Pickwick glanced triumphantly at his companion.
'You--you--are not particularly attached to it, I dare say,'
said Mr. Pickwick, trembling with anxiety. 'You wouldn't mind
selling it, now?'
'Ah! but who'd buy it?' inquired the man, with an expression
of face which he probably meant to be very cunning.
'I'll give you ten shillings for it, at once,' said Mr. Pickwick,
'if you would take it up for me.'
The astonishment of the village may be easily imagined, when
(the little stone having been raised with one wrench of a spade)
Mr. Pickwick, by dint of great personal exertion, bore it with his
own hands to the inn, and after having carefully washed it,
deposited it on the table.
The exultation and joy of the Pickwickians knew no bounds,
when their patience and assiduity, their washing and scraping,
were crowned with success. The stone was uneven and broken,
and the letters were straggling and irregular, but the following
fragment of an inscription was clearly to be deciphered:--
[cross] B I L S T
u m
P S H I
S. M.
ARK
Mr. Pickwick's eyes sparkled with delight, as he sat and
gloated over the treasure he had discovered. He had attained one
of the greatest objects of his ambition. In a county known to
abound in the remains of the early ages; in a village in which
there still existed some memorials of the olden time, he--he, the
chairman of the Pickwick Club--had discovered a strange and
curious inscription of unquestionable antiquity, which had
wholly escaped the observation of the many learned men who had
preceded him. He could hardly trust the evidence of his senses.
'This--this,' said he, 'determines me. We return to town to-morrow.'
'To-morrow!' exclaimed his admiring followers.
'To-morrow,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'This treasure must be at once
deposited where it can be thoroughly investigated and properly
understood. I have another reason for this step. In a few days,
an election is to take place for the borough of Eatanswill, at
which Mr. Perker, a gentleman whom I lately met, is the agent of
one of the candidates. We will behold, and minutely examine, a
scene so interesting to every Englishman.'
'We will,' was the animated cry of three voices.
Mr. Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervour
of his followers lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He
was their leader, and he felt it.
'Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass,' said
he. This proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous
applause. Having himself deposited the important stone in a small
deal box, purchased from the landlady for the purpose, he
placed himself in an arm-chair, at the head of the table; and the
evening was devoted to festivity and conversation.
It was past eleven o'clock--a late hour for the little village of
Cobham--when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bedroom which had
been prepared for his reception. He threw open the lattice
window, and setting his light upon the table, fell into a train of
meditation on the hurried events of the two preceding days.
The hour and the place were both favourable to contemplation;
Mr. Pickwick was roused by the church clock striking
twelve. The first stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear,
but when the bell ceased the stillness seemed insupportable--he
almost felt as if he had lost a companion. He was nervous and
excited; and hastily undressing himself and placing his light in
the chimney, got into bed.
Every one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in
which a sensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against an
inability to sleep. It was Mr. Pickwick's condition at this
moment: he tossed first on one side and then on the other; and
perseveringly closed his eyes as if to coax himself to slumber. It
was of no use. Whether it was the unwonted exertion he had
undergone, or the heat, or the brandy-and-water, or the strange
bed--whatever it was, his thoughts kept reverting very
uncomfortably to the grim pictures downstairs, and the old stories
to which they had given rise in the course of the evening. After
half an hour's tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory
conclusion, that it was of no use trying to sleep; so he got up and
partially dressed himself. Anything, he thought, was better than
lying there fancying all kinds of horrors. He looked out of the
window--it was very dark. He walked about the room--it was
very lonely.
He had taken a few turns from the door to the window, and
from the window to the door, when the clergyman's manuscript
for the first time entered his head. It was a good thought. if it
failed to interest him, it might send him to sleep. He took it from
his coat pocket, and drawing a small table towards his bedside,
trimmed the light, put on his spectacles, and composed himself
to read. It was a strange handwriting, and the paper was much
soiled and blotted. The title gave him a sudden start, too; and he
could not avoid casting a wistful glance round the room.
Reflecting on the absurdity of giving way to such feelings,
however, he trimmed the light again, and read as follows:--
A MADMAN'S MANUSCRIPT
'Yes!--a madman's! How that word would have struck to my
heart, many years ago! How it would have roused the terror that
used to come upon me sometimes, sending the blood hissing and
tingling through my veins, till the cold dew of fear stood in large
drops upon my skin, and my knees knocked together with
fright! I like it now though. It's a fine name. Show me the
monarch whose angry frown was ever feared like the glare of a
madman's eye--whose cord and axe were ever half so sure as
a madman's gripe. Ho! ho! It's a grand thing to be mad! to be
peeped at like a wild lion through the iron bars--to gnash one's
teeth and howl, through the long still night, to the merry ring of
a heavy chain and to roll and twine among the straw, transported
with such brave music. Hurrah for the madhouse! Oh, it's
a rare place!
'I remember days when I was afraid of being mad; when I used
to start from my sleep, and fall upon my knees, and pray to be
spared from the curse of my race; when I rushed from the sight of
merriment or happiness, to hide myself in some lonely place, and
spend the weary hours in watching the progress of the fever that
was to consume my brain. I knew that madness was mixed up
with my very blood, and the marrow of my bones! that one
generation had passed away without the pestilence appearing
among them, and that I was the first in whom it would revive. I
knew it must be so: that so it always had been, and so it ever
would be: and when I cowered in some obscure corner of a
crowded room, and saw men whisper, and point, and turn their
eyes towards me, I knew they were telling each other of the
doomed madman; and I slunk away again to mope in solitude.
'I did this for years; long, long years they were. The nights here
are long sometimes--very long; but they are nothing to the
restless nights, and dreadful dreams I had at that time. It makes
me cold to remember them. Large dusky forms with sly and
jeering faces crouched in the corners of the room, and bent over
my bed at night, tempting me to madness. They told me in low
whispers, that the floor of the old house in which my father died,
was stained with his own blood, shed by his own hand in raging
madness. I drove my fingers into my ears, but they screamed into
my head till the room rang with it, that in one generation before
him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather had lived
for years with his hands fettered to the ground, to prevent his
tearing himself to pieces. I knew they told the truth--I knew it
well. I had found it out years before, though they had tried to
keep it from me. Ha! ha! I was too cunning for them, madman
as they thought me.
'At last it came upon me, and I wondered how I could ever
have feared it. I could go into the world now, and laugh and
shout with the best among them. I knew I was mad, but they did
not even suspect it. How I used to hug myself with delight, when
I thought of the fine trick I was playing them after their old
pointing and leering, when I was not mad, but only dreading that
I might one day become so! And how I used to laugh for joy,
when I was alone, and thought how well I kept my secret, and
how quickly my kind friends would have fallen from me, if they
had known the truth. I could have screamed with ecstasy when I
dined alone with some fine roaring fellow, to think how pale he
would have turned, and how fast he would have run, if he had
known that the dear friend who sat close to him, sharpening a
bright, glittering knife, was a madman with all the power, and
half the will, to plunge it in his heart. Oh, it was a merry life!
