Chapter XXXIII

Mr. WELLER THE ELDER DELIVERS SOME

CRITICAL SENTIMENTS RESPECTING

LITERARY COMPOSITION; AND, ASSISTED BY

HIS SON SAMUEL, PAYS A SMALL

INSTALMENT OF RETALIATION TO THE

ACCOUNT OF THE REVEREND GENTLEMAN

WITH THE RED NOSE

he morning of the thirteenth of February, which the

readers of this authenticnarrative know, as well as we do,

to have been the day immediately preceding that which

was appointed for the trial of Mrs. Bardell's action, was a busy

time for Mr. Samuel Weller, who was perpetually engaged in

travelling from the George and Vulture to Mr. Perker's chambers

and back again, from and between the hours of nine o'clock in the

morning and two in the afternoon, both inclusive. Not that there

was anything whatever to be done, for the consultation had taken

place, and the course of proceeding to be adopted, had been finally

determined on; but Mr. Pickwick being in a most extreme state of

excitement, persevered in constantly sending small notes to his

attorney, merely containing the inquiry, 'Dear Perker. Is all going

on well?' to which Mr. Perker invariably forwarded the reply,

'Dear Pickwick. As well as possible'; the fact being, as we have

already hinted, that there was nothing whatever to go on, either

well or ill, until the sitting of the court on the following morning.

But people who go voluntarily to law, or are taken forcibly

there, for the first time, may be allowed to labour under some

temporaryirritation and anxiety; and Sam, with a due allowance

for the frailties of human nature, obeyed all his master's behests

with that imperturbable good-humour and unruffable composure

which formed one of his most striking and amiable characteristics.

Sam had solaced himself with a most agreeable little dinner,

and was waiting at the bar for the glass of warm mixture in which

Mr. Pickwick had requested him to drown the fatigues of his

morning's walks, when a young boy of about three feet high, or

thereabouts, in a hairy cap and fustian overalls, whose garb

bespoke a laudable ambition to attain in time the elevation of an

hostler, entered the passage of the George and Vulture, and looked

first up the stairs, and then along the passage, and then into the

bar, as if in search of somebody to whom he bore a commission;

whereupon the barmaid, conceiving it not improbable that the

said commission might be directed to the tea or table spoons of the

establishment, accosted the boy with―

'Now, young man, what do you want?'

'Is there anybody here, named Sam?' inquired the youth, in a

loud voice of treble quality.

'What's the t'other name?' said Sam Weller, looking round.

'How should I know?' briskly replied the young gentleman

below the hairy cap. 'You're a sharp boy, you are,' said Mr. Weller;

'only I wouldn't show that wery fine edge too much, if I was you, in

case anybody took it off. What do you mean by comin' to a hot-el,

and asking arter Sam, vith as much politeness as a vild Indian?'

''Cos an old gen'l'm'n told me to,' replied the boy.

'What old gen'l'm'n?' inquired Sam, with deep disdain.

'Him as drives a Ipswich coach, and uses our parlour,' rejoined

the boy. 'He told me yesterday mornin' to come to the George and

Wultur this arternoon, and ask for Sam.'

'It's my father, my dear,' said Mr. Weller, turning with an

explanatory air to the young lady in the bar; 'blessed if I think he

hardly knows wot my other name is. Well, young brockiley sprout,

wot then?'

'Why then,' said the boy, 'you was to come to him at six o'clock

to our 'ouse, 'cos he wants to see you―Blue Boar, Leaden'all

Markit. Shall I say you're comin'?'

'You may wenture on that 'ere statement, sir,' replied Sam. And

thus empowered, the young gentleman walked away, awakening

all the echoes in George Yard as he did so, with several chaste and

extremely correct imitations of a drover's whistle, delivered in a

tone of peculiar richness and volume.

