[Illustration]
_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 First Visit came to a Conclusion_
"Well, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick as that favoured servitor entered his
bed-chamber with his warm water, on the morning of Christmas Day,
"still frosty?"
"Water in the wash-hand basin's a mask o' ice, sir," responded Sam.
"Severe weather, Sam," observed Mr. Pickwick.
"Fine time for them as is well wropped up, as the Polar Bear said to
himself, ven he was practising his skating," replied Mr. Weller.
"I shall be down in a quarter of an hour, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick,
untying his nightcap.
"Wery good, sir," replied Sam. "There's a couple o' Sawbones
downstairs."
"A couple of what!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sitting up in bed.
"A couple o' Sawbones," said Sam.
"What's a Sawbones?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, not quite certain whether
it was a live animal, or something to eat.
"What! Don't you know what a Sawbones is, sir?" inquired Mr. Weller.
"I thought everybody know'd as a Sawbones was a surgeon."
"Oh, a surgeon, eh?" said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.
"Just that, sir," replied Sam. "These here ones as is below, though,
ain't reg'lar thorough-bred Sawbones; they're only in trainin'."
"In other words they're medical students, I suppose?" said Mr. Pickwick.
Sam Weller nodded assent.
"I am glad of it," said Mr. Pickwick, casting his nightcap energetically
on the counterpane. "They are fine fellows; very fine fellows; with
judgments matured by observation and reflection; tastes refined by
reading and study. I am very glad of it."
"They're a smokin' cigars by the kitchen fire," said Sam.
"Ah!" observed Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands, "overflowing with
kindly feelings and animal spirits. Just what I like to see."
"And one on 'em," said Sam, not noticing his master's interruption,
"one on 'em's got his legs on the table, and is a drinkin' brandy
neat, vile the tother one--him in the barnacles--has got a barrel o'
oysters atween his knees, wich he's a openin' like steam, and as fast
as he eats 'em, he takes a aim vith the shells at young dropsy, who's a
sittin' down fast asleep, in the chimbley corner."
"Eccentricities of genius, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick. "You may retire."
Sam did retire accordingly; Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of the
quarter of an hour, went down to breakfast.
"Here he is at last!" said old Mr. Wardle. "Pickwick, this is Miss
Allen's brother, Mr. Benjamin Allen. Ben we call him, and so may you if
you like. This gentleman is his very particular friend, Mr. ----"
"Mr. Bob Sawyer," interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen; whereupon Mr. Bob
Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen laughed in concert.
Mr. Pickwick bowed to Bob Sawyer, and Bob Sawyer bowed to Mr. Pickwick;
Bob and his very particular friend then applied themselves most
assiduously to the eatables before them, and Mr. Pickwick had an
opportunity of glancing at them both.
Mr. Benjamin Allen was a coarse, stout, thickset young man, with
black hair cut rather short, and a white face cut rather long. He was
embellished with spectacles, and wore a white neckerchief. Below his
single-breasted black surtout, which was buttoned up to his chin,
appeared the usual number of pepper-and-salt coloured legs, terminating
in a pair of imperfectly polished boots. Although his coat was short in
the sleeves, it disclosed no vestige of a linen wristband; and although
there was quite enough of his face to admit of the encroachment of
a shirt collar, it was not graced by the smallest approach to that
appendage. He presented, altogether, rather a mildewy appearance, and
emitted a fragrant odour of full-flavoured Cubas.
Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was habited in a coarse blue coat, which, without
being either a great-coat or a surtout, partook of the nature and
qualities of both, had about him that sort of slovenly smartness, and
swaggering gait, which is peculiar to young gentlemen who smoke in the
streets by day, shout and scream in the same by night, call waiters
by their Christian names, and do various other acts and deeds of an
equally facetious description. He wore a pair of plaid trousers, and a
large rough double-breasted waistcoat; out of doors, he carried a thick
stick with a big top. He eschewed gloves, and looked, upon the whole,
something like a dissipated Robinson Crusoe.
Such were the two worthies to whom Mr. Pickwick was introduced, as he
took his seat at the breakfast table on Christmas morning.
"Splendid morning, gentlemen," said Mr. Pickwick.
Mr. Bob Sawyer slightly nodded his assent to the proposition, and asked
Mr. Benjamin Allen for the mustard.
"Have you come far this morning, gentlemen?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"Blue Lion at Muggleton," briefly responded Mr. Allen.
"You should have joined us last night," said Mr. Pickwick.
