 11. Involving another journey and an antiquarian discovery, recording Mr. Pickwick's determination to be present at an election and containing a manuscript of the old clergyman's. A night of quiet and repose in the profound silence of Dingledale, and an hours' breathing of its fresh and fragrant air on the ensuing morning completely recovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his late fatigue of body and anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had been separated from his friends and followers for two whole days, and it was with a degree of pleasure and delight which no common imagination can adequately conceive that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass as he encountered those gentlemen on his return from his early walk. The pleasure was mutual for who could ever gaze on Mr. Pickwick's beaming face without experiencing the sensation, but still a cloud seemed to hang over his companion which that great man could not but be sensible of, and was wholly at a loss to account for. There was a mysterious air about them both, as unusual as it was alarming. The atal- And how, said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers by the hand in exchanged warm salutations of welcome, is Mr. Tubman. Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, made no reply. He turned away his head and appeared absorbed in melancholy reflection. Snodgrass, said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, how is our friend? He is not ill. No, replied Mr. Snodgrass, and a tear trembled on his sentimental eyelid like a raindrop on a window frame. No, he's not ill. Mr. Pickwick stopped and gazed at each of his friends in turn. Winkle, Snodgrass, said Mr. Pickwick, what does this mean? Where is our friend? What has happened? Speak, I conjure you, I entreat you. Nay, I command you, speak. There was a solemnity, a dignity in Mr. Pickwick's manner not to be withstood. He is gone, said Mr. Snodgrass. Gone, exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, gone. Gone, repeated Mr. Snodgrass. Where, ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, we can only guess from that communication, replied Mr. Snodgrass, taking a letter from his pocket and placing it in his friend's hand. Yesterday morning, when a letter was received from Mr. Wardle, stating that you would be home with his sister at night, the melancholy which had hung over our friend during the whole of the previous day was observed to increase. He shortly afterwards disappeared, was missing during the whole day, and in the evening this letter was brought by the hostler from the crown at Muggleton. It had been left in his charge in that morning with a strict injunction that it should not be delivered until night. Mr. Pickwick opened the epistle. It was in his friend's handwriting, and these were its contents. My dear Pickwick, you, my dear friend, are placed far beyond the reach of many mortal frailties and weaknesses which ordinary people cannot overcome. You do not know what it is at one blow to be deserted by a lovely and fascinating creature, and of all a victim to the artifices of a villain who hid the grin and cunning beneath the mask of friendship. I hope you never may. Any letter addressed to me at the Leatherin bottle, Cobhub, Kent, will be forwarded, supposing I still exist. I hastened from the sight of the world which has become odious to me. Should I hasten from it altogether, pity, forgive me. Life, my dear Pickwick, has become insupportable to me. The spirit which burns within us is a porter's knot, on which to rest the heavy load of worldly cares and troubles, and when that spirit fails us, the burden is too heavy to be borne. We sink beneath it. You may tell Rachel, ah, that name. Tracy Topman. We must leave this place directly, said Mr. Pickwick, as he refolded the note. It would not have been decent for us to remain here under any circumstances after what has happened, and now we are bound to follow in search of our friend, so saying he led the way to the house. His intention was rapidly communicated. The entreaties to remain were pressing, but Mr. Pickwick was inflexible. Business, he said, required his immediate attention. The old clergyman was present. You are not really going, he said, taking Mr. Pickwick aside. Mr. Pickwick reiterated his former determination. Then here, said the old gentleman, is a little manuscript which I had hoped to have the pleasure of reading to you myself. I found it on the death of a friend of mine, a medical man engaged in our county lunatic asylum. Among a variety of papers which I had the option of destroying or preserving, as I thought proper. I can hardly believe the manuscript is genuine, though it certainly is not in my friend's hand. However, whether it be the genius production of a maniac, or founded upon the ravings of some unhappy being, which I think more probable, read it and judge for yourself. Mr. Pickwick received the manuscript and parted from the benevolent old gentleman with many expressions of goodwill and esteem. It was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates of Manor Farm, from whom they had received so much hospitality and kindness. Mr. Pickwick kissed the young ladies, we were going to say it as if they were his own daughters, only as he might possibly have infused a little more warmth into the salutation. A comparison would not be quite appropriate. Hugged the old lady with filial cordiality and pat at the rosy cheeks of the female servants in a most patriarchal manner, as he slipped into the hands of each some more substantial expression of his approval. The exchange of cordialities, which their fine old host and Mr. Trundle were even more hearty and prolonged, and it was not until Mr. Snodgrass had been several times called for, and at last emerged from a dark passage, followed so soon after by Emily, whose bright eyes looked unusually dim, that the three friends weren't able to tear themselves from their friendly entertainers. Many a backward look they gave at the farm as they walked slowly away, and many a kiss did Mr. Snodgrass waft in the air in acknowledgement of something very like a lady's handkerchief, which was waived from one of the upper windows until a turn of the lane hid the old house from their sight. At Muggleton they procured a conveyance to Rochester. By the time they reached the last named place, the violence of their grief had sufficiently abated to admit their making a very excellent early dinner, and having procured the necessary information relative to the road, the three friends set forward again in the afternoon to walk to Cobham. A delightful walk it was, for it was a pleasant afternoon in June, and their way lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled by the light wind which gently rustled the thick foliage and enlivened by the songs of the birds that perched upon the vows. The ivy and the moss crept in thick clusters over the old trees, and the soft green turf overspread the ground like a silken mat. They emerged upon an open park with an ancient hall displaying the quaint and picturesque architecture of Elizabeth's time. Long vistas of stately oaks and elm trees appeared on every side. Large herds of deer were cropping the fresh grass, and occasionally a startled hare scoured along the ground with a speed of shadows thrown by the light clouds which swept across a sunny landscape, like a passing breath of summer. If this, said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him, if this were the place to which all who are troubled with their friends' complaint came, a fancy their old attachment to this world would very soon return. I think so too, said Mr. Winkle. And really, added Mr. Pickwick, after a half an hour's walking, had brought them to the village. Really, for a misanthrope's choice, this is one of the prettiest and most desirable places of residence I ever met with. In this opinion also, both Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass expressed their concurrence, and having been directed to the Leatherin bottle, a clean and commodious village ale-house, the three travellers entered and at once inquired for the gentleman of the name of Tutman. Show the gentleman into the parlour, Tom, said the landlady. A stout country lad opened the door at the end of the passage, and the three friends entered a long, low-riffed room furnished with a large number of high-backed leather cushion-chairs of fantastic shapes, and embellished with a great variety of old portraits and roughly coloured prints of some antiquity. At the upper end of the room was a table with a white cloth upon it, well covered with a roast fowl, bacon, ale, and etc. And at the table sat Mr. Tutman, looking as an unlike a man who had taken his leave of the world as possible. On the entrance of his friends, that gentleman laid down his knife and forkened with the mournful air advanced to meet them. I did not expect to see you here, he said, as he grasped Mr. Pickwick's hand. It's very kind. All said Mr. Pickwick sitting down and wiping his forehead the perspiration of which the walk had engendered. Finish your dinner and walk out with me. I wish to speak to you alone. Mr. Tutman did as he was desired, and Mr. Pickwick, having refreshed himself with a copious drought of ale, waited his friend's leisure. The dinner was quickly dispatched and they walked out together. For half an hour their forms might have been seen pacing the churchyard to and fro while Mr. Pickwick was engaged in combating his companion's resolution. Any repetition of his arguments would be useless, for what language could convey to them that energy and force which their great originators manner communicated. Whether Mr. Tutman was already tired of retirement, or whether he was wholly unable to resist the eloquent appeal which was made to him, matters not. He did not resist it at last. It mattered little to him, he said, where he dragged out the miserable remainder of his days, and since his friend laid so much stress upon his humble companionship, he was willing to share his adventures. Mr. Pickwick smiled. They shook hands and walked back to rejoin their companions. It was at this moment that Mr. Pickwick made that immortal discovery which has been the pride and boast of his friends and the envy of every antiquarian in this or any other country. They had passed the door of their inn and walked a little way down the village before they recollected the precise spot in which it stood. As they turned back, Mr. Pickwick's eye fell upon a small broken stone, partially buried in the ground in front of a cottage door. He paused. This is very strange, said Mr. Pickwick. What is strange, inquired Mr. Tutman, staring eagerly at every object near him, but the right one. God bless me, what's the matter? This last was an ejaculation of irrepressible astonishment, occasioned by seeing Mr. Pickwick in his enthusiasm for discovery fall on his knees before the little stone and commence wiping the dust off it with his pocket handkerchief. There is an inscription here, said Mr. Pickwick. Is it possible? Said Mr. Tutman. I can discern, continued Mr. Pickwick, rubbing away with all his might and gazing intently through his spectacles. I can discern across and a B and then a T. This is important, continued Mr. Pickwick starting up. This is some very old inscription existing perhaps long before the ancient arms houses in this place. It must not be lost. He tapped at the cottage door. A laboring man opened it. Did you know how this stone came here, my