Free Death and Mr. Pickwick by Stephen Jarvis

features into such distortions—’
    â€˜â€”as quite disfigure the human face divine.’
    â€˜Well remembered! Continue!’
    At the end of the sermon, the vicar approached the pulpit, looked up at the boy, and said: ‘Why did you come to me that evening, Robert?’
    â€˜I have told you already.’
    â€˜Please tell me again.’
    â€˜The Bible is my constant companion. It has inspired me to draw many pictures.’
    â€˜Your pictures, yes. Do you know, the first time you came to my study, I noticed how you looked at one of my prints on the wall, St Paul Preaching at Athens. I have seen you look at it every time we have been in the study since then. Does it inspire you?’
    â€˜My eyes move from one figure to another within the picture. The figures seem so varied in their appearances that I cannot possibly be wearied by it.’
    â€˜I meant did the portrayal of preaching inspire you.’
    â€˜It does.’
    â€˜And your mother – she wishes the church for you?’
    â€˜My mother has always striven to make me remember the words of the lesson on Sunday. She has always said that, one day, before the Lord, we will all be required to repeat them. I hope that, were I to give a sermon, it would help the congregation to remember the words.’
    The vicar moved contemplatively around the pulpit. ‘There are many things that remain to be worked upon – your tone of voice needs to convince the indifferent – many things – but the solemnity you have – your sense of solemnity, Robert, there is something there. Well – we will meet again next week, if you wish.’
    â€˜I do.’

 
    *
    I REMEMBER MR INBELICATE TAKING HOLD of that papier-mâché snuffbox, and that a chip of paint came away in his overflow of enthusiasm.
    â€˜Robert Seymour might well have become a minor cleric had it not been for Dr Syntax,’ he said, as his fingernail tapped the box upon the shelf, next to the family Bible. ‘But, one day, his brother purchased an issue of the Poetical Magazine and left it on the table at home.’ Where once the goldfish jar had stood. ‘Young Robert picked it up, turned the pages – and was instantly captivated by the illustration of Dr Syntax Pursued by a Bull. Here was this bony old bore scrambling up a tree to escape the bull’s horns – hat and wig carried away on the wind, bald head exposed to public ridicule. “This is rather wonderful,” thought young Seymour.’
    â€˜Yet to me this young Seymour sounds a very earnest boy,’ I said, ‘with a strong religious impulse, and sermonising tendencies. I would say he had much in common with Dr Syntax.’
    â€˜Exactly, Scripty! And every time he joined in with the general laughter at Syntax, he laughed himself a little away from the church.’ Until eventually there came a day when he missed his appointment at St Mary’s pulpit. There was more enjoyment to be found in the print shops.

 
    *
    IN THE BACK ROOM OF the shop, with its floor-to-ceiling display of old coloured prints, Robert Seymour knelt to examine The Farmer’s Toast by Gillray, showing fat men at a drinking bout around a table, their stomachs bulging so much that buttons would not fasten over the paunches.
    Next to this picture were other Gillrays – here was the prime minister depicted as a toadstool on a dunghill; there, politicians as a class shown as hungry piglets, not so much a litter as a swarm, climbing over each other to reach a teat on England’s poor sow, her ribs showing through her hide, as the life was sucked out by those who sought office.
    And whether by Gillray or by other caricaturists, the gallery’s rectangular wares revelled in disrespect for all established institutions: monarchy, Parliament, the law, church. Seymour trembled with shocking pleasure at the print of a citizen defecating into a crown, the steam rising from the