The Pickwick Papers quotes

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.

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.

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;

“

Ah, so am I. Most people are when they’ve little to do and less to get.

Poet, Sir?”

“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.

”

“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.

He was astonished, but by no means dismayed.

It is extraordinary how cool any party but the principal can be in such cases.

Mr. Winkle had forgotten this. He had judged of his friend’s feelings by his own.

“Snodgrass,” he said, in a voice tremulous with emotion, “if I fall, you will find in a packet which I shall place in your hands a note for my—for my father.”

This attack was a failure also. Mr. Snodgrass was affected, but he undertook the delivery of the note as readily as if he had been a twopenny postman.

“If I fall,” said Mr. Winkle, “or if the doctor falls, you, my dear friend, will be tried as an accessory before the fact. Shall I involve my friend in transportation—possibly for life!”

These were instances of friendship for which any man might reasonably feel most grateful.

The presumption is, that the gratitude of Mr. Winkle was too powerful for utterance, as he said nothing, but continued to walk on⁠—rather slowly.

“We are in excellent time,” said Mr. Snodgrass, as they climbed the fence of the first field; “the sun is just going down.” Mr. Winkle looked up at the declining orb and painfully thought of the probability of his “going down” himself, before long.

“We are in excellent time,” said Mr. Snodgrass, as they climbed the fence of the first field; “the sun is just going down.”

Mr. Winkle looked up at the declining orb and painfully thought of the probability of his “going down” himself, before long.

“There’s the officer,” exclaimed Mr. Winkle, after a few minutes walking.

and whatever ambition we might have felt under other circumstances to lay claim to the authorship of these adventures, a regard for truth forbids us to do more than claim the merit of their judicious arrangement and impartial narration.

The Pickwick papers are our New River Head; and we may be compared to the New River Company.

The labours of others have raised for us an immense reservoir of important facts. We merely lay them on, and communicate them, in a clear and gentle stream, through the medium of these pages, to a world thirsting for Pickwickian knowledge.

Pickwick and his friends were stationed.

Man is but mortal; and there is a point beyond which human courage cannot extend.

Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles for an instant on the advancing mass, and then fairly turned his back and—we will not say fled; firstly, because it is an ignoble term, and, secondly, because Mr.

… eyes of the latter as he sat on the ground, staunching with a yellow silk handkerchief the stream of life which issued from his nose, was his venerated leader at some distance off, running after his own hat, which was gambolling playfully away in perspective.

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.

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.

“

Ah! people need to rise early, to see the sun in all his splendour, for his brightness seldom lasts the day through. The morning of day and the morning of life are but too much alike.

”

“Never was such cards,” said the fat gentleman.

A solemn silence; Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious, the fat gentleman captious, and Mr. Miller timorous.

“Another double,” said the old lady, triumphantly making a memorandum of the circumstance, by placing one sixpence and a battered halfpenny under the candlestick.

at the end of which time he emerged from his retirement, and offered Mr. Pickwick a pinch of snuff with the air of a man who had made up his mind to a Christian forgiveness of injuries sustained.

The old lady’s hearing decidedly improved and the unlucky Miller felt as much out of his element as a dolphin in a sentry-box.

Meanwhile the round game proceeded right merrily. Isabella Wardle and Mr. Trundle “went partners,” and Emily Wardle and Mr. Snodgrass did the same; and even Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt established a joint-stock company of fish and flattery. Old Mr.

Why, my poor old mother, here, used to sit before this fireplace upon that little stool when she was a girl; didn’t you, mother?”

The tear which starts unbidden to the eye when the recollection of old times and the happiness of many years ago is suddenly recalled, stole down the old lady’s face as she shook her head with a melancholy smile.

“You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr. Pickwick,” resumed the host, after a short pause, “for I love it dearly, and know no other—the old houses and fields seem like living friends to me;

“Pleasant, pleasant country,” sighed the enthusiastic gentleman, as he opened his lattice window. “Who could live to gaze from day to day on bricks and slates who had once felt the influence of a scene like this?

Who could continue to exist where there are no cows but the cows on the chimney-pots; nothing redolent of Pan but pan-tiles; no crop but stone crop?

Who could bear to drag out a life in such a spot? Who, I ask, could endure it?” and, having cross-examined solitude after the most approved precedents, at considerable length, Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of the lattice and looked around him.

Mr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up the spare gun with an expression of countenance which a metaphysical rook, impressed with a foreboding of his approaching death by violence, may be supposed to assume.

It might have been keenness, but it looked remarkably like misery.

The old gentleman nodded; and two ragged boys who had been marshalled to the spot under the direction of the infant Lambert, forthwith commenced climbing up two of the trees.

“Won’t it go?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.

“Missed fire,” said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale⁠—probably from disappointment.

“Odd,” said the old gentleman, taking the gun. “Never knew one of them miss fire before. Why, I don’t see anything of the cap.”

They drew near the house. The ladies were at the garden gate, waiting for their arrival and their breakfast. The spinster aunt appeared; she smiled, and beckoned them to walk quicker. ’Twas evident she knew not of the disaster.

Poor thing! there are times when ignorance is bliss indeed.

“Why, what is the matter with the little old gentleman?” said Isabella Wardle. The spinster aunt heeded not the remark; she thought it applied to Mr. Pickwick. In her eyes Tracy Tupman was a youth; she viewed his years through a diminishing glass.

and the minds of the company having been thus satisfied, they proceeded to satisfy their appetites with countenances to which an expression of cheerfulness was again restored. Mr. Pickwick alone was silent and reserved. Doubt and distrust were exhibited in his countenance.

His confidence in Mr. Winkle had been shaken⁠—greatly shaken⁠—by the proceedings of the morning.

“Are you a cricketer?” inquired Mr. Wardle of the marksman.

The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.

There was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle, jessamine, and creeping plants⁠—one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for the accommodation of spiders.

The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in one corner, and was about to leave the arbour. Mr. Tupman detained her, and drew her to a seat beside him.

