Pickwick Abroad; or, The Tour in France — page 343: what you’re looking at

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

330 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 into the country with his barbarous hordes.” ‘¢ Are the Chinese good poets, my lord?” enquired Mr. Snodgrass, eculiarly 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 lhe ever clothed in words from his brother-poets. Next there’s—” “Don’t you think this a very dull part of the road 2” 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 wite, 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 im 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 Pickwickiad, which I intend to publish one day. Are you a poet, my lord?” “Mr. Snodgrass, I’m every thing,” returned the Count. “ When a man has travelled as I have travelled, he is every thing. He 1s his own barber—his own banker—his own baker. He becomes a politi- cian as well as a poet. Why, what do you thmk was my scheme, | when I proposed to my unfortunate fellow-countrymen, the defeated comiecbooks.com — + , a - Sie a y eet ad» eh le ®