Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 315: what you’re looking at

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258 Pickwick Abroad. 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 brosia and nectur; or such Jike 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 mcensed servant: ‘**do I mean to say so, indeed? Yes—I 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. “Qh! 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. insinivating that one doesn’t dine atall? 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!” cred Mr. Pickwick, in astonishment. ‘ And is he, really so poor ?” _ ‘““Oh! poor fellow, indeed!” returned the girl: ‘‘it isn’t him as. suffers, 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,’ soya I, ‘to be sure, Sir,’ says I; and then he swears that I’ve driven a host of hideas out of his head.” - ‘Extraordinary !” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as he scanned the: lmeaments of the girl’s face to ascertain if he might believe her or not :. but no blush betrayed iteelf- 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 COL q) 1 SOO |KS,EO