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Updated: May 19, 2025
The following letter needs no explanation for any who have studied the fortunes and admired the style of that celebrated and sanguine financier, Mr. Montague Tigg, in "Martin Chuzzlewit." His chance meeting with the romantic Comte de Monte Cristo naturally suggested to him the plans and hopes which he unfolds to an unsympathetic capitalist. 1542 Park Lane, May 27, 1848.
The chairman having taken his seat with great solemnity, the secretary supported him on his right hand, and the porter stood bolt upright behind them, forming a warm background of waistcoat. This was the board: everything else being a light-hearted little fiction. 'Bullamy! said Mr Tigg. 'Sir! replied the porter. 'Let the Medical Officer know, with my compliments, that I wish to see him.
Mr Crimple also departed on the business of the morning; and Jonas Chuzzlewit and Tigg were left alone. 'I learn from our friend, said Tigg, drawing his chair towards Jonas with a winning ease of manner, 'that you have been thinking 'Oh! Ecod then he'd no right to say so, cried Jonas, interrupting. 'I didn't tell HIM my thoughts.
'Oh, certainly, replied Tom, 'if you really wish it. So he accompanied Mr Tigg to the retreat in question; on arriving at which place that gentleman took from his hat what seemed to be the fossil remains of an antediluvian pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his eyes therewith. 'You have not beheld me this day, said Mr Tigg, 'in a favourable light. 'Don't mention that, said Tom, 'I beg.
'I wish I may die, said Mr Tigg, stretching out his body so far that his head was as much in Martin's little cell as Martin's own head was, 'but this is one of the most tremendous meetings in Ancient or Modern History! How are you? What is the news from the agricultural districts? How are our friends the P.'s? Ha, ha!
And finally he rose and looked out of the window, where he stood with a triumphant air until Tigg Montague had finished. 'And this is the last, Mr Nadgett! said that gentleman, drawing a long breath. 'That, sir, is the last. 'You are a wonderful man, Mr Nadgett! 'I think it is a pretty good case, he returned as he gathered up his papers. 'It cost some trouble, sir.
The book that suits them best is 'Martin Chuzzlewit. Its genial comedy, quite different from the violent delights of 'Pickwick, is well adapted to their grasp; while its tragedy, the murder of Montague Tigg the finest description of the breaking of the sixth commandment in the language leaves nothing to be desired in the way of excitement.
Flowers of gold and blue, and green and blushing red, were on his waistcoat; precious chains and jewels sparkled on his breast; his fingers, clogged with brilliant rings, were as unwieldly as summer flies but newly rescued from a honey-pot. The daylight mantled in his gleaming hat and boots as in a polished glass. And yet, though changed his name, and changed his outward surface, it was Tigg.
'What letter? 'The letter, whispered Tigg in the same cautious manner as before, 'which my friend Pecksniff addressed to Chevy Slyme, Esquire, and left with you. 'He didn't leave any letter with me, said Tom. 'Hush! cried the other. 'It's all the same thing, though not so delicately done by my friend Pecksniff as I could have wished. The money. 'The money! cried Tom quite scared.
'Now, said Mr Tigg, clapping one hand on the shoulder of his prepossessing friend, and calling Mr Pecksniff's attention to him with the other, 'you two are related; and relations never did agree, and never will; which is a wise dispensation and an inevitable thing, or there would be none but family parties, and everybody in the world would bore everybody else to death.
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