The Pickwick Papers

In the year 1836,

Messrs Chapman and Hall, the publishers,

paid the vast sum of 14 pounds a month

to a comparatively obscure young journalist of 24 years of age

to write a series of comic adventures

around an imaginary club and the misadventures of its members.

His name was Charles Dickens,

and he obliged by creating The Pickwick Club,

forthwith bestowing immortal fame

upon this little gentleman you now see before you,

Mr Samuel Pickwick himself.

So now pray silence for his noble and poetic

fellow Pickwickian and club secretary,

Mr Augustus Snodgrass.

In view of the success of the paper just read to us

by our honourable chairman, Mr Samuel Pickwick,

entitled "Speculations on the Source of the Hampstead Ponds

With Some Observations on the Theory of Tittlebats",

I wish to move the motion

that he should now enlarge his sphere of observation

by journeying forth into the length and breadth of England

accompanied by Mr Tracy Tupman,

the club authority on matters of romantic conquest,

Mr Nathaniel Winkle,

the all-round sportsman of the group, and myself.

I second this motion.

Mr Wardle?

As a guest of this distinguished club,

I hereby extend my hospitality to Mr Pickwick

when so ever his explorations take him to Kent,

where I'll insist on him putting up at Dingley Dell Farm

as my honoured guest.

Mrs Leo Hunter.

Thank you. And as another honoured guest,

I hereby extend my invitation to Mr Pickwick

when his literary pilgrimage brings him to Etonsville,

at which time I shall arrange

one of my celebrated literary breakfasts in his honour.

Here, here.

Well, off they go, Mrs Bardell.

- Good-bye, my fine little lad. - Good-bye, Mr Pickwick.

Good-bye, Mrs Bardell.

Good-bye, Mr Pickwick, and a safe journey.

Thank you, thank you.

Ah, cabman, to the Golden Cross.

- How old is that horse, cabman? - 42.

42? Extraordinary!

I really must make a note of that

for our next meeting of the club.

I say, does he ever suffer from fatigue?

Only when we take him out of the cab.

Then he always falls down.

But when he's in it, we bear him up very tight

and take him in when it's cold,

and we got a pair of large prize wheels on,

so that when he moves, they run after him.

He has to keep up, he can't help it.

Bless my soul. Verification cab number 924.

42.

Mr Tupman, Mr Snodgrass, Mr Winkle,

Mr Pickwick. All ready for fay eh?

Here's your fare.

That for your shilling,

and I request the pleasure of fighting you for it.

- Come on, stick up your hands. - What?

- Must be mad. - Or drunk.

Or both.

Come on, all four of you.

Come, control yourself, now.

Here's a lark. Go to work on him, Sam.

What's the riot, man?

Would you believe that a common informer,

that a man would use a man's cab,

and not only take his number down,

but every word he says into the bargain?

Did he now?

Yes he did.

Then agitates me into assault

and then gets three witnesses here to prove it.

I'll get even with him, even if I do six months.

Come on!

Stay! Hold! Desist! Enough! What's the commotion?

My dear sir, my name is Pickwick. Samuel Pickwick.

I'm chairman of the Pickwick Club,

of which these gentlemen happen to be honoured members and my friends.

I was merely making a few notes on the extreme age

and singular habits of this cabman's horse,

it being our custom in the club to collect and comment upon

anything we find particularly interesting,

- when he without any... - He's an informer!

What? Respected gentleman. Know him well. What's your number?

- 924. - Take some off, 924 before...

None of your nonsense. Step this way sir.

All a mistake. Never mind. Never say die.

Worse things happened at sea.

Jingle's the name, sir. Alfred Jingle, Esquire.

Step this way, sir. Now come along now.

That's right. Stand back there, please.

Straight the way through, sir. That's right. That's right.

Little weak in the knees, sir? Natural reaction.

Recover in no time. There.

I'm well adjusted to the strange mutability of human affairs, sir.

