CHAPTER IV
_A Field-day and Bivouac. More New Friends. An Invitation to the Country_
Many authors entertain not only a foolish, but a really dishonestobjection to acknowledge the sources from whence they derive muchvaluable information. We have no such feeling. We are merelyendeavouring to discharge, in an upright manner, the responsible dutiesof our editorial functions; and whatever ambition we might have feltunder other circumstances to lay claim to the authorship of theseadventures, a regard for truth forbids us to do more than claim themerit of their judicious arrangement and impartial narration. ThePickwick papers are our New River Head; and we may be compared to theNew River Company. The labours of others have raised for us an immensereservoir of important facts. We merely lay them on, and communicatethem, in a clear and gentle stream, through the medium of thesenumbers, to a world thirsting for Pickwickian knowledge.
Acting in this spirit, and resolutely proceeding on our determinationto avow our obligations to the authorities we have consulted,we frankly say, that to the note-book of Mr. Snodgrass are weindebted for the particulars recorded in this, and the succeedingchapter--particulars which, now that we have disburdened ourconscience, we shall proceed to detail without further comment.
The whole population of Rochester and the adjoining towns rose fromtheir beds at an early hour of the following morning, in a state of theutmost bustle and excitement. A grand review was to take place upon theLines. The manoeuvres of half a dozen regiments were to be inspectedby the eagle eye of the commander-in-chief; temporary fortificationshad been erected, the citadel was to be attacked and taken, and a minewas to be sprung.
Mr. Pickwick was, as our readers may have gathered from the slightextract we gave from his description of Chatham, an enthusiasticadmirer of the army. Nothing could have been more delightful tohim--nothing could have harmonised so well with the peculiar feelingof each of his companions--as this sight. Accordingly they were soona-foot, and walking in the direction of the scene of action, towardswhich crowds of people were already pouring from a variety of quarters.
The appearance of everything on the Lines denoted that the approachingceremony was one of the utmost grandeur and importance. There weresentries posted to keep the ground for the troops, and servants on thebatteries keeping places for the ladies, and sergeants running to andfro, with vellum-covered books under their arms, and Colonel Bulder, infull military uniform, on horseback, galloping first to one place andthen to another, and backing his horse among the people, and prancing,and curvetting, and shouting in a most alarming manner, and makinghimself very hoarse in the voice, and very red in the face, without anyassignable cause or reason whatever. Officers were running backwardsand forwards, first communicating with Colonel Bulder, and thenordering the sergeants, and then running away altogether; and even thevery privates themselves looked from behind their glazed stocks withan air of mysterious solemnity, which sufficiently bespoke the specialnature of the occasion.
Mr. Pickwick and his three companions stationed themselves in thefront rank of the crowd, and patiently awaited the commencement of theproceedings. The throng was increasing every moment; and the effortsthey were compelled to make, to retain the position they had gained,sufficiently occupied their attention during the two hours that ensued.At one time there was a sudden pressure from behind; and then Mr.Pickwick was jerked forward for several yards, with a degree of speedand elasticity highly inconsistent with the general gravity of hisdemeanour; at another moment there was a request to "keep back" fromthe front, and then the butt-end of a musket was either dropped uponMr. Pickwick's toe, to remind him of the demand, or thrust into hischest, to ensure its being complied with. Then some facetious gentlemenon the left, after pressing sideways in a body, and squeezing Mr.Snodgrass into the very last extreme of human torture, would requestto know "vere he vos a shovin' to;" and when Mr. Winkle had doneexpressing his excessive indignation at witnessing this unprovokedassault, some person behind would knock his hat over his eyes, and begthe favour of his putting his head in his pocket. These, and otherpractical witticisms, coupled with the unaccountable absence of Mr.Tupman (who had suddenly disappeared, and was nowhere to be found),rendered their situation upon the whole rather more uncomfortable thanpleasing or desirable.
