The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, v. 1 (of 2)

  CHAPTER XV

  _In which is given a Faithful Portraiture of two Distinguished Persons; and an Accurate Description of a Public Breakfast in their House and Grounds: which Public Breakfast leads to the Recognition of an Old Acquaintance, and the Commencement of another Chapter_

  Mr. Pickwick's conscience had been somewhat reproaching him for hisrecent neglect of his friends at the Peacock; and he was just on thepoint of walking forth in quest of them, on the third morning after theelection had terminated, when his faithful valet put into his hand acard, on which was engraved the following inscription:--

  *Mrs. Leo Hunter.* _The Den. Eatanswill._

  "Person's a waitin'," said Sam, epigrammatically.

  "Does the person want me, Sam?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.

  "He wants you particklar; and no one else'll do, as the Devil's privatesecretary said ven he fetched avay Doctor Faustus," replied Mr. Weller.

  "_He._ Is it a gentleman?" said Mr. Pickwick.

  "A wery good imitation o' one, if it an't," replied Mr. Weller.

  "But this is a lady's card," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "Given me by a gen'lm'n, hows'ever," replied Sam, "and he's a waitin'in the drawing-room--said he'd rather wait all day, than not see you."

  Mr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to thedrawing-room, where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance,and said, with an air of profound respect:

  "Mr. Pickwick, I presume?"

  "The same."

  "Allow me, sir, the honour of grasping your hand. Permit me, sir, toshake it," said the grave man.

  "Certainly," said Mr. Pickwick.

  The stranger shook the extended hand, and then continued.

  "We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquariandiscussion has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter--my wife, sir; _I_am _Mr._ Leo Hunter"--the stranger paused, as if he expected thatMr. Pickwick would be overcome by the disclosure; but seeing that heremained perfectly calm, proceeded.

  "My wife, sir--Mrs. Leo Hunter--is proud to number among heracquaintance all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by theirworks and talents. Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part ofthe list the name of Mr. Pickwick, and his brother members of the clubthat derives its name from him."

  "I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady,sir," replied Mr. Pickwick.

  "You _shall_ make it, sir," said the grave man. "To-morrow morning,sir, we give a public breakfast--a _f?te champ?tre_--to a great numberof those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works andtalents. Permit Mrs. Leo Hunter, sir, to have the gratification ofseeing you at the Den."

  "With great pleasure," replied Mr. Pickwick.

  "Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, sir," resumed the newacquaintance--"'feasts of reason, sir, and flows of soul,' as somebodywho wrote a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter on her breakfasts, feelingly andoriginally observed."

  "Was _he_ celebrated for his works and talents?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.

  "He was, sir," replied the grave man, "all Mrs. Leo Hunter'sacquaintance are; it is her ambition, sir, to have no otheracquaintance."

  "It is a very noble ambition," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "When I inform Mrs. Leo Hunter, that that remark fell from _your_lips, sir, she will indeed be proud," said the grave man. "You have agentleman in your train, who has produced some beautiful little poems,I think, sir?"

  "My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a great taste for poetry," replied Mr.Pickwick.

  "So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, sir. She dotes on poetry, sir. She adores it;I may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined withit. She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may havemet with her 'Ode to an Expiring Frog,' sir?"

  "I don't think I have," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "You astonish me, sir," said Mr. Leo Hunter. "It created an immensesensation. It was signed with an 'L' and eight stars, and appearedoriginally in a Lady's Magazine. It commenced:

  'Can I view thee panting, lying On thy stomach, without sighing! Can I unmoved see thee dying On a log, Expiring frog!'"

  "Beautiful!" said Mr. Pickwick.

  "Fine," said Mr. Leo Hunter; "so simple."

  "Very," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it?"

  "If you please," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "It runs thus," said the grave man, still more gravely:

  "'Say, have fiends in shape of boys, With wild halloo and brutal noise, Hunted thee from marshy joys, With a dog, Expiring frog?'"

