Mr. WELLER THE ELDER DELIVERS SOMECRITICAL SENTIMENTS RESPECTINGLITERARY COMPOSITION; AND, ASSISTED BYHIS SON SAMUEL, PAYS A SMALLINSTALMENT OF RETALIATION TO THEACCOUNT OF THE REVEREND GENTLEMANWITH THE RED NOSEhe morning of the thirteenth of February, which thereaders of this authentic narrative know, as well as we do,to have been the day immediately preceding that whichwas appointed for the trial of Mrs. Bardell’s action, was a busytime for Mr. Samuel Weller, who was perpetually engaged intravelling from the George and Vulture to Mr. Perker’s chambersand back again, from and between the hours of nine o’clock in themorning and two in the afternoon, both inclusive. Not that therewas anything whatever to be done, for the consultation had takenplace, and the course of proceeding to be adopted, had been finallydetermined on; but Mr. Pickwick being in a most extreme state ofexcitement, persevered in constantly sending small notes to hisattorney, merely containing the inquiry, ‘Dear Perker. Is all goingon well?’ to which Mr. Perker invariably forwarded the reply,‘Dear Pickwick. As well as possible’; the fact being, as we havealready hinted, that there was nothing whatever to go on, eitherwell or ill, until the sitting of the court on the following morning.

　　But people who go voluntarily to law, or are taken forciblythere, for the first time, may be allowed to labour under sometemporary irritation and anxiety; and Sam, with a due allowancefor the frailties of human nature, obeyed all his master’s behestswith that imperturbable good-humour and unruffable composurewhich formed one of his most striking and amiable characteristics.

　　Sam had solaced himself with a most agreeable little dinner,and was waiting at the bar for the glass of warm mixture in whichMr. Pickwick had requested him to drown the fatigues of hismorning’s walks, when a young boy of about three feet high, orthereabouts, in a hairy cap and fustian overalls, whose garbbespoke a laudable ambition to attain in time the elevation of anhostler, entered the passage of the George and Vulture, and lookedfirst up the stairs, and then along the passage, and then into thebar, as if in search of somebody to whom he bore a commission;whereupon the barmaid, conceiving it not improbable that thesaid commission might be directed to the tea or table spoons of theestablishment, accosted the boy with―‘Now, young man, what do you want?’

　　‘Is there anybody here, named Sam?’ inquired the youth, in aloud voice of treble quality.

　　‘What’s the t’other name?’ said Sam Weller, looking round.

　　‘How should I know?’ briskly replied the young gentlemanbelow the hairy cap. ‘You’re a sharp boy, you are,’ said Mr. Weller;‘only I wouldn’t show that wery fine edge too much, if I was you, incase anybody took it off. What do you mean by comin’ to a hot-el,and asking arter Sam, vith as much politeness as a vild Indian?’

　　‘’Cos an old gen’l’m’n told me to,’ replied the boy.

　　‘What old gen’l’m’n?’ inquired Sam, with deep disdain.

　　‘Him as drives a Ipswich coach, and uses our parlour,’ rejoinedthe boy. ‘He told me yesterday mornin’ to come to the George andWultur this arternoon, and ask for Sam.’

　　‘It’s my father, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller, turning with anexplanatory air to the young lady in the bar; ‘blessed if I think hehardly knows wot my other name is. Well, young brockiley sprout,wot then?’

　　‘Why then,’ said the boy, ‘you was to come to him at six o’clockto our ’ouse, ’cos he wants to see you―Blue Boar, Leaden’allMarkit. Shall I say you’re comin’?’

　　‘You may wenture on that ’ere statement, sir,’ replied Sam. Andthus empowered, the young gentleman walked away, awakeningall the echoes in George Yard as he did so, with several chaste andextremely correct imitations of a drover’s whistle, delivered in atone of peculiar richness and volume.

