Chapter LI

IN WHICH Mr. PICKWICK ENCOUNTERS AN

OLD ACQUAINTANCE―TO WHICH

FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCE THE READER IS

MAINLY INDEBTED FOR MATTER OF

THRILLING INTEREST HEREIN SET DOWN,

CONCERNING TWO GREAT PUBLIC MEN OF

MIGHT AND POWER

he morning which broke upon Mr. Pickwick's sight at

eight o'clock, was not at all calculated to elevate his spirits,

or to lessen the depression which the unlooked-for result

of his embassy inspired. The sky was dark and gloomy, the air was

damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hung

sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to

rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not

even the spirit to pour. A game-cock in the stableyard, deprived of

every spark of his accustomed animation, balanced himself

dismally on one leg in a corner; a donkey, moping with drooping

head under the narrow roof of an outhouse, appeared from his

meditative and miserable countenance to be contemplating

suicide. In the street, umbrellas were the only things to be seen,

and the clicking of pattens and splashing of rain-drops were the

only sounds to be heard.

The breakfast was interrupted by very little conversation; even

Mr. Bob Sawyer felt the influence of the weather, and the previous

day's excitement. In his own expressive language he was 'floored.'

So was Mr. Ben Allen. So was Mr. Pickwick.

In protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the last

evening paper from London was read and re-read with an

intensity of interest only known in cases of extreme destitution;

every inch of the carpet was walked over with similar

perseverance; the windows were looked out of, often enough to

justify the imposition of an additional duty upon them; all kinds of

topics of conversation were started, and failed; and at length Mr.

Pickwick, when noon had arrived, without a change for the better,

rang the bell resolutely, and ordered out the chaise.

Although the roads were miry, and the drizzling rain came

down harder than it had done yet, and although the mud and wet

splashed in at the open windows of the carriage to such an extent

that the discomfort was almost as great to the pair of insides as to

the pair of outsides, still there was something in the motion, and

the sense of being up and doing, which was so infinitely superior

to being pent in a dull room, looking at the dull rain dripping into

a dull street, that they all agreed, on starting, that the change was

a great improvement, and wondered how they could possibly have

delayed making it as long as they had done.

When they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascended

from the horses in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hostler,

whose voice was however heard to declare from the mist, that he

expected the first gold medal from the Humane Society on their

next distribution of rewards, for taking the postboy's hat off; the

water descending from the brim of which, the invisible gentleman

declared, must have drowned him (the postboy), but for his great

presence of mind in tearing it promptly from his head, and drying

the gasping man's countenance with a wisp of straw.

'This is pleasant,' said Bob Sawyer, turning up his coat collar,

and pulling the shawl over his mouth to concentrate the fumes of a

glass of brandy just swallowed.

'Wery,' replied Sam composedly.

'You don't seem to mind it,' observed Bob.

'Vy, I don't exactly see no good my mindin' on it 'ud do, sir,'

replied Sam.

'That's an unanswerable reason, anyhow,' said Bob.

'Yes, sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller. 'Wotever is, is right, as the young

noblemansweetly remarked wen they put him down in the

pension list 'cos his mother's uncle's vife's grandfather vunce lit

the king's pipe vith a portable tinder-box.'

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

'Just wot the young nobleman said ev'ry quarter-day

arterwards for the rest of his life,' replied Mr. Weller.

'Wos you ever called in,' inquired Sam, glancing at the driver,

after a short silence, and lowering his voice to a mysterious

whisper―'wos you ever called in, when you wos 'prentice to a

sawbones, to wisit a postboy.'

'I don't remember that I ever was,' replied Bob Sawyer.

'You never see a postboy in that 'ere hospital as you walked (as

they says o' the ghosts), did you?' demanded Sam.

'No,' replied Bob Sawyer. 'I don't think I ever did.'

'Never know'd a churchyard were there wos a postboy's

tombstone, or see a dead postboy, did you?' inquired Sam,

pursuing his catechism.

'No,' rejoined Bob, 'I never did.'