At length that low roar of many voices ran through the crowd, whichusually announces the arrival of whatever they have been waiting for.All eyes were turned in the direction of the sally-port. A few momentsof eager expectation, and colours were seen fluttering gaily in theair, arms glistened brightly in the sun, column after column poured onto the plain. The troops halted and formed; the word of command rungthrough the line, there was a general clash of muskets as arms werepresented; and the commander-in-chief, attended by Colonel Bulder andnumerous officers, cantered to the front. The military bands struck upall together; the horses stood upon two legs each, cantered backwards,and whisked their tails about in all directions; the dogs barked, themob screamed, the troops recovered, and nothing was to be seen oneither side, as far as the eye could reach, but a long perspective ofred coats and white trousers, fixed and motionless.
Mr. Pickwick had been so fully occupied in falling about, anddisentangling himself, miraculously, from between the legs of horses,that he had not enjoyed sufficient leisure to observe the scene beforehim, until it assumed the appearance we have just described. When hewas at last enabled to stand firmly on his legs, his gratification anddelight were unbounded.
"Can anything be finer or more delightful?" he inquired of Mr. Winkle.
"Nothing," replied that gentleman, who had had a short man standing oneach of his feet for the quarter of an hour immediately preceding.
"It is indeed a noble and a brilliant sight," said Mr. Snodgrass, inwhose bosom a blaze of poetry was rapidly bursting forth, "to see thegallant defenders of their country drawn up in brilliant array beforeits peaceful citizens; their faces beaming--not with warlike ferocity,but with civilised gentleness; their eyes flashing--not with the rudefire of rapine or revenge, but with the soft light of humanity andintelligence."
Mr. Pickwick fully entered into the spirit of this eulogium, but hecould not exactly re-echo its terms; for the soft light of intelligenceburnt rather feebly in the eyes of the warriors, inasmuch as thecommand "eyes front" had been given, and all the spectator saw beforehim was several thousand pair of optics staring straight forward,wholly divested of any expression whatever.
"We are in a capital situation now," said Mr. Pickwick, looking roundhim. The crowd had gradually dispersed in their immediate vicinity, andthey were nearly alone.
"Capital!" echoed both Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle.
"What are they doing now?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, adjusting hisspectacles.
"I--I--rather think," said Mr. Winkle, changing colour--"I rather thinkthey're going to fire."
"Nonsense," said Mr. Pickwick hastily.
"I--I--really think they are," urged Mr. Snodgrass, somewhat alarmed.
"Impossible," replied Mr. Pickwick. He had hardly uttered the word,when the whole half-dozen regiments levelled their muskets as if theyhad but one common object, and that object the Pickwickians, and burstforth with the most awful and tremendous discharge that ever shook theearth to its centre, or an elderly gentleman off his.
It was in this trying situation, exposed to a galling fire of blankcartridges, and harassed by the operations of the military, a freshbody of whom had begun to fall in on the opposite side, that Mr.Pickwick displayed that perfect coolness and self-possession, whichare the indispensable accompaniments of a great mind. He seized Mr.Winkle by the arm, and placing himself between that gentleman andMr. Snodgrass, earnestly besought them to remember that beyond thepossibility of being rendered deaf by the noise, there was no immediatedanger to be apprehended from the firing.
"But--but--suppose some of the men should happen to have ballcartridges by mistake," remonstrated Mr. Winkle, pallid at thesupposition he was himself conjuring up. "I heard something whistle
through the air just now--so sharp; close to my ear."
"We had better throw ourselves on our faces, hadn't we?" said Mr.Snodgrass.
"No, no--it's over now," said Mr. Pickwick. His lip might quiver, andhis cheek might blanch, but no expression of fear or concern escapedthe lips of that immortal man.
Mr. Pickwick was right: the firing ceased; but he had scarcely timeto congratulate himself on the accuracy of his opinion, when a quickmovement was visible in the line: the hoarse shout of the word ofcommand ran along it, and before either of the party could form a guessat the meaning of this new manoeuvre, the whole of the half-dozenregiments, with fixed bayonets, charged at double quick time down uponthe very spot on which Mr. Pickwick and his friends were stationed.
