The Pickwick Papers

Mr Pickwick observed (says the Secretary) that fame was dear to the heart of every man. Poetic fame was dear to the heart of his friend Snodgrass, the fame of conquest was equally dear to his friend Tupman; and the desire of earning fame, in the sports of the field, the air, and the water, was uppermost in the breast of his friend Winkle. He (Mr Pickwick) would not deny, that he was influenced by human passions, and human feelings, (cheers) – possibly by human weaknesses – (loud cries of “No”); but this he would say, that if ever the fire of self-importance broke out in his bosom the desire to benefit the human race in preference, effectually quenched it. The praise of mankind was his Swing; philanthropy was his insurance office. (Vehement cheering.)

‘You have seen much trouble, Sir,’ said Mr Pickwick, compassionately.

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

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

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

‘I have thought so, often,’ said the dismal man, without noticing the action. ‘The calm, cool water seems to me to murmur an invitation to repose and rest. A bound, a splash, a brief struggle; there is an eddy for an instant, it gradually subsides into a gentle ripple; the waters have closed above your head, and the world has closed upon your miseries and misfortunes for ever.’

‘That depends – ’ said Mrs Bardell, approaching the duster very near to Mr Pickwick’s elbow, which was planted on the table; ‘that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr Pickwick; and whether it’s a saving and careful person, Sir.’

‘That’s very true,’ said Mr Pickwick, ‘but the person I have in my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs Bardell) I think possesses these qualities; and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs Bardell; which may be of material use to me.’

‘La, Mr Pickwick,’ said Mrs Bardell; the crimson rising to her cap-border again.

‘I do,’ said Mr Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in speaking of a subject which interested him, ‘I do, indeed; and to tell you the truth, Mrs Bardell, I have made up my mind.’

‘Dear me, Sir,’ exclaimed Mrs Bardell.’

‘Can I view thee panting, lying

On thy stomach, without sighing;

Can I unmoved see thee dying

On a log

Expiring frog!’

‘Beautiful!’ said Mr Pickwick.

‘Fine,’ said Mr Leo Hunter; ‘so simple.’

‘Very,’ said Mr Pickwick.

‘We were trespassing, it seems,’ said Wardle.

‘I don’t care,’ said Mr Pickwick, ‘I’ll bring the action.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Wardle.

‘I will, by – ’ but as there was a humorous expression in Wardle’s face, Mr Pickwick checked himself, and said – ‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ said old Wardle, half-bursting with laughter, ‘because they might turn round on some of us, and say we had taken too much cold punch.’

Do what he would, a smile would come into Mr Pickwick’s face; the smile extended into a laugh, the laugh into a roar, and the roar became general. So, to keep up their good humour, they stopped at the first road-side tavern they came to, and ordered a glass of brandy and water all round, with a magnum of extra strength, for Mr Samuel Weller.’

“Perhaps you would like to call us swindlers, Sir,’ said Dodson. ‘Pray do, Sir, if you feel disposed – now pray do, Sir.’

‘I do,’ said Mr Pickwick. ‘You are swindlers.’

‘Very good,’ said Dodson. ‘You can hear down there, I hope, Mr Wicks.’

‘Oh yes, Sir,’ said Wicks.

‘You had better come up a step or two higher, if you can’t,’ added Mr Fogg.

‘Go on, Sir; do go on. You had better call us thieves, Sir; or perhaps you would like to assault one of us. Pray do it, Sir, if you would; we will not make the smallest resistance. Pray do it, Sir.”

‘It’s only a subpœna in Bardell and Pickwick on behalf of the plaintiff,’ replied Jackson, singling out one of the slips of paper, and producing a shilling from his waistcoat-pocket. ‘It’ll come on, in the settens after Term; fourteenth of Febooary, we expect; we’ve marked it a special jury cause, and it’s only ten down the paper. That’s yours, Mr Snodgrass.’ As Jackson said this, he presented the parchment before the eyes of Mr Snodgrass, and slipped the paper and the shilling into his hand.