“Nothing the matter, ma’am,” replied the stranger. “Cricket dinner—glorious party—capital songs—old port—claret—good—very good—wine, ma’am—wine.”

“It wasn’t the wine,” murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. “It was the salmon.” (Somehow or other, it never is the wine, in these cases.)

“Hadn’t they better go to bed, ma’am?” inquired Emma. “Two of the boys will carry the gentlemen upstairs.”

“Miss Rachael,” roared the fat boy.

The train of nods which the fat boy gave by way of assent, communicated a blancmange-like motion to his fat cheeks.

“And she suffered him!” exclaimed the old lady. A grin stole over the fat boy’s features as he said—

The imperative necessity of ousting his rival by some means or other, flashed quickly upon him, and he immediately resolved to adopt certain proceedings tending to that end and object, without a moment’s delay.

Fielding tells us that man is fire, and woman tow, and the Prince of Darkness sets a light to ’em.

Mr. Jingle knew that young men, to spinster aunts, are as lighted gas to gunpowder, and he determined to essay the effect of an explosion without loss of time.

The boys applied whip and spur, the waiters shouted, the hostlers cheered, and away they went, fast and furiously.

“Pretty situation,” thought Mr. Pickwick, when he had had a moment’s time for reflection. “Pretty situation for the general chairman of the Pickwick Club. Damp chaise⁠—strange horses⁠—fifteen miles an hour⁠—and twelve o’clock at night!”

For the first three or four miles, not a word was spoken by either of the gentlemen, each being too much immersed in his own reflections to address any observations to his companion.

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Wardle, “that’s all very well; but while we stand talking here, they’ll get their licence, and be married in London.”

Mr. Pickwick paused, bottled up his vengeance, and corked it down.

“How far is it to the next stage?” inquired Mr. Wardle, of one of the boys.

“Sam,” cried the landlady, “where’s that lazy, idle—why, Sam—oh, there you are; why don’t you answer?”

“Vouldn’t be gen-teel to answer, till you’d done talking,” replied Sam gruffly.

“Here, clean these shoes for number seventeen directly, and take ’em to private sitting-room, number five, first floor.”

“This is a curious old house of yours,” said the little man, looking round him.

“If you’d sent word you was a-coming, we’d ha’ had it repaired”; replied the imperturbable Sam.

The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses, and a short consultation took place between him and the two plump gentlemen.

“Here,” continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at Mr. Pickwick’s feet; “get the name altered—take home the lady—do for Tuppy.”

Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in armour, after all.

The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his philosophical harness, to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, he hurled the inkstand madly forward, and followed it up himself. But Mr.

Self-acting ink, that ’ere; it’s wrote your mark upon the wall, old gen’l’m’n. Hold still, Sir; wot’s the use o’ runnin’ arter a man as has made his lucky, and got to t’other end of the Borough by this time?”

Mr. Pickwick’s mind, like those of all truly great men, was open to conviction.

He was a quick and powerful reasoner; and a moment’s reflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. It subsided as quickly as it had been roused. He panted for breath, and looked benignantly round upon his friends.

Mr. Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervour of his followers lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him.

He was their leader, and he felt it.

“Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass,” said he. This proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous applause.

that three old gentlemen cut off their eldest sons with a shilling apiece for presuming to doubt the antiquity of the fragment; and that one enthusiastic individual cut himself off prematurely, in despair at being unable to fathom its meaning: that

Mr. Pickwick was elected an honorary member of seventeen native and foreign societies, for making the discovery: that none of the seventeen could make anything of it; but that all the seventeen agreed it was very extraordinary.

Mr. Blotton, indeed—and the name will be doomed to the undying contempt of those who cultivate the mysterious and the sublime—Mr. Blotton, we say, with the doubt and cavilling peculiar to vulgar minds, presumed to state a view of the case, as degrading as ridiculous.

“To attend upon me; and travel about with me and these gentlemen here.”

“Take the bill down,” said Sam emphatically. “I’m let to a single gentleman, and the terms is agreed upon.”

“You accept the situation?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.

“Slumkey forever!” roared the honest and independent.

“Slumkey forever!” echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat.

“No Fizkin!” roared the crowd.

“Certainly not!” shouted Mr. Pickwick. “Hurrah!”

And then there was another roaring, like that of a whole menagerie when the elephant has rung the bell for the cold meat.

“Who is Slumkey?” whispered Mr. Tupman.

“But suppose there are two mobs?” suggested Mr. Snodgrass.

“Shout with the largest,” replied Mr. Pickwick.

Volumes could not have said more.

“Shout with the largest,” replied Mr. Pickwick.

Volumes could not have said more.

They entered the house, the crowd opening right and left to let them pass, and cheering vociferously. The first object of consideration was to secure quarters for the night.

“Not the least doubt of it,” said the little man.

“The press is a mighty engine, sir,” said Pott.

Mr. Pickwick yielded his fullest assent to the proposition.

each darkly hinted his suspicions that the electors in the opposite interest had certain swinish and besotted infirmities which rendered them unfit for the exercise of the important duties they were called upon to discharge.

Fizkin expressed his readiness to do anything he was wanted: Slumkey, his determination to do nothing that was asked of him.

Both said that the trade, the manufactures, the commerce, the prosperity of Eatanswill, would ever be dearer to their hearts than any earthly object;

Comprising a brief description of the company at the Peacock assembled; and a tale told by a bagman.

It is pleasant to turn from contemplating the strife and turmoil of political existence, to the peaceful repose of private life.

Although in reality no great partisan of either side, Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently fired with Mr. Pott’s enthusiasm, to apply his whole time and attention to the proceedings, of which the last chapter affords a description compiled from his own memoranda.

Leo Hunter professed her perfect willingness to recite the ode again, her kind and considerate friends wouldn’t hear of it on any account; and the refreshment room being thrown open, all the people who had ever been there before, scrambled in with all possible despatch—

Mrs. Leo Hunter’s usual course of proceedings being, to issue cards for a hundred, and breakfast for fifty, or in other words to feed only the very particular lions, and let the smaller animals take care of themselves.