friend? Inquired the benevolent Mr. Pickwick. No sir, I don't sir. Replied the man civilly. It was fair long before I was born. Ornios. Mr. Pickwick glanced triumphantly at his companion. You, you are not particularly attached to it. I dare say, said Mr. Pickwick, trembling with anxiety. You wouldn't mind selling it now. Oh, but who'd buy it? Inquired the man with an expression of face, which he probably meant to be very cunning. I'll give you ten shillings for it at once, said Mr. Pickwick. If you would take it up for me. The astonishment of the village may be easily imagined when the little stone having been raised with one wrench of a spade, Mr. Pickwick, by dint of a great personal exertion, bore it with his own hands to the inn, and after having carefully washed it, deposited it on the table. The exultation and joy of the Pickwick yins knew no bounds when their patience and assiduity, their washing and scraping were crowned with success. The stone was uneven and broken, and the letters were straggling and irregular, but the following fragment of an inscription was clearly to be deciphered across. B-I-L-S-T, then U-M, then P-S-H-I, then S period, M period, then A-R-K. Mr. Pickwick's eyes sparkled with delight as he sat and gloated over the treasure he had discovered. He had attained one of the greatest objects of his ambition, in a county known to abound in remains of the early ages, in a village in which there still existed some memorials of the olden time. He, the chairman of the Pickwick Club, had discovered a strange and curious inscription of unquestionable antiquity which had wholly escaped the observation of the many learned men who had preceded him. He could hardly trust the evidence of his senses. This, this, he said, determines me. We return to town tomorrow. Tomorrow, exclaimed his admiring followers. Tomorrow, said Mr. Pickwick, this treasure must be at once deposited where it can be thoroughly investigated and properly understood. I have another reason for this step. In a few days an election is to take place for the borough of Eaton's Will, at which Mr. Perker, a gentleman whom I lately met, is the agent of one of the candidates. We will behold and minutely examine a scene so interesting to every Englishman. We will, was the animated cry of three voices. Mr. Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervor of his followers lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He was their leader, and he felt it. Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass, he said. This proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous applause, having himself deposited to the most important stone in his small deal box purchased from the landlady for the purpose, he placed himself in an armchair at the head of the table, and the evening was devoted to festivity and conversation. It was past eleven o'clock, a late hour for the little village of Cobham, when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bedroom which had been prepared for his reception. He threw open the lattice window, and setting his light upon the table, fell into a train of meditation on the hurried events of the two preceding days. The hour and the place were both favorable to contemplation. Mr. Pickwick was roused by the church clock striking twelve. The first stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bell ceased the stillness seemed insupportable. He almost felt as if he had lost a companion. He was nervous and excited, and hastily undressing himself, and placing his light in the chimney, got into bed. Everyone has experienced that disagreeable state of mind in which a sensation of bodily weariness and vain contends against an inability to sleep. It was Mr. Pickwick's condition at this moment. He tossed first on one side and then on the other, and perseveringly closed his eyes as it decoaps himself to slumber. It was of no use, whether it was the unwanted exertion he had undergone, or the heat with the brandy and water or the strange bed. Whatever it was, his thoughts kept reverting very uncomfortably, to the grim pictures downstairs, and the old stories to which they had given rise in the course of the evening. After half an hour's tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory conclusion that it was of no use trying to sleep. So he got up and partially dressed himself. Anything he thought was better than lying there, fencing all kinds of horrors. He looked out the window, it was very dark. He walked about the room, it was very lonely. He had taken a few turns from the door to the window, and from the window to the door, when the clergyman's manuscript for the first time entered his head. It was a good thought. If it failed to interest him, it might send him to sleep. He took it from his coat pocket, and drawing a small table towards his bedside, trimmed the light, put on his spectacles, and composed himself to read. It was a strange handwriting, and the paper was much soiled and blotted. The title gave him a sudden start too, and he could not avoid casting a wistful glance around the room. Reflecting on the absurdity of giving way to such feelings, however, he trimmed the light again and read as follows. A madman's manuscript. Yes, a madman. How that word would have struck to my heart many years ago. How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon me sometimes, sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins till the cold dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and my knees knocked together with fright. I like it now, though. It's a fine name. Show me the monarch whose angry frown was ever feared like the glare of a madman's eye, whose cord and axe were ever half so sure as a madman's grip. Oh, ho, it's a grand thing to be mad. To be peep-dead like a wild lion through the iron bars, to nash one's teeth and howl through the long still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain, to the roll and twine among the straw transported with such brave music. Hurrah for the madhouse. Oh, it's a rare place. I remember the days when I was afraid of being mad, when I used to start from my sleep and fall upon my knees and pray to be spared from the curse of my race, when I rushed from the sight of merry mentor happiness to hide myself in some lonely place and spend the weary hours in watching the progress of the fever that was to consume my brain. I knew that madness was mixed up with my very blood and the marrow of my bones, that one generation had passed away without the pestilence appearing among them, and that I was the first in whom it would revive. I knew it must be so, that so it always had been, and so it ever would be, and I cowered in some obscure corner of a crowded room and saw them whisper and point and turn their eyes toward me. I knew they were telling each other of the doomed mad man, and I slunk away again to mope in solitude. I did this for years, long, long years they were. The nights here are long sometimes, very long, but there are nothing to the restless nights and dreadful dreams I had at that time. It makes me cold to remember them, large dusky forms with sly and jeering faces crouched in the corners of the room and bent over my bed at night, tempting you to madness. They told me in low whispers that the floor of the old house in which my father's father died was stained with his own blood, shed by his own hand in raging madness. I drove my fingers into my ears, but they screamed into my head till the room rang with it. That in one generation before him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather had lived for years with his hands fettered to the ground to prevent his tearing himself to pieces. I knew they told the truth, I knew it well. I had found it out years before, though they had tried to keep it from me. Ha, ha! I was too cunning for them, mad man, as they thought me. At last it came upon me and I wondered how I could have ever feared it. I could go into the world now and laugh and shout with the best among them. I knew I was mad, but they did not even suspect it. How I used to hug myself with delight when I thought of the fine trick I was playing them after their old pointing and leering when I was not mad, but only dreading that I might one day become so. And how I used to laugh for joy when I was alone and thought how well I kept my secret, and how quickly my friends would have fallen from me if they had known the truth. I could have screamed with ecstasy when I dined alone with some fine roaring fellow to think how pale he would have turned and how fast he would have run if he had known that the dear friend who sat close to him, sharpening a bright glittering knife, was a mad man with all the power and half the will to plunge it into his heart. Oh, it was a merry life. Ridges became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted in pleasure and hence the thousandfold to me by the consciousness of my well-capped secret. I inherited an estate. The law, the eagle-eyed law itself, had been deceived and had handed over disputed thousands from mad man's hands. Where was the wit of the sharpsighted men of sound mine? Where was the dexterity of the lawyers eager to discover a flaw? The mad man's cunning had overreached them all. I had money. How I was courted. I spent it profusely. How I was praised. How those three proud, overbearing brothers humbled themselves before me. The old white-headed father, too. Such deference. Such respect. Such devoted friendship. He worshipped me. The old man had a daughter and the young men a sister, and all five were poor. I was rich, and when I married the girl, I saw a smile of triumph play upon the faces of her needy relatives as they thought of their well-planned scheme and their fine prize. It was for me to smile. To smile. To laugh outright and to tear my hair and roll upon the ground with shrieks of merriment. They little thought they had married her to a madman. Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her? A sister's happiness against her husband's gold. The lightest feather I blow into the air or against the gay chain that ornaments my body. In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not been mad, for though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we'd get bewildered sometimes. I should have known that the girl would have rather been placed stiff and cold in a dull-ledded coffin, than born in envied bride to my rich glittering house. I should have known that her heart was with the dark-haired boy whose name I once heard her breathe in her troubled sleep, and that she had been sacrificed to me to relieve the poverty of the old white-headed man and the haughty brothers. I don't remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was beautiful. I know she was, for in the bright moonlight nights when I start up from my sleep and all is quiet about me, I see a standing still emotionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure with long black hair, which streaming down her back stirs with no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me and never wink or close. Hush! The blood chills at my heart as I write it down. That form is hers, the voice is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright, but I know them well. That figure never moves, it never frowns and mouths, as others do, that fill the place sometimes. But it is much more dreadful to me, even than the spirits that tempted me many years ago. It comes fresh from the grave, and is so very death-like. For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler, for nearly a year I saw the tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I found it out at last, though. They could not keep it from me long. She had never liked me. I had never thought she did. She despised my wealth and hated the splendour in which she lived. I had not expected that. She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings came over me, and thoughts forced upon me by some secret power, world round and round my brain. I pitied, yes, I pitied, the wretched life to which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she could not live long, but the thought that before her death she might give birth to some ill-fated being, destined to hand down madness to its offspring, determined me. I resolved to kill her. For many weeks I thought of poison, then of drowning, and then of fire. A fine sight the grand house inflames, and the mad man's wife smoldering away to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, and of some sane man swinging in the wind for a deed he never did, and all through a mad man's cunning. I thought often of this, but I gave it up at last. Oh, the pleasure of stroping the razor day after day, feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash one stroke of its thin bright edge would make. At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before whispered in my ear, that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into my hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed, and leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly to her bosom. She had been weeping for the trances of the tears was still wet upon her cheeks. Her face was calm and placid, and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil smile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her shoulder. She started. It was only a passing dream. I leaned forward again. She screamed and woke. One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or sound. But I was startled and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine. I know not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me, and I quailed beneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily on me. I trembled. The razor was in my hand, but I could not move. She made towards the door. As she neared it, she turned and withdrew her eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward and clutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sunk upon the ground. Now I could have killed her without a struggle. But the house was alarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the razor in its usual drawer, unfastened at the door, and called loudly for assistance. They came and raised her and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft of animation for hours, and when life looked and speech returned, her senses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously. Doctors were called in, great men who rolled up to my door in easy carriages with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were at her bedside for weeks. They had a great meeting and consulted together in low and solemn voices in another room. One the cleverest and most celebrated among them took me aside, and bidding me prepare for the worst told me, me the madman, that my wife was mad. He stood close beside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my face and his hands laid upon my arm. With one effort I could have hurled him into the street beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it. But my secret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after they told me I must place her under some restraint. I must provide a keeper for her. I, I went into the fields, where none could hear me, and laughed till the air resamed it with my shouts. She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to her grave, and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse of her whose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscle of iron. All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the white handkerchief, which I held up to my face as we rode home till the tears came into my eyes. But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless and disturbed. I felt that before long my secret must be known. I could not hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me and made me, when I was alone at home, jump up and beat my hands together and dance round and round and roar loud, when I went out and saw the busy crowds hurring about the streets, or to the theatre and heard the sound of music and beheld the people dancing. I felt such glee that I could have rushed among them and torn them to pieces, limb from limb, and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth and struck my feet upon the floor and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down and no one knew I was a mad man yet. I remember, though it's one of the last things I can remember, for now I mix up realities with my dreams, and having so much to do and always being hurried here have no time to separate the two. From some strange confusion in which they get involved, I remember how I let it out at last. Ha ha! I think I see their frightened looks now and feel the ease with which I flung them from me, and dashed my clenched fist into their white faces, and then flew like the wind and left them screaming and shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comes upon me when I think of it. There, see how this iron bar bends beneath my furious wrench. I could snap it like a twig. Only there are long galleries here with mini-doors. I don't think I could find my way along them, and even if I could, I know there are iron gates below which they keep locked and barred. They know what a clever madman I have been, and they are proud to have me here to show. Let me see, yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I reached home and found the proudest of the three proud brothers waiting to see me. Urgent business, he said. I recollected well. I hated that man with all the madman's hate. Many and many a time had my fingers long to tear him, and they told me he was there. I ran swiftly upstairs. He had a word to say to me. I dismissed the servants. It was late, and we were alone together for the first time. I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he little thought, and I gloried in the knowledge that the light of madness gleamed from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He spoke at last. My recent dissipation and strange remarks made so soon after his sister's death were an insult to her memory. Coupling together many circumstances which had at first escaped his observation, he thought I had not treated her well. He wished to know whether he was right in inferring that I meant to cast a reproach upon her memory and a disrespect upon her family. It was due to the uniform he wore to demand this explanation. This man had a commission in the army, a commission purchased with my money and his sister's misery. This was the man who had been foremost in the plot to ensnare me and grasp my wealth. This was the man who had been the main instrument in forcing his sister to wed me, well knowing that her heart was given to that pulling boy. Due to his uniform, the livery of his degradation, I turned my eyes upon him. I could not help it, but I spoke not a word. I saw the sudden change that came upon him beneath my gaze. He was a bold man, but the color faded from his face, and he drew back his chair. I dragged mine nearer to him, and as I laughed, I was merry then. I saw him shudder. I felt the madness rising within me. He was afraid of me. You were very fond of your sister when she was alive, I said. Very. He looked uneasily around him, and I saw his hand grasp the back of his chair, but he said nothing. You villain, said I. I found you out. I discovered your hellish pulse against me. I know her heart was fixed on someone else before you compelled her to marry me. I know it. I know it. He jumped suddenly up from his chair, brandished it aloft, and bid me stand back, for I took care to be getting closer to him all the time I spoke. I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions eddying through my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taunting me to tear his heart out. Damn you, said I, starting up and rushing upon him. I killed her. I am a madman. Down with you, blood, blood, I will have it. I turned aside with one blow the chair he hurled at me in his terror, and closed with him, and with a heavy crash we roll upon the floor together. It was a fine struggle, Pat, for he was a tall, strong man fighting for his life, and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy him. I knew no strength could equal mine, and I was right, right again, though a madman. His struggles grew fainter, and nailed upon his chest, and clasped his brawny throat firmly with both hands. His face grew purple, his eyes were starting from his head, and with protruded tongue he seemed to mock me. I squeezed the tighter. The door was suddenly burst open, with a loud noise and a crowd of people rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to secure the madman. My secret was out, and my only struggle now was for liberty and freedom. I gained my feet before hand was upon me, threw myself upon my assailants, and cleared my way with my strong arm as if I bore hatchet in my hand, and hewed them down before me. I gained the door, dropped over the banister, and in an instant was in the street. Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard the noise of feet behind and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter and fainter in the distance, and at length died away altogether. But on I bounded, through marsh and rivulet, over fence and wall, and with a wild shout which was shaken up by the strange beings that flocked around behind every side, and swelled the sound, till it pierced the air. I was born upon the arms of demons who swept along upon the wind, and bore down bank and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with the rustle and the speed that made my head swim. Until at last they threw me from them with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon the earth. When I woke I found myself here, here in this grey cell where the sunlight seldom comes, and the moonlight steals in in rays which only serve to show the dark shadows about me, and that silent figure in the old corner. When I lie awake I can sometimes hear strange shrieks and cries from the distant parts of this large place. What are they? I know not, but they neither come from that pale form, nor does it regard them. For from the first shades of dusk till the earliest light of morning, it still stands motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron chain, and watching the gambles on my straw bed. At the end of the manuscript was written in another hand this note. The unhappy man whose ravings are recorded above, and a melancholy instance of the baneful results of energies misdirected in early life, and excesses prolonged until their consequence could never be repaired. The thoughtless riot, dissipation and debauchery of his younger days produced fever and delirium. The first efforts of the latter was the strange delusion, founded upon a well-known medical theory strongly contended for by some and strongly contested by others, that an heredity madness existed in his family. This produced a settled gloom which in time developed a morbid insanity and finally terminated in raving