  "Finely expressed," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "All point, sir," said Mr. Leo Hunter, "but you shall hear Mrs. LeoHunter repeat it. _She_ can do justice to it, sir. She will repeat it,in character, sir, to-morrow morning."

  "In character!"

  "As Minerva. But I forgot--it's a fancy-dress breakfast."

  "Dear me," said Mr. Pickwick, glancing at his own figure--"I can'tpossibly----"

  "Can't sir; can't!" exclaimed Mr. Leo Hunter. "Solomon Lucas, the Jewin the High Street, has thousands of fancy dresses. Consider, sir, howmany appropriate characters are open for your selection. Plato, Zeno,Epicurus, Pythagoras--all founders of clubs."

  "I know that," said Mr. Pickwick, "but as I cannot put myself incompetition with those great men, I cannot presume to wear theirdresses."

  The grave man considered deeply, for a few seconds, and then said:

  "On reflection, sir, I don't know whether it would not afford Mrs.Leo Hunter greater pleasure, if her guests saw a gentleman of yourcelebrity in his own costume, rather than in an assumed one. I mayventure to promise an exception in your case, sir--yes, I am quitecertain that on behalf of Mrs. Leo Hunter, I may venture to do so."

  "In that case," said Mr. Pickwick, "I shall have great pleasure incoming."

  "But I waste your time, sir," said the grave man, as if suddenlyrecollecting himself. "I know its value, sir. I will not detain you.I may tell Mrs. Leo Hunter, then, that she may confidently expectyou and your distinguished friends? Good morning, sir, I am proud tohave beheld so eminent a personage--not a step, sir; not a word." Andwithout giving Mr. Pickwick time to offer remonstrance or denial, Mr.Leo Hunter stalked gravely away.

  Mr. Pickwick took up his hat, and repaired to the Peacock, but Mr.Winkle had conveyed the intelligence of the fancy ball there, beforehim.

  "Mrs. Pott's going," were the first words with which he saluted hisleader.

  "Is she?" said Mr. Pickwick.

  "As Apollo," replied Mr. Winkle. "Only Pott objects to the tunic."

  "He is right. He is quite right," said Mr. Pickwick, emphatically.

  "Yes;--so she's going to wear a white satin gown with gold spangles."

  "They'll hardly know what she's meant for; will they?" inquired Mr.Snodgrass.

  "Of course they will," replied Mr. Winkle, indignantly. "They'll seeher lyre, won't they?"

  "True; I forgot that," said Mr. Snodgrass.

  "I shall go as a bandit," interposed Mr. Tupman.

  "What!" said Mr. Pickwick, with a sudden start.

  "As a bandit," repeated Mr. Tupman, mildly.

  "You don't mean to say," said Mr. Pickwick, gazing with solemnsternness at his friend--"you don't mean to say, Mr. Tupman, that itis your intention to put yourself into a green velvet jacket, with atwo-inch tail?"

  "Such _is_ my intention, sir," replied Mr. Tupman, warmly. "And whynot, sir?"

  "Because, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, considerably excited, "because youare too old, sir."

  "Too old!" exclaimed Mr. Tupman.

  "And if any further ground of objection be wanting," continued Mr.Pickwick, "you are too fat, sir."

  "Sir," said Mr. Tupman, his face suffused with a crimson glow, "this isan insult."

  "Sir," replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone, "it is not half theinsult to you, that yo
ur appearance in my presence in a green velvetjacket, with a two-inch tail, would be to me."

  "Sir," said Mr. Tupman, "you're a fellow!"

  "Sir," said Mr. Pickwick, "you're another!"

  Mr. Tupman advanced a step or two, and glared at Mr. Pickwick. Mr.Pickwick returned the glare, concentrated into a focus by means of hisspectacles, and breathed a bold defiance. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winklelooked on, petrified at beholding such a scene between two such men.

  "Sir," said Mr. Tupman, after a short pause, speaking in a low, deepvoice, "you have called me old."

  "I have," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "And fat."