'Riches became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted
in pleasures enhanced a thousandfold to me by the consciousness
of my well-kept secret. I inherited an estate. The law--the eagle-
eyed law itself--had been deceived, and had handed over disputed
thousands to a madman's hands. Where was the wit of the sharp-
sighted men of sound mind? Where the dexterity of the lawyers,
eager to discover a flaw? The madman's cunning had overreached
them all.
'I had money. How I was courted! I spent it profusely. How I
was praised! How those three proud, overbearing brothers
humbled themselves before me! The old, white-headed father,
too--such deference--such respect--such devoted friendship--
he worshipped me! The old man had a daughter, and the young
men a sister; and all the five were poor. I was rich; and when I
married the girl, I saw a smile of triumph play upon the faces of
her needy relatives, as they thought of their well-planned scheme,
and their fine prize. It was for me to smile. To smile! To laugh
outright, and tear my hair, and roll upon the ground with shrieks
of merriment. They little thought they had married her to a madman.
'Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her? A
sister's happiness against her husband's gold. The lightest feather
I blow into the air, against the gay chain that ornaments my body!
'In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not
been mad--for though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we
get bewildered sometimes--I should have known that the girl
would rather have been placed, stiff and cold in a dull leaden
coffin, than borne an envied bride to my rich, glittering house. I
should have known that her heart was with the dark-eyed boy
whose name I once heard her breathe in her troubled sleep; and
that she had been sacrificed to me, to relieve the poverty of the
old, white-headed man and the haughty brothers.
'I don't remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was
beautiful. I know she was; for in the bright moonlight nights,
when I start up from my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see,
standing still and motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight
and wasted figure with long black hair, which, streaming down
her back, stirs with no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze
on me, and never wink or close. Hush! the blood chills at my
heart as I write it down--that form is HERS; the face is very pale,
and the eyes are glassy bright; but I know them well. That figure
never moves; it never frowns and mouths as others do, that fill
this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadful to me, even
than the spirits that tempted me many years ago--it comes fresh
from the grave; and is so very death-like.
'For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler; for nearly a year
I saw the tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew
the cause. I found it out at last though. They could not keep it
from me long. She had never liked me; I had never thought she
did: she despised my wealth, and hated the splendour in which
she lived; but I had not expected that. She loved another. This I
had never thought of. Strange feelings came over me, and
thoughts, forced upon me by some secret power, whirled round
and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated the boy
she still wept for. I pitied--yes, I pitied--the wretched life to
which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that
she could not live long; but the thought that before her death she
might give birth to some ill-fated being, destined to hand down
madness to its offspring, determined me. I resolved to kill her.
'For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning,
and then of fire. A fine sight, the grand house in flames, and the
madman's wife smouldering away to cinders. Think of the jest of
a large reward, too, and of some sane man swinging in the wind
for a deed he never did, and all through a madman's cunning!
I thought often of this, but I gave it up at last. Oh! the pleasure
of stropping the razor day after day, feeling the sharp edge, and
thinking of the gash one stroke of its thin, bright edge would make!
'At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before
whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the open
razor into my hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed,
and leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her
hands. I withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her
bosom. She had been weeping; for the traces of the tears were
still wet upon her cheek. Her face was calm and placid; and even
as I looked upon it, a tranquil smile lighted up her pale features.
I laid my hand softly on her shoulder. She started--it was only a
passing dream. I leaned forward again. She screamed, and woke.
'One motion of my hand, and she would never again have
uttered cry or sound. But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes
were fixed on mine. I knew not how it was, but they cowed and
frightened me; and I quailed beneath them. She rose from the bed,
still gazing fixedly and steadily on me. I trembled; the razor was
in my hand, but I could not move. She made towards the door.
As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew her eyes from my face.
The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and clutched her by
the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sank upon the ground.
'Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house
was alarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I
replaced the razor in its usual drawer, unfastened the door, and
called loudly for assistance.
'They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft
of animation for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned,
her senses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously.
'Doctors were called in--great men who rolled up to my door
in easy carriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were
at her bedside for weeks. They had a great meeting and consulted
together in low and solemn voices in another room. One, the
cleverest and most celebrated among them, took me aside, and
bidding me prepare for the worst, told me--me, the madman!--
that my wife was mad. He stood close beside me at an open
window, his eyes looking in my face, and his hand laid upon my
arm. With one effort, I could have hurled him into the street
beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it; but my
secret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told
me I must place her under some restraint: I must provide a
keeper for her. I! I went into the open fields where none could
hear me, and laughed till the air resounded with my shouts!
'She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to
the grave, and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the
insensible corpse of her whose sufferings they had regarded in her
lifetime with muscles of iron. All this was food for my secret
mirth, and I laughed behind the white handkerchief which I held
up to my face, as we rode home, till the tears Came into my eyes.
'But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was
restless and disturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must
be known. I could not hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled
within me, and made me when I was alone, at home, jump up and
beat my hands together, and dance round and round, and roar
aloud. When I went out, and saw the busy crowds hurrying
about the streets; or to the theatre, and heard the sound of
music, and beheld the people dancing, I felt such glee, that I
could have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces limb
from limb, and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and
struck my feet upon the floor, and drove my sharp nails into my
hands. I kept it down; and no one knew I was a madman yet.
'I remember--though it's one of the last things I can remember:
for now I mix up realities with my dreams, and having so much
to do, and being always hurried here, have no time to separate
the two, from some strange confusion in which they get involved
--I remember how I let it out at last. Ha! ha! I think I see their
frightened looks now, and feel the ease with which I flung them
from me, and dashed my clenched fist into their white faces, and
then flew like the wind, and left them screaming and shouting
far behind. The strength of a giant comes upon me when I think
of it. There--see how this iron bar bends beneath my furious
wrench. I could snap it like a twig, only there are long galleries
here with many doors--I don't think I could find my way along
them; and even if I could, I know there are iron gates below
which they keep locked and barred. They know what a clever
madman I have been, and they are proud to have me here, to show.
'Let me see: yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I
reached home, and found the proudest of the three proud
brothers waiting to see me--urgent business he said: I recollect
it well. I hated that man with all a madman's hate. Many and
many a time had my fingers longed to tear him. They told me he
was there. I ran swiftly upstairs. He had a word to say to me. I
dismissed the servants. It was late, and we were alone together--
for the first time.
