Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller

Reams – of forms illegibly printed on whity-brown paper were filled

up about the Bottle, and it was the subject of more stamping and

sanding than I had ever seen before. In consequence of which haze

of sand, perhaps, it was always irregular, and always latent with

dismal penalties of going back or not going forward, which were

only to be abated by the silver crossing of a base hand, poked

shirtless out of a ragged uniform sleeve. Under all

discouragements, however, I stuck to my Bottle, and held firm to my

resolution that every drop of its contents should reach the

Bottle’s destination.

The latter refinement cost me a separate heap of troubles on its

own separate account. What corkscrews did I see the military power

bring out against that Bottle; what gimlets, spikes, divining rods,

gauges, and unknown tests and instruments! At some places, they

persisted in declaring that the wine must not be passed, without

being opened and tasted; I, pleading to the contrary, used then to

argue the question seated on the Bottle lest they should open it in

spite of me. In the southern parts of Italy more violent

shrieking, face-making, and gesticulating, greater vehemence of

speech and countenance and action, went on about that Bottle than

would attend fifty murders in a northern latitude. It raised

important functionaries out of their beds, in the dead of night. I

have known half-a-dozen military lanterns to disperse themselves at

all points of a great sleeping Piazza, each lantern summoning some

official creature to get up, put on his cocked-hat instantly, and

come and stop the Bottle. It was characteristic that while this

innocent Bottle had such immense difficulty in getting from little

town to town, Signor Mazzini and the fiery cross were traversing

Italy from end to end.

Still, I stuck to my Bottle, like any fine old English gentleman

all of the olden time. The more the Bottle was interfered with,

the stauncher I became (if possible) in my first determination that

my countryman should have it delivered to him intact, as the man

whom he had so nobly restored to life and liberty had delivered it

to me. If ever I had been obstinate in my days – and I may have

been, say, once or twice – I was obstinate about the Bottle. But,

I made it a rule always to keep a pocket full of small coin at its

service, and never to be out of temper in its cause. Thus, I and

the Bottle made our way. Once we had a break-down; rather a bad

break-down, on a steep high place with the sea below us, on a

tempestuous evening when it blew great guns. We were driving four

wild horses abreast, Southern fashion, and there was some little

difficulty in stopping them. I was outside, and not thrown off;

but no words can describe my feelings when I saw the Bottle –

travelling inside, as usual – burst the door open, and roll obesely

out into the road. A blessed Bottle with a charmed existence, he

took no hurt, and we repaired damage, and went on triumphant.

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Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller

A thousand representations were made to me that the Bottle must be

left at this place, or that, and called for again. I never yielded

to one of them, and never parted from the Bottle, on any pretence,

consideration, threat, or entreaty. I had no faith in any official

receipt for the Bottle, and nothing would induce me to accept one.

These unmanageable politics at last brought me and the Bottle,

still triumphant, to Genoa. There, I took a tender and reluctant

leave of him for a few weeks, and consigned him to a trusty English

captain, to be conveyed to the Port of London by sea.

While the Bottle was on his voyage to England, I read the Shipping

Intelligence as anxiously as if I had been an underwriter. There

was some stormy weather after I myself had got to England by way of

Switzerland and France, and my mind greatly misgave me that the

Bottle might be wrecked. At last to my great joy, I received