Pickwick Abroad; or, The Tour in France — page 328: what you’re looking at

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

, ", ‘ * : a s PICKWICK ABROAD. 315 SONG. It is sweet to recline on the bank Of a softly meandering stream, Where the traveller often has drank, And the primrose and butter-cup gleam. But ’tis sweeter to hail at your board, When the lamp’s burning bright with its thick wick, And when ev’ry decanter ’s well stored, Such a friend as the excellent Pickwick! It is swect to recline in a bower With a maiden—the choice of your heart When you’re confident no human power Can command you in haste to depart. But ’tis sweeter to see by your side One to whom you can say, “ Fill your cup, man!” While you feel that your guest is the pride Of a nation that boasts of its Tupman! it 1s sweet to read love in the eyes Of a maiden returning your kiss; It is sweet to respond to her sighs,— But there ’s happiness greater than this. For *tis sweeter libations of wine To the glory of Friendship to sprinkle, When the juices of Burgundy’s vine Are poured forth to the honour of Winkle! Mr. Pickwick rose, in the name of himself and his two friends, to return thanks for this very handsome compliment. It was true that he and his companions had made some little noise in the world; and he felt proud to say that his travels in France were not less calculated to enhance his reputation, and that of his fellow-voyagers, than those in England. He had landed in Calais a stranger to France and the French: he had been triumphantly carried on the shoulders of the populace to his hotel; and during his residence in Paris he had met with a variety of adventures, all of which he should take care to put on record. (Hear, hear! and ‘‘Lllud eo est—that’s the go,” from Mr, Septimus Chetty.) Mr. Pickwick thanked his friends for this renewal of applause. He repeated his words—he had met with strange adventures, and had seen strange sights. He had been taken up for a thief, because he once put on a brown wig; and he had trotted from the village of Boulogne to Paris upon a French donkey. He had had astring tied round his toes by some invisible agents at Maurice’s hotel; and he had supped in amad-house. How many—and he was proud to ask the question—how many of his fellow-countrymen, he should like to know, had done so much in so short a time? (Mone— none /) His friends had also met with their adventures, and had well earned ¢hew reputation. His friend Tupman had undertaken a journey to St. Omers under the most extraordinary circumstances, It was no use of his friend Tupman to kick him under the table: for his friend Tupman knew full well that this journey had been undertaken, and that the circumstances were extre- ordinary.) (Yes — yes,—hear—hear ! and ‘So they were!” from Mr. Winkle.) Such were the claims of himself and his friends upen public notice; and it was his intention, with the Eomichbooks (E(@) 5}