Mr. Weller having obtained leave of absence from Mr. Pickwick,

who, in his then state of excitement and worry, was by no means

displeased at being left alone, set forth, long before the appointed

hour, and having plenty of time at his disposal, sauntered down as

far as the Mansion House, where he paused and contemplated,

with a face of great calmness and philosophy, the numerous cads

and drivers of short stages who assemble near that famous place

of resort, to the great terror and confusion of the old-lady

population of these realms. Having loitered here, for half an hour

or so, Mr. Weller turned, and began wending his way towards

Leadenhall Market, through a variety of by-streets and courts. As

he was sauntering away his spare time, and stopped to look at

almost every object that met his gaze, it is by no means surprising

that Mr. Weller should have paused before a small stationer's and

print-seller's window; but without further explanation it does

appear surprising that his eyes should have no sooner rested on

certain pictures which were exposed for sale therein, than he gave

a sudden start, smote his right leg with great vehemence, and

exclaimed, with energy, 'if it hadn't been for this, I should ha'

forgot all about it, till it was too late!'

The particular picture on which Sam Weller's eyes were fixed,

as he said this, was a highly-coloured representation of a couple of

human hearts skewered together with an arrow, cooking before a

cheerful fire, while a male and female cannibal in modern attire,

the gentleman being clad in a blue coat and white trousers, and

the lady in a deep red pelisse with a parasol of the same, were

approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a serpentine gravel

path leading thereunto. A decidedly indelicate young gentleman,

in a pair of wings and nothing else, was depicted as

superintending the cooking; a representation of the spire of the

church in Langham Place, London, appeared in the distance; and

the whole formed a 'valentine,' of which, as a written inscription in

the window testified, there was a large assortment within, which

the shopkeeper pledged himself to dispose of, to his countrymen

generally, at the reduced rate of one-and-sixpence each.

'I should ha' forgot it; I should certainly ha' forgot it!' said Sam;

so saying, he at once stepped into the stationer's shop, and

requested to be served with a sheet of the best gilt-edged letter-

paper, and a hard-nibbed pen which could be warranted not to

splutter. These articles having been promptly supplied, he walked

on direct towards Leadenhall Market at a good round pace, very

different from his recent lingering one. Looking round him, he

there beheld a signboard on which the painter's art had delineated

something remotely resembling a cerulean elephant with an

aquiline nose in lieu of trunk. Rightly conjecturing that this was

the Blue Boar himself, he stepped into the house, and inquired

concerning his parent.

'He won't be here this three-quarters of an hour or more,' said

the young lady who superintended the domestic arrangements of

the Blue Boar.

'Wery good, my dear,' replied Sam. 'Let me have nine-penn'oth

o' brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, will you, miss?'

The brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, having been

carried into the little parlour, and the young lady having carefully

flattened down the coals to prevent their blazing, and carried

away the poker to preclude the possibility of the fire being stirred,

without the full privity and concurrence of the Blue Boar being

first had and obtained, Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near

the stove, and pulled out the sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and

the hard-nibbed pen. Then looking carefully at the pen to see that

there were no hairs in it, and dusting down the table, so that there

might be no crumbs of bread under the paper, Sam tucked up the

cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and composed himself to

write.

To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of devoting

themselves practically to the science of penmanship, writing a

letter is no very easy task; it being always considered necessary in

such cases for the writer to recline his head on his left arm, so as

to place his eyes as nearly as possible on a level with the paper,

and, while glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, to

form with his tongue imaginary characters to correspond. These

motions, although unquestionably of the greatest assistance to

original composition, retard in some degree the progress of the

writer; and Sam had unconsciously been a full hour and a half

writing words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his

little finger, and putting in new ones which required going over

very often to render them visible through the old blots, when he

was roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of his

parent.

'Vell, Sammy,' said the father.

'Vell, my Prooshan Blue,' responded the son, laying down his

pen. 'What's the last bulletin about mother-in-law?'

'Mrs. Veller passed a very good night, but is uncommon

perwerse, and unpleasant this mornin'. Signed upon oath, Tony

Veller, Esquire. That's the last vun as was issued, Sammy,' replied

Mr. Weller, untying his shawl.

'No better yet?' inquired Sam.

'All the symptoms aggerawated,' replied Mr. Weller, shaking his

head. 'But wot's that, you're a-doin' of? Pursuit of knowledge

under difficulties, Sammy?'

'I've done now,' said Sam, with slight embarrassment; 'I've

been a-writin'.'

'So I see,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Not to any young 'ooman, I hope,

Sammy?'

'Why, it's no use a-sayin' it ain't,' replied Sam; 'it's a walentine.'

'A what!' exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken by

the word.