'No!' rejoined Sam triumphantly. 'Nor never vill; and there's

another thing that no man never see, and that's a dead donkey. No

man never see a dead donkey 'cept the gen'l'm'n in the black silk

smalls as know'd the young 'ooman as kep' a goat; and that wos a

French donkey, so wery likely he warn't wun o' the reg'lar breed.'

'Well, what has that got to do with the postboys?' asked Bob

Sawyer.

'This here,' replied Sam. 'Without goin' so far as to as-sert, as

some wery sensible people do, that postboys and donkeys is both

immortal, wot I say is this: that wenever they feels theirselves

gettin' stiff and past their work, they just rides off together, wun

postboy to a pair in the usual way; wot becomes on 'em nobody

knows, but it's wery probable as they starts avay to take their

pleasure in some other vorld, for there ain't a man alive as ever

see either a donkey or a postboy a-takin' his pleasure in this!'

Expatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, and

citing many curious statistical and other facts in its support, Sam

Weller beguiled the time until they reached Dunchurch, where a

dry postboy and fresh horses were procured; the next stage was

Daventry, and the next Towcester; and at the end of each stage it

rained harder than it had done at the beginning.

'I say,' remonstrated Bob Sawyer, looking in at the coach

window, as they pulled up before the door of the Saracen's Head,

Towcester, 'this won't do, you know.'

'Bless me!' said Mr. Pickwick, just awakening from a nap, 'I'm

afraid you're wet.'

'Oh, you are, are you?' returned Bob. 'Yes, I am, a little that

way, Uncomfortably damp, perhaps.'

Bob did look dampish, inasmuch as the rain was streaming

from his neck, elbows, cuffs, skirts, and knees; and his whole

apparel shone so with the wet, that it might have been mistaken

for a full suit of prepared oilskin.

'I am rather wet,' said Bob, giving himself a shake and casting a

little hydraulic shower around, like a Newfoundland dog just

emerged from the water.

'I think it's quite impossible to go on to-night,' interposed Ben.

'Out of the question, sir,' remarked Sam Weller, coming to

assist in the conference; 'it's a cruelty to animals, sir, to ask 'em to

do it. There's beds here, sir,' said Sam, addressing his master,

'everything clean and comfortable. Wery good little dinner, sir,

they can get ready in half an hour―pair of fowls, sir, and a weal

cutlet; French beans, 'taturs, tart, and tidiness. You'd better stop

vere you are, sir, if I might recommend. Take adwice, sir, as the

doctor said.'

The host of the Saracen's Head opportunely appeared at this

moment, to confirm Mr. Weller's statement relative to the

accommodations of the establishment, and to back his entreaties

with a variety of dismal conjectures regarding the state of the

roads, the doubt of fresh horses being to be had at the next stage,

the dead certainty of its raining all night, the equally mortal

certainty of its clearing up in the morning, and other topics of

inducement familiar to innkeepers.

'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but I must send a letter to London by

some conveyance, so that it may be delivered the very first thing in

the morning, or I must go forwards at all hazards.'

The landlord smiled his delight. Nothing could be easier than

for the gentleman to inclose a letter in a sheet of brown paper, and

send it on, either by the mail or the night coach from Birmingham.

If the gentleman were particularly anxious to have it left as soon

as possible, he might write outside, 'To be delivered immediately,'

which was sure to be attended to; or 'Pay the bearer half-a-crown

extra for instant delivery,' which was surer still.

'Very well,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'then we will stop here.'

'Lights in the Sun, John; make up the fire; the gentlemen are

wet!' cried the landlord. 'This way, gentlemen; don't trouble

yourselves about the postboy now, sir. I'll send him to you when

you ring for him, sir. Now, John, the candles.'

The candles were brought, the fire was stirred up, and a fresh

log of wood thrown on. In ten minutes' time, a waiter was laying

the cloth for dinner, the curtains were drawn, the fire was blazing

brightly, and everything looked (as everything always does, in all

decent English inns) as if the travellers had been expected, and

their comforts prepared, for days beforehand.