　　Mr. Weller having obtained leave of absence from Mr. Pickwick,who, in his then state of excitement and worry, was by no meansdispleased at being left alone, set forth, long before the appointedhour, and having plenty of time at his disposal, sauntered down asfar as the Mansion House, where he paused and contemplated,with a face of great calmness and philosophy, the numerous cadsand drivers of short stages who assemble near that famous placeof resort, to the great terror and confusion of the old-ladypopulation of these realms. Having loitered here, for half an houror so, Mr. Weller turned, and began wending his way towardsLeadenhall Market, through a variety of by-streets and courts. Ashe was sauntering away his spare time, and stopped to look atalmost every object that met his gaze, it is by no means surprisingthat Mr. Weller should have paused before a small stationer’s andprint-seller’s window; but without further explanation it doesappear surprising that his eyes should have no sooner rested oncertain pictures which were exposed for sale therein, than he gavea sudden start, smote his right leg with great vehemence, andexclaimed, with energy, ‘if it hadn’t been for this, I should ha’

　　forgot all about it, till it was too late!’

　　The particular picture on which Sam Weller’s eyes were fixed,as he said this, was a highly-coloured representation of a couple ofhuman hearts skewered together with an arrow, cooking before acheerful fire, while a male and female cannibal in modern attire,the gentleman being clad in a blue coat and white trousers, andthe lady in a deep red pelisse with a parasol of the same, wereapproaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a serpentine gravelpath leading thereunto. A decidedly indelicate young gentleman,in a pair of wings and nothing else, was depicted assuperintending the cooking; a representation of the spire of thechurch in Langham Place, London, appeared in the distance; andthe whole formed a ‘valentine,’ of which, as a written inscription inthe window testified, there was a large assortment within, whichthe shopkeeper pledged himself to dispose of, to his countrymengenerally, at the reduced rate of one-and-sixpence each.

　　‘I should ha’ forgot it; I should certainly ha’ forgot it!’ said Sam;so saying, he at once stepped into the stationer’s shop, andrequested to be served with a sheet of the best gilt-edged letter-paper, and a hard-nibbed pen which could be warranted not tosplutter. These articles having been promptly supplied, he walkedon direct towards Leadenhall Market at a good round pace, verydifferent from his recent lingering one. Looking round him, hethere beheld a signboard on which the painter’s art had delineatedsomething remotely resembling a cerulean elephant with anaquiline nose in lieu of trunk. Rightly conjecturing that this wasthe Blue Boar himself, he stepped into the house, and inquiredconcerning his parent.

　　‘He won’t be here this three-quarters of an hour or more,’ saidthe young lady who superintended the domestic arrangements ofthe Blue Boar.

　　‘Wery good, my dear,’ replied Sam. ‘Let me have nine-penn’otho’ brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, will you, miss?’

　　The brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, having beencarried into the little parlour, and the young lady having carefullyflattened down the coals to prevent their blazing, and carriedaway the poker to preclude the possibility of the fire being stirred,without the full privity and concurrence of the Blue Boar beingfirst had and obtained, Sam Weller sat himself down in a box nearthe stove, and pulled out the sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, andthe hard-nibbed pen. Then looking carefully at the pen to see thatthere were no hairs in it, and dusting down the table, so that theremight be no crumbs of bread under the paper, Sam tucked up thecuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and composed himself towrite.

　　To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of devotingthemselves practically to the science of penmanship, writing aletter is no very easy task; it being always considered necessary insuch cases for the writer to recline his head on his left arm, so asto place his eyes as nearly as possible on a level with the paper,and, while glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, toform with his tongue imaginary characters to correspond. Thesemotions, although unquestionably of the greatest assistance tooriginal composition, retard in some degree the progress of thewriter; and Sam had unconsciously been a full hour and a halfwriting words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with hislittle finger, and putting in new ones which required going oververy often to render them visible through the old blots, when hewas roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of hisparent.

　　‘Vell, Sammy,’ said the father.

　　‘Vell, my Prooshan Blue,’ responded the son, laying down hispen. ‘What’s the last bulletin about mother-in-law?’

　　‘Mrs. Veller passed a very good night, but is uncommonperwerse, and unpleasant this mornin’. Signed upon oath, TonyVeller, Esquire. That’s the last vun as was issued, Sammy,’ repliedMr. Weller, untying his shawl.

　　‘No better yet?’ inquired Sam.

　　‘All the symptoms aggerawated,’ replied Mr. Weller, shaking hishead. ‘But wot’s that, you’re a-doin’ of? Pursuit of knowledgeunder difficulties, Sammy?’

