The Pickwick Papers
apparently with no other end or object than that of easing his bosom by
the discharge of a few superfluous oaths. At length some supper, which
had been warming up, was placed on the table, and then old Lobbs fell
to, in regular style; and having made clear work of it in no time,
kissed his daughter, and demanded his pipe.
‘Nature had placed Nathaniel Pipkin’s knees in very close juxtaposition,
but when he heard old Lobbs demand his pipe, they knocked together, as
if they were going to reduce each other to powder; for, depending from a
couple of hooks, in the very closet in which he stood, was a large,
brown-stemmed, silver-bowled pipe, which pipe he himself had seen in the
mouth of old Lobbs, regularly every afternoon and evening, for the last
five years. The two girls went downstairs for the pipe, and upstairs for
the pipe, and everywhere but where they knew the pipe was, and old Lobbs
stormed away meanwhile, in the most wonderful manner. At last he thought
of the closet, and walked up to it. It was of no use a little man like
Nathaniel Pipkin pulling the door inwards, when a great strong fellow
like old Lobbs was pulling it outwards. Old Lobbs gave it one tug, and
open it flew, disclosing Nathaniel Pipkin standing bolt upright inside,
and shaking with apprehension from head to foot. Bless us! what an
appalling look old Lobbs gave him, as he dragged him out by the collar,
and held him at arm’s length.
‘“Why, what the devil do you want here?” said old Lobbs, in a fearful
voice.
‘Nathaniel Pipkin could make no reply, so old Lobbs shook him backwards
and forwards, for two or three minutes, by way of arranging his ideas
for him.
‘“What do you want here?” roared Lobbs; “I suppose you have come after
my daughter, now!”
‘Old Lobbs merely said this as a sneer: for he did not believe that
mortal presumption could have carried Nathaniel Pipkin so far. What was
his indignation, when that poor man replied--
‘“Yes, I did, Mr. Lobbs, I did come after your daughter. I love her, Mr.
Lobbs.”
‘“Why, you snivelling, wry-faced, puny villain,” gasped old Lobbs,
paralysed by the atrocious confession; “what do you mean by that? Say
this to my face! Damme, I’ll throttle you!”
‘It is by no means improbable that old Lobbs would have carried his
threat into execution, in the excess of his rage, if his arm had not
been stayed by a very unexpected apparition: to wit, the male cousin,
who, stepping out of his closet, and walking up to old Lobbs, said--
‘“I cannot allow this harmless person, Sir, who has been asked here, in
some girlish frolic, to take upon himself, in a very noble manner, the
fault (if fault it is) which I am guilty of, and am ready to avow. I
love your daughter, sir; and I came here for the purpose of meeting
her.”
‘Old Lobbs opened his eyes very wide at this, but not wider than
Nathaniel Pipkin.
‘“You did?” said Lobbs, at last finding breath to speak.
‘“I did.”
‘“And I forbade you this house, long ago.”
‘“You did, or I should not have been here, clandestinely, to-night.”
‘I am sorry to record it of old Lobbs, but I think he would have struck
the cousin, if his pretty daughter, with her bright eyes swimming in
tears, had not clung to his arm.
‘“Don’t stop him, Maria,” said the young man; “if he has the will to
strike me, let him. I would not hurt a hair of his gray head, for the
riches of the world.”
‘The old man cast down his eyes at this reproof, and they met those of
his daughter. I have hinted once or twice before, that they were very
bright eyes, and, though they were tearful now, their influence was by
no means lessened. Old Lobbs turned his head away, as if to avoid being
persuaded by them, when, as fortune would have it, he encountered the
face of the wicked little cousin, who, half afraid for her brother, and
half laughing at Nathaniel Pipkin, presented as bewitching an expression
of countenance, with a touch of slyness in it, too, as any man, old or
young, need look upon. She drew her arm coaxingly through the old man’s,
and whispered something in his ear; and do what he would, old Lobbs
couldn’t help breaking out into a smile, while a tear stole down his
cheek at the same time.
‘Five minutes after this, the girls were brought down from the bedroom
with a great deal of giggling and modesty; and while the young people
were making themselves perfectly happy, old Lobbs got down the pipe, and
smoked it; and it was a remarkable circumstance about that particular
pipe of tobacco, that it was the most soothing and delightful one he
ever smoked.
‘Nathaniel Pipkin thought it best to keep his own counsel, and by so
doing gradually rose into high favour with old Lobbs, who taught him to
smoke in time; and they used to sit out in the garden on the fine
evenings, for many years afterwards, smoking and drinking in great
state. He soon recovered the effects of his attachment, for we find his
name in the parish register, as a witness to the marriage of Maria Lobbs
to her cousin; and it also appears, by reference to other documents,
that on the night of the wedding he was incarcerated in the village
cage, for having, in a state of extreme intoxication, committed sundry
excesses in the streets, in all of which he was aided and abetted by the
bony apprentice with the thin legs.’
CHAPTER XVIII. BRIEFLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF TWO POINTS; FIRST, THE POWER OF
HYSTERICS, AND, SECONDLY, THE FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES
For two days after the _dejeune _at Mrs. Hunter’s, the Pickwickians
remained at Eatanswill, anxiously awaiting the arrival of some
intelligence from their revered leader. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass
were once again left to their own means of amusement; for Mr. Winkle, in
compliance with a most pressing invitation, continued to reside at Mr.
