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 for ever, 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 note–book 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. ‘Cab!’ said
Mr. Pickwick.
‘Here you are, sir,’ shouted a strange specimen of the human
race, in a sackcloth coat, and apron of the same, who, with a brass
label and number round his neck, looked as if he were catalogued in
some collection of rarities. This was the waterman. ‘Here you are,
sir. Now, then, fust cab!’ And the first cab having been fetched
from the public–house, where he had been smoking his first pipe,
Mr. Pickwick and his portmanteau were thrown into the vehicle.
‘Golden Cross,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Only a bob’s vorth, Tommy,’ cried the driver sulkily, for the
information of his friend the waterman, as the cab drove off.
‘How old is that horse, my friend?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick,
rubbing his nose with the shilling he had reserved for the
fare.
‘Forty–two,’ replied the driver, eyeing him askant.
‘What!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand upon his
note–book. The driver reiterated his former statement. Mr. Pickwick
looked very hard at the man’s face, but his features were
immovable, so he noted down the fact forthwith. ‘And how long do
you keep him out at a time?‘inquired Mr. Pickwick, searching for
further information.
‘Two or three veeks,’ replied the man.
‘Weeks!’ said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment, and out came the
note–book again.
‘He lives at Pentonwil when he’s at home,’ observed the driver
coolly, ‘but we seldom takes him home, on account of his
weakness.’
‘On account of his weakness!’ reiterated the perplexed Mr.
Pickwick.
‘He always falls down when he’s took out o’ the cab,’ continued
the driver, ‘but when he’s in it, we bears him up werry tight, and
takes him in werry short, so as he can’t werry well fall down; and
we’ve got a pair o’ precious large wheels on, so ven he does move,
they run after him, and he must go on—he can’t help it.’
Mr. Pickwick entered every word of this statement in his
note–book, with the view of communicating it to the club, as a
singular instance of the tenacity of life in horses under trying
circumstances. The entry was scarcely completed when they reached
the Golden Cross. Down jumped the driver, and out got Mr. Pickwick.
Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle, who had been anxiously
waiting the arrival of their illustrious leader, crowded to welcome
him.
‘Here’s your fare,’ said Mr. Pickwick, holding out the shilling
to the driver.
What was the learned man’s astonishment, when that unaccountable
person flung the money on the pavement, and requested in figurative
terms to be allowed the pleasure of fighting him (Mr. Pickwick) for
the amount!
‘You are mad,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Or drunk,’ said Mr. Winkle.
‘Or both,’ said Mr. Tupman.
‘Come on!’ said the cab–driver, sparring away like clockwork.
‘Come on—all four on you.’
‘Here’s a lark!’ shouted half a dozen hackney coachmen. ‘Go to
vork, Sam!—and they crowded with great glee round the party.
‘What’s the row, Sam?’ inquired one gentleman in black calico
sleeves.
‘Row!’ replied the cabman, ‘what did he want my number for?’ ‘I
didn’t want your number,’ said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
‘What did you take it for, then?’ inquired the cabman.
‘I didn’t take it,’ said Mr. Pickwick indignantly.
‘Would anybody believe,’ continued the cab–driver, appealing to
the crowd, ‘would anybody believe as an informer’ud go about in a
man’s cab, not only takin’ down his number, but ev’ry word he says
into the bargain’ (a light flashed upon Mr. Pickwick—it was the
note–book).
‘Did he though?’ inquired another cabman.
‘Yes, did he,’ replied the first; ‘and then arter aggerawatin’
me to assault him, gets three witnesses here to prove it. But I’ll
give it him, if I’ve six months for it. Come on!’ and the cabman
dashed his hat upon the ground, with a reckless disregard of his
own private property, and knocked Mr. Pickwick’s spectacles off,
and followed up the attack with a blow on Mr. Pickwick’s nose, and
another on Mr. Pickwick’s chest, and a third in Mr. Snodgrass’s
eye, and a fourth, by way of variety, in Mr. Tupman’s waistcoat,
and then danced into the road, and then back again to the pavement,
and finally dashed the whole temporary supply of breath out of Mr.
Winkle’s body; and all in half a dozen seconds.
‘Where’s an officer?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Put ’em under the pump,’ suggested a hot–pieman.
‘You shall smart for this,’ gasped Mr. Pickwick.
‘Informers!’ shouted the crowd.
‘Come on,’ cried the cabman, who had been sparring without
cessation the whole time.
The mob hitherto had been passive spectators of the scene, but
as the intelligence of the Pickwickians being informers was spread
among them, they began to canvass with considerable vivacity the
propriety of enforcing the heated pastry–vendor’s proposition: and
there is no saying what acts of personal aggression they might have
committed, had not the affray been unexpectedly terminated by the
interposition of a new–comer.
