The Pickwick Papers. Чарльз Диккенс

enraptured with the vigour and freshness of the style; indeed Mr. Winkle has recorded the fact that his eyes were closed, as if with excess of pleasure, during the whole time of their perusal.

      The announcement of supper put a stop both to the game of ecarte, and the recapitulation of the beauties of the Eatanswill Gazette. Mrs. Pott was in the highest spirits and the most agreeable humour. Mr. Winkle had already made considerable progress in her good opinion, and she did not hesitate to inform him, confidentially, that Mr. Pickwick was ‘a delightful old dear.’ These terms convey a familiarity of expression, in which few of those who were intimately acquainted with that colossal-minded man, would have presumed to indulge. We have preserved them, nevertheless, as affording at once a touching and a convincing proof of the estimation in which he was held by every class of society, and the case with which he made his way to their hearts and feelings.

      It was a late hour of the night – long after Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had fallen asleep in the inmost recesses of the Peacock – when the two friends retired to rest. Slumber soon fell upon the senses of Mr. Winkle, but his feelings had been excited, and his admiration roused; and for many hours after sleep had rendered him insensible to earthly objects, the face and figure of the agreeable Mrs. Pott presented themselves again and again to his wandering imagination.

      The noise and bustle which ushered in the morning were sufficient to dispel from the mind of the most romantic visionary in existence, any associations but those which were immediately connected with the rapidly-approaching election. The beating of drums, the blowing of horns and trumpets, the shouting of men, and tramping of horses, echoed and re-echoed through the streets from the earliest dawn of day; and an occasional fight between the light skirmishers of either party at once enlivened the preparations, and agreeably diversified their character.

      ‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as his valet appeared at his bedroom door, just as he was concluding his toilet; ‘all alive to-day, I suppose?’

      ‘Reg’lar game, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘our people’s a-collecting down at the Town Arms, and they’re a-hollering themselves hoarse already.’

      ‘Ah,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘do they seem devoted to their party, Sam?’

      ‘Never see such dewotion in my life, Sir.’

      ‘Energetic, eh?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

      ‘Uncommon,’ replied Sam; ‘I never see men eat and drink so much afore. I wonder they ain’t afeer’d o’ bustin’.’

      ‘That’s the mistaken kindness of the gentry here,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

      ‘Wery likely,’ replied Sam briefly.

      ‘Fine, fresh, hearty fellows they seem,’ said Mr. Pickwick, glancing from the window.

      ‘Wery fresh,’ replied Sam; ‘me and the two waiters at the Peacock has been a-pumpin’ over the independent woters as supped there last night.’

      ‘Pumping over independent voters!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

      ‘Yes,’ said his attendant, ‘every man slept vere he fell down; we dragged ‘em out, one by one, this mornin’, and put ‘em under the pump, and they’re in reg’lar fine order now. Shillin’ a head the committee paid for that ‘ere job.’

      ‘Can such things be!’ exclaimed the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

      ‘Lord bless your heart, sir,’ said Sam, ‘why where was you half baptised? – that’s nothin’, that ain’t.’

      ‘Nothing?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

      ‘Nothin’ at all, Sir,’ replied his attendant. ‘The night afore the last day o’ the last election here, the opposite party bribed the barmaid at the Town Arms, to hocus the brandy-and-water of fourteen unpolled electors as was a-stoppin’ in the house.’

      ‘What do you mean by “hocussing” brandy-and-water?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

      ‘Puttin’ laud’num in it,’ replied Sam. ‘Blessed if she didn’t send ‘em all to sleep till twelve hours arter the election was over. They took one man up to the booth, in a truck, fast asleep, by way of experiment, but it was no go – they wouldn’t poll him; so they brought him back, and put him to bed again.’

      Strange practices, these,’ said Mr. Pickwick; half speaking to himself and half addressing Sam.

      ‘Not half so strange as a miraculous circumstance as happened to my own father, at an election time, in this wery place, Sir,’ replied Sam.

      ‘What was that?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

      ‘Why, he drove a coach down here once,’ said Sam; ‘’lection time came on, and he was engaged by vun party to bring down woters from London. Night afore he was going to drive up, committee on t’ other side sends for him quietly, and away he goes vith the messenger, who shows him in; – large room – lots of gen’l’m’n – heaps of papers, pens and ink, and all that ‘ere. “Ah, Mr. Weller,” says the gen’l’m’n in the chair, “glad to see you, sir; how are you?” – “Wery well, thank ‘ee, Sir,” says my father; “I hope you’re pretty middlin,” says he. – “Pretty well, thank’ee, Sir,” says the gen’l’m’n; “sit down, Mr. Weller – pray sit down, sir.” So my father sits down, and he and the gen’l’m’n looks wery hard at each other. “You don’t remember me?” said the gen’l’m’n. – “Can’t say I do,” says my father. – “Oh, I know you,” says the gen’l’m’n: “know’d you when you was a boy,” says he. – “Well, I don’t remember you,” says my father. – “That’s wery odd,” says the gen’l’m’n.” – “Wery,” says my father. – “You must have a bad mem’ry, Mr. Weller,” says the gen’l’m’n. – “Well, it is a wery bad ‘un,” says my father. – “I thought so,” says the gen’l’m’n. So then they pours him out a glass of wine, and gammons him about his driving, and gets him into a reg’lar good humour, and at last shoves a twenty-pound note into his hand. “It’s a wery bad road between this and London,” says the gen’l’m’n. – “Here and there it is a heavy road,” says my father. – ” ‘Specially near the canal, I think,” says the gen’l’m’n. – “Nasty bit that ‘ere,” says my father. – “Well, Mr. Weller,” says the gen’l’m’n, “you’re a wery good whip, and can do what you like with your horses, we know. We’re all wery fond o’ you, Mr. Weller, so in case you should have an accident when you’re bringing these here woters down, and should tip ‘em over into the canal vithout hurtin’ of ‘em, this is for yourself,” says he. – “Gen’l’m’n, you’re wery kind,” says my father, “and I’ll drink your health in another glass of wine,” says he; vich he did, and then buttons up the money, and bows himself out. You wouldn’t believe, sir,’ continued Sam, with a look of inexpressible impudence at his master, ‘that on the wery day as he came down with them woters, his coach was upset on that ‘ere wery spot, and ev’ry man on ‘em was turned into the canal.’

      ‘And got out again?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick hastily.

      ‘Why,’ replied Sam very slowly, ‘I rather think one old gen’l’m’n was missin’; I know his hat was found, but I ain’t quite certain whether his head was in it or not. But what I look at is the hex-traordinary and wonderful coincidence, that arter what that gen’l’m’n said, my father’s coach should be upset in that wery place, and on that wery day!’

      ‘It is, no doubt, a very extraordinary circumstance indeed,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘But brush my hat, Sam, for I hear Mr. Winkle calling me to breakfast.’

      With these words Mr. Pickwick descended to the parlour, where he found breakfast laid, and the family already assembled. The meal was hastily despatched; each of the gentlemen’s hats was decorated with an enormous blue favour, made up by the fair hands of Mrs. Pott herself; and as Mr. Winkle had undertaken to escort that lady to a house-top, in the immediate vicinity of the hustings, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Pott repaired alone to the Town Arms, from the back window of which, one of Mr. Slumkey’s committee was addressing six