'A glass of brandy here!' The brandy was brought; and Mr.Weller, after pulling his hair to Mr.
Pickwick, and nodding to Sam, jerked it down his capacious throat as if it had been a small thimbleful.

'Well done, father,' said Sam, 'take care, old fellow, or you'll have a touch of your old complaint, the gout.' 'I've found a sov'rin' cure for that, Sammy,' said Mr.Weller, setting down the glass.
'A sovereign cure for the gout,' said Mr.Pickwick, hastily producing his note-book--'what is it ?' 'The gout, Sir,' replied Mr.Weller, 'the gout is a complaint as arises from too much ease and comfort.

If ever you're attacked with the gout, sir, jist you marry a widder as has got a good loud woice, with a decent notion of usin' it, and you'll never have the gout agin.

It's a capital prescription, sir.

I takes it reg'lar, and I can warrant it to drive away any illness as is caused by too much jollity.' Having imparted this valuable secret, Mr.Weller drained his glass once more, produced a laboured wink, sighed deeply, and slowly retired.
'Well, what do you think of what your father says, Sam ?' inquired Mr.
Pickwick, with a smile.
'Think, Sir!' replied Mr.Weller; 'why, I think he's the wictim o' connubiality, as Blue Beard's domestic chaplain said, vith a tear of pity, ven he buried him.' There was no replying to this very apposite conclusion, and, therefore, Mr.Pickwick, after settling the reckoning, resumed his walk to Gray's Inn.