The Pickwick Papers · Chapter 13 (2/3)

“We owe you many apologies, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, “for disturbing your domestic arrangements at so short a notice.”

“I beg you won’t mention it, sir,” replied the feminine Pott, with vivacity. “It is a high treat to me, I assure you, to see any new faces; living as I do, from day to day, and week to week, in this dull place, and seeing nobody.”

“Nobody, my dear!” exclaimed Mr. Pott archly.

“Nobody but you,” retorted Mrs. Pott, with asperity.

“You see, Mr. Pickwick,” said the host in explanation of his wife’s lament, “that we are in some measure cut off from many enjoyments and pleasures of which we might otherwise partake. My public station, as editor of the Eatanswill Gazette, the position which that paper holds in the country, my constant immersion in the vortex of politics⁠—”

“P. my dear⁠—” interposed Mrs. Pott.

“My life⁠—” said the editor.

“I wish, my dear, you would endeavour to find some topic of conversation in which these gentlemen might take some rational interest.”

“But, my love,” said Mr. Pott, with great humility, “Mr. Pickwick does take an interest in it.”

“It’s well for him if he can,” said Mrs. Pott emphatically; “I am wearied out of my life with your politics, and quarrels with the Independent, and nonsense. I am quite astonished, P., at your making such an exhibition of your absurdity.”

“But, my dear⁠—” said Mr. Pott.

“Oh, nonsense, don’t talk to me,” said Mrs. Pott. “Do you play écarté, Sir?”

“I shall be very happy to learn under your tuition,” replied Mr. Winkle.

“Well, then, draw that little table into this window, and let me get out of hearing of those prosy politics.”

“Jane,” said Mr. Pott, to the servant who brought in candles, “go down into the office, and bring me up the file of the Gazette for eighteen hundred and twenty-six. I’ll read you,” added the editor, turning to Mr. Pickwick⁠—“I’ll just read you a few of the leaders I wrote at that time upon the Buff job of appointing a new tollman to the turnpike here; I rather think they’ll amuse you.”

“I should like to hear them very much indeed,” said Mr. Pickwick.

Up came the file, and down sat the editor, with Mr. Pickwick at his side.

We have in vain pored over the leaves of Mr. Pickwick’s notebook, in the hope of meeting with a general summary of these beautiful compositions. We have every reason to believe that he was perfectly 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 écarté, 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 ease 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 reechoed 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 today, 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 housetop, 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 small boys and one girl, whom he dignified, at every second sentence, with the imposing title of “Men of Eatanswill,” whereat the six small boys aforesaid cheered prodigiously.

The stableyard exhibited unequivocal symptoms of the glory and strength of the Eatanswill Blues. There was a regular army of blue flags, some with one handle, and some with two, exhibiting appropriate devices, in golden characters four feet high, and stout in proportion. There was a grand band of trumpets, bassoons, and drums, marshalled four abreast, and earning their money, if ever men did, especially the drum-beaters, who were very muscular. There were bodies of constables with blue staves, twenty committeemen with blue scarfs, and a mob of voters with blue cockades. There were electors on horseback and electors afoot. There was an open carriage-and-four, for the Honourable Samuel Slumkey; and there were four carriage-and-pair, for his friends and supporters; and the flags were rustling, and the band was playing, and the constables were swearing, and the twenty committeemen were squabbling, and the mob were shouting, and the horses were backing, and the postboys perspiring; and everybody, and everything, then and there assembled, was for the special use, behoof, honour, and renown, of the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, one of the candidates for the representation of the borough of Eatanswill, in the Commons House of Parliament of the United Kingdom.

Loud and long were the cheers, and mighty was the rustling of one of the blue flags, with “Liberty of the Press” inscribed thereon, when the sandy head of Mr. Pott was discerned in one of the windows, by the mob beneath; and tremendous was the enthusiasm when the Honourable Samuel Slumkey himself, in top-boots, and a blue neckerchief, advanced and seized the hand of the said Pott, and melodramatically testified by gestures to the crowd, his ineffaceable obligations to the Eatanswill Gazette.

“Is everything ready?” said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey to Mr. Perker.

“Everything, my dear Sir,” was the little man’s reply.

“Nothing has been omitted, I hope?” said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.

“Nothing has been left undone, my dear sir⁠—nothing whatever. There are twenty washed men at the street door for you to shake hands with; and six children in arms that you’re to pat on the head, and inquire the age of; be particular about the children, my dear sir⁠—it has always a great effect, that sort of thing.”

“I’ll take care,” said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.

“And, perhaps, my dear Sir,” said the cautious little man, “perhaps if you could⁠—I don’t mean to say it’s indispensable⁠—but if you could manage to kiss one of ’em, it would produce a very great impression on the crowd.”

“Wouldn’t it have as good an effect if the proposer or seconder did that?” said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.

“Why, I am afraid it wouldn’t,” replied the agent; “if it were done by yourself, my dear Sir, I think it would make you very popular.”

“Very well,” said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, with a resigned air, “then it must be done. That’s all.”

“Arrange the procession,” cried the twenty committeemen.

Amidst the cheers of the assembled throng, the band, and the constables, and the committeemen, and the voters, and the horsemen, and the carriages, took their places⁠—each of the two-horse vehicles being closely packed with as many gentlemen as could manage to stand upright in it; and that assigned to Mr. Perker, containing Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and about half a dozen of the committee besides.

There was a moment of awful suspense as the procession waited for the Honourable Samuel Slumkey to step into his carriage. Suddenly the crowd set up a great cheering.

“He has come out,” said little Mr. Perker, greatly excited; the more so as their position did not enable them to see what was going forward.

Another cheer, much louder.

“He has shaken hands with the men,” cried the little agent.

Another cheer, far more vehement.

“He has patted the babies on the head,” said Mr. Perker, trembling with anxiety.

A roar of applause that rent the air.

“He has kissed one of ’em!” exclaimed the delighted little man.

A second roar.

“He has kissed another,” gasped the excited manager.

A third roar.

“He’s kissing ’em all!” screamed the enthusiastic little gentleman, and hailed by the deafening shouts of the multitude, the procession moved on.

How or by what means it became mixed up with the other procession, and how it was ever extricated from the confusion consequent thereupon, is more than we can undertake to describe, inasmuch as Mr. Pickwick’s hat was knocked over his eyes, nose, and mouth, by one poke of a Buff flagstaff, very early in the proceedings. He describes himself as being surrounded on every side, when he could catch a glimpse of the scene, by angry and ferocious countenances, by a vast cloud of dust, and by a dense crowd of combatants. He represents himself as being forced from the carriage by some unseen power, and being personally engaged in a pugilistic encounter; but with whom, or how, or why, he is wholly unable to state. He then felt himself forced up some wooden steps by the persons from behind; and on removing his hat, found himself surrounded by his friends, in the very front of the left hand side of the hustings. The right was reserved for the Buff party, and the centre for the mayor and his officers; one of whom⁠—the fat crier of Eatanswill⁠—was ringing an enormous bell, by way of commanding silence, while Mr. Horatio Fizkin, and the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, with their hands upon their hearts, were bowing with the utmost affability to the troubled sea of heads that inundated the open space in front; and from whence arose a storm of groans, and shouts, and yells, and hootings, that would have done honour to an earthquake.