‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone. ‘Hush. Don’t ask
any questions. It’s always best on these occasions to do what the mob
do.’
‘But suppose there are two mobs?’ suggested Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Shout with the largest,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
Volumes could not have said more.
They entered the house, the crowd opening right and left to let them
pass, and cheering vociferously. The first object of consideration was
to secure quarters for the night.
‘Can we have beds here?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, summoning the waiter.
‘Don’t know, Sir,’ replied the man; ‘afraid we’re full, sir--I’ll
inquire, Sir.’ Away he went for that purpose, and presently returned, to
ask whether the gentleman were ‘Blue.’
As neither Mr. Pickwick nor his companions took any vital interest in
the cause of either candidate, the question was rather a difficult one
to answer. In this dilemma Mr. Pickwick bethought himself of his new
friend, Mr. Perker.
‘Do you know a gentleman of the name of Perker?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Certainly, Sir; Honourable Mr. Samuel Slumkey’s agent.’
‘He is Blue, I think?’
‘Oh, yes, Sir.’
‘Then _we_ are Blue,’ said Mr. Pickwick; but observing that the man
looked rather doubtful at this accommodating announcement, he gave him
his card, and desired him to present it to Mr. Perker forthwith, if he
should happen to be in the house. The waiter retired; and reappearing
almost immediately with a request that Mr. Pickwick would follow him,
led the way to a large room on the first floor, where, seated at a long
table covered with books and papers, was Mr. Perker.
‘Ah--ah, my dear Sir,’ said the little man, advancing to meet him; ‘very
happy to see you, my dear Sir, very. Pray sit down. So you have carried
your intention into effect. You have come down here to see an election--
eh?’
Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.
‘Spirited contest, my dear sir,’ said the little man.
‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands. ‘I
like to see sturdy patriotism, on whatever side it is called forth--and
so it’s a spirited contest?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the little man, ‘very much so indeed. We have opened all
the public-houses in the place, and left our adversary nothing but the
beer-shops--masterly stroke of policy that, my dear Sir, eh?’ The little
man smiled complacently, and took a large pinch of snuff.
‘And what are the probabilities as to the result of the contest?’
inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Why, doubtful, my dear Sir; rather doubtful as yet,’ replied the little
man. ‘Fizkin’s people have got three-and-thirty voters in the lock-up
coach-house at the White Hart.’
‘In the coach-house!’ said Mr. Pickwick, considerably astonished by this
second stroke of policy.
‘They keep ‘em locked up there till they want ‘em,’ resumed the little
man. ‘The effect of that is, you see, to prevent our getting at them;
and even if we could, it would be of no use, for they keep them very
drunk on purpose. Smart fellow Fizkin’s agent--very smart fellow
indeed.’
Mr. Pickwick stared, but said nothing.
‘We are pretty confident, though,’ said Mr. Perker, sinking his voice
almost to a whisper. ‘We had a little tea-party here, last night--five-
and-forty women, my dear sir--and gave every one of ‘em a green parasol
when she went away.’
‘A parasol!’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Fact, my dear Sir, fact. Five-and-forty green parasols, at seven and
sixpence a-piece. All women like finery--extraordinary the effect of
those parasols. Secured all their husbands, and half their brothers--
beats stockings, and flannel, and all that sort of thing hollow. My
idea, my dear Sir, entirely. Hail, rain, or sunshine, you can’t walk
half a dozen yards up the street, without encountering half a dozen
green parasols.’
Here the little man indulged in a convulsion of mirth, which was only
checked by the entrance of a third party.
This was a tall, thin man, with a sandy-coloured head inclined to
baldness, and a face in which solemn importance was blended with a look
of unfathomable profundity. He was dressed in a long brown surtout, with
a black cloth waistcoat, and drab trousers. A double eyeglass dangled at
his waistcoat; and on his head he wore a very low-crowned hat with a
broad brim. The new-comer was introduced to Mr. Pickwick as Mr. Pott,
the editor of the Eatanswill _Gazette_. After a few preliminary remarks,
Mr. Pott turned round to Mr. Pickwick, and said with solemnity--
‘This contest excites great interest in the metropolis, sir?’
‘I believe it does,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘To which I have reason to know,’ said Pott, looking towards Mr. Perker
for corroboration--‘to which I have reason to know that my article of
last Saturday in some degree contributed.’
‘Not the least doubt of it,’ said the little man.
‘The press is a mighty engine, sir,’ said Pott.
Mr. Pickwick yielded his fullest assent to the proposition.
‘But I trust, sir,’ said Pott, ‘that I have never abused the enormous
power I wield. I trust, sir, that I have never pointed the noble
instrument which is placed in my hands, against the sacred bosom of
private life, or the tender breast of individual reputation; I trust,
sir, that I have devoted my energies to--to endeavours--humble they may
be, humble I know they are--to instil those principles of--which--are--’
Here the editor of the Eatanswill _Gazette_, appearing to ramble, Mr.
Pickwick came to his relief, and said--
‘Certainly.’
‘And what, Sir,’ said Pott--‘what, Sir, let me ask you as an impartial
man, is the state of the public mind in London, with reference to my
contest with the _Independent_?’
‘Greatly excited, no doubt,’ interposed Mr. Perker, with a look of
slyness which was very likely accidental.
‘The contest,’ said Pott, ‘shall be prolonged so long as I have health
and strength, and that portion of talent with which I am gifted. From
that contest, Sir, although it may unsettle men’s minds and excite their
feelings, and render them incapable for the discharge of the everyday
duties of ordinary life; from that contest, sir, I will never shrink,
till I have set my heel upon the Eatanswill _Independent_. I wish the
people of London, and the people of this country to know, sir, that they
may rely upon me--that I will not desert them, that I am resolved to
stand by them, Sir, to the last.’
Your conduct is most noble, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and he grasped the
hand of the magnanimous Pott.
‘You are, sir, I perceive, a man of sense and talent,’ said Mr. Pott,
almost breathless with the vehemence of his patriotic declaration. ‘I am
most happy, sir, to make the acquaintance of such a man.’
‘And I,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘feel deeply honoured by this expression of
your opinion. Allow me, sir, to introduce you to my fellow-travellers,
the other corresponding members of the club I am proud to have founded.’
‘I shall be delighted,’ said Mr. Pott.
Mr. Pickwick withdrew, and returning with his friends, presented them in
due form to the editor of the Eatanswill _Gazette_.
‘Now, my dear Pott,’ said little Mr. Perker, ‘the question is, what are
we to do with our friends here?’
‘We can stop in this house, I suppose,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Not a spare bed in the house, my dear sir--not a single bed.’
‘Extremely awkward,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Very,’ said his fellow-voyagers.
‘I have an idea upon this subject,’ said Mr. Pott, ‘which I think may be
very successfully adopted. They have two beds at the Peacock, and I can
boldly say, on behalf of Mrs. Pott, that she will be delighted to
accommodate Mr. Pickwick and any one of his friends, if the other two
gentlemen and their servant do not object to shifting, as they best can,
at the Peacock.’
After repeated pressings on the part of Mr. Pott, and repeated
protestations on that of Mr. Pickwick that he could not think of
incommoding or troubling his amiable wife, it was decided that it was
the only feasible arrangement that could be made. So it _was _made; and
after dinner together at the Town Arms, the friends separated, Mr.
Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass repairing to the Peacock, and Mr. Pickwick and
Mr. Winkle proceeding to the mansion of Mr. Pott; it having been
previously arranged that they should all reassemble at the Town Arms in
the morning, and accompany the Honourable Samuel Slumkey’s procession to
the place of nomination.
Mr. Pott’s domestic circle was limited to himself and his wife. All men
whom mighty genius has raised to a proud eminence in the world, have
usually some little weakness which appears the more conspicuous from the
contrast it presents to their general character. If Mr. Pott had a
weakness, it was, perhaps, that he was rather too submissive to the
somewhat contemptuous control and sway of his wife. We do not feel
justified in laying any particular stress upon the fact, because on the
present occasion all Mrs. Pott’s most winning ways were brought into
requisition to receive the two gentlemen.
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Pott, ‘Mr. Pickwick--Mr. Pickwick of London.’
Mrs. Pott received Mr. Pickwick’s paternal grasp of the hand with
enchanting sweetness; and Mr. Winkle, who had not been announced at all,
sidled and bowed, unnoticed, in an obscure corner.
‘P. my dear’--said Mrs. Pott.
‘My life,’ said Mr. Pott.
‘Pray introduce the other gentleman.’
‘I beg a thousand pardons,’ said Mr. Pott. ‘Permit me, Mrs. Pott, Mr.--’
‘Winkle,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Winkle,’ echoed Mr. Pott; and the ceremony of introduction was
complete.
‘We owe you many apologies, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘for disturbing
your domestic arrangements at so short a notice.’
‘I beg you won’t mention it, sir,’ replied the feminine Pott, with
vivacity. ‘It is a high treat to me, I assure you, to see any new faces;
living as I do, from day to day, and week to week, in this dull place,
and seeing nobody.’
‘Nobody, my dear!’ exclaimed Mr. Pott archly.
‘Nobody but you,’ retorted Mrs. Pott, with asperity.
‘You see, Mr. Pickwick,’ said the host in explanation of his wife’s
lament, ‘that we are in some measure cut off from many enjoyments and
pleasures of which we might otherwise partake. My public station, as
editor of the Eatanswill _Gazette_, the position which that paper holds
in the country, my constant immersion in the vortex of politics--’
‘P. my dear--’ interposed Mrs. Pott.
‘My life--’ said the editor.
‘I wish, my dear, you would endeavour to find some topic of conversation
in which these gentlemen might take some rational interest.’
‘But, my love,’ said Mr. Pott, with great humility, ‘Mr. Pickwick does
take an interest in it.’
‘It’s well for him if he can,’ said Mrs. Pott emphatically; ‘I am
wearied out of my life with your politics, and quarrels with the
_Independent_, and nonsense. I am quite astonished, P., at your making
such an exhibition of your absurdity.’
‘But, my dear--’ said Mr. Pott.
‘Oh, nonsense, don’t talk to me,’ said Mrs. Pott. ‘Do you play ecarte,
Sir?’
‘I shall be very happy to learn under your tuition,’ replied Mr. Winkle.
‘Well, then, draw that little table into this window, and let me get out
of hearing of those prosy politics.’
‘Jane,’ said Mr. Pott, to the servant who brought in candles, ‘go down
into the office, and bring me up the file of the _Gazette_ for eighteen
hundred and twenty-six. I’ll read you,’ added the editor, turning to Mr.
Pickwick--‘I’ll just read you a few of the leaders I wrote at that time
upon the Buff job of appointing a new tollman to the turnpike here; I
rather think they’ll amuse you.’
‘I should like to hear them very much indeed,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
Up came the file, and down sat the editor, with Mr. Pickwick at his
side.
We have in vain pored over the leaves of Mr. Pickwick’s note-book, in
the hope of meeting with a general summary of these beautiful
compositions. We have every reason to believe that he was perfectly
enraptured with the vigour and freshness of the style; indeed Mr. Winkle
has recorded the fact that his eyes were closed, as if with excess of
pleasure, during the whole time of their perusal.
The announcement of supper put a stop both to the game of ecarte, and
the recapitulation of the beauties of the Eatanswill _Gazette_. Mrs.
Pott was in the highest spirits and the most agreeable humour. Mr.
Winkle had already made considerable progress in her good opinion, and
she did not hesitate to inform him, confidentially, that Mr. Pickwick
was ‘a delightful old dear.’ These terms convey a familiarity of
expression, in which few of those who were intimately acquainted with
that colossal-minded man, would have presumed to indulge. We have
preserved them, nevertheless, as affording at once a touching and a
convincing proof of the estimation in which he was held by every class
of society, and the ease with which he made his way to their hearts and
feelings.
It was a late hour of the night--long after Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass
had fallen asleep in the inmost recesses of the Peacock--when the two
friends retired to rest. Slumber soon fell upon the senses of Mr.
Winkle, but his feelings had been excited, and his admiration roused;
and for many hours after sleep had rendered him insensible to earthly
objects, the face and figure of the agreeable Mrs. Pott presented
themselves again and again to his wandering imagination.
The noise and bustle which ushered in the morning were sufficient to
dispel from the mind of the most romantic visionary in existence, any
associations but those which were immediately connected with the
rapidly-approaching election. The beating of drums, the blowing of horns
and trumpets, the shouting of men, and tramping of horses, echoed and
re-echoed through the streets from the earliest dawn of day; and an
occasional fight between the light skirmishers of either party at once
enlivened the preparations, and agreeably diversified their character.
‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as his valet appeared at his bedroom
door, just as he was concluding his toilet; ‘all alive to-day, I
suppose?’
‘Reg’lar game, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘our people’s a-collecting down
at the Town Arms, and they’re a-hollering themselves hoarse already.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘do they seem devoted to their party, Sam?’