Man is but mortal: and there is a point beyond which human couragecannot extend. Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles for an instanton the advancing mass, and then fairly turned his back and--we willnot say fled; firstly, because it is an ignoble term, and, secondly,because Mr. Pickwick's figure was by no means adapted for that mode ofretreat--he trotted away, at as quick a rate as his legs would conveyhim; so quickly, indeed, that he did not perceive the awkwardness ofhis situation, to the full extent, until too late.
The opposite troops, whose falling-in had perplexed Mr. Pickwick a fewseconds before, were drawn up to repel the mimic attack of the shambesiegers of the citadel; and the consequence was that Mr. Pickwick andhis two companions found themselves suddenly inclosed between two linesof great length, the one advancing at a rapid pace, and the otherfirmly waiting the collision in hostile array.
"Hoi!" shouted the officers of the advancing line.
"Get out of the way," cried the officers of the stationary one.
"Where are we to go to?" screamed the agitated Pickwickians.
"Hoi--hoi--hoi!" was the only reply. There was a moment of intensebewilderment, a heavy tramp of footsteps, a violent concussion, asmothered laugh; the half-dozen regiments were half a thousand yardsoff, and the soles of Mr. Pickwick's boots were elevated in air.
Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle had each performed a compulsory somersetwith remarkable agility, when the first object that met the eyes ofthe latter as he sat on the ground, staunching with a yellow silkhandkerchief the stream of life which issued from his nose, was hisvenerated leader at some distance off, running after his own hat, whichwas gamboling playfully away in perspective.
There are very few moments in a man's existence when he experiencesso much ludicrous distress, or meets with so little charitablecommiseration, as when he is in pursuit of his own hat. A vast deal ofcoolness, and a peculiar degree of judgment, are requisite in catchinga hat. A man must not be precipitate, or he runs over it; he must notrush into the opposite extreme, or he loses it altogether. The bestway is, to keep gently up with the object of pursuit, to be wary andcautious, to watch your opportunity well, get gradually before it, thenmake a rapid dive, seize it by the crown, and stick it firmly on yourhead: smiling pleasantly all the time, as if you thought it as good ajoke as anybody else.
There was a fine gentle wind, and Mr. Pickwick's hat rolled sportivelybefore it. The wind puffed, and Mr. Pickwick puffed, and the hat rolledover and over as merrily as a lively porpoise in a strong tide; andon it might have rolled, far beyond Mr. Pickwick's reach, had not itscourse been providentially stopped, just as that gentleman was on thepoint of resigning it to its fate.
Mr. Pickwick, we say, was completely exhausted, and about to giveup the chase, when the hat was blown with some violence against thewheel of a carriage, which was drawn up in a line with half-a-dozenother vehicles on the spot to which his steps had been directed. Mr.Pickwick, perceiving his advantage, darted briskly forward, secured hisproperty, planted it on his head, and paused to take breath. He hadnot been stationary half a minute, when he heard his own name eagerlypronounced by a voice, which he at once recognised as Mr. Tupman's,and, looking upwards, he beheld a sight which filled him with surpriseand pleasure.
In an open barouche, the horses of which had been taken out, the betterto accommodate it to the crowded place, stood a stout old gentleman,in a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy breeches and top boots,two young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a young gentleman apparentlyenamoured of one of the young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a lady ofdoubtful age, probably the aunt of the aforesaid, and Mr. Tupman, aseasy and unconcerned as if he had belonged to the family from the firstmoments of his infancy. Fastened up behind the barouche was a hamperof spacious dimensions--one of those hampers which always awakens ina contemplative mind associations connected with cold fowls, tongues,and bottles of wine--and on the box sat a fat and red-faced boy, in astate of somnolency, whom no speculative observer could have regardedfor an instant without setting down as the official dispenser of thecontents of the before-mentioned hamper, when the proper time for theirconsumption should arrive.
Mr. Pickwick had bestowed a hasty glance on these interesting objects,when he was again greeted by his faithful disciple.
