The Pickwick Papers
shop again--pen and ink--back again--cut and slash--noble time, Sir.
Sportsman, sir?’ abruptly turning to Mr. Winkle.
* A remarkable instance of the prophetic force of Mr. Jingle’s
imagination; this dialogue occurring in the year 1827, and the
Revolution in 1830.
‘A little, Sir,’ replied that gentleman.
‘Fine pursuit, sir--fine pursuit.--Dogs, Sir?’
‘Not just now,’ said Mr. Winkle.
‘Ah! you should keep dogs--fine animals--sagacious creatures--dog of my
own once--pointer--surprising instinct--out shooting one day--entering
inclosure--whistled--dog stopped--whistled again--Ponto--no go; stock
still--called him--Ponto, Ponto--wouldn’t move--dog transfixed--staring
at a board--looked up, saw an inscription--“Gamekeeper has orders to
shoot all dogs found in this inclosure”--wouldn’t pass it--wonderful
dog--valuable dog that--very.’
‘Singular circumstance that,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Will you allow me to
make a note of it?’
‘Certainly, Sir, certainly--hundred more anecdotes of the same animal.--
Fine girl, Sir’ (to Mr. Tracy Tupman, who had been bestowing sundry
anti-Pickwickian glances on a young lady by the roadside).
‘Very!’ said Mr. Tupman.
‘English girls not so fine as Spanish--noble creatures--jet hair--black
eyes--lovely forms--sweet creatures--beautiful.’
‘You have been in Spain, sir?’ said Mr. Tracy Tupman.
‘Lived there--ages.’
‘Many conquests, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.
‘Conquests! Thousands. Don Bolaro Fizzgig--grandee--only daughter--Donna
Christina--splendid creature--loved me to distraction--jealous father--
high-souled daughter--handsome Englishman--Donna Christina in despair--
prussic acid--stomach pump in my portmanteau--operation performed--old
Bolaro in ecstasies--consent to our union--join hands and floods of
tears--romantic story--very.’
‘Is the lady in England now, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, on whom the
description of her charms had produced a powerful impression.
‘Dead, sir--dead,’ said the stranger, applying to his right eye the
brief remnant of a very old cambric handkerchief. ‘Never recovered the
stomach pump--undermined constitution--fell a victim.’
‘And her father?’ inquired the poetic Snodgrass.
‘Remorse and misery,’ replied the stranger. ‘Sudden disappearance--talk
of the whole city--search made everywhere without success--public
fountain in the great square suddenly ceased playing--weeks elapsed--
still a stoppage--workmen employed to clean it--water drawn off--father-
in-law discovered sticking head first in the main pipe, with a full
confession in his right boot--took him out, and the fountain played away
again, as well as ever.’
‘Will you allow me to note that little romance down, Sir?’ said Mr.
Snodgrass, deeply affected.
‘Certainly, Sir, certainly--fifty more if you like to hear ‘em--strange
life mine--rather curious history--not extraordinary, but singular.’
In this strain, with an occasional glass of ale, by way of parenthesis,
when the coach changed horses, did the stranger proceed, until they
reached Rochester bridge, by which time the note-books, both of Mr.
Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass, were completely filled with selections from
his adventures.
‘Magnificent ruin!’ said Mr. Augustus Snodgrass, with all the poetic
fervour that distinguished him, when they came in sight of the fine old
castle.
‘What a study for an antiquarian!’ were the very words which fell from
Mr. Pickwick’s mouth, as he applied his telescope to his eye.
‘Ah! fine place,’ said the stranger, ‘glorious pile--frowning walls--
tottering arches--dark nooks--crumbling staircases--old cathedral too--
earthy smell--pilgrims’ feet wore away the old steps--little Saxon
doors--confessionals like money-takers’ boxes at theatres--queer
customers those monks--popes, and lord treasurers, and all sorts of old
fellows, with great red faces, and broken noses, turning up every day--
buff jerkins too--match-locks--sarcophagus--fine place--old legends too-
-strange stories: capital;’ and the stranger continued to soliloquise
until they reached the Bull Inn, in the High Street, where the coach
stopped.
‘Do you remain here, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle.
‘Here--not I--but you’d better--good house--nice beds--Wright’s next
house, dear--very dear--half-a-crown in the bill if you look at the
waiter--charge you more if you dine at a friend’s than they would if you
dined in the coffee-room--rum fellows--very.’
Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a few words; a whisper
passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass, from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr.
Tupman, and nods of assent were exchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the
stranger.
‘You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir,’ said he,
‘will you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude by begging
the favour of your company at dinner?’
‘Great pleasure--not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and mushrooms-
-capital thing! What time?’
‘Let me see,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, referring to his watch, ‘it is now
nearly three. Shall we say five?’
‘Suit me excellently,’ said the stranger, ‘five precisely--till then--
care of yourselves;’ and lifting the pinched-up hat a few inches from
his head, and carelessly replacing it very much on one side, the
stranger, with half the brown paper parcel sticking out of his pocket,
walked briskly up the yard, and turned into the High Street.
‘Evidently a traveller in many countries, and a close observer of men
and things,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘I should like to see his poem,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘I should like to have seen that dog,’ said Mr. Winkle.