“Where is Mr. Pott?” said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid lions around her.

“When was that?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.

“When I wos first pitched neck and crop into the world, to play at leapfrog with its troubles,” replied Sam.

“I wos a carrier’s boy at startin’; then a vaginer’s, then a helper, then a boots. Now I’m a gen’l’m’n’s servant. I shall be a gen’l’m’n myself one of these days, perhaps, with a pipe in my mouth, and a summerhouse in the back-garden.

“When I wos first pitched neck and crop into the world, to play at leapfrog with its troubles,” replied Sam. “I wos a carrier’s boy at startin’; then a vaginer’s, then a helper, then a boots. Now I’m a gen’l’m’n’s servant.

I shall be a gen’l’m’n myself one of these days, perhaps, with a pipe in my mouth, and a summerhouse in the back-garden. Who knows?

I shouldn’t be surprised for one.”

“It runs in the family, I b’lieve, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “My father’s wery much in that line now.

If my mother-in-law blows him up, he whistles.

She flies in a passion, and breaks his pipe; he steps out, and gets another. Then she screams wery loud, and falls into ’sterics; and he smokes wery comfortably till she comes to agin. That’s philosophy, Sir, ain’t it?”

“And if I might adwise, Sir,” added Mr. Weller, “I’d just have a good night’s rest arterwards, and not begin inquiring arter this here deep ’un till the mornin’.

There’s nothin’ so refreshen’ as sleep, sir, as the servant girl said afore she drank the egg-cupful of laudanum.

”

Weller; “and as they’re so wery fine, and it’s a pity he should lose ’em, I think he’d better keep ’em in his own buzzum, than let ’em ewaporate in hot water, ’specially as they do no good.

Tears never yet wound up a clock, or worked a steam ingin’.

The next time you go out to a smoking party, young fellow, fill your pipe with that ’ere reflection; and for the present just put that bit of pink gingham into your pocket.

Job Trotter bowed low; and in spite of Mr. Weller’s previous remonstrance, the tears again rose to his eyes.

“I never see such a feller,” said Sam. “Blessed if I don’t think he’s got a main in his head as is always turned on.”

“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, with great severity, “hold your tongue.”

“You’re a soft customer, you are; we’ve got it all out o’ you, anyhow,” thought Mr. Weller, as Job walked away.

We cannot state the precise nature of the thoughts which passed through Mr. Trotter’s mind, because we don’t know what they were.

The day wore on, evening came, and at a little before ten o’clock Sam Weller reported that Mr. Jingle and Job had gone out together, that their luggage was packed up, and that they had ordered a chaise.

The constitution of Mr. Pickwick, though able to sustain a very considerable amount of exertion and fatigue, was not proof against such a combination of attacks as he had undergone on the memorable night, recorded in the last chapter.

The process of being washed in the night air, and rough-dried in a closet, is as dangerous as it is peculiar.

Mr. Pickwick was laid up with an attack of rheumatism.

“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;

“I don’t care whether it’s unsportsmanlike or not,” replied Mr. Pickwick; “

I am not going to be shot in a wheelbarrow, for the sake of appearances, to please anybody.

”

“Will do it!” echoed Wardle, with something of irritation in his manner. “

I wish it would kill something of its own accord.

”

It was in vain for Mr. Tupman to protest, with a smile of self-denial, that he never had. The very smile was taken as evidence to the contrary; and from that time forth his reputation was established.

It is not the only reputation that has been acquired as easily, nor are such fortunate circumstances confined to partridge-shooting.

Meanwhile, Mr. Winkle flashed, and blazed, and smoked away, without producing any material results worthy of being noted down;

sometimes expending his charge in midair, and at others sending it skimming along so near the surface of the ground as to place the lives of the two dogs on a rather uncertain and precarious tenure.

As a display of fancy-shooting, it was extremely varied and curious; as an exhibition of firing with any precise object, it was, upon the whole, perhaps a failure.

It is an established axiom, that “every bullet has its billet.” If it apply in an equal degree to shot, those of Mr. Winkle were unfortunate foundlings, deprived of their natural rights, cast loose upon the world, and billeted nowhere.

“Weal pie,” said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the eatables on the grass. “

Wery good thing is weal pie, when you know the lady as made it, and is quite sure it ain’t kittens; and arter all though, where’s the odds, when they’re so like weal that the wery piemen themselves don’t know the difference?

”

“And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether,” said Mr. Weller, surveying his arrangement of the repast with great satisfaction. “

Now, gen’l’m’n, ‘fall on,’ as the English said to the French when they fixed bagginets.

”

“Because,” said old Wardle, half-bursting with laughter, “because they might turn on some of us, and say we had taken too much cold punch.”

Do what he would, a smile would come into Mr. Pickwick’s face; the smile extended into a laugh; the laugh into a roar; the roar became general.

So, to keep up their good-humour, they stopped at the first roadside tavern they came to, and ordered a glass of brandy-and-water all round, with a magnum of extra strength for Mr. Samuel Weller.

“You just come away,” said Mr. Weller. “

Battledore and shuttlecock’s a wery good game, vhen you ain’t the shuttlecock and two lawyers the battledores, in which case it gets too excitin’ to be pleasant.

Come avay, Sir. If you want to ease your mind by blowing up somebody, come out into the court and blow up me; but it’s rayther too expensive work to be carried on here.”

“Well, well, Sam,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “we will go there at once; but first, as I have been rather ruffled, I should like a glass of brandy-and-water warm, Sam. Where can I have it, Sam?”

Mr. Weller’s knowledge of London was extensive and peculiar.

He replied, without the slightest consideration—

The elder Mr. Weller shook his head, as he replied with a sigh, “I’ve done it once too often, Sammy; I’ve done it once too often.

Take example by your father, my boy, and be wery careful o’ widders all your life, ’specially if they’ve kept a public-house, Sammy.

