 Chapter 4 of the Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens, a field day in Bivouac, more new friends and invitation to the country. Many authors entertain not only a foolish but a really dishonest objection to acknowledge the sources once they derive much valuable information. We have no such feeling. We are merely endeavoring to discharge, in an upright manner, the responsible duties of our editorial functions, in whatever ambition we might have felt under other circumstances to lay claim to the authorship of these adventures, our 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 labors 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. Particulars 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 maneuvers 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 sight. 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 centuries 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-colored books under their arms, and Colonel Balder 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 cravetting and shouting in a most alarming manner and making himself very hoarse 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 Balder 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 occupied 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 gentleman on the left, after pressing sideways in a body and squeezing Mr. Snodgrass into the very last extreme of human torture, would request to know where he was a shove-in to, and when Mr. Winkle had done expressing his excessive indignation at witnessing this unprovoked assault, some person behind would knock his head over his eyes and beg the favor of his putting his head in his pocket. These and other practical witticisms coupled with the unaccountable absence of Mr. Tuppman, 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. Little eyes returned in the direction of the Sally Port. A few moments of eager expectation and colors were seen fluttering gaily in the air, arms glistening brightly in the sun, column after column poured onto the plain. The troops halted informed, 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 all together, 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 in falling about and disentangling 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 quarter of an hour, immediately preceding. 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, their faces beaming, not with warlike ferocity, but with civilized gentleness, their eyes flashing, not with the rude fire of repine or revenge, 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 spectators saw before him was several thousand pair of optics staring straight forward, wholly divested of any expression whatever. We are in a capital situation now, said Mr. Pickwick, looking around him. The crowd had gradually dispersed in their immediate vicinity, and they were nearly alone. Capital echoed both Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle. What are they doing now, inquired Mr. Pickwick, adjusting his spectacles. I rather think, said Mr. Winkle, changing color. I rather think they're going to fire. Nonsense, said Mr. Pickwick hastily. I really think they are, urged Mr. Snodgrass, somewhat alarmed. Impossible, replied Mr. Pickwick. He had hardly uttered the word when the whole half dozen regiments leveled their muskets as if they had but one common object, and that object, the Pickwickians, and burst forth with the most awful and tremendous discharge that ever shook the earth to its centers or an elderly gentleman off his. It was in this trying situation, exposed to a galling fire of blank cartridges 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 sees Mr. Winkle by the arm and placing himself between that gentleman and Mr. Snodgrass, 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 but suppose some of the men should happen to have ball cartridges by mistake. Remonstrated Mr. Winkle pallid at the supposition he was himself conjuring up. I heard something whistle through the air now so sharp close to my ear. We had better throw ourselves on our faces, hadn't we? Said Mr. Snodgrass. 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 ran along it. And before either of the party could form a guess at the meaning of this new maneuver, the whole of the 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 was a point beyond which you encourage cannot extend. Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles for an instant and 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 who's falling in had perplexed 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. Hoy! shouted the officers of the advancing line. Get out of the way! cried the officers of the stationary one. Where are we to go to? screamed the agitated Pickwickians. Hoy! Hoy! Hoy! 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 soles of Mr. Pickwick's boots were elevated in air. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle had each performed a compulsory summer set 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 precipitated or he runs over it. He must not rush into the opposite extreme or he loses it all together. 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 as good a joke as anybody else. There was a fine gentle wind and Mr. Pickwick's hat rolled sportively before it. The wind puffed and Mr. Pickwick puffed and the hat rolled over and over as merely as a lively porpoise and 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, we say, was 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, started 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 at once recognized as Mr. Tutman'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 in a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy breeches and top boots, two young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a young gentleman apparently enamored of one of the young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a lady of doubtful age, probably the aunt of the aforesaid, and Mr. Tutman, as easy and unconcerned as if he had belonged to the family from the first moments of his infancy. Fastened 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 set a fat and red-faced boy in a state of somnolency whom no speculative observer could have regarded for an instant without setting down as the official dispenser of the contents of the aforementioned 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 greeted by his faithful disciple. Pickwick, Pickwick, said Mr. Tutman, come up here, make haste. Come along, sir, pray, come up, said the stout 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. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle came up at the moment. Room for you all, gentlemen, said the stout man, two inside and one out. Joe, make room for one of these gentlemen on the box. Now, sir, come along, and the stout gentleman extended his arm and pulled first Mr. Pickwick and then Mr. Snodgrass into the barouche by main force. Mr. Winkle mounted to the box. The fat boy waddled to the same perch and fell asleep instantly. Well, gentlemen, said the stout man, very glad to see you. Know you very well, gentlemen, though you may not remember me. I spent some evenings at your club last winter, picked up my friend Mr. Tutman here this morning, and very glad I was to see him. Well, sir, and 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. Snodgrass with paternal anxiety. Charming, eh? Well, that's right, that's right. And how are you, sir, to Mr. Winkle? Well, I am glad to hear you say you are well. Very glad I am to be sure. My daughters, gentlemen, my gals, these are, and that's my sister, Miss Rachel Wardle. She's a miss, she is, and yet she ain't a miss, eh, sir, eh? And the stout gentleman playfully inserted his elbow between the ribs of Mr. Pickwick and laughed very heartily. Lord, brother, said Miss 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 forward. That's what I say. So 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. Astounding 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 officers in the center, and then descending the trench on one side with scaling ladders, and ascending it on the other again by the same means, and knocking down barricades of baskets, and behaving in the most gallant manner possible. Then there was such a ramming 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 were so frightened that Mr. Trundle was actually obliged to hold one of them up in the carriage while Mr. Snodgrass supported the other. And Mr. Wardle's sister suffered under such a dreadful state of nervous alarm that Mr. Tubman found it indispensably necessary to put his arm around 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. Joe, Joe, said the stout gentleman when the citadel was taken, and the besiegers and besieged sat down to dinner. Damn that boy he's going to sleep again. Be good enough to pinch him, sir, in the leg, if you please. Nothing else wakes him. 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 must sit close, said the stout gentleman, after a great many jokes about squeezing the lady's sleeves and the vast quantity of blushing at sundry Joe Co's proposals that the ladies should sit in the gentleman's laps, the whole party restored down in the brouche, and the stout gentleman proceeded to hand the things from the fat boy who had mounted up behind for the purpose into the carriage. Now Joe, knives and forks. The knives and forks were handed in, and the ladies and gentlemen inside, and Mr. Winkle on the box, were each furnished with those useful instruments. Plates, Joe, plates. A similar process employed in the distribution of the crockery. Now Joe, the fouls. Damn that boy he's going to sleep again. Joe, Joe. Sundry taps on the head with a 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 anxious boy. He jumped up, and the leaden eyes which twinkled behind his mountainous cheeks, leered horribly upon the food as he unpacked it from the basket. Now make haste, said Mr. Gordle, 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, unwillingly 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. Wordle as he handed in the different articles described and placed dishes in everybody's hands and on everybody's knees in endless number. Now ain't this capital inquired that jolly personage when the work of destruction had commenced? Capital, said Mr. Winkle, who was carving a fowl 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. Joe? Yes, sir. He wasn't asleep this time, having just succeeded in abstracting a veal patty. Bottle of wine to the gentleman on the box. Glad 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 flirting with a strange gentleman, whispered the spinster ant with true spinster ant-like envy to her brother Mr. Wardle. Oh, I don't know, said the jolly old gentleman. All very natural, 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 spinster ant with the patronizing air. Don't talk so loud, love. Lore ant. Ant and the old gentleman want to have it all to themselves, I think, whispered Miss Isabella Wardle 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 Wardle to Mr. Tubman with an air of gentle commiseration, as if animal spirits were contraband and their possession without a permit of high crime and misdemeanor. Oh, they have, replied Mr. Tubman, not exactly making the sort of reply that was expected from him. That's quite delightful. Huh, said Miss Wardle rather dubiously. Will you permit me, said Mr. Tubman in his blandest manner, touching the enchanting 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 if their aunt wasn't here, replied the ready Pickwickian with a passionate glance. Oh, you naughty man. Really, if their complexions were a little better, don't we think they would 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 now precisely made up his mind to say anything at all. You were going to say that Isabelle stooped. I know you were. You men are such observers. Well, so she does. It can't be denied. And certainly if there is one thing more than another that makes a girl look ugly, it is stooping. I often tell her that when she gets a little older, she'll be quite frightful while you are a quiz. Mr. Tubman had no objection to earning the reputation at so cheap a 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 from 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, sinking her voice still lower. You mean that you don't think Isabelle is stooping as as bad as Emily'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'm quite certain it would break his heart. I wish I could think it was only manner. I hope it may be. Hear 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. 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 sole canker, shift a tie around 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 in 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 boy 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 a natural curiosity. Here, Joe. Joe, take these things away and open another bottle. Do you hear? The fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of pie he had been in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep and slowly obeyed his master's orders, loading 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 we commenced. 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 tomorrow. Most certainly, replied Mr. Pickwick. You have got the address. Manor Farm Dingley Dell, said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his pocketbook. 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've come down for a country life, come to me and I'll give you plenty of it. Joe, damn that boy is going 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 Chapter 5 of the Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Deborah Lynn. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. Chapter 5 A 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 beech 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 medway 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 the 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 fisherman 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 splendor, for his brightness seldom lasts the day through, the morning of day and the morning of life of it 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 would 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, cool 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. It 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 traveling for amusement and instruction. Suppose I forward you a curious manuscript, observed 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 bore testimony to the excellence of the fair and the appetites of its consumers. Now, about man or 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. What's to be done? said Mr. Snodgrass. Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like to ride, sir, suggested the waiter, looking towards Mr. Winkle. Very good saddle-horses, sir, any of Mr. Warle's men coming to Rochester bring him back, sir. The very things, 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 at once replied with great heartyhood, 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 travelers 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 at the passengers in the street when the waiter entered and announced that the chaise 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 osler stood near, holding by the bridle another immense horse, apparently a near relative of the animal and the chaise, 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. Tubman. Of course, said Mr. Snodgrass. I, exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, not the slightest fear, sir, interposed the osler. Warrant him quiet, sir. A hinfant 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 vague load of monkeys with the tails burned off. The last recommendation was indisputable. Mr. Tubman and Mr. Snodgrass got into the bin. Mr. Pickwick ascended to his perch, and deposited his feet on a floorcloth's 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! cried Mr. Pickwick, as the tall quadruped, evinced a decided inclination to back into the coffee-room window. Whoa! echoed Mr. Tubman and Mr. Snodgrass from the bin. Only his playfulness, gentlemen, said the head osler, encouragingly, just kitch-hold on him, William. The deputy restrained the animal's impetuosity, and the principal ran to assist Mr. Winkle in mounting. Tother side, sir, if you please. Blowed at the gentleman warrant of getting up on the wrong side, whispered a grinning post-boy to the inexpressively 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 great man of war. All right, inquired Mr. Pickwick, with an inward pre-sentiment 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. What makes him go sideways? said Mr. Snodgrass in the bin to Mr. Winkle on 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 range 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 this maneuver for the twentieth time. I don't know, replied Mr. Tutman. Looks very like shying, don't it? Mr. Snodgrass was about to reply when he was interrupted by a shout from Mr. Pickwick. Whoa! 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 bridle 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 and 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 than 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 notwithstanding all kinds of coaxing and wheely, 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. Do 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 drew the chase into the hedge, lest anything come along the road, and stepped back to the assistance of his distressed companion, leaving Mr. Tutman 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 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 agonized 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-wheeled chase behind him, and Mr. Tutman and Mr. Snodgrass in the four-wheeled chase. The heat was a short one. Mr. Tutman threw himself into the hedge. Mr. Snodgrass followed his example. The horse dashed the four-wheeled chase against the wooden bridge, separated the wheels from the body and the bin from the perch, and finally stood stock still to gaze upon the ruin he had made. The first care of the two unspelt friends was to extricate their unfortunate companions from their bed of Kwikset, a process which gave them the unspeakable satisfaction of discovering that they had sustained no injury beyond sundry rents 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 effected, the party walked slowly forward, leading the horse among them and abandoning the chase to its fate. An hour's walk brought the travelers to a little roadside public house with two elm trees, a horse trough, and a signpost in front, one or two deformed hay ricks behind, a kitchen garden at the side, and rotten sheds and moldering outhouses jumbled in strange confusion all about it. A red-headed man was working in the garden, and to him Mr. Pikwik called lustily, "'Holo there!' The red-headed man raised his body, shaded his eyes with his hand, and stared, long and coolly, at Mr. Pikwik and his companions. "'Holo there!' repeated Mr. Pikwik. "'Holo!' was the red-headed man's reply. "'How far is it to Dingley-Dell? Better or seven mile? Is it a good road? No taint?' 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. Pikwik. "'I suppose we can, can't we?' "'Want to put that our horse up, do we?' repeated the red-headed man, leaning on his spade. "'Of course,' replied Mr. Pikwik, who had by this time advanced horse in hand to the garden rails. "'Misses!' roared the man with the red head emerging from the garden and looking very hard at the horse. "'Misses!' A tall, bony woman, straight all the way down in a coarse blue police with the waist and 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 a-feared on it.' "'Afraid!' exclaimed Mr. Pikwik. "'What's the woman afraid of?' "'We got us in trouble last time,' said the woman, turning into the house. "'I won't have nothing to say to him. Most extraordinary thing I have ever met with in my life,' said the astonished Mr. Pikwik. "'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. Pikwik in a storm of indignation. Mr. Winkle modestly repeated his suggestion. "'Hullo, you fellow,' said the angry Mr. Pikwik. "'Do you think we stole the horse?' "'I'm sure he 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. Pikwik, 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 Pikwikians turned moodily away with the tall quadruped, for which they all felt the most unmitigated disgust, following slowly up their heels. It was late in the afternoon, when the four friends and their four-footed companion turned into the lane leading to Manor 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, Mr. Pikwik 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. "'We'll 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 bucks and girls, speedily dispersed in search of the different articles in requisition, while a couple of large-headed, circular-visaged 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 the bottle of blacking in 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 balance, brushed away at his boot till his corns were red-hot, while the other shampooed Mr. Winkle with a heavy-clothes brush, indulging during the operation, in that hissing sound which hostlers 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 red brick floor and a capacious chimney, the ceiling garnished with ham, sides of bacon, and ropes of onions. The walls were decorated with several hunting-whips, two or three bridles, a saddle, and an old rusty blunderbuss 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. Ready? said the old gentleman inquiringly when his guests had been washed, mended, brushed, and branded. Quite, 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 parlor door. Welcome, said their hospitable host, throwing it open and stepping forward to announce them. Welcome, gentlemen, to Manor Farm. Several guests who were assembled in the old parlor rose to greet Mr. Pickwick and his friends upon their entrance, and during the performance of the ceremony 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 kettle holders of a more modern period. The aunt, the two young ladies in Mr. Wardle, each vying with the 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 padding 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 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, ripsed and 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, sat both 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 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 daresay. 