"So we should," replied Bob Sawyer, "but the brandy was too good to
leave in a hurry: wasn't it, Ben?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Benjamin Allen; "and the cigars were not bad, or
the pork chops either: were they, Bob?"
"Decidedly not," said Bob. The particular friends resumed their attack
upon the breakfast, more freely than before, as if the recollection of
last night's supper had imparted a new relish to the meal.
"Peg away, Bob," said Mr. Allen to his companion, encouragingly.
"So I do," replied Bob Sawyer. And so, to do him justice, he did.
"Nothing like dissecting, to give one an appetite," said Mr. Bob
Sawyer, looking round the table.
Mr. Pickwick slightly shuddered.
"By-the-bye, Bob," said Mr. Allen, "have you finished that leg yet?"
"Nearly," replied Sawyer, helping himself to half a fowl as he spoke.
"It's a very muscular one for a child's."
"Is it?" inquired Mr. Allen, carelessly.
"Very," said Bob Sawyer, with his mouth full.
"I've put my name down for an arm, at our place," said Mr. Allen.
"We're clubbing for a subject, and the list is nearly full, only we
can't get hold of any fellow that wants a head. I wish you'd take it."
"No," replied Bob Sawyer; "can't afford expensive luxuries."
"Nonsense!" said Allen.
"Can't indeed," rejoined Bob Sawyer. "I wouldn't mind a brain, but I
couldn't stand a whole head."
"Hush, hush, gentlemen, pray," said Mr. Pickwick. "I hear the ladies."
As Mr. Pickwick spoke, the ladies, gallantly escorted by Messrs.
Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman, returned from an early walk.
"Why, Ben!" said Arabella, in a tone which expressed more surprise than
pleasure at the sight of her brother.
"Come to take you home to-morrow," replied Benjamin.
Mr. Winkle turned pale.
"Don't you see Bob Sawyer, Arabella?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen,
somewhat reproachfully. Arabella gracefully held out her hand, in
acknowledgment of Bob Sawyer's presence. A thrill of hatred struck to
Mr. Winkle's heart, as Bob Sawyer inflicted on the proffered hand a
perceptible squeeze.
"Ben, dear!" said Arabella, blushing; "have--have--you been introduced
to Mr. Winkle?"
"I have not been, but I shall be very happy to be, Arabella," replied
her brother, gravely. Here Mr. Allen bowed grimly to Mr. Winkle, while
Mr. Winkle and Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced mutual distrust out of the
corners of their eyes.
The arrival of the two new visitors, and the consequent check upon Mr.
Winkle and the young lady with the fur round her boots, would in all
probability have proved a very unpleasant interruption to the hilarity
of the party, had not the cheerfulness of Mr. Pickwick, and the good
humour of the host, been exerted to the very utmost for the common
weal. Mr. Winkle gradually insinuated himself into the good graces of
Mr. Benjamin Allen, and even joined in a friendly conversation with
Mr. Bob Sawyer; who, enlivened with the brandy, and the breakfast, and
the talking, gradually ripened into a state of extreme facetiousness,
and related with much glee an agreeable anecdote, about the removal of
a tumour on some gentleman's head: which he illustrated by means of
an oyster-knife and a half-quartern loaf, to the great edification of
the assembled company. Then, the whole train went to church, where Mr.
Benjamin Allen fell fast asleep; while Mr. Bob Sawyer abstracted his
thoughts from worldly matters, by the ingenious process of carving his
name on the seat of the pew, in corpulent letters of four inches long.
"Now," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, with the agreeable items
of strong beer and cherry-brandy, had been done ample justice to; "what
say you to an hour on the ice? We shall have plenty of time."
"Capital!" said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
"Prime!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer.
"You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle.
"Ye-yes, oh yes," replied Mr. Winkle. "I--I--am _rather_ out of
practice."
"Oh, _do_ skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. "I like to see it so
much."
"Oh, it is _so_ graceful," said another young lady.
A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her
opinion that it was "swan-like."
"I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening; "but I
have no skates."
This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pair, and
the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down-stairs:
whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely
uncomfortable.
Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat
boy and Mr. Weller having shovelled and swept away the snow which had
fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates
with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and
described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and
inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many
other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction
of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies: which reached a pitch of
positive enthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by
the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they
called a reel.
All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold,
had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his
skates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very
complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass,
who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however,
with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly
screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.
"Now then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone; "off vith you, and
show 'em how to do it."
"Stop, Sam, stop!" said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching
hold of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man. "How slippery it
is, Sam!"
