Quite as exhilarating in its way as the all-but dramatised report of the great breach of promise case tried before Mr. Justice Stareleigh, was that other condensation of a chapter from “Pickwick,” descriptive of Mr. Bob Sawyer's Party. It was a Reading, in the delivery of which the Reader himself had evidently the keenest sense of enjoyment. As a humorous description, it was effervescent with fun, being written throughout in the happiest, earliest style of the youthful genius of Boz, when the green numbers were first shaking the sides of lettered and unlettered Englishmen alike with Homeric laughter. Besides this, when given by him as a Reading, it comprised within it one of his very drollest impersonations. If only as the means of introducing us to Jack Hopkins, it would have been most acceptable. But, inimitable though Jack was, he was, at the least, thoroughly well companioned.

As a relish of what was coming, there was that preliminary account of the locality in which the festivities were held, to wit, Lant Street, in the borough of Southwark, the prevailing repose of which, we were told, “sheds a gentle melancholy upon the soul”—fully justifying its selection as a haven of rest by any one who wished “to abstract himself from the world, to remove himself from the reach of temptation, to place himself beyond the possibility of any inducement to look out of window!” As specimens of animated nature, familiarly met with in the neighbourhood, “the pot-boy, the muffin youth, and the baked potato man,” had about them a perennial freshness. Whenever we were reminded, again, in regard to the principal characteristics of the population that it was migratory, “usually disappearing on the verge of quarter-day, and generally by night,” her Majesty's revenues being seldom collected in that happy valley, its rents being pronounced dubious, and its water communication described as “frequently cut off,” we found in respect to the whole picture thus lightly-sketched in, that age did not wither nor custom stale its infinite comicality.

It was when the familiar personages of the story were, one after another, introduced upon the scene, however, that the broad Pickwickian humour of it all began in earnest to be realised. After we had listened with chuckling enjoyment to the ludicrously minute account given of the elaborate preparations made for the reception of the visitors, even in the approaches to Mr. Bob Sawyer's apartment, down to the mention of the kitchen candle with a long snuff, that “burnt cheerfully on the ledge of the staircase window,” we had graphically rendered the memorable scene between poor, dejected Bob and his little spitfire of a landlady, Mrs. Raddle. So dejected and generally suppressed was Bob in the Reading, however, that we should hardly have recognised that very archetype of the whole genus of rollicking Medical Students, as originally described in the pages of Pickwick, where he is depicted as attired in “a coarse blue coat, which, without being either a great-coat or a surtout, partook of the nature and qualities of both,” having about him that sort of slovenly smartness and swaggering gait peculiar to young gentlemen who smoke in the streets by day, and shout and scream in the same by night, calling waiters by their Christian names, and altogether bearing a resemblance upon the whole to something like a dissipated Robinson Crusoe. Habited, Bob still doubtless was, in the plaid trousers and the large, rough coat and double-breasted waistcoat, but as for the “swaggering gait” just mentioned not a vestige of it remained. Nor could that be wondered at, indeed, for an instant, beholding and hearing, as we did, the shrill ferocity with which Mrs. Raddle had it out with him about the rent immediately before the arrival of his guests.

It is one of the distinctive peculiarities of Charles Dickens as a humorous Novelist, that the cream or quintessence of a jest is very often given by him quite casually in a parenthesis. It was equally distinctive of his peculiarities as a Reader, that the especial charm of his drollery was often conveyed by the merest aside. Thus it was with him in reference to Mrs. Raddle's “confounded little bill,” when—in between Ben Allen's inquiry, “How long has it been running?” and Bob Sawyer's reply, “Only about a quarter and a month or so”—the Reader parenthetically remarked, with a philosophic air, “A bill, by the way, is the most extraordinary locomotive engine that the genius of man ever produced: it would keep on running during the longest lifetime without ever once stopping of its own accord.” Thus also was it, when he added meditatively to Bob's hesitating explanation to Mrs. Raddle, “the fact is that I have been disappointed in the City to-day”—“Extraordinary place that City: astonishing number of men always are getting disappointed there.” Hereupon it was that that fiercest of little women, Mrs. Raddle, who had entered “in a tremble with passion and pale with rage,” fairly let out at her lodger. Her incidental bout with Mr. Ben Allen, when he soothingly(!) interpolated, “My good soul,” was, in the Reading, in two senses, a memorable diversion. Beginning with a sarcastic quivering in her voice, “I am not aweer, sir, that you have any right to address your conversation to me. I don't think I let these apartments to you, sir—” Mrs. Raddle's anger rose through an indignant crescendo, on Ben Allen's remonstrating, “But you are such an unreasonable woman”—to the sharp and biting interrogation, “I beg your parding, young man, but will you have the goodness to call me that again, sir?”

