 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Schell, jshell1 at wi.rr.com. The Pickwick Papers, by Charles Dickens, CHAPTER XVI. Too full of adventure to be briefly described. There is no month in the whole year in which nature wears a more beautiful appearance than in the month of August. Spring has many beauties, and May is a fresh and blooming month. But the charms of this time of year are enhanced by their contrast with the winter season. August has no such advantage. It comes when we remember nothing but clear skies, green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers. When the recollection of snow, and ice, and bleak winds has faded from our minds as completely as they have disappeared from the earth, and yet what a pleasant time it is. Orchards and cornfields ring with the hum of labour. Trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit which bow their branches to the ground. And the corn, piled in graceful sheaves, or waving in every light breath that sweeps above it, as if it wooed the sickle, tinges the landscape with the golden hue. A mellow softness appears to hang over the whole earth. The influence of the season seems to extend itself to the very wagon, whose slow motion across the well-reaped field is perceptible only to the eye, but strikes with no harsh sound upon the ear. As the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards which skirt the road, groups of women and children piling the fruit in sieves, or gathering the scattered ears of corn, pause for an instant from their labour, and shading the sun-burned face with a still browner hand gaze upon the passengers with curious eyes, while some stout urchin, too small to work, but too mischievous to be left at home, scrambles over the side of the basket in which he has been deposited for security, and kicks and screams with delight. The reaper stops in his work, and stands with folded arms, looking at the vehicle as it whirls past, and the rough cart-horses bestow a sleepy glance upon the smart coach-team, which says as plainly as a horse's glance can, it's all very fine to look at, but slow going over a heavy field is better than warm work like that upon a dusty road, after all. You cast a look behind you as you turn a corner of the road. The women and children have resumed their labour. The reaper once more stoops to his work. The cart-horses have moved on, and all are again in motion. The influence of a scene like this was not lost upon the well-regulated mind of Mr. Pickwick. Intent upon the resolution he had formed, of exposing the real character of the nefarious jingle, in any quarter in which he might be pursuing his fraudulent designs, he sat at first taciturn and contemplative, brooding over the means by which his purpose could be best attained. By degrees his attention grew more and more attracted by the objects around him, and at last he derived as much enjoyment from the ride, as if it had been undertaken for the pleasantest reason in the world. "'Delightful prospect,' Sam said, Mr. Pickwick. "'Beats the chimney-pot, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. "'I suppose you have hardly seen anything but chimney-pots, and bricks, and mortar all your life, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. "'I warn't always a boots, sir,' said Mr. Weller, with a shake of a head. "'I was a vaguner's boy once.' "'When was that?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. "'When I was first pitched neck and crop into the world. "'To play at leapfrog with its troubles,' replied Sam. "'I was a carrier's boy at startin'—then a vaguner's, then a helper, then a boots. Now I'm a gentleman's servant. I shall be a gentleman myself one of these days, perhaps, with a pipe in me mouth, and a summer-house in the back garden. Who knows? I shouldn't be surprised for one.' "'You are quite a philosopher, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. "'It runs in the family, I believe, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. "'My father's very 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 very loud, and falls into sterics. And he smokes very comfortably till she comes to again. "'That's philosophy, sir. Ain't it?' "'A very good substitute for it at all events,' replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing. "'It must have been of great service to you in the course of your rambling life, Sam.' "'Service, sir?' exclaimed Sam. "'You may say that. After I run away from the carrier, and before I took up with the vaguner, I had unfurnished lodgings for a fortnight.' "'Unfurnished lodgings?' said Mr. Pickwick. "'Yes, the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge. "'Fine sleeping-place, within ten minutes' walk of all the public offices. Only if there is any objection to it, it is that the citations rather too airy. I see some queer sights there.' "'Ah, I suppose you did,' said Mr. Pickwick, with an air of considerable interest. "'Sights, sir,' resumed Mr. Willer, as would penetrate your benevolent heart, and come out on the other side. "'You don't see the regular vagrants there. Trust them. They know better than that. Young beggars, male and female, as hasn't made a rise in their profession, takes up their quarters there sometimes. But it's generally the worn-out, starving, homeless creatures who roll themselves in the dark corners of them lonely places. Poor creatures, as ain't up to the two-penny rope. "'And pray, Sam, what is the two-penny rope?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. "'The two-penny rope, sir,' replied Mr. Willer, "'is just a cheap lodging-house, where the bed's is two pence a night. "'What do they call a bed a rope for?' said Mr. Pickwick. "'Bless your innocence, sir. That ain't it,' replied Sam. "'Then the lady and gentlemen's keeps the hotel, first begun business. They used to make the beds on the floor. But this wouldn't do at no price, because instead of taking a moderate two-pen-earth of sleep, the lodgers used to lie there half the day. So now they has two ropes, about six foot apart, three from the floor, which goes right down the room, and the beds are made of slips, of course, sacking stretched across them. "'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick. "'Well,' said Mr. Willer, the advantage of the plan's obvious. "'At six o'clock every morning lay let's go the ropes at one end, and down falls the lodgers. Consequence is that, being thoroughly waked, they get up very quietly and walk away. "'Beg your pardon, sir,' said Sam, suddenly breaking off in his loquacious discourse. "'Is this Barry St. Edmonds?' "'It is,' replied Mr. Pickwick. The coach rattled through the well-paved streets of a handsome little town of thriving and cleanly appearance, and stopped before a large inn situated in a wide open street, nearly facing the old Abbey. "'And this,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking up, "'is the angel. We alight here, Sam. But some caution is necessary. Order a private room, and do not mention my name. You understand?' "'Right as a travert, sir,' replied Mr. Willer, with a wink of intelligence, and having dragged Mr. Pickwick's portmanteau from the hind boot into which it had been hastily thrown when they joined the coach at Eaton'swell, Mr. Willer disappeared on his errand. A private room was speedily engaged, and into it Mr. Pickwick was ushered without delay. "'Now, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, "'the first thing to be done is to order dinner, sir,' interposed Mr. Willer. "'It's very late, sir.' "'Ah, so it is,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch. "'You are right, Sam.' "'And if I might advise, sir,' added Mr. Willer, "'I'd just have a good night's rest, artowards, and not begin inquiring art to this here deepen till the mornin. "'There is nothing so refreshing as sleep, sir,' as the servant girl said, before she drank the egg-cup full of ladnum. "'I think you are right, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, "'but I must first ascertain that he is in the house, and not likely to go away.' "'Leave that to me, sir,' said Sam. "'Let me order you a snug little dinner, and make my inquiries below, while it's getting ready. I could worm every secret out of the boot's heart, in five minutes, sir.' "'Do so,' said Mr. Pickwick, and Mr. Willer, at once retired. In half an hour Mr. Pickwick was seated at a very satisfactory dinner, and in three quarters Mr. Willer returned with the intelligence that Mr. Charles Fitzmartial had ordered his private room to be retained for him, until further notice. He was going to spend the evening at some private house in the neighborhood, had ordered the boot's to sit up until his return, and had taken his servant with him. "'Now, sir,' argued Mr. Willer, when he had concluded his report, "'if I can get a talk with this here servant in the mornin, he'll tell me all his master's concerns.' "'How do you know that?' interposed Mr. Pickwick. "'Bless your heart, sir. Servants always do,' replied Mr. Willer. "'Oh, ah! I forgot that,' said Mr. Pickwick. "'Well, then you can arrange what's best to be done, sir, and we can act accordingly.' As it appeared that this was the best arrangement that could be made, it was finally agreed upon. Mr. Willer, by his master's permission, retired to spend the evening in his own way, and was shortly afterwards elected by the unanimous voice of the assembled company into the tap-room chair, in which honorable post he acquitted himself so much to the satisfaction of the gentlemen-frequenters that their roars of laughter and approbation penetrated to Mr. Pickwick's bedroom, and shortened the term of his natural rest by at least three hours. Early on the ensuing morning Mr. Willer was dispelling all the feverish remains of the previous evening's conviviality through the instrumentality of a half-penny shower-bath. Having induced the young gentlemen attached to the stable department, by the offer of that coin, to pump over his head and face until he was perfectly restored. When he was attracted by the appearance of a young fellow in