"Pickwick--Pickwick," said Mr. Tupman: "come up here. Make haste."
"Come along, sir. Pray, come up," said the stout gentleman. "Joe!--damnthat boy, he's gone to sleep again.--Joe, let down the steps." Thefat boy rolled slowly off the box, let down the steps, and held thecarriage door invitingly open. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle came up atthe moment.
"Room for you all, gentlemen," said the stout man. "Two inside, and oneout. Joe, make room for one of these gentlemen on the box. Now, sir,come along;" and the stout gentleman extended his arm, and pulled firstMr. Pickwick, and then Mr. Snodgrass, into the barouche by main force.Mr. Winkle mounted to the box, the fat boy waddled to the same perch,and fell fast asleep instantly.
"_Damn that boy, he's gone to sleep again_"]
"Well, gentlemen," said the stout man, "very glad to see you. Knowyou very well, gentlemen, though you mayn't remember me. I spent someev'nins at your club last winter--picked up my friend Mr. Tupman herethis morning, and very glad I was to see him. Well, sir, and how areyou? You do look uncommon well, to be sure."
Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment, and cordially shook handswith the stout gentleman in the top boots.
"Well, and how are you, sir?" said the stout gentleman, addressingMr. Snodgrass with paternal anxiety. "Charming, eh? Well, that'sright--that's right. And how are you, sir (to Mr. Winkle)? Well, Iam glad to hear you say you are well; very glad I am, to be sure. Mydaughters, gentlemen--my gals these are; and that's my sister, MissRachael Wardle. She's a Miss, she is; and yet she an't a Miss--eh, sir,eh?" And the stout gentleman playfully inserted his elbow between theribs of Mr. Pickwick, and laughed very heartily.
"Lor, brother!" said Miss Wardle, with a deprecating smile.
"True, true," said the stout gentleman; "no one can deny it. Gentlemen,I beg your pardon; this is my friend Mr. Trundle. And now you allknow each other, let's be comfortable and happy, and see what'sgoing forward; that's what I say." So the stout gentleman put on hisspectacles, and Mr. Pickwick pulled out his glass, and everybody stoodup in the carriage, and looked over somebody else's shoulder at theevolutions of the military.
Astounding evolutions they were, one rank firing over the heads ofanother rank, and then running away; and then the other rank firingover the heads of another rank, and running away in their turn; andthen forming squares, with officers in the centre; and then descendingthe trench on one side with scaling-ladders, and ascending it on theother again by the same means; and knocking down barricades of baskets,and behaving in the most gallant manner possible. Then there wassuch a ramming down of the contents of enormous guns on the battery,with instruments like magnified mops; such a preparation before theywere let off, and such an awful noise when they did go, that the airresounded with the screams of ladies. The young Miss Wardles were sofrightened, that Mr. Trundle was actually obliged to hold one of themup in the carriage, while Mr. Snodgrass supported the other, and Mr.Wardle's sister suffered under such a dreadful state of nervous alarm,that Mr. Tup
man found it indispensably necessary to put his arm roundher waist, to keep her up at all. Everybody was excited, except thefat boy, and he slept as soundly as if the roaring of cannon were hisordinary lullaby.
"Joe, Joe!" said the stout gentleman, when the citadel was taken, andthe besiegers and besieged sat down to dinner. "Damn that boy, he'sgone to sleep again. Be good enough to pinch him, sir--in the leg, ifyou please; nothing else wakes him--thank you. Undo the hamper, Joe."
The fat boy, who had been effectually roused by the compression of aportion of his leg between the finger and thumb of Mr. Winkle, rolledoff the box once again, and proceeded to unpack the hamper, with moreexpedition than could have been expected from his previous inactivity.
"Now we must sit close," said the stout gentleman. After a great manyjokes about squeezing the ladies' sleeves, and a vast quantity ofblushing at sundry jocose proposals, that the ladies should sit in thegentlemen's laps, the whole party were stowed down in the barouche; andthe stout gentleman proceeded to hand the things from the fat boy (whohad mounted up behind for the purpose) into the carriage.