Ben Allen, meekly and somewhat uneasy on his own account,—“I didn't make use of the word in any invidious sense, ma'am.”

Landlady, louder and more imperatively,—“I beg your parding, young man, but who do you call a woman? Did you make that remark to me, sir?”

“Why, bless my heart!”

“Did you apply that name to me, I ask of you, sir?”

On his answering, Well, of course he did!—then, as she retreated towards the open room-door, came the last outburst of her invectives, high-pitched in their voluble utterance, against him, against them both, against everybody, including Mr. Raddle in the kitchen—“a base, faint-hearted, timorous wretch, that's afraid to come upstairs and face the ruffinly creaturs—that's afraid to come—that's afraid!” Ending with her screaming descent of the stairs in the midst of a loud double-knock, upon the arrival just then of the Pickwickians, when, “in an uncontrollable burst of mental agony,” Mrs. Raddle threw down all the umbrellas in the passage, disappearing into the back parlour with an awful crash. In answer to the cheerful inquiry from Mr. Pickwick,—“Does Mr. Sawyer live here?” came the lugubrious and monotonously intoned response, all on one note, of the aboriginal young person, the gal Betsey (one of the minor characters in the original chapter, and yet, as already remarked, a superlatively good impersonation in the Reading)—“Yes; first-floor. It's the door straight afore you when you get's to the top of the stairs”—with which the dirty slipshod in black cotton stockings disappeared with the candle down the kitchen stair-case, leaving the unfortunate arrivals to grope their way up as they best could. Welcomed rather dejectedly by Bob on the first-floor landing, where Mr. Pickwick put, not, as in the original work, his hat, but, in the Reading, “his foot” in the tray of glasses, they were very soon followed, one after another, by the remainder of the visitors. Notably by a sentimental young gentleman with a nice sense of honour, and, most notably of all (with a heavy footstep, very welcome indeed whenever heard) by Jack Hopkins. Jack was at once the Hamlet and the Yorick of the whole entertainment—all-essential to it—whose very look (with his chin rather stiff in the stock), whose very words (short, sharp, and decisive) had about them a drily and all-but indescribably humorous effect. As spoken by the Novelist himself, Jack Hopkins's every syllable told to perfection. His opening report immediately on his arrival, of “rather a good accident” just brought into the casualty ward—only, it was true, a man fallen out of a four-pair-of-stairs window; but a very fair case, very fair case indeed!—was of itself a dexterous forefinger between the small ribs to begin with. Would the patient recover? Well, no—with an air of supreme indifference—no, he should rather say he wouldn't. But there must be a splendid operation, though, on the morrow—magnificent sight if Slasher did it! Did he consider Mr. Slasher a good operator? “Best alive: took a boy's leg out of the socket last week—boy ate five apples and a gingerbread cake exactly two minutes after it was all over;—boy said he wouldn't lie there to be made game of; and he'd tell his mother if they didn't begin.” To hear Dickens say this in the short, sharp utterances of Jack Hopkins, to see his manner in recounting it, stiff-necked, and with a glance under the drooping eyelids in the direction of Mr. Pickwick's listening face, was only the next best thing to hearing him and seeing him, still in the person of Jack Hopkins, relate the memorable anecdote about the child swallowing the necklace—pronounced in Jack Hopkins's abbreviated articulation of it, neck-luss—a word repeated by him a round dozen times at the least within a few seconds in the reading version of that same anecdote. How characteristically and comically the abbreviations were multiplied for the delivery of it, by the very voice and in the very person, as it were, of Jack Hopkins, who shall say! As, for example—“Sister, industrious girl, seldom treated herself to bit of finery, cried eyes out, at loss of—neck-luss; looked high and low for—neck-luss. Few days afterwards, family at dinner—baked, shoulder of mutton and potatoes, child wasn't hungry, playing about the room, when family suddenly heard devil of a noise like small hail-storm.” How abbreviated passages like these look, as compared with the original—could only be rendered comprehensible upon the instant, by giving in this place a facsimile of one of the pages relating to Jack Hopkins's immortal story about the—neck-luss, exactly as it appears in the marked copy of the Reading of “Mr. Bob Sawyer's Party,” a page covered all over, as will be observed, with minute touches in the Novelist's own handwriting.