Mr. Pickwick sat down at a side table, and hastily indited a note

to Mr. Winkle, merely informing him that he was detained by

stress of weather, but would certainly be in London next day; until

when he deferred any account of his proceedings. This note was

hastily made into a parcel, and despatched to the bar per Mr.

Samuel Weller.

Sam left it with the landlady, and was returning to pull his

master's boots off, after drying himself by the kitchen fire, when

glancing casually through a half-opened door, he was arrested by

the sight of a gentleman with a sandy head who had a large bundle

of newspapers lying on the table before him, and was perusing the

leading article of one with a settled sneer which curled up his nose

and all other features into a majestic expression of haughty

contempt.

'Hollo!' said Sam, 'I ought to know that 'ere head and them

features; the eyeglass, too, and the broad-brimmed tile! Eatansvill

to vit, or I'm a Roman.'

Sam was taken with a troublesome cough, at once, for the

purpose of attracting the gentleman's attention; the gentleman

starting at the sound, raised his head and his eyeglass, and

disclosed to view the profound and thoughtful features of Mr. Pott,

of the Eatanswill Gazette.

'Beggin' your pardon, sir,' said Sam, advancing with a bow, 'my

master's here, Mr. Pott.'

'Hush! hush!' cried Pott, drawing Sam into the room, and

closing the door, with a countenance of mysterious dread and

apprehension.

'Wot's the matter, sir?' inquired Sam, looking vacantly about

him.

'Not a whisper of my name,' replied Pott; 'this is a buff

neighbourhood. If the excited and irritablepopulace knew I was

here, I should be torn to pieces.'

'No! Vould you, sir?' inquired Sam.

'I should be the victim of their fury,' replied Pott. 'Now young

man, what of your master?'

'He's a-stopping here to-night on his vay to town, with a couple

of friends,' replied Sam.

'Is Mr. Winkle one of them?' inquired Pott, with a slight frown.

'No, sir. Mr. Vinkle stops at home now,' rejoined Sam. 'He's

married.'

'Married!' exclaimed Pott, with frightfulvehemence. He

stopped, smiled darkly, and added, in a low, vindictive tone, 'It

serves him right!' Having given vent to this cruel ebullition of

deadly malice and cold-blooded triumph over a fallen enemy, Mr.

Pott inquired whether Mr. Pickwick's friends were 'blue?'

Receiving a most satisfactory answer in the affirmative from Sam,

who knew as much about the matter as Pott himself, he consented

to accompany him to Mr. Pickwick's room, where a hearty

welcome awaited him, and an agreement to club their dinners

together was at once made and ratified.

'And how are matters going on in Eatanswill?' inquired Mr.

Pickwick, when Pott had taken a seat near the fire, and the whole

party had got their wet boots off, and dry slippers on. 'Is the

Independent still in being?'

'The Independent, sir,' replied Pott, 'is still dragging on a

wretched and lingering career. Abhorred and despised by even

the few who are cognisant of its miserable and disgraceful

existence, stifled by the very filth it so profusely scatters, rendered

deaf and blind by the exhalations of its own slime, the obscene

journal, happily unconscious of its degraded state, is rapidly

sinking beneath that treacherous mud which, while it seems to

give it a firm standing with the low and debased classes of society,

is nevertheless rising above its detested head, and will speedily

engulf it for ever.'

Having delivered this manifesto (which formed a portion of his

last week's leader) with vehement articulation, the editor paused

to take breath, and looked majestically at Bob Sawyer.

'You are a young man, sir,' said Pott.

Mr. Bob Sawyer nodded.

'So are you, sir,' said Pott, addressing Mr. Ben Allen.

Ben admitted the soft impeachment.

'And are both deeply imbued with those blue principles, which,

so long as I live, I have pledged myself to the people of these

kingdoms to support and to maintain?' suggested Pott.

'Why, I don't exactly know about that,' replied Bob Sawyer. 'I

am―'

'Not buff, Mr. Pickwick,' interrupted Pott, drawing back his

chair, 'your friend is not buff, sir?'