'I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he
little thought--and I gloried in the knowledge--that the light of
madness gleamed from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few
minutes. He spoke at last. My recent dissipation, and strange
remarks, made so soon after his sister's death, were an insult to
her memory. Coupling together many circumstances which had
at first escaped his observation, he thought I had not treated her
well. He wished to know whether he was right in inferring that I
meant to cast a reproach upon her memory, and a disrespect upon her
family. It was due to the uniform he wore, to demand this explanation.
'This man had a commission in the army--a commission,
purchased with my money, and his sister's misery! This was the
man who had been foremost in the plot to ensnare me, and grasp
my wealth. This was the man who had been the main instrument
in forcing his sister to wed me; well knowing that her heart was
given to that puling boy. Due to his uniform! The livery of his
degradation! I turned my eyes upon him--I could not help it--
but I spoke not a word.
'I saw the sudden change that came upon him beneath my
gaze. He was a bold man, but the colour faded from his face, and
he drew back his chair. I dragged mine nearer to him; and I
laughed--I was very merry then--I saw him shudder. I felt the
madness rising within me. He was afraid of me.
'"You were very fond of your sister when she was alive," I
said.--"Very."
'He looked uneasily round him, and I saw his hand grasp the
back of his chair; but he said nothing.
'"You villain," said I, "I found you out: I discovered your
hellish plots against me; I know her heart was fixed on some one
else before you compelled her to marry me. I know it--I know it."
'He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished it aloft, and
bid me stand back--for I took care to be getting closer to him all
the time I spoke.
'I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions
eddying through my veins, and the old spirits whispering and
taunting me to tear his heart out.
'"Damn you," said I, starting up, and rushing upon him; "I
killed her. I am a madman. Down with you. Blood, blood! I will
have it!"
'I turned aside with one blow the chair he hurled at me in his
terror, and closed with him; and with a heavy crash we rolled
upon the floor together.
'It was a fine struggle that; for he was a tall, strong man,
fighting for his life; and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to
destroy him. I knew no strength could equal mine, and I was
right. Right again, though a madman! His struggles grew fainter.
I knelt upon his chest, and clasped his brawny throat firmly with
both hands. His face grew purple; his eyes were starting from his
head, and with protruded tongue, he seemed to mock me. I
squeezed the tighter.
'The door was suddenly burst open with a loud noise, and a
crowd of people rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to
secure the madman.
'My secret was out; and my only struggle now was for liberty
and freedom. I gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw
myself among my assailants, and cleared my way with my strong
arm, as if I bore a hatchet in my hand, and hewed them down
before me. I gained the door, dropped over the banisters, and in
an instant was in the street.
'Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard
the noise of the feet behind, and redoubled my speed. It grew
fainter and fainter in the distance, and at length died away
altogether; but on I bounded, through marsh and rivulet, over
fence and wall, with a wild shout which was taken up by the
strange beings that flocked around me on every side, and swelled
the sound, till it pierced the air. I was borne upon the arms of
demons who swept along upon the wind, and bore down bank
and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with a
rustle and a speed that made my head swim, until at last they
threw me from them with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon
the earth. When I woke I found myself here--here in this gray
cell, where the sunlight seldom comes, and the moon steals in, in
rays which only serve to show the dark shadows about me, and that
silent figure in its old corner. When I lie awake, I can sometimes
hear strange shrieks and cries from distant parts of this
large place. What they are, I know not; but they neither come
from that pale form, nor does it regard them. For from the first
shades of dusk till the earliest light of morning, it still stands
motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron
chain, and watching my gambols on my straw bed.'
At the end of the manuscript was written, in another hand, this
note:--
[The unhappy man whose ravings are recorded above, was a
melancholy instance of the baneful results of energies
misdirected in early life, and excesses prolonged until their
consequences could never be repaired. The thoughtless riot,
dissipation, and debauchery of his younger days produced fever and
delirium. The first effects of the latter was the strange delusion,
founded upon a well-known medical theory, strongly contended
for by some, and as strongly contested by others, that an
hereditary madness existed in his family. This produced a settled
gloom, which in time developed a morbid insanity, and finally
terminated in raving madness. There is every reason to believe
that the events he detailed, though distorted in the description
by his diseased imagination, really happened. It is only matter of
wonder to those who were acquainted with the vices of his early
career, that his passions, when no longer controlled by reason,
did not lead him to the commission of still more frightful deeds.]
Mr. Pickwick's candle was just expiring in the socket, as he
concluded the perusal of the old clergyman's manuscript; and
when the light went suddenly out, without any previous flicker
by way of warning, it communicated a very considerable start to
his excited frame. Hastily throwing off such articles of clothing as
he had put on when he rose from his uneasy bed, and casting a
fearful glance around, he once more scrambled hastily between
the sheets, and soon fell fast asleep.
The sun was shining brilliantly into his chamber, when he
awoke, and the morning was far advanced. The gloom which had
oppressed him on the previous night had disappeared with the
dark shadows which shrouded the landscape, and his thoughts
and feelings were as light and gay as the morning itself. After a
hearty breakfast, the four gentlemen sallied forth to walk to
Gravesend, followed by a man bearing the stone in its deal box.
They reached the town about one o'clock (their luggage they had
directed to be forwarded to the city, from Rochester), and being
fortunate enough to secure places on the outside of a coach,
arrived in London in sound health and spirits, on that same afternoon.
The next three or four days were occupied with the preparations
which were necessary for their journey to the borough of
Eatanswill. As any references to that most important undertaking
demands a separate chapter, we may devote the few lines
which remain at the close of this, to narrate, with great brevity,
the history of the antiquarian discovery.
It appears from the Transactions of the Club, then, that Mr.
Pickwick lectured upon the discovery at a General Club Meeting,
convened on the night succeeding their return, and entered into a
variety of ingenious and erudite speculations on the meaning of
the inscription. It also appears that a skilful artist executed a
faithful delineation of the curiosity, which was engraven on
stone, and presented to the Royal Antiquarian Society, and other
learned bodies: that heart-burnings and jealousies without
number were created by rival controversies which were penned
upon the subject; and that Mr. Pickwick himself wrote a
pamphlet, containing ninety-six pages of very small print, and
twenty-seven different readings of the inscription: that three old
gentlemen cut off their eldest sons with a shilling a-piece for
presuming to doubt the antiquity of the fragment; and that one
enthusiastic individual cut himself off prematurely, in despair at
being unable to fathom its meaning: that Mr. Pickwick was
elected an honorary member of seventeen native and foreign
societies, for making the discovery: that none of the seventeen
could make anything of it; but that all the seventeen agreed it
was very extraordinary.
