صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

ing ill possessed by our tyrant. Shylock, now in private, shows differently from the comparative dignity of his interview with Antonio and Bassanio. No man is a hero to his valet; but he is characteristic, which is better. Over-anxiety narrows the understanding. Youth is generous too; and even when there are grounds for condemnation, he will not see them, finding it pleasanter, and more gratifying to selflove, to believe that others act towards him from kind, rather than mixed motives. Youth is apt also to resist the dominion of his wonted ruler, being more inclined to credit the word of a fancy stranger than that of him whose good qualities are at least equally established with his failings; and forgetting that the evil we know is in general less to be dreaded than that with which we are unacquainted. When he grows older, and learns the falsity of the world, he will more duly appreciate the value of a parent's regard, however imperfect he is bound to his offspring by nature, circumstance, and interest; his selfishness and pride are enlisted on behalf of the child's welfare; habit, example, prejudice, and inclination, are in the infant's favour; and if the father regards himself before his son, the latter, too, is his own first consideration. Because some few first-rate mothers are self-sacrificing, we are not unreasonably to anticipate, every one's being such, especially our own, nor to deem ourselves peculiarly ill-used if she is not. In parents beyond measure attached to their children there are generally drawbacks of another kind, which place their sons and daughters pretty much on a par with those of others; they retain them too much under their own wings-too constantly beneath their eye-they cook them, and nurse-tend them into delicate health; deeming them prodigies of perfection by nature, they allow them no advantages, except merely what they themselves are capable of communicating without trouble or expense-no going from home is permitted, to improve their manners, confirm their morals, and extend their ideas-they feed them on prejudices, and nurture them in exclusiveness-they render them unfit to be the companions of men of sense, and irremediably mar the masterpieces of God.*

* To be continued.

WINKLE'S JOURNAL.1

(OMITTED IN THE PICKWICK PAPERS.)

My dear Boz,

[ocr errors]

Having gleaned from my private journal a few anecdotes of my former life, I have much pleasure in transmitting them to you. I should have done so sooner, had I been aware that your intention was to publish the papers of our late club. I have not the vanity to suppose that my writings, or memoirs, can be worth giving to the world but should you be disposed to correct their style, in order that they may assume a less misshapen appearance, they are much at your service. I feel well aware that after the elaborate twenty numbers you have offered to the four quarters of the globe, these few _additional papers will be read with feeble interest. However, such as they are, my dear Boz, they are truly at your service.

"Ever your sincere friend,

"NATHANIEl Winkle."

CHAPTER I.

"A story I've heard in my youth,

You'll judge if it's serious or funny meant,
I don't mean to vouch for its truth.
Once a man ran away with the monument;

"Then off like a colt scamper'd he,

The watchmen they miss'd it and follow'd it,
So, lest he detected should be,

He made but one gulp, and he swallow'd it."

Old Song.

Early one fine April morning Sam Weller came into my room at the Old Hummums, and awoke me, requesting me to accompany Mr. Pickwick to Cheltenham, stating that his master was not altogether well, that he felt pains in his side, that his digestion was out of order, and that he had resolved to try the effect of the Cheltenham waters. Mr. Weller said

"Master has taken two insides, and one out, as far as Oxvurd, by the Slap Bang, as goes at two o'clock from Vhite Orseseler.” I said, “Mr. Pickwick is not seriously ill, I hope, Sam?" "Nought particular the matter, sir, as I know on."

"He ate his supper well last night—pray which side did you say pained him ?"

"'Twas either the right or the left, sir, as nigh as I can remember."

We insert these papers as they have been transmitted to us. Our readers will decide how far Mr. Winkle's Journal is adapted to add to the amusement so extensively afforded by the publication of the Pickwick Papers.-ED.

"What can he want at Cheltenham ?"

[ocr errors]

"Vhy, my master's a man as eats and drinks moderate vell, but he gits some queer tvinges about the liver, and then he says, 6 Sam,' says he, 'I've a mind to try vhat some o' them there Epsom salts at Chelt'num 'll do for me.' Vell,' says I, 'you can try 'em-not but vhat I'se a great hobjection to them there physical powers;' but master hoverrules my hargumints. Sam,' says he, 'they'll be sure to set me to rights, as the old voman said vhen she flung her vet mop at the chimney sveep."

