The Pickwick Papers
were some remnants of the dark ages; and then the two vehicles proceeded
towards Mrs. Leo Hunter’s; Mr. Weller (who was to assist in waiting)
being stationed on the box of that in which his master was seated.
Every one of the men, women, boys, girls, and babies, who were assembled
to see the visitors in their fancy-dresses, screamed with delight and
ecstasy, when Mr. Pickwick, with the brigand on one arm, and the
troubadour on the other, walked solemnly up the entrance. Never were
such shouts heard as those which greeted Mr. Tupman’s efforts to fix the
sugar-loaf hat on his head, by way of entering the garden in style.
The preparations were on the most delightful scale; fully realising the
prophetic Pott’s anticipations about the gorgeousness of Eastern
fairyland, and at once affording a sufficient contradiction to the
malignant statements of the reptile _Independent_. The grounds were more
than an acre and a quarter in extent, and they were filled with people!
Never was such a blaze of beauty, and fashion, and literature. There was
the young lady who ‘did’ the poetry in the Eatanswill _Gazette_, in the
garb of a sultana, leaning upon the arm of the young gentleman who ‘did’
the review department, and who was appropriately habited in a field-
marshal’s uniform--the boots excepted. There were hosts of these
geniuses, and any reasonable person would have thought it honour enough
to meet them. But more than these, there were half a dozen lions from
London--authors, real authors, who had written whole books, and printed
them afterwards--and here you might see ‘em, walking about, like
ordinary men, smiling, and talking--aye, and talking pretty considerable
nonsense too, no doubt with the benign intention of rendering themselves
intelligible to the common people about them. Moreover, there was a band
of music in pasteboard caps; four something-ean singers in the costume
of their country, and a dozen hired waiters in the costume of _their
_country--and very dirty costume too. And above all, there was Mrs. Leo
Hunter in the character of Minerva, receiving the company, and
overflowing with pride and gratification at the notion of having called
such distinguished individuals together.
‘Mr. Pickwick, ma’am,’ said a servant, as that gentleman approached the
presiding goddess, with his hat in his hand, and the brigand and
troubadour on either arm.
‘What! Where!’ exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, starting up, in an affected
rapture of surprise.
‘Here,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Is it possible that I have really the gratification of beholding Mr.
Pickwick himself!’ ejaculated Mrs. Leo Hunter.
‘No other, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. ‘Permit me to
introduce my friends--Mr. Tupman--Mr. Winkle--Mr. Snodgrass--to the
authoress of “The Expiring Frog.”’
Very few people but those who have tried it, know what a difficult
process it is to bow in green velvet smalls, and a tight jacket, and
high-crowned hat; or in blue satin trunks and white silks, or knee-cords
and top-boots that were never made for the wearer, and have been fixed
upon him without the remotest reference to the comparative dimensions of
himself and the suit. Never were such distortions as Mr. Tupman’s frame
underwent in his efforts to appear easy and graceful--never was such
ingenious posturing, as his fancy-dressed friends exhibited.
‘Mr. Pickwick,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘I must make you promise not to
stir from my side the whole day. There are hundreds of people here, that
I must positively introduce you to.’
‘You are very kind, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘In the first place, here are my little girls; I had almost forgotten
them,’ said Minerva, carelessly pointing towards a couple of full-grown
young ladies, of whom one might be about twenty, and the other a year or
two older, and who were dressed in very juvenile costumes--whether to
make them look young, or their mamma younger, Mr. Pickwick does not
distinctly inform us.
‘They are very beautiful,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as the juveniles turned
away, after being presented.
‘They are very like their mamma, Sir,’ said Mr. Pott, majestically.
‘Oh, you naughty man,’ exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, playfully tapping the
editor’s arm with her fan (Minerva with a fan!).
‘Why now, my dear Mrs. Hunter,’ said Mr. Pott, who was trumpeter in
ordinary at the Den, ‘you know that when your picture was in the
exhibition of the Royal Academy, last year, everybody inquired whether
it was intended for you, or your youngest daughter; for you were so much
alike that there was no telling the difference between you.’
‘Well, and if they did, why need you repeat it, before strangers?’ said
Mrs. Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of the
Eatanswill _Gazette_.
‘Count, count,’ screamed Mrs. Leo Hunter to a well-whiskered individual
in a foreign uniform, who was passing by.
‘Ah! you want me?’ said the count, turning back.
‘I want to introduce two very clever people to each other,’ said Mrs.
Leo Hunter. ‘Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducing you to
Count Smorltork.’ She added in a hurried whisper to Mr. Pickwick--‘The
famous foreigner--gathering materials for his great work on England--
hem!--Count Smorltork, Mr. Pickwick.’
Mr. Pickwick saluted the count with all the reverence due to so great a
man, and the count drew forth a set of tablets.
‘What you say, Mrs. Hunt?’ inquired the count, smiling graciously on the
gratified Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘Pig Vig or Big Vig--what you call--lawyer--
eh? I see--that is it. Big Vig’--and the count was proceeding to enter
Mr. Pickwick in his tablets, as a gentleman of the long robe, who
derived his name from the profession to which he belonged, when Mrs. Leo
Hunter interposed.
‘No, no, count,’ said the lady, ‘Pick-wick.’