  "I reiterate the charge."

  "And a fellow."

  "So you are!"

  There was a fearful pause.

  "My attachment to your person, sir," said Mr. Tupman, speaking in avoice tremulous with emotion, and tucking up his wristbands meanwhile,"is great--very great--but upon that person, I must take summaryvengeance."

  "Come on, sir!" replied Mr. Pickwick. Stimulated by the exciting natureof the dialogue, the heroic man actually threw himself into a paralyticattitude, confidently supposed by the two by-standers to have beenintended as a posture of defence.

  "What!" exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, suddenly recovering the power ofspeech, of which intense astonishment had previously bereft him,and rushing between the two, at the imminent hazard of receiving anapplication on the temple from each. "What! Mr. Pickwick, with the eyesof the world upon you! Mr. Tupman! Who, in common with us all, derivesa lustre from his undying name! For shame, gentlemen; for shame."

  The unwonted lines which momentary passion had ruled in Mr. Pickwick'sclear and open brow, gradually melted away, as his young friendspoke, like the marks of a black-lead pencil beneath the softeninginfluence of India rubber. His countenance had resumed its usual benignexpression, ere he concluded.

  "I have been hasty," said Mr. Pickwick, "very hasty. Tupman; your hand."

  The dark shadow passed from Mr. Tupman's face, as he warmly grasped thehand of his friend.

  "I have been hasty, too," said he.

  "No, no," interrupted Mr. Pickwick, "the fault was mine. You will wearthe green velvet jacket?"

  "No, no," replied Mr. Tupman.

  "To oblige me, you will?" resumed Mr. Pickwick.

  "Very well, I will," said Mr. Tupman.

  It was accordingly settled that Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr.Snodgrass, should all wear fancy dresses. Thus Mr. Pickwick was ledby the very warmth of his good feelings to give his consent to aproceeding from which his better judgment would have recoiled--a morestriking illustration of his amiable character could hardly have beenconceived, even if the events recorded in these pages had been whollyimaginary.

  Mr. Leo Hunter had not exaggerated the resources of Mr. Solomon Lucas.His wardrobe was extensive--very extensive--not strictly classicalperhaps, nor quite new, nor did it contain any one garment madeprecisely after the fashion of any age or time, but everything was moreor less spangled; and what _can_ be prettier than spangles! It may beobjected that they are not adapted to the daylight, but everybody knowsthat they would glitter if there were lamps; and nothing can be clearerthan that if people give fancy balls in the day-time, and the dressesdo not show quite as well as they would by night, the fault lies solelywith the people who give the fancy balls, and is in no wise chargeableon the spangles. Such was the convincing reasoning of Mr. SolomonLucas; and influenced by such arguments did Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, andMr. Snodgrass, engage to array themselves in costumes, which his tasteand experience induced him to recommend as admirably suited to theoccasion.

  A carriage was hired from the Town Arms, for the accommodation of thePickwickians, and a chariot was ordered from the same repository,for the purpose of conveying Mr. and Mrs. Pott to Mrs. Leo Hunter'sgrounds, which Mr. Pott, as a delicate acknowledgment of havingreceived an invitation, had already confidently predicted in the_Eatanswill Gazette_ "would present a scene of varied and deliciousenchantment--a bewildering coruscation of beauty and talent--a lavishand prodigal display of hospitality--above all, a degree of splendoursoftened by the most exquisite taste; and adornment refined withperfect harmony and the chastest good keeping--compared with which,the fabled gorgeousness of Eastern Fairy-land itself, would appear tobe clothed in as many dark and murky colours, as must be the mind ofthe splenetic and unmanly being who could presume to taint with thevenom of his envy, the preparations making by the virtuous and highlydistinguished lady, at whose shrine this humble tribute of admirationwas offered." This last was a piece of biting sarcasm against the_Independent_, who in consequence of not having been invited at all,had been through four numbers affecting to sneer at the whole affair,in his very largest type, with all the adjectives in capital letters.