[ocr errors]

"Ah, Sam," said I, " taking off my nightcap, " that simile sounds more like one of yours than of your master's; however, present my kind regards to him, and say I will be at the White Horse Cellar punctually at a quarter before two o'clock. I trust there is nothing serious the matter with him: I fear, though, he is unwell, by his taking inside places, instead of out, as usual."

" "Tvill be all the same, sir, time ve gets to Chelt'num; them there vaters 'll turn your insides out."

And with this consolatory remark Mr. Weller left me to my ablutions and morning's "toilette." I felt very nervous, no doubt on account of this sudden announcement of my dear friend's illness. had supped lightly on prawns and toasted cheese, but yet I felt nervous to such a degree that I had difficulty in shaving. However, I managed to eat a little breakfast, with the aid of anchovies and devil paste, and some "ot buttherd thoast," as a friend of mine pronounced it. After this slight meal I packed my small fortnight portmanteau with a few shirts and extra collars, which latter take but little room, and save the constant change of linen. Having written some letters and cards "pour prendre congé," I paid my hotel bill and the servants' fees, which were full a third of the amount. I sent for a coach-no, I'm wrong—a cab, in the which to wend my eightpenny course to the White Horse Cellar. Just previous to the grand pull up at the said cellar, and whilst I was in the act of waving my hand to Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, who greeted me from the pavement, the horse stumbled, and fell slap on his head, throwing me, portmanteau, bag, and cabman, in a mixed summerset on the crossing.

"Gracious Heavens! you are not hurt, I trust ?" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

"No, only a little shook," says I.

66

Vhy," says Sam, "you vas shot out, sir, for all the vorld like pebbles out of a vheelbarrow, as the hurchin said vhen a throed down the amper a eggs."

" Boots, bring a brush," exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

"Let I rub 'im down," urged Sam.

"Now, gentlemin," cried the coachman of the Slapbang.

"I ope your honour 'll stand sumut ansome, as the poor old mare as bin a praying in your sarvice, and spoilt her front knees in the bargain," said the cabman.

This was an extra expense I little calculated on; however, I was obliged to give him something to drink the health of the mare's knees, and had the mortification of seeing him, as he turned away, place his thumb and four fingers extended at the end of his chin. "No doubt,

to designate that you had given him five shillings," was the charitable construction my good friend Pickwick put on the matter.

Sam was about to threaten him with a correctional visitation, when the coachman of the Slapbang put a stop to further conference, by saying-" Slam to the door, Jack; all right behind ?" And

Sam had just time to leave the hind wheel for his roost aloft, when its rotatory motion began to remind him of the danger of centrifugal force, by casting a bit of mud in Mr. Pickwick's eye, whose head was still out of the coach window, in the act of warning Sam Weller to get off the coach-wheel.

"Better that in your eye," old Barnacles, "than your livery sarvant down your throat," roared the insolent cabman, ere he evaporated from their sight.

Piccadilly and the park now seemed to pass us like a moving panorama, as the goodly Slapbang pursued its way towards Kensington, and other tons, that schoolboys send old peas to, "Becase 'tis on their vay to Turn 'um green," as Sam Weller remarked to a fellow-passenger, a cross old fellow, who answered him with, "Queen Anne's dead, spoony."

Our readers may have already perceived that Mr. Weller, who was always joking, could not always be original. Indeed, it would be hardly natural to expect he should be so, considering the superficial education he had received; although I believe uneducated men are more apt to be original than those who have read much, and content . themselves with the ideas of authors instead of their own, and therefrom use quotations, instead of pumping their wits for inventions.

Far be it from me to write anything to the disparagement of Mr. Weller junior, whom I consider as a worthy chip of the old block, and who would no doubt have rivalled Rochester himself, if he had been sent to Eton and Christchurch.

