Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 399: what you’re looking at

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

— 830 Pickwick Abroad, — “All over the world, Sir,’ was the instantaneous reply. ‘I was employed on a mission to the Emperor of China some time ago, by the Czar of Russia. The fact is, we wanted to make a rail-road from St. Petersburg to Peking; but the narrow-minded Chinese Govern- ment wouldn’t agree to it because they would be obliged to knock down a part of their great wall, and thus allow my friend the Cham of Tartary to penetrate ito the country with his barbarous hordes.”’ _ “Are the Chinese good poets, my lord 2”? enquired Mr. Snodgrass, peculiarly edified with this conversation. | “Oh! yes—tolerably,’’ was the answer. ‘° There’s Southi-fum, who wrote an entire epic poem in six weeks, about some heroine or an- other. He’s poet-laureate to the Emperor; and if he has a single fault, it is that he has purloined every idea he ever clothed in words from his brother-poets. Next there’s—” ‘Don’t you think this a very dull part of the road?” interrupted Mr: Snodgrass, as they left Samer, where they had changed horses, a _ couple of miles behind them. ‘* Just the spot on which I was robbed three years ago,” coolly ob- served the Count; ‘‘and where the old nobleman, his wife, and seven- teen lovely infants were all massacred by banditti about six weeks back.”’ ‘* You—you—don/t think—there s—really—any cause for alarm ?”’ whispered Mr. Snodgrass. ‘‘'The devil I don’t!” exclaimed the Count. ‘ But { do, though.” ‘““God bless us both!” murmured Mr. Snodgrass, falling back in the vehicle, and giving vent to the most piteous lamentations. ‘“‘Thank heavens, I have my pistols,” said the Count, putting his hands into his great-coat pockets, and drawing them out again. ‘* Gad, they’d have a little difficulty to get my purse out of me! Id die first, as General—as the Great Cham used to say.” - “ You wouldn’t—you couldn’t do me such a favour—Oh! no—I dare not ask you!” said Mr. Snodgrass: ‘* your lordship would think I was too bold.” ‘¢ Speak—my dear friend—speak !”’ cried the Count, with the most affectionate interest. ‘‘ In a moment we may be attacked—and any thing that I can do to serve you, I will.” ‘‘ My—my purse, my lord,’’ murmured Mr. Snodgrass, handing that useful little piece of portable furniture to the Count: “‘ would you Keep it for me?’ ‘Oh! certainly,” returned the Count, with amiable condescension : ‘* most certainly !’*°—and his lordship kindly conveyed the purse to his pocket, much to the satisfaction of his companion, who merely re- tained a couple of hundred francs in his own. _ T have, as you may suppose,” observed Mr. Snodgrass, after a mo- ment’s pause,—‘‘ I have myself cultivated poetry to a considerable extent. I have composed a poem, called the Pzckwickiad, which I intend to publish one day. Are you a poet, my lord 2” ‘Mr. Snodgrass, I’m every thing,”’ returned the Count. ‘“ When a man has travelled as I have travelled, he is every thing. He is his own barber—his own banker—his own baker. He becomes a politi- cian as well as a poet. Why, what do you think was my scheme, when I proposed to my unfortunate fellow-countrymen, the defeated Gomichbooks.com