The Pickwick Papers
straight up to the wicket, Dumkins had reached it before the ball. In
short, when Dumkins was caught out, and Podder stumped out, All-
Muggleton had notched some fifty-four, while the score of the Dingley
Dellers was as blank as their faces. The advantage was too great to be
recovered. In vain did the eager Luffey, and the enthusiastic Struggles,
do all that skill and experience could suggest, to regain the ground
Dingley Dell had lost in the contest--it was of no avail; and in an
early period of the winning game Dingley Dell gave in, and allowed the
superior prowess of All-Muggleton.
The stranger, meanwhile, had been eating, drinking, and talking, without
cessation. At every good stroke he expressed his satisfaction and
approval of the player in a most condescending and patronising manner,
which could not fail to have been highly gratifying to the party
concerned; while at every bad attempt at a catch, and every failure to
stop the ball, he launched his personal displeasure at the head of the
devoted individual in such denunciations as--‘Ah, ah!--stupid’--‘Now,
butter-fingers’--‘Muff’--‘Humbug’--and so forth--ejaculations which
seemed to establish him in the opinion of all around, as a most
excellent and undeniable judge of the whole art and mystery of the noble
game of cricket.
‘Capital game--well played--some strokes admirable,’ said the stranger,
as both sides crowded into the tent, at the conclusion of the game.
‘You have played it, sir?’ inquired Mr. Wardle, who had been much amused
by his loquacity.
‘Played it! Think I have--thousands of times--not here--West Indies--
exciting thing--hot work--very.’ ‘It must be rather a warm pursuit in
such a climate,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.
‘Warm!--red hot--scorching--glowing. Played a match once--single wicket-
-friend the colonel--Sir Thomas Blazo--who should get the greatest
number of runs.--Won the toss--first innings--seven o’clock A.M.--six
natives to look out--went in; kept in--heat intense--natives all
fainted--taken away--fresh half-dozen ordered--fainted also--Blazo
bowling--supported by two natives--couldn’t bowl me out--fainted too--
cleared away the colonel--wouldn’t give in--faithful attendant--Quanko
Samba--last man left--sun so hot, bat in blisters, ball scorched brown--
five hundred and seventy runs--rather exhausted--Quanko mustered up last
remaining strength--bowled me out--had a bath, and went out to dinner.’
‘And what became of what’s-his-name, Sir?’ inquired an old gentleman.
‘Blazo?’
‘No--the other gentleman.’
Quanko Samba?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Poor Quanko--never recovered it--bowled on, on my account--bowled off,
on his own--died, sir.’ Here the stranger buried his countenance in a
brown jug, but whether to hide his emotion or imbibe its contents, we
cannot distinctly affirm. We only know that he paused suddenly, drew a
long and deep breath, and looked anxiously on, as two of the principal
members of the Dingley Dell club approached Mr. Pickwick, and said--
‘We are about to partake of a plain dinner at the Blue Lion, Sir; we
hope you and your friends will join us.’
Of course,’ said Mr. Wardle, ‘among our friends we include Mr.--;’ and
he looked towards the stranger.
‘Jingle,’ said that versatile gentleman, taking the hint at once.
‘Jingle--Alfred Jingle, Esq., of No Hall, Nowhere.’
‘I shall be very happy, I am sure,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘So shall I,’ said Mr. Alfred Jingle, drawing one arm through Mr.
Pickwick’s, and another through Mr. Wardle’s, as he whispered
confidentially in the ear of the former gentleman:--
‘Devilish good dinner--cold, but capital--peeped into the room this
morning--fowls and pies, and all that sort of thing--pleasant fellows
these--well behaved, too--very.’
There being no further preliminaries to arrange, the company straggled
into the town in little knots of twos and threes; and within a quarter
of an hour were all seated in the great room of the Blue Lion Inn,
Muggleton--Mr. Dumkins acting as chairman, and Mr. Luffey officiating as
vice.
There was a vast deal of talking and rattling of knives and forks, and
plates; a great running about of three ponderous-headed waiters, and a
rapid disappearance of the substantial viands on the table; to each and
every of which item of confusion, the facetious Mr. Jingle lent the aid
of half-a-dozen ordinary men at least. When everybody had eaten as much
as possible, the cloth was removed, bottles, glasses, and dessert were
placed on the table; and the waiters withdrew to ‘clear away,’ or in
other words, to appropriate to their own private use and emolument
whatever remnants of the eatables and drinkables they could contrive to
lay their hands on.
Amidst the general hum of mirth and conversation that ensued, there was
a little man with a puffy Say-nothing-to-me,-or-I’ll-contradict-you sort
of countenance, who remained very quiet; occasionally looking round him
when the conversation slackened, as if he contemplated putting in
something very weighty; and now and then bursting into a short cough of
inexpressible grandeur. At length, during a moment of comparative
silence, the little man called out in a very loud, solemn voice,--
‘Mr. Luffey!’
Everybody was hushed into a profound stillness as the individual
addressed, replied--
‘Sir!’
‘I wish to address a few words to you, Sir, if you will entreat the
gentlemen to fill their glasses.’
Mr. Jingle uttered a patronising ‘Hear, hear,’ which was responded to by
the remainder of the company; and the glasses having been filled, the
vice-president assumed an air of wisdom in a state of profound
attention; and said--
‘Mr. Staple.’
