The Pickwick Papers | Page 9

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