Pickwick Abroad: A Companion to the Pickwick Papers — page 262: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

30 CHAPTER VI. VAUXHALL. 1 KNow that the tune I am piping is a very mild one (although there are some ter- rific chapters coming presently), and must beg the good-natured reader to remember, that we are only discoursing at present, about a stock-broker’s family in Rvussell- square, who are taking walks, or luncheon, or dinner, or talking and making love as peo- ple do in common life, and without a single passionate and wonderful incident to mark the progress of their loves. The argument stands thus—QOsborne in love with Amelia, has asked an old friend to dinner and to Vauxhall—Jos Sedley is in love with Rebec- ca. Will he marry her? That is the great subject now in hand. We might have treated this subject in the genteel, or in the romantic, or in the face- tious manner. Suppose we had laid the scene in Grosvenor-square, with the very same adventures—would not some people have listened ? how Lord Joseph Sedley fell in love, and the Marquis of Osborne became attached to Lady Amelia, with the full consent of the duke, her noble father: or instead of the supremely genteel, suppose we had resorted to the entirely low, and described what was - going on in Mr. Sedley’s kitchen; how black Sambo was in love with the cook (as indeed he was), and how he fought a battle with the coachman in her behalf; how the knife-boy was caught stealing a cold shoulder of mutton, and Miss Sedley’s new femme de chambre refused to go to bed without a wax candle; such incidents might be made to provoke much delightful laughter, and be supposed to represent scenes of “life.” Or if, on the contrary, we had taken a fancy for the terrible, and made the lover of the new femme de chambre a professional burg- lar, who bursts into the house with his band, slaughters black Sambo at the feet of his master, and carries off Amelia in her night-dress, not to be let loose again till the third volume, we should easily have con- structed a tale of thrilling interest, through the fiery chapters of which the reader should hurry panting. Fancy this chapter having been headed THE NIGHT ATTACK. The night was dark and wild—the clouds black—black—ink-black. The wild wind tore the chimney-pots from the roofs of the old houses and sent the tiles whirling and crashing through the desolate streets. No soul braved that tempest—the watchmen shrank into their boxes, whither the search- ing rain followed them—where the crashing thunderbolt fell and destroyed them—one nad so been slain opposite the Foundling. A scorched gaberdine, a shivered lantern, Suppose we had shown VANITY FAIR. a staff rent in twain by the flash, were all that remained of stout Will Steadfast. A hackney coachman had been blown off his coach-box, in Southampton Row — and whither ?. But the whirlwind tells no ti- dings of its victim, save his parting scream as he is borne onward! Horrible night! It was dark, pitch dark; no moon. No, no. No moon. Not astar. Not a little feeble, twinkling, solitary star. There had been one at early evening, but he showed his face, shuddering, for a moment in the black heaven, and then retreated back. One, two, three! It is the signal that Black Vizard had agreed on. ‘“Mofy! is that your snum?’’ said a voice from the area. ‘T’ll gully the dag and bimbole the clicky in a snuffkin.”’ ‘¢ Nuffle your clod, and beladle your glum- banions,’”’ said Vizard, with a dreadful oath. “This way, men; if they screak, out with your snickers and slick! Look to the pewter room, Blowser. You, Mark, to the old gaff’s mopus box! and I,’ added he, in a lower but more horrible voice, ‘I will look to Amelia!” There was a dead silence. ‘Ha!’ said Vizard, ‘“‘was that the click of.a pistol ?”? Or suppose we adopted the genteel rose- water style. The Marquis-ef Osborne has just despatched his petit tigre with a billet- dour to the Lady Amelia. The dear creature has received’ it — the hand of her femme de chambre, Made- moiselle Anastasie. Dear Marquis! what amiable politeness! His lordship’s note contains the wished-for invitation to Devonshire House! ‘Who is that monstrous fine girl,” said the Semillant Prince G—rge of C—mbr—dge, at a mansion in Piccadilly the same evening (having just arrived from the omnibus at the opera). ‘* My dear Sedley, in the name of all the Cupids, introduce me to her !” “Her name, Monsergneur,” said Lord Joseph, bowing gravely, ‘is Sedley.” ‘+ Vous avez alors un bien beau nom,” said the young prince, turning on his heel rather disappointed, and treading on the foot of an old gentleman who stood behind, in deep admiration of the beautiful Lady Ameiia. “ Trente mille tonnerres !” shouted the vic- tim, writhing under the agonie du moment. ‘‘] beg a thousand pardons of your grace,” said the young étowrdi, blushing, and bend- ing low his fair curls. He had trodden on the toe of the great captain of the age ! ‘Oh, Devonshire!” cried the young prince, to a tall and good-natured nobleman, whose features proclaimed him of the blood of the Cavendishes. ‘*A word with you! Have you still a mind to part with your diamond necklace ?”’ ‘¢T have sold it for two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, to Prince Easterhazy here.” CORNIEDO® (C SHAlEO