The Pickwick Papers

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In the year 1836, Messrs. Chapman and Hall, the

publisher, 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 honorable 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 honored

guest.

Mrs. Leo Hunter.

Thank you. And as another honored 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 honor.

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.

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Ah, cabman, to the Golden Cross.

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How old is that horse, cabman?

42? Extraordinary. I really must make a note of

that for our next meeting of the club. But does he

never

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.

- Music-

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.

Control yourself.

Here's the lot. Go to work on him, Sam.

What's the wrap?

Would you believe as a company informer that a

man

would use a man's cab and not only take his number

down,

but every word he says in the bargain?

Did he now?

Informer.

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 honored 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 about anything we

find particularity interesting, when he without

any -

He's an informer.

What? Respected gentleman. Know him Well.

What's your number?

Take some off 924, before I... License. None of your

nonsense. Step this way, sir. ALL a mistake. Never

mind. Never say die. Worse things happened at sea.

Jingles the name, sir. Alfred Jingle, Esquire. Step

this way, sir. 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.

No, no, sir.

Oh, no, please, please.

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. Old

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 remains 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 idea, dear sir.

Will you allow me to note that Little romance down,

sir?

Certainly, sir. Certainly. 50 more if you

care to hear them. Strange Life, mine. Only one

ambition left.

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