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 fine a family and looking so young and well. Ah, said the old lady after a short pause. It's all very fine, I daresay, 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 Messrs. Snodgrass, Tubman, and Winkle. Well, I think it is, said Mr. Wardle. There ain't a better spot of ground in all kent, 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 round, 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 kent, said the hard-headed man again after a pause. Except Mullins's meadows, observed the fat man solemnly. Mullins's meadows, ejaculated the other with profound contempt. Ah, Mullins's meadows, repeated the fat man. Regular good land that, interposed another fat man. And so it is, surely, said a 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 Mullins's meadows. How should he know anything about it? inquired the old lady indignantly. Miller's a conceited cockscomb, and you may tell him I said so. Saying 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, come, said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to change the conversation. What say you to a robber, Mr. Pickwick? I should like it of all things, replied that gentleman, but pray don't make up one on my account. Oh, I assure you, mother's very fond of a robber, said Mr. Wardle. Ain't your 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, in it! Oh, there he is. Put out the card-tables. The lethargic youth contrived without any additional rousing 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 robber 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, 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 a hand, that could not have been played better, I flattered myself, impossible to have made another trick. Miller ought to have trumped the diamond-dotty, sir, said the old lady. Mr. Pickwick nodded to scent. 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 in the rub. Never was such luck, said Mr. Miller. Never was such cards, said the fat gentleman. Asylum silence. Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious, the fat gentleman captious, and Mr. Miller timorous. Another double, said the old lady, triumphantly making a memorandum of the circumstance, by placing one sixth-pence in 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. Trendall went partners, and Emily Wardle and Mr. Snodgrass did the same, and even Mr. Tubman and the 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 at 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 matrimony, the young ladies laughed afresh, and the spinster aunt seemed disposed to be petished, till, feeling Mr. Tubman squeezing her hand under the table, she brightened up too, and looked rather knowing, as if matrimony 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 poetical sentiments into 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 heartily, 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, though 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 was sitting in great state next to the old lady's armchair, with her 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 up 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 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 was 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 no no other. The old houses and fields seem like living friends to me, and so does our little church with the ivy, about 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 an out of his head. May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir? said Mr. Snodgrass. Why, 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. O a dainty plant is the ivy green that creepathore ruins old, of right choice food are his meals, I wean in his cell, so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, to pleasure his dainty whim, and the moldering dust the ears have made is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, a rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, and a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineeth, 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 crawleth 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 in their works decayed, in nations of scattered bean. 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 statelyest 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 lineum and saw his face with an 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 venture 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 will had better take advantage of this favorable opportunity and do so at once. The old gentleman smiled good humorously as he drew his chair forward. The remainder of the party drew their chairs closer together, especially Mr. Tubman and the spinster aunt, who were possibly rather hard of hearing. And the old lady's eartrum, but 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 Edmunds, 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 sodded 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 Edmunds 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 sufferings, 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 this 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 as brute as he was, and cruelly as he had treated her, she had loved him once, and the 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 unwearyed 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 neighbor's house, whether 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 both poorly dressed, much more so than many of their neighbors 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 neighbor at the conclusion of the service in the little royal elm trees, which leads to the church porch, or lingered behind a 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, and 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 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, and 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 heard complaint or murmur escape 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 entreaty, to soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. It was in vain. He remained moody, obstinate, and unmoved. Not even the unlooked forecommutation of his sentence to transportation for fourteen years softened for an instant the sullen hearty-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 addressed. I performed the burial service over her remains. She lies in our little churchyard. There was 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. Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up the country on his arrival at the settlement and to this circumstance, perhaps, may be attributed the fact that those 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 Edmunds 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 style. 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 wheat 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 playfellow 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 and 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. 