 Chapter 4 A Field Day and Bivouac, More New Friends, An Invitation to the Country. Many authors entertain, and not only a foolish, but a really dishonest objection to acknowledge the sources whence they derive much valuable information. We have no such feeling. We are merely endeavouring to discharge in an upright manner the responsible duties of our editorial functions, and whatever ambition we might have felt under other circumstances to lay claim to the authorship of these adventures, a regard for truth forbids us to do more than claim the merit of their judicious arrangement and impartial narration. The Pickwick papers are our new Riverhead, and we may be compared to the new River Company. The labours of others have raised for us an immense reservoir of important facts. We merely lay them on, and communicate them in a clear and gentle stream, through the medium of these pages, to a world thirsting for Pickwickian knowledge. Acting in this spirit, and resolutely proceeding on our determination to avow our obligations to the authorities we have consulted, we frankly say that to the notebook of Mr Snodgrass are we indebted for the particulars recorded in this and the succeeding chapter. As which, now that we have disburdened our consciences, we shall proceed to detail without further comment. The whole population of Rochester and the adjoining towns rose from their beds at an early hour of the following morning in a state of the utmost bustle and excitement. A grand review was to take place upon the lines. The manoeuvres of half a dozen regiments were to be inspected by the eagle eye of the commander-in-chief. Temporary fortifications had been erected. The citadel was to be attacked and taken, and a mine was to be sprung. Mr Pickwick was, as our readers may have gathered from the slight extract we gave from his description of Chatham, an enthusiastic admirer of the army. Nothing could have been more delightful to him. Nothing could have harmonized so well with the peculiar feeling of each of his companions as this site. Accordingly they were soon afoot and walking in the direction of the scene of action towards which crowds of people were already pouring from a variety of quarters. The appearance of everything on the lines denoted that the approaching ceremony was one of the utmost grandeur and importance. There were sentries posted to keep the ground for the troops, and servants on the batteries keeping places for the ladies, and sergeants running to and fro with vellum-covered books under their arms, and Colonel Boulder in full military uniform on horseback galloping first to one place and then to another, and backing his horse among the people, and prancing and curvetting and shouting in a most alarming manner, and making himself very horse in the voice and very red in the face, without any assignable cause or reason whatever. Officers were running backwards and forwards, first communicating with Colonel Boulder, and then ordering the sergeants, and then running away altogether, and even the very privates themselves looked from behind their glazed stocks with an air of mysterious solemnity which sufficiently bespoke the special nature of the occasion. Mr. Pickwick and his three companions stationed themselves in the front of the crowd, and patiently awaited the commencement of the proceedings. The throng was increasing every moment, and the efforts they were compelled to make to retain the position they had gained sufficiently occupy their attention during the two hours that ensued. At one time there was a sudden pressure from behind, and then Mr. Pickwick was jerked forward for several yards with a degree of speed and elasticity highly inconsistent with the general gravity of his demeanor. At another moment there was a request to keep back from the front, and then the butt end of a musket was either dropped upon Mr. Pickwick's toe to remind him of the demand, or thrust into his chest to ensure it's being complied with. Then some facetious gentlemen on the left after pressing sideways in a body and squeezing Mr. Snoggrass into the very last extreme of human torture, would request to know where he was a shove into, and when Mr. Winkle had done expressing his excessive indignation of witnessing this unprovoked assault, some person behind would knock his hat over his eyes and beg the favouries putting his head in his pocket. These and other practical witticisms coupled with the unaccountable absence of Mr. Topman, who had suddenly disappeared and was nowhere to be found, rendered their situation upon the whole rather more uncomfortable than pleasing or desirable. At length that low roar of many voices ran through the crowd which usually announces the arrival of whatever they had been waiting for. All eyes were turned in the direction of the Sallyport. A few moments of eager expectation and colours were seen fluttering gaily in the air, arms listening brightly in the sun, column after column poured onto the plane. The troops halted and formed. The word of command rang through the line. There was a general clash of muskets as arms were presented, and the commander-in-chief attended by Colonel Boulder and numerous officers cantered to the front. The military bands struck up altogether. The horses stood upon two legs each, cantered backwards and whisked their tails about in all directions. The dogs barked, the mob screamed, the troops recovered, and nothing was to be seen on either side as far as the eye could reach, but a long perspective of red coats and white trousers fixed and motionless. Mr. Pickwick had been so fully occupied and falling about and dissing-tangling himself miraculously from between the legs of horses that he had not enjoyed sufficient leisure to observe the scene before him until it assumed the appearance we have just described. When he was at last enabled to stand firmly on his legs, his gratification and delight were unbounded. Can anything be finer or more delightful? he inquired of Mr. Winkle. Nothing, replied that gentleman who had had a short man standing on each of his feet for the court of an hour immediately proceeding. It is indeed a noble and a brilliant sight, said Mr. Snodgrass, in whose bosom a blaze of poetry was rapidly bursting forth, to see the gallant defenders of their country drawn up in brilliant array before its peaceful citizens, in their faces beaming not with warlike ferocity but with civilised gentleness, their eyes flashing not with the rude far of rapine or avenge, but with the soft light of humanity and intelligence. Mr. Pickwick fully entered into the spirit of this eulogium, but he could not exactly re-echo its terms, for the soft light of intelligence burned rather feebly in the eyes of the warriors in as much as the command eyes front had been given, and all the spectator saw before him was several thousand pair of optics staring straight forward, wholly divested of any expression whatever. We are in our capital situation now, said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. The crowd had gradually dispersed in their immediate vicinity, and they were nearly alone. —— —— —— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — and harassed by the operations of the military, a fresh body of whom had begun to fall in on the opposite side, that Mr. Pickwick displayed that perfect coolness and self-possession which are the indispensable accompaniments of a great mind. He seized Mr. Winkle by the arm, and placing himself between that gentleman and Mr. Snoggrass, earnestly besought them to remember that beyond the possibility of being rendered deaf by the noise, there was no immediate danger to be apprehended from the firing. But suppose some of the men should happen to have ball-cartridges by mistake, demonstrated Mr. Winkle, pallid at the supposition he was himself conjuring up. I heard something whistling through the air now, so sharp, close to my ear. We had better throw ourselves on our faces, hadn't we? Said Mr. Snoggrass. No, no, it's over now, said Mr. Pickwick. His lip might quiver and his cheek might blanch, but no expression of fear or concern escaped the lips of that immortal man. Mr. Pickwick was right. The firing ceased, but he had scarcely time to congratulate himself on the accuracy of his opinion when a quick movement was visible in the line. The horse-shout of the word of command rang along it, and before I of the party could form a guess at the meaning of this new manoeuvre, the whole of a half-dozen regiments with fixed bayonets charged at double-quick time down upon the very spot on which Mr. Pickwick and his friends were stationed. Man is but mortal, and there is a point beyond which human courage cannot extend. Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles for an instant on the advancing mass, and then fairly turned his back, and we will not say fled, firstly because it is an ignoble term, and secondly because Mr. Pickwick's figure was by no means adapted for that mode of retreat. He trotted away, at as quick a rate as his legs would convey him, so quickly indeed that he did not perceive the awkwardness of his situation to the full extent until too late. The opposite troops whose falling into perplex Mr. Pickwick a few seconds before were drawn up to repel the mimic attack of the sham besiegers of the Citadel, and the consequence was that Mr. Pickwick and his two companions found themselves suddenly enclosed between two lines of great length, the one advancing at a rapid pace, and the other firmly waiting the collision in hostile array. "'Oi!' shouted the officers of the advancing line. "'Get out of the way!' cried the officers of the stationary one. "'Where do we go to?' screamed the agitated Pickwickians. "'Oi! oi! oi!' was the only reply. There was a moment of intense bewilderment, a heavy tramp of footsteps, a violent concussion, a smothered laugh. The half-dozen regiments were half a thousand yards off, and the souls of Mr. Pickwick's boots were elevated in the air. Mr. Snorgras and Mr. Winkle had each performed a compulsory Somerset with remarkable agility, when the first object that met the eyes of the latter as he sat on the ground, staunching with a yellow silk handkerchief the stream of life which issued from his nose was his venerated leader at some distance off, running after his own hat which was gambling playfully away in perspective. There are very few moments in a man's existence when he experiences so much ludicrous distress or meets with so little charitable commiseration as when he is in pursuit of his own hat. A vast deal of coolness and a peculiar degree of judgment are requisite in catching a hat. A man must not be precipitate or he runs over it. He must not rush into the opposite of stream or he will lose it altogether. The best way is to keep gently up with the object of pursuit, to be wary and cautious, to watch your opportunity well, get gradually before it, then make a rapid dive, seize it by the crown, and stick it firmly on your head, smiling pleasantly all the time, as if you thought it was as good a joke as anybody else. There was a fine gentle wind. A Mr. Pack Pickwick's hat rolled sportively before it. The wind puffed, a Mr. Pickwick puffed, and the hat rolled over and over as merrily as a lively porpoise in a strong tide. And on it might have rolled far beyond Mr. Pickwick's reach. Had not its course been providentially stopped, just as that gentleman was on the point of resigning it to its fate. Mr. Pickwick was, we must say, completely exhausted, and about to give up the chase, when the hat was blown with some violence against the wheel of a carriage, which was drawn up in a line with half a dozen other vehicles on the spot to which his steps had been directed. Mr. Pickwick, perceiving his advantage, darted briskly forward, secured his property, planted it on his head, and paused to take breath. He had not been stationary half a minute when he heard his own name eagerly pronounced by a voice, which he had once recognised as Mr. Tubman's, and looking upwards, he beheld a sight which filled him with surprise and pleasure. In an open barouche, the horses of which had been taken out, the better to accommodate it to the crowded place, stood a stout old gentleman, a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy breaches and top boots, two young ladies in scarves and feathers, a young gentleman apparently enamoured of one of the young ladies in scarves and feathers, a lady of doubtful age, probably the aunt of the aforesaid, and Mr. Tubman, as easy and unconcerned as if he had belonged to the family from the first moments of his infancy. Fastened up up behind the barouche was a hamper of spacious dimensions, one of those hampers which always awakens in a contemplative mind associations connected with cold fowls, tongues and bottles of wine, and on the box sat a fat and red-faced boy in a state of somnolency whom no speculative observer could have regarded for an instant without sitting down as the official dispenser of the contents of the before-mentioned hamper when the proper time for their consumption should arrive. Mr. Pickwick had bestowed a hasty glance on these interesting objects when he was again regreated by his faithful disciple. Pickwick, Pickwick, said Mr. Tubman, come up here, make haste. Come along, sir, pray come up, said the spout gentleman. Joe, damn that boy, he's going to sleep again. Joe, let down the steps. The fat boy rolled slowly off the box, let down the steps and held the carriage door invitingly open. And Mr. Snorgras and Mr. Winkle came up at that moment. Room for your wall, gentlemen, said the spout man. Two inside, one out. Joe, make room for one of these gentlemen in the box. Now, sir, come along. And the spout gentleman extended his arm and pulled first Mr. Pickwick and then Mr. Snorgras into the barouche by main force. Mr. Winkle mounted to the box, the fat boy waddled to the same perch, and fell fast asleep instantly. Well, gentlemen, said the spout man. Very glad to see you. Are you very well, gentlemen? You may remember me. I spent some evenings in your club last winter, picked up by my friend Mr. Tubman here just for morning. Very glad I was to see him. Well, sir, how are you? You do look uncommon well, to be sure. Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment and cordially shook hands with the stout gentleman in the top boots. Well, and how are you, sir? said the stout gentleman, addressing Mr. Snorgras with paternal anxiety. Surely, eh? Well, that's right, that's right. And how are you, sir? to Mr. Winkle. Ah, glad to see you all well. Very glad I am to be sure. My daughters, gentlemen, my galsies are. That's my sister, Miss Rachel Wardle. She's a miss, she is. Yet she ain't a miss. And the stout gentleman playfully inserted his elbow between the ribs of Mr. Pickwick and laughed very heartily. Your brother, said Mr. Wardle with a deprecating smile. True, true, said the stout gentleman, no one can deny it. Gentlemen, I beg your pardon. This is my friend, Mr. Trundle. And now you all know each other. Let's be comfortable and happy and see what's going forth. That's what I say. Said the stout gentleman, put on his spectacles, and Mr. Pickwick pulled out his glass, and everybody stood up in the carriage and looked over somebody else's shoulder at the evolutions of the military. As turned to evolutions they were, one rank firing over the heads of another rank and then running away, and then the other rank firing over the heads of another rank and running away in their turn, and then forming squares with offices in the centre, and then descending the trench on one side with scaling ladders and ascending it on the other's game by the same means, blocking down barricades of baskets, behaving in the most gallant manner possible. Then there was such a running down of the contents of enormous guns on the battery with instruments like magnified mops, such a preparation before they were let off, and such an awful noise when they did go that the air resounded with the screams of ladies. The young Mrs. Wardle was so frightened that Mr. Trundle was actually obliged to hold one of them up in the carriage, while Mr. Snorgrass supported the other, and Mr. Wardle's sister suffered under such a dreadful state of nervous alarm that Mr. Tubman found it indispensable and necessary to put his arm round her waist to keep her up at all. Everybody was excited, except the fat boy, and he slept as soundly as if the roaring of cannon were his ordinary lullaby. Go, go! said the South gentleman when the citadel was taken, and the besiegers and besiegers sat down to dinner. Damn that boy's gone to sleep again! Be good enough to pitch him, sir. In the leg, if you please. Nothing else wakes him up. Ah, thank you. Undo the hamper, Joe. The fat boy, who had been effectually roused by the compression of a portion of his leg between the finger and thumb of Mr. Winkle, rolled off the box once again, and proceeded to unpack the hamper with more expedition than could have been expected from his previous inactivity. Now, we're a-sit close, said the South gentleman. After a great many jokes about squeezing the ladies' sleeves, and a vast quantity of blushing at sundry Jocko's proposals, that the ladies should sit in the gentleman's laps, the whole party was stowed down in the barouche, and the South gentleman proceeded to hand the things from the fat boy, who had mounted up behind for the purpose, into the carriage. No, Joe, nighsome forks! The nighsome forks were handed in, and the ladies and gentlemen inside, and Mr. Winkle on the box, were each furnished with these useful instruments. Blates, Joe, blates! A similar process employed in the distribution of the crockery. Oh, no, the fouls! Damn that boy! He's got to sleep again! Joe, Joe! Sundry taps on the head with the stick, and the fat boy, with some difficulty, roused from his lethargy. Come hand in the eatables! There was something in the sound of the last word which roused the unctuous boy. He jumped up, and the little nighse which twinkled behind his mountainous cheeks leered horribly upon the food as he unpacked it from the basket. Now, make haste! said Mr. Waddle, for the fat boy was hanging fondly over a capon which he seemed wholly unable to part with. The boy sighed deeply, and bestowing an ardent gaze upon its plumpness, admittedly consigned it to his master. That's right! Look sharp! Now the tongue! Now the pigeon pie! Take care of that veal and ham! Mind the lobsters! Take the salad out of the cloth! Give me the dressing! Such were the hurried orders which issued from the lips of Mr. Waddle, as he handed it in the different articles described, and placed dishes in everybody's hands and in everybody's knees in endless number. Now ain't this capital, inquired that jolly personage when the work of destruction had commenced. In capital, said Mr. Winkle, who was carving a foul on the box. Glass of wine? With the greatest pleasure. You'd better have a bottle to yourself up there, hadn't you? You're very good. Yeah! Yes, sir. He wasn't asleep this time, having just succeeded in and abstracting a veal patty. Bottle of wine to the gentleman on the box? To see you, sir. Thank you. Mr. Winkle emptied his glass and placed the bottle on the coach-box by his side. Will you permit me to have the pleasure, sir? Said Mr. Trundle to Mr. Winkle? With great pleasure. Replied Mr. Winkle to Mr. Trundle, and then the two gentlemen took wine, after which they took a glass of wine round, ladies and all. How dear Emily is flirted with the strange gentleman! Whispered the spencer aunts with true spince-to-aunt-like envy to her brother, Mr. Waddle. I don't know, said the jolly old gentleman. Oh, very datful, I dare say. Nothing unusual. Mr. Pickwick, some wine, sir. Mr. Pickwick, who had been deeply investigating the interior of the pigeon-pie, readily assented. Emily, my dear, said the spince-to-aunt with a patronising air. Don't talk so loud, love. Oh, aunt! Aunt and the little gentleman want to have it all to themselves, I think. Whispered Miss