Mr. Blotton, indeed--and the name will be doomed to the
undying contempt of those who cultivate the mysterious and the
sublime--Mr. Blotton, we say, with the doubt and cavilling
peculiar to vulgar minds, presumed to state a view of the case, as
degrading as ridiculous. Mr. Blotton, with a mean desire to
tarnish the lustre of the immortal name of Pickwick, actually
undertook a journey to Cobham in person, and on his return,
sarcastically observed in an oration at the club, that he had seen
the man from whom the stone was purchased; that the man
presumed the stone to be ancient, but solemnly denied the
antiquity of the inscription--inasmuch as he represented it to
have been rudely carved by himself in an idle mood, and to
display letters intended to bear neither more or less than the
simple construction of--'BILL STUMPS, HIS MARK'; and
that Mr. Stumps, being little in the habit of original composition,
and more accustomed to be guided by the sound of words than
by the strict rules of orthography, had omitted the concluding
'L' of his Christian name.
The Pickwick Club (as might have been expected from so
enlightened an institution) received this statement with the contempt
it deserved, expelled the presumptuous and ill-conditioned
Blotton from the society, and voted Mr. Pickwick a pair of gold
spectacles, in token of their confidence and approbation: in
return for which, Mr. Pickwick caused a portrait of himself to
be painted, and hung up in the club room.
Mr. Blotton was ejected but not conquered. He also wrote a
pamphlet, addressed to the seventeen learned societies, native
and foreign, containing a repetition of the statement he had
already made, and rather more than half intimating his opinion
that the seventeen learned societies were so many 'humbugs.'
Hereupon, the virtuous indignation of the seventeen learned
societies being roused, several fresh pamphlets appeared; the
foreign learned societies corresponded with the native learned
societies; the native learned societies translated the pamphlets of
the foreign learned societies into English; the foreign learned
societies translated the pamphlets of the native learned societies
into all sorts of languages; and thus commenced that celebrated
scientific discussion so well known to all men, as the Pickwick
controversy.
But this base attempt to injure Mr. Pickwick recoiled upon the
head of its calumnious author. The seventeen learned societies
unanimously voted the presumptuous Blotton an ignorant
meddler, and forthwith set to work upon more treatises than
ever. And to this day the stone remains, an illegible monument
of Mr. Pickwick's greatness, and a lasting trophy to the littleness
of his enemies.
CHAPTER XII
DESCRIPTIVE OF A VERY IMPORTANT PROCEEDING ON
THE PART OF Mr. PICKWICK; NO LESS AN EPOCH IN HIS
LIFE, THAN IN THIS HISTORY
Mr. Pickwick's apartments in Goswell Street, although on a
limited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable
description, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man
of his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first-floor
front, his bedroom the second-floor front; and thus, whether he were
sitting at his desk in his parlour, or standing before the dressing-
glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of contemplating
human nature in all the numerous phases it exhibits, in that not
more populous than popular thoroughfare. His landlady, Mrs. Bardell--
the relict and sole executrix of a deceased custom-house officer--was
a comely woman of bustling manners and agreeable appearance, with a
natural genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice, into
an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls.
The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a
small boy; the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs.
Bardell's. The large man was always home precisely at ten
o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself
into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlour;
and the infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Master
Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighbouring pavements
and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house;
and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law.
To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic
economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admirable
regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance and behaviour
on the morning previous to that which had been fixed upon for
the journey to Eatanswill would have been most mysterious and
unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps,
popped his head out of the window at intervals of about three
minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and exhibited
many other manifestations of impatience very unusual with him.
It was evident that something of great importance was in
contemplation, but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell
had been enabled to discover.
'Mrs. Bardell,' said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable
female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the
apartment.
'Sir,' said Mrs. Bardell.
'Your little boy is a very long time gone.'
'Why it's a good long way to the Borough, sir,' remonstrated
Mrs. Bardell.
'Ah,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'very true; so it is.'
Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed
her dusting.
'Mrs. Bardell,' said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes.
'Sir,' said Mrs. Bardell again.
'Do you think it a much greater expense to keep two people,
than to keep one?'
'La, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Bardell, colouring up to the very
border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of
matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger; 'La, Mr. Pickwick,
what a question!'
'Well, but do you?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'That depends,' said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very
near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow which was planted on the table.
'that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr.
Pickwick; and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir.'
'That's very true,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'but the person I have in
my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think
possesses these qualities; and has, moreover, a considerable
knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs.
Bardell, which may be of material use to me.'
'La, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her
cap-border again.
'I do,' said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont
in speaking of a subject which interested him--'I do, indeed; and
to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind.'
'Dear me, sir,'exclaimed Mrs. Bardell.
'You'll think it very strange now,' said the amiable Mr.
Pickwick, with a good-humoured glance at his companion, 'that
I never consulted you about this matter, and never even mentioned
it, till I sent your little boy out this morning--eh?'
Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped
Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once,
raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant
hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to
propose--a deliberate plan, too--sent her little boy to the
Borough, to get him out of the way--how thoughtful--how considerate!
'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'what do you think?'
'Oh, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation,
'you're very kind, sir.'
'It'll save you a good deal of trouble, won't it?' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir,' replied
Mrs. Bardell; 'and, of course, I should take more trouble to
please you then, than ever; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick,
to have so much consideration for my loneliness.'
'Ah, to be sure,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I never thought of that.
When I am in town, you'll always have somebody to sit with you.
To be sure, so you will.'
'I am sure I ought to be a very happy woman,' said Mrs. Bardell.
'And your little boy--' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Bless his heart!' interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob.
'He, too, will have a companion,' resumed Mr. Pickwick, 'a
lively one, who'll teach him, I'll be bound, more tricks in a week
than he would ever learn in a year.' And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly.
'Oh, you dear--' said Mrs. Bardell.
Mr. Pickwick started.
'Oh, you kind, good, playful dear,' said Mrs. Bardell; and
without more ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms
round Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus
of sobs.
'Bless my soul,' cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; 'Mrs.
Bardell, my good woman--dear me, what a situation--pray
consider.--Mrs. Bardell, don't--if anybody should come--'
'Oh, let them come,' exclaimed Mrs. Bardell frantically; 'I'll
never leave you --dear, kind, good soul;' and, with these words,
Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter.
'Mercy upon me,' said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, 'I
hear somebody coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good
creature, don't.' But entreaty and remonstrance were alike
unavailing; for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms;
and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, Master
Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle,
and Mr. Snodgrass.
Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood
with his lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the
countenances of his friends, without the slightest attempt at
recognition or explanation. They, in their turn, stared at him;
and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody.