” Having delivered this parental advice with great pathos, Mr. Weller, senior, refilled his pipe from a tin box he carried in his pocket; and, lighting his fresh pipe from the ashes of the old one, commenced smoking at a great rate.

“Old Fireworks, Sir; by which, I’ve no doubt, they meant you, Sir.”

There is nothing positively vile or atrocious in the appellation of “old Fireworks,” but still it is by no means a respectful or flattering designation.

The recollection of all the wrongs he had sustained at Jingle’s hands, had crowded on Mr. Pickwick’s mind, the moment Mr. Weller began to speak; it wanted but a feather to turn the scale, and “old Fireworks” did it.

“Think, Sir!” replied Mr. Weller; “why,

I think he’s the wictim o’ connubiality, as Blue Beard’s domestic chaplain said, vith a tear of pity, ven he buried him.

”

“

’Cos they has a mortal awersion to washing anythin’, I suppose, Sir

,” replied Mr. Weller.

“I should be very sorry to say I wasn’t,” interposed another gentleman on the opposite side of the table. “

It’s board and lodgings to me, is smoke.

”

“I should be very sorry to say I wasn’t,” interposed another gentleman on the opposite side of the table. “It’s board and lodgings to me, is smoke.”

Mr. Pickwick glanced at the speaker, and thought that if it were washing too, it would be all the better.

Here there was another pause. Mr. Pickwick was a stranger, and his coming had evidently cast a damp upon the party.

Commonplace as they may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, and

I would rather hear many a legend with a terrific-sounding name, than the true history of one old set of chambers.

”

How many vain pleaders for mercy, do you think, have turned away heartsick from the lawyer’s office, to find a resting-place in the Thames, or a refuge in the jail? They are no ordinary houses, those.

There is not a panel in the old wainscotting, but what, if it were endowed with the powers of speech and memory, could start from the wall, and tell its tale of horror

—the romance of life, Sir, the romance of life! Commonplace as they may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, and I would rather hear many a legend with a terrific-sounding name, than the true history of one old set of chambers.”

“Ah,” said the red-haired man, “that, you see, is a matter of taste.

I am not fond of anything original; I don’t like it; don’t see the necessity for it.

What’s your name, sir?”

“Ah,” said the red-haired man, placing the card in his pocketbook, “Pickwick; very good.

I like to know a man’s name, it saves so much trouble.

That’s my card, sir. Magnus, you will perceive, sir—Magnus is my name. It’s rather a good name, I think, sir.”

By the self-possession of that lady, it is clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. If I call out she’ll alarm the house; but if I remain here the consequences will be still more frightful.”

Mr. Pickwick, it is quite unnecessary to say, was one of the most modest and delicate-minded of mortals.

The very idea of exhibiting his nightcap to a lady overpowered him, but he had tied those confounded strings in a knot, and, do what he would, he couldn’t get it off. The disclosure must be made.

“That’s the wery prudentest resolution as you could come to, Sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “

You rayther want somebody to look arter you, Sir, when your judgment goes out a wisitin’.

”

“Widders, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller, slightly changing colour. “

Widders are ’ceptions to ev’ry rule.

I have heerd how many ordinary women one widder’s equal to, in pint o’ comin’ over you. I think it’s five-and-twenty, but I don’t rightly know vether it ain’t more.”

“Well, it’s no use talking about it now,” said Sam. “

It’s over, and can’t be helped, and that’s one consolation, as they always says in Turkey, ven they cuts the wrong man’s head off.

It’s my innings now, gov’nor, and as soon as I catches hold o’ this ’ere Trotter, I’ll have a good ’un.”

If ever you gets to up’ards o’ fifty, and feels disposed to go a-marryin’ anybody—no matter who—jist you shut yourself up in your own room, if you’ve got one, and pison yourself off hand.

Hangin’s wulgar, so don’t you have nothin’ to say to that.

Pison yourself, Samivel, my boy, pison yourself, and you’ll be glad on it arterwards.” With these affecting words, Mr. Weller looked steadfastly on his son, and turning slowly upon his heel, disappeared from his sight.

If ever you gets to up’ards o’ fifty, and feels disposed to go a-marryin’ anybody—no matter who—jist you shut yourself up in your own room, if you’ve got one, and pison yourself off hand. Hangin’s wulgar, so don’t you have nothin’ to say to that.

Pison yourself, Samivel, my boy, pison yourself, and you’ll be glad on it arterwards.

” With these affecting words, Mr. Weller looked steadfastly on his son, and turning slowly upon his heel, disappeared from his sight.

“It won’t do, Job Trotter,” said Sam. “Come! None o’ that ’ere nonsense.

You ain’t so wery ’andsome that you can afford to throw avay many o’ your good looks.

Bring them ’ere eyes o’ yourn back into their proper places, or I’ll knock ’em out of your head. D’ye hear?”

Mr. Grummer shook his head, and replied, “

No room’s private to his Majesty when the street door’s once passed. That’s law. Some people maintains that an Englishman’s house is his castle. That’s gammon.

”

Here an unfortunate special laughed again, whereupon the magistrate threatened to commit him instantly.

It is a dangerous thing to laugh at the wrong man, in these cases.

“Where do you live?” said the magistrate.

“This is a wery impartial country for justice,” said Sam. “

There ain’t a magistrate goin’ as don’t commit himself twice as he commits other people.

”

“

Dumb as a drum vith a hole in it, Sir,

” replied Sam.

Mrs. Nupkins was a majestic female in a pink gauze turban and a light brown wig.

Miss Nupkins possessed all her mamma’s haughtiness without the turban, and all her ill-nature without the wig

; and whenever the exercise of these two amiable qualities involved mother and daughter in some unpleasant dilemma, as they not infrequently did, they both concurred in laying the blame on the shoulders of Mr. Nupkins. Accordingly, when Mr. Nupkins sought Mrs.

“There was something behind the door, Sir, which perwented our getting it open, for ever so long, Sir,” replied Sam.