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 with 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. Edmunds 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, bathed 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 him. There were strange faces in almost every house. In some he recognized the burly form of some old school fellow, a boy when he last saw him, surrounded by a troop 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 had 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 a 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 bedclothes and heard the harsh word and the hard strife in 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, shutting 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 time 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 his 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 fell 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 dyed 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 have 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 man was. No one saved myself new in that man's lifetime who he was or once he came. It was John Edmunds, the returned convict. CHAPTER VII. How Mr. Winkle, instead of shooting at the pigeon and killing the crow, shot at the crow and wounded the pigeon, how the Dingley Dell Cricket Club played all Muggleton, and how all Muggleton dined at the Dingley Dell Expense with other interesting and instructive matters. The fatiguing adventures of the day, or the sumniferous influence of the clergyman's tale, operated so strongly on the drowsy tendencies of Mr. Pickwick that in less than five minutes after he had been shown to his comfortable bedroom, he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep from which he was only awakened by the morning sun darting his bright beams reproachfully into the apartment. Mr. Pickwick was no sluggered, and he sprang like an ardent warrior from his tent beds dead. Pleasant, pleasant country, sighed the enthusiastic gentleman as he opened his lattice window. Who could live to gaze from day to day on bricks and slates who had once felt the influence of a scene like this? Who could continue to exist, for there are no cows, but the cows on the chimney pots, nothing redolent of pan but pan tiles, no crop but stone crop? Who could bear to drag out a life in such a spot? Who, I ask, could endure it? And having cross-examined solitude after the most approved precedence at considerable length, Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of the lattice and looked around him. The rich, sweet smell of the hay-ricks rose to his chamber window. The hundred perfumes of the little flower garden beneath scented the air around. The deep green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened on every leaf as it trembled in the gentle air, and the birds sang as if every sparkling drop were to them a fountain of inspiration. Mr. Pickwick fell into an enchanting and delicious reverie. Hello, was the sound that roused him. He looked to the right, but he saw nobody. His eyes wandered to the left and pierced the prospect. He stared into the sky, but he wasn't wanted there, and then he did what a common mind would have done at once, looked into the garden, and there saw Mr. Wardle. How are you, said the good, humored individual, out of breath with his own anticipations of pleasure? Beautiful morning, ain't it? Glad to see you up so early. Make haste down and come out. I'll wait for you here. Mr. Pickwick needed no second invitation. Ten minutes suffice for the completion of his toilet, and at the expiration of that time he was by the old gentleman's side. Hello, said Mr. Pickwick in his turn, seeing that his companion was armed with a gun and that another lay ready on the grass. What's going forward? Why, your friend and I, replied the host, are going out rook-shooting before breakfast. He's a very good shot, ain't he? I've heard him say he's a capital one, replied Mr. Pickwick, but I never saw him aim at anything. Well, said the host, I wish he'd come. Joe, Joe! The fat boy, who, under the exciting influence of the morning, did not appear to be more than three parts into fraction asleep, emerged from the house. Go up and call the gentleman, and tell him he'll find me and Mr. Pickwick in the rookery. Show the gentleman the way there, do you hear? The boy departed to execute his commission, and the host, carrying both guns like a second Robinson Crusoe, led the way from the garden. This is the place, said the old gentleman, pausing after a few minutes walking in an avenue of trees. The information was unnecessary, for the incessant calling of the unconscious rook sufficiently indicated there were abouts. The old gentleman laid one gun on the ground and loaded the other. Here they are, said Mr. Pickwick, and as he spoke, the forms of Mr. Tubman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle appeared in the distance. The fat boy, not being quite certain which gentleman he was directed to call, had with peculiar sagacity and to prevent the possibility of any mistake, called them all. Come along, shouted the old gentleman addressing Mr. Winkle, a keen hand like you ought to have been up long ago, even to such poor work as this. Mr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up the spare gun with an expression of countenance, which a metaphysical rook, impressed with the foreboding of his approaching death by violence, may be supposed to assume. It might have been keenness, but it looked remarkably like misery. The old gentleman nodded, and two ragged boys who had been marshaled to the spot under the direction of the infant Lambert, forthwith commenced climbing up two of the trees. What are these lads for? inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly. He was rather alarmed, for he was not quite certain but that the distress of the agricultural interest about which he had often heard a great deal might have compelled the small boys attached to the soil to earn a precarious and hazardous subsistence by making marks of themselves for inexperienced sportsmen. Only to start the game, replied Mr. Wardle, laughing. To what? inquired Mr. Pickwick, when playing English to frighten the rooks. Oh, is that all? You are satisfied? Quite. Very well. Shall I begin? If you please, said Mr. Winkle, glad of any respite, stand aside then, now for it. The boy shouted and shook a branch with a nest on it. Half a dozen young rooks in violent conversation flew out to ask what the matter was. The old gentleman fired by way of reply. Down fell one bird and off flew the others. Take him up, Joe, said the old gentleman. There was a smile upon the youth's face as he advanced. Indistinct visions of rook pie floated through his imagination. He laughed as he retired with the bird. It was a plump one. Now, Mr. Winkle, said the host, reloading his own gun, fire away. Mr. Winkle advanced and leveled his gun. Mr. Pickwick and his friends cowered involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of rooks, which they felt quite certain would be occasioned by the devastating barrel of their friend. There was a solemn pause, a shout, a flapping of wings, a faint click. Hello, said the old gentleman. Won't it go, inquired Mr. Pickwick. Missed fire, said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale, probably from disappointment. Odd, said the old gentleman, taking the gun, never knew one of them Miss Fire before. Why, I don't see anything of the cap. Bless my soul, said Mr. Winkle. I declare I forgot the cap. The slight emission was rectified. Mr. Pickwick crouched again. Mr. Winkle stepped forward with an air of determination and resolution, and Mr. Tuttman looked out from behind a tree. The boy shouted. Four birds flew out. Mr. Winkle fired. There was a scream as of an individual, not a rook, in corporal anguish. Mr. Tuttman had saved the lives of innumerable unoffending birds by receiving a portion of the charge in his left arm. To describe the confusion that ensued would be impossible. To tell how Mr. Pickwick, in the first transports of emotion, called Mr. Winkle, ratch. How Mr. Tuttman lay prostrate on the ground, and how Mr. Winkle knelt horror-stricken beside him. How Mr. Tuttman called distractedly upon some feminine Christian name, and then opened first one eye, and then the other, and then fell back and shut them both. All this would be as difficult to describe in detail as it would be to depict the gradual recovering of the unfortunate individual, the binding up of his arm with pocket handkerchiefs, and the conveying him back by slow degrees supported by the arms of his anxious friends. They drew near the house. The ladies were at the garden gate waiting for their arrival and their