The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and
the perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might
have remained in exactly the same relative situations until the
suspended animation of the lady was restored, had it not been for
a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affection on the
part of her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of corduroy,
spangled with brass buttons of a very considerable size, he at first
stood at the door astounded and uncertain; but by degrees, the
impression that his mother must have suffered some personal
damage pervaded his partially developed mind, and considering
Mr. Pickwick as the aggressor, he set up an appalling and semi-
earthly kind of howling, and butting forward with his head,
commenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the back
and legs, with such blows and pinches as the strength of his arm,
and the violence of his excitement, allowed.
'Take this little villain away,' said the agonised Mr. Pickwick,
'he's mad.'
'What is the matter?' said the three tongue-tied Pickwickians.
'I don't know,' replied Mr. Pickwick pettishly. 'Take away the
boy.' (Here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming
and struggling, to the farther end of the apartment.) 'Now help
me, lead this woman downstairs.'
'Oh, I am better now,' said Mrs. Bardell faintly.
'Let me lead you downstairs,' said the ever-gallant Mr. Tupman.
'Thank you, sir--thank you;' exclaimed Mrs. Bardell hysterically.
And downstairs she was led accordingly, accompanied by
her affectionate son.
'I cannot conceive,' said Mr. Pickwick when his friend
returned--'I cannot conceive what has been the matter with that
woman. I had merely announced to her my intention of keeping
a man-servant, when she fell into the extraordinary paroxysm in
which you found her. Very extraordinary thing.'
'Very,' said his three friends.
'Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation,'
continued Mr. Pickwick.
'Very,' was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly,
and looked dubiously at each other.
This behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked
their incredulity. They evidently suspected him.
'There is a man in the passage now,' said Mr. Tupman.
'It's the man I spoke to you about,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I sent
for him to the Borough this morning. Have the goodness to call
him up, Snodgrass.'
Mr. Snodgrass did as he was desired; and Mr. Samuel Weller
forthwith presented himself.
'Oh--you remember me, I suppose?' said Mr. Pickwick.
'I should think so,' replied Sam, with a patronising wink.
'Queer start that 'ere, but he was one too many for you, warn't
he? Up to snuff and a pinch or two over--eh?'
'Never mind that matter now,' said Mr. Pickwick hastily;
'I want to speak to you about something else. Sit down.'
'Thank'ee, sir,' said Sam. And down he sat without further
bidding, having previously deposited his old white hat on the
landing outside the door. ''Tain't a wery good 'un to look at,'
said Sam, 'but it's an astonishin' 'un to wear; and afore the brim
went, it was a wery handsome tile. Hows'ever it's lighter without
it, that's one thing, and every hole lets in some air, that's another
--wentilation gossamer I calls it.' On the delivery of this sentiment,
Mr. Weller smiled agreeably upon the assembled Pickwickians.
'Now with regard to the matter on which I, with the concurrence
of these gentlemen, sent for you,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'That's the pint, sir,' interposed Sam; 'out vith it, as the father
said to his child, when he swallowed a farden.'
'We want to know, in the first place,' said Mr. Pickwick,
'whether you have any reason to be discontented with your present
situation.'
'Afore I answers that 'ere question, gen'l'm'n,' replied Mr.
Weller, 'I should like to know, in the first place, whether you're
a-goin' to purwide me with a better?'
A sunbeam of placid benevolence played on Mr. Pickwick's
features as he said, 'I have half made up my mind to engage you
myself.'
'Have you, though?' said Sam.
Mr. Pickwick nodded in the affirmative.
'Wages?' inquired Sam.
'Twelve pounds a year,' replied Mr. Pickwick.
'Clothes?'
'Two suits.'
'Work?'
'To attend upon me; and travel about with me and these
gentlemen here.'
'Take the bill down,' said Sam emphatically. 'I'm let to a
single gentleman, and the terms is agreed upon.'
'You accept the situation?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'Cert'nly,' replied Sam. 'If the clothes fits me half as well as
the place, they'll do.'
'You can get a character of course?' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Ask the landlady o' the White Hart about that, Sir,' replied Sam.
'Can you come this evening?'
'I'll get into the clothes this minute, if they're here,' said Sam,
with great alacrity.
'Call at eight this evening,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'and if the
inquiries are satisfactory, they shall be provided.'
With the single exception of one amiable indiscretion, in
which an assistant housemaid had equally participated, the
history of Mr. Weller's conduct was so very blameless, that Mr.
Pickwick felt fully justified in closing the engagement that very
evening. With the promptness and energy which characterised
not only the public proceedings, but all the private actions of this
extraordinary man, he at once led his new attendant to one of
those convenient emporiums where gentlemen's new and second-
hand clothes are provided, and the troublesome and inconvenient
formality of measurement dispensed with; and before night had
closed in, Mr. Weller was furnished with a grey coat with the
P. C. button, a black hat with a cockade to it, a pink striped
waistcoat, light breeches and gaiters, and a variety of other
necessaries, too numerous to recapitulate.
'Well,' said that suddenly-transformed individual, as he took
his seat on the outside of the Eatanswill coach next morning; 'I
wonder whether I'm meant to be a footman, or a groom, or a
gamekeeper, or a seedsman. I looks like a sort of compo of every
one on 'em. Never mind; there's a change of air, plenty to see,
and little to do; and all this suits my complaint uncommon; so
long life to the Pickvicks, says I!'
CHAPTER XIII
SOME ACCOUNT OF EATANSWILL; OF THE STATE OF
PARTIES THEREIN; AND OF THE ELECTION OF A MEMBER
TO SERVE IN PARLIAMENT FOR THAT ANCIENT, LOYAL,
AND PATRIOTIC BOROUGH
We will frankly acknowledge that, up to the period of our being
first immersed in the voluminous papers of the Pickwick Club, we
had never heard of Eatanswill; we will with equal candour admit that
we have in vain searched for proof of the actual existence of such
a place at the present day. Knowing the deep reliance to be placed
on every note and statement of Mr. Pickwick's, and not presuming to
set up our recollection against the recorded declarations of that great
man, we have consulted every authority, bearing upon the subject, to
which we could possibly refer. We have traced every name in
schedules A and B, without meeting with that of Eatanswill; we
have minutely examined every corner of the pocket county maps
issued for the benefit of society by our distinguished publishers,
and the same result has attended our investigation. We are
therefore led to believe that Mr. Pickwick, with that anxious
desire to abstain from giving offence to any, and with those delicate
feelings for which all who knew him well know he was so
eminently remarkable, purposely substituted a fictitious designation,
for the real name of the place in which his observations
were made. We are confirmed in this belief by a little circumstance,
apparently slight and trivial in itself, but when considered
in this point of view, not undeserving of notice. In Mr. Pickwick's
note-book, we can just trace an entry of the fact, that the
places of himself and followers were booked by the Norwich
coach; but this entry was afterwards lined through, as if for the
purpose of concealing even the direction in which the borough
is situated. We will not, therefore, hazard a guess upon the
subject, but will at once proceed with this history, content with
the materials which its characters have provided for us.
