IN WHICH Mr. PICKWICK ENCOUNTERS ANOLD ACQUAINTANCE―TO WHICHFORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCE THE READER ISMAINLY INDEBTED FOR MATTER OFTHRILLING INTEREST HEREIN SET DOWN,CONCERNING TWO GREAT PUBLIC MEN OFMIGHT AND POWERhe morning which broke upon Mr. Pickwick’s sight ateight o’clock, was not at all calculated to elevate his spirits,or to lessen the depression which the unlooked-for resultof his embassy inspired. The sky was dark and gloomy, the air wasdamp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hungsluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage torise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had noteven the spirit to pour. A game-cock in the stableyard, deprived ofevery spark of his accustomed animation, balanced himselfdismally on one leg in a corner; a donkey, moping with droopinghead under the narrow roof of an outhouse, appeared from hismeditative and miserable countenance to be contemplatingsuicide. In the street, umbrellas were the only things to be seen,and the clicking of pattens and splashing of rain-drops were theonly sounds to be heard.

　　The breakfast was interrupted by very little conversation; evenMr. Bob Sawyer felt the influence of the weather, and the previousday’s excitement. In his own expressive language he was ‘floored.’

　　So was Mr. Ben Allen. So was Mr. Pickwick.

　　In protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the lastevening paper from London was read and re-read with anintensity of interest only known in cases of extreme destitution;every inch of the carpet was walked over with similarperseverance; the windows were looked out of, often enough tojustify the imposition of an additional duty upon them; all kinds oftopics of conversation were started, and failed; and at length Mr.

　　Pickwick, when noon had arrived, without a change for the better,rang the bell resolutely, and ordered out the chaise.

　　Although the roads were miry, and the drizzling rain camedown harder than it had done yet, and although the mud and wetsplashed in at the open windows of the carriage to such an extentthat the discomfort was almost as great to the pair of insides as tothe pair of outsides, still there was something in the motion, andthe sense of being up and doing, which was so infinitely superiorto being pent in a dull room, looking at the dull rain dripping intoa dull street, that they all agreed, on starting, that the change wasa great improvement, and wondered how they could possibly havedelayed making it as long as they had done.

　　When they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascendedfrom the horses in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hostler,whose voice was however heard to declare from the mist, that heexpected the first gold medal from the Humane Society on theirnext distribution of rewards, for taking the postboy’s hat off; thewater descending from the brim of which, the invisible gentlemandeclared, must have drowned him (the postboy), but for his greatpresence of mind in tearing it promptly from his head, and dryingthe gasping man’s countenance with a wisp of straw.

　　‘This is pleasant,’ said Bob Sawyer, turning up his coat collar,and pulling the shawl over his mouth to concentrate the fumes of aglass of brandy just swallowed.

　　‘Wery,’ replied Sam composedly.

　　‘You don’t seem to mind it,’ observed Bob.

　　‘Vy, I don’t exactly see no good my mindin’ on it ‘ud do, sir,’

　　replied Sam.

　　‘That’s an unanswerable reason, anyhow,’ said Bob.

　　‘Yes, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘Wotever is, is right, as the youngnobleman sweetly remarked wen they put him down in thepension list ’cos his mother’s uncle’s vife’s grandfather vunce litthe king’s pipe vith a portable tinder-box.’

　　‘Not a bad notion that, Sam,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer approvingly.

　　‘Just wot the young nobleman said ev’ry quarter-dayarterwards for the rest of his life,’ replied Mr. Weller.

　　‘Wos you ever called in,’ inquired Sam, glancing at the driver,after a short silence, and lowering his voice to a mysteriouswhisper―‘wos you ever called in, when you wos ’prentice to asawbones, to wisit a postboy.’

　　‘I don’t remember that I ever was,’ replied Bob Sawyer.

　　‘You never see a postboy in that ’ere hospital as you walked (asthey says o’ the ghosts), did you?’ demanded Sam.

　　‘No,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘I don’t think I ever did.’

　　‘Never know’d a churchyard were there wos a postboy’stombstone, or see a dead postboy, did you?’ inquired Sam,pursuing his catechism.

　　‘No,’ rejoined Bob, ‘I never did.’

　　‘No!’ rejoined Sam triumphantly. ‘Nor never vill; and there’sanother thing that no man never see, and that’s a dead donkey. Noman never see a dead donkey ’cept the gen’l’m’n in the black silksmalls as know’d the young ’ooman as kep’ a goat; and that wos aFrench donkey, so wery likely he warn’t wun o’ the reg’lar breed.’

　　‘Well, what has that got to do with the postboys?’ asked BobSawyer.

　　‘This here,’ replied Sam. ‘Without goin’ so far as to as-sert, assome wery sensible people do, that postboys and donkeys is bothimmortal, wot I say is this: that wenever they feels theirselvesgettin’ stiff and past their work, they just rides off together, wunpostboy to a pair in the usual way; wot becomes on ’em nobodyknows, but it’s wery probable as they starts avay to take theirpleasure in some other vorld, for there ain’t a man alive as eversee either a donkey or a postboy a-takin’ his pleasure in this!’