madness. There is every reason to believe that the events he detailed, though distorted in the description by his diseased imagination, really happened. It is only matter of wonder to those who were acquainted with the vices of his early career that his passions, when no longer controlled by reason, did not lead him to the commission of still more frightful deeds. Mr. Pickwick's candle was just expiring in the socket, as he concluded the perusal of the old clergyman's manuscript, and when the light went suddenly out without any previous flicker, by way of warning, it communicated a very considerable start to his excited frame. Hastily throwing off such articles of clothing as he had put on when he rose from his uneasy bed and casting a fearful glance around, he once more scrambled hastily between the sheets and soon fell fast asleep. The sun was shining brilliantly into his chamber when he awoke, and the morning was far advanced. The gloom which had oppressed him on the previous night had disappeared with the dark shadows which shrouded the landscape, and his thoughts and feelings were as light and gay as the morning itself. After a hearty breakfast, the four gentlemen sallied forth to walk to Graveson, followed by a man bearing the stone in its deal box. They reached that town about one o'clock, their luggage they had directed to be forwarded to the city from Rochester, and being fortunate enough to secure places on the outside of a coach, arrived in London in sound health and spirits on that same afternoon. The next three or four days were occupied with the preparations which were necessary for their journey to the borough of Edmundsville. As any reference to that most important undertaking demands a separate chapter, we may devote a few lines which remain at the close of this to narrate, with great brevity, the history, of the antiquarian discovery. It appears from the transactions of the club then that Mr. Pickwick lectured upon the discovery at a general club meeting, convened on the night succeeding their return, and entered into a variety of ingenious and erudite speculations on the meaning of the inscription. It also appears that a skillful artist executed a faithful delineation of this curiosity which was engraved on the stone and presented to the royal antiquarian society and other learned bodies. That heartburnings and jealousies without number were created by rival controversies which were penned upon the subject, and that Mr. Pickwick himself wrote a pamphlet containing ninety-six pages, a very small print, and twenty-seven different readings of the inscription. That three old gentlemen cut off their eldest sons with a shilling apiece for presuming to doubt the antiquity of the fragment, and that one enthusiastic individual cut himself off prematurely in despair at being unable to fathom its meaning. The Mr. Pickwick was elected an honorary member of seventeen native and foreign societies for making the discovery that none of the seventeen could make anything of it, but that all the seventeen agreed it was very extraordinary. Indeed, and the name will be doomed to the undying contempt of those who cultivate the mysterious and the sublime. Mr. Blotten, we say, with the doubt and cavilling peculiar to vulgar minds, presumed to state a view of the case as degrading and ridiculous. Mr. Blotten, with the mean desire to tarnish the luster of the immortal name of Pickwick, actually undertook a journey to cob him in person, and on his return sarcastically observed in an oration at the club that he had seen the man from whom the stone was purchased. But the man presumed the stone to be ancient, but solemnly denied the antiquity of the inscription in as much as he represented it to have been rudely carved by himself in an idle mood and to display the letters indeed to bear neither more nor less than the simple construction of Bill Stumps, his mark, and that Mr. Stumps, being little in the habit of original composition and more accustomed to be guided by the sound of words than by the strict rules of orthography, had omitted the concluding l of his Christian name. The Pickwick Club, as might have been expected from so enlightened an institution, received this statement with the contempt it deserved, expelled the presumptuous and ill-conditioned Blotten, and voted Pickwick a pair of gold spectacles in token of their confidence and approbation, in return for which Mr. Pickwick caused a portrait of himself to be painted and hung up in the club room. Mr. Blotten, though ejected, was not conquered. He also wrote a pamphlet addressed to the 17 learned societies native and foreign, containing a repetition of the statement he had already made, and rather more than half intimating his opinion that the 17 learned societies were so many humbugs, hereupon the virtuous indignation of the 17 learned societies native and foreign, being roused, several fresh pamphlets appeared, eddies corresponded with the native learned societies, the native learned societies translated the pamphlets of the foreign learned societies into English, the foreign learned societies translated the pamphlet of the native learned societies into all sorts of languages, and thus commenced that celebrated scientific discussions so well known to all men as the Pickwick controversy. But this base attempt to injure Mr. Pickwick recoiled upon the head of its calluminous author. The 17 learned societies unanimously voted that presumptuous Blotten an ignorant meddler and forthwith set to work upon more treaties than ever, and to this day the stone remains an illegible monument of Mr. Pickwick's greatness and a lasting trophy to the littleness of his enemies. CHAPTER XII. Descriptive of a very important proceeding on the part of Mr. Pickwick, no less an epic in his life than in this history. Mr. Pickwick's apartments in Goswell Street, although on a limited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable description, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first floor front, his bedroom the second floor front, and thus, whether he was sitting at his desk in his parlor or standing before the dressing-glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in all the numerous phases it exhibits in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare. His landlady, Mrs. Bardell, the relict and sole executrix of a deceased custom-house officer, was a comely woman of bustling manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice into an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a small boy, the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. Bardell's. The large man was always home precisely at ten o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlor. And the infantile sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighboring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house, and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law. To anyone acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance and behavior on the morning previous to that which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eaton's will, would have been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at intervals of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience very unusual with him. It was evident that something of great importance was in contemplation, but what that something was not even Mrs. Bardell had been enabled to discover. Mrs. Bardell, said Mr. Pickwick at last, as that amiable female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment. Sir, said Mrs. Bardell, your little boy is a very long time gone. Why, it's a good long way to the burrow, sir, remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. Ah, said Mr. Pickwick, very true, so it is. Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. Mrs. Bardell, said Mr. Pickwick at the expiration of a few minutes. Sir, said Mrs. Bardell, again, do you think at a much greater expense to keep two people than to keep one? La, Mr. Pickwick, said Mrs. Bardell, coloring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger. La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question. Well, but do you, inquired Mr. Pickwick. That depends, said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the table. That depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick, and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir. That's very true, said Mr. Pickwick, but the person I have in my eye, here, he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell. I think possesses these qualities, and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell, which may be of material use to me. La, Mr. Pickwick, said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her cap border again. I do, said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his want in speaking of a subject which interested him. I do indeed, and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind. Dear me, sir, exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. You'll think it very strange now, said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a good humor glanced at his companion, that I never consulted you about this matter, and never even mentioned it, till I sent your little boy out this morning. Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was all at once raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose. A deliberate plan, too. Sent her little boy to the burrow, to get him out of the way. How thoughtful! How considerate! Well, said Mr. Pickwick, what do you think? Oh, Mr. Pickwick, said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation. You're very kind, sir. It'll save you a good deal of trouble, won't it? said Mr. Pickwick. Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir, replied Mrs. Bardell. And of course I should take more trouble to please you then than ever, but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much consideration for my loneliness. Ah, to be sure, said Mr. Pickwick, I never thought of that. When I am in town, you'll always have somebody to sit with you, to be sure, so you will. I am sure I ought to be a very happy woman, said Mrs. Bardell. And your little boy, said Mr. Pickwick, bless his heart, interposed Mrs. Bardell with a maternal sob. He, too, will have a companion, resumed Mr. Pickwick, a lively one who'll teach him I'll be bound more tricks in a week than he would ever learn in a year. And Mr. Pickwick smiled placently. Oh, you dear, said Mrs. Bardell. Mr. Pickwick started. Oh, you kind, good, playful, dear, said Mrs. Bardell, and without more ado she rose from her chair and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs. Bless my soul, cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick. Mrs. Bardell, my good woman, dear me, what a situation! Pray consider, Mrs. Bardell, don't, if anybody should come. Oh, let them come, exclaimed Mrs. Bardell frantically. I'll never leave you, dear kind, good soul. And with these words Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter. Mercy upon me, said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently. I hear somebody coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good creature, don't. But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing, for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms. And before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tubman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, without the slightest attempt at recognition or explanation. They in their turn stared