mulberry-coloured livery, who was sitting on a bench in the yard, reading what appeared to be a hymn-book, with an air of deep abstraction, but who occasionally stole a glance at the individual under the pump, as if he took some interest in his proceedings nevertheless. "'You're a rum one to look at, you are,' thought Mr. Willer, the first time his eyes encountered the glance of that stranger in the mulberry suit, who had a large, sallow, ugly face, very sunken eyes, and a gigantic head, from which depended a quantity of blank, black hair. "'You're a rum one,' thought Mr. Willer, and thinking this he went on washing himself and thought no more about him. Still the man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam, and from Sam to his hymn-book, as if he wanted to open a conversation. So at last Sam, by way of giving him an opportunity, said, with a familiar nod, "'How are you, Governor?' "'I am happy to say I am pretty well, sir,' said the man, speaking with great deliberation, and closing the book. "'I hope you are the same, sir.' "'Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle, I shouldn't be quite so staggery this morning,' replied Sam. "'Are you stopping in this house, olden?' The mulberry man replied in the affirmative. "'How was it you weren't one of us last night?' inquired Sam, scrubbing his face with the towel. "'You seem one of the jolly sort,' looks as convivial as a live trout in a lime basket,' added Mr. Willer, in an undertone. "'I was out last night with my master,' replied the stranger. "'What's his name?' inquired Mr. Willer, colouring up very red with sudden excitement, and the friction of the towel combined. "'Fitz Marshall,' said the mulberry man. "'Give us your hand,' said Mr. Willer, advancing. "'I should like to know you. I like your appearance, old fella.' "'Well, that is very strange,' said the mulberry man, with great simplicity of manner. "'I like yours so much that I wanted to speak to you from the very first moment I saw you under the pump. "'Did you, though?' "'Upon my word.' "'Now, isn't that curious?' "'Very singular,' said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the softness of the stranger. "'What's your name, my patriarch?' "'Jobe.' "'And a very good name it is. Only one I know that ain't got a nickname to it. "'What's the other name?' "'Trotter,' said the stranger. "'What is yours?' Sam bore in mind his master's caution and replied. "'My name's Walker. My master's name is Wilkins. "'Will you take a drop of something this morning, Mr. Trotter?' Mr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal, and having deposited his book in his coat pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller to the tap, where they were soon occupied in discussing an exhilarating compound formed by mixing together in a pewter vessel certain quantities of British Hollands and the fragrant essence of the clove. "'And what sort of a place have you got?' inquired Sam, as he filled his companion's glass for the second time. "'Bad,' said Job, smacking his lips. "'Very bad.' "'You don't mean that,' said Sam. "'I do indeed. Worse than that, my master's going to be married. "'No!' "'Yes, and worse than that, too, he's going to run away with an immense, rich heiress from boarding school.' "'What a dragon!' said Sam, refilling his companion's glass. "'It's some boarding school in this town, I suppose, ain't it?' Now, although this question was put in the most careless tone imaginable, Mr. Job Trotter plainly showed by gestures that he perceived his new friend's anxiety to draw forth an answer to it. He emptied his glass, looked mysteriously at his companion, winked both of his small eyes one after the other, and finally made a motion with his arm, as if he were working in imaginary pump-handle, thereby intimating that he, Mr. Trotter, considered himself as undergoing the process of being pumped by Mr. Samuel Weller. "'No, no,' said Mr. Trotter, in conclusion. "'That's not to be told to everybody. That is a secret, a great secret, Mr. Walker.' As the mulberry man said this, he turned his glass upside down, by way of reminding his companion that he had nothing left wherewith to slake his thirst. Sam observed the hint, and feeling the delicate manner in which it was conveyed, ordered the pewter vessel to be refilled, where at the small eyes of the mulberry man glistened. "'And so it's a secret?' said Sam. "'I should rather suspect it was,' said the mulberry man, sipping his liquor with a complacent face. "'I suppose your master's very rich,' said Sam.' Mr. Trotter smiled, and holding his glass in his left hand gave four distinct slaps on the pockets of his mulberry indescribables with his right, as if to intimate that his master might have done the same without alarming anybody much by the chinking of coin. "'Ah!' said Sam. "'That's the game, is it?' The mulberry man nodded significantly. "'Well, and don't you think, old feller,' remonstrated Mr. Weller, that if you let your master take in this here young lady, you're a precious rascal?' "'I know that,' said Job Trotter, turning upon his companion a countenance of deep contrition, and groaning slightly. I know that, and that's what it is that preys upon my mind. But what am I to do?' "'Do,' said Sam, devulged to the missus, and give up your master.' "'Who'd believe me?' replied Mr. Trotter. The young ladies considered the very picture of innocence and discretion. She'd deny it, and so would my master. Who'd believe me? I should lose my place, and get indicted for a conspiracy or some such thing. That's all I should take by my motion.' "'There's something in that,' said Sam, ruminating. There's something in that.' "'If I knew any respectable gentleman who would take the matter up,' continued Mr. Trotter, I might have some hope of preventing the elopement. But there is the same difficulty, Mr. Walker, just the same. I know no gentleman in this strange place, and tend to one if I did whether he would believe my story. "'Come this way,' said Sam, suddenly jumping up and grasping the mulberry man by the arm. "'My master's the man you want, I see.' And after a slight resistance on the part of Job Trotter, Sam led his newly found friend to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, to whom he presented him. Together with a brief summary of the dialogue we have just repeated. "'I am very sorry to betray my master, sir,' said Job Trotter, applying to his eyes a pink-checked pocket handkerchief about six inches square. "'The feeling does you a great deal of honour,' replied Mr. Pickwick. "'But it is your duty, nevertheless.' "'I know it is my duty, sir,' replied Job, with great emotion. "'We should all try to discharge our duty, sir. And I humbly endeavour to discharge mine, sir. But it is a hard trial to betray a master, sir, whose clothes you wear and whose bread you eat, even though he is a scoundrel, sir.' "'You are a very good fellow,' said Mr. Pickwick, much affected, an honest fellow. "'Come, come,' interposed Sam, who had witnessed Mr. Trotter's tears with considerable impatience, blow this ere water-cart business. It won't do no good. This won't.' "'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick reproachfully, "'I am sorry to find that you have so little respect for this young man's feelings. His feelings is all very well, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. "'And as they're so very fine, and it's a pity he should lose him, I think he'd better keep him in his own bosom, than let him evaporate in hot water, especially as they do no good. Tears never yet wound up o'clock, or worked a steam engine. The next time you go out to a smoking-party young fellow, fill your pipe with that dare-reflection, and for the present just put that bit of pink gingham into your pocket, taint so handsome that you need to keep waving it about as if you was a tight-rope dancer.' "'My man is in the right,' said Mr. Pickwick, accosting Job, although his mode of expressing his opinion is somewhat homely and occasionally incomprehensible. "'He is, sir, very right,' said Mr. Trotter, and I will give way no longer.' "'Very well,' said Mr. Pickwick. "'Now, where is this boarding-school?' "'It is a large old red-brick house, just outside the town, sir,' replied Job Trotter. "'And when,' said Mr. Pickwick, "'when is this villainous design to be carried into execution? When is this elopement to take place?' "'Tonight,' sir,' replied Job. "'Tonight!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. "'This very night, sir,' replied Job Trotter. "'That is what alarms me so much.' "'Instant measures must be taken,' said Mr. Pickwick. "'I will see the lady who keeps the establishment immediately.' "'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Job. "'But that course of proceeding will never do.' "'Why not?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. "'My master, sir, is a very artful man.' "'I know he is,' said Mr. Pickwick. "'And he has so wound himself round the old lady's heart, sir,' resumed Job, that she would believe nothing to his prejudice. "'If you went down on your bare knees and swore it, "'especially as you have no proof but the word of a servant, "'who, for anything she knows, and my master would be sure to say so, "'was discharged for some fault and does this in revenge. "'What had better be done, then?' said Mr. Pickwick. "'Nothing but taking him in the very act of eloping "'will convince the old lady, sir,' replied Job. "'All of them old cats will run their heads again milestones,' observed Mr. Weller in a parentheses. "'But this taking him in the very act of elopement "'would be a very difficult thing to accomplish, I fear,' said Mr. Pickwick. "'I don't know, sir,' said Mr. Trotter, "'after a few moments' reflection. "'I think it might be easily done.' "'How?' was Mr. Pickwick's inquiry. "'Why?' replied Mr. Trotter. "'My master and I, being in the confidence of the two servants, "'will be secreted in the kitchen at ten o'clock. "'When the family have retired to rest, we shall come out of the kitchen and the young lady out of her bedroom. "'A post-chase will be waiting. "'And away we go.' "'Well?' said Mr. Pickwick. "'Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were in waiting "'in the garden behind, alone?' "'Alone?' said Mr. Pickwick. "'Why alone?' "'I thought it very natural,' replied Job, "'that the old lady wouldn't like such an unpleasant discovery "'to be made before more persons than possibly can be helped. "'The young lady, too, sir. "'Consider her feelings.' "'You are very right,' said Mr. Pickwick. "'The consideration evinces your delicacy of feeling. "'Go on. You are very right.' "'Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were waiting in the back garden alone, and I was to let you in, at the door which opens into it, from the end of the passage, at exactly half past eleven o'clock, you would be just in the very moment of time to assist me in frustrating the designs of this bad man, by whom I have been unfortunately ensnared.' Here, Mr. Trotter sighed deeply. "'Don't distress yourself on that account,' said Mr. Pickwick. "'If he had one grain of the delicacy of feeling which distinguishes you, humble as your station is, I should have some hopes of him.' 