　　Expatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, andciting many curious statistical and other facts in its support, SamWeller beguiled the time until they reached Dunchurch, where adry postboy and fresh horses were procured; the next stage wasDaventry, and the next Towcester; and at the end of each stage itrained harder than it had done at the beginning.

　　‘I say,’ remonstrated Bob Sawyer, looking in at the coachwindow, as they pulled up before the door of the Saracen’s Head,Towcester, ‘this won’t do, you know.’

　　‘Bless me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, just awakening from a nap, ‘I’mafraid you’re wet.’

　　‘Oh, you are, are you?’ returned Bob. ‘Yes, I am, a little thatway, Uncomfortably damp, perhaps.’

　　Bob did look dampish, inasmuch as the rain was streamingfrom his neck, elbows, cuffs, skirts, and knees; and his wholeapparel shone so with the wet, that it might have been mistakenfor a full suit of prepared oilskin.

　　‘I am rather wet,’ said Bob, giving himself a shake and casting alittle hydraulic shower around, like a Newfoundland dog justemerged from the water.

　　‘I think it’s quite impossible to go on to-night,’ interposed Ben.

　　‘Out of the question, sir,’ remarked Sam Weller, coming toassist in the conference; ‘it’s a cruelty to animals, sir, to ask ’em todo it. There’s beds here, sir,’ said Sam, addressing his master,‘everything clean and comfortable. Wery good little dinner, sir,they can get ready in half an hour―pair of fowls, sir, and a wealcutlet; French beans, ’taturs, tart, and tidiness. You’d better stopvere you are, sir, if I might recommend. Take adwice, sir, as thedoctor said.’

　　The host of the Saracen’s Head opportunely appeared at thismoment, to confirm Mr. Weller’s statement relative to theaccommodations of the establishment, and to back his entreatieswith a variety of dismal conjectures regarding the state of theroads, the doubt of fresh horses being to be had at the next stage,the dead certainty of its raining all night, the equally mortalcertainty of its clearing up in the morning, and other topics ofinducement familiar to innkeepers.

　　‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but I must send a letter to London bysome conveyance, so that it may be delivered the very first thing inthe morning, or I must go forwards at all hazards.’

　　The landlord smiled his delight. Nothing could be easier thanfor the gentleman to inclose a letter in a sheet of brown paper, andsend it on, either by the mail or the night coach from Birmingham.

　　If the gentleman were particularly anxious to have it left as soonas possible, he might write outside, ‘To be delivered immediately,’

　　which was sure to be attended to; or ‘Pay the bearer half-a-crownextra for instant delivery,’ which was surer still.

　　‘Very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘then we will stop here.’

　　‘Lights in the Sun, John; make up the fire; the gentlemen arewet!’ cried the landlord. ‘This way, gentlemen; don’t troubleyourselves about the postboy now, sir. I’ll send him to you whenyou ring for him, sir. Now, John, the candles.’

　　The candles were brought, the fire was stirred up, and a freshlog of wood thrown on. In ten minutes’ time, a waiter was layingthe cloth for dinner, the curtains were drawn, the fire was blazingbrightly, and everything looked (as everything always does, in alldecent English inns) as if the travellers had been expected, andtheir comforts prepared, for days beforehand.

　　Mr. Pickwick sat down at a side table, and hastily indited a noteto Mr. Winkle, merely informing him that he was detained bystress of weather, but would certainly be in London next day; untilwhen he deferred any account of his proceedings. This note washastily made into a parcel, and despatched to the bar per Mr.

　　Samuel Weller.

　　Sam left it with the landlady, and was returning to pull hismaster’s boots off, after drying himself by the kitchen fire, whenglancing casually through a half-opened door, he was arrested bythe sight of a gentleman with a sandy head who had a large bundleof newspapers lying on the table before him, and was perusing theleading article of one with a settled sneer which curled up his noseand all other features into a majestic expression of haughtycontempt.

　　‘Hollo!’ said Sam, ‘I ought to know that ’ere head and themfeatures; the eyeglass, too, and the broad-brimmed tile! Eatansvillto vit, or I’m a Roman.’

　　Sam was taken with a troublesome cough, at once, for thepurpose of attracting the gentleman’s attention; the gentlemanstarting at the sound, raised his head and his eyeglass, anddisclosed to view the profound and thoughtful features of Mr. Pott,of the Eatanswill Gazette.

　　‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ said Sam, advancing with a bow, ‘mymaster’s here, Mr. Pott.’

　　‘Hush! hush!’ cried Pott, drawing Sam into the room, andclosing the door, with a countenance of mysterious dread andapprehension.

　　‘Wot’s the matter, sir?’ inquired Sam, looking vacantly abouthim.

　　‘Not a whisper of my name,’ replied Pott; ‘this is a buffneighbourhood. If the excited and irritable populace knew I washere, I should be torn to pieces.’

　　‘No! Vould you, sir?’ inquired Sam.

　　‘I should be the victim of their fury,’ replied Pott. ‘Now youngman, what of your master?’

　　‘He’s a-stopping here to-night on his vay to town, with a coupleof friends,’ replied Sam.

　　‘Is Mr. Winkle one of them?’ inquired Pott, with a slight frown.

　　‘No, sir. Mr. Vinkle stops at home now,’ rejoined Sam. ‘He’smarried.’

　　‘Married!’ exclaimed Pott, with frightful vehemence. Hestopped, smiled darkly, and added, in a low, vindictive tone, ‘Itserves him right!’ Having given vent to this cruel ebullition ofdeadly malice and cold-blooded triumph over a fallen enemy, Mr.

　　Pott inquired whether Mr. Pickwick’s friends were ‘blue?’

　　Receiving a most satisfactory answer in the affirmative from Sam,who knew as much about the matter as Pott himself, he consentedto accompany him to Mr. Pickwick’s room, where a heartywelcome awaited him, and an agreement to club their dinnerstogether was at once made and ratified.

　　‘And how are matters going on in Eatanswill?’ inquired Mr.

　　Pickwick, when Pott had taken a seat near the fire, and the wholeparty had got their wet boots off, and dry slippers on. ‘Is theIndependent still in being?’

　　‘The Independent, sir,’ replied Pott, ‘is still dragging on awretched and lingering career. Abhorred and despised by eventhe few who are cognisant of its miserable and disgracefulexistence, stifled by the very filth it so profusely scatters, rendereddeaf and blind by the exhalations of its own slime, the obscenejournal, happily unconscious of its degraded state, is rapidlysinking beneath that treacherous mud which, while it seems togive it a firm standing with the low and debased classes of society,is nevertheless rising above its detested head, and will speedilyengulf it for ever.’

　　Having delivered this manifesto (which formed a portion of hislast week’s leader) with vehement articulation, the editor pausedto take breath, and looked majestically at Bob Sawyer.

　　‘You are a young man, sir,’ said Pott.

　　Mr. Bob Sawyer nodded.

　　‘So are you, sir,’ said Pott, addressing Mr. Ben Allen.

　　Ben admitted the soft impeachment.

　　‘And are both deeply imbued with those blue principles, which,so long as I live, I have pledged myself to the people of thesekingdoms to support and to maintain?’ suggested Pott.

　　‘Why, I don’t exactly know about that,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘Iam―’

　　‘Not buff, Mr. Pickwick,’ interrupted Pott, drawing back hischair, ‘your friend is not buff, sir?’

　　‘No, no,’ rejoined Bob, ‘I’m a kind of plaid at present; acompound of all sorts of colours.’

　　‘A waverer,’ said Pott solemnly, ‘a waverer. I should like toshow you a series of eight articles, sir, that have appeared in theEatanswill Gazette. I think I may venture to say that you wouldnot be long in establishing your opinions on a firm and solid bluebasis, sir.’

　　‘I dare say I should turn very blue, long before I got to the endof them,’ responded Bob.

　　Mr. Pott looked dubiously at Bob Sawyer for some seconds,and, turning to Mr. Pickwick, said―‘You have seen the literary articles which have appeared atintervals in the Eatanswill Gazette in the course of the last threemonths, and which have excited such general―I may say suchuniversal―attention and admiration?’

　　‘Why,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, slightly embarrassed by thequestion, ‘the fact is, I have been so much engaged in other ways,that I really have not had an opportunity of perusing them.’

　　‘You should do so, sir,’ said Pott, with a severe countenance.

　　‘I will,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘They appeared in the form of a copious review of a work onChinese metaphysics, sir,’ said Pott.

　　‘Oh,’ observed Mr. Pickwick; ‘from your pen, I hope?’

　　‘From the pen of my critic, sir,’ rejoined Pott, with dignity.

　　‘An abstruse subject, I should conceive,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Very, sir,’ responded Pott, looking intensely sage. ‘He crammedfor it, to use a technical but expressive term; he read up for thesubject, at my desire, in the Encyclopaedia Britannica.’

　　‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘I was not aware that that valuablework contained any information respecting Chinese metaphysics.’

　　‘He read, sir,’ rejoined Pott, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick’sknee, and looking round with a smile of intellectual superiority―‘he read for metaphysics under the letter M, and for China underthe letter C, and combined his information, sir!’

　　Mr. Pott’s features assumed so much additional grandeur at therecollection of the power and research displayed in the learnedeffusions in question, that some minutes elapsed before Mr.

　　Pickwick felt emboldened to renew the conversation; at length, asthe editor’s countenance gradually relaxed into its customaryexpression of moral supremacy, he ventured to resume thediscourse by asking―‘Is it fair to inquire what great object has brought you so farfrom home?’

　　‘That object which actuates and animates me in all my giganticlabours, sir,’ replied Pott, with a calm smile: ‘my country’s good.’

　　‘I supposed it was some public mission,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Yes, sir,’ resumed Pott, ‘it is.’ Here, bending towards Mr.

　　Pickwick, he whispered in a deep, hollow voice, ‘A Buff ball, sir,will take place in Birmingham to-morrow evening.’

　　‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Yes, sir, and supper,’ added Pott.

　　‘You don............