‘Never see such dewotion in my life, Sir.’
‘Energetic, eh?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Uncommon,’ replied Sam; ‘I never see men eat and drink so much afore. I
wonder they ain’t afeer’d o’ bustin’.’
‘That’s the mistaken kindness of the gentry here,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Wery likely,’ replied Sam briefly.
‘Fine, fresh, hearty fellows they seem,’ said Mr. Pickwick, glancing
from the window.
‘Wery fresh,’ replied Sam; ‘me and the two waiters at the Peacock has
been a-pumpin’ over the independent woters as supped there last night.’
‘Pumping over independent voters!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
‘Yes,’ said his attendant, ‘every man slept vere he fell down; we
dragged ‘em out, one by one, this mornin’, and put ‘em under the pump,
and they’re in reg’lar fine order now. Shillin’ a head the committee
paid for that ‘ere job.’
‘Can such things be!’ exclaimed the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
‘Lord bless your heart, sir,’ said Sam, ‘why where was you half
baptised?--that’s nothin’, that ain’t.’
‘Nothing?’said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Nothin’ at all, Sir,’ replied his attendant. ‘The night afore the last
day o’ the last election here, the opposite party bribed the barmaid at
the Town Arms, to hocus the brandy-and-water of fourteen unpolled
electors as was a-stoppin’ in the house.’
‘What do you mean by “hocussing” brandy-and-water?’ inquired Mr.
Pickwick.
‘Puttin’ laud’num in it,’ replied Sam. ‘Blessed if she didn’t send ‘em
all to sleep till twelve hours arter the election was over. They took
one man up to the booth, in a truck, fast asleep, by way of experiment,
but it was no go--they wouldn’t poll him; so they brought him back, and
put him to bed again.’
Strange practices, these,’ said Mr. Pickwick; half speaking to himself
and half addressing Sam.
‘Not half so strange as a miraculous circumstance as happened to my own
father, at an election time, in this wery place, Sir,’ replied Sam.
‘What was that?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Why, he drove a coach down here once,’ said Sam; ‘’lection time came
on, and he was engaged by vun party to bring down woters from London.
Night afore he was going to drive up, committee on t’ other side sends
for him quietly, and away he goes vith the messenger, who shows him in;-
-large room--lots of gen’l’m’n--heaps of papers, pens and ink, and all
that ‘ere. “Ah, Mr. Weller,” says the gen’l’m’n in the chair, “glad to
see you, sir; how are you?”--“Wery well, thank ‘ee, Sir,” says my
father; “I hope you’re pretty middlin,” says he.--“Pretty well,
thank’ee, Sir,” says the gen’l’m’n; “sit down, Mr. Weller--pray sit
down, sir.” So my father sits down, and he and the gen’l’m’n looks wery
hard at each other. “You don’t remember me?” said the gen’l’m’n.--“Can’t
say I do,” says my father.--“Oh, I know you,” says the gen’l’m’n:
“know’d you when you was a boy,” says he.--“Well, I don’t remember you,”
says my father.--“That’s wery odd,” says the gen’l’m’n.”--“Wery,” says
my father.--“You must have a bad mem’ry, Mr. Weller,” says the
gen’l’m’n.--“Well, it is a wery bad ‘un,” says my father.--“I thought
so,” says the gen’l’m’n. So then they pours him out a glass of wine, and
gammons him about his driving, and gets him into a reg’lar good humour,
and at last shoves a twenty-pound note into his hand. “It’s a wery bad
road between this and London,” says the gen’l’m’n.--“Here and there it
is a heavy road,” says my father.--” ‘Specially near the canal, I
think,” says the gen’l’m’n.--“Nasty bit that ‘ere,” says my father.--
“Well, Mr. Weller,” says the gen’l’m’n, “you’re a wery good whip, and
can do what you like with your horses, we know. We’re all wery fond o’
you, Mr. Weller, so in case you should have an accident when you’re
bringing these here woters down, and should tip ‘em over into the canal
vithout hurtin’ of ‘em, this is for yourself,” says he.--“Gen’l’m’n,
you’re wery kind,” says my father, “and I’ll drink your health in
another glass of wine,” says he; vich he did, and then buttons up the
money, and bows himself out. You wouldn’t believe, sir,’ continued Sam,
with a look of inexpressible impudence at his master, ‘that on the wery
day as he came down with them woters, his coach _was _upset on that ‘ere
wery spot, and ev’ry man on ‘em was turned into the canal.’
‘And got out again?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick hastily.
‘Why,’ replied Sam very slowly, ‘I rather think one old gen’l’m’n was
missin’; I know his hat was found, but I ain’t quite certain whether his
head was in it or not. But what I look at is the hex-traordinary and
wonderful coincidence, that arter what that gen’l’m’n said, my father’s
coach should be upset in that wery place, and on that wery day!’
‘It is, no doubt, a very extraordinary circumstance indeed,’ said Mr.
Pickwick. ‘But brush my hat, Sam, for I hear Mr. Winkle calling me to
breakfast.’
With these words Mr. Pickwick descended to the parlour, where he found
breakfast laid, and the family already assembled. The meal was hastily
despatched; each of the gentlemen’s hats was decorated with an enormous
blue favour, made up by the fair hands of Mrs. Pott herself; and as Mr.
Winkle had undertaken to escort that lady to a house-top, in the
immediate vicinity of the hustings, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Pott repaired
alone to the Town Arms, from the back window of which, one of Mr.
Slumkey’s committee was addressing six small boys and one girl, whom he
dignified, at every second sentence, with the imposing title of ‘Men of
Eatanswill,’ whereat the six small boys aforesaid cheered prodigiously.
The stable-yard exhibited unequivocal symptoms of the glory and strength
of the Eatanswill Blues. There was a regular army of blue flags, some
with one handle, and some with two, exhibiting appropriate devices, in
golden characters four feet high, and stout in proportion. There was a
grand band of trumpets, bassoons, and drums, marshalled four abreast,
and earning their money, if ever men did, especially the drum-beaters,
who were very muscular. There were bodies of constables with blue
staves, twenty committee-men with blue scarfs, and a mob of voters with
blue cockades. There were electors on horseback and electors afoot.
There was an open carriage-and-four, for the Honourable Samuel Slumkey;
and there were four carriage-and-pair, for his friends and supporters;
and the flags were rustling, and the band was playing, and the
constables were swearing, and the twenty committee-men were squabbling,
and the mob were shouting, and the horses were backing, and the post-
boys perspiring; and everybody, and everything, then and there
assembled, was for the special use, behoof, honour, and renown, of the
Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, one of the candidates for
the representation of the borough of Eatanswill, in the Commons House of
Parliament of the United Kingdom.
Loud and long were the cheers, and mighty was the rustling of one of the
blue flags, with ‘Liberty of the Press’ inscribed thereon, when the
sandy head of Mr. Pott was discerned in one of the windows, by the mob
beneath; and tremendous was the enthusiasm when the Honourable Samuel
Slumkey himself, in top-boots, and a blue neckerchief, advanced and
seized the hand of the said Pott, and melodramatically testified by
gestures to the crowd, his ineffaceable obligations to the Eatanswill
_Gazette_.
‘Is everything ready?’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey to Mr. Perker.
‘Everything, my dear Sir,’ was the little man’s reply.
‘Nothing has been omitted, I hope?’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.
‘Nothing has been left undone, my dear sir--nothing whatever. There are
twenty washed men at the street door for you to shake hands with; and
six children in arms that you’re to pat on the head, and inquire the age
of; be particular about the children, my dear sir--it has always a great
effect, that sort of thing.’
‘I’ll take care,’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.
‘And, perhaps, my dear Sir,’ said the cautious little man, ‘perhaps if
you could--I don’t mean to say it’s indispensable--but if you could
manage to kiss one of ‘em, it would produce a very great impression on
the crowd.’
‘Wouldn’t it have as good an effect if the proposer or seconder did
that?’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.
‘Why, I am afraid it wouldn’t,’ replied the agent; ‘if it were done by
yourself, my dear Sir, I think it would make you very popular.’
‘Very well,’ said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, with a resigned air,
‘then it must be done. That’s all.’
‘Arrange the procession,’ cried the twenty committee-men.
Amidst the cheers of the assembled throng, the band, and the constables,
and the committee-men, and the voters, and the horsemen, and the
carriages, took their places--each of the two-horse vehicles being
closely packed with as many gentlemen as could manage to stand upright
in it; and that assigned to Mr. Perker, containing Mr. Pickwick, Mr.
Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and about half a dozen of the committee besides.
There was a moment of awful suspense as the procession waited for the
Honourable Samuel Slumkey to step into his carriage. Suddenly the crowd
set up a great cheering.
‘He has come out,’ said little Mr. Perker, greatly excited; the more so
as their position did not enable them to see what was going forward.
Another cheer, much louder.
‘He has shaken hands with the men,’ cried the little agent.
Another cheer, far more vehement.
‘He has patted the babies on the head,’ said Mr. Perker, trembling with
anxiety.
A roar of applause that rent the air.
‘He has kissed one of ‘em!’ exclaimed the delighted little man.
A second roar.
‘He has kissed another,’ gasped the excited manager.
A third roar.
‘He’s kissing ‘em all!’ screamed the enthusiastic little gentleman, and
hailed by the deafening shouts of the multitude, the procession moved
on.
How or by what means it became mixed up with the other procession, and
how it was ever extricated from the confusion consequent thereupon, is
more than we can undertake to describe, inasmuch as Mr. Pickwick’s hat
was knocked over his eyes, nose, and mouth, by one poke of a Buff flag-
staff, very early in the proceedings. He describes himself as being
surrounded on every side, when he could catch a glimpse of the scene, by
angry and ferocious countenances, by a vast cloud of dust, and by a
dense crowd of combatants. He represents himself as being forced from
the carriage by some unseen power, and being personally engaged in a
pugilistic encounter; but with whom, or how, or why, he is wholly unable
to state. He then felt himself forced up some wooden steps by the
persons from behind; and on removing his hat, found himself surrounded
by his friends, in the very front of the left hand side of the hustings.
The right was reserved for the Buff party, and the centre for the mayor
and his officers; one of whom--the fat crier of Eatanswill--was ringing
an enormous bell, by way of commanding silence, while Mr. Horatio
Fizkin, and the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, with their hands upon their
hearts, were bowing with the utmost affability to the troubled sea of
heads that inundated the open space in front; and from whence arose a
storm of groans, and shouts, and yells, and hootings, that would have
done honour to an earthquake.
‘There’s Winkle,’ said Mr. Tupman, pulling his friend by the sleeve.
‘Where!’ said Mr. Pickwick, putting on his spectacles, which he had
fortunately kept in his pocket hitherto.
‘There,’ said Mr. Tupman, ‘on the top of that house.’ And there, sure
enough, in the leaden gutter of a tiled roof, were Mr. Winkle and Mrs.
Pott, comfortably seated in a couple of chairs, waving their
handkerchiefs in token of recognition--a compliment which Mr. Pickwick
returned by kissing his hand to the lady.
The proceedings had not yet commenced; and as an inactive crowd is
generally disposed to be jocose, this very innocent action was
sufficient to awaken their facetiousness.
‘Oh, you wicked old rascal,’ cried one voice, ‘looking arter the girls,
are you?’
‘Oh, you wenerable sinner,’ cried another.
‘Putting on his spectacles to look at a married ‘ooman!’ said a third.
‘I see him a-winkin’ at her, with his wicked old eye,’ shouted a fourth.
‘Look arter your wife, Pott,’ bellowed a fifth--and then there was a
roar of laughter.
As these taunts were accompanied with invidious comparisons between Mr.
Pickwick and an aged ram, and several witticisms of the like nature; and
as they moreover rather tended to convey reflections upon the honour of
an innocent lady, Mr. Pickwick’s indignation was excessive; but as
silence was proclaimed at the moment, he contented himself by scorching
the mob with a look of pity for their misguided minds, at which they
laughed more boisterously than ever.
‘Silence!’ roared the mayor’s attendants.
‘Whiffin, proclaim silence,’ said the mayor, with an air of pomp
befitting his lofty station. In obedience to this command the crier
performed another concerto on the bell, whereupon a gentleman in the
crowd called out ‘Muffins’; which occasioned another laugh.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the mayor, at as loud a pitch as he could possibly
force his voice to--‘gentlemen. Brother electors of the borough of
Eatanswill. We are met here to-day for the purpose of choosing a
representative in the room of our late--’
Here the mayor was interrupted by a voice in the crowd.
‘Suc-cess to the mayor!’ cried the voice, ‘and may he never desert the
nail and sarspan business, as he got his money by.’