‘What’s the fun?’ said a rather tall, thin, young man, in a
green coat, emerging suddenly from the coach–yard.
‘informers!’ shouted the crowd again.
‘We are not,’ roared Mr. Pickwick, in a tone which, to any
dispassionate listener, carried conviction with it. ‘Ain’t you,
though—ain’t you?’ said the young man, appealing to Mr. Pickwick,
and making his way through the crowd by the infallible process of
elbowing the countenances of its component members.
That learned man in a few hurried words explained the real state
of the case.
‘Come along, then,’ said he of the green coat, lugging Mr.
Pickwick after him by main force, and talking the whole way. Here,
No. 924, take your fare, and take yourself off—respectable
gentleman—know him well—none of your nonsense—this way, sir—where’s
your friends?—all a mistake, I see—never mind—accidents will
happen—best regulated families—never say die—down upon your
luck—Pull him up—Put that in his pipe—like the flavour—damned
rascals.’ And with a lengthened string of similar broken sentences,
delivered with extraordinary volubility, the stranger led the way
to the traveller’s waiting–room, whither he was closely followed by
Mr. Pickwick and his disciples.
‘Here, waiter!’ shouted the stranger, ringing the bell with
tremendous violence, ‘glasses round—brandy–and–water, hot and
strong, and sweet, and plenty,—eye damaged, Sir? Waiter! raw
beef–steak for the gentleman’s eye—nothing like raw beef–steak for
a bruise, sir; cold lamp–post very good, but lamp–post
inconvenient—damned odd standing in the open street half an hour,
with your eye against a lamp–post—eh,—very good—ha! ha!’ And the
stranger, without stopping to take breath, swallowed at a draught
full half a pint of the reeking brandy–and–water, and flung himself
into a chair with as much ease as if nothing uncommon had
occurred.
While his three companions were busily engaged in proffering
their thanks to their new acquaintance, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to
examine his costume and appearance.
He was about the middle height, but the thinness of his body,
and the length of his legs, gave him the appearance of being much
taller. The green coat had been a smart dress garment in the days
of swallow–tails, but had evidently in those times adorned a much
shorter man than the stranger, for the soiled and faded sleeves
scarcely reached to his wrists. It was buttoned closely up to his
chin, at the imminent hazard of splitting the back; and an old
stock, without a vestige of shirt collar, ornamented his neck. His
scanty black trousers displayed here and there those shiny patches
which bespeak long service, and were strapped very tightly over a
pair of patched and mended shoes, as if to conceal the dirty white
stockings, which were nevertheless distinctly visible. His long,
black hair escaped in negligent waves from beneath each side of his
old pinched–up hat; and glimpses of his bare wrists might be
observed between the tops of his gloves and the cuffs of his coat
sleeves. His face was thin and haggard; but an indescribable air of
jaunty impudence and perfect self–possession pervaded the whole
man.
Such was the individual on whom Mr. Pickwick gazed through his
spectacles (which he had fortunately recovered), and to whom he
proceeded, when his friends had exhausted themselves, to return in
chosen terms his warmest thanks for his recent assistance.
‘Never mind,’ said the stranger, cutting the address very short,
‘said enough—no more; smart chap that cabman—handled his fives
well; but if I’d been your friend in the green jemmy—damn me—punch
his head,—‘cod I would,—pig’s whisper—pieman too,—no gammon.’
This coherent speech was interrupted by the entrance of the
Rochester coachman, to announce that ‘the Commodore’ was on the
point of starting.
‘Commodore!’ said the stranger, starting up, ‘my coach—place
booked,—one outside—leave you to pay for the brandy–and–water,—want
change for a five,—bad silver—Brummagem buttons—won’t do—no go—eh?’
and he shook his head most knowingly.
Now it so happened that Mr. Pickwick and his three companions
had resolved to make Rochester their first halting–place too; and
having intimated to their new–found acquaintance that they were
journeying to the same city, they agreed to occupy the seat at the
back of the coach, where they could all sit together.
‘Up with you,’ said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on to
the roof with so much precipitation as to impair the gravity of
that gentleman’s deportment very materially.
‘Any luggage, Sir?’ inquired the coachman. ‘Who—I? Brown paper
parcel here, that’s all—other luggage gone by water—packing–cases,
nailed up—big as houses—heavy, heavy, damned heavy,’ replied the
stranger, as he forced into his pocket as much as he could of the
brown paper parcel, which presented most suspicious indications of
containing one shirt and a handkerchief.
