The Pickwick Papers

by Charles Dickens

Aha!’ said the old man, a brief description of whose manner and appearance concluded the last chapter, ‘aha! who was talking about the inns?’ ‘I was, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick—‘I was observing what singular old places they are.’ ‘You!’ said the old man contemptuously. ‘What do you know of the time when young men shut themselves up in those lonely rooms, and read and read, hour after hour, and night after night, till their reason wandered beneath their midnight studies; till their mental powers were exhausted; till morning’s light brought no freshness or health to them; and they sank beneath the unnatural devotion of their youthful energies to their dry old books? Coming down to a later time, and a very different day, what do you know of the gradual sinking beneath consumption, or the quick wasting of fever—the grand results of “life” and dissipation—which men have undergone in these same rooms? How many vain pleaders for mercy, do you think, have turned away heart–sick from the lawyer’s office, to find a resting–place in the Thames, or a refuge in the jail? They are no ordinary houses, those. There is not a panel in the old wainscotting, but what, if it were endowed with the powers of speech and memory, could start from the wall, and tell its tale of horror—the romance of life, Sir, the romance of life! Common–place as they may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, and I would rather hear many a legend with a terrific–sounding name, than the true history of on...