‘I wonder what the foreman of the jury, whoever he’ll be, has got for breakfast,’ said Mr Snodgrass, by way of keeping up a conversation on the eventful morning of the fourteenth of February.

‘Ah!’ said Perker, ‘I hope he’s got a good one.’

‘Why so?’ inquired Mr Pickwick.

‘Highly important – very important, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker. ‘A good, contented, well-breakfasted juryman, is a capital thing to get hold of. Discontented or hungry jurymen, my dear Sir, always find for the plaintiff.’

‘Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the subject presents but few attractions; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men, to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness, and of systematic villany.’

Here Mr Pickwick, who had been writhing in silence for some time, gave a violent start, as if some vague idea of assaulting Sergeant Buzfuz, in the august presence of justice and law, suggested itself to his mind. An admonitory gesture from Perker restrained him, and he listened to the learned gentleman’s continuation with a look of indignation, which contrasted forcibly with the admiring faces of Mrs Cluppins and Mrs Sanders.

‘No, Perker,’ said Mr Pickwick, with great seriousness of manner, ‘my friends here, have endeavoured to dissuade me from this determination, but without avail. I shall employ myself as usual, until the opposite party have the power of issuing a legal process of execution against me; and if they are vile enough to avail themselves of it, and to arrest my person, I shall yield myself up with perfect cheerfulness and content of heart. When can they do this?’

Although this custom has been abolished, and the cage is now boarded up, the miserable and destitute condition of these unhappy persons remains the same. We no longer suffer them to appeal at the prison gates to the charity and compassion of the passers by; but we still leave unblotted in the leaves of our statute book, for the reverence and admiration of succeeding ages, the just and wholesome law which declares that the sturdy felon shall be fed and clothed, and that the penniless debtor shall be left to die of starvation and nakedness. This is no fiction. Not a week passes over our heads but, in every one of our prisons for debt, some of these men must inevitably expire in the slow agonies of want, if they were not relieved by their fellow-prisoners.

Mr Pickwick felt a great deal too much touched by the warmth of Sam’s attachment, to be able to exhibit any manifestation of anger or displeasure at the precipitate course he had adopted, in voluntarily consigning himself to a debtors’ prison for an indefinite period. The only point on which he persevered in demanding any explanation, was, the name of Sam’s detaining creditor, but this Mr Weller as perseveringly withheld.

At three o’clock that afternoon, Mr Pickwick took a last look at his little room, and made his way as well as he could, through the throng of debtors who pressed eagerly forward to shake him by the hand, until he reached the lodge steps. He turned here to look about him, and his eye lightened as he did so. In all the crowd of wan emaciated faces, he saw not one which was not the happier for his sympathy and charity.

‘The fact is, Mr Pickwick, that when I gave my son a roving license for a year or so to see something of men and manners (which he has done under your auspices), so that he might not enter into life a mere boarding-school milksop to be gulled by every body, I never bargained for this. He knows that very well, so if I withdraw my countenance from him on this account, he has no call to be surprised. He shall hear from me, Mr Pickwick. Good night, Sir. Margaret, open the door.’

In compliance with this unceremonious invitation, Jingle and Job walked into the room, but, seeing Mr Pickwick, stopped short in some confusion.

‘Well,’ said Perker, ‘don’t you know that gentleman?’

‘Good reason to,’ replied Jingle, stepping forward. ‘Mr Pickwick – deepest obligations – life preserver – made a man of me – you shall never repent it, Sir.’

‘I am happy to hear you say so,’ said Mr Pickwick. ‘You look much better.’

Mr Pickwick is somewhat infirm now; but he retains all his former juvenility of spirit, and may still be frequently seen, contemplating the pictures in the Dulwich Gallery, or enjoying a walk about the pleasant neighbourhood on a fine day. He is known by all the poor people about, who never fail to take their hats off, as he passes, with great respect. The children idolise him, and so indeed does the whole neighbourhood. Every year he repairs to a large family merry-making at Mr Wardle’s; on this, as on all other occasions, he is invariably attended by the faithful Sam, between whom and his master there exists a steady and reciprocal attachment which nothing but death will sever.