‘Ah, ah, I see,’ replied the count. ‘Peek--christian name; Weeks--
surname; good, ver good. Peek Weeks. How you do, Weeks?’
‘Quite well, I thank you,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his usual
affability. ‘Have you been long in England?’
‘Long--ver long time--fortnight--more.’
‘Do you stay here long?’
‘One week.’
‘You will have enough to do,’ said Mr. Pickwick smiling, ‘to gather all
the materials you want in that time.’
‘Eh, they are gathered,’ said the count.
‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘They are here,’ added the count, tapping his forehead significantly.
‘Large book at home--full of notes--music, picture, science, potry,
poltic; all tings.’
‘The word politics, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘comprises in itself, a
difficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude.’
‘Ah!’ said the count, drawing out the tablets again, ‘ver good--fine
words to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word poltic
surprises by himself--’ And down went Mr. Pickwick’s remark, in Count
Smorltork’s tablets, with such variations and additions as the count’s
exuberant fancy suggested, or his imperfect knowledge of the language
occasioned.
‘Count,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
‘Mrs. Hunt,’ replied the count.
‘This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick’s, and a poet.’
‘Stop,’ exclaimed the count, bringing out the tablets once more. ‘Head,
potry--chapter, literary friends--name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introduced
to Snowgrass--great poet, friend of Peek Weeks--by Mrs. Hunt, which
wrote other sweet poem--what is that name?--Fog--Perspiring Fog--ver
good--ver good indeed.’ And the count put up his tablets, and with
sundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that
he had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock of
information.
‘Wonderful man, Count Smorltork,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
‘Sound philosopher,’ said Mr. Pott.
‘Clear-headed, strong-minded person,’ added Mr. Snodgrass.
A chorus of bystanders took up the shout of Count Smorltork’s praise,
shook their heads sagely, and unanimously cried, ‘Very!’
As the enthusiasm in Count Smorltork’s favour ran very high, his praises
might have been sung until the end of the festivities, if the four
something-ean singers had not ranged themselves in front of a small
apple-tree, to look picturesque, and commenced singing their national
songs, which appeared by no means difficult of execution, inasmuch as
the grand secret seemed to be, that three of the something-ean singers
should grunt, while the fourth howled. This interesting performance
having concluded amidst the loud plaudits of the whole company, a boy
forthwith proceeded to entangle himself with the rails of a chair, and
to jump over it, and crawl under it, and fall down with it, and do
everything but sit upon it, and then to make a cravat of his legs, and
tie them round his neck, and then to illustrate the ease with which a
human being can be made to look like a magnified toad--all which feats
yielded high delight and satisfaction to the assembled spectators. After
which, the voice of Mrs. Pott was heard to chirp faintly forth,
something which courtesy interpreted into a song, which was all very
classical, and strictly in character, because Apollo was himself a
composer, and composers can very seldom sing their own music or anybody
else’s, either. This was succeeded by Mrs. Leo Hunter’s recitation of
her far-famed ‘Ode to an Expiring Frog,’ which was encored once, and
would have been encored twice, if the major part of the guests, who
thought it was high time to get something to eat, had not said that it
was perfectly shameful to take advantage of Mrs. Hunter’s good nature.
So although Mrs. Leo Hunter professed her perfect willingness to recite
the ode again, her kind and considerate friends wouldn’t hear of it on
any account; and the refreshment room being thrown open, all the people
who had ever been there before, scrambled in with all possible despatch-
-Mrs. Leo Hunter’s usual course of proceedings being, to issue cards for
a hundred, and breakfast for fifty, or in other words to feed only the
very particular lions, and let the smaller animals take care of
themselves.
‘Where is Mr. Pott?’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid
lions around her.
‘Here I am,’ said the editor, from the remotest end of the room; far
beyond all hope of food, unless something was done for him by the
hostess.
‘Won’t you come up here?’
‘Oh, pray don’t mind him,’ said Mrs. Pott, in the most obliging voice--
‘you give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs. Hunter.
You’ll do very well there, won’t you--dear?’
‘Certainly--love,’ replied the unhappy Pott, with a grim smile. Alas for
the knout! The nervous arm that wielded it, with such a gigantic force
on public characters, was paralysed beneath the glance of the imperious
Mrs. Pott.
Mrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smorltork was busily
engaged in taking notes of the contents of the dishes; Mr. Tupman was
doing the honours of the lobster salad to several lionesses, with a
degree of grace which no brigand ever exhibited before; Mr. Snodgrass
having cut out the young gentleman who cut up the books for the
Eatanswill _Gazette_, was engaged in an impassioned argument with the
young lady who did the poetry; and Mr. Pickwick was making himself
universally agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render the select
circle complete, when Mr. Leo Hunter--whose department on these
occasions, was to stand about in doorways, and talk to the less
important people--suddenly called out--
‘My dear; here’s Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter, ‘how anxiously I have been expecting
him. Pray make room, to let Mr. Fitz-Marshall pass. Tell Mr. Fitz-
Marshall, my dear, to come up to me directly, to be scolded for coming
so late.’
‘Coming, my dear ma’am,’ cried a voice, ‘as quick as I can--crowds of
people--full room--hard work--very.’