The Pickwick Papers
full mile off, has just exchanged a friendly nod with the coachman, and
turned round to take a good long stare at the vehicle as it whirls away.
And now the bugle plays a lively air as the coach rattles through the
ill-paved streets of a country town; and the coachman, undoing the
buckle which keeps his ribands together, prepares to throw them off the
moment he stops. Mr. Pickwick emerges from his coat collar, and looks
about him with great curiosity; perceiving which, the coachman informs
Mr. Pickwick of the name of the town, and tells him it was market-day
yesterday, both of which pieces of information Mr. Pickwick retails to
his fellow-passengers; whereupon they emerge from their coat collars
too, and look about them also. Mr. Winkle, who sits at the extreme edge,
with one leg dangling in the air, is nearly precipitated into the
street, as the coach twists round the sharp corner by the cheesemonger’s
shop, and turns into the market-place; and before Mr. Snodgrass, who
sits next to him, has recovered from his alarm, they pull up at the inn
yard where the fresh horses, with cloths on, are already waiting. The
coachman throws down the reins and gets down himself, and the other
outside passengers drop down also; except those who have no great
confidence in their ability to get up again; and they remain where they
are, and stamp their feet against the coach to warm them--looking, with
longing eyes and red noses, at the bright fire in the inn bar, and the
sprigs of holly with red berries which ornament the window.
But the guard has delivered at the corn-dealer’s shop, the brown paper
packet he took out of the little pouch which hangs over his shoulder by
a leathern strap; and has seen the horses carefully put to; and has
thrown on the pavement the saddle which was brought from London on the
coach roof; and has assisted in the conference between the coachman and
the hostler about the gray mare that hurt her off fore-leg last Tuesday;
and he and Mr. Weller are all right behind, and the coachman is all
right in front, and the old gentleman inside, who has kept the window
down full two inches all this time, has pulled it up again, and the
cloths are off, and they are all ready for starting, except the ‘two
stout gentlemen,’ whom the coachman inquires after with some impatience.
Hereupon the coachman, and the guard, and Sam Weller, and Mr. Winkle,
and Mr. Snodgrass, and all the hostlers, and every one of the idlers,
who are more in number than all the others put together, shout for the
missing gentlemen as loud as they can bawl. A distant response is heard
from the yard, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman come running down it,
quite out of breath, for they have been having a glass of ale a-piece,
and Mr. Pickwick’s fingers are so cold that he has been full five
minutes before he could find the sixpence to pay for it. The coachman
shouts an admonitory ‘Now then, gen’l’m’n,’ the guard re-echoes it; the
old gentleman inside thinks it a very extraordinary thing that people
_will _get down when they know there isn’t time for it; Mr. Pickwick
struggles up on one side, Mr. Tupman on the other; Mr. Winkle cries ‘All
right’; and off they start. Shawls are pulled up, coat collars are
readjusted, the pavement ceases, the houses disappear; and they are once
again dashing along the open road, with the fresh clear air blowing in
their faces, and gladdening their very hearts within them.
Such was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by the Muggleton
Telegraph, on their way to Dingley Dell; and at three o’clock that
afternoon they all stood high and dry, safe and sound, hale and hearty,
upon the steps of the Blue Lion, having taken on the road quite enough
of ale and brandy, to enable them to bid defiance to the frost that was
binding up the earth in its iron fetters, and weaving its beautiful
network upon the trees and hedges. Mr. Pickwick was busily engaged in
counting the barrels of oysters and superintending the disinterment of
the cod-fish, when he felt himself gently pulled by the skirts of the
coat. Looking round, he discovered that the individual who resorted to
this mode of catching his attention was no other than Mr. Wardle’s
favourite page, better known to the readers of this unvarnished history,
by the distinguishing appellation of the fat boy.
‘Aha!’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Aha!’ said the fat boy.
As he said it, he glanced from the cod-fish to the oyster-barrels, and
chuckled joyously. He was fatter than ever.
‘Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘I’ve been asleep, right in front of the taproom fire,’ replied the fat
boy, who had heated himself to the colour of a new chimney-pot, in the
course of an hour’s nap. ‘Master sent me over with the chay-cart, to
carry your luggage up to the house. He’d ha’ sent some saddle-horses,
but he thought you’d rather walk, being a cold day.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily, for he remembered how they had
travelled over nearly the same ground on a previous occasion. ‘Yes, we
would rather walk. Here, Sam!’
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Weller.
‘Help Mr. Wardle’s servant to put the packages into the cart, and then
ride on with him. We will walk forward at once.’
Having given this direction, and settled with the coachman, Mr. Pickwick
and his three friends struck into the footpath across the fields, and
walked briskly away, leaving Mr. Weller and the fat boy confronted
together for the first time. Sam looked at the fat boy with great
astonishment, but without saying a word; and began to stow the luggage
rapidly away in the cart, while the fat boy stood quietly by, and seemed
to think it a very interesting sort of thing to see Mr. Weller working
by himself.
‘There,’ said Sam, throwing in the last carpet-bag, ‘there they are!’
‘Yes,’ said the fat boy, in a very satisfied tone, ‘there they are.’
‘Vell, young twenty stun,’ said Sam, ‘you’re a nice specimen of a prize
boy, you are!’
Thank’ee,’ said the fat boy.
