post-chaises to “take” eminent political speakers—always winning the hearty commendation of his employers for his zeal and energy.

p. 4THE CAUSE OF ACTION.

p. 4

Mr. Pickwick was a well-to-do bachelor, who lived by himself near the city, where he had been in trade. His age was about fifty, as can be accurately calculated by his remark on the sliding at Manor Farm. “I used to do so on the gutters when I was a boy . . . but I hav’nt done such a thing these thirty years.” This was said in 1828. He resided in Goswell Street—now Goswell Road—with a widow lady, whose husband had been in the Excise. He cannot have paid more than a pound a week, if so much, for two rooms on the first floor. There was no servant, and the hardworking landlady, Mrs. Martha Bardell, performed all the duties of her household single-handed. As her Counsel later described it,—and see all she did for him!—“She waited on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washer-woman when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for his wear when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence.” Thus Sergeant Buzfuz, duly “instructed.” Not only was there Mr. Pickwick, but there was another lodger, and her little boy Tommy. The worthy woman took care of and looked after all three. This might incline us to take a favorable view of her. She regarded her lodger with feelings of veneration and attachment, of which proof is found in her later talk with Sam. To him she said that “he had always behaved himself like a perfect gentlemen,” and then added this significant speech: “It’s a terrible thing to be dragged in this p. 5way before the public, but I now see that it’s the only thing that I ought to do.” That is, she seems to have held out as long as possible, believing that her amiable lodger would act as a perfect gentlemen and like himself. But when she found that even an action had no terrors for him, she saw that there was nothing else to do but to let the action go on.

p. 5

And what was Mrs. Bardell like? One would imagine her a plump, buxom widow, “fat, fair, and forty,” with her dear little boy, “the only pledge of her deceased exciseman,” or say something between thirty and forty years old. Fortunately, two portraits have come down to us of the lady—one somewhat of this pattern, and depicting her, as she flung herself on Mr. Pickwick on that disastrous morning: the other—a swollen, dreadful thing, which must be a caricature of the literal presentment. Here we see a woman of gross, enormous 

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