The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Volume 1 of 2

“I’m sure aunt’s talking about us,” whispered Miss Emily Wardle to her sister – “I’m quite certain of it – she looks so malicious.”

“Is she?” replied Isabella – “Hem! aunt dear!”

“Yes, my dear love!”

“I’m so afraid you’ll catch cold, aunt – have a silk handkerchief to tie round your dear old head – you really should take care of yourself – consider your age!”

However well deserved this piece of retaliation might have been, it was as vindictive a one as could well have been resorted to. There is no guessing in what form of reply the aunt’s indignation would have vented itself, had not Mr. Wardle unconsciously changed the subject, by calling emphatically for Joe.

“Damn that boy,” said the old gentleman, “he’s gone to sleep again.”

“Very extraordinary boy that,” said Mr. Pickwick; “does he always sleep in this way?”

“Sleep!” said the old gentleman, “he’s always asleep. Goes on errands fast asleep, and snores as he waits at table.”

“How very odd!” said Mr. Pickwick.

“Ah! odd indeed,” returned the old gentleman; “I’m proud of that boy – wouldn’t part with him on any account – he’s a natural curiosity! Here, Joe – Joe – take these things away, and open another bottle – d’ye hear?”

The fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of pie he had been in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep, and slowly obeyed his master’s orders – gloating languidly over the remains of the feast, as he removed the plates, and deposited them in the hamper. The fresh bottle was produced, and speedily emptied: the hamper was made fast in its old place – the fat boy once more mounted the box – the spectacles and pocket-glass were again adjusted – and the evolutions of the military recommenced. There was a great fizzing and banging of guns, and starting of ladies – and then a mine was sprung, to the gratification of everybody – and when the mine had gone off, the military and the company followed its example, and went off too.

“Now, mind,” said the old gentleman, as he shook hands with Mr. Pickwick at the conclusion of a conversation which had been carried on at intervals, during the conclusion of the proceedings – “we shall see you all to-morrow.”

“Most certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick.

“You have got the address.”

“Manor Farm, Dingley Dell,” said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his pocket-book.

“That’s it,” said the old gentleman. “I don’t let you off, mind, under a week; and undertake that you shall see everything worth seeing. If you’ve come down for a country life, come to me, and I’ll give you plenty of it. Joe – damn that boy, he’s gone to sleep again – Joe, help Tom put in the horses.”

The horses were put in – the driver mounted – the fat boy clambered up by his side – farewells were exchanged – and the carriage rattled off. As the Pickwickians turned round to take a last glimpse of it, the setting sun cast a rich glow on the faces of their entertainers, and fell upon the form of the fat boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom; and he slumbered again.

CHAPTER V

A Short One. Showing, among other Matters, how Mr. Pickwick undertook to Drive, and Mr. Winkle to Ride; and how they both did it

Bright and pleasant was the sky, balmy the air, and beautiful the appearance of every object around, as Mr. Pickwick leant over the balustrades of Rochester Bridge, contemplating nature, and waiting for breakfast. The scene was indeed one which might well have charmed a far less reflective mind, than that to which it was presented.

On the left of the spectator lay the ruined wall, broken in many places, and in some, overhanging the narrow beach below in rude and heavy masses. Huge knots of sea-weed hung upon the jagged and pointed stones, trembling in every breath of wind; and the green ivy clung mournfully round the dark and ruined battlements. Behind it rose the ancient castle, its towers roofless, and its massive walls crumbling away, but telling us proudly of its own might and strength, as when, seven hundred years ago, it rang with the clash of arms, or resounded with the noise of feasting and revelry. On either side, the banks of the Medway, covered with corn-fields and pastures, with here and there a windmill, or a distant church, stretched away as far as the eye could see, presenting a rich and varied landscape, rendered more beautiful by the changing shadows which passed swiftly across it, as the thin and half-formed clouds skimmed away in the light of the morning sun. The river, reflecting the clear blue of the sky, glistened and sparkled as it flowed noiselessly on; and the oars of the fishermen dipped into the water with a clear and liquid sound, as the heavy but picturesque boats glided slowly down the stream.

