Death and Mr. Pickwick by Stephen Jarvis Read Free Book Online

than a dozen members, one of whom was Thomas Rowlandson, while another was John Bannister.
    The landlord entered, accompanied by a serving girl who carried a pile of chamberpots on top of each other, which she distributed at the foot of every third chair. The club’s girthy chairman, who probably earned the right to sit at the head of the table by virtue of the number of his chins, looked displeased as he ran a finger along the table’s surface. ‘The table’s still sticky from last week,’ he said. ‘We prefer it fresh, landlord.’
    The girl was sent to fetch a damp cloth. With that cleansing operation accomplished, the door closed upon the club. The chairman banged a gavel and proceeded to read the rules, as he always did, at the start of every meeting. Twenty-four toasts to be drunk – each with a full bumper of ale – and foreign wine would not be an acceptable substitute – and if any member refused to join in with the toast, the penalty would be applied.
    Adopting a grave expression, commensurate with the justice and severity of the sentence to be imposed, the chairman filled a bumper with water from a ewer, and then added spoon after spoon of salt. He stirred and clanged the spoon upon the bumper’s rim. Were the penalty of the brine pronounced, he informed the members, the offender must drink of the brine, or be expelled from the club. Only after twenty-four toasts – with full bumpers – were the members free to drink as they pleased. The chairman then declared the meeting of The Brilliants open.
    One member immediately stood – and proposed the glory of Viscount Nelson. A toast was drunk. When that member resumed his seat, another stood, and struck a sentimental note on the immortality of clubs compared to the frailty of the individual members, but as no member had died for several months, the general feeling, as expressed in certain remarks across the table, was that the member had been drinking before the meeting, and a maudlin note had infiltrated his consciousness. A toast was still drunk to the immortality of clubs, during which the watchful eye of the chairman spied one member whose bumper had not been raised to the appropriate angle for full quaffing. The gavel sounded.
    â€˜It is the brine for you, sir.’
    â€˜I am ripe. More than ripe. I was ripe when I came up the stairs.’
    â€˜Then leave our ranks, sir.’
    â€˜Brine! Brine!’ came the shout from Rowlandson. The chant was taken up by Bannister, and by the other members, and they thumped the table. The bumper in front of the chairman was passed down to the offender.
    The penalised man looked into the brine. ‘All right,’ he said. A twinkle in his eye suggested, perhaps, that he arrived fully expecting to receive chastisement, and was not lacking in enthusiasm for its application.
    A chamberpot was raised from the floor and placed upon the table, in front of the offending member. He stood, took one mouthful, swallowed and the next instant he disgorged with a roar into the waiting receptacle. Far from showing disgust, those around the table shouted ‘Bravo!’ ‘Hear hear!’ and ‘A true Brilliant!’ The brine-drinker punched the air in triumph, wiped his mouth, and bowed to each side of the table before resuming his seat.
    In this manner, the meeting continued, with speeches that traversed the continuum from sensible to incoherent, with occasional resort to the chamberpot. At five o’clock in the morning, when the members were half dead with drink, the landlord’s boy came round, and the perpetual president, a wiry actor known for his tragedies, settled the bill. The top item on the sheet of paper was the ostentatious: ‘Hire of Room – No Charge’. For with the huge bill for drink itemised underneath, the landlord was more than happy to provide free facilities – and he always made certain the clubmen were reminded of his