‘You ain’t got nothin’ on your mind as makes you fret yourself, have
you?’ inquired Sam.
‘Not as I knows on,’ replied the fat boy.
‘I should rayther ha’ thought, to look at you, that you was a-labourin’
under an unrequited attachment to some young ‘ooman,’ said Sam.
The fat boy shook his head.
‘Vell,’ said Sam, ‘I am glad to hear it. Do you ever drink anythin’?’
‘I likes eating better,’ replied the boy.
‘Ah,’ said Sam, ‘I should ha’ s’posed that; but what I mean is, should
you like a drop of anythin’ as’d warm you? but I s’pose you never was
cold, with all them elastic fixtures, was you?’
‘Sometimes,’ replied the boy; ‘and I likes a drop of something, when
it’s good.’
‘Oh, you do, do you?’ said Sam, ‘come this way, then!’
The Blue Lion tap was soon gained, and the fat boy swallowed a glass of
liquor without so much as winking--a feat which considerably advanced
him in Mr. Weller’s good opinion. Mr. Weller having transacted a similar
piece of business on his own account, they got into the cart.
‘Can you drive?’ said the fat boy.
‘I should rayther think so,’ replied Sam.
‘There, then,’ said the fat boy, putting the reins in his hand, and
pointing up a lane, ‘it’s as straight as you can go; you can’t miss it.’
With these words, the fat boy laid himself affectionately down by the
side of the cod-fish, and, placing an oyster-barrel under his head for a
pillow, fell asleep instantaneously.
‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘of all the cool boys ever I set my eyes on, this here
young gen’l’m’n is the coolest. Come, wake up, young dropsy!’
But as young dropsy evinced no symptoms of returning animation, Sam
Weller sat himself down in front of the cart, and starting the old horse
with a jerk of the rein, jogged steadily on, towards the Manor Farm.
Meanwhile, Mr. Pickwick and his friends having walked their blood into
active circulation, proceeded cheerfully on. The paths were hard; the
grass was crisp and frosty; the air had a fine, dry, bracing coldness;
and the rapid approach of the gray twilight (slate-coloured is a better
term in frosty weather) made them look forward with pleasant
anticipation to the comforts which awaited them at their hospitable
entertainer’s. It was the sort of afternoon that might induce a couple
of elderly gentlemen, in a lonely field, to take off their greatcoats
and play at leap-frog in pure lightness of heart and gaiety; and we
firmly believe that had Mr. Tupman at that moment proffered ‘a back,’
Mr. Pickwick would have accepted his offer with the utmost avidity.
However, Mr. Tupman did not volunteer any such accommodation, and the
friends walked on, conversing merrily. As they turned into a lane they
had to cross, the sound of many voices burst upon their ears; and before
they had even had time to form a guess to whom they belonged, they
walked into the very centre of the party who were expecting their
arrival--a fact which was first notified to the Pickwickians, by the
loud ‘Hurrah,’ which burst from old Wardle’s lips, when they appeared in
sight.
First, there was Wardle himself, looking, if that were possible, more
jolly than ever; then there were Bella and her faithful Trundle; and,
lastly, there were Emily and some eight or ten young ladies, who had all
come down to the wedding, which was to take place next day, and who were
in as happy and important a state as young ladies usually are, on such
momentous occasions; and they were, one and all, startling the fields
and lanes, far and wide, with their frolic and laughter.
The ceremony of introduction, under such circumstances, was very soon
performed, or we should rather say that the introduction was soon over,
without any ceremony at all. In two minutes thereafter, Mr. Pickwick was
joking with the young ladies who wouldn’t come over the stile while he
looked--or who, having pretty feet and unexceptionable ankles, preferred
standing on the top rail for five minutes or so, declaring that they
were too frightened to move--with as much ease and absence of reserve or
constraint, as if he had known them for life. It is worthy of remark,
too, that Mr. Snodgrass offered Emily far more assistance than the
absolute terrors of the stile (although it was full three feet high, and
had only a couple of stepping-stones) would seem to require; while one
black-eyed young lady in a very nice little pair of boots with fur round
the top, was observed to scream very loudly, when Mr. Winkle offered to
help her over.
All this was very snug and pleasant. And when the difficulties of the
stile were at last surmounted, and they once more entered on the open
field, old Wardle informed Mr. Pickwick how they had all been down in a
body to inspect the furniture and fittings-up of the house, which the
young couple were to tenant, after the Christmas holidays; at which
communication Bella and Trundle both coloured up, as red as the fat boy
after the taproom fire; and the young lady with the black eyes and the
fur round the boots, whispered something in Emily’s ear, and then
glanced archly at Mr. Snodgrass; to which Emily responded that she was a
foolish girl, but turned very red, notwithstanding; and Mr. Snodgrass,
who was as modest as all great geniuses usually are, felt the crimson
rising to the crown of his head, and devoutly wished, in the inmost
recesses of his own heart, that the young lady aforesaid, with her black
eyes, and her archness, and her boots with the fur round the top, were
all comfortably deposited in the adjacent county.
But if they were social and happy outside the house, what was the warmth
and cordiality of their reception when they reached the farm! The very
servants grinned with pleasure at sight of Mr. Pickwick; and Emma
bestowed a half-demure, half-impudent, and all-pretty look of