Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 62: what you’re looking at

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

Lay CHAPTER V. MR. WELLER IS EXTRICATED FROM HIS DIFFICULTIES.—THE HANDSOME CONDUCT OF THE COMMISSARY OF POLICE.——-MR. CRASHEM INSTRUCTS MR. WINKLE IN A CHEAP AND INNOCENT MORNING'S AMUSEMENT. So early as six o’clock in the morning did the waiter arouse Mr, Pick- wick from his slumbers, just at the critical moment when that gentle- man was snoring and dreaming away in a manner at once physically and morally beautiful to a degree. Mr. Pickwick’s nasal murmurs resembled the rich deep tones of a basoon; and his visions carried him back to those eventful days when his club was im all its glory. With his mental eye—for his corporeal one was shut fast as a prison door—did this truly great man behold himself mounted on a chair and addressing the members whom smoke and brandy-and-water, in con-— junction with his eloquence, had almost involved in a delicious and enviable state of insensibility. The ulustrious orator himself felt somewhat unsteady; and as he was in the very cream of a statistical account relative to the consumption of raw spirits in the classic re- - gions of Saint Giles, he appeared to totter—his body swayed to and fro—and with a great start he endeavoured to catch at something to save himself from falling—when the president exclaimed—‘ Six o clock, Sir!’ and Mr. Pickwick awoke, as above stated. ‘Singular,’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sitting up in his bed, and rubbing his eyes as if he wished to extract fire from them by excessive friction: ‘‘ very singular—but, it was only adream !””"—and Mr. Pick- wick smiled complacently underneath his nightcap. “Six o'clock, Sir!” cried the waiter. ‘Shall I bring up some hot water, or send the barber to shave you, Sir ?” ‘Six, is it?” cried Mr. Pickwick, somewhat discontentedly; ‘‘ and ~ Idesired you to call me at half-past seven.” ‘“¢ Yes, Sir,” returned the waiter, ‘‘ but—”’ ‘‘ But what ?” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, taking his spectacles from under his pillow, and putting them on to scan the waiter from top to toe, by way of discovering his meaning. ‘You are wanted, Sir,” said that functionary with extreme reluct- ance. ‘““ Wanted! where—at breakfast?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, his countenance brightening up, and relapsing into smiles. ‘‘ Very good, waiter. Let’s have some broiled ham and eggs.” ‘‘ Breakfast is not quite ready yet, Sir,” returned the waiter; “ and it is out o’ doors that you’re wanted, Sir.” “The coach is not ready, then?” cried Mr. Pickwick in consider- able alarm. . | : | ‘“No, Sir: but the Commissary of Police is; and he has senta gen- darme, with his kind compliments, to say that he would be glad if you'd step up to his office at the Town-hall for a few minutes.” ‘A gendarme!” cried Mr. Pickwick. ‘“‘ Has any thing happened, then, waiter, this morning ?” D CORNICLOOOKS (C(O)