And this was the first passage of Mr. Weller’s first love.

Mrs. Bardell felt it proper to be agitated; and as none of the three exactly knew whether under existing circumstances, any communication, otherwise than through Dodson & Fogg, ought to be held with Mr. Pickwick’s servant, they were all rather taken by surprise.

In this state of indecision, obviously the first thing to be done, was to thump the boy for finding Mr. Weller at the door. So his mother thumped him, and he cried melodiously.

“Hold your noise—do—you naughty creetur!” said Mrs. Bardell.

“

Wery sorry to ’casion any personal inconwenience, ma’am, as the housebreaker said to the old lady when he put her on the fire

; but as me and my governor’s only jest come to town, and is jest going away agin, it can’t be helped, you see.”

Mr. Weller the elder fixed on his son an earnest look, and replied, “ ’Cause I’m a married man, Samivel, ’cause I’m a married man.

Ven you’re a married man, Samivel, you’ll understand a good many things as you don’t understand now; but vether it’s worth while goin’ through so much, to learn so little, as the charity-boy said ven he got to the end of the alphabet, is a matter o’ taste.

I rayther think it isn’t.”

… incompatible with the cares and sorrows of the world, that the religious belief of the most civilised nations, and the rude traditions of the roughest savages, alike number it among the first joys of a future condition of existence, provided for the blessed and happy!

How many old recollections, and how many dormant sympathies, does Christmas time awaken!

We write these words now, many miles distant from the spot at which, year after year, we met on that day, a merry and joyous circle. Many of the hearts that throbbed so gaily then, have ceased to beat;

… the old house, the room, the merry voices and smiling faces, the jest, the laugh, the most minute and trivial circumstances connected with those happy meetings, crowd upon our mind at each recurrence of the season, as if the last assemblage had been but yesterday!

Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childish days; that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth; that can transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of miles away, back to his own fireside and his quiet home!

But we are so taken up and occupied with the good qualities of this saint Christmas, that we are keeping Mr.

“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 codfish, 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!”

and spread over the thickly-strewn mounds of earth, so white and smooth a cover that it seemed as if corpses lay there, hidden only by their winding sheets. Not the faintest rustle broke the profound tranquillity of the solemn scene.

Sound itself appeared to be frozen up, all was so cold and still.

“ ‘It was the echoes,’ said Gabriel Grub, raising the bottle to his lips again.

“

Fine time for them as is well wropped up, as the Polar bear said to himself, ven he was practising his skating,

” replied Mr. Weller.

“

Nothing like dissecting, to give one an appetite,

” said Mr. Bob Sawyer, looking round the table.

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words—

“You’re a humbug, sir.”

“A what?” said Mr. Winkle, starting.

The jovial party broke up next morning. Breakings-up are capital things in our schooldays, 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.

The jovial party broke up next morning.

Breakings-up are capital things in our schooldays, 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;

“

Vun o’ the truest things as you’ve said for many a long year,

” replied Sam, in a most composed manner.

said Perker; “Ha, ha, ha!” At this the serjeant’s clerk laughed again—not a noisy boisterous laugh, but a silent, internal chuckle, which Mr. Pickwick disliked to hear.

When a man bleeds inwardly, it is a dangerous thing for himself; but when he laughs inwardly, it bodes no good to other people.

“You haven’t made me out that little list of the fees that I’m in your debt, have you?” said Perker.

Describes, far more fully than the court newsman ever did, a bachelor’s party, given by Mr. Bob Sawyer at his lodgings in the borough.

There is a repose about Lant Street, in the Borough, which sheds a gentle melancholy upon the soul.

There are always a good many houses to let in the street: it is a by-street too, and its dullness is soothing. A house in Lant Street would not come within the denomination of a first-rate residence, in the strict acceptation of the term;

“How long has it been running?” inquired Mr. Ben Allen.

A bill, by the by, is the most extraordinary locomotive engine that the genius of man ever produced. It would keep on running during the longest lifetime, without ever once stopping of its own accord.

“Only a quarter, and a month or so,” replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.

“I am very sorry, Mrs. Raddle,” said Bob Sawyer, with all imaginable humility, “but the fact is, that I have been disappointed in the City today.”—

Extraordinary place that City. An astonishing number of men always are getting disappointed there.

“Well, Mr. Sawyer,” said Mrs. Raddle, planting herself firmly on a purple cauliflower in the Kidderminster carpet, “and what’s that to me, Sir?”

“

Because you’ll stick it up over your chimneypiece, and delude your visitors into the false belief that a gentleman has been to see you, Sir,

” replied Mr. Gunter.

“Wery glad to hear it,” said Mr. Weller. “

Poetry’s unnat’ral; no man ever talked poetry ’cept a beadle on boxin’-day, or Warren’s blackin’, or Rowland’s oil, or some of them low fellows; never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy.

Begin agin, Sammy.”

“

You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king’s arms at once, which is wery well known to be a collection o’ fabulous animals,

” added Mr. Weller.

“Won’t do,” said Sam. “

Never sign a walentine with your own name.

”

I’ve been a-turnin’ the bis’ness over in my mind, and he may make his-self easy, Sammy. I’ve got some friends as’ll do either for him, but my adwice ’ud be this here—never mind the character, and stick to the alleybi.

Nothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing.

” Mr. Weller looked very profound as he delivered this legal opinion; and burying his nose in his tumbler, winked over the top thereof, at his astonished son.

“Highly important—very important, my dear Sir,” replied Perker. “

A good, contented, well-breakfasted juryman is a capital thing to get hold of. Discontented or hungry jurymen, my dear sir, always find for the plaintiff.

”

… that it amounted to positive certainty that the cause of truth and justice, or, in other words, the cause of his much-injured and most oppressed client, must prevail with the high-minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he now saw in that box before him.

Counsel usually begin in this way, because it puts the jury on the very best terms with themselves, and makes them think what sharp fellows they must be.

A visible effect was produced immediately, several jurymen beginning to take voluminous notes with the utmost eagerness.