  The morning came: it was a pleasant sight to behold Mr. Tupman infull Brigand's costume, with a very tight jacket, sitting like apincushion over his back and shoulders: the upper portion of his legsencased in the velvet shorts, and the lower part thereof swathedin the complicated bandages to which all Brigands are peculiarlyattached. It was pleasing to see his open and ingenuous countenance,well mustachioed and corked, looking out from an open shirt-collar;and to contemplate the sugar-loaf hat, decorated with ribbons of allcolours, which he was compelled to carry on his knee, inasmuch as noknown conveyance with a top to it, would admit of any man's carryingit between his head and the roof. Equally humorous and agreeable wasthe appearance of Mr. Snodgrass in blue satin trunks and cloak, whitesilk tights and shoes, and Grecian helmet: which everybody knows (andif they do not, Mr. Solomon Lucas did) to have been the regular,authentic, every-day costume of a Troubadour, from the earliest agesdown to the time of their final disappearance from the face of theearth. All this was pleasant, but this was nothing compared with theshouting of the populace when the carriage drew up, behind Mr. Pott'schariot, which chariot itself drew up at Mr. Pott's door, which dooritself opened, and displayed the great Pott accoutred as a Russianofficer of justice, with a tremendous knout in his hand--tastefullytypical of the stern and mighty power of the _Eatanswill Gazette_, andthe fearful lashings it bestowed on public offenders.

  "Bravo!" shouted Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass from the passage, whenthey beheld the walking allegory.

  "Hoo--roar, Pott!" shouted the populace. Amid these salutations, Mr.Pott, smiling with that kind of bland dignity which sufficientlytestified that he felt his power, and knew how to exert it, got intothe chariot.

  Then there emerged from the house, Mrs. Pott, who would have lookedvery like Apollo if she hadn't had a gown on: conducted by Mr. Winkle,who in his light-red coat, could not possibly have been mistaken foranything but a sportsman, if he had not borne an equal resemblanceto a general postman. Last of all came Mr. Pickwick, whom the boysapplauded as loud as anybody, probably under the impression that histights and gaiters were some remnants of the dark ages; and then thetwo vehicles proceeded towards Mrs. Leo Hunter's: Mr. Weller (who wasto assist in waiting) being stationed on the box of that in which hismaster was seated.

  _Mr. Pickwick, with the Brigand on one arm, and theTroubadour on the other_]

  Every one of the men, women, boys, girls, and babies, who wereassembled to see the visitors in their fancy dresses, screamed withdelight and ecstasy, when Mr. Pickwick, with the Brigand on one arm,and the Troubadour on the other, walked solemnly up the entrance. Neverwere such shouts heard, as those which greeted Mr. Tupman's efforts tofix the sugar-loaf hat on his head, by way of entering the garden instyle.

  The preparations were on the most delightful scale; fully realisingthe prophetic Pott's anticipations about the gorgeousness of EasternFairyland, and at once affording a sufficient contradiction to themalignant statements of the reptile _Independent_. The grounds weremore than an acre and a quarter in extent, and they were filled withpeople! Never was such a blaze of beauty, and fashion, and literature.There was the young lady who "did" the poetry in the _EatanswillGazette_, in the garb of a sultana, leaning upon the arm of the
younggentleman who "did" the review department, and who was appropriatelyhabited in a field-marshal's uniform--the boots excepted. There werehosts of these geniuses, and any reasonable person would have thoughtit honour enough to meet them. But more than these, there were halfa dozen lions from London--authors, real authors, who had writtenwhole books, and printed them afterwards--and here you might see'em, walking about, like ordinary men, smiling, and talking--aye, andtalking pretty considerable nonsense too, no doubt with the benignintention of rendering themselves intelligible to the common peopleabout them. Moreover, there was a band of music in pasteboard caps;four something-ean singers in the costume of their country, and adozen hired waiters in the costume of _their_ country--and very dirtycostume too. And above all, there was Mrs. Leo Hunter in the characterof Minerva, receiving the company, and overflowing with pride andgratification at the notion of having called such distinguishedindividuals together.