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 mane in his head, as is always turned on.' "'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, with great severity, "'hold your tongue.' "'Very well, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. "'I don't like this plan,' said Mr. Pickwick after deep meditation. "'Why can I communicate with the young lady's friends?' "'Because they live one hundred miles from here, sir,' responded Job Trotter. "'That's a clincher,' said Mr. Weller, aside. "'Then this garden,' resumed Mr. Pickwick. "'How am I to get into it?' "'The wall is very low, sir. And your servant will give you a leg up.' "'My servant will give me a leg up,' repeated Mr. Pickwick mechanically. "'You will be sure to be near this door that you speak of?' "'You cannot mistake it, sir. It's the only one that opens into the garden. "'Tap at it when you hear the clock strike, and I will open it instantly.' "'I don't like the plan,' said Mr. Pickwick. "'But as I see no other, and as the happiness of this young lady's whole life is at stake, I adopt it. I shall be sure to be there.' Thus, for the second time, did Mr. Pickwick's innate good feeling involve him in an enterprise from which he would most willingly had stood aloof. "'What is the name of the house?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. "'Westgate House, sir. You turn a little to the right when you get to the end of the town. It stands by itself, some little distance off the high road, with the name on a brass plate on the gate. "'I know it,' said Mr. Pickwick. I observed it once before, when I was in this town. You may depend upon me.' Mr. Trotter made another bow and turned to depart, when Mr. Pickwick thrust a guinea into his hand. "'You're a fine fellow,' said Mr. Pickwick, and I admire your goodness of heart. No thanks. Remember, eleven o'clock.' "'There is no fear of my forgetting it, sir,' replied Job Trotter. With these words he left the room, followed by Sam. "'I say,' said the latter, "'not a bad notion that he are crying. I'd cry like a rain-water spout in a shower on such good terms. How do you do it?' "'It comes from the heart,' Mr. Walker,' replied Job solemnly. "'Good morning, sir.' "'You're a soft customer you are. We've got it all out of 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 war 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 chase. The plot was evidently in execution, as Mr. Trotter had foretold. Half past ten o'clock arrived, and it was time for Mr. Pickwick to issue forth on his delicate errand. Resisting Sam's tender of his greatcoat, in order that he might have no encumbrance in scaling the wall, he set forth, followed by his attendant. There was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds. It was a fine dry night, but it was most uncommonly dark. Paths, hedges, fields, houses, and trees were enveloped in one deep shade. The atmosphere was hot and sultry. The summer lightning quivered faintly on the verge of the horizon, and was the only sight that varied the dull gloom in which everything was wrapped. Sound there was none, except the distant barking of some restless house-dog. They found the house, read the brass plate, walked around the wall, and stopped at that portion of it which divided them from the bottom of the garden. You will return to the inn, Sam, when you have assisted me over, said Mr. Pickwick. Very well, sir, and you will sit up till I return. Certainly, sir. Take hold of my leg, and, when I say over, raise me gently. All right, sir. Having settled these preliminaries, Mr. Pickwick grasped the top of the wall, and gave the word over, which was literally obeyed. Whether his body partook in some degree of the elasticity of his mind, or whether Mr. Weller's notions of a gentle push were of a somewhat rougher description than Mr. Pickwick's, the immediate effect of his assistance was to jerk that immortal gentleman completely over the wall onto the bed beneath, where, after crushing three gooseberry bushes and a rose-tree, he finally alighted at full length. You havent hurt yourself, I hope, sir, said Sam, in a loud whisper, as soon as he had recovered from the surprise consequent upon the mysterious disappearance of his master. I have not hurt myself, Sam, certainly, replied Mr. Pickwick, from the other side of the wall, but I rather think that you have hurt me. I hope not, sir, said Sam. Never mind, said Mr. Pickwick, rising. It's nothing but a few scratches. Go away, or we shall be overheard. Goodbye, sir. Goodbye. With stealthy steps Sam Weller departed. Leaving Mr. Pickwick alone in the garden. Lights occasionally appeared in the different windows of the house, or glanced from the staircases, as if the inmates were retiring to rest. Not caring to go too near the door until the appointed time, Mr. Pickwick crouched into an angle of the wall and awaited its arrival. It was a situation which might well have depressed the spirits of many a man. Mr. Pickwick, however, felt neither depression nor misgiving. He knew that his purpose was in the main a good one, and he placed implicit reliance on the high-minded Job. It was dull, certainly, not to say dreary, but a contemplative man can always employ himself in meditation. Mr. Pickwick had meditated himself into a dose, when he was roused by the chimes of the neighboring church ringing out the hour, half past eleven. That's the time, thought Mr. Pickwick getting cautiously on his feet. He looked up at the house. The lights had disappeared, and the shutters were closed. All in bed, no doubt. He walked on tiptoe to the door, and gave a gentle tap. Two or three minutes passing without any reply, he gave another tap rather louder. And then another, rather louder than that. At length the sound of feet was audible upon the stairs, and then the light of a candle shone through the keyhole of the door. There was a good deal of unchaining and unbolting, and the door was slowly opened. Now the door opened outwards, and as the door opened wider and wider Mr. Pickwick receded behind it more and more. What was his astonishment when he just peeped out, by way of caution, to see that the person who had opened it was not Job Trotter, but a servant girl with a candle in her hand? Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, with the swiftness displayed by that admirable, melodramatic performer, Punch, when he lies in wait for the flat-headed comedian with the tin box of music. It must have been the cat, Sarah, said the girl, addressing herself to someone in the house. Puss, puss, puss, tit, tit, tit. But no animal being decoyed by these blandishments, the girl slowly closed the door and refascined it, leaving Mr. Pickwick drawn up straight against the wall. This is very curious, thought Mr. Pickwick. They are sitting up beyond their usual hour, I suppose, extremely unfortunate that they should have chosen this night of all others for such a purpose, exceedingly. And with these thoughts Mr. Pickwick cautiously retired to the angle of the wall in which he had been before ensconced, waiting until such time as he might deem it safe to repeat the signal. He had not been here five minutes, when a vivid flash of lightning was followed by a loud peel of thunder that crashed and rolled away in the distance with a terrific noise. Then came another flash of lightning, brighter than the other, and a second peel of thunder, louder than the first. And then down came the rain, with a force and fury that swept everything before it. Mr. Pickwick was perfectly aware that a tree is a very dangerous neighbor in a thunderstorm. He had a tree on his right, a tree on his left, a third before him, and a fourth behind. If he remained where he was, he might fall the victim of an accident. If he showed himself in the center of the garden, he might be consigned to a constable. Once or twice he tried to scale the wall, but having no other legs this time, than those with which nature had furnished him, the only effect of his struggles was to inflict a variety of very unpleasant gratings on his knees and shins, and to throw him into a state of the most profuse perspiration. What a dreadful situation, said Mr. Pickwick, pausing to wipe his brow after this exercise. He looked up at the house. All was dark. They must be gone to bed now. He would try the signal again. He walked on tiptoe across the moist gravel, and tapped at the door. He held his breath, and listened at the keyhole. No reply. Very odd. Another knock. He listened again. There was a low whispering inside. And then a voice cried, Who's there? That's not Job. Thought Mr. Pickwick, hastily drawing himself straight up against the wall again. It's a woman. He had scarcely had time to form this conclusion when a window above stairs was thrown up, and three or four female voices repeated the query. Who's there? Mr. Pickwick dared not move hand or foot. It was clear that the whole establishment was roused. He made up his mind to remain where he was until the