Serjeant Buzfuz, who had proceeded with such volubility that his face was perfectly crimson, here paused for breath.

The silence awoke Mr. Justice Stareleigh, who immediately wrote down something with a pen without any ink in it, and looked unusually profound, to impress the jury with the belief that he always thought most deeply with his eyes shut.

Serjeant Buzfuz proceeded—

The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious. ‘Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home till tomorrow. Slow coach.’ And then follows this very remarkable expression. ‘Don’t trouble yourself about the warming-pan.’

The warming-pan! Why, gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan?

When was the peace of mind of man or woman broken or disturbed by a warming-pan, which is in itself a harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of domestic furniture? Why is Mrs.

Let me read the first: ‘Garraways, twelve o’clock. Dear Mrs. B.—Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick.’ Gentlemen, what does this mean? Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick!

Chops! Gracious heavens! and tomato sauce!

Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away, by such shallow artifices as these? The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious. ‘Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home till tomorrow. Slow coach.’

the only recompense you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathising, a contemplative jury of her civilised countrymen.”

With this beautiful peroration, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice Stareleigh woke up.

“Call Elizabeth Cluppins,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, rising a minute afterwards, with renewed vigour.

“You did, Sir,” replied the judge, with a severe frown. “How could I have got Daniel on my notes, unless you told me so, Sir?”

This argument was, of course, unanswerable.

“Mr. Winkle has rather a short memory, my Lord,” interposed Mr. Skimpin, with another glance at the jury. “We shall find means to refresh it before we have quite done with him, I dare say.”

“Do you spell it with a V or a W?” inquired the judge.

“That depends upon the taste and fancy of the speller, my Lord,” replied Sam; “I never had occasion to spell it more than once or twice in my life, but I spells it with a V.”

Here a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, “Quite right too, Samivel, quite right. Put it down a ‘we,’ my Lord, put it down a ‘we.’ ”

“

Oh, quite enough to get, Sir, as the soldier said ven they ordered him three hundred and fifty lashes,

” replied Sam.

“Yes, I have a pair of eyes,” replied Sam, “and that’s just it.

If they wos a pair o’ patent double million magnifyin’ gas microscopes of hextra power, p’raps I might be able to see through a flight o’ stairs and a deal door; but bein’ only eyes, you see, my wision’s limited.

”

“

I know’d what ’ud come o’ this here mode o’ doin’ bisness. Oh, Sammy, Sammy, vy worn’t there a alleybi!

”

“

Hooroar for the principle, as the moneylender said ven he vouldn’t renew the bill,

” observed Mr. Weller, who was clearing away the breakfast-things.

Pickwick and his friends went for shelter into the travellers’ room—the last resource of human dejection.

The travellers’ room at the White Horse Cellar is of course uncomfortable; it would be no travellers’ room if it were not.

It is the right-hand parlour, into which an aspiring kitchen fireplace appears to have walked, accompanied by a rebellious poker, tongs, and shovel.

If they try to squeeze six people into an infernal box that only holds four, I’ll take a post-chaise and bring an action. I’ve paid my fare. It won’t do; I told the clerk when I took my places that it wouldn’t do.

I know these things have been done. I know they are done every day; but I never was done, and I never will be.

Those who know me best, best know it; crush me!” Here the fierce gentleman rang the bell with great violence, and told the waiter he’d better bring the toast in five seconds, or he’d know the reason why.

“Wery good,” said Sam. “

Tell the old gen’l’m’n not to put himself in a perspiration. No hurry, six-foot. I’ve had my dinner.

”

Here, a sharp peal at the bell reduced the powdered-headed footman to the ignominious necessity of putting the fox’s head in his pocket, and hastening with a humble countenance to Mr. Bantam’s “study.”

By the by, who ever knew a man who never read or wrote either, who hadn’t got some small back parlour which he would call a study!

“There is the answer, sir,” said the powdered-headed footman. “I’m afraid you’ll find it inconveniently large.”

… divers unmarried ladies past their grand climacteric, who, not dancing because there were no partners for them, and not playing cards lest they should be set down as irretrievably single, were in the favourable situation of being able to abuse everybody without reflecting on themselves.

In short, they could abuse everybody, because everybody was there.

It was a scene of gaiety, glitter, and show; of richly-dressed people, handsome mirrors, chalked floors, girandoles and wax-candles;

After this, they went home. If it were theatre-night, perhaps they met at the theatre; if it were assembly-night, they met at the rooms; and if it were neither, they met the next day.

A very pleasant routine, with perhaps a slight tinge of sameness.

Mr. Pickwick was sitting up by himself, after a day spent in this manner, making entries in his journal, his friends having retired to bed, when he was roused by a gentle tap at the room door.

Mr. Pickwick went to his bedchamber, and Mr. Dowler resumed his seat before the fire, in fulfilment of his rash promise to sit up till his wife came home.

There are few things more worrying than sitting up for somebody, especially if that somebody be at a party.

You cannot help thinking how quickly the time passes with them, which drags so heavily with you; and the more you think of this, the more your hopes of their speedy arrival decline.

You cannot help thinking how quickly the time passes with them, which drags so heavily with you; and the more you think of this, the more your hopes of their speedy arrival decline.

Clocks tick so loud, too, when you are sitting up alone, and you seem as if you had an undergarment of cobwebs on.

First, something tickles your right knee, and then the same sensation irritates your left. You have no sooner changed your position, than it comes again in the arms;

“Vell,” said Sam, “this is comin’ it rayther powerful, this is.

I never heerd a biled leg o’ mutton called a swarry afore. I wonder wot they’d call a roast one.

”

“But it’s always the way,” said Mr. John Smauker; “if your destiny leads you into public life, and public station, you must expect to be subjected to temptations which other people is free from, Mr. Weller.”

“Precisely what my uncle said, ven he vent into the public line,” remarked Sam, “and wery right the old gen’l’m’n wos, for he drank hisself to death in somethin’ less than a quarter.”

