_A Pickwickian Fragment Up-to-date_
As light as fairies, if not altogether as brisk as bees, did the four
Pickwickian shades assemble on a winter morning in the year of grace,
1896. Christmas was nigh at hand, in all its _fin-de-siecle_ inwardness;
it was the season of pictorial too-previousness and artistic
anticipation, of plethoric periodicals, all shocker-sensationalism
sandwiched with startling advertisements; of cynical new-humour and
flamboyantly sentimental chromo-lithography.
But we are so taken up by the genial delights of the New Christmas that
we are keeping Mr. Pickwick and his phantom friends waiting in the cold
on the chilly outside of the Muggleton Motor-car, which they had just
mounted, well wrapped up in antiquated great coats, shawls, and
comforters.
Mr. Weller, Senior, had, all unconsciously, brought his well-loved whip
with him, and was greatly embarrassed thereby.
"Votever shall I do vith it, Sammy?" he whispered, hoarsely.
"Purtend it's a new, patent, jointless fishing-rod, guv'nor," rejoined
Sam, in a Stygian aside. "Nobody 'ere'll 'ave the slightest notion vot
it really is."
"When are they--eh--going to--ahem--put the horses to?" murmured Mr.
Pickwick, emerging from his coat collar, and looking about him with
great perplexity.
"'_Osses?_" cried the coachman, turning round upon Mr. Pickwick, with
sharp suspicion in his eye. "'_Osses?_ d'ye say. Oh, who are you
a-gettin' at?"
Mr. Pickwick withdrew promptly into his coat-collar.
The irrepressible Sam came immediately to the aid of his beloved master,
whom he would never see snubbed if _he_ knew it.
"There's vheels vithin vheels, as the bicyclist said vhen he vos pitched
head foremost into the vatchmaker's vinder," remarked Mr. Weller,
Junior, with the air of a Solomon in smalls. "But vot sort of a vheel do
you call that thing in front of you, and vot's its pertikler objeck? a
top of a coach instead o' under it?"
"This yer wheel means Revolution," said the driver.
"It do, Samivel, it do," interjected his father dolorously. "And in my
opinion it's a worse Revolution than that there French one itself. A
coach vithout 'osses, vheels instead of vheelers, and a driver vithout a
vhip! Oh Sammy, Sammy, to think it should come to _this_!!!"
The driver--if it be not desecration to a noble old name so to designate
him--gave a turn to his wheel and the autocar started. Mr. Winkle, who
sat at the extreme edge, waggled his shadowy legs forlornly in the air;
Mr. Snodgrass, who sat next to him, snorted lugubriously; Mr. Tupman
turned paler than even a Stygian shade has a right to do. Mr. Pickwick
took off his glasses and wiped them furtively.
"Sam," he whispered hysterically in the ear of his faithful servitor,
"Sam, this is dreadful! A--ahem!--vehicle with no visible means of
propulsion pounding along like--eh--Saint Denis without his head, is
more uncanny than Charon's boat."
"Let's get down, Sammy, let's get down at once," groaned Mr. Weller the
elder. "I can't stand it, Samivel, I really can't. Think o' the poor
'osses, Sammy, think o' the poor 'osses as ain't there, and vot they
must feel to find theirselves sooperseeded by a hugly vheel and a
pennorth o' peteroleum, &c.!"
"Hold on, old Nobs!" cried the son, with frank filial sympathy. "Think
of the guv'nor, father, and vait for the first stoppage. Never again
vith the Muggleton Motor! Vhy, it vorse than a hortomatic vheelbarrow,
ain't it, Mr. Pickwick?"
"Ah, Sammy," assented Mr. Weller, Senior, hugging his whip,
affectionately. "Vorse even than vidders, Sammy, the red-nosed shepherd,
or the Mulberry One hisself!"
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A bear in a motor-car attracted much attention in the City last week. It
had four legs this time.
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The _Motor Car_ declares, on high medical authority, that motoring is a
cure for insanity. We would therefore recommend several motorists we
know to persevere.
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Illustration: GENTLE SATIRE--"I say, Bill, look 'ere! 'Ere's a old cove
out record-breaking!"
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