e 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.

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 proportions seated on the front
bench and apparently weighing some thirteen or fourteen stone, with a
vast coarse face. This is surely an unfair presentment of the worthy
landlady; besides, Dodson and Fogg were too astute practitioners to
imperil their chances by exhibiting to his Lordship and the Jury so
ill-favoured a plaintiff. Indeed, we are told that they arranged a
rather theatrical exhibition in this scene, with a view of creating an
impression in their favour.

Many find pleasure in reading the Bookseller's Catalogues, and a vast
number are showered on me in the course of the year. But on one of these
I always gaze with a special interest, and even tenderness. For it comes
from one Herbert, who lives in Goswell Road. Only think, _Goswell_
Road--erst Goswell Street, where just seventy years ago Mrs. Bardell was
letting lodgings and Mr. Pickwick himself was lodging: and on the cover I
read, furthur attraction, "Goswell Road, near the 'Angel,'" whence the
"stage" which took the party to the "Spaniard" at Hampstead started!
Sometimes I am drawn to the shop, crowded with books; but one's thoughts
stray away from the books into speculations as to _which_ house it was.
But the indications are most vague, though the eye settles on a decent
range of shabby-looking faded tenements--two storeys high only--and which
_look_ like lodging houses. Some ingenious commentators have indeed
ventured to identify the house itself, arguing from the very general
description in the text.

We should note, however, Mr. Pickwick's lack of caution. He came in the
very next day, having apparently made no enquiries as to the landlady.
Had he done so, he would have learned of the drunken exciseman who met
his death by being knocked on the head with a quart pot. He mi