Mr. Pickwick was roused from the agreeable reverie into which he had been led by the objects before him, by a deep sigh, and a touch on his shoulder. He turned round: and the dismal man was at his side.

“Contemplating the scene?” inquired the dismal man.

“I was,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“And congratulating yourself on being up so soon?” Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.

“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.”

“You speak truly, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“How common the saying,” continued the dismal man, “‘The morning’s too fine to last.’ How well might it be applied to our every-day existence. God! what would I forfeit to have the days of my childhood restored, or to be able to forget them for ever!”

“You have seen much trouble, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, compassionately.

“I have,” said the dismal man, hurriedly; “I have. More than those who see me now would believe possible.” He paused for an instant, and then said abruptly —

“Did it ever strike you, on such a morning as this, that drowning would be happiness and peace?”

“God bless me, no!” replied Mr. Pickwick, edging a little from the balustrade, as the possibility of the dismal man’s tipping him over, by way of experiment, occurred to him rather forcibly.

“I have thought so, often,” said the dismal man, without noticing the action. “The calm, cool water seems to me to murmur an invitation to repose and rest. A bound, a splash, a brief struggle; there is an eddy for an instant, it gradually subsides into a gentle ripple; the waters have closed above your head, and the world has closed upon your miseries and misfortunes for ever.” The sunken eye of the dismal man flashed brightly as he spoke, but the momentary excitement quickly subsided: and he turned calmly away, as he said —

“There – enough of that. I wish to see you on another subject. You invited me to read that paper, the night before last, and listened attentively while I did so.”

“I did,” replied Mr. Pickwick; “and I certainly thought – ”

“I asked for no opinion,” said the dismal man, interrupting him, “and I want none. You are travelling for amusement and instruction. Suppose I forwarded you a curious manuscript – observe, not curious because wild or improbable, but curious as a leaf from the romance of real life. Would you communicate it to the club, of which you have spoken so frequently?”

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “if you wished it; and it would be entered on their transactions.”

“You shall have it,” replied the dismal man. “Your address;” and Mr. Pickwick, having communicated their probable route, the dismal man carefully noted it down in a greasy pocket-book, and, resisting Mr. Pickwick’s pressing invitation to breakfast, left that gentleman at his inn, and walked slowly away.

Mr. Pickwick found that his three companions had risen, and were waiting his arrival to commence breakfast, which was ready laid in tempting display. They sat down to the meal; and broiled ham, eggs, tea, coffee and sundries, began to disappear with a rapidity which at once bore testimony to the excellence of the fare, and the appetites of its consumers.

“Now, about Manor Farm,” said Mr. Pickwick. “How shall we go?”

“We had better consult the waiter, perhaps,” said Mr. Tupman, and the waiter was summoned accordingly.

“Dingley Dell, gentlemen – fifteen miles, gentlemen – cross-road – post-chaise, sir?”

“Post-chaise won’t hold more than two,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“True, sir – beg your pardon, sir – very nice four-wheeled chaise, sir – seat for two behind – one in front for the gentleman that drives – oh! beg your pardon, sir – that’ll only hold three.”

“What’s to be done?” said Mr. Snodgrass.

“Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like to ride, sir?” suggested the waiter, looking towards Mr. Winkle; “very good saddle horses, sir – any of Mr. Wardle’s men coming to Rochester bring ’em back, sir.”

“The very thing,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Winkle, will you go on horseback?”

Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable misgivings in the very lowest recesses of his own heart, relative to his equestrian skill; but, as he would not have them even suspected on any account, he at once replied with great hardihood, “Certainly. I should enjoy it of all things.”

Mr. Winkle had rushed upon his fate; there was no resource. “Let them be at the door by eleven,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“Very well, sir,” replied the waiter.