‘Heads, heads—take care of your heads!’ cried the loquacious
stranger, as they came out under the low archway, which in those
days formed the entrance to the coach–yard. ‘Terrible
place—dangerous work—other day—five children—mother—tall lady,
eating sandwiches—forgot the arch—crash—knock—children look
round—mother’s head off—sandwich in her hand—no mouth to put it
in—head of a family off—shocking, shocking! Looking at Whitehall,
sir?—fine place—little window—somebody else’s head off there, eh,
sir?—he didn’t keep a sharp look–out enough either—eh, Sir,
eh?’
‘I am ruminating,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘on the strange mutability
of human affairs.’
‘Ah! I see—in at the palace door one day, out at the window the
next. Philosopher, Sir?’ ‘An observer of human nature, Sir,’ said
Mr. Pickwick.
‘Ah, so am I. Most people are when they’ve little to do and less
to get. Poet, Sir?’
‘My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a strong poetic turn,’ said Mr.
Pickwick.
‘So have I,’ said the stranger. ‘Epic poem—ten thousand
lines—revolution of July—composed it on the spot—Mars by day,
Apollo by night—bang the field–piece, twang the lyre.’
‘You were present at that glorious scene, sir?’ said Mr.
Snodgrass.
‘Present! think I was;[1] fired a musket—fired with an
idea—rushed into wine shop—wrote it down—back again—whiz,
bang—another idea—wine shop again—pen and ink—back again—cut and
slash—noble time, Sir. Sportsman, sir ?‘abruptly turning to
Mr. Winkle.
[1] A remarkable instance of the prophetic force of Mr. Jingle’s
imagination; this dialogue occurring in the year 1827, and the
Revolution in 1830.
‘A little, Sir,’ replied that gentleman.
‘Fine pursuit, sir—fine pursuit.—Dogs, Sir?’
‘Not just now,’ said Mr. Winkle.
‘Ah! you should keep dogs—fine animals—sagacious creatures—dog
of my own once—pointer—surprising instinct—out shooting one
day—entering inclosure—whistled—dog stopped—whistled again—Ponto—no
go; stock still—called him—Ponto, Ponto—wouldn’t move—dog
transfixed—staring at a board—looked up, saw an
inscription—“Gamekeeper has orders to shoot all dogs found in this
inclosure”—wouldn’t pass it—wonderful dog—valuable dog
that—very.’
‘Singular circumstance that,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Will you allow
me to make a note of it?’
‘Certainly, Sir, certainly—hundred more anecdotes of the same
animal.—Fine girl, Sir’ (to Mr. Tracy Tupman, who had been
bestowing sundry anti–Pickwickian glances on a young lady by the
roadside).
‘Very!’ said Mr. Tupman.
‘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 reached Rochester bridge, by which time the
note–books, both of Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass, were completely
filled with selections from his adventures.
‘Magnificent ruin!’ said Mr. Augustus Snodgrass, with all the
poetic fervour that distinguished him, when they came in sight of
the fine old castle.
‘What a sight for an antiquarian!’ were the very words which
fell from Mr. Pickwick’s mouth, as he applied his telescope to his
eye.
‘Ah! fine place,’ said the stranger, ‘glorious pile—frowning
walls—tottering arches—dark nooks—crumbling staircases—old
cathedral too—earthy smell—pilgrims’ feet wore away the old
steps—little Saxon doors—confessionals like money–takers’ boxes at
theatres—queer customers those monks—popes, and lord treasurers,
and all sorts of old fellows, with great red faces, and broken
noses, turning up every day—buff jerkins
too—match–locks—sarcophagus—fine place—old legends too—strange
stories: capital;’ and the stranger continued to soliloquise until
they reached the Bull Inn, in the High Street, where the coach
stopped.
‘Do you remain here, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle.
‘Here—not I—but you’d better—good house—nice beds—Wright’s next
house, dear—very dear—half–a–crown in the bill if you look at the
waiter—charge you more if you dine at a friend’s than they would if
you dined in the coffee–room—rum fellows—very.’
Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a few words; a
whisper passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass, from Mr.
Snodgrass to Mr. Tupman, and nods of assent were exchanged. Mr.
Pickwick addressed the stranger.
‘You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir,’
said he, ‘will you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude
by begging the favour of your company at dinner?’
‘Great pleasure—not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and
mushrooms—capital thing! What time?’
‘Let me see,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, referring to his watch, ‘it
is now nearly three. Shall we say five?’
‘Suit me excellently,’ said the stranger, ‘five precisely—till
then—care of yourselves;’ and lifting the pinched–up hat a few
inches from his head, and carelessly replacing it very much on one
side, the stranger, with half the brown paper parcel sticking out
of his pocket, walked briskly up the yard, and turned into the High
Street.
