Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 203: what you’re looking at

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

158 Pickwick Abroad. their appearance when it was deemed prudent to get ready for de- parture. The waiter was accordingly desired to tell Mr. Weller te fetch a coach forthwith; and in ten minutes the last-named gentleman returned with the pleasing information that ‘‘ number von thousand and von vos a-vaitin’.”’ , ‘‘ That’s nght,” said Mr. Pickwick, leaping gaily from his chair, and hastening to possess himself of his hat. But when he proceeded to investigate the place where he had left it, he found that his own was gone, and that a most grotesquelooking substitute had been left instead. ‘‘ What can this mean?” thought Mr. Pickwick within himself; and he scrutinized the strange beaver with a look of the most unmitigated disgust. It was a tall, narrow-brimmed, conical- shaped hat, and bore a very strong resemblance to an inverted flower- ot. “‘ Vot’s the matter now, Sir?” enquired Mr. Weller, suspecting that there was something wrong, and deeming it prudent to interfere. ‘“‘ This is not my hat, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, peevishly. * Ain’t it raly, though ?”’ cried Mr. Weller. ‘‘ No more it ain’t. Vell—if ever I see such a rig in all my life, ’m blow’d. But arter all, that there thatch is a new von; and here’s somethin’ written in it too, as the young lady observed ven the post-man give her the W alentine.”’ ‘ is Mr. Weller had taken the hat in his hands during the progress of his critical remarks; and now holding it up to the light, he saw printed on the lining thereof, in tolerably long letters, the words— ‘‘ JEREMIAH ScuTTLE.” Thus was the mystery at once unravelled; and as Mr. Pickwick had now lost the only two hats he had brought from England with him—one in a ditch, and the other on Mr, Scuttle’s head—and that which he had purchased at Boulogne being of a more outré shape than even the one his domestic now held in his hand, he was obliged to yield to necessity and adorn his cranium with Mr. Scuttle’s property for the present. The circumstance was the origin of a considerable quantity of laughter, particularly on the part of Mr. Weller, who, in the height of facetiousness, was pleased to liken his illustrious master toa ‘‘ moveable stack of chimbleys, vith von chimbly-pot on the top.’”’ To the opera, however, did Mr. Pick- wick proceed, in the company of Mr. Hook Walker, Mr. Tracy Tup- man, and Mr. Nathaniel Winkle. Nothing can exceed the astonishment, the admiration and delight of our three travellers—for Mr. Walker was already familiar with the scene—when the splendour of the Opera-house burst upon them as they burst into it. The boxes were filled with fashionable and many lovely persons—plumes waved—bright eyes met the glance in all directions—and the component parts of the whole appeared to be magnificence, light, and beauty. Thanks to the good management of Mr. Walker, the four gentlemen were speedily accommodated with as many convenient seats in one of the boxes precisely fronting the stage; and when the screen—for in France the shabby green curtain is universally eschewed—was drawn up, the raptures of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and Mr. Winkle knew no bounds. The opera was William Tell: the charms of the GOmMmicdooks (E()