Mr. Tupman said nothing; but he thought of Donna Christina, the stomach
pump, and the fountain; and his eyes filled with tears.
A private sitting-room having been engaged, bedrooms inspected, and
dinner ordered, the party walked out to view the city and adjoining
neighbourhood.
We do not find, from a careful perusal of Mr. Pickwick’s notes of the
four towns, Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton, that his
impressions of their appearance differ in any material point from those
of other travellers who have gone over the same ground. His general
description is easily abridged.
‘The principal productions of these towns,’ says Mr. Pickwick, ‘appear
to be soldiers, sailors, Jews, chalk, shrimps, officers, and dockyard
men. The commodities chiefly exposed for sale in the public streets are
marine stores, hard-bake, apples, flat-fish, and oysters. The streets
present a lively and animated appearance, occasioned chiefly by the
conviviality of the military. It is truly delightful to a philanthropic
mind to see these gallant men staggering along under the influence of an
overflow both of animal and ardent spirits; more especially when we
remember that the following them about, and jesting with them, affords a
cheap and innocent amusement for the boy population. Nothing,’ adds Mr.
Pickwick, ‘can exceed their good-humour. It was but the day before my
arrival that one of them had been most grossly insulted in the house of
a publican. The barmaid had positively refused to draw him any more
liquor; in return for which he had (merely in playfulness) drawn his
bayonet, and wounded the girl in the shoulder. And yet this fine fellow
was the very first to go down to the house next morning and express his
readiness to overlook the matter, and forget what had occurred!
‘The consumption of tobacco in these towns,’ continues Mr. Pickwick,
‘must be very great, and the smell which pervades the streets must be
exceedingly delicious to those who are extremely fond of smoking. A
superficial traveller might object to the dirt, which is their leading
characteristic; but to those who view it as an indication of traffic and
commercial prosperity, it is truly gratifying.’
Punctual to five o’clock came the stranger, and shortly afterwards the
dinner. He had divested himself of his brown paper parcel, but had made
no alteration in his attire, and was, if possible, more loquacious than
ever.
‘What’s that?’ he inquired, as the waiter removed one of the covers.
‘Soles, Sir.’
‘Soles--ah!--capital fish--all come from London-stage-coach proprietors
get up political dinners--carriage of soles--dozens of baskets--cunning
fellows. Glass of wine, Sir.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and the stranger took wine, first
with him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with Mr. Tupman, and
then with Mr. Winkle, and then with the whole party together, almost as
rapidly as he talked.
‘Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter,’ said the stranger. ‘Forms
going up--carpenters coming down--lamps, glasses, harps. What’s going
forward?’
‘Ball, Sir,’ said the waiter.
‘Assembly, eh?’
‘No, Sir, not assembly, Sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, Sir.’
‘Many fine women in this town, do you know, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman,
with great interest.
‘Splendid--capital. Kent, sir--everybody knows Kent--apples, cherries,
hops, and women. Glass of wine, Sir!’
‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled, and
emptied.
‘I should very much like to go,’ said Mr. Tupman, resuming the subject
of the ball, ‘very much.’
‘Tickets at the bar, Sir,’ interposed the waiter; ‘half-a-guinea each,
Sir.’
Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the
festivity; but meeting with no response in the darkened eye of Mr.
Snodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he applied himself
with great interest to the port wine and dessert, which had just been
placed on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the party were left to
enjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner.
‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said the stranger, ‘bottle stands--pass it
round--way of the sun--through the button-hole--no heeltaps,’ and he
emptied his glass, which he had filled about two minutes before, and
poured out another, with the air of a man who was used to it.
The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor talked, the
Pickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment more disposed for
the ball. Mr. Pickwick’s countenance glowed with an expression of
universal philanthropy, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast
asleep.
‘They’re beginning upstairs,’ said the stranger--‘hear the company--
fiddles tuning--now the harp--there they go.’ The various sounds which
found their way downstairs announced the commencement of the first
quadrille.
‘How I should like to go,’ said Mr. Tupman again.
‘So should I,’ said the stranger--‘confounded luggage,--heavy smacks--
nothing to go in--odd, ain’t it?’
Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of the
Pickwickian theory, and no one was more remarkable for the zealous
manner in which he observed so noble a principle than Mr. Tracy Tupman.
The number of instances recorded on the Transactions of the Society, in
which that excellent man referred objects of charity to the houses of
other members for left-off garments or pecuniary relief is almost
incredible.
‘I should be very happy to lend you a change of apparel for the
purpose,’ said Mr. Tracy Tupman, ‘but you are rather slim, and I am--’
‘Rather fat--grown-up Bacchus--cut the leaves--dismounted from the tub,
and adopted kersey, eh?--not double distilled, but double milled--ha!
ha! pass the wine.’
Whether Mr. Tupman was somewhat indignant at the peremptory tone in
which he was desired to pass the wine which the stranger passed so
quickly away, or whether he felt very properly scandalised at an
influential member of the Pickwick Club being ignominiously compared to
a dismounted Bacchus, is a fact not yet completely ascertained. He
passed the wine, coughed twice, and looked at the stranger for several
seconds with a stern intensity; as that individual, however, appeared