breakfast. The spinster aunt appeared. She smiled and beckoned them to walk quicker. It was evident she knew not of the disaster. Poor thing, there are times when ignorance is bliss indeed. They approached nearer. Why, what is the matter with the little old gentleman, said Isabella Wardle? The spinster aunt heeded not the remark. She thought it applied to Mr. Pickwick. In her eyes Tracy Tuttman was a youth. She viewed his years through a diminishing glass. Don't be brightened, called out the old host, fearful of alarming his daughters. The little party had crowded so completely around Mr. Tuttman that they could not yet clearly discern the nature of the accident. Don't be brightened, said the host. What's the matter, screamed the ladies. Mr. Tuttman has met with a little accident, that's all. The spinster aunt uttered a piercing scream, burst into an hysteric laugh and fell backwards in the arms of her nieces. Throw some cold water over her, said the old gentleman. No, no, murmured the spinster aunt. I am better now, Bella, Emily. A surgeon. Is he wounded? Is he dead? Is he—ha ha ha! Here the spinster aunt burst into fit number two of hysteric laughter interspersed with screams. Calm yourself, said Mr. Tuttman, affected almost to tears by this expression of sympathy with his sufferings. Dear, dear madam, calm yourself. It is his voice, exclaimed the spinster aunt, and strong symptoms of fit number three developed themselves forthwith. Do not agitate yourself, I entreat your dearest madam, said Mr. Tuttman soothingly. I am very little hurt, I assure you. Then you are not dead, ejaculated the hysterical lady. Oh, say you are not dead. Don't be a fool, Rachel, interposed Mr. Wardle, rather more roughly than was consistent with the poetic nature of the scene. What the devil's the use of his saying isn't dead. No, no, I am not, said Mr. Tuttman. I require no assistance but yours. Let me lean on your arm. He added in a whisper. Oh, Miss Rachel. The agitated female advanced and offered her arm. They turned into the breakfast parlor. Mr. Tracy Tuttman gently pressed her hand to his lips and sank upon the sofa. Are you faint, inquired the anxious Rachel? No, said Mr. Tuttman, it is nothing. I shall be better presently. He closed his eyes. He sleeps, murmured the spinster aunt. His organs of vision had been closed nearly 20 seconds. Dear, dear Mr. Tuttman. Mr. Tuttman jumped up. Oh, say those words again, he exclaimed. The ladies started. Surely you did not hear them, she said bashfully. Oh yes, I did, replied Mr. Tuttman. Repeat them, if you would have me recover. Repeat them. Hush, said the lady, my brother. Mr. Tracy Tuttman resumed his former position and Mr. Wardle, accompanied by a surgeon, entered the room. The arm was examined. The wound dressed and pronounced to be a very slight one, and the minds of the company having been thus satisfied, they proceeded to satisfy their appetites with countenances, to which an expression of cheerfulness was again restored. Mr. Pickwick alone was silent and reserved. Doubt and distrust were exhibited in his countenance. His confidence in Mr. Winkle had been shaken—greatly shaken— by the proceedings of the morning. Are you a cricketer, inquired Mr. Wardle of the marksman? At any other time Mr. Winkle would have replied in the affirmative. He felt the delicacy of his situation and modestly replied, No. Are you, sir, inquired Mr. Snodgrass? I was once upon a time, replied the host, but I have given it up now. I subscribe to the club here, but I don't play. The grand match is played today, I believe, said Mr. Pickwick. It is, replied the host. Of course, you would like to see it. I, sir, replied Mr. Pickwick. I am delighted to view any sports which may be safely indulged in, and in which the impotent effects of unskillful people did not endanger human life. Mr. Pickwick paused and looked steadily on Mr. Winkle, who quailed beneath his leader's searching glance. The great man withdrew his eyes after a few minutes and added, Shall we be justified in leaving our wounded friend to the care of the ladies? You cannot leave me in better hands, said Mr. Tubman. Quite impossible, said Mr. Snodgrass. It was therefore settled that Mr. Tubman should be left at home in charge of the females, and that the remainder of the guests, under the guidance of Mr. Wardle, should proceed to the spot where was to be held that trial of skill which had roused all muggleton from its torpor, and inoculated dingley-dell with a fever of excitement. As their walk, which was not above two miles long, lay through shady lanes and sequestered footpaths, and as their conversation turned upon the delightful scenery by which they were on every side surrounded, Mr. Pickwick was almost inclined to regret the expedition they had used when he found himself in the main street of the town of Muggleton. Everybody who's genius has a topographical bent knows perfectly well that Muggleton is a corporate town, with a mayor, burgesses, and freemen, and anybody who has consulted the addresses of the mayor to the freemen, or the freemen to the mayor, or both to the corporation, or all three to parliament, will learn from thence what they ought to have known before, that Muggleton is an ancient and loyal borough mingling a zealous advocacy of Christian principles with a devoted attachment to commercial rights. In demonstration, whereof, the mayor, corporation, and other inhabitants have presented at diverse times no fewer than 1,420 petitions against the continuance of Negro slavery abroad, and an equal number against any interference with the factory system at home, sixty-eight in favor of the sale of livings in the church, and eighty-six for abolishing Sunday trading in the street. Mr. Pickwick stood in the principal street of the Celestrius town, and gazed with an air of curiosity, not unmixed with interest, on the objects around him. There was an open square for the marketplace, and in the center of it a large inn with a signpost in front, displaying an object very common in art, but rarely met with in nature. To wit a blue lion with three bow legs in the air, balancing himself on the extreme point of the center claw of his fourth foot. There were within sight an auctioneers and fire agency office, a corn factory, a linen draper, a saddler, a distiller, a grocers, and a shoe shop. The last mentioned warehouse being also appropriated to the diffusion of hats, bonnets, wearing apparel, cotton umbrellas, and useful knowledge. There was a red brick house with a small paved courtyard in front, which anybody might have known belonged to the attorney, and there was, moreover, another red brick house with Venetian blinds and a large brass door plate with a very legible announcement that it belonged to the surgeon. A few boys were making their way to the cricket field, and two or three shopkeepers who were standing at their doors looked as if they should like to be making their way to the same spot, as indeed to all appearance they might have done without losing any great amount of custom thereby. Mr. Pickwick, having paused to make these observations to be noted down in a more convenient period, hastened to rejoin his friends who had turned out of the main street and were already within sight of the field of battle. The wickets were pitched, and so were a couple of marquise for the rest and refreshment of the contending parties. The game had not yet commenced. Two or three dingley-dellars and all muggletonians were amusing themselves with the majestic air by throwing the ball carelessly from hand to hand, and several other gentlemen dressed like them in straw hats, flannel, jackets, and white trousers, a costume in which they looked very much like amateur