Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 88: what you’re looking at

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

| bi ee, Pickwick Abroad. 55 And Fame is ready to recite The deeds that thou shalt tell her ; Great planet! with thy satellite, Th’ immortal Samuel Weller! ** Pickwick! with Winkle as thy spear, And Tupman as thy shield, Armies of French thou need’st not fear To combat in the field. And when your foes, to danger blind, Lie scattered on the sod-grass, A laureate poet thou shalt find In me—Augustus Snodgrass! “* Whilst thou art roaming far away, In search of fresh renown, And while I hear thy name each day The topic of the town ; Dall as a rush-light that appears As if it had a sick wick, "Tis mine to pass the day in tears During thine absence, Pickwick !”’ Read this effusion three times. Tupman, rather angry at being taken for a shield,—thought it alluded to the width of his person. inkle in high spirits at the allusion to his courage. After all, Snodgrass is a very clever fellow. At length safely mounted on the top of the coach, Tupman next to an old lady to whom he has already offered a biscuit, and Sam regal- ing the d from a case-bottle full of brandy. Stopped at Shooters’ Hill, and saw old Mr. Weller, who, in his own peculiarly native and original language, assured us that he is *“‘ much better in a public than if he had kept a pike.” Could not help admiring the notice to travel- lers that is painted in large letters over the door of old Mr. Weller’s inn. It ran as follows :— “‘This is the house of Tony Weller— Good stabling,—good beds,—and good cellar ; All them as enters in it, Would rayther stay an hour than a minute.” Strongly suspect Snodgrass wrote this: very much in his style. The ar may have been perverted by the artizan who printed the let- ters. Nothing but poetry to-day. Took a glass of ale with old Mr. Weller to drink his health—a ditto of bitters to correct the acidity of the ale—and a dzééo of hot brandy-and- water to keep us warm outside the coach. Tupman insisted upon the old lady’s taking a glass of ditto also. I did not see the necessity of this. Winkle joined us in each diéto. Unfortunate gentleman, who sate near us, suddenly recollected he had forgotten his purse. He had known me intimately in my younger days ;—dined with my uncle, he said, fourteen years ago, with whom he had left his watch, and had never called for it since. Conversation turning on heraldic blazonry, unfortunate gentleman told me that his uncle’s escutcheon bore the arms of Lombardy. Man of some rank, COIa stor q) (c@