The Pickwick Papers
and splashing of rain-drops were the only sounds to be heard.
The breakfast was interrupted by very little conversation; even Mr. Bob
Sawyer felt the influence of the weather, and the previous day’s
excitement. In his own expressive language he was ‘floored.’ So was Mr.
Ben Allen. So was Mr. Pickwick.
In protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the last evening
paper from London was read and re-read with an intensity of interest
only known in cases of extreme destitution; every inch of the carpet was
walked over with similar perseverance; the windows were looked out of,
often enough to justify the imposition of an additional duty upon them;
all kinds of topics of conversation were started, and failed; and at
length Mr. Pickwick, when noon had arrived, without a change for the
better, rang the bell resolutely, and ordered out the chaise.
Although the roads were miry, and the drizzling rain came down harder
than it had done yet, and although the mud and wet splashed in at the
open windows of the carriage to such an extent that the discomfort was
almost as great to the pair of insides as to the pair of outsides, still
there was something in the motion, and the sense of being up and doing,
which was so infinitely superior to being pent in a dull room, looking
at the dull rain dripping into a dull street, that they all agreed, on
starting, that the change was a great improvement, and wondered how they
could possibly have delayed making it as long as they had done.
When they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascended from the
horses in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hostler, whose voice was
however heard to declare from the mist, that he expected the first gold
medal from the Humane Society on their next distribution of rewards, for
taking the postboy’s hat off; the water descending from the brim of
which, the invisible gentleman declared, must have drowned him (the
postboy), but for his great presence of mind in tearing it promptly from
his head, and drying the gasping man’s countenance with a wisp of straw.
‘This is pleasant,’ said Bob Sawyer, turning up his coat collar, and
pulling the shawl over his mouth to concentrate the fumes of a glass of
brandy just swallowed.
‘Wery,’ replied Sam composedly.
‘You don’t seem to mind it,’ observed Bob.
‘Vy, I don’t exactly see no good my mindin’ on it ‘ud do, sir,’ replied
Sam.
‘That’s an unanswerable reason, anyhow,’ said Bob.
‘Yes, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘Wotever is, is right, as the young
nobleman sweetly remarked wen they put him down in the pension list ‘cos
his mother’s uncle’s vife’s grandfather vunce lit the king’s pipe vith a
portable tinder-box.’
Not a bad notion that, Sam,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer approvingly.
‘Just wot the young nobleman said ev’ry quarter-day arterwards for the
rest of his life,’ replied Mr. Weller.
‘Wos you ever called in,’ inquired Sam, glancing at the driver, after a
short silence, and lowering his voice to a mysterious whisper--‘wos you
ever called in, when you wos ‘prentice to a sawbones, to wisit a
postboy.’
‘I don’t remember that I ever was,’ replied Bob Sawyer.
‘You never see a postboy in that ‘ere hospital as you _walked _(as they
says o’ the ghosts), did you?’ demanded Sam.
‘No,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘I don’t think I ever did.’
‘Never know’d a churchyard were there wos a postboy’s tombstone, or see
a dead postboy, did you?’ inquired Sam, pursuing his catechism.
‘No,’ rejoined Bob, ‘I never did.’
‘No!’ rejoined Sam triumphantly. ‘Nor never vill; and there’s another
thing that no man never see, and that’s a dead donkey. No man never see
a dead donkey ‘cept the gen’l’m’n in the black silk smalls as know’d the
young ‘ooman as kep’ a goat; and that wos a French donkey, so wery
likely he warn’t wun o’ the reg’lar breed.’
‘Well, what has that got to do with the postboys?’ asked Bob Sawyer.
‘This here,’ replied Sam. ‘Without goin’ so far as to as-sert, as some
wery sensible people do, that postboys and donkeys is both immortal, wot
I say is this: that wenever they feels theirselves gettin’ stiff and
past their work, they just rides off together, wun postboy to a pair in
the usual way; wot becomes on ‘em nobody knows, but it’s wery probable
as they starts avay to take their pleasure in some other vorld, for
there ain’t a man alive as ever see either a donkey or a postboy a-
takin’ his pleasure in this!’
Expatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, and citing many
curious statistical and other facts in its support, Sam Weller beguiled
the time until they reached Dunchurch, where a dry postboy and fresh
horses were procured; the next stage was Daventry, and the next
Towcester; and at the end of each stage it rained harder than it had
done at the beginning.
‘I say,’ remonstrated Bob Sawyer, looking in at the coach window, as
they pulled up before the door of the Saracen’s Head, Towcester, ‘this
won’t do, you know.’
‘Bless me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, just awakening from a nap, ‘I’m afraid
you’re wet.’
‘Oh, you are, are you?’ returned Bob. ‘Yes, I am, a little that way,
Uncomfortably damp, perhaps.’
Bob did look dampish, inasmuch as the rain was streaming from his neck,
elbows, cuffs, skirts, and knees; and his whole apparel shone so with
the wet, that it might have been mistaken for a full suit of prepared
oilskin.
‘I _am_ rather wet,’ said Bob, giving himself a shake and casting a
little hydraulic shower around, like a Newfoundland dog just emerged
from the water.
‘I think it’s quite impossible to go on to-night,’ interposed Ben.
‘Out of the question, sir,’ remarked Sam Weller, coming to assist in the
conference; ‘it’s a cruelty to animals, sir, to ask ‘em to do it.