This allusion to the professional pursuits of the orator was received
with a storm of delight, which, with a bell-accompaniment, rendered the
remainder of his speech inaudible, with the exception of the concluding
sentence, in which he thanked the meeting for the patient attention with
which they heard him throughout--an expression of gratitude which
elicited another burst of mirth, of about a quarter of an hour’s
duration.
Next, a tall, thin gentleman, in a very stiff white neckerchief, after
being repeatedly desired by the crowd to ‘send a boy home, to ask
whether he hadn’t left his voice under the pillow,’ begged to nominate a
fit and proper person to represent them in Parliament. And when he said
it was Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, the
Fizkinites applauded, and the Slumkeyites groaned, so long, and so
loudly, that both he and the seconder might have sung comic songs in
lieu of speaking, without anybody’s being a bit the wiser.
The friends of Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, having had their innings, a
little choleric, pink-faced man stood forward to propose another fit and
proper person to represent the electors of Eatanswill in Parliament; and
very swimmingly the pink-faced gentleman would have got on, if he had
not been rather too choleric to entertain a sufficient perception of the
fun of the crowd. But after a very few sentences of figurative
eloquence, the pink-faced gentleman got from denouncing those who
interrupted him in the mob, to exchanging defiances with the gentlemen
on the hustings; whereupon arose an uproar which reduced him to the
necessity of expressing his feelings by serious pantomime, which he did,
and then left the stage to his seconder, who delivered a written speech
of half an hour’s length, and wouldn’t be stopped, because he had sent
it all to the Eatanswill _Gazette_, and the Eatanswill _Gazette_ had
already printed it, every word.
Then Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill,
presented himself for the purpose of addressing the electors; which he
no sooner did, than the band employed by the Honourable Samuel Slumkey,
commenced performing with a power to which their strength in the morning
was a trifle; in return for which, the Buff crowd belaboured the heads
and shoulders of the Blue crowd; on which the Blue crowd endeavoured to
dispossess themselves of their very unpleasant neighbours the Buff
crowd; and a scene of struggling, and pushing, and fighting, succeeded,
to which we can no more do justice than the mayor could, although he
issued imperative orders to twelve constables to seize the ringleaders,
who might amount in number to two hundred and fifty, or thereabouts. At
all these encounters, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, and his
friends, waxed fierce and furious; until at last Horatio Fizkin,
Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, begged to ask his opponent, the Honourable
Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, whether that band played by his
consent; which question the Honourable Samuel Slumkey declining to
answer, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, shook his fist in the
countenance of the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall; upon
which the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, his blood being up, defied Horatio
Fizkin, Esquire, to mortal combat. At this violation of all known rules
and precedents of order, the mayor commanded another fantasia on the
bell, and declared that he would bring before himself, both Horatio
Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, and the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of
Slumkey Hall, and bind them over to keep the peace. Upon this terrific
denunciation, the supporters of the two candidates interfered, and after
the friends of each party had quarrelled in pairs, for three-quarters of
an hour, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, touched his hat to the Honourable
Samuel Slumkey; the Honourable Samuel Slumkey touched his to Horatio
Fizkin, Esquire; the band was stopped; the crowd were partially quieted;
and Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, was permitted to proceed.
The speeches of the two candidates, though differing in every other
respect, afforded a beautiful tribute to the merit and high worth of the
electors of Eatanswill. Both expressed their opinion that a more
independent, a more enlightened, a more public-spirited, a more noble-
minded, a more disinterested set of men than those who had promised to
vote for him, never existed on earth; each darkly hinted his suspicions
that the electors in the opposite interest had certain swinish and
besotted infirmities which rendered them unfit for the exercise of the
important duties they were called upon to discharge. Fizkin expressed
his readiness to do anything he was wanted: Slumkey, his determination
to do nothing that was asked of him. Both said that the trade, the
manufactures, the commerce, the prosperity of Eatanswill, would ever be
dearer to their hearts than any earthly object; and each had it in his
power to state, with the utmost confidence, that he was the man who
would eventually be returned.
There was a show of hands; the mayor decided in favour of the Honourable
Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall. Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin
Lodge, demanded a poll, and a poll was fixed accordingly. Then a vote of
thanks was moved to the mayor for his able conduct in the chair; and the
mayor, devoutly wishing that he had had a chair to display his able
conduct in (for he had been standing during the whole proceedings),
returned thanks. The processions reformed, the carriages rolled slowly
through the crowd, and its members screeched and shouted after them as
their feelings or caprice dictated.
During the whole time of the polling, the town was in a perpetual fever
of excitement. Everything was conducted on the most liberal and
delightful scale. Excisable articles were remarkably cheap at all the
public-houses; and spring vans paraded the streets for the accommodation
of voters who were seized with any temporary dizziness in the head--an
epidemic which prevailed among the electors, during the contest, to a
most alarming extent, and under the influence of which they might
frequently be seen lying on the pavements in a state of utter
insensibility. A small body of electors remained unpolled on the very
last day. They were calculating and reflecting persons, who had not yet
been convinced by the arguments of either party, although they had
frequent conferences with each. One hour before the close of the poll,
Mr. Perker solicited the honour of a private interview with these
intelligent, these noble, these patriotic men. It was granted. His
arguments were brief but satisfactory. They went in a body to the poll;
and when they returned, the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall,
was returned also.
CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING A BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF THE COMPANY AT THE
PEACOCK ASSEMBLED; AND A TALE TOLD BY A BAGMAN
It is pleasant to turn from contemplating the strife and turmoil of
political existence, to the peaceful repose of private life. Although in
reality no great partisan of either side, Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently
fired with Mr. Pott’s enthusiasm, to apply his whole time and attention
to the proceedings, of which the last chapter affords a description
compiled from his own memoranda. Nor while he was thus occupied was Mr.
Winkle idle, his whole time being devoted to pleasant walks and short
country excursions with Mrs. Pott, who never failed, when such an
opportunity presented itself, to seek some relief from the tedious
monotony she so constantly complained of. The two gentlemen being thus
completely domesticated in the editor’s house, Mr. Tupman and Mr.
Snodgrass were in a great measure cast upon their own resources. Taking
but little interest in public affairs, they beguiled their time chiefly
with such amusements as the Peacock afforded, which were limited to a
bagatelle-board in the first floor, and a sequestered skittle-ground in
the back yard. In the science and nicety of both these recreations,
which are far more abstruse than ordinary men suppose, they were
gradually initiated by Mr. Weller, who possessed a perfect knowledge of
such pastimes. Thus, notwithstanding that they were in a great measure
deprived of the comfort and advantage of Mr. Pickwick’s society, they
were still enabled to beguile the time, and to prevent its hanging
heavily on their hands.
It was in the evening, however, that the Peacock presented attractions
which enabled the two friends to resist even the invitations of the
gifted, though prosy, Pott. It was in the evening that the ‘commercial
room’ was filled with a social circle, whose characters and manners it
was the delight of Mr. Tupman to observe; whose sayings and doings it
was the habit of Mr. Snodgrass to note down.
Most people know what sort of places commercial rooms usually are. That
of the Peacock differed in no material respect from the generality of
such apartments; that is to say, it was a large, bare-looking room, the
furniture of which had no doubt been better when it was newer, with a
spacious table in the centre, and a variety of smaller dittos in the
corners; an extensive assortment of variously shaped chairs, and an old
Turkey carpet, bearing about the same relative proportion to the size of
the room, as a lady’s pocket-handkerchief might to the floor of a watch-
box. The walls were garnished with one or two large maps; and several
weather-beaten rough greatcoats, with complicated capes, dangled from a
long row of pegs in one corner. The mantel-shelf was ornamented with a
wooden inkstand, containing one stump of a pen and half a wafer; a road-
book and directory; a county history minus the cover; and the mortal
remains of a trout in a glass coffin. The atmosphere was redolent of
tobacco-smoke, the fumes of which had communicated a rather dingy hue to
the whole room, and more especially to the dusty red curtains which
shaded the windows. On the sideboard a variety of miscellaneous articles
were huddled together, the most conspicuous of which were some very
cloudy fish-sauce cruets, a couple of driving-boxes, two or three whips,
and as many travelling shawls, a tray of knives and forks, and the
mustard.
Here it was that Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were seated on the evening
after the conclusion of the election, with several other temporary
inmates of the house, smoking and drinking.
‘Well, gents,’ said a stout, hale personage of about forty, with only
one eye--a very bright black eye, which twinkled with a roguish
expression of fun and good-humour, ‘our noble selves, gents. I always
propose that toast to the company, and drink Mary to myself. Eh, Mary!’
‘Get along with you, you wretch,’ said the hand-maiden, obviously not
ill-pleased with the compliment, however.
‘Don’t go away, Mary,’ said the black-eyed man.
‘Let me alone, imperence,’ said the young lady.
‘Never mind,’ said the one-eyed man, calling after the girl as she left
the room. ‘I’ll step out by and by, Mary. Keep your spirits up, dear.’
Here he went through the not very difficult process of winking upon the
company with his solitary eye, to the enthusiastic delight of an elderly
personage with a dirty face and a clay pipe.
‘Rum creeters is women,’ said the dirty-faced man, after a pause.
‘Ah! no mistake about that,’ said a very red-faced man, behind a cigar.
After this little bit of philosophy there was another pause.
‘There’s rummer things than women in this world though, mind you,’ said
the man with the black eye, slowly filling a large Dutch pipe, with a
most capacious bowl.
‘Are you married?’ inquired the dirty-faced man.
‘Can’t say I am.’
‘I thought not.’ Here the dirty-faced man fell into ecstasies of mirth
at his own retort, in which he was joined by a man of bland voice and
placid countenance, who always made it a point to agree with everybody.
‘Women, after all, gentlemen,’ said the enthusiastic Mr. Snodgrass, ‘are
the great props and comforts of our existence.’
‘So they are,’ said the placid gentleman.
‘When they’re in a good humour,’ interposed the dirty-faced man.
‘And that’s very true,’ said the placid one.
‘I repudiate that qualification,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, whose thoughts
were fast reverting to Emily Wardle. ‘I repudiate it with disdain--with
indignation. Show me the man who says anything against women, as women,
and I boldly declare he is not a man.’ And Mr. Snodgrass took his cigar
from his mouth, and struck the table violently with his clenched fist.
‘That’s good sound argument,’ said the placid man.
‘Containing a position which I deny,’ interrupted he of the dirty
countenance.
‘And there’s certainly a very great deal of truth in what you observe
too, Sir,’ said the placid gentleman.
‘Your health, Sir,’ said the bagman with the lonely eye, bestowing an
approving nod on Mr. Snodgrass.
Mr. Snodgrass acknowledged the compliment.
‘I always like to hear a good argument,’ continued the bagman, ‘a sharp
one, like this: it’s very improving; but this little argument about
women brought to my mind a story I have heard an old uncle of mine tell,
the recollection of which, just now, made me say there were rummer
things than women to be met with, sometimes.’
‘I should like to hear that same story,’ said the red-faced man with the
cigar.
‘Should you?’ was the only reply of the bagman, who continued to smoke
with great vehemence.
‘So should I,’ said Mr. Tupman, speaking for the first time. He was
always anxious to increase his stock of experience.
‘Should _you_? Well then, I’ll tell it. No, I won’t. I know you won’t
believe it,’ said the man with the roguish eye, making that organ look
more roguish than ever. ‘If you say it’s true, of course I shall,’ said
Mr. Tupman.
‘Well, upon that understanding I’ll tell you,’ replied the traveller.
‘Did you ever hear of the great commercial house of Bilson & Slum? But
it doesn’t matter though, whether you did or not, because they retired
from business long since. It’s eighty years ago, since the circumstance
happened to a traveller for that house, but he was a particular friend
of my uncle’s; and my uncle told the story to me. It’s a queer name; but
he used to call it
THE BAGMAN’S STORY
and he used to tell it, something in this way.
‘One winter’s evening, about five o’clock, just as it began to grow
dusk, a man in a gig might have been seen urging his tired horse along
the road which leads across Marlborough Downs, in the direction of
Bristol. I say he might have been seen, and I have no doubt he would
have been, if anybody but a blind man had happened to pass that way; but
the weather was so bad, and the night so cold and wet, that nothing was
out but the water, and so the traveller jogged along in the middle of
the road, lonesome and dreary enough. If any bagman of that day could
have caught sight of the little neck-or-nothing sort of gig, with a
clay-coloured body and red wheels, and the vixenish, ill tempered, fast-
going bay mare, that looked like a cross between a butcher’s horse and a
twopenny post-office pony, he would have known at once, that this
traveller could have been no other than Tom Smart, of the great house of
Bilson and Slum, Cateaton Street, City. However, as there was no bagman
to look on, nobody knew anything at all about the matter; and so Tom
Smart and his clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, and the vixenish
mare with the fast pace, went on together, keeping the secret among
them, and nobody was a bit the wiser.