It appears, then, that the Eatanswill people, like the people of
many other small towns, considered themselves of the utmost
and most mighty importance, and that every man in Eatanswill,
conscious of the weight that attached to his example, felt himself
bound to unite, heart and soul, with one of the two great parties
that divided the town--the Blues and the Buffs. Now the Blues
lost no opportunity of opposing the Buffs, and the Buffs lost no
opportunity of opposing the Blues; and the consequence was,
that whenever the Buffs and Blues met together at public meeting,
town-hall, fair, or market, disputes and high words arose
between them. With these dissensions it is almost superfluous to
say that everything in Eatanswill was made a party question. If
the Buffs proposed to new skylight the market-place, the Blues
got up public meetings, and denounced the proceeding; if the
Blues proposed the erection of an additional pump in the High
Street, the Buffs rose as one man and stood aghast at the enormity.
There were Blue shops and Buff shops, Blue inns and Buff
inns--there was a Blue aisle and a Buff aisle in the very church itself.
Of course it was essentially and indispensably necessary that
each of these powerful parties should have its chosen organ and
representative: and, accordingly, there were two newspapers in
the town--the Eatanswill GAZETTE and the Eatanswill INDEPENDENT;
the former advocating Blue principles, and the latter conducted
on grounds decidedly Buff. Fine newspapers they were. Such
leading articles, and such spirited attacks!--'Our worthless
contemporary, the GAZETTE'--'That disgraceful and dastardly journal,
the INDEPENDENT'--'That false and scurrilous print, the INDEPENDENT'--
'That vile and slanderous calumniator, the GAZETTE;' these,
and other spirit-stirring denunciations, were strewn plentifully
over the columns of each, in every number, and excited feelings
of the most intense delight and indignation in the bosoms of the
townspeople.
Mr. Pickwick, with his usual foresight and sagacity, had chosen
a peculiarly desirable moment for his visit to the borough. Never
was such a contest known. The Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of
Slumkey Hall, was the Blue candidate; and Horatio Fizkin,
Esq., of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, had been prevailed upon
by his friends to stand forward on the Buff interest. The GAZETTE
warned the electors of Eatanswill that the eyes not only of
England, but of the whole civilised world, were upon them; and
the INDEPENDENT imperatively demanded to know, whether the
constituency of Eatanswill were the grand fellows they had always
taken them for, or base and servile tools, undeserving alike of
the name of Englishmen and the blessings of freedom. Never had
such a commotion agitated the town before.
It was late in the evening when Mr. Pickwick and his
companions, assisted by Sam, dismounted from the roof of the
Eatanswill coach. Large blue silk flags were flying from the
windows of the Town Arms Inn, and bills were posted in every
sash, intimating, in gigantic letters, that the Honourable Samuel
Slumkey's committee sat there daily. A crowd of idlers were
assembled in the road, looking at a hoarse man in the balcony,
who was apparently talking himself very red in the face in Mr.
Slumkey's behalf; but the force and point of whose arguments
were somewhat impaired by the perpetual beating of four large
drums which Mr. Fizkin's committee had stationed at the street
corner. There was a busy little man beside him, though, who
took off his hat at intervals and motioned to the people to cheer,
which they regularly did, most enthusiastically; and as the red-
faced gentleman went on talking till he was redder in the face
than ever, it seemed to answer his purpose quite as well as if
anybody had heard him.
The Pickwickians had no sooner dismounted than they were
surrounded by a branch mob of the honest and independent, who
forthwith set up three deafening cheers, which being responded
to by the main body (for it's not at all necessary for a crowd to
know what they are cheering about), swelled into a tremendous
roar of triumph, which stopped even the red-faced man in the balcony.
'Hurrah!' shouted the mob, in conclusion.
'One cheer more,' screamed the little fugleman in the balcony,
and out shouted the mob again, as if lungs were cast-iron, with
steel works.
'Slumkey for ever!' roared the honest and independent.
'Slumkey for ever!' echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat.
'No Fizkin!' roared the crowd.
'Certainly not!' shouted Mr. Pickwick.
'Hurrah!' And then there was another roaring, like that of a
whole menagerie when the elephant has rung the bell for the
cold meat.
'Who is Slumkey?'whispered Mr. Tupman.
'I don't know,' replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone. 'Hush.
Don't ask any questions. It's always best on these occasions to
do what the mob do.'
'But suppose there are two mobs?' suggested Mr. Snodgrass.
'Shout with the largest,' replied Mr. Pickwick.
Volumes could not have said more.
They entered the house, the crowd opening right and left to let
them pass, and cheering vociferously. The first object of
consideration was to secure quarters for the night.
'Can we have beds here?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, summoning
the waiter.
'Don't know, Sir,' replied the man; 'afraid we're full, sir--I'll
inquire, Sir.' Away he went for that purpose, and presently
returned, to ask whether the gentleman were 'Blue.'
As neither Mr. Pickwick nor his companions took any vital
interest in the cause of either candidate, the question was
rather a difficult one to answer. In this dilemma Mr. Pickwick
bethought himself of his new friend, Mr. Perker.
'Do you know a gentleman of the name of Perker?' inquired
Mr. Pickwick.
'Certainly, Sir; Honourable Mr. Samuel Slumkey's agent.'
'He is Blue, I think?'
'Oh, yes, Sir.'
'Then WE are Blue,' said Mr. Pickwick; but observing that the
man looked rather doubtful at this accommodating announcement,
he gave him his card, and desired him to present it to
Mr. Perker forthwith, if he should happen to be in the house.
The waiter retired; and reappearing almost immediately with a
request that Mr. Pickwick would follow him, led the way to a
large room on the first floor, where, seated at a long table
covered with books and papers, was Mr. Perker.
'Ah--ah, my dear Sir,' said the little man, advancing to meet
him; 'very happy to see you, my dear Sir, very. Pray sit down.
So you have carried your intention into effect. You have come
down here to see an election--eh?'
Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.
'Spirited contest, my dear sir,' said the little man.
'I'm delighted to hear it,' said Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his
hands. 'I like to see sturdy patriotism, on whatever side it is
called forth--and so it's a spirited contest?'
'Oh, yes,' said the little man, 'very much so indeed. We have
opened all the public-houses in the place, and left our adversary
nothing but the beer-shops-masterly stroke of policy that, my
dear Sir, eh?' The little man smiled complacently, and took a
large pinch of snuff.
'And what are the probabilities as to the result of the contest?'
inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'Why, doubtful, my dear Sir; rather doubtful as yet,' replied
the little man. 'Fizkin's people have got three-and-thirty voters
in the lock-up coach-house at the White Hart.'
