The Pickwick Papers
‘Pooh! pooh! Nonsense!’ said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the
impetuosity which characterised all his proceedings. ‘Here; I’ll keep
you company; come along!’ And away went the good-tempered old fellow
down the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller,
and beat the fat boy all to nothing.
Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in
his hat; took two or three short runs, baulked himself as often, and at
last took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with
his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts
of all the spectators.
‘Keep the pot a-bilin’, Sir!’ said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and
then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob
Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closely
upon each other’s heels, and running after each other with as much
eagerness as if their future prospects in life depended on their
expedition.
It was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe the manner in
which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the
torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon
him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually
expend the painful force he had put on at first, and turn slowly round
on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he had started;
to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face when he had
accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round
when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor, his black gaiters
tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness
and gladness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down (which
happened upon the average every third round), it was the most
invigorating sight that can possibly be imagined, to behold him gather
up his hat, gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, and
resume his station in the rank, with an ardour and enthusiasm that
nothing Could abate.
The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the
laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp smart crack was heard. There
was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a
shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; the water
bubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick’s hat, gloves, and handkerchief were
floating on the surface; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody
could see.
Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance; the males turned
pale, and the females fainted; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each
other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had gone
down, with frenzied eagerness; while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the
promptest assistance, and at the same time conveying to any persons who
might be within hearing, the clearest possible notion of the
catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed, screaming
‘Fire!’ with all his might.
It was at this moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching
the hole with cautious steps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a
hurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleeding
the company generally, as an improving little bit of professional
practice--it was at this very moment, that a face, head, and shoulders,
emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and
spectacles of Mr. Pickwick.
‘Keep yourself up for an instant--for only one instant!’ bawled Mr.
Snodgrass.
‘Yes, do; let me implore you--for my sake!’ roared Mr. Winkle, deeply
affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being,
that if Mr. Pickwick had declined to keep himself up for anybody else’s
sake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so, for his
own.
‘Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?’ said Wardle.
‘Yes, certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head
and face, and gasping for breath. ‘I fell upon my back. I couldn’t get
on my feet at first.’
The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick’s coat as was yet visible, bore
testimony to the accuracy of this statement; and as the fears of the
spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy’s suddenly
recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep,
prodigies of valour were performed to get him out. After a vast quantity
of splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length
fairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more stood on
dry land.
‘Oh, he’ll catch his death of cold,’ said Emily.
‘Dear old thing!’ said Arabella. ‘Let me wrap this shawl round you, Mr.
Pickwick.’
‘Ah, that’s the best thing you can do,’ said Wardle; ‘and when you’ve
got it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into
bed directly.’
A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four of the
thickest having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started
off, under the guidance of Mr. Weller; presenting the singular
phenomenon of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat,
with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground, without
any clearly-defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an
hour.
But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and
urged on by Sam Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he
reached the door of Manor Farm, where Mr. Tupman had arrived some five
minutes before, and had frightened the old lady into palpitations of the
heart by impressing her with the unalterable conviction that the kitchen
chimney was on fire--a calamity which always presented itself in glowing
colours to the old lady’s mind, when anybody about her evinced the
smallest agitation.
Mr. Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug in bed. Sam Weller
lighted a blazing fire in the room, and took up his dinner; a bowl of
punch was carried up afterwards, and a grand carouse held in honour of
his safety. Old Wardle would not hear of his rising, so they made the
bed the chair, and Mr. Pickwick presided. A second and a third bowl were
ordered in; and when Mr. Pickwick awoke next morning, there was not a
symptom of rheumatism about him; which proves, as Mr. Bob Sawyer very
justly observed, that there is nothing like hot punch in such cases; and
that if ever hot punch did fail to act as a preventive, it was merely
because the patient fell into the vulgar error of not taking enough of
it.
The jovial party broke up next morning. Breakings-up are capital things
in our school-days, but in after life they are painful enough. Death,
self-interest, and fortune’s changes, are every day breaking up many a
happy group, and scattering them far and wide; and the boys and girls
never come back again. We do not mean to say that it was exactly the
case in this particular instance; all we wish to inform the reader is,
that the different members of the party dispersed to their several
homes; that Mr. Pickwick and his friends once more took their seats on
the top of the Muggleton coach; and that Arabella Allen repaired to her
place of destination, wherever it might have been--we dare say Mr.