stone masons, were sprinkled about the tents, towards one of which Mr. Wardle conducted the party. Several dozen of, how are yous, hailed the old gentleman's arrival, and a general raising of the straw hats and vending forward of the flannel jackets followed his introduction of his guests since gentlemen from London who were extremely anxious to witness the proceedings of the day, with which he had no doubt they would be greatly delighted. You had better step into the marquee, I think, sir, said one very stout gentleman whose body and legs looked like half a gigantic roll of flannel, elevated on a couple of inflated pillowcases. You'll find it much pleasanter, sir, urged another stout gentleman who strongly resembled the other half of the roll of flannel aforesaid. You're very good, said Mr. Pickwick. This way, said the first speaker, they notch in here. It's the best place in the whole field. And the cricketer panting on before preceded them to the tent. Capital game, smart sport, fine exercise, very, were the words which fell upon Mr. Pickwick's ear as he entered the tent. And the first object that met his eyes was his green-coated friend of the Rochester coach holding forth to the no small delight and edification of a select circle of the chosen of all Mogulton. His dress was slightly improved and he wore boots, but there was no mistaking him. The stranger recognized his friends immediately, and darting forward and seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand, dragged him to his seat with his usual impetuosity, talking all the while as if the whole of the arrangements were under his special patronage in direction. This way, this way, capital fun, lots of beer, hogs heads, rounds of beef, bullocks, mustard, cartloads. Glorious day, down with you, make yourself at home, glad to see you, very. Mr. Pickwick sat down as he was bid, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass also complied with the directions of their mysterious friend. Mr. Wardle looked on in silent wonder. Mr. Wardle, a friend of mine, said Mr. Pickwick. Friend of yours? My dear sir, how are you? Friend of my friends, give me your hand, sir. And the stranger grasped Mr. Wardle's hand with all the fervor of a close intimacy of many years, and then stepped back a pace or two as if to take a full survey of his face and figure, and then shook hands with him again, if possible, more warmly than before. Well, and how came you here? said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile in which benevolence struggled with surprise. Come, replied the stranger, stopping at Crown, Crown at Muggleton, Meta Party, Flannel Jackets, White Trousers, and Toby Sandwich's deviled kidney, splendid fellows, glorious. Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently versed in the stranger's system of stenography to infer from this rapid and disjointed communication that he had somehow or other contracted an acquaintance with the All-Muggletons, which he had converted by a process peculiar to himself, into that extent of good fellowship on which a general invitation may be easily founded. His curiosity was therefore satisfied, and putting on his spectacles he prepared himself to watch the play which was just commencing. All-Muggleton had the first innings, and the interest became intense when Mr. Dumkins and Mr. Potter, two of the most renowned members of that most distinguished club, walked bad in hand to their respective wickets. Mr. Luffy, the highest ornament of Dingley-Dell, was pitched to bowl against the redoubtable Dumkins, and Mr. Struggles was selected to do the same kind office for the hit of two unconquered Potter. Several players were stationed to look out in different parts of the field, and each fixed himself into the proper attitude by placing one hand on each knee and stooping very much as if he were making a back for some beginner at leapfrog. All the regular players do this sort of thing. Indeed, it is generally supposed that it is quite impossible to look out properly in any other position. The umpires were stationed behind the wickets. The scorers were prepared to notch the runs. A breathless silence ensued. Mr. Luffy retired a few paces behind the wicket of the passive Potter and applied the ball to his right eye for several seconds. Dumkins confidently awaited its coming with his eyes fixed on the motions of Luffy. Play! suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his hand straight and swift towards the center stump of the wicket. The weary Dumkins was on the alert. It fell upon the tip of the bat and bounded far away over the heads of the scouts who had just stooped low enough to let it fly over them. Run! run! another! now then throw her up! up with her! stop there! another! no! yes! no! throw her up! throw her up! such were the shouts which followed the stroke, and at the conclusion of which all Muggleton had scored two. Nor was Potter behind hand in earning laurels wherewith to garnish himself and Muggleton. He blocked the doubtful balls, missed the bad ones, took the good ones, and sent them flying to all parts of the field. The scouts were hot and tired. The bowlers were changed and bowled till their arms ached. But Dumkins and Potter remained unconquered. Did an elderly gentleman essay to stop the progress of the ball, it rolled between his legs or slipped between his fingers. Did a slim gentleman try to catch it, it struck him on the nose and bounded pleasantly off with redoubled violence, while the slim gentleman's eyes filled with water and his forearm writhed with anguish. Was it thrown straight up to the wicket, Dumkins had reached it before the ball. In short, when Dumkins was caught out and Potter stumped out, all Muggleton had notched some fifty-four while the score of the Dingley dollars was as blank as their faces. The advantage was too great to be recovered. In vain did the eager Luffy and the enthusiastic struggles do all that skill and experience could suggest to regain the ground Dingley Dell had lost in the contest. It was of no avail, and in an early period of the winning game Dingley Dell gave in and allowed the superior prowess of all Muggleton. The stranger meanwhile had been eating, drinking, and talking without cessation. At every good stroke, he expressed his satisfaction and approval of the player in a most condescending and patronizing manner, which could not fail to have been highly gratifying to the party concerned. While at every bad attempt at a catch and every failure to stop the ball, he launched his personal displeasure at the head of the devoted individual in such denunciations as ah, ah, stupid, now butterfingers, muck, humbug, and so forth. Ejaculations which seemed to establish him in the opinion of all around as the most excellent and undeniable judge of the whole art and mystery of the noble game of cricket. Capital game, well played, some strokes admirable, said the stranger, as both sides crowded into the tent at the conclusion of the game. You have played it, sir, inquired Mr. Wardle, who had been much amused by his loquacity. Played it, think I have, thousands of times, not here, West Indies, exciting thing, hot work vary. It must be rather a warm pursuit in such a climate, observed Mr. Pickwick. Warm, red-hot, scorching, glowing, played a match once, single wicket, friend the colonel, sir Thomas Blazo, who should get the greatest number of runs, won the toss, first innings, seven o'clock a.m., six natives to look out, went in, kept in, heat intense, natives all fainted, taken away, fresh half-dozen ordered, fainted also. Blazo bowling, supported by two natives, couldn't bowl me out, fainted too, cleared away the colonel, wouldn't give in, faithful