thanks to their new acquaintance, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to examine
his costume and appearance.
He was about the middle height, but the thinness of his body, and the
length of his legs, gave him the appearance of being much taller. The
green coat had been a smart dress garment in the days of swallow-tails,
but had evidently in those times adorned a much shorter man than the
stranger, for the soiled and faded sleeves scarcely reached to his
wrists. It was buttoned closely up to his chin, at the imminent hazard
of splitting the back; and an old stock, without a vestige of shirt
collar, ornamented his neck. His scanty black trousers displayed here
and there those shiny patches which bespeak long service, and were
strapped very tightly over a pair of patched and mended shoes, as if to
conceal the dirty white stockings, which were nevertheless distinctly
visible. His long, black hair escaped in negligent waves from beneath
each side of his old pinched-up hat; and glimpses of his bare wrists
might be observed between the tops of his gloves and the cuffs of his
coat sleeves. His face was thin and haggard; but an indescribable air of
jaunty impudence and perfect self-possession pervaded the whole man.
Such was the individual on whom Mr. Pickwick gazed through his
spectacles (which he had fortunately recovered), and to whom he
proceeded, when his friends had exhausted themselves, to return in
chosen terms his warmest thanks for his recent assistance.
'Never mind,' said the stranger, cutting the address very short, 'said
enough--no more; smart chap that cabman--handled his fives well; but if
I'd been your friend in the green jemmy--damn me--punch his head,--'cod
I would,--pig's whisper--pieman too,--no gammon.'
This coherent speech was interrupted by the entrance of the Rochester
coachman, to announce that 'the Commodore' was on the point of starting.
'Commodore!' said the stranger, starting up, 'my coach--place
booked,--one outside--leave you to pay for the brandy-and-water,--want
change for a five,--bad silver--Brummagem buttons--won't do--no go--eh?'
and he shook his head most knowingly.
Now it so happened that Mr. Pickwick and his three companions had
resolved to make Rochester their first halting-place too; and having
intimated to their new-found acquaintance that they were journeying to
the same city, they agreed to occupy the seat at the back of the coach,
where they could all sit together.
'Up with you,' said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on to the roof
with so much precipitation as to impair the gravity of that gentleman's
deportment very materially.
'Any luggage, Sir?' inquired the coachman. 'Who--I? Brown paper parcel
here, that's all--other luggage gone by water--packing-cases, nailed
up--big as houses--heavy, heavy, damned heavy,' replied the stranger, as
he forced into his pocket as much as he could of the brown paper parcel,
which presented most suspicious indications of containing one shirt and
a handkerchief.
'Heads, heads--take care of your heads!' cried the loquacious stranger,
as they came out under the low archway, which in those days formed
the entrance to the coach-yard. 'Terrible place--dangerous work--other
day--five children--mother--tall lady, eating sandwiches--forgot the
arch--crash--knock--children look round--mother's head off--sandwich
in her hand--no mouth to put it in--head of a family off--shocking,
shocking! Looking at Whitehall, sir?--fine place--little
window--somebody else's head off there, eh, sir?--he didn't keep a sharp
look-out enough either--eh, Sir, eh?'
'I am ruminating,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'on the strange mutability of
human affairs.'
'Ah! I see--in at the palace door one day, out at the window the
next. Philosopher, Sir?' 'An observer of human nature, Sir,' said Mr.
Pickwick.
'Ah, so am I. Most people are when they've little to do and less to get.
Poet, Sir?'
'My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a strong poetic turn,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'So have I,' said the stranger. 'Epic poem--ten thousand
lines--revolution of July--composed it on the spot--Mars by day, Apollo
by night--bang the field-piece, twang the lyre.'
'You were present at that glorious scene, sir?' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'Present! think I was;* fired a musket--fired with an idea--rushed into
wine shop--wrote it down--back again--whiz, bang--another idea--wine
shop again--pen and ink--back again--cut and slash--noble time, Sir.
Sportsman, sir?'abruptly turning to Mr. Winkle.
* A remarkable instance of the prophetic force of Mr.
Jingle's 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--wouldn't move--dog transfixed--staring
at a board--looked up, saw an inscription--"Gamekeeper has orders to
shoot all dogs found in this inclosure"--wouldn't 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. Pickwick's 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 you'd better--good house--nice beds--Wright's 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 friend's 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 like to have seen that dog,' said Mr. Winkle.
Mr. Tupman said nothing; but he thought of Donna Christina, the stomach
pump, and the fountain; and his eyes filled with tears.
A private sitting-room having been engaged, bedrooms inspected, and
dinner ordered, the party walked out to view the city and adjoining
neighbourhood.
We do not find, from a careful perusal of Mr. Pickwick's notes of
the four towns, Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton, that his
impressions of their appearance differ in any material point from those
of other travellers who have gone over the same ground. His general
description is easily abridged.
'The principal productions of these towns,' says Mr. Pickwick, 'appear
to be soldiers, sailors, Jews, chalk, shrimps, officers, and dockyard
men. The commodities chiefly exposed for sale in the public streets are
marine stores, hard-bake, apples, flat-fish, and oysters. The streets
present a lively and animated appearance, occasioned chiefly by the
conviviality of the military. It is truly delightful to a philanthropic
mind to see these gallant men staggering along under the influence of
an overflow both of animal and ardent spirits; more especially when we
remember that the following them about, and jesting with them, affords a
cheap and innocent amusement for the boy population. Nothing,' adds Mr.
Pickwick, 'can exceed their good-humour. It was but the day before my
arrival that one of them had been most grossly insulted in the house
of a publican. The barmaid had positively refused to draw him any more
liquor; in return for which he had (merely in playfulness) drawn his
bayonet, and wounded the girl in the shoulder. And yet this fine fellow
was the very first to go down to the house next morning and express his
readiness to overlook the matter, and forget what had occurred!
'The consumption of tobacco in these towns,' continues Mr. Pickwick,
'must be very great, and the smell which pervades the streets must be
exceedingly delicious to those who are extremely fond of smoking. A
superficial traveller might object to the dirt, which is their leading
characteristic; but to those who view it as an indication of traffic and
commercial prosperity, it is truly gratifying.'
Punctual to five o'clock came the stranger, and shortly afterwards the
dinner. He had divested himself of his brown paper parcel, but had made
no alteration in his attire, and was, if possible, more loquacious than
ever.
'What's that?' he inquired, as the waiter removed one of the covers.
'Soles, Sir.'
'Soles--ah!--capital fish--all come from London-stage-coach proprietors
get up political dinners--carriage of soles--dozens of baskets--cunning
fellows. Glass of wine, Sir.'
'With pleasure,' said Mr. Pickwick; and the stranger took wine, first
with him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with Mr. Tupman, and
then with Mr. Winkle, and then with the whole party together, almost as
rapidly as he talked.
'Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter,' said the stranger. 'Forms
going up--carpenters coming down--lamps, glasses, harps. What's going
forward?'
'Ball, Sir,' said the waiter.
'Assembly, eh?'
'No, Sir, not assembly, Sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, Sir.'
'Many fine women in this town, do you know, Sir?' inquired Mr. Tupman,
with great interest.
'Splendid--capital. Kent, sir--everybody knows Kent--apples, cherries,
hops, and women. Glass of wine, Sir!'