at him, and Master Bardell in his turn stared at everybody. The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have remained in exactly the same relative situations, until the suspended animation of the Lady was restored, had it not been for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affection on the part of her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very considerable size, he at first stood at the door, astounded and uncertain. But by degrees, the impression that his mother must have suffered some personal damage, pervaded his partially developed mind, and considering Mr. Pickwick as the aggressor, he set up an appalling and semi-earthly kind of howling, and budding forward with his head, commenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the back and legs, with such blows and pinches as the strength of his arm and the violence of his excitement allowed. Take this little villain away, said the agonized Mr. Pickwick. He's mad. What is the matter, said the three tongue-tied Pickwickians. I don't know, replied Mr. Pickwick pettishly. Take away the boy. Here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and struggling to the farther end of the apartment. Now help me lead this woman downstairs. Oh, I am better now, said Mrs. Bardell faintly. Let me lead you downstairs, said the ever-gallant Mr. Tubman. Thank you, sir. Thank you, exclaimed Mrs. Bardell hysterically, and downstairs she was led accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son. I cannot conceive, said Mr. Pickwick, when his friend returned. I cannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. I had merely announced to her my intention of keeping a man-servant when she fell into the extraordinary paroxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary thing. Very, said his three friends, placed me in such an extremely awkward situation, continued Mr. Pickwick. Very was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly and looked dubiously at each other. This behavior was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their incredulity. They evidently suspected him. There is a man in the passage now, said Mr. Tubman. It's the man I spoke to you about, said Mr. Pickwick. I sent for him to the borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up, Snodgrass. Mr. Snodgrass did as he was desired, and Mr. Samuel Weller, forthwith, presented himself. Oh, you remember me, I suppose, said Mr. Pickwick. I should think so, replied Sam, with a patronizing wink. Queers start that air, but he was one too many for you, weren't he? Up to snuff and a pinch or two over, eh? Never mind that matter now, said Mr. Pickwick hastily. I want to speak to you about something else. Sit down. Thank you, sir, said Sam. And down he sat without further bidding, having previously deposited his old white hat on the landing outside the door. Tamed a weary gooden to look at, said Sam, but it's an astonishing underwear. And before the brim went, it was a weary handsome tile. Howsoever it's lighter without it, that's one thing. In every hole that's in some air, that's another. When elation gossamer, I calls it. On the delivery of this sentiment, Mr. Weller smiled agreeably upon the assembled Pickwickians. Now with regard to the matter on which I, with the concurrence of these gentlemen, sent for you, said Mr. Pickwick. That's the pint, sir, interposed Sam, out with it, as the father said to his child, when he swallowed a farden. We want to know, in the first place, said Mr. Pickwick, whether you have any reason to be discontented with your present situation. Before I answer that, our question, gentlemen, replied Mr. Weller, I should like to know, in the first place, whether you are going to proride me with the better. A sunbeam of placid benevolence played on Mr. Pickwick's features, as he said, I have half made up my mind to engage you myself. Have you, though? said Sam. Mr. Pickwick nodded in the affirmative. Wages, inquired Sam. Twelve pounds a year, replied Mr. Pickwick. Clothes. Two suits. Work. To attend upon me and travel about with me and these gentlemen here. Take the bill down, said Sam, emphatically. I'm let to a single gentleman, and the terms is agreed upon. You accept the situation, inquired Mr. Pickwick? Certainly, replied Sam. If the clothes fits me half as well as the place, they'll do. You can get a character, of course, said Mr. Pickwick. Ask the landlady of the White Heart about that, sir, replied Sam. Can you come this evening? I'll get into the clothes this minute if they're here, said Sam, with great alacrity. Call at eight this evening, said Mr. Pickwick, and if the inquiries are satisfactory, they shall be provided. With the single exception of one amiable indiscretion, in which an assistant housemaid had equally participated, the history of Mr. Weller's conduct was so very blameless that Mr. Pickwick felt fully justified in closing the engagement that very evening. With the promptness and energy which characterized not only the public proceedings, but all the private actions of this extraordinary man, he at once led his new attendant to one of those convenient emporiums where gentlemen's new and secondhand clothes are provided, and the troublesome and inconvenient formality of measurement dispensed with. And before night had closed in, Mr. Weller was furnished with a gray coat with a PC button, a black hat with a cockade to it, a pink striped waistcoat, light breeches and gaiters, and a variety of other necessaries too numerous to recapitulate. Well, said that suddenly transformed individual, as he took his seat on the outside of the Eaton's Will coach next morning. I wonder whether I'm meant to be a footman, or a groom, or a gamekeeper, or a seedsman. I look like a sort of compole of every one of them. Never mind, there's a change of air plenty to see and little to do, and all this suits my complaint uncommon. So long life to the pick-fix, says I. The Pickwick papers by Charles Dickens, Chapter 13. Some account of Eaton's Will. Of the state of parties therein. And of the election of a member to serve in parliament for that ancient, loyal, and patriotic borough. We will frankly acknowledge that up to the period of our being fully immersed in the voluminous papers of the Pickwick Club, we had never heard of Eaton's Will. We will with equal candour admit that we have in vain searched for proof of the actual existence of such a place at the present day. Knowing the deep reliance to be placed on every note and statement of Mr. Pickwick's, and not presuming to set up our recollection against the recorded declarations of that great man, we have consulted every authority bearing upon the subject to which we could possibly refer. We have traced every name in schedules A and B without meeting that of Eaton's Will. We have minutely examined every corner of the Pocket County Maps issued for the benefit of society by our distinguished publishers, and the same result has attended our investigation. We are therefore led to believe that Mr. Pickwick, with that anxious desire to abstain from giving offence to any, and with those delicate feelings for which all who knew him well know he was so eminently remarkable, purposely substituted a fictitious designation for the real name of the place in which his observations were made. We are confirmed in this belief by a little circumstance, apparently slight and trivial in itself, but when considered in this point of view not undeserving of notice, in Mr. Pickwick's Notebook we can just trace an entry of the fact that the places of himself and followers were booked by the Norwich Coach. But this entry was afterwards lined through, as if for the purpose of concealing even the direction in which the borough is situated. We will not therefore hazard a guess upon the subject, but will at once proceed with this history, content with the materials which its characters have provided for us. It appears then that the Eaton's Will people, like the people of many other small towns, considered themselves of the utmost and most mighty importance, and that every man in Eaton's Will, conscious of the weight that attached to his example, felt himself bound to unite, heart and soul, with one of the two great parties that divided the town, the Blues and the Buffs. Now the Blues lost no opportunity of opposing the Buffs, and the Buffs lost no opportunity of opposing the Blues. And the consequence was that whenever the Buffs and Blues met together at public meeting, town hall, fair or market, disputes and high words arose between them. With these dissensions it is almost superfluous to say that everything in Eaton's Will was made a party question. If the Buffs proposed to new skylight the marketplace, the Blues got up at public meetings and denounced the proceeding. If the Blues proposed the erection of an additional pump in the high street, the Buffs rose as one man and stood aghast at the enormity. There were Blue shops and Buff shops, Blue Inns and Buff Inns. There was a Blue Isle and a Buff Isle in the very church itself. Of course it was essentially and indispensably necessary that each of these powerful parties should have its chosen organ and representative. And accordingly there were two newspapers in the town, the Eaton's Will Gazette and the Eaton's Will Independent, the former advocating Blue Principles, and the latter conducted on grounds decidedly Buff. Fine newspapers they were, such leading articles and such spirited attacks. Our worthless contemporary, the Gazette, that disgraceful and dastardly journal, the Independent, that false and scurrilous print, the Independent, that vile and slanderous calumniator, the Gazette. These and other spirit-stirring denunciations were strewn plentifully over the columns of each, in every number, and excited feelings of the most intense delight and indignation in the bosoms of the town's people. Mr. Pickwick, with his usual foresight and sagacity, had chosen a peculiarly desirable moment for his visit to the borough. Never was such a contest known. The honourable Samuel Slumkey of Slumkey Hall was the Blue Candidate, and a ratio-physicine-esquire of Physicine Lodge near Eaton's Will had been prevailed upon by his friends to stand forward on the Buff interest. The Gazette warned the electors of Eaton's Will that the eyes not only of England, but of the whole civilised world were upon them, and the Independent imperatively demanded to know whether the constituency of Eaton's Will were the grand fellows they had always taken them for, or base and servile tools undeserving a like of the name of Englishmen and the blessings of freedom. Never had such a commotion agitated the town before. It was late in the evening when Mr. Pickwick and his companions, assisted by Sam, dismounted from the roof of the Eaton's Will coach. Large blue silk flags were flying from the windows of the town arms in, and bills were posted in every sash, intimating in gigantic letters that the honourable Samuel Slumkey's committee sat there daily. A crowd of idlers were assembled in the road, looking at a horseman in the balcony, who was apparently talking himself very red in the face, in Mr. Slumkey's behalf. But the force and point of whose arguments were somewhat impaired by the perpetual beating of four large drums which Mr. Physicine's committee had stationed at the street corner. There was a busy little man beside him, though, who took off his hat at intervals, and motioned to the people to cheer, which they regularly did, most enthusiastically. And as the