Isabella Waddle to her sister Emily. The young ladies laughed very heartily, and the old one tried to look amiable, but couldn't manage it. Young girls have such spirits, said Miss Waddle to Mr. Tubman, with an air of gentle commiseration, as if animal spirits were contraband, and their possessions within a while out of permit a high crime of misdemeanor. They have, replied Mr. Tubman, not exactly making the sort of reply that was expected from him. It's quite delightful. Huh! said Miss Waddle, rather dubiously. Will you permit me, said Mr. Tubman, in his blandest manner, touching the enchanted Rachel's wrist with one hand, and gently elevating the bottle with the other. Will you permit me? Oh, sir! Mr. Tubman looked most impressive, and Rachel expressed her fear that more guns were going off, in which case, of course, she should have required support again. Do you think my dear niece is pretty? whispered their affectionate aunt to Mr. Tubman. I should have their aunt wasn't here, replied the ready Pickwick in, with a passionate glance. You naughty man! But really, if their complexions were a little better, don't you think they'd be nice-looking girls, by candlelight? Yes, I think they would, said Mr. Tubman, with an air of indifference. Oh, you quiz! I know what you were going to say. What? inquired Mr. Tubman, who had not precisely made up his mind to say anything at all. You were going to say that Isabel stoopes. I know you were. You men are subtle observers. Well, so she does, he can't be denied, and certainly there is one thing more than another which makes a girl more look ugly. It is stooping. I often tell her that when she gets a little older, she'll be quite frightful. Well, you are a quiz! Mr. Tubman had no objection to earning the reputation at so cheaper rate, so he looked very knowing, and smiled mysteriously. What a sarcastic smile, said the admiring Rachel. I declare I'm quite afraid of you. Afraid of me? Oh, you can't disguise anything for me. I know what that smile means very well. What? said Mr. Tubman, who had not the slightest notion himself. You mean, said the amiable aunt, singing her voice tiller, you mean that you don't think Isabel as stooping is as bad as Emma's boldness? Well, she is bold. You cannot think how wretched it makes me sometimes. I'm sure I cry about it for hours together. My dear brother is so good and so unsuspicious that he never sees it. If he did, I'd quite certainly break his heart. I wish I could think it was any manner. I hope it may be. Here the affectionate relative heaved a deep sigh and shook her head despondingly. I'm sure aunt's talking about us, whispered Miss Emily Wardle to her sister. I'm quite certain of it, if she looks so malicious. Is she? replied Isabella. Aunt, dear? Yes, my dear love? I'm so afraid you'll catch cold aunt. Have a silk-hagged sheaf to tie round your dear old head. You really should take care of yourself. Consider your age. However well deserved this piece of retaliation might have been, it was as vindictive a one as could well have been resorted to. There is no guessing of what form of reply the aunt's indignation would have vented itself had not Mr. Wardle unconsciously changed the subject by calling emphatically for Joe. Damn that boy! said the old gentleman. He's gone to sleep again. Very extraordinary by that, said Mr. Pickwick. Does he always sleep in this way? Sleep? said the old gentleman. He's always asleep. Goes on errands, fast asleep, and snores as he waits at table. How very odd, said Mr. Pickwick. Odd indeed, returned the old gentleman. I'm proud of that boy. Wouldn't part with him on any account. He's of natural curiosity. Here, Joe! Joe! Take these things away and open another bottle. Dear here! The fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of pie he'd been in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep, and slowly obeyed his master's orders, bloating languidly over the remains of the feast as he removed the plates and deposited them in the hamper. The fresh bottle was produced and speedily emptied. The hamper was made fast in its old place. The fat boy once more mounted the box, the spectacles and pocket glass were again adjusted, and the evolutions of the military recommenced. There was a great fizzing and banging of guns and starting of ladies, and then a mind was sprung to the gratification of everybody. And when the mind had gone off, the military and the company followed its example and went off too. Now, mind, said the old gentleman, as he shook hands with Mr. Pickwick at the conclusion of a conversation which had been carried on at intervals during the conclusion of the proceedings, we shall see you all to-morrow. And most certainly replied Mr. Pickwick. You've got the address? Man of Arm, Dingley Dell, said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his pocket-box. That's it, said the old gentleman. I don't let you off-mind under a week, and undertake that you shall see everything worth seeing. If you come down for a country life, come to me, and I'll give you plenty of it. Joe—oh, damn that boy's gone to sleep again! Joe, help Tom put in the horses! The horses were put in, the driver mounted, the fat boy clambered up by his side, farewells were exchanged, and the carriage rattled off. As the Pickwickians turned round to take a last glimpse of it, the setting sun cast a rich glow on the faces of their entertainers, and fell upon the form of the fat boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom, and he slumbered again. End of Chapter 4, recorded by Simon Evers. Chapter 5 of the Pickwick Papers This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens Chapter 5 The short one, showing, among other matters, how Mr. Pickwick undertook to drive, and Mr. Winkle to ride, and how they both did it. Bright and pleasant was the sky, balmy the air, and beautiful the appearance of every object around, as Mr. Pickwick leaned over the balustrades of Rochester Bridge, contemplating nature, and waiting for breakfast. The scene was indeed one which might well have charmed a far less reflective mind than that to which it was presented. On the left of the spectator lay the ruined wall, broken in many places, and in some overhanging the narrow beach below in rude and heavy masses. Huge knots of seaweed hung upon the jagged and pointed stones, trembling in every breath of wind, and the green ivy clung mournfully round the dark and ruined battlements. Behind it rose the ancient castle, its towers ruthless, and its massive walls crumbling away, but telling us proudly of its old might and strength, as when, seven hundred years ago, it rang with the clash of arms, or resounded with the noise of feasting and revelry. On either side, the banks of the Midway, covered with cornfields and pastures, with here and there a windmill or a distant church, stretched away as far as the eye could see, presenting a rich and varied landscape, rendered more beautiful by the changing shadows which passed swiftly across it, as thin and half-formed clouds skimmed away in the light of the morning sun. The river, reflecting the clear blue of the sky, glistened and sparkled as it flowed noiselessly on, and the oars of the fishermen dipped into the water with a clear and liquid sound, as their heavy but picturesque boats glided slowly down the stream. Mr. Pickwick was roused from the agreeable reverie into which he had been led by the objects before him by a deep sigh and a touch on his shoulder. He turned round, and the dismal man was at his side. Contemplating the scene, inquired the dismal man. I was, said Mr. Pickwick, and congratulating yourself on being up so soon? Mr. Pickwick nodded ascent. Ah, people need to rise early to see the sun in all his splendour, for his brightness seldom lasts the day through. The morning of day and the morning of life are but too much alike. You speak truly, sir, said Mr. Pickwick. How common the saying continued the dismal man, the mornings too fine to last. How well might it be applied to our everyday existence? God, what could I forfeit to have the days of my childhood restored, or to be able to forget them forever? You have seen much trouble, sir, said Mr. Pickwick compassionately. I have, said the dismal man hurriedly. I have. More than those who see me now would believe possible. He paused for an instant, and then said abruptly, Did it ever strike you on such a morning as this that drowning would be happiness and peace? God, bless me, no, replied Mr. Pickwick, edging a little from the balustrade, as the possibility of the dismal man's tipping him over by way of experiment occurred to him rather forcibly. I have thought so often, said the dismal man, without noticing the action. The calm, cruel water seems to me to murmur an invitation to repose and rest. A bound, a splash, a brief struggle. There is an eddy for an instant. Gradually subsides into a gentle ripple, the waters have closed above your head, and the world has closed upon your miseries and misfortunes forever. The sunken eye of the dismal man flashed brightly as he spoke, but the momentary excitement quickly subsided, and he turned calmly away as he said. There, enough of that, I wish to see you on another subject. You invited me to read that paper, the night before last, and listened attentively while I did so. I did, replied Mr. Pickwick, and I certainly thought. I asked for no opinion, said the dismal man interrupting him, and I want none. You are travelling for amusement and instruction. Suppose I forward you a curious manuscript, observe, not curious because wild or improbable, but curious as a leaf from the romance of real life. Would you communicate it to the club, of which you have spoken so frequently? Certainly, replied Mr. Pickwick, if you wished it, and it would be entered on their transactions. You shall have it, replied the dismal man. Your address? And Mr. Pickwick, having communicated their probable route, the dismal man carefully noted it down in a greasy pocketbook, and resisting Mr. Pickwick's pressing invitation to breakfast, left that gentleman at his inn, and walked slowly away. Mr. Pickwick found that his three companions had risen, and were waiting his arrival to commence breakfast, which was ready laid in tempting display. They sat down to the meal, and broiled ham, eggs, tea, coffee, and sundries began to disappear with a rapidity, which at once brought testimony to the excellence of the fair, and the appetites of its consumers. Now, about man of farm, said Mr. Pickwick, how shall we go? We had better consult the waiter perhaps, said Mr. Tubman, and the waiter was summoned accordingly. Dingley Dell, gentlemen, fifteen miles, gentlemen, cross-road, post-chase, sir. Post-chase won't hold more than two, said Mr. Pickwick. True, sir, beg your pardon, sir, very nice four-wheel-chase, sir, seat for two behind, one in front for the gentleman that drives. Oh, beg your pardon, sir, that'll only hold three. Much to be done, said Mr. Snodgrass. Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like to ride, sir, suggested the waiter, looking toward Mr. Winkle. Very good saddle-horses, sir. Any of Mr. Wardle's men coming to Rochester, bring them back, sir. The very thing, said Mr. Pickwick. Winkle, will you go on horseback? Now, Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable misgivings in the very lowest recesses of his own heart, relative to his equestrian skill. But as he would not have them even suspected on any account, he had once replied with great hard he would, certainly, I should enjoy it of all things. Mr. Winkle had rushed upon his fate. There was no resource. Let them be at the door by eleven, said Mr. Pickwick. Very well, sir, replied the waiter. The waiter retired, the breakfast concluded, and the travellers ascended to their respective bedrooms to prepare a change of clothing, to take with them on their approaching expedition. Mr. Pickwick had made his preliminary arrangements, and was looking over the coffee-room blinds of the passengers in the street when the waiter entered and announced that the chase was ready, an announcement which the vehicle itself confirmed by forthwith appearing before the coffee-room blinds aforesaid. It was a curious little green box on four wheels, with a low place like a wine-bin for two behind, and an elevated perch for one in front, drawn by an immense brown horse, displaying great symmetry of bone. An ostrich stood near, holding by the bridle another immense horse. Apparently a near-relative of the animal in the chase ready saddled for Mr. Winkle. Bless my soul, said Mr. Pickwick, as they stood upon the pavement while the coats were being put in. Bless my soul, who's to drive? I never thought of that. Oh, you, of course, said Mr. Tappan. Of course, said Mr. Snodgrass. I exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. Not the slightest fear, sir, interposed the ostrich. Warrant him quiet, sir. A infant in arms might drive him. He don't shy, does he? inquired Mr. Pickwick. Shy, sir? He wouldn't shy if he was to meet a wagon-lord of monkeys with their tails burned off. The last recommendation was indisputable. Mr. Tappan and Mr. Snodgrass got into the bin. Mr. Pickwick ascended to his perch and deposited his feet on a floor-clothed shelf erected beneath it for that purpose. Now, shiny William, said the Osler to the deputy Osler, give the gentleman the ribbons. Shiny William, so-called probably from his sleek hair and oily countenance, placed the reins in Mr. Pickwick's left hand, and the upper Osler thrust a whip into his right. Whoa-ho! cried Mr. Pickwick as the tall quadruped evinced a decided inclination to back into the coffee-room window. Whoa! echoed Mr. Tappan and Mr. Snodgrass from the bin. Only his playfulness, gentlemen, said the head Osler, encouragingly. Just catch hold on him, William. The deputy restrained the animal's impetuosity, and the principal ran to assist Mr. Winkle in mounting. The other side, sir, if you please. The load of the gentleman wounder getting up on the wrong side whispered a grinning post-boy to the inexpressibly gratified waiter. Mr. Winkle, thus instructed, climbed into his saddle with about as much difficulty as he would have experienced in getting up the side of a first-rate man of war. All right, inquired Mr. Pickwick, with an inward presentiment that it was all wrong. All right, replied Mr. Winkle faintly. Let him go, cried the Osler. Hold him in, sir. And away went the chase, and the saddle-horse, with Mr. Pickwick on the box of the one and Mr. Winkle on the back of the other, to the delight and gratification of the whole in yard. Bakes him go sideways, said Mr. Snodgrass in the bin, to Mr. Winkle in the saddle. I can't imagine, replied Mr. Winkle. His horse was drifting up the street in the most mysterious manner, side first, with his head towards one side of the way, and his tail towards the other. Mr. Pickwick had no leisure to observe either this, or any other particular, the whole of his faculties being concentrated in the management of the animal attached to the chase. Who displayed various peculiarities, highly interesting to a bystander, but by no means equally amusing to any one seated behind him. Besides constantly jerking his head up, in a very unpleasant and uncomfortable manner, and tugging at the reins to an extent which rendered it a matter of great difficulty for Mr. Pickwick to hold them, he had a singular propensity for darting suddenly every now and then to the side of the road, then stopping short, and then rushing forward for some minutes, at a speed which it was wholly impossible to control. What can he mean by this, said Mr. Snodgrass, when the horse had executed his manoeuvre for the twentieth time. I don't know, replied Mr. Tubman. It looks very like shying, don't it? Mr. Snodgrass was about to reply when he was interrupted by a shout from Mr. Pickwick. Woo! said that gentleman. I have dropped my whip! Winkle! said Mr. Snodgrass, as the equestrian came trotting up on the tall horse, with his hat over his ears and shaking all over, as if he would shake to pieces with the violence of the exercise. Pick up the whip! There's a good fellow! Mr. Winkle pulled at the brittle of the tall horse, till he was black in the face, and having at length succeeded in stopping him dismounted, handed the whip to Mr. Pickwick, and grasping the reins prepared to remount. Now whether the tall horse, in the natural playfulness of his disposition, was desirous of having a little innocent recreation with Mr. Winkle, or whether it occurred to him that he could perform the journey as much to his own satisfaction without a rider as with one, are points upon which, of course, we can arrive at no definite and distinct conclusion, by whatever motives the animal was actuated. Certain it is that Mr. Winkle had no sooner touched the reins, and he slipped them over his head, and darted backwards to their full length. Poor fellow! said Mr. Winkle soothingly. Poor fellow! Good old horse! The poor fellow was proof against flattery. The more Mr. Winkle tried to get nearer him, the more he sidled away, and not withstanding all kinds of coaxing and weedling, there were Mr. Winkle and the horse going round and round each other for ten minutes, at the end of which time each was at precisely the same distance from the other as when they first commenced, an unsatisfactory sort of thing under any circumstances, but particularly so in a lonely road, where no assistance can be procured. What am I to do? shouted Mr. Winkle, after the dodging had been prolonged for a considerable time. What am I to do? I can't get on him. You had better lead him till we come to a turnpike, replied Mr. Pickwick from the chase. But he won't come! roared Mr. Winkle, till come and hold him. Mr. Pickwick was the very personation of kindness and humanity. He threw the reins on the horse's back, and having descended from his seat, carefully grew the chase into the hedge, lest anything should come along the road, and stepped back to the assistance of his distressed companion, leaving Mr. Tubman and Mr. Snodgrass in the vehicle. The horse no sooner beheld Mr. Pickwick advancing towards him with the chase whip in his hand, than he exchanged the rotary motion in which he had previously indulged for a retrograde movement of so very determined a character that it at once drew Mr. Winkle, who was still at the end of the bridle, at a rather quicker rate than fast walking in the direction from which they had just come. Mr. Pickwick ran to his assistance, but the faster Mr. Pickwick ran forward, the faster the horse ran backward. There was a great scraping of feet and kicking up of the dust, and at last Mr. Winkle, his arms being nearly pulled out of their sockets, fairly let go of his hold. The horse paused, stared, shook his head, turned round, and quietly trotted home to Rochester, leaving Mr. Winkle and Mr. Pickwick gazing on each other with countenances of blank dismay. A rattling noise at a little distance attracted their attention. They looked up, bless my soul, exclaimed the agonised Mr. Pickwick, there's the other horse running away. It was but too true. The animal was startled by the noise, and the reins were on his back. The results may be guessed. He tore off with the four-wheel chase behind him and Mr. Tuckman and Mr. Snodgrass in the four-wheel chase. The heat was a short one. Mr. Tuckman threw himself into the hedge. Mr. Snodgrass followed his example. The horse dashed the four-wheel chase against a wooden bridge, separated the wheels from the body and the men from the purge, and finally stood stockstalled to gaze upon the ruin he had made. The first care of the two unspilt friends was to extricate their unfortunate companions from their bed of quicksit, a process which gave them the unspeakable satisfaction of discovering that they had sustained no injury beyond sundry rints in their garments and various lacerations from the brambles. The next thing to be done was to unharness the horse. This complicated process having been affected, the party