‘There are many pleasanter places even in this dreary world, than
Marlborough Downs when it blows hard; and if you throw in beside, a
gloomy winter’s evening, a miry and sloppy road, and a pelting fall of
heavy rain, and try the effect, by way of experiment, in your own proper
person, you will experience the full force of this observation.
‘The wind blew--not up the road or down it, though that’s bad enough,
but sheer across it, sending the rain slanting down like the lines they
used to rule in the copy-books at school, to make the boys slope well.
For a moment it would die away, and the traveller would begin to delude
himself into the belief that, exhausted with its previous fury, it had
quietly laid itself down to rest, when, whoo! he could hear it growling
and whistling in the distance, and on it would come rushing over the
hill-tops, and sweeping along the plain, gathering sound and strength as
it drew nearer, until it dashed with a heavy gust against horse and man,
driving the sharp rain into their ears, and its cold damp breath into
their very bones; and past them it would scour, far, far away, with a
stunning roar, as if in ridicule of their weakness, and triumphant in
the consciousness of its own strength and power.
‘The bay mare splashed away, through the mud and water, with drooping
ears; now and then tossing her head as if to express her disgust at this
very ungentlemanly behaviour of the elements, but keeping a good pace
notwithstanding, until a gust of wind, more furious than any that had
yet assailed them, caused her to stop suddenly and plant her four feet
firmly against the ground, to prevent her being blown over. It’s a
special mercy that she did this, for if she _had _been blown over, the
vixenish mare was so light, and the gig was so light, and Tom Smart such
a light weight into the bargain, that they must infallibly have all gone
rolling over and over together, until they reached the confines of
earth, or until the wind fell; and in either case the probability is,
that neither the vixenish mare, nor the clay-coloured gig with the red
wheels, nor Tom Smart, would ever have been fit for service again.
‘“Well, damn my straps and whiskers,” says Tom Smart (Tom sometimes had
an unpleasant knack of swearing)--“damn my straps and whiskers,” says
Tom, “if this ain’t pleasant, blow me!”
‘You’ll very likely ask me why, as Tom Smart had been pretty well blown
already, he expressed this wish to be submitted to the same process
again. I can’t say--all I know is, that Tom Smart said so--or at least
he always told my uncle he said so, and it’s just the same thing.
“‘Blow me,” says Tom Smart; and the mare neighed as if she were
precisely of the same opinion.
“‘Cheer up, old girl,” said Tom, patting the bay mare on the neck with
the end of his whip. “It won’t do pushing on, such a night as this; the
first house we come to we’ll put up at, so the faster you go the sooner
it’s over. Soho, old girl--gently--gently.”
‘Whether the vixenish mare was sufficiently well acquainted with the
tones of Tom’s voice to comprehend his meaning, or whether she found it
colder standing still than moving on, of course I can’t say. But I can
say that Tom had no sooner finished speaking, than she pricked up her
ears, and started forward at a speed which made the clay-coloured gig
rattle until you would have supposed every one of the red spokes were
going to fly out on the turf of Marlborough Downs; and even Tom, whip as
he was, couldn’t stop or check her pace, until she drew up of her own
accord, before a roadside inn on the right-hand side of the way, about
half a quarter of a mile from the end of the Downs.
‘Tom cast a hasty glance at the upper part of the house as he threw the
reins to the hostler, and stuck the whip in the box. It was a strange
old place, built of a kind of shingle, inlaid, as it were, with cross-
beams, with gabled-topped windows projecting completely over the
pathway, and a low door with a dark porch, and a couple of steep steps
leading down into the house, instead of the modern fashion of half a
dozen shallow ones leading up to it. It was a comfortable-looking place
though, for there was a strong, cheerful light in the bar window, which
shed a bright ray across the road, and even lighted up the hedge on the
other side; and there was a red flickering light in the opposite window,
one moment but faintly discernible, and the next gleaming strongly
through the drawn curtains, which intimated that a rousing fire was
blazing within. Marking these little evidences with the eye of an
experienced traveller, Tom dismounted with as much agility as his half-
frozen limbs would permit, and entered the house.
‘In less than five minutes’ time, Tom was ensconced in the room opposite
the bar--the very room where he had imagined the fire blazing--before a
substantial, matter-of-fact, roaring fire, composed of something short
of a bushel of coals, and wood enough to make half a dozen decent
gooseberry bushes, piled half-way up the chimney, and roaring and
crackling with a sound that of itself would have warmed the heart of any
reasonable man. This was comfortable, but this was not all; for a
smartly-dressed girl, with a bright eye and a neat ankle, was laying a
very clean white cloth on the table; and as Tom sat with his slippered
feet on the fender, and his back to the open door, he saw a charming
prospect of the bar reflected in the glass over the chimney-piece, with
delightful rows of green bottles and gold labels, together with jars of
pickles and preserves, and cheeses and boiled hams, and rounds of beef,
arranged on shelves in the most tempting and delicious array. Well, this
was comfortable too; but even this was not all--for in the bar, seated
at tea at the nicest possible little table, drawn close up before the
brightest possible little fire, was a buxom widow of somewhere about
eight-and-forty or thereabouts, with a face as comfortable as the bar,
who was evidently the landlady of the house, and the supreme ruler over
all these agreeable possessions. There was only one drawback to the
beauty of the whole picture, and that was a tall man--a very tall man--
in a brown coat and bright basket buttons, and black whiskers and wavy
black hair, who was seated at tea with the widow, and who it required no
great penetration to discover was in a fair way of persuading her to be
a widow no longer, but to confer upon him the privilege of sitting down
in that bar, for and during the whole remainder of the term of his
natural life.
‘Tom Smart was by no means of an irritable or envious disposition, but
somehow or other the tall man with the brown coat and the bright basket
buttons did rouse what little gall he had in his composition, and did
make him feel extremely indignant, the more especially as he could now
and then observe, from his seat before the glass, certain little
affectionate familiarities passing between the tall man and the widow,
which sufficiently denoted that the tall man was as high in favour as he
was in size. Tom was fond of hot punch--I may venture to say he was
_very_ fond of hot punch--and after he had seen the vixenish mare well
fed and well littered down, and had eaten every bit of the nice little
hot dinner which the widow tossed up for him with her own hands, he just
ordered a tumbler of it by way of experiment. Now, if there was one
thing in the whole range of domestic art, which the widow could
manufacture better than another, it was this identical article; and the
first tumbler was adapted to Tom Smart’s taste with such peculiar
nicety, that he ordered a second with the least possible delay. Hot
punch is a pleasant thing, gentlemen--an extremely pleasant thing under
any circumstances--but in that snug old parlour, before the roaring
fire, with the wind blowing outside till every timber in the old house
creaked again, Tom Smart found it perfectly delightful. He ordered
another tumbler, and then another--I am not quite certain whether he
didn’t order another after that--but the more he drank of the hot punch,
the more he thought of the tall man.
‘“Confound his impudence!” said Tom to himself, “what business has he in
that snug bar? Such an ugly villain too!” said Tom. “If the widow had
any taste, she might surely pick up some better fellow than that.” Here
Tom’s eye wandered from the glass on the chimney-piece to the glass on
the table; and as he felt himself becoming gradually sentimental, he
emptied the fourth tumbler of punch and ordered a fifth.
‘Tom Smart, gentlemen, had always been very much attached to the public
line. It had been long his ambition to stand in a bar of his own, in a
green coat, knee-cords, and tops. He had a great notion of taking the
chair at convivial dinners, and he had often thought how well he could
preside in a room of his own in the talking way, and what a capital
example he could set to his customers in the drinking department. All
these things passed rapidly through Tom’s mind as he sat drinking the
hot punch by the roaring fire, and he felt very justly and properly
indignant that the tall man should be in a fair way of keeping such an
excellent house, while he, Tom Smart, was as far off from it as ever.
So, after deliberating over the two last tumblers, whether he hadn’t a
perfect right to pick a quarrel with the tall man for having contrived
to get into the good graces of the buxom widow, Tom Smart at last
arrived at the satisfactory conclusion that he was a very ill-used and
persecuted individual, and had better go to bed.
‘Up a wide and ancient staircase the smart girl preceded Tom, shading
the chamber candle with her hand, to protect it from the currents of air
which in such a rambling old place might have found plenty of room to
disport themselves in, without blowing the candle out, but which did
blow it out nevertheless--thus affording Tom’s enemies an opportunity of
asserting that it was he, and not the wind, who extinguished the candle,
and that while he pretended to be blowing it alight again, he was in
fact kissing the girl. Be this as it may, another light was obtained,
and Tom was conducted through a maze of rooms, and a labyrinth of
passages, to the apartment which had been prepared for his reception,
where the girl bade him good-night and left him alone.
‘It was a good large room with big closets, and a bed which might have
served for a whole boarding-school, to say nothing of a couple of oaken
presses that would have held the baggage of a small army; but what
struck Tom’s fancy most was a strange, grim-looking, high backed chair,
carved in the most fantastic manner, with a flowered damask cushion, and
the round knobs at the bottom of the legs carefully tied up in red
cloth, as if it had got the gout in its toes. Of any other queer chair,
Tom would only have thought it was a queer chair, and there would have
been an end of the matter; but there was something about this particular
chair, and yet he couldn’t tell what it was, so odd and so unlike any
other piece of furniture he had ever seen, that it seemed to fascinate
him. He sat down before the fire, and stared at the old chair for half
an hour.--Damn the chair, it was such a strange old thing, he couldn’t
take his eyes off it.
‘“Well,” said Tom, slowly undressing himself, and staring at the old
chair all the while, which stood with a mysterious aspect by the
bedside, “I never saw such a rum concern as that in my days. Very odd,”
said Tom, who had got rather sage with the hot punch--“very odd.” Tom
shook his head with an air of profound wisdom, and looked at the chair
again. He couldn’t make anything of it though, so he got into bed,
covered himself up warm, and fell asleep.
‘In about half an hour, Tom woke up with a start, from a confused dream
of tall men and tumblers of punch; and the first object that presented
itself to his waking imagination was the queer chair.
‘“I won’t look at it any more,” said Tom to himself, and he squeezed his
eyelids together, and tried to persuade himself he was going to sleep
again. No use; nothing but queer chairs danced before his eyes, kicking
up their legs, jumping over each other’s backs, and playing all kinds of
antics.
“‘I may as well see one real chair, as two or three complete sets of
false ones,” said Tom, bringing out his head from under the bedclothes.
There it was, plainly discernible by the light of the fire, looking as
provoking as ever.
‘Tom gazed at the chair; and, suddenly as he looked at it, a most
extraordinary change seemed to come over it. The carving of the back
gradually assumed the lineaments and expression of an old, shrivelled
human face; the damask cushion became an antique, flapped waistcoat; the
round knobs grew into a couple of feet, encased in red cloth slippers;
and the whole chair looked like a very ugly old man, of the previous
century, with his arms akimbo. Tom sat up in bed, and rubbed his eyes to
dispel the illusion. No. The chair was an ugly old gentleman; and what
was more, he was winking at Tom Smart.
‘Tom was naturally a headlong, careless sort of dog, and he had had five
tumblers of hot punch into the bargain; so, although he was a little
startled at first, he began to grow rather indignant when he saw the old
gentleman winking and leering at him with such an impudent air. At
length he resolved that he wouldn’t stand it; and as the old face still
kept winking away as fast as ever, Tom said, in a very angry tone--
‘“What the devil are you winking at me for?”
‘“Because I like it, Tom Smart,” said the chair; or the old gentleman,
whichever you like to call him. He stopped winking though, when Tom
spoke, and began grinning like a superannuated monkey.
‘“How do you know my name, old nut-cracker face?” inquired Tom Smart,
rather staggered; though he pretended to carry it off so well.
‘“Come, come, Tom,” said the old gentleman, “that’s not the way to
address solid Spanish mahogany. Damme, you couldn’t treat me with less
respect if I was veneered.” When the old gentleman said this, he looked
so fierce that Tom began to grow frightened.
‘“I didn’t mean to treat you with any disrespect, Sir,” said Tom, in a
much humbler tone than he had spoken in at first.
‘“Well, well,” said the old fellow, “perhaps not--perhaps not. Tom--”
‘“Sir--”
‘“I know everything about you, Tom; everything. You’re very poor, Tom.”
‘“I certainly am,” said Tom Smart. “But how came you to know that?”
‘“Never mind that,” said the old gentleman; “you’re much too fond of
punch, Tom.”
‘Tom Smart was just on the point of protesting that he hadn’t tasted a
drop since his last birthday, but when his eye encountered that of the
old gentleman he looked so knowing that Tom blushed, and was silent.
‘“Tom,” said the old gentleman, “the widow’s a fine woman--remarkably
fine woman--eh, Tom?” Here the old fellow screwed up his eyes, cocked up
one of his wasted little legs, and looked altogether so unpleasantly
amorous, that Tom was quite disgusted with the levity of his behaviour--
at his time of life, too!