"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up,
sir!"
This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration
Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet
in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.
"These--these--are very awkward skates; ain't they, Sam?" inquired Mr.
Winkle, staggering.
[Illustration: _"Now then, sir," said Sam, "off vith you, and show 'em
how to do it"_]
"I'm afeerd there's a orkard gen'l'm'n in 'em, sir," replied Sam.
"Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was
anything the matter. "Come; the ladies are all anxiety."
"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. "I'm coming."
"Just a goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavouring to disengage himself.
"Now, sir, start off!"
"Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately
to Mr. Weller. "I find I've got a couple of coats at home I don't want,
Sam. You may have them, Sam."
"Thank'ee, sir," replied Mr. Weller.
"Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle, hastily. "You
needn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five
shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it you this
afternoon, Sam."
"You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller.
"Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There--that's
right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not
too fast."
Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was
being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a most singular and
un-swan-like manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the
opposite bank:
"Sam!"
"Sir?"
"Here. I want you."
"Let go, sir," said Sam. "Don't you hear the governor a callin'? Let
go, sir."
With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of
the agonised Pickwickian, and, in so doing, administered a considerable
impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of
dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman
bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when
Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr.
Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell
heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his
feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind, in
skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile;
but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.
"Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.
"Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.
"I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin with great eagerness.
"No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle, hurriedly.
"I really think you had better," said Allen.
"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle; "I'd rather not."
"What do _you_ think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer. Mr. Pickwick
was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a
stern voice, "Take his skates off."
"No; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr. Winkle.
"Take his skates off," repeated Mr. Pickwick, firmly.
The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it
in silence.
"Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise. Mr.
Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and, beckoning
his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in
a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words:
"You're a humbug, sir."
"A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting.
"A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir."
With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined
his friends.
While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just
recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavours
cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon, in a very
masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was
displaying that beautiful feat of fancy sliding which is currently
denominated "knocking at the cobbler's door," and which is achieved by
skimming over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a postman's
knock upon it with the other. It was a good long slide, and there was
something in the motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with
standing still, could not help envying.
"It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn't it?" he inquired of
Wardle, when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason of
the indefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair
of compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice.
"Ah, it does indeed," replied Wardle. "Do you slide?"
"I used to do so, on the gutters, when I was a boy," replied Mr.
Pickwick.
[Illustration: _Went slowly and gravely down the slide_]
"Try it now," said Wardle.
"Oh do, please, Mr. Pickwick!" cried all the ladies.
"I should be very happy to afford you any amusement," replied Mr.
Pickwick, "but I haven't done such a thing these thirty years."
"Pooh! pooh! Nonsense!" said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the
impetuosity which characterised all his proceedings. "Here; I'll keep
you company; come along!" And away went the good-tempered old fellow
down the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller,
and beat the fat boy all to nothing.
Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in
his hat: took two or three short runs, baulked himself as often, and at
last took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with
his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts
of all the spectators.
"Keep the pot a bilin', sir!" said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and
then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob
Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closely
upon each other's heels, and running after each other with as much
eagerness as if all their future prospects in life depended on their
expedition.
It was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe the manner in
which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the
torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon
him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually
expend the painful force he had put on at first, and turn slowly
round on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he had
started; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face
when he had accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which
he turned round when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor:
his black gaiters tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes
beaming cheerfulness and gladness through his spectacles. And when he
was knocked down (which happened upon the average every third round),
it was the most invigorating sight that can possibly be imagined, to
behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing
countenance, and resume his station in the rank, with an ardour and
enthusiasm that nothing could abate.
The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the
laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp smart crack was heard. There
was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and
a shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; the water
bubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick's hat, gloves, and handkerchief were
floating on the surface; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody
could see.
Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance, the males turned
pale, and the females fainted, Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped
each other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader
had gone down, with frenzied eagerness; while Mr. Tupman, by way of
rendering the promptest assistance, and at the same time conveying to
any persons who might be within hearing, the clearest possible notion
of the catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed,
screaming "Fire!" with all his might.
It was at this moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching
the hole with cautious steps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a
hurried consultation with Bob Sawyer, on the advisability of bleeding
the company generally, as an improving little bit of professional
practice--it was at this very moment, that a face, head, and shoulders,
emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and
spectacles of Mr. Pickwick.
[Illustration: _A face, head, and shoulders, emerged from beneath the
water, and disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick._]
"Keep yourself up for an instant--for only one instant;" bawled Mr.
Snodgrass.
"Yes, do; let me implore you--for my sake!" roared Mr. Winkle, deeply
affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary: the probability being,
that if Mr. Pickwick; had declined to keep himself up for anybody
else's sake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so
for his own.
"Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?" said Wardle.
"Yes, certainly," replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his
head and face, and gasping for breath. "I fell upon my back. I couldn't
get on my feet at first."
The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat as was yet visible, bore
testimony to the accuracy of this statement; and as the fears of the
spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy's suddenly
recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep,
prodigies of valour were performed to get him out. After a vast
quantity of splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was
at length fairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more
stood on dry land.
"Oh, he'll catch his death of cold," said Emily.
"Dear old thing!" said Arabella. "Let me wrap this shawl round you, Mr.
Pickwick."
"Ah, that's the best thing you can do," said Wardle; "and when you've
got it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into
bed directly."
A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four of the
thickest having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and
started off, under the guidance of Mr. Weller: presenting the singular
phenomenon of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat,
with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground,
without any clearly defined purpose, at the rate of six good English
miles an hour.
But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and
urged on by Sam Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he
reached the door of Manor Farm, where Mr. Tupman had arrived some five
minutes before, and had frightened the old lady into palpitations of
the heart by impressing her with the unalterable conviction that the
kitchen chimney was on fire--a calamity which always presented itself
in glowing colours to the old lady's mind, when anybody about her
evinced the smallest agitation.
Mr. Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug in bed. Sam Weller
lighted a blazing fire in the room and took up his dinner; a bowl of
punch was carried up afterwards, and a grand carouse held in honour of
his safety. Old Wardle would not hear of his rising, so they made the
bed the chair, and Mr. Pickwick presided. A second and a third bowl
were ordered in; and when Mr. Pickwick awoke next morning, there was
not a symptom of rheumatism about him: which proves, as Mr. Bob Sawyer
very justly observed, that there is nothing like hot punch in such
cases: and that if ever hot punch did fail to act as a preventive, it
was merely because the patient fell into the vulgar error of not taking
enough of it.
The jovial party broke up next morning. Breakings up are capital things
in our school days, but in after life they are painful enough. Death,
self-interest, and fortune's changes, are every day breaking up many a
happy group, and scattering them far and wide; and the boys and girls
never come back again. We do not mean to say that it was exactly the
case in this particular instance; all we wish to inform the reader is,
that the different members of the party dispersed to their several
homes; that Mr. Pickwick and his friends once more took their seats on
the top of the Muggleton coach; and that Arabella Allen repaired to
her place of destination, wherever it might have been--we dare say Mr.
Winkle knew, but we confess we don't--under the care and guardianship
of her brother Benjamin, and his most intimate friend, Mr. Bob Sawyer.
Before they separated, however, that gentleman and Mr. Benjamin Allen
drew Mr. Pickwick aside with an air of some mystery: and Mr. Bob
Sawyer, thrusting his forefinger between two of Mr. Pickwick's ribs,
and thereby displaying his native drollery, and his knowledge of the
anatomy of the human frame, at one and the same time, inquired:
"I say, old boy, where do you hang out?"
Mr. Pickwick replied that he was at present suspended at the George and
Vulture.
"I wish you'd come and see me," said Bob Sawyer.
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"There's my lodgings," said Mr. Bob Sawyer, producing a card. "Lant
Street, Borough; it's near Guy's, and handy for me, you know. Little
distance after you've passed St. George's Church--turns out of the High
Street on the right-hand side the way."
"I shall find it," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Come on Thursday fortnight, and bring the other chaps with you," said
Mr. Bob Sawyer. "I'm going to have a few medical fellows that night."
Mr. Pickwick expressed the pleasure it would afford him to meet the
medical fellows; and after Mr. Bob Sawyer had informed him that he
meant to be very cosy, and that his friend Ben was to be one of the
party, they shook hands and separated.
We feel that in this place we lay ourselves open to inquiry whether
Mr. Winkle was whispering, during this brief conversation, to Arabella
Allen; and if so, what he said; and furthermore, whether Mr. Snodgrass
was conversing apart with Emily Wardle; and if so, what _he_ said. To
this, we reply, that whatever they might have said to the ladies, they
said nothing at all to Mr. Pickwick or Mr. Tupman for eight-and-twenty
miles, and that they sighed very often, refused ale and brandy,
and looked gloomy. If our observant lady readers can deduce any
satisfactory inferences from these facts, we beg them by all means to
do so.