alarm had subsided, and then by a supernatural effort to get over the wall or perish in the attempt. Like all Mr. Pickwick's determinations, this was the best that could be made under the circumstances. But unfortunately it was founded upon the assumption that they would not venture to open the door again. What was his discomforture when he heard the chain and bolts withdrawn, and saw the door slowly opening wider and wider? He retreated into the corner, step by step. But do what he would, the interposition of his own person, prevented its being opened to its utmost width. Who's there? Screamed a numerous chorus of treble voices from the staircase inside, consisting of the spinster lady of the establishment, three teachers, five female servants, and thirty borders, all half-dressed, and in a forest of curl-papers. Of course Mr. Pickwick didn't say who was there. And then the burden of the chorus changed into, Lord, I am so frightened! Cook, said the Lady Abbas, who took care to be on the top stair, the very last of the group. Cook, why don't you go a little way into the garden? Please, ma'am, I don't like, responded the cook. Lord, what a stupid thing that cook is, said the thirty borders. Cook, said the Lady Abbas, with great dignity. Don't answer me, if you please. I insist upon your looking into the garden, immediately. Here the cook began to cry, and the housemaid said it was a shame, for which partnership she received a month's warning on the spot. Do you hear Cook, said the Lady Abbas, stamping her foot impatiently? Don't you hear your Mrs. Cook, said the three teachers? What an impudent thing that cook is, said the thirty borders. The unfortunate cook, thus strongly urged, advanced a step or two, and holding her candle just where it prevented her from seeing it all, declared, there was nothing there, and it must have been the wind. The door was just going to be closed in consequence, when an inquisitive border, who had been peeping between the hinges, set up a fearful screaming, which called back the cook and housemaid, and all the more adventurous, in no time. What is the matter with Miss Smithers? said the Lady Abbas. As the aforesaid, Miss Smithers proceeded to go into hysterics of four young lady power. Lord Miss Smithers, dear, said the other nine and twenty borders. Oh, the man, the man behind the door, screamed Miss Smithers. The Lady Abbas no sooner heard this appalling cry, then she retreated to her own bedroom, double-locked the door, and fainted away comfortably. The borders and the teachers and the servants fell back upon the stairs and upon each other, and never was such a screaming, and fainting, and struggling beheld. In the midst of the tumult, Mr. Pickwick emerged from his concealment, and presented himself amongst them. Ladies, dear, ladies, said Mr. Pickwick. Oh, he says we're dear, cried the oldest and ugliest teacher. Oh, the wretch! Ladies roared Mr. Pickwick, rendered desperate by the danger of his situation. Hear me! I am no robber. I want the Lady of the House. Oh, what a ferocious monster! screamed another teacher. He wants Miss Tompkins. Here, there was a general scream. Ring the alarm bell! Somebody! cried a dozen voices. Don't, don't! Shout, Mr. Pickwick, look at me! Do I look like a robber? My dear ladies, you may bind me hand and leg, or lock me in a closet, if you like. Only hear what I've got to say. Only hear me. How did you come in our garden? faltered the housemaid. Call the Lady of the House, and I'll tell her everything, said Mr. Pickwick, exerting his lungs to the utmost pitch. Call her, only be quiet, and call her, and you shall hear everything. It might have been Mr. Pickwick's appearance, or it might have been his manner, or it might have been the temptation, irresistible to a female mind, of hearing something at present enveloped in mystery that reduced the more reasonable portion of the establishment, some four individuals, to a state of comparative quiet. By them it was proposed, as a test of Mr. Pickwick's sincerity, that he should immediately submit to personal restraint. And that gentleman, having consented to hold a conference with Ms. Tompkins, from the interior of a closet in which the day-borders hung their bonnets and sandwich bags, he had once stepped into it, of his own accord, and was securely locked in. This revived the others, and Ms. Tompkins having been brought to, and brought down, the conference began. What did you do in my garden, man? said Ms. Tompkins in a faint voice. I came to warn you that one of your young ladies was going to elope tonight, replied Mr. Pickwick, from the interior of the closet. Elope exclaimed Ms. Tompkins, the three teachers, the thirty-borders, and the five servants, who with? your friend, Mr. Charles Fitzmartial. My friend? I don't know any such person. Well, Mr. Jingle then. I never heard the name in my life. Then I have been deceived and deluded, said Mr. Pickwick. I have been the victim of a conspiracy, a foul and base conspiracy. Send to the angel, my dear ma'am, if you don't believe me. Send to the angel for Mr. Pickwick's manservant. I implore you, ma'am. He must be respectable. He keeps a manservant, said Ms. Tompkins to the writing and ciphering governess. It's my opinion, Ms. Tompkins said the writing and ciphering governess, that his manservant keeps him. I think he's a madman, Ms. Tompkins, and the others, his keeper. I think you are very right, Ms. Gwynn, responded Ms. Tompkins. Let two of the servants repair to the angel, and let the others remain here to protect us. So two of the servants were dispatched to the angel in search of Mr. Samuel Weller, and the remaining three stopped behind to protect Ms. Tompkins, and the three teachers, and the thirty boarders. And Mr. Pickwick sat down in the closet, beneath a grove of sandwich bags, and awaited the return of the messengers, with all the philosophy and fortitude he could summon to his aid. An hour and a half elapsed before they came back. And when they did come, Mr. Pickwick recognized, in addition to the voice of Mr. Samuel Weller, two other voices, the tones of which struck familiarly on his ear, but whose they were he could not, for the life of him, call to mind. A very brief conversation ensued. The door was unlocked. Mr. Pickwick stepped out of the closet, and found himself in the presence of the whole establishment of Westgate House, Mr. Samuel Weller, and Old Wardle, and his destined son-in-law, Mr. Trundle. My dear friend, said Mr. Pickwick, running forward and grasping Wardle's hand. My dear friend, pray, for heaven's sake, explain to this lady the unfortunate and dreadful situation in which I am placed. You must have heard it from my servant, say at all events, my dear fellow, that I am neither a robber nor a madman. I have said so, my dear friend. I have said so already, replied Mr. Wardle, shaking the right hand of his friend, while Mr. Trundle shook the left. And whoever says, or has said he is, interposed Mr. Weller, stepping forward, says that which is not the truth. But so far from it, on the contrary, quite the reverse. And if there is any number of men, on these here premises, as said so, I shall be very happy to give them all a very convincing proof for their being mistaken. In this here wary room, if these very respectable ladies will have the goodness to retire, and order them up, one at a time. Having delivered this defiance with great volubility, Mr. Weller struck his open palm emphatically with his clenched fist, and winked pleasantly on Miss Tompkins. The intensity of whose horror, at his supposing it within the bounds of possibility, that there could be any men on the premises of Westgate House establishment for young ladies, it is impossible to describe. Mr. Pickwick's explanation, having already been partially made, was soon concluded. But neither, in the course of his walk home with his friends, nor afterwards, when seated before a blazing fire at the supper he so much needed, could a single observation be drawn from him. He seemed bewildered and amazed. Once, and only once, he turned round to Mr. Wardle and said, How did you come here? Trundle and I came down here for some good shooting on the first, replied Wardle. We arrived to-night, and were astonished to hear from your servant that you were here too. But I am glad you are, said the old fellow, slapping him on the back. I am glad you are. We shall have a jovial party on the first. And we'll give Winkle another chance. A old boy. Mr. Pickwick made no reply. He did not even ask after his friends at Dingley Dell, and shortly afterwards retired for the night, desiring Sam to fetch his candle when he rung. The bell did ring in due course, and Mr. Weller presented himself. Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, looking out from under the bedclothes. Sir, said Mr. Weller. Mr. Pickwick paused, and Mr. Weller snuffed the candle. Sam, said Mr. Pickwick again, as if with a desperate effort. Sir, said Mr. Weller, once more. Where is that trotter? Job, sir? Yes. Gone, sir. With his master, I suppose? Friend, or master, or whatever he is, he's gone with him, replied Mr. Weller. There's a pair on him, sir. Jingle suspected my design, and set that fellow on you with this story, I suppose, said Mr. Pickwick, half choking. Just that, sir, replied Mr. Weller. It was all false, of course. All, sir, replied Mr. Weller. Regular due, sir. Artful dodge. I don't think he'll escape us quite so easily the next time, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick. I don't think he will, sir. Whenever I meet that jingle again, wherever it is, said Mr. Pickwick, raising himself in bed, and indenting his pillow with a tremendous blow, I'll inflict personal chastisement on him, in addition to the exposure he so richly merits. I will, or my name, is not Pickwick. And whenever I catch his hold of that there melancholy chap with the black hair, said Sam, if I don't bring some real water into his eyes, for once in a way, my name ain't Weller. Good night, sir. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of the Pickwick Papers This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Deborah Lynn The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens Chapter 17 showing that an attack of rheumatism in some cases acts as a quickener to inventive genius 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. But although the bodily powers of the great man were thus impaired, his mental energies retained their pristine vigor. His spirits were elastic, his good humor was restored. Even the vexation consequent upon his recent adventure had vanished from his mind, and he could join in the hearty laughter which any allusion to it excited in Mr. Wardle without anger and without embarrassment. Nay, more. During the two days Mr. Pickwick was confined to bed, Sam was his constant attendant. On the first, he endeavored to amuse his master by anecdote and conversation. On the second, Mr. Pickwick demanded his writing desk and pen and ink and was deeply engaged during the whole day. On the third, being able to sit up in his bed chamber, he dispatched his valet with a message to Mr. Wardle and Mr. Trundle intimating that if they would take their wine there that evening, they would greatly oblige him. The invitation was most willingly accepted, and when they were seated over their wine, Mr. Pickwick, with sundry blushes, produced the following little tale as having been edited by himself during his recent indisposition from his notes of Mr. Weller's unsophisticated recital. The Parish Clerk, A Tale of True Love Once upon a time in a very small country town at a considerable distance from London, there lived a little man named Nathaniel Pipkin who was the Parish Clerk of the little town and lived in a little house in the little high street within ten minutes walk from the little church and who was to be found every day from nine till four teaching a little learning to the little boys. Nathaniel Pipkin was a harmless, inoffensive, good-natured being with a turned-up nose and rather turned-in legs, a cast in his eye and a halt in his gait, and he divided his time between the church and his school, barely believing that there existed not on the face of the earth so clever a man is to curate, so imposing an apartment as the vestry room or so well-ordered a seminary as his own. Once and only once in his life Nathaniel Pipkin had seen a bishop, a real bishop, with his arms in lawn sleeves and his head in a wig. He had seen him walk and heard him talk at a conformation, on which momentous occasion Nathaniel Pipkin was so overcome with reverence and awe when the aforesaid bishop laid his hand on his head that he fainted right clean away and was born out of the church in the arms of the beetle. This was a great event, a tremendous era in Nathaniel Pipkin's life, and it was the only one that had ever occurred to ruffle the smooth current of his quiet existence. When happening one fine afternoon in a fit of mental abstraction to raise his eyes from the slate on which he was devising some tremendous problem in compound addition for an offending urchin to solve, they suddenly rested on the blooming countenance of Maria Lobbs, the only daughter of old Lobbs, the great saddler over the way. Now the eyes of Mr. Pipkin had rested on the pretty face of Maria Lobbs many a time and oft before, at church and elsewhere. But the eyes of Maria Lobbs had never looked so right. The cheeks of Maria Lobbs had never looked so ruddy, as upon this particular occasion. No wonder, then, that Nathaniel Pipkin was unable to take his eyes from the countenance of Miss Lobbs. No wonder that Miss Lobbs, finding herself stared at by a young man, withdrew her head from the window out of which she had been peeping, and shut the casement and pulled down the blind. No wonder that Nathaniel Pipkin, immediately thereafter, fell upon the young urchin who had previously offended and cuffed and knocked him about to his heart's content. All this was very natural, and there's nothing at all to wonder at about it. It is matter of wonder, though, that any one of Mr. Nathaniel Pipkin's retiring disposition, nervous temperament, and most particularly diminutive income, should from this day forth have dared to aspire to the hand and heart of the only daughter of the fiery old Lobbs. Of old Lobbs, the great saddler who could have bought up the whole village at one stroke of his pen and never felt the outlay. Old Lobbs, who was well known to have heaps of money invested in the bank at the nearest market town, who was reported to have countless and inexhaustible treasures hoarded up in the little iron safe with the big keyhole over the chimneypiece in the back parlor, and who, it was well known on festive occasions, garnished his board with a real silver teapot, cream ewer and sugar basin, which he was want in the pride of his heart to boast should be his daughter's property when she found a man to her mind. I repeat it, to be matter of profound astonishment and intense wonder, that Nathaniel Pipkin should have had the temerity to cast his eyes in this direction. But love is blind, and Nathaniel had a cast in his eye, and perhaps these two circumstances taken together prevented his seeing the matter in its proper light. Now, if old Lobbs had entertained the most remote or distant idea of the state of the affections of Nathaniel Pipkin, he would just have raised the school room to the ground, or exterminated its master from the surface of the earth, or committed some other outrage and atrocity of an equally ferocious and violent description, for he was a terrible old fellow, was Lobbs, when his pride was injured or his blood was up. Swear, such trains of oaths would come rolling and peeling over the way sometimes when he was denouncing the idleness of the bony apprentice with the thin legs, that Nathaniel Pipkin would shake in his shoes with horror, and the hair of the pupil's heads would stand on end with fright. Well, day after day when school was over and the pupil's gone, did Nathaniel Pipkin sit himself down at the front window, and while he feigned to be reading a book, throw side-long glances over the way in search of the bright eyes of Maria Lobbs. And he hadn't sat there many days before the bright eyes appeared at an upper window, apparently deeply engaged in reading, too. This was delightful and gladdening to the heart of Nathaniel Pipkin. It was something to sit there for hours together and look upon that pretty face when the eyes were cast down. But when Maria Lobbs began to raise her eyes from her book and dart their rays in the direction of Nathaniel Pipkin, his delight and admiration were perfectly boundless. At last one day when he knew old Lobbs was out, Nathaniel Pipkin had the temerity to kiss his hand to Maria Lobbs, and Maria Lobbs, instead of shutting the window and pulling down the blind, kissed hers to him and smiled, upon which Nathaniel Pipkin determined that come what might, he would develop the state of his feelings without further delay. A prettier foot, a gayer heart, a more dimpled face, or a smarter form, never bounded so lightly over the earth, they graced, as did those of Maria Lobbs, the old Saddler's daughter. There was a roguish twinkle in her sparkling eyes that would have made its way to far less susceptible bosoms than that of Nathaniel Pipkin, and there was such a joyous sound in her merry laugh that the sternest miss and throat must have smiled to hear it. Even old Lobbs himself, in the very height of his ferocity, couldn't resist the coaxing of his pretty daughter, and when she and her cousin Kate, an arch-imputant-looking bewitching little person, made a dead set upon the old man together, as to say the truth they very often did, he could have refused them nothing, even had they asked for a portion of the countless and inexhaustible treasures which were hidden from the light in the iron safe. Nathaniel Pipkin's heart beat high within him, when he saw this enticing little couple some hundred yards before him one summer's evening in the very field in which he had many a time strolled about till night time and pondered on the beauty of Maria Lobbs. But though he had often thought then how briskly he would walk up to Maria Lobbs and tell her of his passion if he could only meet her, he felt, now that she was unexpectedly before him, all the blood in his body mounting to his face manifestly to the great detriment of his legs, which deprived of their usual portion trembled beneath him. When they stopped to gather a hedge-flower or listened to a bird, Nathaniel Pipkin stopped, too, and pretended to be absorbed in meditation, as indeed he really was, for he was thinking what on earth he should ever do when they turned back, as they inevitably must in time and meet him face to face. But though he was afraid to make up to them, he couldn't bear to lose sight of them. So when they walked faster, he walked faster. When they lingered, he lingered, and when they stopped, he stopped. And so they might have gone on until the darkness prevented them if Kate had not looked slyly back and encouragingly beckoned Nathaniel to advance. There was something in Kate's manner that was not to be resisted, and so Nathaniel Pipkin complied with the invitation. And after a great deal of blushing on his part, an immoderate laughter on that of the wicked little cousin, Nathaniel Pipkin went down on his knees on the dewy grass and declared his resolution to remain there forever, unless he were permitted to rise the accepted lover of Maria Lobbs. Upon this, the merry laughter of Miss Lobbs rang through the calm evening air without seeming to disturb it, though. It had such a pleasant sound, and the wicked little cousin laughed more immoderately than before, and Nathaniel Pipkin blushed deeper than ever. At length, Maria Lobbs, being more strenuously urged by the love-worn little man, turned away her head and whispered her cousin to say, or at all events Kate did say, that she felt much honored by Mr. Pipkin's addresses, that her hand and heart were at her father's disposal, but that nobody could be insensible to Mr. Pipkin's merits. As all this was said with much gravity, and as Nathaniel Pipkin walked home