‘Evidently a traveller in many countries, and a close observer
of men and things,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘I should like to see his poem,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘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.
We do not find, from a careful perusal of Mr. Pickwick’s notes
of the four towns, Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton, that
his impressions of their appearance differ in any material point
from those of other travellers who have gone over the same ground.
His general description is easily abridged.
‘The principal productions of these towns,’ says Mr. Pickwick,
‘appear to be soldiers, sailors, Jews, chalk, shrimps, officers,
and dockyard men. The commodities chiefly exposed for sale in the
public streets are marine stores, hard–bake, apples, flat–fish, and
oysters. The streets present a lively and animated appearance,
occasioned chiefly by the conviviality of the military. It is truly
delightful to a philanthropic mind to see these gallant men
staggering along under the influence of an overflow both of animal
and ardent spirits; more especially when we remember that the
following them about, and jesting with them, affords a cheap and
innocent amusement for the boy population. Nothing,’ adds Mr.
Pickwick, ‘can exceed their good–humour. It was but the day before
my arrival that one of them had been most grossly insulted in the
house of a publican. The barmaid had positively refused to draw him
any more liquor; in return for which he had (merely in playfulness)
drawn his bayonet, and wounded the girl in the shoulder. And yet
this fine fellow was the very first to go down to the house next
morning and express his readiness to overlook the matter, and
forget what had occurred!
‘The consumption of tobacco in these towns,’ continues Mr.
Pickwick, ‘must be very great, and the smell which pervades the
streets must be exceedingly delicious to those who are extremely
fond of smoking. A superficial traveller might object to the dirt,
which is their leading characteristic; but to those who view it as
an indication of traffic and commercial prosperity, it is truly
gratifying.’
Punctual to five o’clock came the stranger, and shortly
afterwards the dinner. He had divested himself of his brown paper
parcel, but had made no alteration in his attire, and was, if
possible, more loquacious than ever.
‘What’s that?’ he inquired, as the waiter removed one of the
covers.
‘Soles, Sir.’
‘Soles—ah!—capital fish—all come from London–stage–coach
proprietors get up political dinners—carriage of soles—dozens of
baskets—cunning fellows. Glass of wine, Sir.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and the stranger took wine,
first with him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with Mr.
Tupman, and then with Mr. Winkle, and then with the whole party
together, almost as rapidly as he talked.
‘Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter,’ said the stranger.
‘Forms going up—carpenters coming down—lamps, glasses, harps.
What’s going forward?’
‘Ball, Sir,’ said the waiter.
‘Assembly, eh?’
‘No, Sir, not assembly, Sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity,
Sir.’
‘Many fine women in this town, do you know, Sir?’ inquired Mr.
Tupman, with great interest.
‘Splendid—capital. Kent, sir—everybody knows Kent—apples,
cherries, hops, and women. Glass of wine, Sir!’
‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled,
and emptied.
‘I should very much like to go,’ said Mr. Tupman, resuming the
subject of the ball, ‘very much.’
‘Tickets at the bar, Sir,’ interposed the waiter; ‘half–a–guinea
each, Sir.’
Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the
festivity; but meeting with no response in the darkened eye of Mr.
Snodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he applied
himself with great interest to the port wine and dessert, which had
just been placed on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the party
were left to enjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner.
‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said the stranger, ‘bottle stands—pass
it round—way of the sun—through the button–hole—no heeltaps,’ and
he emptied his glass, which he had filled about two minutes before,
and poured out another, with the air of a man who was used to
it.
The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor
talked, the Pickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment
more disposed for the ball. Mr. Pickwick’s countenance glowed with
an expression of universal philanthropy, and Mr. Winkle and Mr.
Snodgrass fell fast asleep.
‘They’re beginning upstairs,’ said the stranger—‘hear the
company—fiddles tuning—now the harp—there they go.’ The various
sounds which found their way downstairs announced the commencement
of the first quadrille.
‘How I should like to go,’ said Mr. Tupman again.
‘So should I,’ said the stranger—‘confounded luggage,—heavy
smacks—nothing to go in—odd, ain’t it?’
Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of the
Pickwickian theory, and no one was more remarkable for the zealous
manner in which he observed so noble a principle than Mr. Tracy
Tupman. The number of instances recorded on the Transactions of the
Society, in which that excellent man referred objects of charity to
the houses of other members for left–off garments or pecuniary
relief is almost incredible. ‘I should be very happy to lend you a
change of apparel for the purpose,’ said Mr. Tracy Tupman, ‘but you
are rather slim, and I am—’
‘Rather fat—grown–up Bacchus—cut the leaves—dismounted from the
tub, and adopted kersey, eh?—not double distilled, but double
milled—ha! ha! pass the wine.’