　　‘I’ve done now,’ said Sam, with slight embarrassment; ‘I’vebeen a-writin’.’

　　‘So I see,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Not to any young ’ooman, I hope,Sammy?’

　　‘Why, it’s no use a-sayin’ it ain’t,’ replied Sam; ‘it’s a walentine.’

　　‘A what!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken bythe word.

　　‘A walentine,’ replied Sam. ‘Samivel, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller,in reproachful accents, ‘I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it. Arter thewarnin’ you’ve had o’ your father’s wicious propensities; arter allI’ve said to you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally seein’

　　and bein’ in the company o’ your own mother-in-law, vich I shouldha’ thought wos a moral lesson as no man could never ha’

　　forgotten to his dyin’ day! I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it, Sammy,I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it!’ These reflections were too muchfor the good old man. He raised Sam’s tumbler to his lips anddrank off its contents.

　　‘Wot’s the matter now?’ said Sam.

　　‘Nev’r mind, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘it’ll be a weryagonisin’ trial to me at my time of life, but I’m pretty tough, that’svun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked wen the farmersaid he wos afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the Londonmarket.’

　　‘Wot’ll be a trial?’ inquired Sam. ‘To see you married, Sammy―to see you a dilluded wictim, and thinkin’ in your innocence thatit’s all wery capital,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘It’s a dreadful trial to afather’s feelin’s, that ’ere, Sammy―’

　　‘Nonsense,’ said Sam. ‘I ain’t a-goin’ to get married, don’t youfret yourself about that; I know you’re a judge of these things.

　　Order in your pipe and I’ll read you the letter. There!’

　　We cannot distinctly say whether it was the prospect of thepipe, or the consolatory reflection that a fatal disposition to getmarried ran in the family, and couldn’t be helped, which calmedMr. Weller’s feelings, and caused his grief to subside. We shouldbe rather disposed to say that the result was attained bycombining the two sources of consolation, for he repeated thesecond in a low tone, very frequently; ringing the bell meanwhile,to order in the first. He then divested himself of his upper coat;and lighting the pipe and placing himself in front of the fire withhis back towards it, so that he could feel its full heat, and reclineagainst the mantel-piece at the same time, turned towards Sam,and, with a countenance greatly mollified by the softeninginfluence of tobacco, requested him to ‘fire away.’

　　Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections,and began with a very theatrical air―‘“Lovely―“‘‘Stop,’ said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. ‘A double glass o’ theinwariable, my dear.’

　　‘Very well, sir,’ replied the girl; who with great quicknessappeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared.

　　‘They seem to know your ways here,’ observed Sam.

　　‘Yes,’ replied his father, ‘I’ve been here before, in my time. Goon, Sammy.’

　　‘“Lovely creetur,”’ repeated Sam.

　　‘’Tain’t in poetry, is it?’ interposed his father.

　　‘No, no,’ replied Sam.

　　‘Wery glad to hear it,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Poetry’s unnat’ral; noman ever talked poetry ’cept a beadle on boxin’-day, or Warren’sblackin’, or Rowland’s oil, or some of them low fellows; never youlet yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin agin, Sammy.’

　　Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Samonce more commenced, and read as follows:

　　‘“Lovely creetur I feel myself a damned―”’

　　‘That ain’t proper,’ said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from hismouth.

　　‘No; it ain’t “damned,”’ observed Sam, holding the letter up tothe light, ‘it’s “shamed,” there’s a blot there―“I feel myselfashamed.”’

　　‘Wery good,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Go on.’

　　‘“Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir―’ I forget what thishere word is,’ said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vainattempts to remember.

　　‘Why don’t you look at it, then?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

　　‘So I am a-lookin’ at it,’ replied Sam, ‘but there’s another blot.

　　Here’s a “c,” and a “i,” and a “d.”’

　　‘Circumwented, p’raps,’ suggested Mr. Weller.

　　‘No, it ain’t that,’ said Sam, ‘“circumscribed”; that’s it.’

　　‘That ain’t as good a word as “circumwented,” Sammy,’ saidMr. Weller gravely.

　　‘Think not?’ said Sam.

　　‘Nothin’ like it,’ replied his father.