Pott’s house, and to devote his time to the companionship of his amiable
lady. Nor was the occasional society of Mr. Pott himself wanting to
complete their felicity. Deeply immersed in the intensity of his
speculations for the public weal and the destruction of the
_Independent_, it was not the habit of that great man to descend from
his mental pinnacle to the humble level of ordinary minds. On this
occasion, however, and as if expressly in compliment to any follower of
Mr. Pickwick’s, he unbent, relaxed, stepped down from his pedestal, and
walked upon the ground, benignly adapting his remarks to the
comprehension of the herd, and seeming in outward form, if not in
spirit, to be one of them.
Such having been the demeanour of this celebrated public character
towards Mr. Winkle, it will be readily imagined that considerable
surprise was depicted on the countenance of the latter gentleman, when,
as he was sitting alone in the breakfast-room, the door was hastily
thrown open, and as hastily closed, on the entrance of Mr. Pott, who,
stalking majestically towards him, and thrusting aside his proffered
hand, ground his teeth, as if to put a sharper edge on what he was about
to utter, and exclaimed, in a saw-like voice--
‘Serpent!’
‘Sir!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, starting from his chair.
‘Serpent, Sir,’ repeated Mr. Pott, raising his voice, and then suddenly
depressing it: ‘I said, serpent, sir--make the most of it.’
When you have parted with a man at two o’clock in the morning, on terms
of the utmost good-fellowship, and he meets you again, at half-past
nine, and greets you as a serpent, it is not unreasonable to conclude
that something of an unpleasant nature has occurred meanwhile. So Mr.
Winkle thought. He returned Mr. Pott’s gaze of stone, and in compliance
with that gentleman’s request, proceeded to make the most he could of
the ‘serpent.’ The most, however, was nothing at all; so, after a
profound silence of some minutes’ duration, he said,--
‘Serpent, Sir! Serpent, Mr. Pott! What can you mean, Sir?--this is
pleasantry.’
‘Pleasantry, sir!’ exclaimed Pott, with a motion of the hand, indicative
of a strong desire to hurl the Britannia metal teapot at the head of the
visitor. ‘Pleasantry, sir!--But--no, I will be calm; I will be calm,
Sir;’ in proof of his calmness, Mr. Pott flung himself into a chair, and
foamed at the mouth.
‘My dear sir,’ interposed Mr. Winkle.
‘_DEAR _Sir!’ replied Pott. ‘How dare you address me, as dear Sir, Sir?
How dare you look me in the face and do it, sir?’
‘Well, Sir, if you come to that,’ responded Mr. Winkle, ‘how dare you
look me in the face, and call me a serpent, sir?’
‘Because you are one,’ replied Mr. Pott.
‘Prove it, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle warmly. ‘Prove it.’
A malignant scowl passed over the profound face of the editor, as he
drew from his pocket the _Independent_ of that morning; and laying his
finger on a particular paragraph, threw the journal across the table to
Mr. Winkle.
That gentleman took it up, and read as follows:--
‘Our obscure and filthy contemporary, in some disgusting observations on
the recent election for this borough, has presumed to violate the
hallowed sanctity of private life, and to refer in a manner not to be
misunderstood, to the personal affairs of our late candidate--aye, and
notwithstanding his base defeat, we will add, our future member, Mr.
Fizkin. What does our dastardly contemporary mean? What would the
ruffian say, if we, setting at naught, like him, the decencies of social
intercourse, were to raise the curtain which happily conceals _His_
private life from general ridicule, not to say from general execration?
What, if we were even to point out, and comment on, facts and
circumstances, which are publicly notorious, and beheld by every one but
our mole-eyed contemporary--what if we were to print the following
effusion, which we received while we were writing the commencement of
this article, from a talented fellow-townsman and correspondent?
‘“LINES TO A BRASS POT
‘“Oh Pott! if you’d known How false she’d have grown, When you heard the
marriage bells tinkle; You’d have done then, I vow, What you cannot help
now,
‘What,’ said Mr. Pott solemnly--‘what rhymes to “tinkle,” villain?’
‘What rhymes to tinkle?’ said Mrs. Pott, whose entrance at the moment
forestalled the reply. ‘What rhymes to tinkle? Why, Winkle, I should
conceive.’ Saying this, Mrs. Pott smiled sweetly on the disturbed
Pickwickian, and extended her hand towards him. The agitated young man
would have accepted it, in his confusion, had not Pott indignantly
interposed.
‘Back, ma’am--back!’ said the editor. ‘Take his hand before my very
face!’
‘Mr. P.!’ said his astonished lady.
‘Wretched woman, look here,’ exclaimed the husband. ‘Look here, ma’am--
“Lines to a Brass Pot.” “Brass Pot”; that’s me, ma’am. “False _she’d_
have grown”; that’s you, ma’am--you.’ With this ebullition of rage,
which was not unaccompanied with something like a tremble, at the
expression of his wife’s face, Mr. Pott dashed the current number of the
Eatanswill _Independent_ at her feet.
‘Upon my word, Sir,’ said the astonished Mrs. Pott, stooping to pick up
the paper. ‘Upon my word, Sir!’
Mr. Pott winced beneath the contemptuous gaze of his wife. He had made a
desperate struggle to screw up his courage, but it was fast coming
unscrewed again.
There appears nothing very tremendous in this little sentence, ‘Upon my
word, sir,’ when it comes to be read; but the tone of voice in which it
was delivered, and the look that accompanied it, both seeming to bear
reference to some revenge to be thereafter visited upon the head of
Pott, produced their effect upon him. The most unskilful observer could
have detected in his troubled countenance, a readiness to resign his
Wellington boots to any efficient substitute who would have consented to
stand in them at that moment.
Mrs. Pott read the paragraph, uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself