DETAILED 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
anothe r 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 C apital 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. What 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 study 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 him 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.