‘Sir,’ said the little man, rising, ‘I wish to address what I have to
say to you and not to our worthy chairman, because our worthy chairman
is in some measure--I may say in a great degree--the subject of what I
have to say, or I may say to--to--’
‘State,’ suggested Mr. Jingle.
‘Yes, to state,’ said the little man, ‘I thank my honourable friend, if
he will allow me to call him so (four hears and one certainly from Mr.
Jingle), for the suggestion. Sir, I am a Deller--a Dingley Deller
(cheers). I cannot lay claim to the honour of forming an item in the
population of Muggleton; nor, Sir, I will frankly admit, do I covet that
honour: and I will tell you why, Sir (hear); to Muggleton I will readily
concede all these honours and distinctions to which it can fairly lay
claim--they are too numerous and too well known to require aid or
recapitulation from me. But, sir, while we remember that Muggleton has
given birth to a Dumkins and a Podder, let us never forget that Dingley
Dell can boast a Luffey and a Struggles. (Vociferous cheering.) Let me
not be considered as wishing to detract from the merits of the former
gentlemen. Sir, I envy them the luxury of their own feelings on this
occasion. (Cheers.) Every gentleman who hears me, is probably acquainted
with the reply made by an individual, who--to use an ordinary figure of
speech--“hung out” in a tub, to the emperor Alexander:--“if I were not
Diogenes,” said he, “I would be Alexander.” I can well imagine these
gentlemen to say, “If I were not Dumkins I would be Luffey; if I were
not Podder I would be Struggles.” (Enthusiasm.) But, gentlemen of
Muggleton, is it in cricket alone that your fellow-townsmen stand pre-
eminent? Have you never heard of Dumkins and determination? Have you
never been taught to associate Podder with property? (Great applause.)
Have you never, when struggling for your rights, your liberties, and
your privileges, been reduced, if only for an instant, to misgiving and
despair? And when you have been thus depressed, has not the name of
Dumkins laid afresh within your breast the fire which had just gone out;
and has not a word from that man lighted it again as brightly as if it
had never expired? (Great cheering.) Gentlemen, I beg to surround with a
rich halo of enthusiastic cheering the united names of “Dumkins and
Podder.”’
Here the little man ceased, and here the company commenced a raising of
voices, and thumping of tables, which lasted with little intermission
during the remainder of the evening. Other toasts were drunk. Mr. Luffey
and Mr. Struggles, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Jingle, were, each in his turn,
the subject of unqualified eulogium; and each in due course returned
thanks for the honour.
Enthusiastic as we are in the noble cause to which we have devoted
ourselves, we should have felt a sensation of pride which we cannot
express, and a consciousness of having done something to merit
immortality of which we are now deprived, could we have laid the
faintest outline on these addresses before our ardent readers. Mr.
Snodgrass, as usual, took a great mass of notes, which would no doubt
have afforded most useful and valuable information, had not the burning
eloquence of the words or the feverish influence of the wine made that
gentleman’s hand so extremely unsteady, as to render his writing nearly
unintelligible, and his style wholly so. By dint of patient
investigation, we have been enabled to trace some characters bearing a
faint resemblance to the names of the speakers; and we can only discern
an entry of a song (supposed to have been sung by Mr. Jingle), in which
the words ‘bowl’ ‘sparkling’ ‘ruby’ ‘bright’ and ‘wine’ are frequently
repeated at short intervals. We fancy, too, that we can discern at the
very end of the notes, some indistinct reference to ‘broiled bones’; and
then the words ‘cold’ ‘without’ occur: but as any hypothesis we could
found upon them must necessarily rest upon mere conjecture, we are not
disposed to indulge in any of the speculations to which they may give
rise.
We will therefore return to Mr. Tupman; merely adding that within some
few minutes before twelve o’clock that night, the convocation of
worthies of Dingley Dell and Muggleton were heard to sing, with great
feeling and emphasis, the beautiful and pathetic national air of
‘We won’t go home till morning, We won’t go home till morning, We won’t
go home till morning, Till daylight doth appear.’
CHAPTER VIII. STRONGLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE POSITION, THAT THE COURSE OF
TRUE LOVE IS NOT A RAILWAY
The quiet seclusion of Dingley Dell, the presence of so many of the
gentler sex, and the solicitude and anxiety they evinced in his behalf,
were all favourable to the growth and development of those softer
feelings which nature had implanted deep in the bosom of Mr. Tracy
Tupman, and which now appeared destined to centre in one lovely object.
The young ladies were pretty, their manners winning, their dispositions
unexceptionable; but there was a dignity in the air, a touch-me-not-
ishness in the walk, a majesty in the eye, of the spinster aunt, to
which, at their time of life, they could lay no claim, which
distinguished her from any female on whom Mr. Tupman had ever gazed.
That there was something kindred in their nature, something congenial in
their souls, something mysteriously sympathetic in their bosoms, was
evident. Her name was the first that rose to Mr. Tupman’s lips as he lay
wounded on the grass; and her hysteric laughter was the first sound that
fell upon his ear when he was supported to the house. But had her
agitation arisen from an amiable and feminine sensibility which would
have been equally irrepressible in any case; or had it been called forth
by a more ardent and passionate feeling, which he, of all men living,
could alone awaken? These were the doubts which racked his brain as he
lay extended on the sofa; these were the doubts which he determined
should be at once and for ever resolved.
It was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr. Trundle;
the deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair; the snoring of the fat