'A walentine,' replied Sam. 'Samivel, Samivel,' said Mr. Weller,

in reproachful accents, 'I didn't think you'd ha' done it. Arter the

warnin' you've had o' your father's wicious propensities; arter all

I've said to you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally seein'

and bein' in the company o' your own mother-in-law, vich I should

ha' thought wos a moral lesson as no man could never ha'

forgotten to his dyin' day! I didn't think you'd ha' done it, Sammy,

I didn't think you'd ha' done it!' These reflections were too much

for the good old man. He raised Sam's tumbler to his lips and

drank off its contents.

'Wot's the matter now?' said Sam.

'Nev'r mind, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, 'it'll be a wery

agonisin' trial to me at my time of life, but I'm pretty tough, that's

vun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked wen the farmer

said he wos afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London

market.'

'Wot'll be a trial?' inquired Sam. 'To see you married, Sammy―

to see you a dilluded wictim, and thinkin' in your innocence that

it's all wery capital,' replied Mr. Weller. 'It's a dreadful trial to a

father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy―'

'Nonsense,' said Sam. 'I ain't a-goin' to get married, don't you

fret yourself about that; I know you're a judge of these things.

Order in your pipe and I'll read you the letter. There!'

We cannot distinctly say whether it was the prospect of the

pipe, or the consolatory reflection that a fatal disposition to get

married ran in the family, and couldn't be helped, which calmed

Mr. Weller's feelings, and caused his grief to subside. We should

be rather disposed to say that the result was attained by

combining the two sources of consolation, for he repeated the

second in a low tone, very frequently; ringing the bell meanwhile,

to order in the first. He then divested himself of his upper coat;

and lighting the pipe and placing himself in front of the fire with

his back towards it, so that he could feel its full heat, and recline

against the mantel-piece at the same time, turned towards Sam,

and, with a countenance greatly mollified by the softening

influence of tobacco, requested him to 'fire away.'

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections,

and began with a very theatrical air―

'"Lovely―"'

'Stop,' said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. 'A double glass o' the

inwariable, my dear.'

'Very well, sir,' replied the girl; who with great quickness

appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared.

'They seem to know your ways here,' observed Sam.

'Yes,' replied his father, 'I've been here before, in my time. Go

on, Sammy.'

'"Lovely creetur,"' repeated Sam.

''Tain't in poetry, is it?' interposed his father.

'No, no,' replied Sam.

'Wery glad to hear it,' said Mr. Weller. 'Poetry's unnat'ral; no

man ever talked poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin'-day, or Warren's

blackin', or Rowland's oil, or some of them low fellows; never you

let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin agin, Sammy.'

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with criticalsolemnity, and Sam

once more commenced, and read as follows:

'"Lovely creetur I feel myself a damned―"'

'That ain't proper,' said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his

mouth.

'No; it ain't "damned,"' observed Sam, holding the letter up to

the light, 'it's "shamed," there's a blot there―"I feel myself

ashamed."'

'Wery good,' said Mr. Weller. 'Go on.'

'"Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir―' I forget what this

here word is,' said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain

attempts to remember.

'Why don't you look at it, then?' inquired Mr. Weller.

'So I am a-lookin' at it,' replied Sam, 'but there's another blot.

Here's a "c," and a "i," and a "d."'

'Circumwented, p'raps,' suggested Mr. Weller.

'No, it ain't that,' said Sam, '"circumscribed"; that's it.'

'That ain't as good a word as "circumwented," Sammy,' said

Mr. Weller gravely.

'Think not?' said Sam.

'Nothin' like it,' replied his father.

'But don't you think it means more?' inquired Sam.

'Vell p'raps it's a more tenderer word,' said Mr. Weller, after a

few moments' reflection.

'Go on, Sammy.'

'"Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a-

dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it."'

'That's a wery pretty sentiment,' said the elder Mr. Weller,

removing his pipe to make way for the remark.

'Yes, I think it is rayther good,' observed Sam, highly flattered.

'Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin',' said the elder Mr. Weller,

'is, that there ain't no callin' names in it―no Wenuses, nor nothin'

o' that kind. Wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a

angel, Sammy?'

'Ah! what, indeed?' replied Sam.