'No, no,' rejoined Bob, 'I'm a kind of plaid at present; a

compound of all sorts of colours.'

'A waverer,' said Pott solemnly, 'a waverer. I should like to

show you a series of eight articles, sir, that have appeared in the

Eatanswill Gazette. I think I may venture to say that you would

not be long in establishing your opinions on a firm and solid blue

basis, sir.'

'I dare say I should turn very blue, long before I got to the end

of them,' responded Bob.

Mr. Pott looked dubiously at Bob Sawyer for some seconds,

and, turning to Mr. Pickwick, said―

'You have seen the literary articles which have appeared at

intervals in the Eatanswill Gazette in the course of the last three

months, and which have excited such general―I may say such

universal―attention and admiration?'

'Why,' replied Mr. Pickwick, slightly embarrassed by the

question, 'the fact is, I have been so much engaged in other ways,

that I really have not had an opportunity of perusing them.'

'You should do so, sir,' said Pott, with a severe countenance.

'I will,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'They appeared in the form of a copious review of a work on

Chinese metaphysics, sir,' said Pott.

'Oh,' observed Mr. Pickwick; 'from your pen, I hope?'

'From the pen of my critic, sir,' rejoined Pott, with dignity.

'An abstruse subject, I should conceive,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Very, sir,' responded Pott, looking intensely sage. 'He crammed

for it, to use a technical but expressive term; he read up for the

subject, at my desire, in the Encyclopaedia Britannica.'

'Indeed!' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I was not aware that that valuable

work contained any information respecting Chinese metaphysics.'

'He read, sir,' rejoined Pott, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick's

knee, and looking round with a smile of intellectualsuperiority―

'he read for metaphysics under the letter M, and for China under

the letter C, and combined his information, sir!'

Mr. Pott's features assumed so much additional grandeur at the

recollection of the power and research displayed in the learned

effusions in question, that some minutes elapsed before Mr.

Pickwick felt emboldened to renew the conversation; at length, as

the editor's countenance gradually relaxed into its customary

expression of moral supremacy, he ventured to resume the

discourse by asking―

'Is it fair to inquire what great object has brought you so far

from home?'

'That object which actuates and animates me in all my gigantic

labours, sir,' replied Pott, with a calm smile: 'my country's good.'

'I supposed it was some public mission,' observed Mr. Pickwick.

'Yes, sir,' resumed Pott, 'it is.' Here, bending towards Mr.

Pickwick, he whispered in a deep, hollow voice, 'A Buff ball, sir,

will take place in Birmingham to-morrow evening.'

'God bless me!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

'Yes, sir, and supper,' added Pott.

'You don't say so!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.

Pott nodded portentously.

Now, although Mr. Pickwick feigned to stand aghast at this

disclosure, he was so little versed in local politics that he was

unable to form an adequate comprehension of the importance of

the dire conspiracy it referred to; observing which, Mr. Pott,

drawing forth the last number of the Eatanswill Gazette, and

referring to the same, delivered himself of the following

paragraph:―

HOLE-AND-CORNER BUFFERY.

'A reptilecontemporary has recently sweltered forth his black

venom in the vain and hopeless attempt of sullying the fair name

of our distinguished and excellent representative, the Honourable

Mr. Slumkey―that Slumkey whom we, long before he gained his

present noble and exalted position, predicted would one day be, as

he now is, at once his country's brightest honour, and her

proudest boast: alike her bold defender and her honest pride―our

reptilecontemporary, we say, has made himself merry, at the

expense of a superbly embossed plated coal-scuttle, which has

been presented to that glorious man by his enraptured

constituents, and towards the purchase of which, the nameless

wretch insinuates, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey himself

contributed, through a confidential friend of his butler's, more

than three-fourths of the whole sum subscribed. Why, does not the

crawling creature see, that even if this be the fact, the Honourable

Mr. Slumkey only appears in a still more amiable and radiant light

than before, if that be possible? Does not even his obtuseness