'In the coach-house!' said Mr. Pickwick, considerably astonished
by this second stroke of policy.
'They keep 'em locked up there till they want 'em,' resumed
the little man. 'The effect of that is, you see, to prevent our
getting at them; and even if we could, it would be of no use, for
they keep them very drunk on purpose. Smart fellow Fizkin's
agent--very smart fellow indeed.'
Mr. Pickwick stared, but said nothing.
'We are pretty confident, though,' said Mr. Perker, sinking
his voice almost to a whisper. 'We had a little tea-party here, last
night--five-and-forty women, my dear sir--and gave every one
of 'em a green parasol when she went away.'
'A parasol!' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Fact, my dear Sir, fact. Five-and-forty green parasols, at seven
and sixpence a-piece. All women like finery--extraordinary the
effect of those parasols. Secured all their husbands, and half their
brothers--beats stockings, and flannel, and all that sort of thing
hollow. My idea, my dear Sir, entirely. Hail, rain, or sunshine,
you can't walk half a dozen yards up the street, without
encountering half a dozen green parasols.'
Here the little man indulged in a convulsion of mirth, which
was only checked by the entrance of a third party.
This was a tall, thin man, with a sandy-coloured head inclined
to baldness, and a face in which solemn importance was blended
with a look of unfathomable profundity. He was dressed in a
long brown surtout, with a black cloth waistcoat, and drab
trousers. A double eyeglass dangled at his waistcoat; and on his
head he wore a very low-crowned hat with a broad brim.
The new-comer was introduced to Mr. Pickwick as Mr. Pott,
the editor of the Eatanswill GAZETTE. After a few preliminary
remarks, Mr. Pott turned round to Mr. Pickwick, and said with
solemnity--
'This contest excites great interest in the metropolis, sir?'
'I believe it does,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'To which I have reason to know,' said Pott, looking towards
Mr. Perker for corroboration--'to which I have reason to know
that my article of last Saturday in some degree contributed.'
'Not the least doubt of it,' said the little man.
'The press is a mighty engine, sir,' said Pott.
Mr. Pickwick yielded his fullest assent to the proposition.
'But I trust, sir,' said Pott, 'that I have never abused the
enormous power I wield. I trust, sir, that I have never pointed the
noble instrument which is placed in my hands, against the sacred
bosom of private life, or the tender breast of individual reputation;
I trust, sir, that I have devoted my energies to--to endeavours--
humble they may be, humble I know they are--to
instil those principles of--which--are--'
Here the editor of the Eatanswill GAZETTE, appearing to ramble,
Mr. Pickwick came to his relief, and said--
'Certainly.'
'And what, Sir,' said Pott--'what, Sir, let me ask you as an
impartial man, is the state of the public mind in London, with
reference to my contest with the INDEPENDENT?'
'Greatly excited, no doubt,' interposed Mr. Perker, with a
look of slyness which was very likely accidental.
'The contest,' said Pott, 'shall be prolonged so long as I have
health and strength, and that portion of talent with which I am
gifted. From that contest, Sir, although it may unsettle men's
minds and excite their feelings, and render them incapable for
the discharge of the everyday duties of ordinary life; from that
contest, sir, I will never shrink, till I have set my heel upon the
Eatanswill INDEPENDENT. I wish the people of London, and the
people of this country to know, sir, that they may rely upon me
--that I will not desert them, that I am resolved to stand by them,
Sir, to the last.'
'Your conduct is most noble, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick; and he
grasped the hand of the magnanimous Pott.
'You are, sir, I perceive, a man of sense and talent,' said Mr.
Pott, almost breathless with the vehemence of his patriotic
declaration. 'I am most happy, sir, to make the acquaintance of
such a man.'
'And I,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'feel deeply honoured by this
expression of your opinion. Allow me, sir, to introduce you to
my fellow-travellers, the other corresponding members of the
club I am proud to have founded.'
'I shall be delighted,' said Mr. Pott.
Mr. Pickwick withdrew, and returning with his friends,
presented them in due form to the editor of the Eatanswill GAZETTE.
'Now, my dear Pott,' said little Mr. Perker, 'the question is,
what are we to do with our friends here?'
'We can stop in this house, I suppose,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Not a spare bed in the house, my dear sir--not a single bed.'
'Extremely awkward,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Very,' said his fellow-voyagers.
'I have an idea upon this subject,' said Mr. Pott, 'which I
think may be very successfully adopted. They have two beds at
the Peacock, and I can boldly say, on behalf of Mrs. Pott, that
she will be delighted to accommodate Mr. Pickwick and any
one of his friends, if the other two gentlemen and their servant
do not object to shifting, as they best can, at the Peacock.'
After repeated pressings on the part of Mr. Pott, and repeated
protestations on that of Mr. Pickwick that he could not think of
incommoding or troubling his amiable wife, it was decided that
it was the only feasible arrangement that could be made. So it
WAS made; and after dinner together at the Town Arms, the
friends separated, Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass repairing to
the Peacock, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle proceeding to
the mansion of Mr. Pott; it having been previously arranged
that they should all reassemble at the Town Arms in the morning,
and accompany the Honourable Samuel Slumkey's procession to
the place of nomination.
Mr. Pott's domestic circle was limited to himself and his
wife. All men whom mighty genius has raised to a proud eminence
in the world, have usually some little weakness which
appears the more conspicuous from the contrast it presents to
their general character. If Mr. Pott had a weakness, it was,
perhaps, that he was rather too submissive to the somewhat
contemptuous control and sway of his wife. We do not feel
justified in laying any particular stress upon the fact, because
on the present occasion all Mrs. Pott's most winning ways
were brought into requisition to receive the two gentlemen.
'My dear,' said Mr. Pott, 'Mr. Pickwick--Mr. Pickwick of London.'
Mrs. Pott received Mr. Pickwick's paternal grasp of the hand
with enchanting sweetness; and Mr. Winkle, who had not been
announced at all, sidled and bowed, unnoticed, in an obscure corner.
'P. my dear'--said Mrs. Pott.
'My life,' said Mr. Pott.
'Pray introduce the other gentleman.'
'I beg a thousand pardons,' said Mr. Pott. 'Permit me, Mrs.
Pott, Mr.--'
'Winkle,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Winkle,' echoed Mr. Pott; and the ceremony of introduction
was complete.
'We owe you many apologies, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'for
disturbing your domestic arrangements at so short a notice.'
'I beg you won't mention it, sir,' replied the feminine Pott,
with vivacity. 'It is a high treat to me, I assure you, to see any
new faces; living as I do, from day to day, and week to week, in
this dull place, and seeing nobody.'
'Nobody, my dear!' exclaimed Mr. Pott archly.
