Published by @piggymouse1 on 2018-12-15
‘I takes my determination on principle, Sir,’ remarked Sam, ‘and you takes yours on the same ground; wich puts me in mind o’ the man as killed his-self on principle, wich o’ course you’ve heerd on, Sir.’ Mr. Weller paused when he arrived at this point, and cast a comical look at his master out of the corners of his eyes.
‘There is no “of course” in the case, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, gradually breaking into a smile, in spite of the uneasiness which Sam’s obstinacy had given him. ‘The fame of the gentleman in question, never reached my ears.’
‘No, sir!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller. ‘You astonish me, Sir; he wos a clerk in a gov’ment office, sir.’
‘Was he?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Yes, he wos, Sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘and a wery pleasant gen’l’m’n too–one o’ the precise and tidy sort, as puts their feet in little India-rubber fire-buckets wen it’s wet weather, and never has no other bosom friends but hare-skins; he saved up his money on principle, wore a clean shirt ev’ry day on principle; never spoke to none of his relations on principle, ‘fear they shou’d want to borrow money of him; and wos altogether, in fact, an uncommon agreeable character. He had his hair cut on principle vunce a fortnight, and contracted for his clothes on the economic principle–three suits a year, and send back the old uns. Being a wery reg’lar gen’l’m’n, he din’d ev’ry day at the same place, where it was one-and-nine to cut off the joint, and a wery good one-and-nine’s worth he used to cut, as the landlord often said, with the tears a-tricklin’ down his face, let alone the way he used to poke the fire in the vinter time, which wos a dead loss o’ four-pence ha’penny a day, to say nothin’ at all o’ the aggrawation o’ seein’ him do it. So uncommon grand with it too! “POST arter the next gen’l’m’n,” he sings out ev’ry day ven he comes in. “See arter the TIMES, Thomas; let me look at the MORNIN’ HERALD, when it’s out o’ hand; don’t forget to bespeak the CHRONICLE; and just bring the ‘TIZER, vill you:” and then he’d set vith his eyes fixed on the clock, and rush out, just a quarter of a minit ‘fore the time to waylay the boy as wos a-comin’ in with the evenin’ paper, which he’d read with sich intense interest and persewerance as worked the other customers up to the wery confines o’ desperation and insanity, ‘specially one i-rascible old gen’l’m’n as the vaiter wos always obliged to keep a sharp eye on, at sich times, fear he should be tempted to commit some rash act with the carving-knife. Vell, Sir, here he’d stop, occupyin’ the best place for three hours, and never takin’ nothin’ arter his dinner, but sleep, and then he’d go away to a coffee-house a few streets off, and have a small pot o’ coffee and four crumpets, arter wich he’d walk home to Kensington and go to bed. One night he wos took very ill; sends for a doctor; doctor comes in a green fly, with a kind o’ Robinson Crusoe set o’ steps, as he could let down wen he got out, and pull up arter him wen he got in, to perwent the necessity o’ the coachman’s gettin’ down, and thereby undeceivin’ the public by lettin’ ‘em see that it wos only a livery coat as he’d got on, and not the trousers to match. “Wot’s the matter?” says the doctor. “Wery ill,” says the patient. “Wot have you been a-eatin’ on?” says the doctor. “Roast weal,” says the patient. “Wot’s the last thing you dewoured?” says the doctor. “Crumpets,” says the patient. “That’s it!” says the doctor. “I’ll send you a box of pills directly, and don’t you never take no more of ‘em,” he says. “No more o’ wot?” says the patient–” pills?” “No; crumpets,” says the doctor. “Wy?” says the patient, starting up in bed; “I’ve eat four crumpets, ev’ry night for fifteen year, on principle.” “Well, then, you’d better leave ‘em off, on principle,” says the doctor. “Crumpets is NOT wholesome, Sir,” says the doctor, wery fierce. “But they’re so cheap,” says the patient, comin’ down a little, “and so wery fillin’ at the price.” “They’d be dear to you, at any price; dear if you wos paid to eat ‘em,” says the doctor. “Four crumpets a night,” he says, “vill do your business in six months!” The patient looks him full in the face, and turns it over in his mind for a long time, and at last he says, “Are you sure o’ that ‘ere, Sir?” “I’ll stake my professional reputation on it,” says the doctor. “How many crumpets, at a sittin’, do you think ‘ud kill me off at once?” says the patient. “I don’t know,” says the doctor. “Do you think half-a-crown’s wurth ‘ud do it?” says the patient. “I think it might,” says the doctor. “Three shillins’ wurth ‘ud be sure to do it, I s’pose?” says the patient. “Certainly,” says the doctor. “Wery good,” says the patient; “good-night.” Next mornin’ he gets up, has a fire lit, orders in three shillins’ wurth o’ crumpets, toasts ‘em all, eats ‘em all, and blows his brains out.’
‘What did he do that for?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly; for he was considerably startled by this tragical termination of the narrative.
‘Wot did he do it for, Sir?’ reiterated Sam. ‘Wy, in support of his great principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that he wouldn’t be put out of his way for nobody!’ With such like shiftings and changings of the discourse, did Mr. Weller meet his master’s questioning on the night of his taking up his residence in the Fleet.