  "Mr. Pickwick, ma'am," said a servant, as that gentleman approachedthe presiding goddess, with his hat in his hand, and the Brigand andTroubadour on either arm.

  "What! Where!" exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, starting up, in an affectedrapture of surprise.

  "Here," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "Is it possible that I have really the gratification of beholding Mr.Pickwick himself!" ejaculated Mrs. Leo Hunter.

  "No other, ma'am," replied Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. "Permit meto introduce my friends--Mr. Tupman--Mr. Winkle--Mr. Snodgrass--to theauthoress of 'The Expiring Frog.'"

  Very few people but those who have tried it, know what a difficultprocess it is, to bow in green velvet smalls, and a tight jacket,and high-crowned hat: or in blue satin trunks and white silks: orknee-cords and top-boots that were never made for the wearer, and havebeen fixed upon him without the remotest reference to the comparativedimensions of himself and the suit. Never were such distortionsas Mr. Tupman's frame underwent in his efforts to appear easy andgraceful--never was such ingenious posturing, as his fancy-dressedfriends exhibited.

  "Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Leo Hunter, "I must make you promise not tostir from my side the whole day. There are hundreds of people here,that I must positively introduce you to."

  "You are very kind, ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "In the first place, here are my little girls; I had almost forgottenthem," said Minerva, carelessly pointing towards a couple offull-grown young ladies, of whom one might be about twenty, and theother a year or two older, and who were dressed in very juvenilecostumes--whether to make them look young, or their mamma younger, Mr.Pickwick does not distinctly inform us.

  "They are very beautiful," said Mr. Pickwick, as the juveniles turnedaway, after being presented.

  "They are very like their mamma, sir," said Mr. Pott, majestically.

  "Oh you naughty man!" exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, playfully tapping theeditor's arm with her fan (Minerva with a fan!).

  "Why now, my dear Mrs. Hunter," said Mr. Pott, who was trumpeter inordinary at the Den, "you _know_ that when your picture was in theExhibition at the Royal Academy, last year, everybody inquired whetherit was intended for you, or your youngest daughter; for you were somuch alike that there was no telling the difference between you."

  "Well, and if they did, why need you repeat it, before strangers?" saidMrs. Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of the_Eatanswill Gazette_.

  "Count, Count!" screamed Mrs. Leo Hunter to a well-whiskered individualin a foreign uniform, who was passing by.

  "Ah! you want me?" said the Count, turning back.

  "I want to introduce two very clever people to each other," saidMrs. Leo Hunter. "Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducingyou to Count Smorltork." She added in a hurried whisper to Mr.Pickwick--"the famous foreigner--gathering materials for his great workon England--hem!--Count Smorltork, Mr. Pickwick."

  Mr. Pickwick saluted the Count with all the reverence due to so great aman, and the Count drew forth a set of tablets.

  "What you say, Mrs. Hunt?" inquired the Count, smiling graciouslyon the gratified Mrs. Leo Hunter, "Pig Vig or Big Vig--what youcall--Lawyer--eh? I see--that is it. Big Vig"--and the Count wasproceeding to enter Mr. Pickwick in his tablets, as a gentleman ofthe long robe, who derived his name from the profession to which hebelonged, when Mrs. Leo Hunter interposed.

  "No, no, Count," said the lady, "Pick-wick."

  "Ah, ah, I see," replied the Count. "Peek--Christian name;Weeks--surname; good, ver good. Peek Weeks. How you do, Weeks?"

  "Quite well, I thank you," replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his usualaffability. "Have you been long in England?"

  "Long--ver long time--fortnight--more."

  "Do you stay here long?"

  "One week."

  "You will have enough to do," said Mr. Pickwick, smiling, "to gatherall the materials you want, in that time."

  "Eh, they are gathered," said the Count.

  "Indeed!" said Mr. Pickwick.

