The Pickwick Papers

The first day’s journey, and the first evening’s adventures; with their consequences.

That punctual servant of all work, the sun, had just risen, and begun to strike a light on the morning of the thirteenth of May, one thousand eight hundred and twenty-seven, when Mr. Samuel Pickwick burst like another sun from his slumbers, threw open his chamber window, and looked out upon the world beneath. Goswell Street was at his feet, Goswell Street was on his right hand⁠—as far as the eye could reach, Goswell Street extended on his left; and the opposite side of Goswell Street was over the way. “Such,” thought Mr. Pickwick, “are the narrow views of those philosophers who, content with examining the things that lie before them, look not to the truths which are hidden beyond. As well might I be content to gaze on Goswell Street forever, without one effort to penetrate to the hidden countries which on every side surround it.” And having given vent to this beautiful reflection, Mr. Pickwick proceeded to put himself into his clothes, and his clothes into his portmanteau. Great men are seldom over-scrupulous in the arrangement of their attire; the operation of shaving, dressing, and coffee-imbibing was soon performed; and, in another hour, Mr. Pickwick, with his portmanteau in his hand, his telescope in his greatcoat pocket, and his notebook in his waistcoat, ready for the reception of any discoveries worthy of being noted down, had arrived at the coach-stand in St. Martin’s-le-Grand.

“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

There are very few moments in a man’s existence when he experiences so much ludicrous distress, or meets with so little charitable commiseration, as when he is in pursuit of his own hat. A vast deal of coolness, and a peculiar degree of judgment, are requisite in catching a hat. A man must not be precipitate, or he runs over it; he must not rush into the opposite extreme, or he loses it altogether. The best way is to keep gently up with the object of pursuit, to be wary and cautious, to watch your opportunity well, get gradually before it, then make a rapid dive, seize it by the crown, and stick it firmly on your head; smiling pleasantly all the time, as if you thought it as good a joke as anybody else.

There was a fine gentle wind, and Mr. Pickwick’s hat rolled sportively before it. The wind puffed, and Mr. Pickwick puffed, and the hat rolled over and over as merrily as a lively porpoise in a strong tide: and on it might have rolled, far beyond Mr. Pickwick’s reach, had not its course been providentially stopped, just as that gentleman was on the point of resigning it to its fate.

Mr. Pickwick, we say, was completely exhausted, and about to give up the chase, when the hat was blown with some violence against the wheel of a carriage, which was drawn up in a line with half a dozen other vehicles on the spot to which his steps had been directed.

“Certainly” said Mr. Pickwick; and down they sat.

There was a gigantic round of cold beef on the table, and Mr. Pickwick was supplied with a plentiful portion of it. He had raised his fork to his lips, and was on the very point of opening his mouth for the reception of a piece of beef, when the hum of many voices suddenly arose in the kitchen. He paused, and laid down his fork. Mr. Wardle paused too, and insensibly released his hold of the carving-knife, which remained inserted in the beef. He looked at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick looked at him.

Heavy footsteps were heard in the passage; the parlour door was suddenly burst open; and the man who had cleaned Mr. Pickwick’s boots on his first arrival, rushed into the room, followed by the fat boy and all the domestics.

“What the devil’s the meaning of this?” exclaimed the host.

“The kitchen chimney ain’t afire, is it, Emma?” inquired the old lady.

“Lor, grandma! No,” screamed both the young ladies.

“What’s the matter?” roared the master of the house.

The man gasped for breath, and faintly ejaculated⁠—

“They ha’ gone, mas’r!⁠—gone right clean off, Sir!” (At this juncture Mr. Tupman was observed to lay down his knife and fork, and to turn very pale.)

“Who’s gone?” said Mr. Wardle fiercely.

“Mus’r Jingle and Miss Rachael, in a po’-chay, from Blue Lion, Muggleton. I was there; but I couldn’t stop ’em; so I run off to tell ’ee.”

“I paid his expenses!” said Mr. Tupman, jumping up frantically.

The smile that played on Mr. Pickwick’s features was instantaneously lost in a look of the most unbounded and wonder-stricken surprise. The person, whoever it was, had come in so suddenly and with so little noise, that Mr. Pickwick had had no time to call out, or oppose their entrance. Who could it be? A robber? Some evil-minded person who had seen him come upstairs with a handsome watch in his hand, perhaps. What was he to do?

The only way in which Mr. Pickwick could catch a glimpse of his mysterious visitor with the least danger of being seen himself, was by creeping on to the bed, and peeping out from between the curtains on the opposite side. To this manoeuvre he accordingly resorted. Keeping the curtains carefully closed with his hand, so that nothing more of him could be seen than his face and nightcap, and putting on his spectacles, he mustered up courage and looked out.

Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before the dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady, in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in brushing what ladies call their “back-hair.” However the unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear that she contemplated remaining there for the night; for she had brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was glimmering away, like a gigantic lighthouse in a particularly small piece of water.