Mr. John Smauker looked deeply indignant at any parallel being drawn between himself and the deceased gentleman in question; but, as Sam’s face was in the most immovable state of calmness, he thought better of it, and looked affable again.

“No, no,” said Sam. “I leave all that ’ere to you.

It’s a great deal more in your way than mine, as the gen’l’m’n on the right side o’ the garden vall said to the man on the wrong un, ven the mad bull vos a-comin’ up the lane.

”

“Very,” replied Bob Sawyer. “

So snug, that at the end of a few years you might put all the profits in a wineglass, and cover ’em over with a gooseberry leaf.

”

“Fact—honour!” returned Bob Sawyer, stepping out into the shop, and demonstrating the veracity of the assertion by divers hard pulls at the little gilt knobs on the counterfeit drawers. “

Hardly anything real in the shop but the leeches, and they are secondhand.

”

“

He leaves it all at the wrong houses.

”

“I designed ’em for each other; they were made for each other, sent into the world for each other, born for each other, Winkle,” said Mr. Ben Allen, setting down his glass with emphasis. “

There’s a special destiny in the matter, my dear sir; there’s only five years’ difference between ’em, and both their birthdays are in August.

”

“You’re a amiably-disposed young man, Sir, I don’t think,” resumed Mr. Weller, in a tone of moral reproof, “to go inwolving our precious governor in all sorts o’ fanteegs, wen he’s made up his mind to go through everythink for principle.

You’re far worse nor Dodson, Sir; and as for Fogg, I consider him a born angel to you!

” Mr. Weller having accompanied this last sentiment with an emphatic slap on each knee, folded his arms with a look of great disgust, and threw himself back in his chair, as if awaiting the criminal’s defence.

“

That’s wot we call tying it up in a small parcel, sir,

” interposed Mr. Weller, with an agreeable smile.

… when the folding begins, and the distance between them gets gradually lessened from one half its former length to a quarter, and then to an eighth, and then to a sixteenth, and then to a thirty-second, if the carpet be long enough, it becomes dangerous.

We do not know, to a nicety, how many pieces of carpet were folded in this instance, but we can venture to state that as many pieces as there were, so many times did Sam kiss the pretty housemaid.

Mr. Weller regaled himself with moderation at the nearest tavern until it was nearly dusk, and then returned to the lane without the thoroughfare.

“Bless his old gaiters,” rejoined Sam, looking out at the garden door. “He’s a-keepin’ guard in the lane vith that ’ere dark lantern, like a amiable Guy Fawkes! I never see such a fine creetur in my days.

Blessed if I don’t think his heart must ha’ been born five-and-twenty year arter his body, at least!

”

After a short time the phenomenon was repeated, not once or twice, but several times; at last the scientific gentleman, laying down his pen, began to consider to what natural causes these appearances were to be assigned.

They were not meteors; they were too low. They were not glowworms; they were too high.

They were not will-o’-the-wisps; they were not fireflies; they were not fireworks. What could they be? Some extraordinary and wonderful phenomenon of nature, which no philosopher had ever seen before;

“

I should say it was thieves, Sir,

” said Pruffle at length.

“I rather think I have!” replied the boy.

He had looked at it through the dirty panes of glass in a bar door.

Mr.

“Why, I don’t exactly know about perjury, my dear sir,” replied the little gentleman. “Harsh word, my dear sir, very harsh word indeed.

It’s a legal fiction, my dear sir, nothing more.

” Saying which, the attorney shrugged his shoulders, smiled, took a second pinch of snuff, and led the way into the office of the judge’s clerk.

when the cart stopped, it stopped; and when the cart went on again, it did the same. Mr. Pickwick sat opposite the tipstaff; and the tipstaff sat with his hat between his knees, whistling a tune, and looking out of the coach window.

Time performs wonders. By the powerful old gentleman’s aid, even a hackney-coach gets over half a mile of ground.

They stopped at length, and Mr. Pickwick alighted at the gate of the Fleet.

“And a birdcage, sir,” says Sam. “

Veels vithin veels, a prison in a prison. Ain’t it, Sir?

”

Being somewhat negligently braced, however, and, moreover, but imperfectly buttoned, they fell in a series of not the most graceful folds over a pair of shoes sufficiently down at heel to display a pair of very soiled white stockings.

There was a rakish, vagabond smartness, and a kind of boastful rascality, about the whole man, that was worth a mine of gold.

This figure was the first to perceive that Mr. Pickwick was looking on; upon which he winked to the Zephyr, and entreated him, with mock gravity, not to wake the gentleman.

“Nothin’ whatever, Sir,” retorted Sam; “

I’m afeered the little box must be chock full o’ your own as it is.

”

As they struck the bargain, Mr. Pickwick surveyed him with a painful interest. He was a tall, gaunt, cadaverous man, in an old greatcoat and slippers, with sunken cheeks, and a restless, eager eye. His lips were bloodless, and his bones sharp and thin.

God help him! the iron teeth of confinement and privation had been slowly filing him down for twenty years.

“And where will you live meanwhile, Sir?” said Mr. Pickwick, as he laid the amount of the first week’s rent, in advance, on the tottering table.

tight screwed down and soldered in my coffin; rotting in the dark and filthy ditch that drags its slime along, beneath the foundations of this prison; I could not be more forgotten or unheeded than I am here.

I am a dead man; dead to society, without the pity they bestow on those whose souls have passed to judgment.

Friends to see me! My God!

“Oh! wery good,” replied Mr. Weller, after a little reflection. “

If he damned hisself in confidence, o’ course that was another thing.

”

“Wot I say, Sir,” rejoined Sam. “If it’s forty years to come, I shall be a prisoner, and I’m very glad on it; and if it had been Newgate, it would ha’ been just the same.

Now the murder’s out, and, damme, there’s an end on it!

”

“Wot did he do it for, Sir?” reiterated Sam. “

Wy, in support of his great principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that he wouldn’t be put out of his way for nobody!

