murky colours, as must be the mind of the splenetic and unmanly being
who could presume to taint with the venom of his envy, the preparations
made by the virtuous and highly distinguished lady at whose shrine this
humble tribute of admiration was offered.' This last was a piece of
biting sarcasm against the INDEPENDENT, who, in consequence of not
having been invited at all, had been, through four numbers, affecting
to sneer at the whole affair, in his very largest type, with all the
adjectives in capital letters.
The morning came: it was a pleasant sight to behold Mr. Tupman in full
brigand's costume, with a very tight jacket, sitting like a pincushion
over his back and shoulders, the upper portion of his legs incased in
the velvet shorts, and the lower part thereof swathed in the complicated
bandages to which all brigands are peculiarly attached. It was pleasing
to see his open and ingenuous countenance, well mustachioed and corked,
looking out from an open shirt collar; and to contemplate the sugar-loaf
hat, decorated with ribbons of all colours, which he was compelled to
carry on his knee, inasmuch as no known conveyance with a top to it,
would admit of any man's carrying it between his head and the roof.
Equally humorous and agreeable was the appearance of Mr. Snodgrass in
blue satin trunks and cloak, white silk tights and shoes, and Grecian
helmet, which everybody knows (and if they do not, Mr. Solomon Lucas
did) to have been the regular, authentic, everyday costume of a
troubadour, from the earliest ages down to the time of their final
disappearance from the face of the earth. All this was pleasant, but
this was as nothing compared with the shouting of the populace when the
carriage drew up, behind Mr. Pott's chariot, which chariot itself drew
up at Mr. Pott's door, which door itself opened, and displayed the great
Pott accoutred as a Russian officer of justice, with a tremendous knout
in his hand--tastefully typical of the stern and mighty power of the
Eatanswill GAZETTE, and the fearful lashings it bestowed on public
offenders.
'Bravo!' shouted Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass from the passage, when
they beheld the walking allegory.
'Bravo!' Mr. Pickwick was heard to exclaim, from the passage.
'Hoo-roar Pott!' shouted the populace. Amid these salutations, Mr. Pott,
smiling with that kind of bland dignity which sufficiently testified
that he felt his power, and knew how to exert it, got into the chariot.
Then there emerged from the house, Mrs. Pott, who would have looked very
like Apollo if she hadn't had a gown on, conducted by Mr. Winkle, who,
in his light-red coat could not possibly have been mistaken for anything
but a sportsman, if he had not borne an equal resemblance to a general
postman. Last of all came Mr. Pickwick, whom the boys applauded as loud
as anybody, probably under the impression that his tights and gaiters
were some remnants of the dark ages; and then the two vehicles proceeded
towards Mrs. Leo Hunter's; Mr. Weller (who was to assist in waiting)
being stationed on the box of that in which his master was seated.
Every one of the men, women, boys, girls, and babies, who were assembled
to see the visitors in their fancy-dresses, screamed with delight
and ecstasy, when Mr. Pickwick, with the brigand on one arm, and the
troubadour on the other, walked solemnly up the entrance. Never were
such shouts heard as those which greeted Mr. Tupman's efforts to fix the
sugar-loaf hat on his head, by way of entering the garden in style.
The preparations were on the most delightful scale; fully realising
the prophetic Pott's anticipations about the gorgeousness of Eastern
fairyland, and at once affording a sufficient contradiction to the
malignant statements of the reptile INDEPENDENT. The grounds were more
than an acre and a quarter in extent, and they were filled with people!
Never was such a blaze of beauty, and fashion, and literature. There was
the young lady who 'did' the poetry in the Eatanswill GAZETTE, in the
garb of a sultana, leaning upon the arm of the young gentleman who
'did' the review department, and who was appropriately habited in a
field-marshal's uniform--the boots excepted. There were hosts of these
geniuses, and any reasonable person would have thought it honour enough
to meet them. But more than these, there were half a dozen lions from
London--authors, real authors, who had written whole books, and printed
them afterwards--and here you might see 'em, walking about, like
ordinary men, smiling, and talking--aye, and talking pretty considerable
nonsense too, no doubt with the benign intention of rendering themselves
intelligible to the common people about them. Moreover, there was a band
of music in pasteboard caps; four something-ean singers in the costume
of their country, and a dozen hired waiters in the costume of THEIR
country--and very dirty costume too. And above all, there was Mrs.