'Nobody but you,' retorted Mrs. Pott, with asperity.
'You see, Mr. Pickwick,' said the host in explanation of his
wife's lament, 'that we are in some measure cut off from many
enjoyments and pleasures of which we might otherwise partake.
My public station, as editor of the Eatanswill GAZETTE, the
position which that paper holds in the country, my constant
immersion in the vortex of politics--'
'P. my dear--' interposed Mrs. Pott.
'My life--' said the editor.
'I wish, my dear, you would endeavour to find some topic of
conversation in which these gentlemen might take some rational
interest.'
'But, my love,' said Mr. Pott, with great humility, 'Mr.
Pickwick does take an interest in it.'
'It's well for him if he can,' said Mrs. Pott emphatically; 'I
am wearied out of my life with your politics, and quarrels with
the INDEPENDENT, and nonsense. I am quite astonished, P., at your
making such an exhibition of your absurdity.'
'But, my dear--' said Mr. Pott.
'Oh, nonsense, don't talk to me,' said Mrs. Pott. 'Do you play
ecarte, Sir?'
'I shall be very happy to learn under your tuition,' replied
Mr. Winkle.
'Well, then, draw that little table into this window, and let me
get out of hearing of those prosy politics.'
'Jane,' said Mr. Pott, to the servant who brought in candles,
'go down into the office, and bring me up the file of the GAZETTE
for eighteen hundred and twenty-six. I'll read you,' added the
editor, turning to Mr. Pickwick--'I'll just read you a few of the
leaders I wrote at that time upon the Buff job of appointing a new
tollman to the turnpike here; I rather think they'll amuse you.'
'I should like to hear them very much indeed,' said Mr. Pickwick.
Up came the file, and down sat the editor, with Mr. Pickwick
at his side.
We have in vain pored over the leaves of Mr. Pickwick's
note-book, in the hope of meeting with a general summary of
these beautiful compositions. We have every reason to believe
that he was perfectly enraptured with the vigour and freshness of
the style; indeed Mr. Winkle has recorded the fact that his eyes
were closed, as if with excess of pleasure, during the whole time
of their perusal.
The announcement of supper put a stop both to the game of
ecarte, and the recapitulation of the beauties of the Eatanswill
GAZETTE. Mrs. Pott was in the highest spirits and the most
agreeable humour. Mr. Winkle had already made considerable
progress in her good opinion, and she did not hesitate to inform
him, confidentially, that Mr. Pickwick was 'a delightful old dear.'
These terms convey a familiarity of expression, in which few of
those who were intimately acquainted with that colossal-minded
man, would have presumed to indulge. We have preserved them,
nevertheless, as affording at once a touching and a convincing
proof of the estimation in which he was held by every class of
society, and the case with which he made his way to their hearts
and feelings.
It was a late hour of the night--long after Mr. Tupman and
Mr. Snodgrass had fallen asleep in the inmost recesses of the
Peacock--when the two friends retired to rest. Slumber soon fell
upon the senses of Mr. Winkle, but his feelings had been excited,
and his admiration roused; and for many hours after sleep had
rendered him insensible to earthly objects, the face and figure of
the agreeable Mrs. Pott presented themselves again and again
to his wandering imagination.
The noise and bustle which ushered in the morning were
sufficient to dispel from the mind of the most romantic visionary
in existence, any associations but those which were immediately
connected with the rapidly-approaching election. The beating of
drums, the blowing of horns and trumpets, the shouting of men,
and tramping of horses, echoed and re--echoed through the streets
from the earliest dawn of day; and an occasional fight between
the light skirmishers of either party at once enlivened the
preparations, and agreeably diversified their character.
'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, as his valet appeared at his
bedroom door, just as he was concluding his toilet; 'all alive
to-day, I suppose?'
'Reg'lar game, sir,' replied Mr. Weller; 'our people's a-collecting
down at the Town Arms, and they're a-hollering themselves
hoarse already.'
'Ah,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'do they seem devoted to their party, Sam?'
'Never see such dewotion in my life, Sir.'
'Energetic, eh?' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Uncommon,' replied Sam; 'I never see men eat and drink so
much afore. I wonder they ain't afeer'd o' bustin'.'
'That's the mistaken kindness of the gentry here,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Wery likely,' replied Sam briefly.
'Fine, fresh, hearty fellows they seem,' said Mr. Pickwick,
glancing from the window.
'Wery fresh,' replied Sam; 'me and the two waiters at the
Peacock has been a-pumpin' over the independent woters as
supped there last night.'
'Pumping over independent voters!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
'Yes,' said his attendant, 'every man slept vere he fell down;
we dragged 'em out, one by one, this mornin', and put 'em under
the pump, and they're in reg'lar fine order now. Shillin' a head
the committee paid for that 'ere job.'
'Can such things be!' exclaimed the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
'Lord bless your heart, sir,' said Sam, 'why where was you half
baptised?--that's nothin', that ain't.'
'Nothing?'said Mr. Pickwick.
'Nothin' at all, Sir,' replied his attendant. 'The night afore the
last day o' the last election here, the opposite party bribed the
barmaid at the Town Arms, to hocus the brandy-and-water of
fourteen unpolled electors as was a-stoppin' in the house.'
'What do you mean by "hocussing" brandy-and-water?'
inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'Puttin' laud'num in it,' replied Sam. 'Blessed if she didn't
send 'em all to sleep till twelve hours arter the election was over.
They took one man up to the booth, in a truck, fast asleep, by
way of experiment, but it was no go--they wouldn't poll him; so
they brought him back, and put him to bed again.'
'Strange practices, these,' said Mr. Pickwick; half speaking to
himself and half addressing Sam.
'Not half so strange as a miraculous circumstance as happened
to my own father, at an election time, in this wery place, Sir,'
replied Sam.
'What was that?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'Why, he drove a coach down here once,' said Sam; ''lection
time came on, and he was engaged by vun party to bring down
woters from London. Night afore he was going to drive up,
committee on t' other side sends for him quietly, and away he
goes vith the messenger, who shows him in;--large room--lots of
gen'l'm'n--heaps of papers, pens and ink, and all that 'ere. "Ah,
Mr. Weller," says the gen'l'm'n in the chair, "glad to see you, sir;
how are you?"--"Wery well, thank 'ee, Sir," says my father; "I
hope you're pretty middlin," says he.--"Pretty well, thank'ee, Sir,"
says the gen'l'm'n; "sit down, Mr. Weller--pray sit down, sir."
So my father sits down, and he and the gen'l'm'n looks wery
hard at each other. "You don't remember me?" said the
gen'l'm'n.--"Can't say I do," says my father.--"Oh, I know
you," says the gen'l'm'n: "know'd you when you was a boy,"
says he.--"Well, I don'