  "They are here," added the Count, tapping his forehead significantly."Large book at home--full of notes--music, picture, science, potry,poltic; all tings."

  "The word politics, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, "comprises, in itself, adifficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude."

  "Ah!" said the Count, drawing out the tablets again, "ver good--finewords to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word polticsurprises by himself--" And down went Mr. Pickwick's remark, in CountSmorltork's tablets, with such variations and additions as the Count'sexuberant fancy suggested, or his imperfect knowledge of the languageoccasioned.

  "Count," said Mrs. Leo Hunter.

  "Mrs. Hunt," replied the Count.

  "This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick's, and a poet."

  "Stop!" exclaimed the Count, bringing out the tablets once more. "Head,potry--chapter, literary friends--name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introducedto Snowgrass--great poet, friend of Peek Weeks--by Mrs. Hunt, whichwrote other sweet poem--what is that name?--Frog--Perspiring Fog--vergood--ver good indeed." And the Count put up his tablets, and withsundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied thathe had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock ofinformation.

  "Wonderful man, Count Smorltork," said Mrs. Leo Hunter.

  "Sound philosopher," said Mr. Pott.

  "Clear-headed, strong-minded person," added Mr. Snodgrass.

  A chorus of bystanders took up the shout of Count Smorltork's praise,shook their heads sagely, and unanimously cried "Very!"

  As the enthusiasm in Count Smorltork's favour ran very high, hispraises might have been sung until the end of the festivities, ifthe four something-ean singers had not ranged themselves in frontof a small apple-tree, to look picturesque, and commenced singingtheir national songs, which appeared by no means difficult ofexecution, inasmuch as the grand secret seemed to be, that three ofthe something-ean singers should grunt, while the fourth howled. Thisinteresting performance having concluded amidst the loud plauditsof the whole company, a boy forthwith proceeded to entangle himselfwith the rails of a chair, and to jump over it, and crawl under it,and fall down with it, and do everything but sit upon it, and then tomake a cravat of his legs, and tie them round his neck, and then toillustrate the ease with which a human being can be made to look like amagnified toad--all which feats yielded high delight and satisfactionto the assembled spectators. After which the voice of Mrs. Pott washeard to chirp faintly forth, something which courtesy interpretedinto a song, which was all very classical, and strictly in character,because Apollo was himself a composer, and composers can very seldomsing their own music, or anybody else's, either. This was succeeded byMrs. Leo Hunter's recitation of her far-famed Ode to an Expiring Frog,which was encored once, and would have been encored twice, if the majorpart of the guests, who thought it was high time to get something toeat, had not said that it was perfectly shameful to take advantage ofMrs. Hunter's good nature. So although Mrs. Leo Hunter professed herperfect willingness to recite the ode again, her kind and considera
tefriends wouldn't hear of it on any account; and the refreshment roombeing thrown open, all the people who had ever been there before,scrambled in with all possible despatch: Mrs. Leo Hunter's usual courseof proceeding being, to issue cards for a hundred, and breakfast forfifty, or in other words to feed only the very particular lions, andlet the smaller animals take care of themselves.

  "Where is Mr. Pott?" said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaidlions around her.

  "Here I am," said the editor, from the remotest end of the room; farbeyond all hope of food, unless something was done for him by thehostess.

  "Won't you come up here?"

  "Oh pray don't mind him," said Mrs. Pott, in the most obligingvoice--"you give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs.Hunter. You'll do very well there, won't you--dear?"

  "Certainly--love," replied the unhappy Pott, with a grim smile. Alasfor the knout! The nervous arm that wielded it, with such giganticforce, on public characters, was paralysed beneath the glance of theimperious Mrs. Pott.

  Mrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smorltork was busilyengaged in taking notes of the contents of the dishes; Mr. Tupmanwas doing the honours of the lobster salad to several lionesses,with a degree of grace which no Brigand ever exhibited before; Mr.Snodgrass having cut out the young gentleman who cut up the booksfor the _Eatanswill Gazette_, was engaged in an impassioned argumentwith the young lady who did the poetry; and Mr. Pickwick was makinghimself universally agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render theselect circle complete, when Mr. Leo Hunter--whose department onthese occasions, was to stand about in doorways, and talk to the lessimportant people--suddenly called out--

  "My dear; here's Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall."