"Now, Joe, knives and forks." The knives and forks were handed in, andthe ladies and gentlemen inside, and Mr. Winkle on the box, were eachfurnished with those useful instruments.
"Plates, Joe, plates." A similar process employed in the distributionof the crockery.
"Now, Joe, the fowls. Damn that boy; he's gone to sleep again. Joe!Joe!" (Sundry taps on the head with a stick, and the fat boy, with somedifficulty, roused from his lethargy.) "Come, hand in the eatables."
There was something in the sound of the last word which roused theunctuous boy. He jumped up, and the leaden eyes which twinkled behindhis mountainous cheeks leered horribly upon the food as he unpacked itfrom the basket.
"Now make haste," said Mr. Wardle; for the fat boy was hanging fondlyover a capon, which he seemed wholly unable to part with. The boysighed deeply, and, bestowing an ardent gaze upon its plumpness,unwillingly consigned it to his master.
"That's right--look sharp. Now the tongue--now the pigeon-pie. Takecare of that veal and ham--mind the lobsters--take the salad out of thecloth--give me the dressing." Such were the hurried orders which issuedfrom the lips of Mr. Wardle, as he handed in the different articlesdescribed, and placed dishes in everybody's hands, and on everybody'sknees, in endless number.
"Now, an't this capital?" inquired that jolly personage, when the workof destruction had commenced.
"Capital!" said Mr. Winkle, who was carving a fowl on the box.
"Glass of wine?"
"With the greatest pleasure."
"You'd better have a bottle to yourself up there, hadn't you?"
"You're very good."
"Joe!"
"Yes, sir." (He wasn't asleep this time, having just succeeded inabstracting a veal patty.)
"Bottle of wine to the gentleman on the box. Glad to see you, sir."
"Thankee." Mr. Winkle emptied his glass, and placed the bottle on thecoach-box by his side.
"Will you permit me to have the pleasure, sir?" said Mr. Trundle to Mr.Winkle.
"With great pleasure," replied Mr. Winkle to Mr. Trundle, and then thetwo gentlemen took wine, after which they took a glass of wine round,ladies and all.
"How dear Emily is flirting with the strange gentleman," whispered thespinster aunt, with true spinster-aunt-like envy, to her brother Mr.Wardle.
"Oh! I don't know," said the jolly old gentleman; "all very natural, Idare say--nothing unusual. Mr. Pickwick, some wine, sir?" Mr. Pickwick,who had been deeply investigating the interior of the pigeon-pie,readily assented.
"Emily, my dear," said the spinster aunt, with a patronising air,"don't talk so loud, love."
"Lor, aunt!"
"Aunt and the little old gentleman want to have it all to themselves, Ithink," whispered Miss Isabella Wardle to her sister Emily. The youngladies laughed very heartily, and the old one tried to look amiable,but couldn't manage it.
"Young girls have _such_ spirits," said Miss Wardle to Mr. Tupman, withan air of gentle commiseration, as if animal spirits were contraband,and their possession without a permit, a high crime and misdemeanour.
"Oh, they have," replied Mr. Tupman, not exactly making the sort ofreply that was expected from him. "It's quite delightful."
"Hem!" said Miss Wardle, rather dubiously.
"Will you permit me," said Mr. Tupman, in his blandest manner, touchingthe enchanting Rachael's wrist with one hand, and gently elevating thebottle with the other. "Will you permit me?"
"Oh, sir!" Mr. Tupman looked most impressive; and Rachael expressed herfear that more guns were going off, in which case, of course, she wouldhave required support again.
"Do you think my dear nieces pretty?" whispered their affectionate auntto Mr. Tupman.
"I should if their aunt wasn't here," replied the ready Pickwickian,with a passionate glance.
"Oh, you naughty man--but really, if their complexions were a_little_ better, don't you think they would be nice-looking girls--bycandle-light?"
"Yes; I think they would," said Mr. Tupman, with an air of indifference.