'You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's

arms at once, which is wery well known to be a collection o'

fabulous animals,' added Mr. Weller.

The Pickwick Papers

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

634

'Just as well,' replied Sam.

'Drive on, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller.

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows; his

father continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom

and complacency, which was particularly edifying.

'"Afore I see you, I thought all women was alike."'

'So they are,' observed the elder Mr. Weller parenthetically.

'"But now,"' continued Sam, '"now I find what a reg'lar soft-

headed, inkred'lous turnip I must ha' been; for there ain't nobody

like you, though I like you better than nothin' at all." I thought it

best to make that rayther strong,' said Sam, looking up.

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.

'"So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear―as the

gen'l'm'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday―to tell

you that the first and only time I see you, your likeness was took

on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colours than ever a

likeness was took by the profeel macheen (wich p'raps you may

have heerd on Mary my dear) altho it does finish a portrait and put

the frame and glass on complete, with a hook at the end to hang it

up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter."'

'I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,' said Mr.

Weller dubiously.

'No, it don't,' replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid

contesting the point―

'"Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine and think over

what I've said.―My dear Mary I will now conclude." That's all,'

said Sam.

'That's rather a Sudden pull-up, ain't it, Sammy?' inquired Mr.

Weller.

'Not a bit on it,' said Sam; 'she'll vish there wos more, and that's the great art o' letter-writin'.'

'Well,' said Mr. Weller, 'there's somethin' in that; and I wish

your mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the

same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a-goin' to sign it?'

'That's the difficulty,' said Sam; 'I don't know what to sign it.'

'Sign it―"Veller",' said the oldest surviving proprietor of that

name.

'Won't do,' said Sam. 'Never sign a walentine with your own

name.'

'Sign it "Pickwick," then,' said Mr. Weller; 'it's a wery good

name, and a easy one to spell.'

'The wery thing,' said Sam. 'I could end with a werse; what do

you think?'

'I don't like it, Sam,' rejoined Mr. Weller. 'I never know'd a

respectablecoachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one, as made an

affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he was hung for a highway

robbery; and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that's no

rule.'

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that

had occurred to him, so he signed the letter―

'Your love-sick

Pickwick.'

And having folded it, in a very intricate manner, squeezed a

downhill direction in one corner: 'To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr.

Nupkins's, Mayor's, Ipswich, Suffolk'; and put it into his pocket,

wafered, and ready for the general post. This important business

having been transacted, Mr. Weller the elder proceeded to open

that, on which he had summoned his son.

'The first matter relates to your governor, Sammy,' said Mr.

Weller. 'He's a-goin' to be tried to-morrow, ain't he?'

'The trial's a-comin' on,' replied Sam.

'Vell,' said Mr. Weller, 'Now I s'pose he'll want to call some

witnesses to speak to his character, or p'rhaps to prove a alleybi.

I've been a-turnin' the bis'ness over in my mind, and he may make

his-self easy, Sammy. I've got some friends as'll do either for him,

but my adwice 'ud be this here―never mind the character, and

stick to the alleybi. Nothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing.' Mr.

Weller looked very profound as he delivered this legal opinion;

and burying his nose in his tumbler, winked over the top thereof,

at his astonished son. 'Why, what do you mean?' said Sam; 'you

don't think he's a-goin' to be tried at the Old Bailey, do you?'

'That ain't no part of the present consideration, Sammy,'

replied Mr. Weller. 'Verever he's a-goin' to be tried, my boy, a

alleybi's the thing to get him off. Ve got Tom Vildspark off that 'ere

manslaughter, with a alleybi, ven all the big vigs to a man said as

nothing couldn't save him. And my 'pinion is, Sammy, that if your

governor don't prove a alleybi, he'll be what the Italians call

reg'larly flummoxed, and that's all about it.'

As the elder Mr. Weller entertained a firm and unalterable

conviction that the Old Bailey was the supreme court of judicature

in this country, and that its rules and forms of proceeding

regulated and controlled the practice of all other courts of justice

whatsoever, he totally disregarded the assurances and arguments

of his son, tending to show that the alibi was inadmissible; and

vehemently protested that Mr. Pickwick was being 'wictimised.'

Finding that it was of no use to discuss the matter further, Sam