MONTHLY REVIEW OF LITERATURE. 523 



Moore are excused only by their exquisite matter, or by the skill which has 

 rendered a deformity of metre pleasing to the ear, as a skilful composer will 

 enhance the value of his harmonies by the occasional interposition of the 

 harshest discords. But such liberties with the rhythm of verse may only be 

 taken by the lofty spirit of genius or the practised hand of long-tried in- 

 genuity. 



Having thus blamed what we consider blameable, it is but just that we 

 should offer our meed of praise. The scenes from life are sketched with con- 

 siderable graphic power and rich humour, showing an insight into the me- 

 chanism of human actions, and a knowledge of the workings of that incom- 

 prehensible cause, the mind, which give a more interesting character to the 

 fun and frolic of these racy pages than if they were mere farce unseasoned 

 with the sharp relish of a strong satirical vein. A scene in mimicry of the 

 tranquil and dignified proceedings of a certain great house, not a hundred 

 miles from Westminster-bridge, is well worthy of perusal ; and in short, if 

 we were to particularize all that is good, we should give the numbers of all 

 the comic chapters ; and if we were to select a specimen of every variety of 

 merry jest, we should reprint half of the contents. We give one extract, 

 which will serve to initiate our readers into the mysteries of the Pickwick 

 Club, and refer them to certain little monthly numbers which are displayed 

 in green coats in the majority of the booksellers' shops we have passed for 

 some time since. It should not be forgotten that the illustrations of the 

 earlier numbers proceeded from the pencil of the waggish Seymour, but since 

 his lamented and premature death they have been of course transferred to an- 

 other operator. 



The portion we have chosen is a description of the chain of untoward cir- 

 cumstances by which Mister Weller, boots of the White Hart in the Borough, 

 lost his chance of inheriting his father's wealth. 



" My father, Sir, vos a coachman. A vidower he vos, and fat enough for 

 anything uncommon fat, to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four 

 hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw 

 the blunt wery smart top boots on nosegay in his button-hole broad- 

 brimmed tile green shawl quite the gen'lm'n. Goes through the archvay, 

 thinking how he should inwest the money up comes the touter, touches his 

 hat * Licence, Sir, licence?' 'What's that?' says my father. * Licence, 

 Sir,' says he. ' What licence ?' says my father. ' Marriage licence,' says the 

 touter. * Dash my veskit,' says my father, ' I never thought o' that/ ' I 

 think you wants one, Sir/ says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a 

 bit ' No,' says he, ' damme, I'm too old, b'sides I'm a many sizes too large,' 

 says he. 'Not a bit on it, Sir,' says the touter. 'Think not?' says my 

 father. ' I'm sure not,' says he ; ' we married a gen'lm'n twice your size, 

 last Monday.' 'Did you, though?' said my father. 'To be sure ve did,' says 

 the touter, ' you're a babby to him this vay, Sir this vay ! and sure 

 enough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into 

 a little back office, vere a feller sat among dirty papers and tin boxes, making 

 believe he was busy. ' Pray take a seat, vile I makes out the affidavit, Sir,' 

 says the lawyer. 'Thankee, Sir,' says my father, and down he sat, and stared 

 vith all his eyes, and his mouth vide open, at the names on the boxes. 

 ' What's your name, Sir ?' says the lawyer. ' Tony Weller,' says my father. 

 ' Parish ?' says the lawyer. ' Belle Savage,' says my father ; for he stopped 

 there ven he drove up, and he know'd nothing about parishes, he didn't. 

 ' And what's the lady's name ?' says the lawyer. My father was struck all of 

 a heap. ' Blessed if I know,' says he. ' Not know !' says the lawyer. 'No 

 more nor you do,' says my father, ' can't I put that in afterwards ?' ' Impos- 

 sible !' says the lawyer. ' Wery well/ says my father, after he'd thought a 

 moment, ' Put down Mrs. Clarke/ ' What Clarke ?' says the lawyer, dipping 

 his pen in the ink. ' Susan Clarke, Markis o' Granby, Dorking,' says my 

 father ; she'll have me, if I ask her, I des-say I never said nothing to her, 