  "Oh dear," said Mrs. Leo Hunter, "how anxiously I have been expectinghim. Pray make room, to let Mr. Fitz-Marshall pass. Tell Mr.Fitz-Marshall, my dear, to come up to me directly, to be scolded forcoming so late."

  "Coming, my dear ma'am," cried a voice, "as quick as I can--crowds ofpeople--full room--hard work--very."

  Mr. Pickwick's knife and fork fell from his hand. He stared across thetable at Mr. Tupman, who had dropped _his_ knife and fork, and waslooking as if he were about to sink into the ground without furthernotice.

  "Ah!" cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the lastfive and twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, and Charles the Seconds,that remained between him and the table, "regular mangle--Baker'spatent--not a crease in my coat, after all this squeezing--mighthave 'got up my linen' as I came along--ha! ha! not a bad idea,that--queer thing to have it mangled when it's upon one, though--tryingprocess--very."

  With these broken words, a young man dressed as a naval officer madehis way up to the table and presented to the astonished Pickwickians,the identical form and features of Mr. Alfred Jingle.

  The offender had barely time to take Mrs. Leo Hunter's proffered hand,when his eyes encountered the indignant orbs of Mr. Pickwick.

  "Hallo!" said Jingle. "Quite forgot--no directions to postilion--give'em at once--back in a minute."

  "The servant, or Mr. Hunter, will do it in a moment, Mr.Fitz-Marshall," said Mrs. Leo Hunter.

  "No, no--I'll do it--shan't be long--back in no time," replied Jingle.With these words he disappeared among the crowd.

  "Will you allow me to ask you, ma'am," said the excited Mr. Pickwick,rising from his seat, "who that young man is, and where he resides?"

  "He is a gentleman of fortune, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Leo Hunter, "towhom I very much want to introduce you. The Count will be delightedwith him."

  "Yes, yes," said Mr. Pickwick, hastily. "His residence----"

  "Is at present at the Angel at Bury."

  "At Bury?"

  "At Bury St. Edmunds, not many miles from here. But dear me, Mr.Pickwick, you are not going to leave us: surely, Mr. Pickwick, youcannot think of going so soon."

  But long before Mrs. Leo Hunter had finished speaking, Mr. Pickwickhad plunged through the throng, and reached the garden, whither he wasshortly afterwards joined by Mr. Tupman, who had followed his friendclosely.

  "It's of no use," said Mr. Tupman. "He has gone."

  "I know it," said Mr. Pickwick, "and I will follow him."

  "Follow him! Where?" inquired Mr. Tupman.

  "To the Angel at Bury," replied Mr. Pickwick, speaking very quickly."How do we know whom he is deceiving there? He deceived a worthy manonce, and we were the innocent cause. He shall not do it again, if Ican help it; I'll expose him! Where's my servant?"

  "Here you are, sir," said Mr. Weller, emerging from a sequestered spot,where he had been engaged in discussing a bottle of Madeira, which hehad abstracted from the breakfast-table, an hour or two before. "Here'syour servant, sir. Proud o' the title, as the Living Skellinton said,ven they show'd him."

  "Follow me instantly," said Mr. Pickwick. "Tupman, if I stay at Bury,you can join me there, when I write. Till then, good-bye!"

  Remonstrances were useless. Mr. Pickwick was roused, and his mind wasmade up. Mr. Tupman returned to his companions; and in another hour haddrowned all present recollection of Mr. Alfred Jingle, or Mr. CharlesFitz-Marshall, in an exhilarating quadrille and a bottle of champagne.By that time, Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, perched on the outside ofa stage coach, were every succeeding minute placing a less and lessdistance between themselves and the good old town of Bury St. Edmunds.