‘“I am her guardian, Tom,” said the old gentleman.
‘“Are you?” inquired Tom Smart.
‘“I knew her mother, Tom,” said the old fellow: “and her grandmother.
She was very fond of me--made me this waistcoat, Tom.”
‘“Did she?” said Tom Smart.
‘“And these shoes,” said the old fellow, lifting up one of the red cloth
mufflers; “but don’t mention it, Tom. I shouldn’t like to have it known
that she was so much attached to me. It might occasion some
unpleasantness in the family.” When the old rascal said this, he looked
so extremely impertinent, that, as Tom Smart afterwards declared, he
could have sat upon him without remorse.
‘“I have been a great favourite among the women in my time, Tom,” said
the profligate old debauchee; “hundreds of fine women have sat in my lap
for hours together. What do you think of that, you dog, eh!” The old
gentleman was proceeding to recount some other exploits of his youth,
when he was seized with such a violent fit of creaking that he was
unable to proceed.
‘“Just serves you right, old boy,” thought Tom Smart; but he didn’t say
anything.
‘“Ah!” said the old fellow, “I am a good deal troubled with this now. I
am getting old, Tom, and have lost nearly all my nails. I have had an
operation performed, too--a small piece let into my back--and I found it
a severe trial, Tom.”
‘“I dare say you did, Sir,” said Tom Smart.
‘“However,” said the old gentleman, “that’s not the point. Tom! I want
you to marry the widow.”
‘“Me, Sir!” said Tom.
‘“You,” said the old gentleman.
‘“Bless your reverend locks,” said Tom (he had a few scattered horse-
hairs left)--“bless your reverend locks, she wouldn’t have me.” And Tom
sighed involuntarily, as he thought of the bar.
‘“Wouldn’t she?” said the old gentleman firmly.
‘“No, no,” said Tom; “there’s somebody else in the wind. A tall man--a
confoundedly tall man--with black whiskers.”
‘“Tom,” said the old gentleman; “she will never have him.”
‘“Won’t she?” said Tom. “If you stood in the bar, old gentleman, you’d
tell another story.”
‘“Pooh, pooh,” said the old gentleman. “I know all about that.”
‘“About what?” said Tom.
‘“The kissing behind the door, and all that sort of thing, Tom,” said
the old gentleman. And here he gave another impudent look, which made
Tom very wroth, because as you all know, gentlemen, to hear an old
fellow, who ought to know better, talking about these things, is very
unpleasant--nothing more so.
‘“I know all about that, Tom,” said the old gentleman. “I have seen it
done very often in my time, Tom, between more people than I should like
to mention to you; but it never came to anything after all.”
‘“You must have seen some queer things,” said Tom, with an inquisitive
look.
‘“You may say that, Tom,” replied the old fellow, with a very
complicated wink. “I am the last of my family, Tom,” said the old
gentleman, with a melancholy sigh.
‘“Was it a large one?” inquired Tom Smart.
‘“There were twelve of us, Tom,” said the old gentleman; “fine,
straight-backed, handsome fellows as you’d wish to see. None of your
modern abortions--all with arms, and with a degree of polish, though I
say it that should not, which it would have done your heart good to
behold.”
‘“And what’s become of the others, Sir?” asked Tom Smart--
‘The old gentleman applied his elbow to his eye as he replied, “Gone,
Tom, gone. We had hard service, Tom, and they hadn’t all my
constitution. They got rheumatic about the legs and arms, and went into
kitchens and other hospitals; and one of ‘em, with long service and hard
usage, positively lost his senses--he got so crazy that he was obliged
to be burnt. Shocking thing that, Tom.”
‘“Dreadful!” said Tom Smart.
‘The old fellow paused for a few minutes, apparently struggling with his
feelings of emotion, and then said--
‘“However, Tom, I am wandering from the point. This tall man, Tom, is a
rascally adventurer. The moment he married the widow, he would sell off
all the furniture, and run away. What would be the consequence? She
would be deserted and reduced to ruin, and I should catch my death of
cold in some broker’s shop.”
‘“Yes, but--”
‘“Don’t interrupt me,” said the old gentleman. “Of you, Tom, I entertain
a very different opinion; for I well know that if you once settled
yourself in a public-house, you would never leave it, as long as there
was anything to drink within its walls.”
‘“I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion, Sir,” said Tom
Smart.
‘“Therefore,” resumed the old gentleman, in a dictatorial tone, “you
shall have her, and he shall not.”
‘“What is to prevent it?” said Tom Smart eagerly.
‘“This disclosure,” replied the old gentleman; “he is already married.”
‘“How can I prove it?” said Tom, starting half out of bed.
‘The old gentleman untucked his arm from his side, and having pointed to
one of the oaken presses, immediately replaced it, in its old position.
‘“He little thinks,” said the old gentleman, “that in the right-hand
pocket of a pair of trousers in that press, he has left a letter,
entreating him to return to his disconsolate wife, with six--mark me,
Tom--six babes, and all of them small ones.”
‘As the old gentleman solemnly uttered these words, his features grew
less and less distinct, and his figure more shadowy. A film came over
Tom Smart’s eyes. The old man seemed gradually blending into the chair,
the damask waistcoat to resolve into a cushion, the red slippers to
shrink into little red cloth bags. The light faded gently away, and Tom
Smart fell back on his pillow, and dropped asleep.
‘Morning aroused Tom from the lethargic slumber, into which he had
fallen on the disappearance of the old man. He sat up in bed, and for
some minutes vainly endeavoured to recall the events of the preceding
night. Suddenly they rushed upon him. He looked at the chair; it was a
fantastic and grim-looking piece of furniture, certainly, but it must
have been a remarkably ingenious and lively imagination, that could have
discovered any resemblance between it and an old man.
‘“How are you, old boy?” said Tom. He was bolder in the daylight--most
men are.
‘The chair remained motionless, and spoke not a word.
‘“Miserable morning,” said Tom. No. The chair would not be drawn into
conversation.
‘“Which press did you point to?--you can tell me that,” said Tom. Devil
a word, gentlemen, the chair would say.
‘“It’s not much trouble to open it, anyhow,” said Tom, getting out of
bed very deliberately. He walked up to one of the presses. The key was
in the lock; he turned it, and opened the door. There was a pair of
trousers there. He put his hand into the pocket, and drew forth the
identical letter the old gentleman had described!
‘“Queer sort of thing, this,” said Tom Smart, looking first at the chair
and then at the press, and then at the letter, and then at the chair
again. “Very queer,” said Tom. But, as there was nothing in either, to
lessen the queerness, he thought he might as well dress himself, and
settle the tall man’s business at once--just to put him out of his
misery.
‘Tom surveyed the rooms he passed through, on his way downstairs, with
the scrutinising eye of a landlord; thinking it not impossible, that
before long, they and their contents would be his property. The tall man
was standing in the snug little bar, with his hands behind him, quite at
home. He grinned vacantly at Tom. A casual observer might have supposed
he did it, only to show his white teeth; but Tom Smart thought that a
consciousness of triumph was passing through the place where the tall
man’s mind would have been, if he had had any. Tom laughed in his face;
and summoned the landlady.
‘“Good-morning ma’am,” said Tom Smart, closing the door of the little
parlour as the widow entered.
‘“Good-morning, Sir,” said the widow. “What will you take for breakfast,
sir?”
‘Tom was thinking how he should open the case, so he made no answer.
‘“There’s a very nice ham,” said the widow, “and a beautiful cold larded
fowl. Shall I send ‘em in, Sir?”
‘These words roused Tom from his reflections. His admiration of the
widow increased as she spoke. Thoughtful creature! Comfortable provider!
‘“Who is that gentleman in the bar, ma’am?” inquired Tom.
‘“His name is Jinkins, Sir,” said the widow, slightly blushing.
‘“He’s a tall man,” said Tom.
‘“He is a very fine man, Sir,” replied the widow, “and a very nice
gentleman.”
‘“Ah!” said Tom.
‘“Is there anything more you want, Sir?” inquired the widow, rather
puzzled by Tom’s manner.
‘“Why, yes,” said Tom. “My dear ma’am, will you have the kindness to sit
down for one moment?”
‘The widow looked much amazed, but she sat down, and Tom sat down too,
close beside her. I don’t know how it happened, gentlemen--indeed my
uncle used to tell me that Tom Smart said he didn’t know how it happened
either--but somehow or other the palm of Tom’s hand fell upon the back
of the widow’s hand, and remained there while he spoke.
‘“My dear ma’am,” said Tom Smart--he had always a great notion of
committing the amiable--“my dear ma’am, you deserve a very excellent
husband--you do indeed.”
‘“Lor, Sir!” said the widow--as well she might; Tom’s mode of commencing
the conversation being rather unusual, not to say startling; the fact of
his never having set eyes upon her before the previous night being taken
into consideration. “Lor, Sir!”
‘“I scorn to flatter, my dear ma’am,” said Tom Smart. “You deserve a
very admirable husband, and whoever he is, he’ll be a very lucky man.”
As Tom said this, his eye involuntarily wandered from the widow’s face
to the comfort around him.
‘The widow looked more puzzled than ever, and made an effort to rise.
Tom gently pressed her hand, as if to detain her, and she kept her seat.
Widows, gentlemen, are not usually timorous, as my uncle used to say.
‘“I am sure I am very much obliged to you, Sir, for your good opinion,”
said the buxom landlady, half laughing; “and if ever I marry again--”
’”_If_,” said Tom Smart, looking very shrewdly out of the right-hand
corner of his left eye. “_If_--”
“Well,” said the widow, laughing outright this time, “_when _I do, I
hope I shall have as good a husband as you describe.”
‘“Jinkins, to wit,” said Tom.
‘“Lor, sir!” exclaimed the widow.
‘“Oh, don’t tell me,” said Tom, “I know him.”
‘“I am sure nobody who knows him, knows anything bad of him,” said the
widow, bridling up at the mysterious air with which Tom had spoken.
‘“Hem!” said Tom Smart.
‘The widow began to think it was high time to cry, so she took out her
handkerchief, and inquired whether Tom wished to insult her, whether he
thought it like a gentleman to take away the character of another
gentleman behind his back, why, if he had got anything to say, he didn’t
say it to the man, like a man, instead of terrifying a poor weak woman
in that way; and so forth.
‘“I’ll say it to him fast enough,” said Tom, “only I want you to hear it
first.”
‘“What is it?” inquired the widow, looking intently in Tom’s
countenance.
‘“I’ll astonish you,” said Tom, putting his hand in his pocket.
‘“If it is, that he wants money,” said the widow, “I know that already,
and you needn’t trouble yourself.” ‘“Pooh, nonsense, that’s nothing,”
said Tom Smart, “I want money. ‘Tain’t that.”
‘“Oh, dear, what can it be?” exclaimed the poor widow.
‘“Don’t be frightened,” said Tom Smart. He slowly drew forth the letter,
and unfolded it. “You won’t scream?” said Tom doubtfully.
‘“No, no,” replied the widow; “let me see it.”
‘“You won’t go fainting away, or any of that nonsense?” said Tom.
‘“No, no,” returned the widow hastily.
‘“And don’t run out, and blow him up,” said Tom; “because I’ll do all
that for you. You had better not exert yourself.”
‘“Well, well,” said the widow, “let me see it.”
‘“I will,” replied Tom Smart; and, with these words, he placed the
letter in the widow’s hand.
‘Gentlemen, I have heard my uncle say, that Tom Smart said the widow’s
lamentations when she heard the disclosure would have pierced a heart of
stone. Tom was certainly very tender-hearted, but they pierced his, to
the very core. The widow rocked herself to and fro, and wrung her hands.
‘“Oh, the deception and villainy of the man!” said the widow.
‘“Frightful, my dear ma’am; but compose yourself,” said Tom Smart.
‘“Oh, I can’t compose myself,” shrieked the widow. “I shall never find
anyone else I can love so much!”
‘“Oh, yes you will, my dear soul,” said Tom Smart, letting fall a shower
of the largest-sized tears, in pity for the widow’s misfortunes. Tom
Smart, in the energy of his compassion, had put his arm round the
widow’s waist; and the widow, in a passion of grief, had clasped Tom’s
hand. She looked up in Tom’s face, and smiled through her tears. Tom
looked down in hers, and smiled through his.
‘I never could find out, gentlemen, whether Tom did or did not kiss the
widow at that particular moment. He used to tell my uncle he didn’t, but
I have my doubts about it. Between ourselves, gentlemen, I rather think
he did.
‘At all events, Tom kicked the very tall man out at the front door half
an hour later, and married the widow a month after. And he used to drive
about the country, with the clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, and
the vixenish mare with the fast pace, till he gave up business many
years afterwards, and went to France with his wife; and then the old
house was pulled down.’
‘Will you allow me to ask you,’ said the inquisitive old gentleman,
‘what became of the chair?’