walked slowly forward, leading the horse among them and abandoning the chase to its fate. An hour's walk brought the travellers to a little roadside public house with two elm trees, a horse trove, and a signpost in front. One or two deformed hayricks behind, the kitchen garden at the side and rotten sheds and mouldering outhouses jumbled in strange confusion all about it. A red-headed man was working in the garden, and to him Mr. Pickwick called lustily, Hello there! The red-headed man raised his body, shaded his eyes with his hand and stared, long and coolly at Mr. Pickwick and his companions. Hello there! repeated Mr. Pickwick. Hello! was the red-headed man's reply. How far is it to Dingley Dell? Better o' seven mile. Is it a good road? No attain't. Having uttered this brief reply, and apparently satisfied himself with another scrutiny, the red-headed man resumed his work. We want to put this horse up here, said Mr. Pickwick. I suppose we can, can't we? Want to put that here alls up, do ye? repeated the red-headed man, leaning on his spade. Of course, replied Mr. Pickwick, who had by this time advanced, horse in hand to the garden rails. Mrs. roared the man with the red-head, emerging from the garden, and looking very hard at the horse. Mrs. At all, bony woman, straight all the way down in a coarse police, with the waist an inch or two below her armpits, responded to the call. Can we put this horse up here, my good woman? said Mr. Tubman, advancing, and speaking in his most seductive tones. The woman looked very hard at the whole party, and the red-headed man whispered something in her ear. No, replied the woman after a little consideration. I'm afraid on it. Afraid? exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. What's the woman afraid of? It got us in trouble last time, said the woman, turning into the house. I won't have nothing to say on it. Most extraordinary thing I have ever met with in my life, said the astonished Mr. Pickwick. I, I really believe, whispered Mr. Winkle as his friends gathered round him, that they think we have come by this horse in some dishonest manner. What! exclaimed Mr. Pickwick in a storm of indignation. Mr. Winkle modestly repeated his suggestion. Hello, you fellow! said the angry Mr. Pickwick. Do you think we stole this horse? I'm sure you did, replied the red-headed man, with a grin, which agitated his countenance from one auricular organ to the other, saying which he turned into the house and banged the door after him. It's like a dream! ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, a hideous dream, the idea of a man's walking about all day with a dreadful horse that he can't get rid of. The depressed Pickwickians turned moodily away, with the tall quadruped for which they all felt the most unmitigated disgust, following slowly at their heels. It was late in the afternoon when the four friends and their four-footed companion turned into the lane leading to Manna Farm, and even when they were so near their place of destination, the pleasure they would otherwise have experienced was materially damped as they reflected on the singularity of their appearance and the absurdity of their situation. Torn clothes, lacerated faces, dusty shoes, exhausted looks, and, above all, the horse. Oh how Mr. Pickwick cursed that horse! He had eyed the noble animal from time to time with looks expressive of hatred and revenge. More than once he had calculated the probable amount of the expense he would incur by cutting his throat, and now the temptation to destroy him or to cast him loose upon the world rushed upon his mind with tenfold force. He was roused from a meditation on these dire imaginings by the sudden appearance of two figures at a turn of the lane. It was Mr. Wardle and his faithful attendant, the fat boy. Why, where have you been? said the hospitable old gentleman. I've been waiting for you all day. Well, you do look tired. What, scratches? Not hurt, I hope. Eh? Well, I am glad to hear that. Very. So you've been spilt, eh? Never mind. Common accident in these parts. Joe, he's asleep again, Joe, take that horse from the gentleman and lead it into the stable. The fat boy sauntered heavily behind them with the animal, and the old gentleman condoling with his guests in homely phrase on so much of the day's adventures as they thought proper to communicate led the way to the kitchen. Well, have you put to rights here? said the old gentleman, and then I'll introduce you to the people in the parlor. Emma, bring out the cherry brandy. Now, Jane, a needle and thread here. Towels and water, Mary. Come, girls, bustle about. Three or four buxom girls speedily dispersed in search of the different articles in requisition, while a couple of large-headed circular visage males rose from their seats in the chimney corner, for although it was a may evening, their attachment to the wood fire appeared as cordial as if it were Christmas, and dived into some obscure recesses, from which they speedily produced a bottle of blacking and some half-dozen brushes. Bustle, said the old gentleman again. But the admonition was quite unnecessary, for one of the girls poured out the cherry brandy, and another brought in the towels, and one of the men suddenly seizing Mr. Pickwick by the leg, at imminent hazard of throwing him off his hands, brushed away at his boot, till his horns were red-hot, while the other shampooed Mr. Winkle with a heavy-clothed brush, indulging during the operation, in that hissing sound which oslars are wont to produce when engaged in rubbing down a horse. Mr. Snodgrass, having concluded his ablutions, took a survey of the room, while standing with his back to the fire, sipping his cherry brandy with heartfelt satisfaction. He describes it as a large apartment with a rig-brick floor and a capacious chimney, the ceiling garnished with hams, sides of bacon, and ropes of onions, the walls were decorated with several hunting-whips, two or three bridles as saddle, and an old rusty blunder-bus, with an inscription below it, intimating that it was loaded, as it had been, on the same authority, for half a century at least. An old eight-day clock of solemn and sedate demeanor ticked gravely in one corner, and a silver watch of equal antiquity dangled from one of the many hooks which ornamented the dresser. Meddy, said the old gentleman inquiringly, when his guests had been washed, mended, brushed, and brandied. What! replied Mr. Pickwick. Come along, then, and the party, having traversed several dark passages and being joined by Mr. Tubman, who had lingered behind to snatch a kiss from Emma, for which he had been duly rewarded with sundry pushings and scratchings, arrived at the parlour-door. Welcome! said their hospitable host, throwing it open and stepping forward to announce them. Welcome, gentlemen, to Manor Farm. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of the Pickwick Papers This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Rose. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. Chapter 6. An Old-Fashioned Card Party. The Clujamans Versus. The Story of the Convict's Return. Several guests who were assembled in the old parlour rose to greet Mr. Pickwick and his friends upon their entrance, and during the performance of the several money of introduction, with all due formalities, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to observe the appearance and speculate upon the characters and pursuits of the persons by whom he was surrounded, a habit in which he, in common with many other great men, delighted to indulge. A very old lady, in a lofty cap and faded silk gown, no less a personage than Mr. Wardle's mother, occupied the post of honour on the right-hand corner of the chimney-piece, and various certificates of her having been brought up in the way she should go when young, and of her not having departed from it when old ornamented the walls, in the form of samplers of ancient date, worsted landscapes of equal antiquity, and crimson silk tea-cattle-holders of a more modern period. The aunt, the two young ladies, and Mr. Wardle, each vying with each other in paying zealous and unremitting attentions to the old lady, crowded round her easy-chair, one holding her ear trumpet, another an orange, and a third a smelling bottle, while a fourth was busily engaged in patting and punching the pillows which were arranged for her support. On the opposite side sat a bald-headed old gentleman with a good-humoured benevolent face, the clergyman of Dingley Dell, and next to him sat his wife, a stout blooming old lady, who looked as if she were well skilled, not only in the art and mystery of manufacturing homemade cordials greatly to other people's satisfaction, but of tasting them occasionally very much to her own. A little hard-headed, rip-stone, pippin-faced man was conversing with a fat old gentleman in one corner, and two or three more old gentlemen, and two or three more old ladies, set bolt upright and motionless on their chairs, staring very hard at Mr. Pickwick and his fellow voyagers. Mr. Pickwick's mother said Mr. Wardle at the very top of his voice. Ah! said the old lady, shaking her head. I can't hear you. Mr. Pickwick's grandma screamed both of the young ladies together. Ah! exclaimed the old lady. Well, it don't much matter. He don't care for an old woman like me, I dare say. I assure you, ma'am, said Mr. Pickwick, grasping the old lady's hand, and speaking so loud that the exertion imparted a crimson hue to his benevolent countenance. I assure you, ma'am, that nothing delights me more than to see a lady of your time of life heading so far in a family, and looking so young and well. Ah! said the old lady after a short pause. It's all very fine, I dare say, but I can't hear him. Grandma's rather put out now, said Miss Isabella Wardle, in a low tone. But she'll talk to you presently. Mr. Pickwick nodded his readiness to humor the infirmities of age, and entered into a general conversation with the other members of the circle. Delightful situation, this said