A philosopher, sir?

- An observer of human nature, sir. - So am I. Poet too?

No. My friend Mr Snodgrass has a strong poetic turn.

So have I.

Ah, change for a fiver, waiter?

- No, no, my dear sir. I'll privilege... - What will it be, sir?

I insist.

Well, if you insist.

- Your heath, sir. - And yours, gentlemen.

Fine girl. Not a patch on the Spanish, though.

Ah, noble creatures.

Jet hair, black eyes, lovely forms, sweet creatures. Beautiful.

You have been in Spain, sir?

Second home.

Many conquests, sir?

Thousands. Don Bolaro Fizzgig. Grandee.

Only daughter. Donna Christina. Loved me to distraction.

Jealous father. Handsome Englishman.

Donna Christina in despair. Prussic acid.

Oh.

Stomach pump in portmanteau. Saved life.

Oh Bolaro in ecstasies. Consent to union.

Romantic story, very.

Is the lady in England now, sir?

Dead, sir. Dead.

- Dead, sir? - Dead.

What cause, sir?

Never recovered from the stomach pump. Undermined constitution.

And her father?

Remorse and misery. Suddenly disappeared. Not a trace.

Her public fountain in Main Square, suddenly ceased to play.

Workmen employed to clean it.

Father-in-law discovered sticking head first in main pipe.

Full confession in right boot.

Most singular, my dear sir.

Will you allow me to note that little romance down, sir?

Certainly, sir. Certainly. 50 more if you care to hear.

Strange life, mine. Only one ambition left.

Always wanted to settle down in Demerara, West Indies.

Perfect climate. Pineapple rum.

Gentlemen planter. Elegant. Very.

Ah, the coach.

- My luggage. - Here it is, sir.

Ah. Thank you. Of course, that's not all.

Rest has gone on ahead by water.

Packing cases as big as houses.

Now, where are you bound for, sir?

To the Bull Inn, Rochester, sir.

The Bull Inn, Rochester? Why, so am I.

Excellent food. Be my guest, sir. I insist.

- After you, sir. - Oh no, no, sir.

- I insist. A privilege. Thank you sir.

The objects of the Pickwick club.

Why, I do believe Mr Winkle has fallen asleep.

Good gracious, so has Mr Snodgrass.

Ah, mulled wine. Excellent.

Waiter, fill up all around. No expense spared.

In vino veritas. No heel taps.

- Ah, you were saying, thus. - Was I? - Mmm.

Oh, yes, yes. The objects of the Pickwick club.

To study human nature and to be of service to it.

Ever vigilant.

What's going on upstairs, waiter? Lamps, glasses, harps?

A ball, sir, in aid of charity.

Tickets at the bar, sir. Half a guinea.

Half guinea? Reasonable.

Many fine women in this town, do you know, sir?

Devastating. Everyone knows Kent.

Apples, cherries, hops, women.

Could we go to the ball, Mr Pickwick?

Beginning, fiddles tuning, now the harps.

Off they go!

Ladies, God bless them.

Oh, I should like to go very much. Very much.

So should I. Confounded luggage. No rag to back.

No money till bank opens in the morning. Provoking. Very.

I should be happy not only to take you as my guest

- No, no, please, please, please. - But I insist.

And also to lend you a suit of mine for the occasion.

But you are rather slim, and I...

Rather fat. A Bacchus dismounted from tub.

Have some wine.

I was about to observe that a suit of my friend

Mr Winkle would perhaps fit you better.

He has a new blue coat with the club buttons.

His own invention,

and not yet officially in use by the rest of us.

Just the thing.

Let music be the food of love.

Play on. Give me excess of it.

Et cetera and so forth.

After you, sir.

Music -

Charming group. Pompous doctor. Army. Gaudy.

Lady in black, ageing widow. Lots of money.

The first chance to get our dance with widow.

Doctor's nose out of joint. Entertaining. Very.

Do you know the lady, sir?