‘Why,’ replied the one-eyed bagman, ‘it was observed to creak very much
on the day of the wedding; but Tom Smart couldn’t say for certain
whether it was with pleasure or bodily infirmity. He rather thought it
was the latter, though, for it never spoke afterwards.’
‘Everybody believed the story, didn’t they?’ said the dirty-faced man,
refilling his pipe.
‘Except Tom’s enemies,’ replied the bagman. ‘Some of ‘em said Tom
invented it altogether; and others said he was drunk and fancied it, and
got hold of the wrong trousers by mistake before he went to bed. But
nobody ever minded what _they _said.’
‘Tom Smart said it was all true?’
‘Every word.’
‘And your uncle?’
‘Every letter.’
‘They must have been very nice men, both of ‘em,’ said the dirty-faced
man.
‘Yes, they were,’ replied the bagman; ‘very nice men indeed!’
CHAPTER XV. IN WHICH IS GIVEN A FAITHFUL PORTRAITURE OF TWO
DISTINGUISHED PERSONS; AND AN ACCURATE DESCRIPTION OF A PUBLIC BREAKFAST
IN THEIR HOUSE AND GROUNDS: WHICH PUBLIC BREAKFAST LEADS TO THE
RECOGNITION OF AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE, AND THE COMMENCEMENT OF ANOTHER
CHAPTER
Mr. Pickwick’s conscience had been somewhat reproaching him for his
recent neglect of his friends at the Peacock; and he was just on the
point of walking forth in quest of them, on the third morning after the
election had terminated, when his faithful valet put into his hand a
card, on which was engraved the following inscription:--
Mrs. Leo Hunter THE DEN. EATANSWILL.
‘Person’s a-waitin’,’ said Sam, epigrammatically.
‘Does the person want me, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘He wants you partickler; and no one else ‘ll do, as the devil’s private
secretary said ven he fetched avay Doctor Faustus,’ replied Mr. Weller.
‘_He_. Is it a gentleman?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘A wery good imitation o’ one, if it ain’t,’ replied Mr. Weller.
‘But this is a lady’s card,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Given me by a gen’l’m’n, howsoever,’ replied Sam, ‘and he’s a-waitin’
in the drawing-room--said he’d rather wait all day, than not see you.’
Mr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to the drawing-
room, where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance, and said,
with an air of profound respect:--
‘Mr. Pickwick, I presume?’
‘The same.’
‘Allow me, Sir, the honour of grasping your hand. Permit me, Sir, to
shake it,’ said the grave man.
‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick. The stranger shook the extended hand,
and then continued--
‘We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquarian
discussion has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter--my wife, sir; I am
Mr. Leo Hunter’--the stranger paused, as if he expected that Mr.
Pickwick would be overcome by the disclosure; but seeing that he
remained perfectly calm, proceeded--
‘My wife, sir--Mrs. Leo Hunter--is proud to number among her
acquaintance all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their
works and talents. Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part of the
list the name of Mr. Pickwick, and his brother-members of the club that
derives its name from him.’
‘I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady,
sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
‘You _shall _make it, sir,’ said the grave man. ‘To-morrow morning, sir,
we give a public breakfast--a _fete champetre_--to a great number of
those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and
talents. Permit Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir, to have the gratification of
seeing you at the Den.’
‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
‘Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, Sir,’ resumed the new
acquaintance--‘“feasts of reason,” sir, “and flows of soul,” as somebody
who wrote a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter on her breakfasts, feelingly and
originally observed.’
‘Was _he_ celebrated for his works and talents?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘He was Sir,’ replied the grave man, ‘all Mrs. Leo Hunter’s
acquaintances are; it is her ambition, sir, to have no other
acquaintance.’
‘It is a very noble ambition,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘When I inform Mrs. Leo Hunter, that that remark fell from your lips,
sir, she will indeed be proud,’ said the grave man. ‘You have a
gentleman in your train, who has produced some beautiful little poems, I
think, sir.’
‘My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a great taste for poetry,’ replied Mr.
Pickwick.
‘So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir. She dotes on poetry, sir. She adores it; I
may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it.
She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have met
with her “Ode to an Expiring Frog,” sir.’
‘I don’t think I have,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘You astonish me, Sir,’ said Mr. Leo Hunter. ‘It created an immense
sensation. It was signed with an “L” and eight stars, and appeared
originally in a lady’s magazine. It commenced--
‘“Can I view thee panting, lying On thy stomach, without sighing; Can I
unmoved see thee dying On a log Expiring frog!”’
‘Beautiful!’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Fine,’ said Mr. Leo Hunter; ‘so simple.’
‘Very,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it?’
‘If you please,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘It runs thus,’ said the grave man, still more gravely.
‘“Say, have fiends in shape of boys, With wild halloo, and brutal noise,
Hunted thee from marshy joys, With a dog, Expiring frog!”’
‘Finely expressed,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘All point, Sir,’ said Mr. Leo Hunter; ‘but you shall hear Mrs. Leo
Hunter repeat it. She can do justice to it, Sir. She will repeat it, in
character, Sir, to-morrow morning.’
‘In character!’
‘As Minerva. But I forgot--it’s a fancy-dress _dejeune_.’
‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Pickwick, glancing at his own figure--‘I can’t
possibly--’
‘Can’t, sir; can’t!’ exclaimed Mr. Leo Hunter. ‘Solomon Lucas, the Jew
in the High Street, has thousands of fancy-dresses. Consider, Sir, how
many appropriate characters are open for your selection. Plato, Zeno,
Epicurus, Pythagoras--all founders of clubs.’
‘I know that,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but as I cannot put myself in
competition with those great men, I cannot presume to wear their
dresses.’
The grave man considered deeply, for a few seconds, and then said--
‘On reflection, Sir, I don’t know whether it would not afford Mrs. Leo
Hunter greater pleasure, if her guests saw a gentleman of your celebrity
in his own costume, rather than in an assumed one. I may venture to
promise an exception in your case, sir--yes, I am quite certain that, on
behalf of Mrs. Leo Hunter, I may venture to do so.’
‘In that case,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I shall have great pleasure in
coming.’
‘But I waste your time, Sir,’ said the grave man, as if suddenly
recollecting himself. ‘I know its value, sir. I will not detain you. I
may tell Mrs. Leo Hunter, then, that she may confidently expect you and
your distinguished friends? Good-morning, Sir, I am proud to have beheld
so eminent a personage--not a step sir; not a word.’ And without giving
Mr. Pickwick time to offer remonstrance or denial, Mr. Leo Hunter
stalked gravely away.
Mr. Pickwick took up his hat, and repaired to the Peacock, but Mr.
Winkle had conveyed the intelligence of the fancy-ball there, before
him.
‘Mrs. Pott’s going,’ were the first words with which he saluted his
leader.
‘Is she?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘As Apollo,’ replied Winkle. ‘Only Pott objects to the tunic.’
‘He is right. He is quite right,’ said Mr. Pickwick emphatically.
‘Yes; so she’s going to wear a white satin gown with gold spangles.’
‘They’ll hardly know what she’s meant for; will they?’ inquired Mr.
Snodgrass.
‘Of course they will,’ replied Mr. Winkle indignantly. ‘They’ll see her
lyre, won’t they?’
‘True; I forgot that,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘I shall go as a bandit,’ interposed Mr. Tupman.
‘What!’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a sudden start.
‘As a bandit,’ repeated Mr. Tupman, mildly.
‘You don’t mean to say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, gazing with solemn sternness
at his friend--‘you don’t mean to say, Mr. Tupman, that it is your
intention to put yourself into a green velvet jacket, with a two-inch
tail?’
‘Such _is_ my intention, Sir,’ replied Mr. Tupman warmly. ‘And why not,
sir?’
‘Because, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, considerably excited--‘because you
are too old, Sir.’
‘Too old!’ exclaimed Mr. Tupman.
‘And if any further ground of objection be wanting,’ continued Mr.
Pickwick, ‘you are too fat, sir.’
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, his face suffused with a crimson glow, ‘this is
an insult.’
‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone, ‘it is not half the
insult to you, that your appearance in my presence in a green velvet
jacket, with a two-inch tail, would be to me.’
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, ‘you’re a fellow.’
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘you’re another!’
Mr. Tupman advanced a step or two, and glared at Mr. Pickwick. Mr.
Pickwick returned the glare, concentrated into a focus by means of his
spectacles, and breathed a bold defiance. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle
looked on, petrified at beholding such a scene between two such men.
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, after a short pause, speaking in a low, deep
voice, ‘you have called me old.’
‘I have,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘And fat.’
‘I reiterate the charge.’
‘And a fellow.’
‘So you are!’
There was a fearful pause.
‘My attachment to your person, sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, speaking in a
voice tremulous with emotion, and tucking up his wristbands meanwhile,
‘is great--very great--but upon that person, I must take summary
vengeance.’
‘Come on, Sir!’ replied Mr. Pickwick. Stimulated by the exciting nature
of the dialogue, the heroic man actually threw himself into a paralytic
attitude, confidently supposed by the two bystanders to have been
intended as a posture of defence.
‘What!’ exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, suddenly recovering the power of
speech, of which intense astonishment had previously bereft him, and
rushing between the two, at the imminent hazard of receiving an
application on the temple from each--‘what! Mr. Pickwick, with the eyes
of the world upon you! Mr. Tupman! who, in common with us all, derives a
lustre from his undying name! For shame, gentlemen; for shame.’
The unwonted lines which momentary passion had ruled in Mr. Pickwick’s
clear and open brow, gradually melted away, as his young friend spoke,
like the marks of a black-lead pencil beneath the softening influence of
india-rubber. His countenance had resumed its usual benign expression,
ere he concluded.
‘I have been hasty,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘very hasty. Tupman; your hand.’
The dark shadow passed from Mr. Tupman’s face, as he warmly grasped the
hand of his friend.
‘I have been hasty, too,’ said he.
‘No, no,’ interrupted Mr. Pickwick, ‘the fault was mine. You will wear
the green velvet jacket?’
‘No, no,’ replied Mr. Tupman.
‘To oblige me, you will,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick.
‘Well, well, I will,’ said Mr. Tupman.
It was accordingly settled that Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr.
Snodgrass, should all wear fancy-dresses. Thus Mr. Pickwick was led by
the very warmth of his own good feelings to give his consent to a
proceeding from which his better judgment would have recoiled--a more
striking illustration of his amiable character could hardly have been
conceived, even if the events recorded in these pages had been wholly
imaginary.
Mr. Leo Hunter had not exaggerated the resources of Mr. Solomon Lucas.
His wardrobe was extensive--very extensive--not strictly classical
perhaps, not quite new, nor did it contain any one garment made
precisely after the fashion of any age or time, but everything was more
or less spangled; and what can be prettier than spangles! It may be
objected that they are not adapted to the daylight, but everybody knows
that they would glitter if there were lamps; and nothing can be clearer
than that if people give fancy-balls in the day-time, and the dresses do
not show quite as well as they would by night, the fault lies solely
with the people who give the fancy-balls, and is in no wise chargeable
on the spangles. Such was the convincing reasoning of Mr. Solomon Lucas;
and influenced by such arguments did Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr.
Snodgrass engage to array themselves in costumes which his taste and
experience induced him to recommend as admirably suited to the occasion.
A carriage was hired from the Town Arms, for the accommodation of the
Pickwickians, and a chariot was ordered from the same repository, for
the purpose of conveying Mr. and Mrs. Pott to Mrs. Leo Hunter’s grounds,
which Mr. Pott, as a delicate acknowledgment of having received an
invitation, had already confidently predicted in the Eatanswill
_Gazette_ ‘would present a scene of varied and delicious enchantment--a
bewildering coruscation of beauty and talent--a lavish and prodigal
display of hospitality--above all, a degree of splendour softened by the
most exquisite taste; and adornment refined with perfect harmony and the
chastest good keeping--compared with which, the fabled gorgeousness of
Eastern fairyland itself would appear to be clothed in as many dark and
murky colours, as must be the mind of the splenetic and unmanly being
who could presume to taint with the venom of his envy, the preparations
made by the virtuous and highly distinguished lady at whose shrine this
humble tribute of admiration was offered.’ This last was a piece of
biting sarcasm against the _Independent_, who, in consequence of not
having been invited at all, had been, through four numbers, affecting to
sneer at the whole affair, in his very largest type, with all the
adjectives in capital letters.
The morning came: it was a pleasant sight to behold Mr. Tupman in full
brigand’s costume, with a very tight jacket, sitting like a pincushion
over his back and shoulders, the upper portion of his legs incased in
the velvet shorts, and the lower part thereof swathed in the complicated
bandages to which all brigands are peculiarly attached. It was pleasing
to see his open and ingenuous countenance, well mustachioed and corked,
looking out from an open shirt collar; and to contemplate the sugar-loaf
hat, decorated with ribbons of all colours, which he was compelled to
carry on his knee, inasmuch as no known conveyance with a top to it,
would admit of any man’s carrying it between his head and the roof.