Nothing at all in the later version of this Reading was said about the prim person in cloth boots, who unsuccessfully attempted all through the evening to make a joke. Of him the readers of “Pickwick” will very well remember it to have been related that he commenced a long story about a great public character, whose name he had forgotten, making a particularly happy reply to another illustrious individual whom he had never been able to identify, and, after enlarging with great minuteness upon divers collateral circumstances distantly connected with the anecdote, could not for the life of him recollect at that precise moment what the anecdote was—although he had been in the habit, for the last ten years, of telling the story with great applause! While disposed to regret the omission of this preposterously natural incident from the revised version of the Reading, and especially Bob Sawyer's concluding remark in regard to it, that he should very much like to hear the end of it, for, so far as it went, it was, without exception, the very best story he had ever heard—we were more than compensated by another revisive touch, by which Mr. Hopkins, instead of Mr. Gunter, in the pink shirt, was represented as one of the two interlocutors in the famous quarrel-scene: the other being Mr. Noddy, the scorbutic youth, with the nice sense of honour. Through this modification the ludicrous effect of the squabble was wonderfully enhanced, as where Mr. Noddy, having been threatened with being “pitched out o' window” by Mr. Jack Hopkins, said to the latter, “I should like to see you do it, sir,” Jack Hopkins curtly retaliating—“You shall feel me do it, sir, in half a minute.” The reconciliation of the two attained its climax of absurdity in the Reading, when Mr. Noddy, having gradually allowed his feelings to overpower him, professed that he had ever entertained a devoted personal attachment to Mr. Hopkins. Consequent upon this, Mr. Hopkins, we were told, replied, that, “on the whole, he rather preferred Mr. Noddy to his own mother”—the word standing, of course, as “brother” in the original. Summing it all up, the Reader would then add, with a rise and fall of the voice at almost every other word in the sentence, the mere sound of which was inexpressibly ludicrous—“Everybody said the whole dispute had been conducted in a manner” (here he would sometimes gag) “that did equal credit to the head and heart of both parties concerned.”

Another gag, of which there is no sign in the marked copy, those who attended any later delivery of this Reading will well remember he was fond of introducing. This was immediately after Mrs. Raddle had put an end to the evening's enjoyment in the very middle of Jack Hopkins' song (with a chorus) of “The King, God bless him,” carolled forth by Jack to a novel air compounded of the “Bay of Biscay” and “A Frog he would a-wooing go”—when poor, discomfited Bob (after turning pale at the voice of his dreaded landlady, shrilly calling out, “Mr. Saw-yer! Mr. Saw-yer!”) turned reproachfully on the over-boisterous Jack Hopkins, with, “I thought you were making too much noise, Jack. You're such a fellow for chorusing! You're always at it. You came into the world chorusing; and I believe you'll go out of it chorusing.” Through their appreciation of which—more even than through their remembrance of Mrs. Raddle's withdrawal of her nightcap, with a scream, from over the staircase banisters, on catching sight of Mr. Pickwick, saying, “Get along with you, you old wretch! Old enough to be his grandfather, you willin! You're worse than any of 'em!”—the hearers paid to the Reader of Bob Sawyer's Party their last tribute of laughter.