with Maria Lobbs and struggled for a kiss at parting, he went to bed a happy man and dreamed all night long of softening old lobs, opening the strongbox, and marrying Maria. The next day Nathaniel Pipkin saw old Lobbs go out upon his old gray pony, and after a great many signs at the window from the wicked little cousin, the object and meaning of which he could by no means understand, the bony apprentice with the thin legs came over to say that his master wasn't coming home all night, and that the ladies expected Mr. Pipkin to tea at six o'clock precisely. How the lessons were got through that day, neither Nathaniel Pipkin nor his pupils knew any more than you do, but they were got through somehow, and after the boys had gone, Nathaniel Pipkin took till full six o'clock to dress himself to his satisfaction. Not that it took long to select the garments he should wear in as much as he had no choice about the matter, but the putting of them on to the best advantage and the touching of them up previously was a task of no inconsiderable difficulty or importance. There was a very snug little party consisting of Maria Lobbs and her cousin Kate, and three or four romping good-humored, rosy-cheeked girls. Nathaniel Pipkin had ocular demonstration of the fact that the rumors of old Lobbs's treasures were not exaggerated. There were the real solid silver teapot, creamure and sugar basin on the table, and real silver spoons to stir the tea with, and real china cups to drink it out of, and plates of the same to hold the cakes and toast in. The only eyesore in the whole place was another cousin of Maria Lobbs's and a brother of Kate who Maria Lobbs called Henry, and who seemed to keep Maria Lobbs all to himself up in one corner of the table. It's a delightful thing to see affection in families, but it may be carried rather too far, and Nathaniel Pipkin could not help thinking that Maria Lobbs must be very particularly fond of her relations if she paid as much attention to all of them as to this individual cousin. After tea, too, when the wicked little cousin proposed a game at blind man's bluff, it somehow or other happened that Nathaniel Pipkin was nearly always blind, and whenever he laid his hand upon the male cousin, he was sure to find that Maria Lobbs was not far off. And though the wicked little cousin and the other girls pinched him and pulled his hair and pushed chairs in his way, and all sorts of things, Maria Lobbs never seemed to come near him at all, and once, once, Nathaniel Pipkin could have sworn he heard the sound of a kiss followed by a fateful monstrance from Maria Lobbs and a half-suppressed laugh from her female friends. All this was odd, very odd, and there is no saying what Nathaniel Pipkin might or might not have done in consequence if his thoughts had not been suddenly directed into a new channel. The circumstance which directed his thoughts into a new channel was a loud knocking at the street door, and the person who made this loud knocking at the street door was no other than old Lobbs himself who had unexpectedly returned and was hammering away like a coffin-maker, for he wanted his supper. The alarming intelligence was no sooner communicated by the bony apprentice with the thin legs than the girls tripped upstairs to Maria Lobbs' bedroom and the male cousin and Nathaniel Pipkin were thrust into a couple of closets in the sitting-room for want of any better places of concealment. And when Maria Lobbs and the wicked little cousin had stowed them away and put the room to rights, they opened the street door to old Lobbs who had never left off knocking since he first began. Now, it did unfortunately happen that old Lobbs, being very hungry, was monstrous cross. Nathaniel Pipkin could hear him growling away like an old mastiff with a sore throat, and whenever the unfortunate apprentice with the thin legs came into the room, so surely did old Lobbs commenced swearing at him in a most sericinic and ferocious manner, though apparently with no other end or object than that of easing his bosom by the discharge of a few superfluous oaths. At length some supper which had been warming up was placed on the table, and then old Lobbs fell to in regular style, and having made clear work of it in no time, kissed his daughter and demanded his pipe. Nature had placed Nathaniel Pipkin's knees in very close juxtaposition. But when he heard old Lobbs demand his pipe, they knocked together as if they were going to reduce each other to powder. Four, depending from a couple of hooks and the very claws in which he stood, was a large, brown-stemmed, silver-bold pipe, which pipe he himself had seen in the mouth of old Lobbs regularly every afternoon and evening for the last five years. The two girls went downstairs for the pipe and upstairs for the pipe and everywhere but where they knew the pipe was, and old Lobbs stormed away, meanwhile, in the most wonderful manner. At last he thought of the closet and walked up to it. It was of no use a little man like Nathaniel Pipkin pulling the door inwards when a great strong fellow like old Lobbs was pulling it outwards. Old Lobbs gave it one tug and opened it flew, disclosing Nathaniel Pipkin standing bold up right inside and shaking with apprehension from head to foot. Bless us! What an appalling look old Lobbs gave him as he dragged him out by the collar and held him at arm's length. Why, what the devil do you want here? said old Lobbs in a fearful voice. Nathaniel Pipkin could make no reply, so old Lobbs shook him backwards and forwards for two or three minutes by way of arranging his ideas for him. What do you want here, word Lobbs? I suppose you have come after my daughter now. Old Lobbs merely said this as a sneer, for he did not believe that mortal presumption could have carried Nathaniel Pipkin so far. What was his indignation when that poor man replied, Yes, I did, Mr. Lobbs. I did come after your daughter. I love her, Mr. Lobbs. Why, you sniveling, where I face puny villain, gasped old Lobbs, paralyzed by the atrocious confession. What do you mean by that? Say this to my face. Damn, I'll throttle you. It is by no means improbable that old Lobbs would have carried his threat into execution in the excess of his rage if his arm had not been stayed by a very unexpected apparition. To wit, the male cousin, who's stepping out of his closet and walking up to old Lobbs, said, I cannot allow this harmless person, sir, who has been asked here in some girlish frolic to take upon himself in a very noble manner the fault, if fault it is, which I am guilty of, and am ready to avow. I love your daughter, sir, and I came here for the purpose of meeting her. Old Lobbs opened his eyes very wide at this, but not wider than Nathaniel Pipkin. You did, said Lobbs, at last finding breath to speak. I did. And I forbade you this house long ago. You did, or I should not have been here clandestinely tonight. I am sorry to record it of old Lobbs, but I think he would have struck the cousin of his pretty daughter with her bright eyes swimming in tears had not clung to his arm. Don't stop him, Maria, said the young man. If he has the will to strike me, let him. I would not hurt a hair of his gray head for the riches of the world. The old man cast down his eyes at this reproof, and they met those of his daughter. I have hinted once or twice before that they were very bright eyes, and though they were cheerful now, their influence was by no means lessened. Old Lobbs turned his head away as if to avoid being persuaded by them, when, as fortune would have it, he encountered the face of the wicked little cousin, who half afraid for her brother, and half laughing at Nathaniel Pipkin, presented as bewitching an expression of countenance with a touch of slinus in it, too, as any man, older young, need look upon. She drew her arm coaxingly through the old man's and whispered something in his ear, and do what he would, old Lobbs, couldn't help breaking out into a smile, while a tear stole down his cheek at the same time. Five minutes after this, the girls were brought down from the bedroom with a great deal of giggling and modesty, and while the young people were making themselves perfectly happy, old Lobbs got down the pipe and smoked it, and it was a remarkable circumstance about that particular pipe of tobacco that it was the most soothing and delightful one he ever smoked. Nathaniel Pipkin thought it best to keep his own counsel, and by so doing gradually rose into high favor with old Lobbs, who taught him to smoke in time, and they used to sit out in the garden on the fine evenings, for many years afterwards, smoking and drinking in great state. He soon recovered the effects of his attachment, for refined his name in the parish register as a witness to the marriage of Maria Lobbs to her cousin, and it also appears, by reference to other documents, that on the night of the wedding he was incarcerated in the village cage for having, in a state of extreme intoxication, committed sundry excesses in the streets, in all of which he was aided and abetted by the bony apprentice with the thin legs. Org Recording by Deborah Lynn The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens Chapter 18 Briefly Illustrative of Two Points First, The Power of Hysterics and Secondly, The Force of Circumstances For two days after the Desgenais admises hunters, the Pickwickians remained at Eaton's Will anxiously awaiting the arrival of some intelligence from their revered leader. Mr. Tubman and Mr. Snodgrass were once again left to their own means of amusement. For Mr. Winkle, in compliance with the most pressing invitation, continued to reside at Mr. Pot's house and to devote his time to the companionship of his amiable lady. Nor was the occasional society of Mr. Pot himself wanting to complete their felicity. Deeply immersed in the intensity of his speculations for the public wheel and the destruction of the independent, it was not the habit of that great man to descend from his mental pinnacle to the humble level of ordinary minds. On this occasion, however, and as if expressly in complement to any