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Pickwick and the lady in yellow curl-papers; but the absence of that innocence which heightens Mr. Pickwick's distresses was welcome to admirers of what Lady Mary Wortley Montagu calls "gay reading." She wrote from abroad, in 1752, "There is something humorous in R. Random, that makes me believe that the author is H. Fielding" her kinsman. Her ladyship did her cousin little justice.
But Mrs. Bardell had fainted in his arms, and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardell entered the room, followed by Mr. Pickwick's friends Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. "What is the matter?" said the three Pickwickians. "I don't know!" replied Mr. Pickwick; while the ever gallant Mr. Tupman led Mrs. Bardell, who said she was better, downstairs.
Bob Sawyer at once hurried into the house to superintend the arrangements; in less than five minutes he returned and declared them to be excellent. The quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bob had pronounced, and very great justice was done to it, not only by that gentleman, but Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Pickwick also. Pickwick's part.
Weller, besides appearing fully resolved to carry it into execution, seemed so deeply mortified by Mr. Pickwick's refusal, that that gentleman, after a short reflection, said 'Well, well, Mr. Weller, I will keep your money. I can do more good with it, perhaps, than you can. 'Just the wery thing, to be sure, said Mr. Weller, brightening up; 'o' course you can, sir.
Weller, 'I should like to know, in the first place, whether you're a-goin' to purwide me with a better? A sunbeam of placid benevolence played on Mr. Pickwick's features as he said, 'I have half made up my mind to engage you myself. 'Have you, though? said Sam. Mr. Pickwick nodded in the affirmative. 'Wages? inquired Sam. 'Twelve pounds a year, replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Clothes? 'Two suits.
Pickwick's admirers, is within walking distance from Gad's Hill Place, and was the object of daily visits from its occupants. The ancient castle, one of the best ruins in England, as Dickens loved to say, because less has been done to it, rises with rugged walls precipitously from the river.
There are two journeys in the book from Eatanswill to Bury, which seem to furnish data for both theories the Ipswich and the Norwich ones. But if we have to take the dejeuner in its literal sense, and put it early in the day, say, at eleven, and Mr. Pickwick's arrival at Bury, "wery late," as Sam had it, we have some six hours, or, say, forty miles, covered by the journey. But the events at Mrs.
Pickwick's disclosures, he becomes very rational and amiable. We may wonder, too, how the latter could have accepted hospitality from, or have sat down at the board of, the man who treated him in so gross a fashion, and, further, that after accepting this entertainment, Mr. Pickwick should take an heroic and injured tone, recalling his injuries as he withdrew, but after his dinner.
Pickwick's heels; and, pointing up at a house they were passing, said 'Wery nice pork-shop that 'ere, sir. 'Yes, it seems so, said Mr. Pickwick. 'Celebrated sassage factory, said Sam. 'Is it? said Mr. Pickwick. 'Is it! reiterated Sam, with some indignation; 'I should rayther think it was.
Weller; who, after a most vigorous resistance, was overpowered by numbers and taken prisoner. The procession then reformed; the chairmen resumed their stations; and the march was re-commenced. Mr. Pickwick's indignation during the whole of this proceeding was beyond all bounds.
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