There’s beds here, sir,’ said Sam, addressing his master, ‘everything
clean and comfortable. Wery good little dinner, sir, they can get ready
in half an hour--pair of fowls, sir, and a weal cutlet; French beans,
‘taturs, tart, and tidiness. You’d better stop vere you are, sir, if I
might recommend. Take adwice, sir, as the doctor said.’
The host of the Saracen’s Head opportunely appeared at this moment, to
confirm Mr. Weller’s statement relative to the accommodations of the
establishment, and to back his entreaties with a variety of dismal
conjectures regarding the state of the roads, the doubt of fresh horses
being to be had at the next stage, the dead certainty of its raining all
night, the equally mortal certainty of its clearing up in the morning,
and other topics of inducement familiar to innkeepers.
‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but I must send a letter to London by some
conveyance, so that it may be delivered the very first thing in the
morning, or I must go forwards at all hazards.’
The landlord smiled his delight. Nothing could be easier than for the
gentleman to inclose a letter in a sheet of brown paper, and send it on,
either by the mail or the night coach from Birmingham. If the gentleman
were particularly anxious to have it left as soon as possible, he might
write outside, ‘To be delivered immediately,’ which was sure to be
attended to; or ‘Pay the bearer half-a-crown extra for instant
delivery,’ which was surer still.
‘Very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘then we will stop here.’
‘Lights in the Sun, John; make up the fire; the gentlemen are wet!’
cried the landlord. ‘This way, gentlemen; don’t trouble yourselves about
the postboy now, sir. I’ll send him to you when you ring for him, sir.
Now, John, the candles.’
The candles were brought, the fire was stirred up, and a fresh log of
wood thrown on. In ten minutes’ time, a waiter was laying the cloth for
dinner, the curtains were drawn, the fire was blazing brightly, and
everything looked (as everything always does, in all decent English
inns) as if the travellers had been expected, and their comforts
prepared, for days beforehand.
Mr. Pickwick sat down at a side table, and hastily indited a note to Mr.
Winkle, merely informing him that he was detained by stress of weather,
but would certainly be in London next day; until when he deferred any
account of his proceedings. This note was hastily made into a parcel,
and despatched to the bar per Mr. Samuel Weller.
Sam left it with the landlady, and was returning to pull his master’s
boots off, after drying himself by the kitchen fire, when glancing
casually through a half-opened door, he was arrested by the sight of a
gentleman with a sandy head who had a large bundle of newspapers lying
on the table before him, and was perusing the leading article of one
with a settled sneer which curled up his nose and all other features
into a majestic expression of haughty contempt.
‘Hollo!’ said Sam, ‘I ought to know that ‘ere head and them features;
the eyeglass, too, and the broad-brimmed tile! Eatansvill to vit, or I’m
a Roman.’
Sam was taken with a troublesome cough, at once, for the purpose of
attracting the gentleman’s attention; the gentleman starting at the
sound, raised his head and his eyeglass, and disclosed to view the
profound and thoughtful features of Mr. Pott, of the Eatanswill
_Gazette_.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ said Sam, advancing with a bow, ‘my master’s
here, Mr. Pott.’
‘Hush! hush!’ cried Pott, drawing Sam into the room, and closing the
door, with a countenance of mysterious dread and apprehension.
‘Wot’s the matter, Sir?’ inquired Sam, looking vacantly about him.
‘Not a whisper of my name,’ replied Pott; ‘this is a buff neighbourhood.
If the excited and irritable populace knew I was here, I should be torn
to pieces.’
‘No! Vould you, sir?’ inquired Sam.
‘I should be the victim of their fury,’ replied Pott. ‘Now young man,
what of your master?’
‘He’s a-stopping here to-night on his vay to town, with a couple of
friends,’ replied Sam.
‘Is Mr. Winkle one of them?’ inquired Pott, with a slight frown.
‘No, Sir. Mr. Vinkle stops at home now,’ rejoined Sam. ‘He’s married.’
‘Married!’ exclaimed Pott, with frightful vehemence. He stopped, smiled
darkly, and added, in a low, vindictive tone, ‘It serves him right!’
Having given vent to this cruel ebullition of deadly malice and cold-
blooded triumph over a fallen enemy, Mr. Pott inquired whether Mr.
Pickwick’s friends were ‘blue?’ Receiving a most satisfactory answer in
the affirmative from Sam, who knew as much about the matter as Pott
himself, he consented to accompany him to Mr. Pickwick’s room, where a
hearty welcome awaited him, and an agreement to club their dinners
together was at once made and ratified.
‘And how are matters going on in Eatanswill?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick,
when Pott had taken a seat near the fire, and the whole party had got
their wet boots off, and dry slippers on. ‘Is the _Independent_ still in
being?’
‘The _Independent_, sir,’ replied Pott, ‘is still dragging on a wretched
and lingering career. Abhorred and despised by even the few who are
cognisant of its miserable and disgraceful existence, stifled by the
very filth it so profusely scatters, rendered deaf and blind by the
exhalations of its own slime, the obscene journal, happily unconscious
of its degraded state, is rapidly sinking beneath that treacherous mud
which, while it seems to give it a firm standing with the low and
debased classes of society, is nevertheless rising above its detested
head, and will speedily engulf it for ever.’
Having delivered this manifesto (which formed a portion of his last
week’s leader) with vehement articulation, the editor paused to take
breath, and looked majestically at Bob Sawyer.
‘You are a young man, sir,’ said Pott.
Mr. Bob Sawyer nodded.
‘So are you, sir,’ said Pott, addressing Mr. Ben Allen.
Ben admitted the soft impeachment.
‘And are both deeply imbued with those blue principles, which, so long