follower of Mr. Pickwick's, he unbent, relaxed, stepped down from his pedestal and walked upon the ground, benignly adapting his remarks to the comprehension of the herd and seeming in outward form, if not in spirit, to be one of them. Such having been the demeanor of this celebrated public character towards Mr. Winkle, it will be readily imagined that considerable surprise was depicted on the countenance of the latter, gentlemen, when, as he was sitting alone in the breakfast room, the door was hastily thrown open and is hastily closed on the entrance of Mr. Pot, who stalking majestically towards him and thrusting aside his proffered hand, ground his teeth as if to put a sharper edge on what he was about to utter and exclaimed in a saw-like voice, Serpent! Sir, exclaimed Mr. Winkle, starting from his chair, Serpent Sir, repeated Mr. Pot, 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. Pot'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, so after a profound silence of some minute's duration he said, Serpent Sir, Serpent Mr. Pot, what can you mean, Ser? This is pleasantry. Pleasantry, Ser, exclaimed Pot, with a motion of the hand indicative of a strong desire to hurl the Britannium metal teapot at the head of the visitor. Pleasantry, Ser, but no, I will be calm. I will be calm, Ser. In proof of his calmness, Mr. Pot flung himself into a chair and foamed at the mouth. My dear, Ser, interposed Mr. Winkle. Dear, Ser, replied Pot, how dare you address me as dear Ser, Ser? How dare you look me in the face and do it, Ser? Well, Ser, if you come to that, responded Mr. Winkle, how dare you look me in the face and call me a Serpent, Ser? Because you are one, replied Mr. Pot. Prove it, Ser, said Mr. Winkle warmly. Prove it. A malignant scowl passed over the profound face of the editor as he drew from his pocket the independent of that morning and laying his finger on a particular paragraph through the journal across the table to Mr. Winkle. That gentleman took it up and read as follows. Our obscure and filthy contemporary in some disgusting observations on the recent election for this borough has presumed to violate the hallowed sanctity of private life and to refer in a manner not to be misunderstood to the personal affairs of our late candidate. I, and notwithstanding his base defeat, we will add our future member, Mr. Fizkin. What does our dastardly contemporary mean? What would the Ruffian say if we, setting it not like him, the decencies of social intercourse, were to raise the curtain which happily could not be heard? Were to raise the curtain which happily conceals his private life from general ridicule, not to say from general execration? What if we were even to point out and comment on facts and circumstances which are publicly notorious and be held by everyone but our molied contemporary? What if we were to print the following effusion which we received while we were writing the commencement of this article from a talented fellow townsman and correspondent? Lines to a brass pot. O pot, if you'd known how false she'd have grown when you heard the marriage bells tinkle, you'd have done then, I vow, what you cannot help now and handed her over to W. What, said Mr. Pot solemnly, what rhymes to tinkle, villain? What rhymes to tinkle? Said Mrs. Pot, whose entrance at the moment forestalled the reply? What rhymes to tinkle? Why, Winkle, I should conceive. Saying this, Mrs. Pot smiled sweetly on the disturbed Pickwickian and extended her hand towards him. The agitated young man would have accepted it in his confusion, had not Pot indignantly interposed. Back, ma'am, back, said the editor, take his hand before my very face. Mr. P., said his astonished lady. Wretched woman, look here, exclaimed the husband. Look here, ma'am, lines to a brass pot. Brass pot, that's me, ma'am. False she'd have grown, that's you, ma'am, you, with this abolition of rage which was not unaccompanied with something like a tremble at the expression of his wife's face, Mr. Pot dashed the current number of the eaten swill independent at her feet. Upon my word, sir, said the astonished Mrs. Pot, stooping to pick up the paper, upon my word, sir. Mr. Pot winced beneath the contemptuous gaze of his wife. He had made a desperate struggle to screw up his courage, but it was fast coming unscrewed again. There appears nothing very tremendous in this little sentence, upon my word, sir, when it comes to be read, but the tone of voice in which it was delivered and the look that accompanied it, both seeming to bear reference to some revenge to be thereafter visited upon the head of Pot, produced their effect upon him. The most unskillful observer could have detected in his troubled countenance a readiness to resign his Wellington boots to any efficient substitute who would have consented to stand in them at that moment. Mrs. Pot read the paragraph, uttered a loud shriek and threw herself at full length on the hearth rug, screaming and tapping it with the heels of her shoes in a manner which could leave no doubt of the propriety of her feelings on the occasion. My dear, said the terrified Pot, I didn't say I believed it, but the unfortunate man's voice was drowned in the screaming of his partner. Mrs. Pot, let me entreat you, my dear ma'am, to compose yourself, said Mr. Winkle, but the shrieks and tappings were louder and more frequent than ever. My dear, said Mr. Pot, I'm very sorry. If you won't consider your own health, consider me, my dear. We shall have a crowd round the house. But the more strenuously Mr. Pot entreated, the more vehemently the screams poured forth. Very fortunately, however, attached to Mrs. Pot's person was a bodyguard of one, a young lady whose ostensible employment was to preside over her toilet, but who rendered herself useful in a variety of ways. And in none more so than in the particular department of constantly aiding and abetting her mistress in every wish and inclination opposed to the desires of the unhappy Pot. The screams reached this young lady's ears in due course and brought her into the room with a speed which threatened to derange materially the very exquisite arrangement of her cap and ringlets. Oh, my dear, dear mistress, exclaimed the bodyguard, kneeling frantically by the side of the prostrate Mrs. Pot. Oh, my dear mistress, what is the matter? Your master, your brutal master, murmured the patient. Pot was evidently giving way. It's a shame, said the bodyguard reproachfully. I know he'll be the death and you, ma'am, poor dear thing. He gave way more. The opposite party followed up the attack. Oh, don't leave me. Don't leave me, good one, murmured Mrs. Pot, clutching at the wrist of the said good one with an hysteric jerk. You're the only person that's kind to me, good one. At this affecting appeal, good one got up a little domestic tragedy of her own and shed tears copiously. Never, ma'am, never, said good one. Oh, sir, you should be careful. You should indeed. You don't know what harm you may do, Mrs. You'll be sorry for it one day. I know. I've always said so. The unlucky pot looked timidly on, but said nothing. Good one, said Mrs. Pot, in a soft voice. Ma'am, said good one. If you only knew how I have loved that man, don't distress yourself by recollecting it, ma'am, said the bodyguard. Pot looked very frightened. It was time to finish him. And now, sobbed Mrs. Pot, now after all to be treated in this way, to be reproached and insulted in the presence of a third party and that party almost a stranger, but I will not submit to it, good one, continued Mrs. Pot, raising herself in the arms of her attendant. My brother, the lieutenant, shall interfere. I'll be separated, good one. It would certainly serve him right, ma'am, said good one. Whatever thoughts the threat of a separation might have awakened in Mr. Pot's mind, he forbore to give utterance to them and contented himself by saying with great humility, my dear, will you hear me? A fresh train of sobs was the only reply, as Mrs. Pot grew more hysterical, requested to be informed why she was ever born, and required sundry other pieces of information of a similar description. My dear, remonstrated Mr. Pot, do not give way to these sensitive feelings. I never believed that the paragraph had any foundation, my dear, impossible. I was only angry, my dear. I may say outrageous, with the independent people, for daring to insert it, that's all. Mr. Pot cast an imploring look at the innocent cause of the mischief, as if to entreat him to say nothing about the serpent. And what steps, sir, do you mean to take to obtain redress, inquired Mr. Winkle, gaining courage as he saw Pot losing it? Oh, good one, observed Mrs. Pot. Does he mean to horse whip the editor of the independent? Does he, good one? Hush, ma'am, pray, keep yourself quiet, replied the bodyguard. I daresay he will, if you wish it, ma'am. Certainly, said Pot, as his wife events decided symptoms of going off again, of course I shall. When, good one, when? said Mrs. Pot, still undecided about the going off. Immediately, of course, said Mr. Pot, before the day is out. Oh, good one, resumed Mrs. Pot. It's the only way of meeting the slander and setting me right with the world. Certainly, ma'am, replied good one, no man as is a man, ma'am, could refuse to do it. So, as the hysterics were still hovering about, Mr. Pot said once more that he would do it. But Mrs. Pot was so overcome at the bare idea of having ever been suspected that she was half a dozen times on the very verge of a relapse and most unquestionably would have gone off had it not been for the indefatigable efforts of the assiduous good one and repeated in treaties for pardon from the conquered Pot. And finally, when that unhappy individual had been frightened and snubbed down to his proper level, Mrs. Pot recovered and they went to breakfast. You will not allow this base newspaper slander to shorten your stay here, Mr. Winkle, said Mrs. Pot, smiling through the traces of her tears. I hope not, said Mr. Pot, actuated as he spoke by a wish that his visitor would choke himself with the morsel of dried toast which he was raising