Mr. Pickwick. Delightful, echoed Missers Snodgrass, Tubman, and Winkle. Well, I think it is, said Mr. Wardle. There ain't a better spot of ground in all, can't, sir, said the hard-headed man with the pippin face. There ain't indeed, sir. I'm sure there ain't, sir. The hard-headed man looked triumphantly around, as if he had been very much contradicted by somebody, but had got the better of him at last. There ain't a better spot of ground in all, can't, said the hard-headed man again, after a pause. Sip Mullen Middows observed the fat man solemnly. Mullen Middows, ejaculated the other, with profound contempt. Ah, Mullen Middows repeated the fat man. Regular good land, that, interposed another fat man. And so it is, surely, said the third fat man. Everybody knows that, said the corpulent host. The hard-headed man looked dubiously round, but finding himself in a minority assumed a compassionate air and said no more. What are they talking about, inquired the old lady of one of her granddaughters, in a very audible voice, for like many deaf people she never seemed to calculate on the possibility of other persons hearing what she said herself. About the land, grandma. What about the land? Nothing the matter, is there? No, no. Mr. Miller was saying our land was better than Mullen Middows. How should he know anything about it, inquired the old lady indignantly. Miller is a conceited coxcomb, and you may tell him I said so. Seeing which the old lady, quite unconscious that she had spoken above a whisper, drew herself up and looked carving knives at the hard-headed delinquent. Come-comes, said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to change the conversation. What say you to our rubber, Mr. Pickwick? I should like it of all things, replied that gentleman, but pray don't make one up on my account. Oh, I assure you, mother's very fond of a rubber, said Mr. Wardle. Ain't you, mother? The old lady, who was much less deaf on this subject than on any other, replied in the affirmative. Joe, Joe, said the gentleman. Joe, damn that. Oh, here he is. Put out the card tables. The lethargic youth contrived without any additional arousing to set out two card tables, the one for Pope Joan and the other for Wist. The Wist players were Mr. Pickwick and the old lady, Mr. Miller and the fat gentleman. The round game comprised the rest of the company. The rubber was conducted with all that gravity of deportment and sedateness of demeanor, which befit the pursuit entitled Wist. A solemn observance to which, as it appears to us, the title of game has been very irreverently and ignominiously applied. The round game table, on the other hand, was so boisterously merry as materially to interrupt the contemplations of Mr. Miller, who, while not being quite so much absorbed as he ought to have been, contrived to commit various high crimes and misdemeanors, which excited the wrath of the fat gentleman to a very great extent, and called forth the good humor of the old lady in a proportionate degree. There, said the criminal Miller triumphantly, as he took up the odd trick at the conclusion of the hand. That could not have been played better, I flatter myself, and possible to have made another trick. Miller ought to have trumped the diamond, ought he, sir, said the old lady. Mr. Pickwick nodded ascent. Odd Eye, though, said the unfortunate, with a doubtful appeal to his partner. You ought, sir, said the fat gentleman, in an awful voice. Very sorry, said the crestfallen Miller. Much use that, growled the fat gentleman. Two by honors. Makes us eight, said Mr. Pickwick. Another hand. Can you one, inquired the old lady? I can, replied Mr. Pickwick, double, single, and the rub. Never was such luck, said Mr. Miller. Never was such cards, said the fat gentleman. A solemn silence. Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious. The fat gentleman capsious, and Mr. Miller timorous. Another double, said the old lady, triumphantly making a memorandum of the circumstance, by placing one six-pence and a battered half-penny under the candlestick. A double, sir, said Mr. Pickwick. Quite aware of the fact, sir, replied the fat gentleman sharply. Another game, with a similar result, was followed by a revoke from the unlucky Miller, on which the fat gentleman burst into a state of high personal excitement which lasted until the conclusion of the game, when he retired into a corner, and remained perfectly mute for one hour and twenty-seven minutes, at the end of which time he emerged from his retirement, and offered Mr. Pickwick a pinch of snuff with the air of a man who had made up his mind to a Christian forgiveness of injuries sustained. The old lady's hearing decidedly improved, and the unlucky Miller felt as much out of his element as a dolphin in a sentry box. Meanwhile, the round game proceeded right merrily. Isabella Wardle and Mr. Trundle went partners, and Emily Wardle and Mr. Snodgrass did the same, and even Mr. Tubman and his spinster aunt established a joint stock company of fish and flattery. Old Mr. Wardle was in the very height of his jollity, and he was so funny in his management of the board, and the old ladies were so sharp after their winnings, that the whole table was in a perpetual roar of merriment and laughter. There was one old lady who always had about half a dozen cards to pay for, at which everybody laughed, regularly, every round. And when the old lady looked cross and having to pay, they laughed louder than ever, on which the old lady's face gradually brightened up, till at last she laughed louder than any of them. Then, when the spinster aunt got metrimony, the young ladies laughed afresh, and the spinster aunt seemed disposed to be pettish. Till, feeling Mr. Tubman squeezing her hand under the table, she brightened up too and looked rather knowing, as if metrimony in reality were not quite so far off as some people thought for, whereupon everybody laughed again, and especially Old Mr. Wardle, who enjoyed a joke as much as the youngest. As to Mr. Snodgrass, he did nothing but whisper political sentiments to his partner's ear, which made one old gentleman facetiously sly about partnerships at cards and partnerships for life, and caused the aforesaid old gentleman to make some remarks thereupon, accompanied with diverse winks and chuckles, which made the company very merry, and the old gentleman's wife especially so. And Mr. Winkle came out with jokes which are very well known in town, but are not all known in the country, and as everybody laughed at them very hardly and said they were very capital, Mr. Winkle was in a state of great honor and glory, and the benevolent clergyman looked pleasantly on, for the happy faces which surrounded the table made the good old man feel happy too, and though the merriment was rather boisterous, still it came from the heart and not from the lips, and this is the right sort of merriment after all. The evening glided swiftly away in these cheerful recreations, and when the substantial, the homely supper had been dispatched, and the little party formed a social circle round the fire, Mr. Pickwick thought he had never felt so happy in his life, and at no time so much disposed to enjoy and make the most of the passing moment. Now this, said the hospitable host, who is sitting in great state next to the old lady's armchair, where the hand fast clasped in his. This is just what I like. The happiest moments of my life have been passed at this old fireside, and I am so attached to it that I keep a blazing fire here every evening, until it actually grows too hot to bear it. Why, my poor old mother here used to sit before this fireplace upon that little stool when she was a little girl, didn't you, mother? The tear which starts unbidden to the eye when the recollection of old times and the happiness of many years ago is suddenly recalled, stole down the old lady's face as she shook her head with a melancholy smile. You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr. Pickwick, resumed the host after a short pause, for I love it dearly, and know no other. The old houses and fields seem like living friends to me, and so does our little church with the ivy. A boat which, by the by, our excellent friend there made a song when he first came amongst us. Mr. Snodgrass, have you anything in your glass? Plenty, thank you, replied that gentleman, whose poetic curiosity had been greatly excited by the last observation of his entertainer. I beg your pardon, but you were talking about the song of the ivy. You must ask our friend opposite about that, said the host knowingly, indicating the clergyman by a nod of his head. May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir? said Mr. Snodgrass. Well, I really, replied the clergyman. It's a very slight affair, and the only excuse I have for having ever perpetrated it is that I was a young man at the time, such as it is, however, you shall hear it, if you wish. A murmur of curiosity was, of course, the reply, and the old gentleman proceeded to recite with the aid of sundry promptings from his wife the lines in question. I call them, said he, the ivy-green. Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy-green that creepeth or ruins old. Of right choice food are his meals, I wean, in his cells so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, to pleasure his dainty whim, and the moldering dust that years have made is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, a rare old plant is the ivy-green. Fast he steeleth on, though he wears no wings, and a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings to his friend the huge oak tree. And slyly he traileth along the ground, and his leaves he gently waves, as he joyously hugs and crawls round the rich mold of dead men's graves. Creeping where grim death has been, a rare old plant is the ivy-green. Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, and nations have scattered been, but the stout old ivy shall never fade from its hail and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days shall fatten upon the past. For the stateliest building man can raise is the ivy's food at last. Creeping on where time has been, a rare old plant is the ivy-green. While the old gentleman repeated these lines a second time, to enable Mr. Snodgrass to note them down, Mr. Pickwick perused the lineaments of his face for the expression of great interest. The old gentleman having concluded his dictation, and Mr. Snodgrass having returned his notebook to his pocket, Mr. Pickwick said, Excuse me, sir, for making the remark on so short an acquaintance, but a gentleman like yourself cannot fail, I should think, to have observed many scenes and incidents worth recording in the course of your experience as a minister of the gospel. I have witnessed some, certainly, replied the old gentleman, but the incidents and characters have been of a homely and ordinary nature, my sphere of action being so very limited. You did make some notes, I think, about John Edmonds, did you not, inquired Mr. Wardle, who appeared very desirous to draw his friend out for the edification of his new visitors. The old gentleman slightly nodded his head in token of assent, and was proceeding to change the subject when Mr. Pickwick said, I beg your pardon, sir, but pray if I may eventually to inquire who was John Edmonds. The very thing I was about to ask said Mr. Snodgrass eagerly. You are fairly in for it, said the jolly host. You must satisfy the curiosity of these gentlemen sooner or later, so you had better take advantage of this favorable opportunity and do so at once. The old gentleman smiled good-humoredly as he drew his chair forward. The remainder of the party drew their chairs closer together, especially Mr. Tutman and the spinster aunt, who were possibly rather hard of hearing. And the old lady's ear trumpet having been duly adjusted. And Mr. Miller, who had fallen asleep during the recital of the verses, roused from his slumbers by an admonitory pinch administered beneath the table by his ex-partner, the solemn fat man. The old gentleman, without further preface, commenced the following tale, to which we have taken the liberty of prefixing the title of The Convict's Return. When I first settled in this village, said the old gentleman, which is now just five and twenty years ago, the most notorious person among my parishioners was a man of the name of Edmonds, who leased a small farm near this spot. He was a morose, savage-hearted bad man, idle and dissolute in his habits, cruel and ferocious in his disposition. Beyond the few lazy and reckless vagabonds with whom he sauntered away his time in the fields, or saughtered in the ale-house, he had not a single friend or acquaintance. No one cared to speak to the man whom many feared, and everyone detested, and Edmonds was shunned by all. This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here, was about twelve years old. Of the acuteness of that woman's suffering, of the gentle and enduring manner in which she bore them, of the agony of solicitude with which she reared that boy, no one can form an adequate conception. Heaven forgive me the supposition if it be an uncharitable one, but I do firmly and in my soul believe that the man systematically tried for many years to break her heart. But she bore it all for her child's sake, and, however strange it may seem to many, for his father's too, for brute as he was, and cruelly as he had treated her, she had loved him once, and a recollection of what he had been to her awakened feelings of forbearance and meekness under suffering in her bosom to which all God's creatures, but women, are strangers. They were poor. They could not be otherwise when the man pursued such courses. But the woman's unceasing and unweird exertions, early and late, morning, noon and night, kept them above actual want. These exertions were but ill-repaid. People who passed the spot in the evening, sometimes at a late hour of the night, reported that they had heard the moans and sobs of a woman in distress, and the sound of blows. And more than once, when it was past midnight, the boy knocked softly at the door of a neighbour's house, wither he had been sent to escape the drunken fury of his unnatural father. During the whole of this time, and when the poor creature often bore about her marks of ill usage and violence which she could not wholly conceal, she was a constant attendant at our little church. Regularly, every Sunday, morning and afternoon, she occupied the same seat with the boy at her side. And though they were poorly dressed, much more so than many of their neighbours who were in a lower station, they were always neat and clean. Everyone had a friendly nod and a kind word for poor Mrs. Edmonds. And sometimes when she stopped to exchange a few words with a neighbour at the conclusion of the service in the little row of elm trees, which leads to the church porch, or lingered behind to gaze with a mother's pride and fondness upon her healthy boy as she sported before her with some little companions, her care-worn face would lighten up with an expression of heartfelt gratitude. And she would look, if not cheerful and happy, at least tranquil and contented. Five or six years passed away. The boy had become a robust and well-grown youth. The time that had strengthened the child's slight frame and knit his weak limbs into the strength of manhood had bowed his mother's form and enfeebled her steps. But the arm that should have supported her was no longer locked in hers, the face that should have cheered her no more looked upon her own. She occupied her old seat, but there was a vacant one beside her. The Bible was kept as carefully as ever. The places were found and folded down as they used to be, but there was no one to read it with her, and the tears fell thick and fast upon the book and blotted the words from her eyes. Neighbors were as kind as they were want to be of old, but she shunned their greetings with averted head. There was no lingering among the old elm trees now, no cheering anticipations of happiness yet in store. The desolate woman drew her bonnet closer over her face and walked hurriedly away. Shall I tell you that the young man who, looking back to the earliest of his childhood's days, to which memory and consciousness extended, in carrying his recollection down to that moment, could remember nothing which was not in some way connected with a long series of voluntary privations suffered by his mother for his sake, with ill usage and insult and violence, and all endured for him? Shall I tell you that he, with a reckless disregard for her breaking heart, and a sullen, willful forgetfulness of all that she had done and borne for him, had linked himself with depraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing a headlong career which must bring death to him and shame to her? Alas, for human nature, you have anticipated it long since. The measure of the unhappy woman's misery and misfortune was about to be completed. Numerous offenses had been committed in the neighborhood. The perpetrators remained undiscovered, and their boldness increased. A robbery of a daring and aggravated nature occasioned a vigilance of pursuit and a strictness of search they had not calculated on. Young Edmunds was suspected with three companions. He was apprehended, committed, tried, condemned, to die. The wild and piercing shriek from a woman's voice, which resounded through the court when the solemn sentence was pronounced, rings in my ears at this moment. That cry struck a terror to the culprit's heart, which trial, condemnation, the approach of death itself, had failed to awaken. The lips which had been compressed in dogged sullenness throughout, quivered and parted involuntarily. The face turned ashy pale as the cold perspiration broke forth from every pore. The sturdy limbs of the felon trembled, and he staggered in the dock. In the first transports of her mental anguish, the suffering mother threw herself on her knees at my feet, and fervently sought the Almighty Being, who had hitherto supported her in all her troubles, to release her from a world of woe and misery, and to spare the life of her only child. A burst of grief and a violent struggle such as I hope I may never have to witness again succeeded. I knew that her heart was breaking from that hour, but I never once, her complaint or murmur, escaped her lips. It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison yard from day to day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection and in treaty, to soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. It was in vain. He remained moody, obstinate, and unmoved. Not even the unlooked-for commutation of his sentence to transportation for fourteen years softened for an instant the sullen hardy-hood of his demeanor. But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so long upheld her was unable to contend against bodily weakness and infirmity. She fell sick. She dragged her tottering limbs from the bed to visit her son once more, but her strength failed her, and she sank powerless on the ground. And now the boasted coldness and indifference of the young man were tested indeed, and the retribution that fell heavily upon him nearly drove him mad. A day passed away, and his mother was not there. Another flew by, and she came not near him. A third evening arrived, and yet he had not seen her, and in four and twenty hours he was to be separated from her, perhaps forever. Oh, how the long-forgotten thoughts of former days rushed upon his mind, as he almost ran up and down the narrow yard, as if intelligence would arrive the sooner for his hurrying. And how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolation rushed upon him when he heard the truth. His mother, the only parent he had ever known, lay ill. It might be dying. Within one mile of the ground he stood on. Were he free and unfettered, a few minutes would place him by her side. He rushed to the gate, and grasping the iron rails with the energy of desperation shook