attendant, quanko samba, last man left, sun so hot, bad in blisters, ball scorched brown, five hundred and seventy runs, rather exhausted, quanko mustered up last remaining strength, bowled me out, had a bath, and went out to dinner. What became of what's his name, sir, inquired the bold gentleman. Blazo? No, the other gentleman. Quanko samba? Yes, sir. Poor Quanko never recovered it, bowled on on my account, bowled off on his own, died, sir. Here the stranger buried his countenance in a brown jug, but whether to hide his emotion or imbibe its contents we cannot distinctly affirm. We only know that he paused suddenly, drew along in deep breath, and looked anxiously on, as two of the principal members of the Dingley Dell Club approached Mr. Pickwick and said, We are about to partake of a plain dinner at the Blue Lion, sir. We hope you and your friends will join us. Of course, said Mr. Wardle, among our friends we include Mr., and he looked towards the stranger. Jingle, said that versatile gentleman, taking the hint at once. Jingle, Alfred Jingle, Esquire, of no hall, no where. I should be very happy, I am sure, said Mr. Pickwick. So shall I, said Mr. Alfred Jingle, drawing one arm through Mr. Pickwick's and another through Mr. Wardle's, as he whispered confidentially in the ear of the former gentleman, devilish good dinner, cold but capital, peeped into the room this morning, fouls and pies and all that sort of thing. Pleasant fellows, these well behaved, too, vary. There being no further preliminaries to arrange, the company straggled into the town in little knots of twos and threes, and within a quarter of an hour were all seated in the great room of the Blue Lion in Muggleton, Mr. Dumkin's acting as chairman and Mr. Luffy officiating as vice. There was a vast deal of talking and rattling of knives and forks and plates, a great running about of three ponderous headed waiters and a rapid disappearance of the substantial vians on the table. To each and every one of which item of confusion, the facetious Mr. Jingle lent the aid of half a dozen ordinary men at least. When everybody had eaten as much as possible, the cloth was removed, bottles, glasses, and dessert were placed on the table, and the waiters withdrew to clear away, or in other words, to appropriate to their own private use and emolument whatever remnants of the eatables and drinkables they could contrive to lay their hands on. Amidst the general hum of mirth and conversation that ensued, there was a little man with a puffy, say nothing to me or I'll contradict you, sort of countenance, who remained very quiet, occasionally looking round him when the conversation slackened, as if he contemplated putting in something very weighty, and now and then bursting into a short cough of inexpressible grandeur. At length, during a moment of comparative silence, the little man called out in a very loud, solemn voice, Mr. Luffy. Everybody was hushed into a profound stillness as the individual addressed, replied, Sir, I wish to address a few words to you, Sir, if you will entreat the gentleman to fill their glasses. Mr. Jingle uttered a patronizing here, here, which was responded to by the remainder of the company, and the glasses having been filled, the vice president assumed an air of wisdom in a state of profound attention and said, Mr. Staples, Sir, said the little man rising, I wish to address what I have to say to you and not to our worthy chairman, because our worthy chairman is in some measure, I may say in a great degree, the subject of what I have to say, or I may say to state, suggested Mr. Jingle, yes, to state, said the little man, I thank my honorable friend, if he will allow me to call him so, four hears and one certainly for Mr. Jingle, for the suggestion, Sir, I am a deler, a dingley deler, cheers, I cannot lay claim to the honor of forming an item in the population of Muggleton, nor, Sir, I will frankly admit, do I covet that honor, and I will tell you why, Sir, here, to Muggleton, I will readily concede all these honors and distinctions to which it can fairly lay claim, they are too numerous and too well known to require aid or recapitulation from me, but, Sir, while we remember that Muggleton is given birth to a dumbkin's and a potter, let us never forget that dingley del can boast a lucky and a struggles, vociferous cheering, let me not be considered as wishing to detract from the merits of the former gentleman, Sir, I envy them the luxury of their own feelings on this occasion, cheers, cheers, every gentleman who hears me is probably acquainted with the reply made by an individual who, to use an ordinary figure of speech, hung out in a tub to the emperor Alexander, if I were not Diogenes said he, I would be Alexander, I can well imagine these gentlemen to say, if I were not dumbkin's I would be lucky, if I were not potter I would be struggles, enthusiasm, but gentlemen of Muggleton, is it in cricket alone that your fellow townsmen stand preeminent? Have you never heard of dumbkin's and determination? Have you never been taught to associate potter with property? Great applause! Have you never, when struggling for your rights, your liberties, and your privileges, been reduced of only for an instant to misgiving and despair, and when you have been thus depressed, has not the name of dumbkin's laid afresh within your breast the fire which had just gone out, and has not a word from that man lighted it again as brightly as if it had never expired? Great cheering! Gentlemen, I beg to surround with the rich halo of enthusiastic cheering the united names of dumbkin's and potter. Here the little man ceased, and here the company commenced a raising of voices and thumping of tables which lasted with little intermission during the remainder of the evening. Other toasts were drunk. Mr. Luffy and Mr. Struggles, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Jingle were, each in his turn, the subject of unqualified eulogy, and each in due course returned thanks for the honor. Enthusiastic as we are, and the noble cause to which we have devoted ourselves, we should have felt a sensation of pride which we cannot express, and a consciousness of having done something to merit immortality of which we are now deprived, could we have laid the faintest outline on these addresses before our ardent readers. Mr. Snoggrass, as usual, took a great mass of notes which would no doubt have afforded most useful and valuable information, had not the burning eloquence of the words or the feverish influence of the wine made that gentleman's hand so extremely unsteady as to render his writing nearly unintelligible and his style wholly so. By dint of patient investigation, we have been enabled to trace some characters bearing a faint resemblance to the names of the speakers, and we can only discern an entry of a song, supposed to have been sung by Mr. Jingle, in which the words bowl, sparkling, ruby, bright and wine are frequently repeated at short intervals. We fancy too that we can discern at the very end of the notes some indistinct reference to broiled bones, and then the words cold without a curb, but as any hypothesis we could found upon them must necessarily rest upon mere conjecture, we are not disposed to indulge in any of the speculations to which they may give rise. We will therefore return to Mr. Tupman, merely adding that within some few minutes before twelve o'clock that night, the convocation of worthies of Dingley Dell and Muggleton were heard to sing with great feeling and emphasis, the beautiful and pathetic national air of we won't go home till morning, we won't go home till morning, we won't go home till morning, till daylight doth appear. End of chapter seven.