red-faced gentleman went on talking till he was redder in the face than ever, it seemed to answer his purpose quite as well as if anybody had heard him. The Pickwickians had no sooner dismounted than they were surrounded by a branch mob of the honest and independent, who forthwith set up three deafening cheers, which being responded to by the main body, for it's not at all necessary for a crowd to know what they are cheering about, swelled into a tremendous roar of triumph, which stopped even the red-faced man in the balcony. Hurrah! shouted the mob in conclusion. One cheer more! screamed the little fugal man in the balcony, and out shouted the mob again, as if lungs were cast iron with steel works. Slumkey forever! roared the honest and independent. Slumkey forever! echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat. No, Fiskin! roared the crowd. Certainly not! shouted Mr. Pickwick. Hurrah! And then there was another roaring, like that of a whole menagerie, when the elephant has wrung the bell for the cold meat. Who is Slumkey? whispered Mr. Tupman. I don't know, replied Mr. Pickwick in the same tone. Hush! don't ask any questions. It's always best on these occasions to do what the mob do. But suppose there are two mobs, suggested Mr. Snodgrass. Shout with the largest, replied Mr. Pickwick. Volumes could not have said more. They entered the house, the crowd opening right and left to let them pass, and cheering vociferously. The first object of consideration was to secure quarters for the night. Can we have beds here? inquired Mr. Pickwick, summoning the waiter. Don't know, sir! replied the man. Afraid we're full, sir. I'll inquire, sir. Away he went for that purpose, and presently returned to ask whether the gentleman were blue. As neither Mr. Pickwick nor his companions took any vital interest in the cause of either candidate, the question was rather a difficult one to answer. In this dilemma Mr. Pickwick befought himself of his new friend, Mr. Perker. Do you know a gentleman of the name of Perker? inquired Mr. Pickwick. Certainly, sir! honourable Mr. Samuel Slumkey's agent. He is blue, I think. Oh, yes, sir. Then we are blue, said Mr. Pickwick, but observing that the man looked rather doubtful at this accommodating announcement, he gave him his card and desired him to present it to Mr. Perker forthwith, if he should happen to be in the house. The waiter retired, and reappearing almost immediately with a request that Mr. Pickwick would follow him, led the way to a large room on the first floor, where seated at a long table covered with books and papers, was Mr. Perker. Ah, my dear sir! said the little man, advancing to meet him. Very happy to see you, my dear sir, very. Praise it down, so you have carried your intention into effect. You have come down to see an election, eh? Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative. Spirited contest, my dear sir! said the little man. I am delighted to hear it, said Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands. I like to see sturdy patriotism on whatever side it is called forth. And so it's a spirited contest? Oh, yes, said the little man, very much so indeed. We have opened all the public houses in the place, and left our adversary nothing but the beer-shop's masterly stroke of policy. That, my dear sir, eh? The little man smiled complacently, and took a large pinch of snuff. And what are the probabilities as to the result of the contest? inquired Mr. Pickwick. Why, doubtful, my dear sir, rather doubtful as yet, replied the little man. Fiskins people have got three and thirty voters in the lock-up coach-house at the White Heart. In the coach-house, said Mr. Pickwick, considerably astonished by the second stroke of policy. They keep them locked up there till they want them, resumed the little man. The effect of that is, you see, to prevent our getting at them. And even if we could, it would be of no use, for they keep them very drunk on purpose. Smart fellow, Fiskins agent, very smart fellow indeed. Mr. Pickwick stared, but said nothing. We are pretty confident, though, said Mr. Perker, sinking his voice almost to a whisper. We had a little tea-party here last night. Five and forty women, my dear sir, and gave every one of them a green parasol when she went away. A parasol, said Mr. Pickwick. Fact, my dear sir, fact! Five and forty green parasols at seven and sixpence each. All women, like finery, extraordinary the effect of those parasols, secured all their husbands and half their brothers. Beat stockings and flannel and all that sort of thing hollow. My dear, my dear sir, entirely, hail, rain or sunshine, you can't walk half a dozen yards up the street without encountering half a dozen green parasols. Here the little man indulged in a convulsion of mirth which was only checked by the entrance of a third party. This was a tall, thin man with a sandy-coloured head inclined to boldness and a face in which solemn importance was blended with a look of unfathomable profundity. He was dressed in a long brown sertu with a black cloth waistcoat and drab trousers. A double eyeglass dangled at his waistcoat, and on his head he wore a very low-crowned hat with a broad brim. The newcomer was introduced to Mr. Pickwick as Mr. Pot, the editor of the Eaton Swill Gazette. After a few preliminary remarks, Mr. Pot turned round to Mr. Pickwick and said with solemnity, This contest excites great interest in the metropolis, sir. I believe it does, said Mr. Pickwick, to which I have every reason to know, said Pot, looking towards Mr. Perker for corroboration, to which I have reason to know that my article of last Saturday in some degree contributed. Not the least out of it, said the little man. The press is a mighty engine, sir, said Pot. Mr. Pickwick yielded his fullest assent to the proposition. But I trust, sir, said Pot, that I have never abused the enormous power I wield. I trust, sir, that I have never pointed the noble instrument which is placed in my hands against the sacred bosom of private life or the tender breast of individual reputation. I trust, sir, that I have devoted my energies to endeavours. Humble they may be, humble I know they are, to instill those principles of which are. Here the editor of the Eaton Swill Gazette appearing to ramble, Mr. Pickwick came to his relief and said, certainly, and what, sir, said Pot, what, sir, let me ask you as an impartial man, is the state of the public mind in London with reference to my contest with the independent? Greatly excited, no doubt, interposed Mr. Parker with a look of slinus which was very likely accidental. The contest, said Pot, shall be prolonged so long as I have health and strength, and that portion of talent with which I am gifted. From that contest, sir, although it may unsettle men's minds and excite their feelings and render them incapable for the discharge of the everyday duties of ordinary life, from that contest, sir, I will never shrink till I have set my heel upon the Eaton Swill Independent. I wish the people of London and the people of this country to know, sir, that they may rely upon me, that I will not desert them that I am resolved to stand by them, sir, to the last. Your conduct is most noble, sir, said Mr. Pickwick, and he grasped the hand of the magnanimous Pot. You are, sir, I perceive a man of sense and talent, said Mr. Pot, almost breathless with the vehemence of his patriotic declaration. I am most happy, sir, to make the acquaintance of such a man. And I, said Mr. Pickwick, feel deeply honoured by this expression of your opinion. Allow me, sir, to introduce you to my fellow travellers, the other corresponding members of the club. I am proud to have found it. I shall be delighted, said Mr. Pot. Mr. Pickwick withdrew, and returning with his friends presented them in due form to the editor of the Eaton Swill Gazette. Now, my dear Pot, said little Mr. Perker, the question is, what are we to do with our friends here? We can stop in this house, I suppose, said Mr. Pickwick. Not a spare bed in the house, my dear sir, not a single bed. Extremely awkward, said Mr. Pickwick. Ferry, said his fellow voyagers. I have an idea upon this subject, said Mr. Pot, which I think may be very successfully adopted. They have two beds at the peacock, and I can boldly say on behalf of Mrs. Pot that she will be delighted to accommodate Mr. Pickwick and any one of his friends. If the other two gentlemen and their servant do not object to shifting, as they best can at the peacock. After repeated pressings on the part of Mr. Pot and repeated protestations on that of Mr. Pickwick, that he could not think of incomodating or troubling his amiable wife, it was decided that it was the only feasible arrangement that could be made. So it was made, and after dinner, together at the town arms, the friends separated. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass repairing to the peacock, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle proceeding to the mansion of Mr. Pot, it having been previously arranged that they should all reassemble at the town arms in the morning and accompany the honourable Samuel Slumkey's procession to the place of nomination. Mr. Pot's domestic circle was limited to himself and his wife. All men whom Mighty Genius has raised to a proud eminence in the world have usually some little weakness which appears the more conspicuous from the contrast it presents to their general character. If Mr. Pot had a weakness, it was perhaps that he was rather too submissive to the somewhat contemptuous control and sway of his wife. We do not feel justified in laying any particular stress upon the fact, because on the present occasion all Mrs. Pot's most winning ways were brought into requisition to receive the two gentlemen. My dear, said Mr. Pot, Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Pickwick of London. Mrs. Pot received Mr. Pickwick's paternal grasp of the hand with enchanting sweetness, and Mr. Winkle, who had not been announced at all, sidled and bowed unnoticed in an obscure corner. Pea, my dear, said Mrs. Pot, my life, said Mr. Pot. Pray introduce the other gentleman. I beg a thousand pardons, said Mr. Pot. Permit me, Mrs. Pot, Mr. Winkle, said Mr. Pickwick. Winkle echoed Mr. Pot, and the ceremony of introduction was complete. We owe you many apologies, ma'am, said Mr. Pickwick, for disturbing your domestic arrangements at so short a notice. I beg you won't mention it, sir, replied the feminine Pot, with vivacity. It is a high treat to me, I assure you, to see any new faces living as I do from day to day, and week to week, in this dull place, and seeing nobody. Nobody, my dear, exclaimed Mr. Pot archly. Nobody but you retorted Mrs. Pot with asperity. You see, Mr. Pickwick said the host in explanation of his wife's lament, that we are in some measure cut off from many enjoyments and pleasures of which we might otherwise partake. My public station as editor of the Eaton Swill Gazette, the position which that paper holds in the country, my constant immersion in the vortex of politics. P. my dear, interposed Mrs. Pot, my life, said the editor. I wish, I wish, my dear, that you would endeavour to find some topic of conversation, in which these gentlemen might take some rational interest. But my love, said Mr. Pot, with great humility, Mr. Pickwick does take an interest in it. It's well for him if he can, said Mrs. Pot, emphatically. I am wear it out of my life with your politics, and quarrels with the independent and nonsense. I am quite astonish, P, at your making such