　　‘But don’t you think it means more?’ inquired Sam.

　　‘Vell p’raps it’s a more tenderer word,’ said Mr. Weller, after afew moments’ reflection.

　　‘Go on, Sammy.’

　　‘“Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a-dressin’ of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin’ but it.”’

　　‘That’s a wery pretty sentiment,’ said the elder Mr. Weller,removing his pipe to make way for the remark.

　　‘Yes, I think it is rayther good,’ observed Sam, highly flattered.

　　‘Wot I like in that ’ere style of writin’,’ said the elder Mr. Weller,‘is, that there ain’t no callin’ names in it―no Wenuses, nor nothin’

　　o’ that kind. Wot’s the good o’ callin’ a young ’ooman a Wenus or aangel, Sammy?’

　　‘Ah! what, indeed?’ replied Sam.

　　‘You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king’sarms at once, which is wery well known to be a collection o’

　　fabulous animals,’ added Mr. Weller.

　　 ‘Just as well,’ replied Sam.

　　‘Drive on, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller.

　　Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows; hisfather continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdomand complacency, which was particularly edifying.

　　‘“Afore I see you, I thought all women was alike.”’

　　‘So they are,’ observed the elder Mr. Weller parenthetically.

　　‘“But now,”’ continued Sam, ‘“now I find what a reg’lar soft-headed, inkred’lous turnip I must ha’ been; for there ain’t nobodylike you, though I like you better than nothin’ at all.” I thought itbest to make that rayther strong,’ said Sam, looking up.

　　Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.

　　‘“So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear―as thegen’l’m’n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday―to tellyou that the first and only time I see you, your likeness was tookon my hart in much quicker time and brighter colours than ever alikeness was took by the profeel macheen (wich p’raps you mayhave heerd on Mary my dear) altho it does finish a portrait and putthe frame and glass on complete, with a hook at the end to hang itup by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.”’

　　‘I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,’ said Mr.

　　Weller dubiously.

　　‘No, it don’t,’ replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoidcontesting the point―‘“Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine and think overwhat I’ve said.―My dear Mary I will now conclude.” That’s all,’

　　said Sam.

　　‘That’s rather a Sudden pull-up, ain’t it, Sammy?’ inquired Mr.

　　Weller.

　　‘Not a bit on it,’ said Sam; ‘she’ll vish there wos more, and that’s the great art o’ letter-writin’.’

　　‘Well,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘there’s somethin’ in that; and I wishyour mother-in-law ’ud only conduct her conwersation on thesame gen-teel principle. Ain’t you a-goin’ to sign it?’

　　‘That’s the difficulty,’ said Sam; ‘I don’t know what to sign it.’

　　‘Sign it―“Veller”,’ said the oldest surviving proprietor of thatname.

　　‘Won’t do,’ said Sam. ‘Never sign a walentine with your ownname.’

　　‘Sign it “Pickwick,” then,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘it’s a wery goodname, and a easy one to spell.’

　　‘The wery thing,’ said Sam. ‘I could end with a werse; what doyou think?’

　　‘I don’t like it, Sam,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘I never know’d arespectable coachman as wrote poetry, ’cept one, as made anaffectin’ copy o’ werses the night afore he was hung for a highwayrobbery; and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that’s norule.’

　　But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea thathad occurred to him, so he signed the letter―‘Your love-sickPickwick.’

　　And having folded it, in a very intricate manner, squeezed adownhill direction in one corner: ‘To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr.

　　Nupkins’s, Mayor’s, Ipswich, Suffolk’; and put it into his pocket,wafered, and ready for the general post. This important businesshaving been transacted, Mr. Weller the elder proceeded to openthat, on which he had summoned his son.

　　‘The first matter relates to your governor, Sammy,’ said Mr.

　　Weller. ‘He’s a-goin’ to be tried to-morrow, ain’t he?’

　　‘The trial’s a-comin’ on,’ replied Sam.

　　‘Vell,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘Now I s’pose he’ll want to call somewitnesses to speak to his character, or p’rhaps to prove a alleybi.

　　I’ve been a-turnin’ the bis’ness over in my mind, and he may makehis-self easy, Sammy. I’ve got some friends as’ll d............