Leo Hunter in the character of Minerva, receiving the company, and
overflowing with pride and gratification at the notion of having called
such distinguished individuals together.
'Mr. Pickwick, ma'am,' said a servant, as that gentleman approached
the presiding goddess, with his hat in his hand, and the brigand and
troubadour on either arm.
'What! Where!' exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, starting up, in an affected
rapture of surprise.
'Here,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Is it possible that I have really the gratification of beholding Mr.
Pickwick himself!' ejaculated Mrs. Leo Hunter.
'No other, ma'am,' replied Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. 'Permit me
to introduce my friends--Mr. Tupman--Mr. Winkle--Mr. Snodgrass--to the
authoress of "The Expiring Frog."' Very few people but those who have
tried it, know what a difficult process it is to bow in green velvet
smalls, and a tight jacket, and high-crowned hat; or in blue satin
trunks and white silks, or knee-cords and top-boots that were never
made for the wearer, and have been fixed upon him without the remotest
reference to the comparative dimensions of himself and the suit. Never
were such distortions as Mr. Tupman's frame underwent in his efforts
to appear easy and graceful--never was such ingenious posturing, as his
fancy-dressed friends exhibited.
'Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'I must make you promise not to
stir from my side the whole day. There are hundreds of people here, that
I must positively introduce you to.'
'You are very kind, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'In the first place, here are my little girls; I had almost forgotten
them,' said Minerva, carelessly pointing towards a couple of full-grown
young ladies, of whom one might be about twenty, and the other a year
or two older, and who were dressed in very juvenile costumes--whether
to make them look young, or their mamma younger, Mr. Pickwick does not
distinctly inform us.
'They are very beautiful,' said Mr. Pickwick, as the juveniles turned
away, after being presented.
'They are very like their mamma, Sir,' said Mr. Pott, majestically.
'Oh, you naughty man,' exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, playfully tapping the
editor's arm with her fan (Minerva with a fan!).
'Why now, my dear Mrs. Hunter,' said Mr. Pott, who was trumpeter
in ordinary at the Den, 'you know that when your picture was in the
exhibition of the Royal Academy, last year, everybody inquired whether
it was intended for you, or your youngest daughter; for you were so much
alike that there was no telling the difference between you.'
'Well, and if they did, why need you repeat it, before strangers?' said
Mrs. Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of the
Eatanswill GAZETTE.
'Count, count,' screamed Mrs. Leo Hunter to a well-whiskered individual
in a foreign uniform, who was passing by.
'Ah! you want me?' said the count, turning back.
'I want to introduce two very clever people to each other,' said Mrs.
Leo Hunter. 'Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducing you to
Count Smorltork.' She added in a hurried whisper to Mr. Pickwick--'The
famous foreigner--gathering materials for his great work on
England--hem!--Count Smorltork, Mr. Pickwick.' Mr. Pickwick saluted the
count with all the reverence due to so great a man, and the count drew
forth a set of tablets.
'What you say, Mrs. Hunt?' inquired the count, smiling graciously on
the gratified Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'Pig Vig or Big Vig--what you
call--lawyer--eh? I see--that is it. Big Vig'--and the count was
proceeding to enter Mr. Pickwick in his tablets, as a gentleman of
the long robe, who derived his name from the profession to which he
belonged, when Mrs. Leo Hunter interposed.
'No, no, count,' said the lady, 'Pick-wick.'
'Ah, ah, I see,' replied the count. 'Peek--christian name;
Weeks--surname; good, ver good. Peek Weeks. How you do, Weeks?'