Winkle knew, but we confess we don’t--under the care and guardianship of
her brother Benjamin, and his most intimate and particular friend, Mr.
Bob Sawyer.
Before they separated, however, that gentleman and Mr. Benjamin Allen
drew Mr. Pickwick aside with an air of some mystery; and Mr. Bob Sawyer,
thrusting his forefinger between two of Mr. Pickwick’s ribs, and thereby
displaying his native drollery, and his knowledge of the anatomy of the
human frame, at one and the same time, inquired--
‘I say, old boy, where do you hang out?’ Mr. Pickwick replied that he
was at present suspended at the George and Vulture.
‘I wish you’d come and see me,’ said Bob Sawyer.
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
‘There’s my lodgings,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, producing a card. ‘Lant
Street, Borough; it’s near Guy’s, and handy for me, you know. Little
distance after you’ve passed St. George’s Church--turns out of the High
Street on the right hand side the way.’
‘I shall find it,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Come on Thursday fortnight, and bring the other chaps with you,’ said
Mr. Bob Sawyer; ‘I’m going to have a few medical fellows that night.’
Mr. Pickwick expressed the pleasure it would afford him to meet the
medical fellows; and after Mr. Bob Sawyer had informed him that he meant
to be very cosy, and that his friend Ben was to be one of the party,
they shook hands and separated.
We feel that in this place we lay ourself open to the inquiry whether
Mr. Winkle was whispering, during this brief conversation, to Arabella
Allen; and if so, what he said; and furthermore, whether Mr. Snodgrass
was conversing apart with Emily Wardle; and if so, what _he_ said. To
this, we reply, that whatever they might have said to the ladies, they
said nothing at all to Mr. Pickwick or Mr. Tupman for eight-and-twenty
miles, and that they sighed very often, refused ale and brandy, and
looked gloomy. If our observant lady readers can deduce any satisfactory
inferences from these facts, we beg them by all means to do so.
CHAPTER XXXI. WHICH IS ALL ABOUT THE LAW, AND SUNDRY GREAT AUTHORITIES
LEARNED THEREIN
Scattered about, in various holes and corners of the Temple, are certain
dark and dirty chambers, in and out of which, all the morning in
vacation, and half the evening too in term time, there may be seen
constantly hurrying with bundles of papers under their arms, and
protruding from their pockets, an almost uninterrupted succession of
lawyers’ clerks. There are several grades of lawyers’ clerks. There is
the articled clerk, who has paid a premium, and is an attorney in
perspective, who runs a tailor’s bill, receives invitations to parties,
knows a family in Gower Street, and another in Tavistock Square; who
goes out of town every long vacation to see his father, who keeps live
horses innumerable; and who is, in short, the very aristocrat of clerks.
There is the salaried clerk--out of door, or in door, as the case may
be--who devotes the major part of his thirty shillings a week to his
Personal pleasure and adornments, repairs half-price to the Adelphi
Theatre at least three times a week, dissipates majestically at the
cider cellars afterwards, and is a dirty caricature of the fashion which
expired six months ago. There is the middle-aged copying clerk, with a
large family, who is always shabby, and often drunk. And there are the
office lads in their first surtouts, who feel a befitting contempt for
boys at day-schools, club as they go home at night, for saveloys and
porter, and think there’s nothing like ‘life.’ There are varieties of
the genus, too numerous to recapitulate, but however numerous they may
be, they are all to be seen, at certain regulated business hours,
hurrying to and from the places we have just mentioned.
These sequestered nooks are the public offices of the legal profession,
where writs are issued, judgments signed, declarations filed, and
numerous other ingenious machines put in motion for the torture and
torment of His Majesty’s liege subjects, and the comfort and emolument
of the practitioners of the law. They are, for the most part, low-
roofed, mouldy rooms, where innumerable rolls of parchment, which have
been perspiring in secret for the last century, send forth an agreeable
odour, which is mingled by day with the scent of the dry-rot, and by
night with the various exhalations which arise from damp cloaks,
festering umbrellas, and the coarsest tallow candles.
About half-past seven o’clock in the evening, some ten days or a
fortnight after Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London, there