"Oh, you quiz--I know what you were going to say."
"What?" inquired Mr. Tupman, who had not precisely made up his mind tosay anything at all.
"You were going to say that Isabel stoops--I know you were--you men aresuch observers. Well, so she does; it can't be denied; and, certainly,if there is one thing more than another that makes a girl look ugly, itis stooping. I often tell her that when she gets a little older she'llbe quite frightful. Well, you _are_ a quiz."
Mr. Tupman had no objection to earning the reputation at so cheap arate, so he looked very knowing, and smiled mysteriously.
"What a sarcastic smile," said the admiring Rachael; "I declare I'mquite afraid of you."
"Afraid of me!"
"Oh, you can't disguise anything from me--I know what that smile meansvery well."
"What?" said Mr. Tupman, who had not the slightest notion himself.
"You mean," said the amiable aunt, sinking her voice still lower--"Youmean, that you don't think Isabella's stooping is as bad as Emily'sboldness. Well, she _is_ bold! You cannot think how wretched it makesme sometimes--I'm sure I cry about it for hours together--my dearbrother is _so_ good, and _so_ unsuspicious, that he never sees it;if he did, I'm quite certain it would break his heart. I wish I couldthink it was only manner--I hope it may be--" (Here the affectionaterelative heaved a deep sigh, and shook her head despondingly).
"I'm sure aunt's talking about us," whispered Miss Emily Wardle to hersister--"I'm quite certain of it--she looks so malicious."
"Is she?" replied Isabella--"Hem! aunt dear!"
"Yes, my dear love!"
"I'm _so_ afraid you'll catch cold, aunt--have a silk handkerchiefto tie round your dear old head--you really should take care ofyourself--consider your age!"
However well deserved this piece of retaliation might have been, itwas as vindictive a one as could well have been resorted to. There isno guessing in what form of reply the aunt's indignation would havevented itself, had not Mr. Wardle unconsciously changed the subject, bycalling emphatically for Joe.
"Damn that boy," said the old gentleman, "he's gone to sleep again."
"Very extraordinary boy that," said Mr. Pickwick; "does he always sleepin this way?"
"Sleep!" said the old gentleman, "he's always asleep. Goes on errandsfast asleep, and snores as he waits at table."
"How very odd!" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Ah! odd indeed," returned the old gentleman; "I'm proud of thatboy--wouldn't part with him on any account--he's a natural curiosity!Here, Joe--Joe--take these things away, and open another bottle--d'yehear?"
The fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of piehe had been in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep, andslowly obeyed his master's orders--gloating languidly over the remainsof the feast, as he removed the plates, and deposited them in thehamper. The fresh bottle was p
roduced, and speedily emptied: thehamper was made fast in its old place--the fat boy once more mountedthe box--the spectacles and pocket-glass were again adjusted--and theevolutions of the military recommenced. There was a great fizzing andbanging of guns, and starting of ladies--and then a mine was sprung,to the gratification of everybody--and when the mine had gone off, themilitary and the company followed its example, and went off too.
"Now, mind," said the old gentleman, as he shook hands with Mr.Pickwick at the conclusion of a conversation which had been carried onat intervals, during the conclusion of the proceedings--"we shall seeyou all to-morrow."
"Most certainly," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"You have got the address."
"Manor Farm, Dingley Dell," said Mr. Pickwick, consulting hispocket-book.
"That's it," said the old gentleman. "I don't let you off, mind, undera week; and undertake that you shall see everything worth seeing. Ifyou've come down for a country life, come to me, and I'll give youplenty of it. Joe--damn that boy, he's gone to sleep again--Joe, helpTom put in the horses."
The horses were put in--the driver mounted--the fat boy clambered up byhis side--farewells were exchanged--and the carriage rattled off. Asthe Pickwickians turned round to take a last glimpse of it, the settingsun cast a rich glow on the faces of their entertainers, and fell uponthe form of the fat boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom; and heslumbered again.
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, v. 1 (of 2) Page 6