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Elisha Cuthbert Photos Books: Martin Eden The Pickwick Papers The Sea Wolf |
[* A remarkable instance of the prophetic force of Mr.
Jingles imagination; this dialogue occurring in the year
1827, and the Revolution in 1830.
A little, Sir, replied that gentleman.
Fine pursuit, sir--fine pursuit.--Dogs, Sir?
Not just now, said Mr. Winkle.
Ah! you should keep dogs--fine animals--sagacious creatures
--dog of my own once--pointer--surprising instinct--out
shooting one day--entering inclosure--whistled--dog stopped--
whistled again--Ponto--no go; stock still--called him--Ponto,
Ponto--wouldnt move--dog transfixed--staring at a board--
looked up, saw an inscription--"Gamekeeper has orders to shoot
all dogs found in this inclosure"--wouldnt pass it--wonderful
dog--valuable dog that--very.
Singular circumstance that, said Mr. Pickwick. Will you
allow me to make a note of it?
Certainly, Sir, certainly--hundred more anecdotes of the same
animal.--Fine girl, Sir (to Mr. Tracy Tupman, who had been
bestowing sundry anti-Pickwickian glances on a young lady by
the roadside).
Very! said Mr. Tupman.
English girls not so fine as Spanish--noble creatures--jet hair
--black eyes--lovely forms--sweet creatures--beautiful.
You have been in Spain, sir? said Mr. Tracy Tupman.
Lived there--ages.
Many conquests, sir? inquired Mr. Tupman.
Conquests! Thousands. Don Bolaro Fizzgig--grandee--only
daughter--Donna Christina--splendid creature--loved me to
distraction--jealous father--high-souled daughter--handsome
Englishman--Donna Christina in despair--prussic acid--
stomach pump in my portmanteau--operation performed--old
Bolaro in ecstasies--consent to our union--join hands and floods
of tears--romantic story--very.
Is the lady in England now, sir? inquired Mr. Tupman, on
whom the description of her charms had produced a powerful impression.
Dead, sir--dead, said the stranger, applying to his right eye
the brief remnant of a very old cambric handkerchief. Never
recovered the stomach pump--undermined constitution--fell a victim.
And her father? inquired the poetic Snodgrass.
Remorse and misery, replied the stranger. Sudden
disappearance--talk of the whole city--search made everywhere
without success--public fountain in the great square suddenly
ceased playing--weeks elapsed--still a stoppage--workmen
employed to clean it--water drawn off--father-in-law discovered
sticking head first in the main pipe, with a full confession in his
right boot--took him out, and the fountain played away again,
as well as ever.
Will you allow me to note that little romance down, Sir? said
Mr. Snodgrass, deeply affected.
Certainly, Sir, certainly--fifty more if you like to hear em--
strange life mine--rather curious history--not extraordinary,
but singular.
In this strain, with an occasional glass of ale, by way of
parenthesis, when the coach changed horses, did the stranger
proceed, until they reached Rochester bridge, by which time the
note-books, both of Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass, were
completely filled with selections from his adventures.
Magnificent ruin! said Mr. Augustus Snodgrass, with all the
poetic fervour that distinguished him, when they came in sight of
the fine old castle.
What a sight for an antiquarian! were the very words which
fell from Mr. Pickwicks mouth, as he applied his telescope to his eye.
Ah! fine place, said the stranger, glorious pile--frowning
walls--tottering arches--dark nooks--crumbling staircases--old
cathedral too--earthy smell--pilgrims feet wore away the old
steps--little Saxon doors--confessionals like money-takers
boxes at theatres--queer customers those monks--popes, and
lord treasurers, and all sorts of old fellows, with great red faces,
and broken noses, turning up every day--buff jerkins too--
match-locks--sarcophagus--fine place--old legends too--strange
stories: capital; and the stranger continued to soliloquise until
they reached the Bull Inn, in the High Street, where the coach stopped.
Do you remain here, Sir? inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle.
Here--not I--but youd better--good house--nice beds--
Wrights next house, dear--very dear--half-a-crown in the bill if
you look at the waiter--charge you more if you dine at a friends
than they would if you dined in the coffee-room--rum fellows--very.
Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a few
words; a whisper passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass,
from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr. Tupman, and nods of assent were
exchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the stranger.
You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir,
said he, will you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude
by begging the favour of your company at dinner?
Great pleasure--not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and
mushrooms--capital thing! What time?
Let me see, replied Mr. Pickwick, referring to his watch, it is
now nearly three. Shall we say five?
Suit me excellently, said the stranger, five precisely--till then--care of
yourselves; and lifting the pinched-up hat a few inches
from his head, and carelessly replacing it very much on one side,
the stranger, with half the brown paper parcel sticking out of his
pocket, walked briskly up the yard, and turned into the High Street.
Evidently a traveller in many countries, and a close observer of
men and things, said Mr. Pickwick.
I should like to see his poem, said Mr. Snodgrass.
I should The Pickwick Papers page 5 The Pickwick Papers page 7 |