an exhibition of your absurdity. But my dear, said Mr. Pot, own nonsense, don't talk to me, said Mrs. Pot. Do you play, and cart, sir? I shall be very happy to learn it under your tuition, replied Mr. Winkle. Well, then, draw that little table into this window, and let me get out of hearing of those prosy politics. Jane, said Mr. Pot to the servant who brought in candles, go down into the office, and bring me up the file of the Gazette for 1826. I'll read you, added the editor, turning to Mr. Pickwick. I'll just read you a few of the leaders I wrote at that time, upon the buff job of appointing a new tollman to the turnpike here. I rather think they'll amuse you. I should like to hear them very much indeed, said Mr. Pickwick. Up came the file, and down sat the editor, with Mr. Pickwick at his side. We have in vain poured over the leaves of Mr. Pickwick's notebook, in the hope of meeting with a general summary of these beautiful compositions. We have every reason to believe that he was perfectly enraptured with the vigor and freshness of the style. Indeed, Mr. Winkle has recorded the fact that his eyes were closed, as if with excess of pleasure during the whole time of their perusal. The announcement of supper put a stop to both the Game of Encart, and the recapitulation of the beauties of the Eatonsville Gazette. Mrs. Pot was in the highest spirits, and the most agreeable humour. Mr. Winkle had already made considerable progress in her good opinion, and she did not hesitate to inform him, confidentially, that Mr. Pickwick was a delightful old dear. These terms convey a familiarity of expression, in which few of those who were intimately acquainted with that colossal-minded man would have presumed to indulge. We have preserved them nevertheless, as affording at once a touching and a convincing proof of the estimation in which he was held by every class of society, and the case with which he made his way to their hearts and feelings. It was a late hour of the night, long after Mr. Tuppman and Mr. Snodgrass had fallen asleep in the inmost recesses of the peacock, when the two friends retired to rest. Slumber soon fell upon the senses of Mr. Winkle, but his feelings had been excited, and his admiration roused, and for many hours after sleep had rendered him insensible to earthly objects, the face and figure of the agreeable Mrs. Pot presented themselves again and again to his wandering imagination. The noise and bustle which ushered in the morning were sufficient to dispel from the mind of the most romantic visionary in existence any associations but those which were immediately connected with the rapidly approaching election. The beating of drums, the blowing of horns and trumpets, the shouting of men and tramping of horses echoed and re-echoed through the streets from the earliest dawn of day, and an occasional fight between the light skirmishers of either party at once enlivened the preparations and agreeably diversified their character. Well, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, as his valet appeared at his bedroom door, just as he was concluding his toilette. All alive today, I suppose? Regular game, sir, replied Mr. Weller. Our peoples are collecting down at the town arms, and they are honouring themselves osse already. Ah, said Mr. Pickwick, do they seem devoted to their party, Sam? Never seen such devotion in my life, sir. Energetic, eh? said Mr. Pickwick. Uncommon, replied Sam, I never see men eat and drink so much afore. I wonder they ain't a fear to bust in. That's the mistaken kindness of the gentry here, said Mr. Pickwick. Very likely, replied Sam briefly. Fine, fresh, hearty fellows they seem, said Mr. Pickwick, glancing from the window. Very fresh, replied Sam, me and the two waiters at the peacock, as being a pumping over the independent voters as up there last night. Pumping over independent voters, exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. Yes, said his attendant. Every man slept where he fell down. We dragged them out one by one this morning and put them under the pump, and they're in regular fine order now. Shelling and ed, the committee paid for that ear job. Can such things be? exclaimed the astonished Mr. Pickwick. Lord bless your art, sir, said Sam. Why, where was you half-baptised? That's nothing that ain't. Nothing, said Mr. Pickwick. Nothing at all, sir, replied his attendant. The night before the last day of the election here, the opposite party bribed the barman of the town arms to hoax the brandy and water of fourteen unpoled electors as was a stop-in in the house. What do you mean by hoaxing brandy and water? inquired Mr. Pickwick. Put in Lord in a minute, replied Sam. Blessed if she didn't send them all to sleep till twelve hours after the election were over. They took one man up to the booth in a truck, fast asleep by way of experiment, but it was no go. They wouldn't poll him, so they bought him back here and put him to bed again. Strange practices these, said Mr. Pickwick, half-speaking to himself and half-addressing Sam. Not half so strange as a miraculous circumstance has happened to my own father at an election time, in this very place, sir, replied Sam. What was that? inquired Mr. Pickwick. Why, he drove a coach down here once, said Sam. Election time came on and he was engaged by one party to bring down wokers from London. Night before he was going to drive up, committee on the other side sends for him quietly and away he goes with the messenger who shows him in. Large room, lots of gentlemen, eaps of papers, pens and ink, and all that ear. Ah, Mr. Weller, says the gentleman in the chair. Glad to see you, sir, how are you? Very well, thank you, sir, says my father. I hope you're pretty middling, says he. Pretty well, thank you, sir, says the gentleman. Sit down, Mr. Weller, pray sit down, sir. So my father sits down and he and the gentleman looks wary-eyed at each other. You don't remember me, said the gentleman. Can't say I do, says my father. Oh, I know you, says the gentleman. Know you when you was a boy, says he. Well, I don't remember you, says my father. That's wary-odd, says the gentleman. Wery, says my father. You must have a very bad memory, Mr. Weller, says the gentleman. Well, it's a wary-bad, says my father. I thought so, says the gentleman. So then he pours him out a glass of wine and gammons him about his driving and gets him into regular goodyuma and at last shoves a 20-pound note into his hand. It's a wary-bad, bro, between this and London, says the gentleman. Here and there it is at heavy road, says my father. Especially near the canal, I think, says the gentleman. Nasty bit that ear, says my father. Well, Mr. Weller, says the gentleman. You're a wary-good whip and can do what you like with your horses, we know. We're all wary fond of you, Mr. Weller. So in case you should have an accident when you're bringing these ear-woters down and should tip them over into the canal without hurting any of them, this is for yourself, says he. Gentlemen, you're wary kind, says my father. And I'll drink your health in another glass of wine, says he. Vetchy did, and then buttons up the money and bows himself out. You wouldn't believe it, sir, continued Sam with a look of inexpressible impudence at his master, that on the wary day as he came down with them woters, his coach was upset on that ear-wary spot and every man on them was turned into the canal and got out again, inquired Mr. Pickwick hastily. Why, replies Sam very slowly, I rather think one old gentleman was missing. I know his hat was found, but I ain't quite certain whether his head was in it or not. But what I look at is the extraordinary and wonderful coincidence that art of what that gentleman said, my father's coach should be upset in that wary place and on that wary day. It is no doubt a very extraordinary circumstance indeed, said Mr. Pickwick. But brush my hat, Sam, for I hear Mr. Winkle calling me to breakfast. With these words Mr. Pickwick descended to the parlour, where he found breakfast laid and the family already assembled. The meal was hastily dispatched. Each of the gentleman's hats was decorated with an enormous blue favour made up by the fair hands of Mrs. Pot herself. And as Mr. Winkle had undertaken to escort that lady to a housetop, in the immediate vicinity of the hustings, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Pot repaired alone to the town arms, from the back window of which one of Mr. Slumkey's committee was addressing six small boys and one girl, whom he dignified at every second sentence, with the imposing title of Men of Eaton Swill. Where at the six small boys aforesaid, cheered prodigiously. The stable-yard exhibited unequivocable symptoms of the glory and strength of the Eaton Swill Blues. There was a regular army of blue flags, some with one handle and some with two, exhibiting appropriate devices in golden characters four feet high and stout in proportion. There was a grand band of trumpets, bassoons and drums marshalled for a breast and earning their money, if evermend did, especially the drumbeaters who were very muscular. There were bodies of constables with blue staves, twenty committeemen with blue scarfs, and a mob of voters with blue cockades. There were electors on horseback and electors afoot. There was an open carriage and four for the honourable Samuel Slumkey, and there were four carriages and pair for his friends and supporters. And the flags were rustling and the band was playing, and the constables were swearing, and the twenty committeemen were squabbling, and the mob were shouting, and the horses were backing, and the post boys perspiring, and everybody and everything then and there assembled was for the special use, behoof, honour and renown of the honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, one of the candidates for the representation of the borough of Eaton Swill in the Commons House of Parliament of the United Kingdom. Long and long were the cheers, and mighty was the rustling of one of the blue flags, with liberty of the press inscribed thereon, when the sandy head of Mr. Pot was discerned in one of the windows by the mob beneath. And tremendous was the enthusiasm when the honourable Samuel Slumkey himself in top boots and a blue neckerchief advanced and seized the hand of the said Pot, and melodramatically testified by gestures to the crowd his ineffasible obligations to the Eaton Swill Gazette. Is everything ready? said the honourable Samuel Slumkey to Mr. Perker. Everything, my dear sir, was the little man's reply. Nothing has been omitted, I hope, said the honourable Samuel Slumkey. Nothing has been left undone, my dear sir, nothing whatever. There are twenty washed men at the street door for you to shake hands with, and six children in arms that you're to pat on the head and inquire the age of. Be particular about the children, my dear sir. It always has a great effect that sort of thing. I'll take care, said the honourable Samuel Slumkey. And perhaps, my dear sir, said the cautious little man, perhaps you could, I don't mean to say it's indispensable, but if you could manage to kiss one of them, it would produce a very great impression on the crowd. Wouldn't it have as good an effect if the proposer or seconder did that? said the honourable Samuel Slumkey. Why, I'm afraid it wouldn't, replied the agent. If it were done by yourself, sir, my dear sir, I think it would make you very popular. Very well, said the honourable Samuel Slumkey, with a resigned air. Then it must be done, that's all. Arrange the