The Pickwick Papers
‘That has nothing whatever to do with the matter, Sam,’ interposed Mr.
Pickwick. ‘Pray hold your tongue.’
‘I ain’t a-goin’ to say nothin’ on that ‘ere pint, sir,’ replied Sam,
‘but merely this here. P’raps that gen’l’m’n may think as there wos a
priory ‘tachment; but there worn’t nothin’ o’ the sort, for the young
lady said in the wery beginnin’ o’ the keepin’ company, that she
couldn’t abide him. Nobody’s cut him out, and it ‘ud ha’ been jist the
wery same for him if the young lady had never seen Mr. Vinkle. That’s
what I wished to say, sir, and I hope I’ve now made that ‘ere
gen’l’m’n’s mind easy.
A short pause followed these consolatory remarks of Mr. Weller. Then Mr.
Ben Allen rising from his chair, protested that he would never see
Arabella’s face again; while Mr. Bob Sawyer, despite Sam’s flattering
assurance, vowed dreadful vengeance on the happy bridegroom.
But, just when matters were at their height, and threatening to remain
so, Mr. Pickwick found a powerful assistant in the old lady, who,
evidently much struck by the mode in which he had advocated her niece’s
cause, ventured to approach Mr. Benjamin Allen with a few comforting
reflections, of which the chief were, that after all, perhaps, it was
well it was no worse; the least said the soonest mended, and upon her
word she did not know that it was so very bad after all; what was over
couldn’t be begun, and what couldn’t be cured must be endured; with
various other assurances of the like novel and strengthening
description. To all of these, Mr. Benjamin Allen replied that he meant
no disrespect to his aunt, or anybody there, but if it were all the same
to them, and they would allow him to have his own way, he would rather
have the pleasure of hating his sister till death, and after it.
At length, when this determination had been announced half a hundred
times, the old lady suddenly bridling up and looking very majestic,
wished to know what she had done that no respect was to be paid to her
years or station, and that she should be obliged to beg and pray, in
that way, of her own nephew, whom she remembered about five-and-twenty
years before he was born, and whom she had known, personally, when he
hadn’t a tooth in his head; to say nothing of her presence on the first
occasion of his having his hair cut, and assistance at numerous other
times and ceremonies during his babyhood, of sufficient importance to
found a claim upon his affection, obedience, and sympathies, for ever.
While the good lady was bestowing this objurgation on Mr. Ben Allen, Bob
Sawyer and Mr. Pickwick had retired in close conversation to the inner
room, where Mr. Sawyer was observed to apply himself several times to
the mouth of a black bottle, under the influence of which, his features
gradually assumed a cheerful and even jovial expression. And at last he
emerged from the room, bottle in hand, and, remarking that he was very
sorry to say he had been making a fool of himself, begged to propose the
health and happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, whose felicity, so far from
envying, he would be the first to congratulate them upon. Hearing this,
Mr. Ben Allen suddenly arose from his chair, and, seizing the black
bottle, drank the toast so heartily, that, the liquor being strong, he
became nearly as black in the face as the bottle. Finally, the black
bottle went round till it was empty, and there was so much shaking of
hands and interchanging of compliments, that even the metal-visaged Mr.
Martin condescended to smile.
‘And now,’ said Bob Sawyer, rubbing his hands, ‘we’ll have a jolly
night.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that I must return to my inn. I have
not been accustomed to fatigue lately, and my journey has tired me
exceedingly.’
‘You’ll take some tea, Mr. Pickwick?’ said the old lady, with
irresistible sweetness.
‘Thank you, I would rather not,’ replied that gentleman. The truth is,
that the old lady’s evidently increasing admiration was Mr. Pickwick’s
principal inducement for going away. He thought of Mrs. Bardell; and
every glance of the old lady’s eyes threw him into a cold perspiration.
As Mr. Pickwick could by no means be prevailed upon to stay, it was
arranged at once, on his own proposition, that Mr. Benjamin Allen should
accompany him on his journey to the elder Mr. Winkle’s, and that the
coach should be at the door, at nine o’clock next morning. He then took
his leave, and, followed by Samuel Weller, repaired to the Bush. It is
worthy of remark, that Mr. Martin’s face was horribly convulsed as he
shook hands with Sam at parting, and that he gave vent to a smile and an
oath simultaneously; from which tokens it has been inferred by those who
were best acquainted with that gentleman’s peculiarities, that he
expressed himself much pleased with Mr. Weller’s society, and requested
the honour of his further acquaintance.
‘Shall I order a private room, Sir?’ inquired Sam, when they reached the
Bush.
‘Why, no, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘as I dined in the coffee-room,
and shall go to bed soon, it is hardly worth while. See who there is in
the travellers’ room, Sam.’
Mr. Weller departed on his errand, and presently returned to say that
there was only a gentleman with one eye; and that he and the landlord
were drinking a bowl of bishop together.
‘I will join them,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘He’s a queer customer, the vun-eyed vun, sir,’ observed Mr. Weller, as
he led the way. ‘He’s a-gammonin’ that ‘ere landlord, he is, sir, till
he don’t rightly know wether he’s a-standing on the soles of his boots
or the crown of his hat.’