'Quite well, I thank you,' replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his usual
affability. 'Have you been long in England?'
'Long--ver long time--fortnight--more.'
'Do you stay here long?'
'One week.'
'You will have enough to do,' said Mr. Pickwick smiling, 'to gather all
the materials you want in that time.'
'Eh, they are gathered,' said the count.
'Indeed!' said Mr. Pickwick.
'They are here,' added the count, tapping his forehead significantly.
'Large book at home--full of notes--music, picture, science, potry,
poltic; all tings.'
'The word politics, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'comprises in itself, a
difficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude.'
'Ah!' said the count, drawing out the tablets again, 'ver good--fine
words to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word poltic
surprises by himself--' And down went Mr. Pickwick's remark, in Count
Smorltork's tablets, with such variations and additions as the count's
exuberant fancy suggested, or his imperfect knowledge of the language
occasioned.
'Count,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter. 'Mrs. Hunt,' replied the count.
'This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick's, and a poet.'
'Stop,' exclaimed the count, bringing out the tablets once more. 'Head,
potry--chapter, literary friends--name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introduced
to Snowgrass--great poet, friend of Peek Weeks--by Mrs. Hunt, which
wrote other sweet poem--what is that name?--Fog--Perspiring Fog--ver
good--ver good indeed.' And the count put up his tablets, and with
sundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that
he had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock of
information.
'Wonderful man, Count Smorltork,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
'Sound philosopher,' said Mr. Pott.
'Clear-headed, strong-minded person,' added Mr. Snodgrass.
A chorus of bystanders took up the shout of Count Smorltork's praise,
shook their heads sagely, and unanimously cried, 'Very!'
As the enthusiasm in Count Smorltork's favour ran very high, his praises
might have been sung until the end of the festivities, if the four
something-ean singers had not ranged themselves in front of a small
apple-tree, to look picturesque, and commenced singing their national
songs, which appeared by no means difficult of execution, inasmuch as
the grand secret seemed to be, that three of the something-ean singers
should grunt, while the fourth howled. This interesting performance
having concluded amidst the loud plaudits of the whole company, a boy
forthwith proceeded to entangle himself with the rails of a chair,
and to jump over it, and crawl under it, and fall down with it, and do
everything but sit upon it, and then to make a cravat of his legs, and
tie them round his neck, and then to illustrate the ease with which a
human being can be made to look like a magnified toad--all which feats
yielded high delight and satisfaction to the assembled spectators.
After which, the voice of Mrs. Pott was heard to chirp faintly forth,
something which courtesy interpreted into a song, which was all very
classical, and strictly in character, because Apollo was himself a
composer, and composers can very seldom sing their own music or anybody
else's, either. This was succeeded by Mrs. Leo Hunter's recitation of
her far-famed 'Ode to an Expiring Frog,' which was encored once, and
would have been encored twice, if the major part of the guests, who
thought it was high time to get something to eat, had not said that it
was perfectly shameful to take advantage of Mrs. Hunter's good nature.
So although Mrs. Leo Hunter professed her perfect willingness to recite
the ode again, her kind and considerate friends wouldn't hear of it on
any account; and the refreshment room being thrown open, all the
people who had ever been there before, scrambled in with all possible
despatch--Mrs. Leo Hunter's usual course of proceedings being, to issue
cards for a hundred, and breakfast for fifty, or in other words to feed
only the very particular lions, and let the smaller animals take care of
themselves.
'Where is Mr. Pott?' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid
lions around her.
'Here I am,' said the editor, from the remotest end of the room; far
beyond all hope of food, unless something was done for him by the
hostess.
'Won't you come up here?'
'Oh, pray don't mind him,' said Mrs. Pott, in the most obliging
voice--'you give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs.
Hunter. You'll do very well there, won't you--dear?'
'Certainly--love,' replied the unhappy Pott, with a grim smile. Alas for
the knout! The nervous arm that wielded it, with such a gigantic force