procession, cried the twenty committeemen. Amidst the cheers of the assembled throng, the band, and the constables, and the committeemen, and the voters, and the horsemen, and the carriages, took their places, each of the two horse vehicles being closely packed with as many gentlemen as could manage to stand upright in it. And that assigned to Mr. Perker, containing Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tuppman, Mr. Snodgrass, and about half a dozen of the committee besides. There was a moment of awful suspense, as the procession waited for the honourable Samuel Slumkey to step into his carriage. Suddenly the crowd set up a great cheering. He has come out, said little Mr. Perker, greatly excited. The more so as their position did not enable them to see what was going forward. Another cheer, much louder. He has shaken hands with the men, cried the little agent. Another cheer, far more vehement. He has patted the babies on the head, said Mr. Perker, trembling with anxiety, a roar of applause that rent the air. He has kissed one of them, exclaimed the delighted little man. A second roar. He has kissed another, gasped for the excited manager. A third roar. He's kissing them all, screamed the enthusiastic little gentleman, and hailed by the deafening shouts of the multitude the procession moved on. How or by what means it became mixed up with the other procession, and how it was ever extricated from the confusion consequent thereupon, is more than we can undertake to describe. Inasmuch as Mr. Pickwick's hat was knocked over his eyes, nose, and mouth by one poke of a buff flagstaff very early in the proceedings. He describes himself as being surrounded on every side, when he could catch a glimpse of the scene by angry and ferocious countenances, by a vast cloud of dust, and by a dense crowd of combatants. He represents himself as being forced from the carriage by some unseen power, and being personally engaged in a pugilistic encounter, but with whom or how or why he is wholly unable to state. He then felt himself forced up some wooden steps by the persons from behind, and on removing his hat, found himself surrounded by his friends in the very front of the left-hand side of the hustings. The right was reserved for the buff party, and the centre for the mayor and his officers, one of whom, the fat crier of Eaton's will, was ringing an enormous bell by way of commanding silence, while Mr. Horatio Fizkin and the honourable Samuel Slumkey, with their hands upon their hearts, were bowing with the utmost affability to the troubled sea of heads that inundated the open space in front, and from whence arose a storm of groans and shouts and yells and hootings that would have done honour to an earthquake. Oh, I say, there's Winkle, said Mr. Tubman, pulling his friend by the sleeve. Where, said Mr. Pickwick, putting on his spectacles, which he had fortunately kept in his pocket hitherto, dare, said Mr. Tubman, on the top of that house, and there, sure enough, in the leaden gutter of a tiled roof were Mr. Winkle and Mrs. Pot, comfortably seated in a couple of chairs, waving their handkerchiefs in token of recognition, a compliment which Mr. Pickwick returned by kissing his hand to the lady. The proceedings had not yet commenced, and, as an inactive crowd is generally disposed to be jacuzzi, this very innocent action was sufficient to awaken their facetiousness. Oh, you wicked old rascal, cried one voice, looking out at the girls, are you? Oh, you venerable sinner, cried another. Putting on his spectacles to look at a married woman, said a third. I see him winking at her with his wicked old eye, shouted a fourth. Look after your wife, Pot, bellowed a fifth, and then there was a roar of laughter. As these taunts were accompanied with invidious comparisons between Mr. Pickwick and an aged ram, and several witticisms of the like nature, and as they, moreover, rather tended to convey reflections upon the honour of an innocent lady, Mr. Pickwick's indignation was excessive, but as silence was proclaimed at the moment, he contented himself by scorching the mob with a look of pity for their misguided minds, at which they laughed more boisterously than ever. Silence! roared the mayor's attendance. Whiffin! proclaimed silence, said the mayor with an air of pomp befitting his lofty station. In obedience to this command, the crier performed another concerto on the bell, whereupon a gentleman in the crowd called out, Muffins! which occasioned another laugh. Gentleman! said the mayor, at as loud a pitch as he could possibly force his voice to. Gentleman! brother electus of the borough of Eaton's will! We are met here today for the purpose of choosing a representative in the room of our late... Here the mayor was interrupted by a voice in the crowd. Shuck sesh to the mayor! cried the voice, and may he never desert the nail and sarspring business as he got his money by. This allusion to the professional pursuits of the orator was received with a storm of delight, which, with a bell accompaniment, rendered the remainder of his speech inaudible, with the exception of the concluding sentence, in which he thanked the meeting for the patient attention with which they had heard him throughout, an expression of gratitude which elicited another burst of mirth, of about a quarter of an hour's duration. Next a tall, thin gentleman in a very stiff white neckerchief, after being repeatedly desired by the crowd to send a boy home to ask whether he hadn't left his voice under the pillow, begged to nominate a fit and proper person to represent them in parliament. And when he said it was the honourable Fiskin Esquire of Fiskin Lodge near Eaton's will, the Fiskinites applauded, and the Slumkiites groaned so long and so loudly that both he and the seconder might have sung comic songs in lieu of speaking, without anybody's being a bit the wiser. The friends of Fiskin Esquire, having had their innings, a little choleric pink-faced man stood forward to propose another fit and proper person to represent the electors of Eaton's will in parliament. And very swimmingly the pink-faced gentleman would have got on, if he had not been rather too choleric, to entertain a sufficient perception of the fun of the crowd. But after a very few sentences of figurative eloquence, the pink-faced gentleman got from denouncing those who interrupted him in the mod, to exchanging defiances with the gentleman on the hustings, whereupon arose an uproar which reduced him to the necessity of expressing his feelings by serious pantomime, which he did, and then left the stage to his seconder, who delivered a written speech of half an hour's length, and wouldn't be stopped, because he had sent it all to the Eaton's Will Gazette, and the Eaton's Will Gazette had already printed it every word. Then Horatio Fiskin Esquire, of Fiskin Lodge near Eaton's Will, presented himself for the purpose of addressing the electors, which he no sooner did than the band employed by the honourable Samuel Slumkey, commenced performing with a power to which their strength in the morning was a trifle. In return for which the buff crowd belaboured the heads and shoulders of the blue crowd, on which the blue crowd endeavoured to dispossess themselves of their very unpleasant neighbours the buff crowd, and a scene of struggling and pushing and fighting succeeded to which we can no more do justice than the mayor could, although he issued imperative orders to twelve constables to seize the ring-leaders, who might amount in number to two hundred and fifty or thereabouts. At all these encounters Horatio Fiskin Esquire, of Fiskin Lodge and his friends, waxed fierce and furious, until at last Horatio Fiskin Esquire, of Fiskin Lodge, begged to ask his opponent, the honourable Samuel Slumkey of Slumkey Hall, whether that band played by his consent, which questioned the honourable Samuel Slumkey declining to answer, Horatio Fiskin Esquire of Fiskin Lodge shook his fist in the countenance of the honourable Samuel Slumkey of Slumkey Hall, upon which the honourable Samuel Slumkey, his blood being up, defied Horatio Fiskin Esquire to mortal combat. At this violation of all known rules and precedents of order, the mayor commanded another fantasia on the bell, and declared that he would bring before himself both Horatio Fiskin Esquire of Fiskin Lodge and the honourable Samuel Slumkey of Slumkey Hall, and bind them over to keep the peace. Upon this terrific denunciation the supporters of the two candidates interfered. And after the friends of each party had quarrelled in pairs for three quarters of an hour, Horatio Fiskin Esquire touched his hat to the honourable Samuel Slumkey. The honourable Samuel Slumkey touched his to Horatio Fiskin Esquire, the band was stopped, the crowd were partially quieted, and Horatio Fiskin Esquire was permitted to proceed. The speeches of the two candidates, though differing in every other respect, afforded a beautiful tribute to the merit and high worth of the electors of Eaton Swill. Both expressed their opinion that a more independent, a more enlightened, a more public-spirited, a more noble-minded, a more disinterested set of men than those who had promised to vote for him never existed on earth. Each darkly hinted his suspicions that the electors in the opposite interest had certain swinish and besotted infirmities which rendered them unfit for the exercise of the important duties they were called upon to discharge. Fiskin expressed his readiness to do anything he was wanted. Slumkey, his determination to do nothing that was asked of him, both said that the trade, the manufactures, the commerce, the prosperity of Eaton Swill would ever be dearer to their hearts than any earthly object, and each had it in his power to state with the utmost confidence that he was the man who would eventually be returned. There was a show of hands. The mayor decided in favour of the honourable Samuel Slumkey of Slumkey Hall. Her ratio Fiskin, Esquire of Fiskin Lodge, demanded a poll, and a poll was fixed accordingly. Then a vote of thanks was moved to the mayor for his able conduct in the chair, and the mayor devoutly wishing that he had had a chair to display his able conduct in, for he had been standing during the whole proceedings, returned thanks. The processions reformed, the carriages rolled slowly through the crowd, and its members screeched and shouted after them as their feelings or caprice dictated. During the whole time of the polling, the town was in a perpetual fever of excitement. Everything was conducted on the most liberal and delightful scale. Excisible articles were remarkably cheap at all the public houses, and spring vans paraded the street for the accommodation of voters who were seized with any temporary dizziness in the head, an epidemic which prevailed among the electors during the contest to a most alarming extent, and under the influence of which they might frequently be seen lying on the pavements in a state of utter insensibility. A small body of electors remained unpauled on the very last day. They were calculating and reflecting persons who had not yet been convinced by the arguments of either party, although they had frequent conferences with each. One hour before the close of the poll, Mr. Perker solicited the honour of a private interview with these intelligent, these noble, these patriotic men. It was granted. His arguments were brief but satisfactory. They went in a body to the poll, and when they returned, the honourable Samuel Slumpkey of Slumpkey Hall was returned also.