Equally humorous and agreeable was the appearance of Mr. Snodgrass in
blue satin trunks and cloak, white silk tights and shoes, and Grecian
helmet, which everybody knows (and if they do not, Mr. Solomon Lucas
did) to have been the regular, authentic, everyday costume of a
troubadour, from the earliest ages down to the time of their final
disappearance from the face of the earth. All this was pleasant, but
this was as nothing compared with the shouting of the populace when the
carriage drew up, behind Mr. Pott’s chariot, which chariot itself drew
up at Mr. Pott’s door, which door itself opened, and displayed the great
Pott accoutred as a Russian officer of justice, with a tremendous knout
in his hand--tastefully typical of the stern and mighty power of the
Eatanswill _Gazette_, and the fearful lashings it bestowed on public
offenders.
‘Bravo!’ shouted Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass from the passage, when
they beheld the walking allegory.
‘Bravo!’ Mr. Pickwick was heard to exclaim, from the passage.
‘Hoo-roar Pott!’ shouted the populace. Amid these salutations, Mr. Pott,
smiling with that kind of bland dignity which sufficiently testified
that he felt his power, and knew how to exert it, got into the chariot.
Then there emerged from the house, Mrs. Pott, who would have looked very
like Apollo if she hadn’t had a gown on, conducted by Mr. Winkle, who,
in his light-red coat could not possibly have been mistaken for anything
but a sportsman, if he had not borne an equal resemblance to a general
postman. Last of all came Mr. Pickwick, whom the boys applauded as loud
as anybody, probably under the impression that his tights and gaiters
were some remnants of the dark ages; and then the two vehicles proceeded
towards Mrs. Leo Hunter’s; Mr. Weller (who was to assist in waiting)
being stationed on the box of that in which his master was seated.
Every one of the men, women, boys, girls, and babies, who were assembled
to see the visitors in their fancy-dresses, screamed with delight and
ecstasy, when Mr. Pickwick, with the brigand on one arm, and the
troubadour on the other, walked solemnly up the entrance. Never were
such shouts heard as those which greeted Mr. Tupman’s efforts to fix the
sugar-loaf hat on his head, by way of entering the garden in style.
The preparations were on the most delightful scale; fully realising the
prophetic Pott’s anticipations about the gorgeousness of Eastern
fairyland, and at once affording a sufficient contradiction to the
malignant statements of the reptile _Independent_. The grounds were more
than an acre and a quarter in extent, and they were filled with people!
Never was such a blaze of beauty, and fashion, and literature. There was
the young lady who ‘did’ the poetry in the Eatanswill _Gazette_, in the
garb of a sultana, leaning upon the arm of the young gentleman who ‘did’
the review department, and who was appropriately habited in a field-
marshal’s uniform--the boots excepted. There were hosts of these
geniuses, and any reasonable person would have thought it honour enough
to meet them. But more than these, there were half a dozen lions from
London--authors, real authors, who had written whole books, and printed
them afterwards--and here you might see ‘em, walking about, like
ordinary men, smiling, and talking--aye, and talking pretty considerable
nonsense too, no doubt with the benign intention of rendering themselves
intelligible to the common people about them. Moreover, there was a band
of music in pasteboard caps; four something-ean singers in the costume
of their country, and a dozen hired waiters in the costume of _their
_country--and very dirty costume too. And above all, there was Mrs. Leo
Hunter in the character of Minerva, receiving the company, and
overflowing with pride and gratification at the notion of having called
such distinguished individuals together.
‘Mr. Pickwick, ma’am,’ said a servant, as that gentleman approached the
presiding goddess, with his hat in his hand, and the brigand and
troubadour on either arm.
‘What! Where!’ exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, starting up, in an affected
rapture of surprise.
‘Here,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Is it possible that I have really the gratification of beholding Mr.
Pickwick himself!’ ejaculated Mrs. Leo Hunter.
‘No other, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. ‘Permit me to
introduce my friends--Mr. Tupman--Mr. Winkle--Mr. Snodgrass--to the
authoress of “The Expiring Frog.”’
Very few people but those who have tried it, know what a difficult
process it is to bow in green velvet smalls, and a tight jacket, and
high-crowned hat; or in blue satin trunks and white silks, or knee-cords
and top-boots that were never made for the wearer, and have been fixed
upon him without the remotest reference to the comparative dimensions of
himself and the suit. Never were such distortions as Mr. Tupman’s frame
underwent in his efforts to appear easy and graceful--never was such
ingenious posturing, as his fancy-dressed friends exhibited.
‘Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘I must make you promise not to
stir from my side the whole day. There are hundreds of people here, that
I must positively introduce you to.’
‘You are very kind, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘In the first place, here are my little girls; I had almost forgotten
them,’ said Minerva, carelessly pointing towards a couple of full-grown
young ladies, of whom one might be about twenty, and the other a year or
two older, and who were dressed in very juvenile costumes--whether to
make them look young, or their mamma younger, Mr. Pickwick does not
distinctly inform us.
‘They are very beautiful,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as the juveniles turned
away, after being presented.
‘They are very like their mamma, Sir,’ said Mr. Pott, majestically.
‘Oh, you naughty man,’ exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, playfully tapping the
editor’s arm with her fan (Minerva with a fan!).
‘Why now, my dear Mrs. Hunter,’ said Mr. Pott, who was trumpeter in
ordinary at the Den, ‘you know that when your picture was in the
exhibition of the Royal Academy, last year, everybody inquired whether
it was intended for you, or your youngest daughter; for you were so much
alike that there was no telling the difference between you.’
‘Well, and if they did, why need you repeat it, before strangers?’ said
Mrs. Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of the
Eatanswill _Gazette_.
‘Count, count,’ screamed Mrs. Leo Hunter to a well-whiskered individual
in a foreign uniform, who was passing by.
‘Ah! you want me?’ said the count, turning back.
‘I want to introduce two very clever people to each other,’ said Mrs.
Leo Hunter. ‘Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducing you to
Count Smorltork.’ She added in a hurried whisper to Mr. Pickwick--‘The
famous foreigner--gathering materials for his great work on England--
hem!--Count Smorltork, Mr. Pickwick.’
Mr. Pickwick saluted the count with all the reverence due to so great a
man, and the count drew forth a set of tablets.
‘What you say, Mrs. Hunt?’ inquired the count, smiling graciously on the
gratified Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘Pig Vig or Big Vig--what you call--lawyer--
eh? I see--that is it. Big Vig’--and the count was proceeding to enter
Mr. Pickwick in his tablets, as a gentleman of the long robe, who
derived his name from the profession to which he belonged, when Mrs. Leo
Hunter interposed.
‘No, no, count,’ said the lady, ‘Pick-wick.’
‘Ah, ah, I see,’ replied the count. ‘Peek--christian name; Weeks--
surname; good, ver good. Peek Weeks. How you do, Weeks?’
‘Quite well, I thank you,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his usual
affability. ‘Have you been long in England?’
‘Long--ver long time--fortnight--more.’
‘Do you stay here long?’
‘One week.’
‘You will have enough to do,’ said Mr. Pickwick smiling, ‘to gather all
the materials you want in that time.’
‘Eh, they are gathered,’ said the count.
‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘They are here,’ added the count, tapping his forehead significantly.
‘Large book at home--full of notes--music, picture, science, potry,
poltic; all tings.’
‘The word politics, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘comprises in itself, a
difficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude.’
‘Ah!’ said the count, drawing out the tablets again, ‘ver good--fine
words to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word poltic
surprises by himself--’ And down went Mr. Pickwick’s remark, in Count
Smorltork’s tablets, with such variations and additions as the count’s
exuberant fancy suggested, or his imperfect knowledge of the language
occasioned.
‘Count,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
‘Mrs. Hunt,’ replied the count.
‘This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick’s, and a poet.’
‘Stop,’ exclaimed the count, bringing out the tablets once more. ‘Head,
potry--chapter, literary friends--name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introduced
to Snowgrass--great poet, friend of Peek Weeks--by Mrs. Hunt, which
wrote other sweet poem--what is that name?--Fog--Perspiring Fog--ver
good--ver good indeed.’ And the count put up his tablets, and with
sundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that
he had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock of
information.
‘Wonderful man, Count Smorltork,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
‘Sound philosopher,’ said Mr. Pott.
‘Clear-headed, strong-minded person,’ added Mr. Snodgrass.
A chorus of bystanders took up the shout of Count Smorltork’s praise,
shook their heads sagely, and unanimously cried, ‘Very!’
As the enthusiasm in Count Smorltork’s favour ran very high, his praises
might have been sung until the end of the festivities, if the four
something-ean singers had not ranged themselves in front of a small
apple-tree, to look picturesque, and commenced singing their national
songs, which appeared by no means difficult of execution, inasmuch as
the grand secret seemed to be, that three of the something-ean singers
should grunt, while the fourth howled. This interesting performance
having concluded amidst the loud plaudits of the whole company, a boy
forthwith proceeded to entangle himself with the rails of a chair, and
to jump over it, and crawl under it, and fall down with it, and do
everything but sit upon it, and then to make a cravat of his legs, and
tie them round his neck, and then to illustrate the ease with which a
human being can be made to look like a magnified toad--all which feats
yielded high delight and satisfaction to the assembled spectators. After
which, the voice of Mrs. Pott was heard to chirp faintly forth,
something which courtesy interpreted into a song, which was all very
classical, and strictly in character, because Apollo was himself a
composer, and composers can very seldom sing their own music or anybody
else’s, either. This was succeeded by Mrs. Leo Hunter’s recitation of
her far-famed ‘Ode to an Expiring Frog,’ which was encored once, and
would have been encored twice, if the major part of the guests, who
thought it was high time to get something to eat, had not said that it
was perfectly shameful to take advantage of Mrs. Hunter’s good nature.
So although Mrs. Leo Hunter professed her perfect willingness to recite
the ode again, her kind and considerate friends wouldn’t hear of it on
any account; and the refreshment room being thrown open, all the people
who had ever been there before, scrambled in with all possible despatch-
-Mrs. Leo Hunter’s usual course of proceedings being, to issue cards for
a hundred, and breakfast for fifty, or in other words to feed only the
very particular lions, and let the smaller animals take care of
themselves.
‘Where is Mr. Pott?’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid
lions around her.
‘Here I am,’ said the editor, from the remotest end of the room; far
beyond all hope of food, unless something was done for him by the
hostess.
‘Won’t you come up here?’
‘Oh, pray don’t mind him,’ said Mrs. Pott, in the most obliging voice--
‘you give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs. Hunter.
You’ll do very well there, won’t you--dear?’
‘Certainly--love,’ replied the unhappy Pott, with a grim smile. Alas for
the knout! The nervous arm that wielded it, with such a gigantic force
on public characters, was paralysed beneath the glance of the imperious
Mrs. Pott.
Mrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smorltork was busily
engaged in taking notes of the contents of the dishes; Mr. Tupman was
doing the honours of the lobster salad to several lionesses, with a
degree of grace which no brigand ever exhibited before; Mr. Snodgrass
having cut out the young gentleman who cut up the books for the
Eatanswill _Gazette_, was engaged in an impassioned argument with the
young lady who did the poetry; and Mr. Pickwick was making himself
universally agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render the select
circle complete, when Mr. Leo Hunter--whose department on these
occasions, was to stand about in doorways, and talk to the less
important people--suddenly called out--
‘My dear; here’s Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘how anxiously I have been expecting
him. Pray make room, to let Mr. Fitz-Marshall pass. Tell Mr. Fitz-
Marshall, my dear, to come up to me directly, to be scolded for coming
so late.’
‘Coming, my dear ma’am,’ cried a voice, ‘as quick as I can--crowds of
people--full room--hard work--very.’
Mr. Pickwick’s knife and fork fell from his hand. He stared across the
table at Mr. Tupman, who had dropped his knife and fork, and was looking
as if he were about to sink into the ground without further notice.
‘Ah!’ cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the last five-
and-twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, and Charles the Seconds, that
remained between him and the table, ‘regular mangle--Baker’s patent--not
a crease in my coat, after all this squeezing--might have “got up my
linen” as I came along--ha! ha! not a bad idea, that--queer thing to
have it mangled when it’s upon one, though--trying process--very.’
With these broken words, a young man dressed as a naval officer made his
way up to the table, and presented to the astonished Pickwickians the
identical form and features of Mr. Alfred Jingle.
The offender had barely time to take Mrs. Leo Hunter’s proffered hand,
when his eyes encountered the indignant orbs of Mr. Pickwick.
‘Hollo!’ said Jingle. ‘Quite forgot--no directions to postillion--give
‘em at once--back in a minute.’