The individual to whom this observation referred, was sitting at the
upper end of the room when Mr. Pickwick entered, and was smoking a large
Dutch pipe, with his eye intently fixed on the round face of the
landlord; a jolly-looking old personage, to whom he had recently been
relating some tale of wonder, as was testified by sundry disjointed
exclamations of, ‘Well, I wouldn’t have believed it! The strangest thing
I ever heard! Couldn’t have supposed it possible!’ and other expressions
of astonishment which burst spontaneously from his lips, as he returned
the fixed gaze of the one-eyed man.
‘Servant, sir,’ said the one-eyed man to Mr. Pickwick. ‘Fine night,
sir.’
‘Very much so indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, as the waiter placed a
small decanter of brandy, and some hot water before him.
While Mr. Pickwick was mixing his brandy-and-water, the one-eyed man
looked round at him earnestly, from time to time, and at length said--
‘I think I’ve seen you before.’
‘I don’t recollect you,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick.
‘I dare say not,’ said the one-eyed man. ‘You didn’t know me, but I knew
two friends of yours that were stopping at the Peacock at Eatanswill, at
the time of the election.’
‘Oh, indeed!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
‘Yes,’ rejoined the one-eyed man. ‘I mentioned a little circumstance to
them about a friend of mine of the name of Tom Smart. Perhaps you’ve
heard them speak of it.’
‘Often,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, smiling. ‘He was your uncle, I think?’
‘No, no; only a friend of my uncle’s,’ replied the one-eyed man.
‘He was a wonderful man, that uncle of yours, though,’ remarked the
landlord shaking his head.
‘Well, I think he was; I think I may say he was,’ answered the one-eyed
man. ‘I could tell you a story about that same uncle, gentlemen, that
would rather surprise you.’
‘Could you?’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Let us hear it, by all means.’
The one-eyed bagman ladled out a glass of negus from the bowl, and drank
it; smoked a long whiff out of the Dutch pipe; and then, calling to Sam
Weller who was lingering near the door, that he needn’t go away unless
he wanted to, because the story was no secret, fixed his eye upon the
landlord’s, and proceeded, in the words of the next chapter.
CHAPTER XLIX. CONTAINING THE STORY OF THE BAGMAN’S UNCLE
My uncle, gentlemen,’ said the bagman, ‘was one of the merriest,
pleasantest, cleverest fellows, that ever lived. I wish you had known
him, gentlemen. On second thoughts, gentlemen, I don’t wish you had
known him, for if you had, you would have been all, by this time, in the
ordinary course of nature, if not dead, at all events so near it, as to
have taken to stopping at home and giving up company, which would have
deprived me of the inestimable pleasure of addressing you at this
moment. Gentlemen, I wish your fathers and mothers had known my uncle.
They would have been amazingly fond of him, especially your respectable
mothers; I know they would. If any two of his numerous virtues
predominated over the many that adorned his character, I should say they
were his mixed punch and his after-supper song. Excuse my dwelling on
these melancholy recollections of departed worth; you won’t see a man
like my uncle every day in the week.
‘I have always considered it a great point in my uncle’s character,
gentlemen, that he was the intimate friend and companion of Tom Smart,
of the great house of Bilson and Slum, Cateaton Street, City. My uncle
collected for Tiggin and Welps, but for a long time he went pretty near
the same journey as Tom; and the very first night they met, my uncle
took a fancy for Tom, and Tom took a fancy for my uncle. They made a bet
of a new hat before they had known each other half an hour, who should
brew the best quart of punch and drink it the quickest. My uncle was
judged to have won the making, but Tom Smart beat him in the drinking by
about half a salt-spoonful. They took another quart apiece to drink each
other’s health in, and were staunch friends ever afterwards. There’s a
destiny in these things, gentlemen; we can’t help it.
‘In personal appearance, my uncle was a trifle shorter than the middle
size; he was a thought stouter too, than the ordinary run of people, and
perhaps his face might be a shade redder. He had the jolliest face you
ever saw, gentleman: something like Punch, with a handsome nose and
chin; his eyes were always twinkling and sparkling with good-humour; and
a smile--not one of your unmeaning wooden grins, but a real, merry,
hearty, good-tempered smile--was perpetually on his countenance. He was
pitched out of his gig once, and knocked, head first, against a
milestone. There he lay, stunned, and so cut about the face with some
gravel which had been heaped up alongside it, that, to use my uncle’s
own strong expression, if his mother could have revisited the earth, she
wouldn’t have known him. Indeed, when I come to think of the matter,
gentlemen, I feel pretty sure she wouldn’t, for she died when my uncle
was two years and seven months old, and I think it’s very likely that,
even without the gravel, his top-boots would have puzzled the good lady
not a little; to say nothing of his jolly red face. However, there he
lay, and I have heard my uncle say, many a time, that the man said who
picked him up that he was smiling as merrily as if he had tumbled out
for a treat, and that after they had bled him, the first faint
glimmerings of returning animation, were his jumping up in bed, bursting
out into a loud laugh, kissing the young woman who held the basin, and
demanding a mutton chop and a pickled walnut. He was very fond of
pickled walnuts, gentlemen. He said he always found that, taken without
vinegar, they relished the beer.
‘My uncle’s great journey was in the fall of the leaf, at which time he
collected debts, and took orders, in the north; going from London to
Edinburgh, from Edinburgh to Glasgow, from Glasgow back to Edinburgh,
and thence to London by the smack. You are to understand that his second
visit to Edinburgh was for his own pleasure. He used to go back for a
week, just to look up his old friends; and what with breakfasting with
this one, lunching with that, dining with the third, and supping with