to his lips at the moment and so terminate his stay effectually. I hope not. You are very good, said Mr. Winkle. But a letter has been received from Mr. Pickwick, so I learned by a note from Mr. Tubman, which was brought up to my bedroom door this morning, in which he requests us to join him at Burry today and we are to leave by the coach at noon. But you will come back, said Mrs. Pot. Oh, certainly, replied Mr. Winkle. You were quite sure, said Mrs. Pot, stealing a tender look at her visitor. Quite, responded Mr. Winkle. The breakfast passed off in silence for each of the party was brooding over his or her own personal grievances. Mrs. Pot was regretting the loss of a bow. Mr. Pot, his rash pledge to horse whip the independent, Mr. Winkle, his having innocently placed himself in so awkward a situation. Noon approached, and after many a dues and promises to return, he tore himself away. If he ever comes back, I'll poison him, thought Mr. Pot, as he turned into the little back office where he prepared his thunderbolts. If I ever do come back and mix myself up with these people again, thought Mr. Winkle, as he wended his way to the peacock, I shall deserve to be horse-whipped myself, that's all. His friends were ready. The coach was nearly so, and in half an hour they were proceeding on their journey along the road over which Mr. Pickwick and Sam had so recently traveled, and of which, as we have already said something, we do not feel called upon to extract Mr. Snodgrass's poetical and beautiful description. Mr. Weller was standing at the door of the angel, ready to receive them, and by that gentleman they were ushered to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, where, to the no small surprise of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, and the no small embarrassment of Mr. Tubman, they found old Wardle and Trundle. How are you, said the old man, grasping Mr. Tubman's hand? Don't hang back or look sentimental about it. It can't be helped, old fellow. For her sake, I wish you'd had her. For your own, I'm very glad you have not. A young fellow like you will do better one of these days, eh? With this conclusion, Wardle slapped Mr. Tubman on the back and laughed heartily. Well, and how are you, my fine fellows, said the old gentleman, shaking hands with Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass at the same time? I have just been telling Pickwick that we must have you all down at Christmas. We're going to have a wedding, a real wedding this time. A wedding, exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, turning very pale. Yes, a wedding, but don't be frightened, said the good, humored old man. It's only Trundle there in Bella. Oh, is that all, said Mr. Snodgrass, relieved from a painful doubt which had fallen heavily on his breast. Give you joy, sir. How is Joe? Very well, replied the old gentleman, sleepy as ever. And your mother and the clergyman and all of them? Quite well. Where, said Mr. Tubman with an effort, where is she, sir? And he turned away his head and covered his eyes with his hand. She, said the old gentleman with a knowing shake of the head, do you mean my single relative, eh? Mr. Tubman by a nod intimated that his question applied to the disappointed Rachel. Oh, she's gone away, said the old gentleman. She's living at a relation far enough off. She couldn't bear to see the girls, so I let her go. But come, here's the dinner. You must be hungry after your ride. I am without any ride at all, so let us fall too. Ample justice was done to the meal, and when they were seated round the table, after it had been disposed of, Mr. Pickwick to the intense horror and indignation of his followers related the adventure he had undergone, and the success which had attended the base artifices of the diabolical jingle. And the attack of rheumatism which I caught in that garden, said Mr. Pickwick in conclusion, renders me lame at this moment. I too have had something of an adventure, said Mr. Winkle with a smile, and at the request of Mr. Pickwick, he detailed the malicious libel of the eating swill independent, and the consequent excitement of their friendly editor. Mr. Pickwick's brow darkens during the recital. His friends observed it, and when Mr. Winkle had concluded, maintained a profound silence. Mr. Pickwick struck the table emphatically with his clenched fist, and spoke as follows. Is it not a wonderful circumstance, said Mr. Pickwick, that we seem destined to enter no man's house without involving him in some degree of trouble? Does it not, I ask, bespeak the indiscretion, or worsten at the blackness of heart, that I should say so, of my followers, that beneath whatever roof they locate, they disturb the peace of mind and happiness of some confiding female? Is it not, I say, Mr. Pickwick would, in all probability of going on for some time, had not the entrance of Sam with a letter caused him to break off in his eloquent discourse. He passed his handkerchief across his forehead, took off his spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again, and his voice had recovered its wanted softness of tone when he said, What have you there, Sam? Called at the post office just now, and found this here letter, as has laid there for two days, replied Mr. Weller, it's sealed with a vapor and directed in round hand. I don't know this hand, said Mr. Pickwick, opening the letter. Mercy on us, what's this? It must be a jest. It can't be true. What's the matter, was the general inquiry. Nobody dead is there, said Wardle, alarmed at the horror in Mr. Pickwick's countenance. Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but pushing the letter across the table, and desiring Mr. Tubman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a look of vacant astonishment, quite alarming to behold. Mr. Tubman, with a trembling voice, read the letter of which the following is a copy. Freeman's Court, Cornhill, August 28, 1827. Bardell Against Pickwick Sir, having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to commence an action against you for a breach of promise of marriage, for which the plaintiff lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds, we beg to inform you that a writ has been issued against you in this suit in the Court of Common Please, and request to know by return of post the name of your attorney in London who will accept service thereof. We are, sir, your obedient servants, Dodson and Fogg. Mr. Samuel Pickwick There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which each man regarded his neighbor and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick that all seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr. Tubman. Dodson and Fogg, he repeated mechanically, Bardell and Pickwick, said Mr. Snodgrass musing. Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females, murmured Mr. Winkle with an air of abstraction. It's a conspiracy, said Mr. Pickwick at length recovering the power of speech, a base conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys, Dodson and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it. She hasn't the heart to do it. She hasn't the case to do it. Ridiculous, ridiculous! Of her heart, said Wardle with a smile, you should certainly be the best judge. I don't wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say that of her case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us can be. It's a vile attempt to extort money, said Mr. Pickwick. I hope it is, said Wardle with a short dry cough. Who ever heard me address her in any way, but that in which a lodger would address his landlady, continued Mr. Pickwick with great vehemence. Who ever saw me with her? Not even my friends here. Except on one occasion, said Mr. Tubman. Mr. Pickwick changed color. Ah, said Mr. Wardle. Well, that's important. There was nothing suspicious then, I suppose. Mr. Tubman glanced timidly at his leader. Why, said he, there was nothing suspicious, but I don't know how it happened, mind. She certainly was reclining in his arms. Gracious powers, ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollection of the scene in question struck forcibly upon him. What a dreadful instance of the force of circumstances. So she was. So she was. And our friend was soothing her anguish, said Mr. Winkle, rather maliciously. So I was, said Mr. Pickwick. I don't deny it. So I was. Hello, said Wardle, for a case in which there's nothing suspicious, this looks rather queer, eh, Pickwick? Sly dog, sly dog, and he laughed till the glasses on the sideboard rang again. What a dreadful conjunction of appearances, exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, resting his chin upon his hands. Winkle, Tubman, I beg your pardon for the observations I made just now. We are all the victims of circumstances, and I the greatest. With this apology Mr. Pickwick buried his head in his hands and ruminated, while Wardle measured out a regular circle of nods and winks addressed to the other members of the company. I'll have it explained, though, said Mr. Pickwick, raising his head and hammering the table. I'll see this dodson and fog. I'll go to London tomorrow. Not tomorrow, said Wardle, your too lame. Well then, next day. Next day is the first of September, and you're pledged to ride out with us as far as Sir Jeffrey Manning's grounds at all events, and to meet us at lunch if you don't take the field. Well, then the day after, said Mr. Pickwick, Thursday. Sam, sir, replied Mr. Weller, take two places outside to London on Thursday morning for yourself and me. Very well, sir. Mr. Weller left the room and departed slowly on his errand, with his hands in his pocket, and his eyes fixed on the ground. Rum feller the Emperor, said Mr. Weller, as he walked slowly up the street. Think of his makin' up to that air, Mrs. Bardell, with the little boy too. Always the vape at these here oldens, house-soever, as is such steady goers to look at. I didn't think he'd had done it, though. I didn't think he'd had done it. Moralizing in this strain, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps towards the booking office.