‘The servant, or Mr. Hunter will do it in a moment, Mr. Fitz-Marshall,’
said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
‘No, no--I’ll do it--shan’t be long--back in no time,’ replied Jingle.
With these words he disappeared among the crowd.
‘Will you allow me to ask you, ma’am,’ said the excited Mr. Pickwick,
rising from his seat, ‘who that young man is, and where he resides?’
‘He is a gentleman of fortune, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘to
whom I very much want to introduce you. The count will be delighted with
him.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily. ‘His residence--’
‘Is at present at the Angel at Bury.’
‘At Bury?’
‘At Bury St. Edmunds, not many miles from here. But dear me, Mr.
Pickwick, you are not going to leave us; surely Mr. Pickwick you cannot
think of going so soon?’
But long before Mrs. Leo Hunter had finished speaking, Mr. Pickwick had
plunged through the throng, and reached the garden, whither he was
shortly afterwards joined by Mr. Tupman, who had followed his friend
closely.
‘It’s of no use,’ said Mr. Tupman. ‘He has gone.’
‘I know it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and I will follow him.’
‘Follow him! Where?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.
‘To the Angel at Bury,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, speaking very quickly.
‘How do we know whom he is deceiving there? He deceived a worthy man
once, and we were the innocent cause. He shall not do it again, if I can
help it; I’ll expose him! Sam! Where’s my servant?’
‘Here you are, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, emerging from a sequestered spot,
where he had been engaged in discussing a bottle of Madeira, which he
had abstracted from the breakfast-table an hour or two before. ‘Here’s
your servant, Sir. Proud o’ the title, as the living skellinton said,
ven they show’d him.’
‘Follow me instantly,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Tupman, if I stay at Bury,
you can join me there, when I write. Till then, good-bye!’
Remonstrances were useless. Mr. Pickwick was roused, and his mind was
made up. Mr. Tupman returned to his companions; and in another hour had
drowned all present recollection of Mr. Alfred Jingle, or Mr. Charles
Fitz-Marshall, in an exhilarating quadrille and a bottle of champagne.
By that time, Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, perched on the outside of a
stage-coach, were every succeeding minute placing a less and less
distance between themselves and the good old town of Bury St. Edmunds.
CHAPTER XVI. TOO FULL OF ADVENTURE TO BE BRIEFLY DESCRIBED
There is no month in the whole year in which nature wears a more
beautiful appearance than in the month of August. Spring has many
beauties, and May is a fresh and blooming month, but the charms of this
time of year are enhanced by their contrast with the winter season.
August has no such advantage. It comes when we remember nothing but
clear skies, green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers--when the
recollection of snow, and ice, and bleak winds, has faded from our minds
as completely as they have disappeared from the earth--and yet what a
pleasant time it is! Orchards and cornfields ring with the hum of
labour; trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit which bow
their branches to the ground; and the corn, piled in graceful sheaves,
or waving in every light breath that sweeps above it, as if it wooed the
sickle, tinges the landscape with a golden hue. A mellow softness
appears to hang over the whole earth; the influence of the season seems
to extend itself to the very wagon, whose slow motion across the well-
reaped field is perceptible only to the eye, but strikes with no harsh
sound upon the ear.
As the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards which skirt the
road, groups of women and children, piling the fruit in sieves, or
gathering the scattered ears of corn, pause for an instant from their
labour, and shading the sun-burned face with a still browner hand, gaze
upon the passengers with curious eyes, while some stout urchin, too
small to work, but too mischievous to be left at home, scrambles over
the side of the basket in which he has been deposited for security, and
kicks and screams with delight. The reaper stops in his work, and stands
with folded arms, looking at the vehicle as it whirls past; and the
rough cart-horses bestow a sleepy glance upon the smart coach team,
which says as plainly as a horse’s glance can, ‘It’s all very fine to
look at, but slow going, over a heavy field, is better than warm work
like that, upon a dusty road, after all.’ You cast a look behind you, as
you turn a corner of the road. The women and children have resumed their
labour; the reaper once more stoops to his work; the cart-horses have
moved on; and all are again in motion.
The influence of a scene like this, was not lost upon the well-regulated
mind of Mr. Pickwick. Intent upon the resolution he had formed, of
exposing the real character of the nefarious Jingle, in any quarter in
which he might be pursuing his fraudulent designs, he sat at first
taciturn and contemplative, brooding over the means by which his purpose
could be best attained. By degrees his attention grew more and more
attracted by the objects around him; and at last he derived as much
enjoyment from the ride, as if it had been undertaken for the
pleasantest reason in the world.
‘Delightful prospect, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Beats the chimbley-pots, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat.
‘I suppose you have hardly seen anything but chimney-pots and bricks and
mortar all your life, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling.
‘I worn’t always a boots, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, with a shake of the
head. ‘I wos a vaginer’s boy, once.’
‘When was that?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘When I wos first pitched neck and crop into the world, to play at leap-
frog with its troubles,’ replied Sam. ‘I wos a carrier’s boy at
startin’; then a vaginer’s, then a helper, then a boots. Now I’m a
gen’l’m’n’s servant. I shall be a gen’l’m’n myself one of these days,
perhaps, with a pipe in my mouth, and a summer-house in the back-garden.
Who knows? I shouldn’t be surprised for one.’
‘You are quite a philosopher, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘It runs in the family, I b’lieve, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘My
father’s wery much in that line now. If my mother-in-law blows him up,
he whistles. She flies in a passion, and breaks his pipe; he steps out,
and gets another. Then she screams wery loud, and falls into ‘sterics;
and he smokes wery comfortably till she comes to agin. That’s
philosophy, Sir, ain’t it?’
‘A very good substitute for it, at all events,’ replied Mr. Pickwick,
laughing. ‘It must have been of great service to you, in the course of
your rambling life, Sam.’
‘Service, sir,’ exclaimed Sam. ‘You may say that. Arter I run away from
the carrier, and afore I took up with the vaginer, I had unfurnished
lodgin’s for a fortnight.’
‘Unfurnished lodgings?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Yes--the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge. Fine sleeping-place--vithin ten
minutes’ walk of all the public offices--only if there is any objection
to it, it is that the sitivation’s rayther too airy. I see some queer
sights there.’
Ah, I suppose you did,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with an air of considerable
interest.
‘Sights, sir,’ resumed Mr. Weller, ‘as ‘ud penetrate your benevolent
heart, and come out on the other side. You don’t see the reg’lar
wagrants there; trust ‘em, they knows better than that. Young beggars,
male and female, as hasn’t made a rise in their profession, takes up
their quarters there sometimes; but it’s generally the worn-out,
starving, houseless creeturs as roll themselves in the dark corners o’
them lonesome places--poor creeturs as ain’t up to the twopenny rope.’
‘And pray, Sam, what is the twopenny rope?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘The twopenny rope, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘is just a cheap lodgin’
house, where the beds is twopence a night.’
‘What do they call a bed a rope for?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Bless your innocence, sir, that ain’t it,’ replied Sam. ‘Ven the lady
and gen’l’m’n as keeps the hot-el first begun business, they used to
make the beds on the floor; but this wouldn’t do at no price, ‘cos
instead o’ taking a moderate twopenn’orth o’ sleep, the lodgers used to
lie there half the day. So now they has two ropes, ‘bout six foot apart,
and three from the floor, which goes right down the room; and the beds
are made of slips of coarse sacking, stretched across ‘em.’
‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Well,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘the adwantage o’ the plan’s hobvious. At six
o’clock every mornin’ they let’s go the ropes at one end, and down falls
the lodgers. Consequence is, that being thoroughly waked, they get up
wery quietly, and walk away!’
‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said Sam, suddenly breaking off in his
loquacious discourse. ‘Is this Bury St. Edmunds?’
‘It is,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
The coach rattled through the well-paved streets of a handsome little
town, of thriving and cleanly appearance, and stopped before a large inn
situated in a wide open street, nearly facing the old abbey.
‘And this,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking up. ‘Is the Angel! We alight
here, Sam. But some caution is necessary. Order a private room, and do
not mention my name. You understand.’
‘Right as a trivet, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, with a wink of
intelligence; and having dragged Mr. Pickwick’s portmanteau from the
hind boot, into which it had been hastily thrown when they joined the
coach at Eatanswill, Mr. Weller disappeared on his errand. A private
room was speedily engaged; and into it Mr. Pickwick was ushered without
delay.
‘Now, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘the first thing to be done is to--’
Order dinner, Sir,’ interposed Mr. Weller. ‘It’s wery late, sir.’
‘Ah, so it is,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch. ‘You are right,
Sam.’
‘And if I might adwise, Sir,’ added Mr. Weller, ‘I’d just have a good
night’s rest arterwards, and not begin inquiring arter this here deep
‘un till the mornin’. There’s nothin’ so refreshen’ as sleep, sir, as
the servant girl said afore she drank the egg-cupful of laudanum.’
‘I think you are right, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘But I must first
ascertain that he is in the house, and not likely to go away.’
‘Leave that to me, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘Let me order you a snug little
dinner, and make my inquiries below while it’s a-getting ready; I could
worm ev’ry secret out O’ the boots’s heart, in five minutes, Sir.’
Do so,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and Mr. Weller at once retired.
In half an hour, Mr. Pickwick was seated at a very satisfactory dinner;
and in three-quarters Mr. Weller returned with the intelligence that Mr.
Charles Fitz-Marshall had ordered his private room to be retained for
him, until further notice. He was going to spend the evening at some
private house in the neighbourhood, had ordered the boots to sit up
until his return, and had taken his servant with him.
‘Now, sir,’ argued Mr. Weller, when he had concluded his report, ‘if I
can get a talk with this here servant in the mornin’, he’ll tell me all
his master’s concerns.’
‘How do you know that?’ interposed Mr. Pickwick.
‘Bless your heart, sir, servants always do,’ replied Mr. Weller.
‘Oh, ah, I forgot that,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Well.’
‘Then you can arrange what’s best to be done, sir, and we can act
accordingly.’
As it appeared that this was the best arrangement that could be made, it
was finally agreed upon. Mr. Weller, by his master’s permission, retired
to spend the evening in his own way; and was shortly afterwards elected,
by the unanimous voice of the assembled company, into the taproom chair,
in which honourable post he acquitted himself so much to the
satisfaction of the gentlemen-frequenters, that their roars of laughter
and approbation penetrated to Mr. Pickwick’s bedroom, and shortened the
term of his natural rest by at least three hours.
Early on the ensuing morning, Mr. Weller was dispelling all the feverish
remains of the previous evening’s conviviality, through the
instrumentality of a halfpenny shower-bath (having induced a young
gentleman attached to the stable department, by the offer of that coin,
to pump over his head and face, until he was perfectly restored), when
he was attracted by the appearance of a young fellow in mulberry-
coloured livery, who was sitting on a bench in the yard, reading what
appeared to be a hymn-book, with an air of deep abstraction, but who
occasionally stole a glance at the individual under the pump, as if he
took some interest in his proceedings, nevertheless.
‘You’re a rum ‘un to look at, you are!’ thought Mr. Weller, the first
time his eyes encountered the glance of the stranger in the mulberry
suit, who had a large, sallow, ugly face, very sunken eyes, and a
gigantic head, from which depended a quantity of lank black hair.
‘You’re a rum ‘un!’ thought Mr. Weller; and thinking this, he went on
washing himself, and thought no more about him.
Still the man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam, and from Sam to
his hymn-book, as if he wanted to open a conversation. So at last, Sam,
by way of giving him an opportunity, said with a familiar nod--
‘How are you, governor?’
‘I am happy to say, I am pretty well, Sir,’ said the man, speaking with
great deliberation, and closing the book. ‘I hope you are the same,
Sir?’
‘Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle I shouldn’t be quite
so staggery this mornin’,’ replied Sam. ‘Are you stoppin’ in this house,
old ‘un?’
The mulberry man replied in the affirmative.
‘How was it you worn’t one of us, last night?’ inquired Sam, scrubbing
his face with the towel. ‘You seem one of the jolly sort--looks as
conwivial as a live trout in a lime basket,’ added Mr. Weller, in an
undertone.
‘I was out last night with my master,’ replied the stranger.
‘What’s his name?’ inquired Mr. Weller, colouring up very red with
sudden excitement, and the friction of the towel combined.
‘Fitz-Marshall,’ said the mulberry man.
‘Give us your hand,’ said Mr. Weller, advancing; ‘I should like to know
you. I like your appearance, old fellow.’
‘Well, that is very strange,’ said the mulberry man, with great
simplicity of manner. ‘I like yours so much, that I wanted to speak to
you, from the very first moment I saw you under the pump.’
Did you though?’
‘Upon my word. Now, isn’t that curious?’
‘Wery sing’ler,’ said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the
softness of the stranger. ‘What’s your name, my patriarch?’