Sam Weller was not of that nature to be easily put out of his way by any of the rudenesses of his fellow-travellers. He, like a second admirable Crighton, was sure soon to ingratiate himself in the favour of those around him, long before the hind wheel had overtaken the front one, as his father would have said.

Sam Weller, therefore, answered the official announcement of Queen Anne's decease by a repartee nearly as new.

"Hollo, my erald!" says he, "vhat a dust ve make, as the vly sed to the coach vheel." This, together with a friendly slap on the back, and "Don't be crabbed, old crumpet," produced a smile, and subsequent good fellowship.

In the inside of the Slapbang were two other passengers, the one a French gentleman, Monsieur de Beaureste, travelling for his pleasure-felicity-hunting, if I may be allowed the expression-the other a Mr. Vernon, an undergraduate, studying for honours at the next Oxford boat-races.

The French gentleman, with the politeness of a man of the world, did not wait for an introduction to his fellow-passengers ere he commenced conversation. The undergraduate was silent and reserved, as it is the fashion at Oxford not even to save a man from drowning, if a previous mutual presentation has not taken place. However, after

some common-place introductory remarks, the fellow-travellers began to thaw into a general conversation. Mr. Pickwick was very kind in explaining to the foreigner the names of places we passed on the road. The foreigner, no doubt an author, travelled with a dictionary, English and French, and made notes in French of Mr. Pickwick's explanations. He was fond of derivations, and of ascertaining the origin of words and names of places-so he entered in his memoranda Hounslow as "Chien de chasse lent," and Salt Hill as "Sel Montagne," with other little curious annotations too trifling to be recorded. Mr. Vernon, who seemed rather a wag, was intent in putting him on a wrong scent, and cramming him with absurdities. He insisted on his entering Knightsbridge as "Pont de Chevalier," and Hammersmith as "Marteau Forgeron ;" and, on going down into Henley, he succeeded in affixing the translation of "Poule couche " to this respectable borough.

Henley hill is steep, as all the world knows; though not so steep as it was formerly, before its valley was exalted. About the middle of the descent a pig crossed the leaders, which occasioned the coachman to pull up so suddenly, that Monsieur de Beaureste, who was leaning forwards towards Mr. Pickwick on the front seat, anxious to catch any sound on his ear emanating from my enlightened friend, eager and intent, and little calculating the suddenly-checked impetus of the Slapbang, was sent with his os frontis "plenum sed" on the nose of Mr. Pickwick. The front curl of his wig caught entangled in Mr. Pickwick's spectacles, which were firmly tied on his respectable head, and whose major force, as the two bodies retired from collision, retained dependent Monsieur de Beaureste's fallen crest, which hanging on Mr. Pickwick's face gave him the appearance of a French sappeur-a wounded sappeur I may add-for the blood, streaming from his nose, begrimed the wig with hideous gore. Monsieur de Beaureste of course looked a little the older, and a little the balder, for this temporary privation, which was soon restored to him, with only the slight addition of a little curling fluid from the nasal fountain of Mr. Pickwick, which luckily matched pretty well in colour with the locks of the inconstant perruque. The meeting of these two great orbs produced a Gemini interest between their respective owners, and began a real friendship, that was cemented by future acquaintance.

"All de world's a stage," said the good-natured De Beaureste; "so my wig go to de spectacle at Poule couche. Sare, you not got de catarac in your eye, bot de catarac come from de nose.' "Not the first blood drawn by a Whig," said the undergraduate. "And de vig very near tore eye," retorted monsieur. "Go it, my tulip," quoth Mr. Vernon.

"Ah! de two lip vas very close 'gether. Dat is good," said our worthy Frenchman.

"I hope you are not hurt, Mr. Pickwick," said I.

[ocr errors]

Big vig-dat is good-capital. Pray vat your own name? Sare, mine De Beaureste-happy to see you in my coentree."

I need not say this came from the French gentleman.

[ocr errors]

My name is Winkle, sir. Pray give me your hand."

Oct. 1838.-VOL. XXIII.—NO. XC.

M

« السابقةمتابعة »