”

“Never in my life,” replied the cobbler. “

The fact is, I was ruined by having money left me.

”

“Mornin’, gen’l’m’n,” said Sam, entering at the moment with the shoes and gaiters. “

Avay vith melincholly, as the little boy said ven his schoolmissus died.

Velcome to the college, gen’l’m’n.”

“None o’ that, I say, young feller,” repeated Sam firmly. “

No man serves him but me.

And now we’re upon it, I’ll let you into another secret besides that,” said Sam, as he paid for the beer.

and all was noise and tumult—save in a little miserable shed a few yards off, where lay, all quiet and ghastly, the body of the Chancery prisoner who had died the night before, awaiting the mockery of an inquest.

The body! It is the lawyer’s term for the restless, whirling mass of cares and anxieties, affections, hopes, and griefs, that make up the living man.

The law had his body; and there it lay, clothed in grave-clothes, an awful witness to its tender mercy.

“Don’t say nothin’ wotever about it, ma’am,” replied Sam. “

I only assisted natur, ma’am; as the doctor said to the boy’s mother, after he’d bled him to death.

”

Many among them were pressing forward to shake him by the hand again, when he drew his arm through Perker’s, and hurried from the prison, far more sad and melancholy, for the moment, than when he had first entered it.

Alas! how many sad and unhappy beings had he left behind!

A happy evening was that for at least one party in the George and Vulture; and light and cheerful were two of the hearts that emerged from its hospitable door next morning. The owners thereof were Mr.

“I forgot,” said Mr. Ben Allen. “The beer has reminded me that I forgot, Bob—yes; they are dubious.”

“It’s wonderful how the poor people patronise me,” said Mr. Bob Sawyer reflectively.

“They knock me up, at all hours of the night; they take medicine to an extent which I should have conceived impossible; they put on blisters and leeches with a perseverance worthy of a better cause;

“It’s my opinion that she don’t know what she does like,” said Mr. Ben Allen contemptuously.

“Perhaps not,” remarked Mr. Bob Sawyer. “But it’s my opinion that she does know what she doesn’t like, and that’s of more importance.”

“I wish,” said Mr.

“Are you mad, sir?” demanded Mr. Pickwick.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Bob; “only cheerful.”

“Cheerful, sir!” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. “Take down that scandalous red handkerchief, I beg. I insist, Sir. Sam, take it down.”

“Soda-water, Sir! Yes, Sir.” With his mind apparently relieved from an overwhelming weight, by having at last got an order for something, the waiter imperceptibly melted away.

Waiters never walk or run. They have a peculiar and mysterious power of skimming out of rooms, which other mortals possess not.

Some slight symptoms of vitality having been awakened in Mr. Ben Allen by the soda-water, he suffered himself to be prevailed upon to wash his face and hands, and to submit to be brushed by Sam. Mr.

Pickwick’s sight at eight o’clock, was not at all calculated to elevate his spirits, or to lessen the depression which the unlooked-for result of his embassy inspired. The sky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy.

The smoke hung sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to pour.

A gamecock in the stableyard, deprived of every spark of his accustomed animation, balanced himself dismally on one leg in a corner;

“Yes, sir,” rejoined Mr. Weller.

“Wotever is, is right, as the young nobleman sweetly remarked wen they put him down in the pension list ’cos his mother’s uncle’s vife’s grandfather vunce lit the king’s pipe vith a portable tinderbox.”

“Not a bad notion that, Sam,” said Mr. Bob Sawyer approvingly.

“Indeed!” said Mr. Pickwick; “I was not aware that that valuable work contained any information respecting Chinese metaphysics.”

“He read, Sir,” rejoined Pott, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick’s knee, and looking round with a smile of intellectual superiority⁠—“he read for metaphysics under the letter M, and for China under the letter C, and combined his information, Sir!”

Mr. Pott’s features assumed so much additional grandeur at the recollection of the power and research displayed in the learned effusions in question, that some minutes elapsed before Mr. Pickwick felt emboldened to renew the conversation;

The landlord made a strong effort, and at length replied, “Well, Sir, I do not know you.”

“Great Heaven!” said the stranger, dashing his clenched fist upon the table. “And this is popularity!”

The landlord took a step or two towards the door; the stranger fixing his eyes upon him, resumed.

“Serve him so, sir!” reiterated Slurk, in a loud voice.

Mr. Pott darted a look of contempt, which might have withered an anchor.

“Serve him so, sir!” reiterated Slurk, in a louder voice than before.

Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen; breathing, as they went away, many sanguinary threats, and making vague appointments for mortal combat next day.

When they came to think it over, however, it occurred to them that they could do it much better in print, so they recommenced deadly hostilities without delay; and all Eatanswill rung with their boldness⁠—on paper.

They had taken themselves off in separate coaches, early next morning, before the other travellers were stirring; and the weather having now cleared up, the chaise companions once more turned their faces to London.

“Dear me, Mr. Weller,” said the pretty housemaid, meeting Sam at the door.

“Dear me I vish it vos, my dear,” replied Sam

, dropping behind, to let his master get out of hearing. “Wot a sweet-lookin’ creetur you are, Mary!”

“O’ course there is,” replied his father, with a nod of grave approval.

“Wot ’ud become of the undertakers vithout it, Sammy?”

Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened by this reflection, the elder Mr. Weller laid his pipe on the table, and stirred the fire with a meditative visage.

“Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better,” returned Mr. Weller;

“I call it a dispensary, and it’s always writ up so, at the places vere they gives you physic for nothin’ in your own bottles; that’s all.”

With these words, Mr. Weller refilled and relighted his pipe, and once more summoning up a meditative expression of countenance, continued as follows—

“Dear me, Joseph,” said Mary, affecting to blush, “what do you mean?”

The fat boy, gradually recovering his former position, replied with a heavy sigh, and, remaining thoughtful for a few moments, drank a long draught of the porter.

Having achieved this feat, he sighed again, and applied himself assiduously to the pie.