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Martin Chuzzlewit

Chapter 5
CONTAINING A FULL ACCOUNT OF THE INSTALLATION OF MR
PECKSNIFF'S NEW PUPIL INTO THE BOSOM OF MR PECKSNIFF'S FAMILY.
WITH ALL THE FESTIVITIES HELD ON THAT OCCASION, AND THE GREAT
ENJOYMENT OF MR PINCH
The best of architects and land surveyors kept a horse, in whom the enemies
already mentioned more than once in these pages pretended to detect a fanciful
resemblance to his master. Not in his outward person, for he was a raw-boned,
haggard horse, always on a much shorter allowance of corn than Mr Pecksniff;
but in his moral character, wherein, said they, he was full of promise, but of no
performance. He was always in a manner, going to go, and never going. When at
his slowest rate of travelling he would sometimes lift up his legs so high, and
display such mighty action, that it was difficult to believe he was doing less than
fourteen miles an hour; and he was for ever so perfectly satisfied with his own
speed, and so little disconcerted by opportunities of comparing himself with the
fastest trotters, that the illusion was the more difficult of resistance. He was a
kind of animal who infused into the breasts of strangers a lively sense of hope,
and possessed all those who knew him better with a grim despair. In what
respect, having these points of character, he might be fairly likened to his master,
that good man's slanderers only can explain. But it is a melancholy truth, and a
deplorable instance of the uncharitableness of the world, that they made the
comparison.
In this horse, and the hooded vehicle, whatever its proper name might be, to
which he was usually harnessed--it was more like a gig with a tumour than
anything else--all Mr Pinch's thoughts and wishes centred, one bright frosty
morning; for with this gallant equipage he was about to drive to Salisbury alone,
there to meet with the new pupil, and thence to bring him home in triumph.
Blessings on thy simple heart, Tom Pinch, how proudly dost thou button up that
scanty coat, called by a sad misnomer, for these many years, a 'great' one; and
how thoroughly, as with thy cheerful voice thou pleasantly adjurest Sam the
hostler 'not to let him go yet,' dost thou believe that quadruped desires to go, and
would go if he might! Who could repress a smile--of love for thee, Tom Pinch,
and not in jest at thy expense, for thou art poor enough already, Heaven knows--
to think that such a holiday as lies before thee should awaken that quick flow and
hurry of the spirits, in which thou settest down again, almost untasted, on the
kitchen window-sill, that great white mug (put by, by thy own hands, last night,
that breakfast might not hold thee late), and layest yonder crust upon the seat
beside thee, to be eaten on the road, when thou art calmer in thy high rejoicing!
Who, as thou drivest off, a happy, man, and noddest with a grateful lovingness to
Pecksniff in his nightcap at his chamber-window, would not cry, 'Heaven speed
thee, Tom, and send that thou wert going off for ever to some quiet home where
thou mightst live at peace, and sorrow should not touch thee!'
What better time for driving, riding, walking, moving through the air by any
means, than a fresh, frosty morning, when hope runs cheerily through the veins
 
 
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