The Pickwick Papers
‘He had not observed that a man was lying on the bank beside him; his
garments rustled as he turned round to steal a look at the new-comer;
and Edmunds raised his head.
‘The man had moved into a sitting posture. His body was much bent, and
his face was wrinkled and yellow. His dress denoted him an inmate of the
workhouse: he had the appearance of being very old, but it looked more
the effect of dissipation or disease, than the length of years. He was
staring hard at the stranger, and though his eyes were lustreless and
heavy at first, they appeared to glow with an unnatural and alarmed
expression after they had been fixed upon him for a short time, until
they seemed to be starting from their sockets. Edmunds gradually raised
himself to his knees, and looked more and more earnestly on the old
man’s face. They gazed upon each other in silence.
‘The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered and tottered to his feet.
Edmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two. Edmunds advanced.
‘“Let me hear you speak,” said the convict, in a thick, broken voice.
‘“Stand off!” cried the old man, with a dreadful oath. The convict drew
closer to him.
‘“Stand off!” shrieked the old man. Furious with terror, he raised his
stick, and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face.
‘“Father--devil!” murmured the convict between his set teeth. He rushed
wildly forward, and clenched the old man by the throat--but he was his
father; and his arm fell powerless by his side.
‘The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fields
like the howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black, the gore rushed
from his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a deep, dark red, as he
staggered and fell. He had ruptured a blood-vessel, and he was a dead
man before his son could raise him.
‘In that corner of the churchyard,’ said the old gentleman, after a
silence of a few moments, ‘in that corner of the churchyard of which I
have before spoken, there lies buried a man who was in my employment for
three years after this event, and who was truly contrite, penitent, and
humbled, if ever man was. No one save myself knew in that man’s lifetime
who he was, or whence he came--it was John Edmunds, the returned
convict.’
CHAPTER VII. HOW MR. WINKLE, INSTEAD OF SHOOTING AT THE PIGEON AND
KILLING THE CROW, SHOT AT THE CROW AND WOUNDED THE PIGEON; HOW THE
DINGLEY DELL CRICKET CLUB PLAYED ALL-MUGGLETON, AND HOW ALL-MUGGLETON
DINED AT THE DINGLEY DELL EXPENSE; WITH OTHER INTERESTING AND
INSTRUCTIVE MATTERS
The fatiguing adventures of the day or the somniferous influence of the
clergyman’s tale operated so strongly on the drowsy tendencies of Mr.
Pickwick, that in less than five minutes after he had been shown to his
comfortable bedroom he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep, from which
he was only awakened by the morning sun darting his bright beams
reproachfully into the apartment. Mr. Pickwick was no sluggard, and he
sprang like an ardent warrior from his tent-bedstead.
‘Pleasant, pleasant country,’ sighed the enthusiastic gentleman, as he
opened his lattice window. ‘Who could live to gaze from day to day on
bricks and slates who had once felt the influence of a scene like this?
Who could continue to exist where there are no cows but the cows on the
chimney-pots; nothing redolent of Pan but pan-tiles; no crop but stone
crop? Who could bear to drag out a life in such a spot? Who, I ask,
could endure it?’ and, having cross-examined solitude after the most
approved precedents, at considerable length, Mr. Pickwick thrust his
head out of the lattice and looked around him.
The rich, sweet smell of the hay-ricks rose to his chamber window; the
hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air
around; the deep-green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened
on every leaf as it trembled in the gentle air; and the birds sang as if
every sparkling drop were to them a fountain of inspiration. Mr.
Pickwick fell into an enchanting and delicious reverie.
‘Hollo!’ was the sound that roused him.
He looked to the right, but he saw nobody; his eyes wandered to the
left, and pierced the prospect; he stared into the sky, but he wasn’t
wanted there; and then he did what a common mind would have done at
once--looked into the garden, and there saw Mr. Wardle.
‘How are you?’ said the good-humoured individual, out of breath with his
own anticipations of pleasure.’Beautiful morning, ain’t it? Glad to see
you up so early. Make haste down, and come out. I’ll wait for you here.’
Mr. Pickwick needed no second invitation. Ten minutes sufficed for the
completion of his toilet, and at the expiration of that time he was by
the old gentleman’s side.
‘Hollo!’ said Mr. Pickwick in his turn, seeing that his companion was
armed with a gun, and that another lay ready on the grass; ‘what’s going
forward?’
‘Why, your friend and I,’ replied the host, ‘are going out rook-shooting
before breakfast. He’s a very good shot, ain’t he?’
‘I’ve heard him say he’s a capital one,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘but I
never saw him aim at anything.’
‘Well,’ said the host, ‘I wish he’d come. Joe--Joe!’
The fat boy, who under the exciting influence of the morning did not
appear to be more than three parts and a fraction asleep, emerged from
the house.
‘Go up, and call the gentleman, and tell him he’ll find me and Mr.
Pickwick in the rookery. Show the gentleman the way there; d’ye hear?’
The boy departed to execute his commission; and the host, carrying both
guns like a second Robinson Crusoe, led the way from the garden.
‘This is the place,’ said the old gentleman, pausing after a few minutes
walking, in an avenue of trees. The information was unnecessary; for the
incessant cawing of the unconscious rooks sufficiently indicated their
whereabouts.
The old gentleman laid one gun on the ground, and loaded the other.
‘Here they are,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and, as he spoke, the forms of Mr.
Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle appeared in the distance. The fat
boy, not being quite certain which gentleman he was directed to call,
had with peculiar sagacity, and to prevent the possibility of any
mistake, called them all.
‘Come along,’ shouted the old gentleman, addressing Mr. Winkle; ‘a keen
hand like you ought to have been up long ago, even to such poor work as
this.’
Mr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up the spare gun with
an expression of countenance which a metaphysical rook, impressed with a
foreboding of his approaching death by violence, may be supposed to
assume. It might have been keenness, but it looked remarkably like
misery.
The old gentleman nodded; and two ragged boys who had been marshalled to
the spot under the direction of the infant Lambert, forthwith commenced
climbing up two of the trees.
‘What are these lads for?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly. He was rather
alarmed; for he was not quite certain but that the distress of the
agricultural interest, about which he had often heard a great deal,
might have compelled the small boys attached to the soil to earn a
precarious and hazardous subsistence by making marks of themselves for
inexperienced sportsmen.
‘Only to start the game,’ replied Mr. Wardle, laughing.
‘To what?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Why, in plain English, to frighten the rooks.’
‘Oh, is that all?’
‘You are satisfied?’
‘Quite.’
‘Very well. Shall I begin?’
‘If you please,’ said Mr. Winkle, glad of any respite.
‘Stand aside, then. Now for it.’
The boy shouted, and shook a branch with a nest on it. Half a dozen
young rooks in violent conversation, flew out to ask what the matter
was. The old gentleman fired by way of reply. Down fell one bird, and
off flew the others.
‘Take him up, Joe,’ said the old gentleman.
There was a smile upon the youth’s face as he advanced. Indistinct
visions of rook-pie floated through his imagination. He laughed as he
retired with the bird--it was a plump one.
‘Now, Mr. Winkle,’ said the host, reloading his own gun. ‘Fire away.’
Mr. Winkle advanced, and levelled his gun. Mr. Pickwick and his friends
cowered involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of rooks,
which they felt quite certain would be occasioned by the devastating
barrel of their friend. There was a solemn pause--a shout--a flapping of
wings--a faint click.
‘Hollo!’ said the old gentleman.
‘Won’t it go?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Missed fire,’ said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale--probably from
disappointment.
‘Odd,’ said the old gentleman, taking the gun. ‘Never knew one of them
miss fire before. Why, I don’t see anything of the cap.’
Bless my soul!’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘I declare I forgot the cap!’
The slight omission was rectified. Mr. Pickwick crouched again. Mr.
Winkle stepped forward with an air of determination and resolution; and
Mr. Tupman looked out from behind a tree. The boy shouted; four birds
flew out. Mr. Winkle fired. There was a scream as of an individual--not
a rook--in corporal anguish. Mr. Tupman had saved the lives of
innumerable unoffending birds by receiving a portion of the charge in
his left arm.
To describe the confusion that ensued would be impossible. To tell how
Mr. Pickwick in the first transports of emotion called Mr. Winkle
‘Wretch!’ how Mr. Tupman lay prostrate on the ground; and how Mr. Winkle
knelt horror-stricken beside him; how Mr. Tupman called distractedly
upon some feminine Christian name, and then opened first one eye, and
then the other, and then fell back and shut them both--all this would be
as difficult to describe in detail, as it would be to depict the gradual
recovering of the unfortunate individual, the binding up of his arm with
pocket-handkerchiefs, and the conveying him back by slow degrees
supported by the arms of his anxious friends.
They drew near the house. The ladies were at the garden gate, waiting
for their arrival and their breakfast. The spinster aunt appeared; she
smiled, and beckoned them to walk quicker. ‘Twas evident she knew not of
the disaster. Poor thing! there are times when ignorance is bliss
indeed.
They approached nearer.
‘Why, what is the matter with the little old gentleman?’ said Isabella
Wardle. The spinster aunt heeded not the remark; she thought it applied
to Mr. Pickwick. In her eyes Tracy Tupman was a youth; she viewed his
years through a diminishing glass.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ called out the old host, fearful of alarming his
daughters. The little party had crowded so completely round Mr. Tupman,
that they could not yet clearly discern the nature of the accident.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ said the host.
‘What’s the matter?’ screamed the ladies.
‘Mr. Tupman has met with a little accident; that’s all.’
The spinster aunt uttered a piercing scream, burst into an hysteric
laugh, and fell backwards in the arms of her nieces.
‘Throw some cold water over her,’ said the old gentleman.
‘No, no,’ murmured the spinster aunt; ‘I am better now. Bella, Emily--a
surgeon! Is he wounded?--Is he dead?--Is he--Ha, ha, ha!’ Here the
spinster aunt burst into fit number two, of hysteric laughter
interspersed with screams.
‘Calm yourself,’ said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by this
expression of sympathy with his sufferings. ‘Dear, dear madam, calm
yourself.’
‘It is his voice!’ exclaimed the spinster aunt; and strong symptoms of
fit number three developed themselves forthwith.
‘Do not agitate yourself, I entreat you, dearest madam,’ said Mr. Tupman
soothingly. ‘I am very little hurt, I assure you.’
‘Then you are not dead!’ ejaculated the hysterical lady. ‘Oh, say you
are not dead!’
‘Don’t be a fool, Rachael,’ interposed Mr. Wardle, rather more roughly
than was consistent with the poetic nature of the scene. ‘What the