Pickwick Abroad; or, The Tour in France — page 67: what you’re looking at

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

54 PICKWiCK ABROAD. thirsty, and a partial head-ache. Do not know whether the anxiety — which we experience on the eve of travelling, or the port-wine I drank last night at Snodgrass’s house, could be the cause of these disagree- able sensations. Questioned Sam on the subject, and thought he laughed slily. Excellent-hearted fellow, that Sam! Was a quarter of an hour too early for my breakfast, so took up the biography of myself and friends, and gianced cursorily over the notes which I have prepared for my editor, “ Boz.” Found that in 1827 I had made Mr. Jingle declare himself to have written a poem on the French Revolution, which only took place in 1830. Could not mean the first Revolution, as Mr. Jingle was present (according to my notes) at the one of which he wrote; and he was not born when the first be- gan. Must think of this: there is a grievous error somewhere. Discovered another error. In the »emoranda of a speech which I made on the night before my first sally-forth in search of adventures in 1827, I am represented to have said that “* philanthropy was my Swing /? Now the incendiary Swing—the fabled Uluminator of ail the hay-stacks in the kngdom—had not then acquired his name, ner was be known. Must correct this error also.* Made a hearty breakfast without any accident worth noticing, save that little James Weller, in playful sport, threw an egg on my tights, while his brother, 1n sympathetic mirth, decamped with my toast. ‘Tup- man and Winkle then made their appearance, and we prepared to set forth on our travels. Just as we were about to depart, received the following kind effusion from Snodgrass, written on pink paper which had been perfumed with musk. d/em.—’Tis the first specimen of his poetic genius J ever saw; but I always knew he was a poet. Indeed, } always said so,—and my friends thought as much. “Pickwick, immortal man! ’tis thine To foreign lands to pass; And, pitiless, you leave to pine Your own sincere Snodgrass! Upon the paper, as I write, My burning tears I sprinkle, And ev’ry fervent praver unite For Tupman, you, and Winkle! “Go,—Pickwick, go! ’Tis thine to brave The perils of the deep; And, oh! while thou art on the wave, May whales and sword-fish sleep! Thy mission is divinely plann’d— Angels have echo’d, ‘Up, man! Go forth unto a foreign land With Winkle and with Tupman? ‘Illustrious names! But thou, bright star, To thee ten millions raise Admiring eyes—on thee afar Mankind is pleas’d to gaze! new~wess ~ ~ * Weare sorry to find that Mr. Pickwick omitted these necessary corrections; and that his Editor, ‘‘ Boz,” has also unaccountablv suffered them to remain. Eomichooks.com