it till it rang again, and threw himself against the thick wall as if to force a passage through the stone. But the strong building mocked his feeble efforts, and he beat his hands together and wept like a child. I bore the mother's forgiveness and blessing to her son in prison, and I carried the solemn assurance of repentance and his fervent supplication for pardon to her sick bed. I heard, with pity and compassion, the repentant man devised a thousand little plans for her comfort and support when he returned. But I knew that many months before he could reach his place of destination, his mother would be no longer of this world. He was removed by night. A few weeks afterwards the poor woman's soul took its flight. I confidently hope and solemnly believe to a place of eternal happiness and rest. I performed the burial service over her remains. She lies in our little churchyard. There is no stone at her grave's head. Her sorrows were known to man, her virtues to God. It had been arranged previously to the convict's departure that he should write to his mother as soon as he could obtain permission, and that the letter should be addressed to me. The father had positively refused to see his son from the moment of his apprehension, and it was a matter of indifference to him whether he lived or died. Many years passed over without any intelligence of him, and when more than half his term of transportation had expired and I had received no letter, I concluded him to be dead, as indeed I almost hoped he might be. Edmonds, however, had been sent considerable distance up the country on his arrival at the settlement, and to this circumstance, perhaps, may be attributed the fact that though several letters were dispatched, none of them ever reached my hands. He remained in the same place during the whole fourteen years. At the expiration of the term, steadily adhering to his old resolution and the pledge he gave his mother, he made his way back to England, amidst innumerable difficulties, and returned on foot to his native place. On a fine Sunday evening in the month of August, John Edmonds set foot in the village he had left with shame and disgrace seventeen years before. His nearest way lay through the churchyard. The man's heart swelled as he crossed the Stile. The tall old elms, through whose branches the declining sun cast here and there a rich ray of light upon the shady part, awakened the associations of his earliest days. He pictured himself as he was then clinging to his mother's hand and walking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to look up into her pale face and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she gazed upon his features. Tears which fell hot upon his forehead as she stooped to kiss him and made him weep too, although he little knew then what bitter tears hers were. He thought how often he had run merrily down that path with some childish play-fellow, looking back ever and again to catch his mother's smile or hear her gentle voice, and then a veil seemed lifted from his memory in words of kindness unrequited and warnings despised and promises broken thronged upon his recollection till his heart failed him and he could bear it no longer. He entered the church. The evening service was concluded and the congregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed. His steps echoed through the low building with a hollow sound, and he almost feared to be alone if it was so still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was changed. The place seemed smaller than it used to be, but there were the old monuments on which he had gazed with childish awe a thousand times. The little pulpit was its faded cushion. The communion table before which he had so often repeated the commandments he had reverenced as a child and forgotten as a man. He approached the old seat. It looked cold and desolate. The cushion had been removed and the Bible was not there. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer seat, or possibly she had grown infirm and could not reach the church alone. He dared not think of what he feared. A cold feeling crept over him and he trembled violently as he turned away. An old man entered the porch just as he reached it. Edmund started back, for he knew him well. Many a time he had watched him digging graves in the churchyard. What would he say to the returned convict? The old man raised his eyes to the stranger's face, bade him good evening, and walked slowly on. He had forgotten him. He walked down the hill and through the village. The weather was warm and the people were sitting at their doors or strolling in their little gardens as he passed, enjoying the serenity of the evening and their rest from labor. Many a look was turned towards him, and many a doubtful glance he cast on either side to see whether any knew and shunned to him. There were strange faces in almost every house, and some he recognized the brilliant form of some old school fellow, a boy when he last saw him, surrounded by a troupe of merry children. In others he saw seated in an easy chair at a cottage door, a feeble and infirm old man, whom he only remembered as a hail and hearty laborer. But they had all forgotten him, and he passed on, unknown. The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth, casting a rich glow on the yellow corn sheaves, and lengthening the shadows of the orchard trees as he stood before the old house, the home of his infancy, to which his heart had yearned with an intensity of affection not to be described, through long and weary years of captivity and sorrow. The pailing was low, though he well remembered the time that it seemed a high wall to him, and he looked over into the old garden. There were more seeds and gayer flowers than there used to be, but there were the old trees still, the very tree, under which he had lain a thousand times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft, mild sleep of happy boyhood still gently upon him. There were voices within the house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear. He knew them not. They were merry too, and he well knew that his poor old mother could not be cheerful, and he away. The door opened, and a group of little children bounded out, shouting and romping. The father, with the little boy in his arms, appeared at the door, and they crowded round him, clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out to join their joyous sports. The convict thought on the many times he had shrunk from his father's sight in that very place. He remembered how often he had buried his trembling head beneath the bed clothes, and heard the harsh word, and the hard stripe, and his mother's wailing. And though the man sobbed aloud with agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist was clenched, and his teeth were set in a fierce and deadly passion. And such was the return to which he had looked through the weary perspective of many years, and for which he had undergone so much suffering. No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness, no house to receive, no hand to help him, and this too in the old village. What was his loneliness in the wild, thick woods where man was never seen to this? He felt that in the distant land of his bondage and infamy he had thought of his native place as it was when he left it, and not as it would be when he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at his heart, and his spirit sank within him. He had not courage to make inquiries or to present himself to the only person who was likely to receive him with kindness and compassion. He walked slowly on, and shunning the roadside like a guilty man, turned into a meadow he well remembered, and covering his face with his hands through himself upon the grass. He had not observed that a man was lying on the bank beside him. His garments rustled as he turned round to steal a look at the newcomer, and Edmunds raised his head. The man had moved into a sitting posture. His body was much bent, and his face was wrinkled in yellow. His dress denoted him an inmate of the workhouse. He had the appearance of being very old, but it looked more the effect of dissipation or disease than the length of years. He was staring hard at the stranger, and though his eyes were lusterless and heavy at first, they appeared to glow with an unnatural and alarmed expression after they had been fixed upon him for a short while, until they seemed to be starting from their sockets. Edmunds gradually raised himself to his knees, and looked more and more earnestly on the old man's face. They gazed upon each other in silence. The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered and tottered to his feet. Edmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two. Edmunds advanced. Let me hear you speak, said the convict, in a thick, broken voice. Stand off, cried the old man, with a dreadful oath. The convict drew closer to him. Stand off, shrieked the old man. Furious with terror, he raised a stick and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face. Father, devil! murmured the convict between his set teeth. He rushed wildly forward and clenched the old man by the throat. But he was his father, and his arm felt powerless by his side. The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fields like the howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black. The gore rushed from his mouth and nose, and died the grass a deep, dark red as he staggered and fell. He had ruptured a blood vessel, and he was a dead man before his son could raise him. In that corner of the churchyard, said the old gentleman, after a silence of a few moments, in that corner of the churchyard of which I was before spoken, there lies buried a man who was in my employment for three years after this event, and who was truly contrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever a man was. No one, save myself, knew in that man's lifetime who he was, or whence he came. It was John Edmunds the return of the convict.