Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 310: what you’re looking at

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

258 PICKWICK ABRUAD. many days out o’ the veek he lives upon air, Them poets is wonderful for livin’ on that wery wholesome helement.” ‘‘ Are they, indeed?” said Mr. Pickwick, musing. ‘‘Are they not?’”’ continued the girl, indignantly, as if her word had been doubted. ‘‘ Why—blest if I don’t think that they’ve got Imagination enow to fancy they’ve had a good dinner, when they ain’t a-had no wittles at all. Mr. Chitty’s always a talkin’ of dinin’ with some folks he calls the Gods, and livin’ on hambrosia and nectur; or such like made dishes, wot no decent cook ’udn’t meddle with. I’m sure I’ve looked all over the cookery-book to find out the receipts for making them things; but ‘it’s all wanity and wexation o’ sperit.’”’ ‘‘Do you mean to assert, my good girl,” said the compassionate Mr. Pickwick, “that your master ever goes without a dinner ?”’ “Do I mean to say so?” exclaimed the really incensed servant: “*do I mean to say so, indeed? Yes—lI does;’—and the young lady flourished a mop, which she held in her hand, with such peculiar dexterity and skill, that Mr. Pickwick’s head fortunately stood no danger of being broken. ‘‘ And, pray, where does he dine, then, my dear,” continued Mr Pickwick, retreating to a short distance beyond the reach of the play- tul mop, ‘‘ when he has no food at home?” “Where? Why—with Duke Humphrey, to be sure,” was the im- mediate reply. ‘Oh! well—then, in that case, he is not so very badly off,” observed Mr. Pickwick. ‘‘Indeed, I should question whether he were not better at his Grace’s table than elsewhere.” ‘‘ Come, that is a good ’un!”’ exclaimed the girl. ‘‘ What! don’t ou know that dinin’ with Duke Humphrey is a prowerbial vay of msinivating that one doesn’t dine at all? But them poets is wonderful for imagination. They fancies they has a belly-full ven there's nothink but a woid in them quarters. ' “ Poor fellow!’’ cried Mr. Pickwick, in astonishment. “ And is he really so poor ?’” ‘“‘Qh! poor fellow, indeed!” returned the girl: ‘‘it isn’t him as wiffers, for he can live by hinspiration, he says; but I must starve. I don’t suppose you thinks me a poet also?” Mr. Pickwick immediately relieved the young lady of her fears on this head, and that singular specimen of the sisterhood of maids-of- all-work proceeded with her discourse, “Oh! you should just see my lord in his flannel dressin’-gown of a mornin’, valkin’ up and down the lumber-closet, which he calls his ‘study,’ and spoutin’ all kinds of gammon to his-self! Sometimes he talks about the nightingale a-tunin’ her pipe; and then he says, says he, ‘ Betsy, my dear— what’s a rhyme for pipe ?’ says he.—‘ Tripe,’ says I, ‘ to be sure, Sir,’ says I; and then he swears that I’ve driven a host of hide..s cut of his head.” “‘Extraord.aary!” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as he scanned the lineaments of the gir'’s face to ascertain if he might believe her or not: but no blush be‘*ssyed itself upon the cheek of that unsophisticated female; so the note-book on a future occasion was enriched with the particulars of her discourse, ‘‘ Extr’ordinary!”” observed the girl, politely saving Echo the 6)(0)() a S = a .S (c@)