Chapter: Bright and pleasant was the sky, balmy the air, and beautiful the
appearance of every object around, as Mr. Pickwick leaned over the
balustrades of Rochester Bridge, contemplating nature, and waiting for
breakfast. The scene was indeed one which might well have charmed a far
less reflective mind, than that to which it was presented.

On the left of the spectator lay the ruined wall, broken in many places,
and in some, overhanging the narrow beach below in rude and heavy
masses. Huge knots of seaweed hung upon the jagged and pointed stones,
trembling in every breath of wind; and the green ivy clung mournfully
round the dark and ruined battlements. Behind it rose the ancient
castle, its towers roofless, and its massive walls crumbling away, but
telling us proudly of its old might and strength, as when, seven hundred
years ago, it rang with the clash of arms, or resounded with the noise
of feasting and revelry. On either side, the banks of the Medway,
covered with cornfields and pastures, with here and there a windmill, or
a distant church, stretched away as far as the eye could see, presenting
a rich and varied landscape, rendered more beautiful by the changing
shadows which passed swiftly across it as the thin and half-formed
clouds skimmed away in the light of the morning sun. The river,
reflecting the clear blue of the sky, glistened and sparkled as it
flowed noiselessly on; and the oars of the fishermen dipped into the
water with a clear and liquid sound, as their heavy but picturesque
boats glided slowly down the stream.

Mr. Pickwick was roused from the agreeable reverie into which he had
been led by the objects before him, by a deep sigh, and a touch on his
shoulder. He turned round: and the dismal man was at his side.

'Contemplating the scene?' inquired the dismal man.

'I was,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'And congratulating yourself on being up so soon?'

Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.

'Ah! people need to rise early, to see the sun in all his splendour, for
his brightness seldom lasts the day through. The morning of day and the
morning of life are but too much alike.'

'You speak truly, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'How common the saying,' continued the dismal man, '"The morning's too
fine to last." How well might it be applied to our everyday existence.
God! what would I forfeit to have the days of my childhood restored, or
to be able to forget them for ever!'

'You have seen much trouble, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick compassionately.

'I have,' said the dismal man hurriedly; 'I have. More than those who
see me now would believe possible.' He paused for an instant, and then
said abruptly--

'Did it ever strike you, on such a morning as this, that drowning would
be happiness and peace?'

'God bless me, no!' replied Mr. Pickwick, edging a little from the
balustrade, as the possibility of the dismal man's tipping him over, by
way of experiment, occurred to him rather forcibly.

'I have thought so, often,' said the dismal man, without noticing the
action. 'The calm, cool water seems to me to murmur an invitation to
repose and rest. A bound, a splash, a brief struggle; there is an eddy
for an instant, it gradually subsides into a gentle ripple; the waters
have closed above your head, and the world has closed upon your miseries
and misfortunes for ever.' The sunken eye of the dismal man flashed
brightly as he spoke, but the momentary excitement quickly subsided; and
he turned calmly away, as he said--

'There--enough of that. I wish to see you on another subject. You
invited me to read that paper, the night before last, and listened
attentively while I did so.'

'I did,' replied Mr. Pickwick; 'and I certainly thought--'

'I asked for no opinion,' said the dismal man, interrupting him, 'and I
want none. You are travelling for amusement and instruction. Suppose I
forward you a curious manuscript--observe, not curious because wild or
improbable, but curious as a leaf from the romance of real life--would
you communicate it to the club, of which you have spoken so frequently?'

'Certainly,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'if you wished it; and it would be
entered on their transactions.'

'You shall have it,' replied the dismal man. 'Your address;' and, Mr.
Pickwick having communicated their probable route, the dismal man
carefully noted it down in a greasy pocket-book, and, resisting Mr.
Pickwick's pressing invitation to breakfast, left that gentleman at his
inn, and walked slowly away.

Mr. Pickwick found that his three companions had risen, and were waiting
his arrival to commence breakfast, which was ready laid in tempting
display. They sat down to the meal; and broiled ham, eggs, tea, coffee
and sundries, began to disappear with a rapidity which at once bore
testimony to the excellence of the fare, and the appetites of its
consumers.

'Now, about Manor Farm,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'How shall we go?'

'We had better consult the waiter, perhaps,' said Mr. Tupman; and the
waiter was summoned accordingly.

'Dingley Dell, gentlemen--fifteen miles, gentlemen--cross road--post-
chaise, sir?'

'Post-chaise won't hold more than two,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'True, sir--beg your pardon, sir.--Very nice four-wheel chaise, sir--
seat for two behind--one in front for the gentleman that drives--oh! beg
your pardon, sir--that'll only hold three.'

'What's to be done?' said Mr. Snodgrass.

'Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like to ride, sir?' suggested the
waiter, looking towards Mr. Winkle; 'very good saddle-horses, sir--any
of Mr. Wardle's men coming to Rochester, bring 'em back, Sir.'

'The very thing,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Winkle, will you go on horseback?'

Now Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable misgivings in the very lowest
recesses of his own heart, relative to his equestrian skill; but, as he
would not have them even suspected, on any account, he at once replied
with great hardihood, 'Certainly. I should enjoy it of all things.'

Mr. Winkle had rushed upon his fate; there was no resource.

'Let them be at the door by eleven,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Very well, sir,' replied the waiter.

The waiter retired; the breakfast concluded; and the travellers ascended
to their respective bedrooms, to prepare a change of clothing, to take
with them on their approaching expedition.

Mr. Pickwick had made his preliminary arrangements, and was looking over
the coffee-room blinds at the passengers in the street, when the waiter
entered, and announced that the chaise was ready--an announcement which
the vehicle itself confirmed, by forthwith appearing before the coffee-
room blinds aforesaid.

It was a curious little green box on four wheels, with a low place like
a wine-bin for two behind, and an elevated perch for one in front, drawn
by an immense brown horse, displaying great symmetry of bone. An hostler
stood near, holding by the bridle another immense horse--apparently a
near relative of the animal in the chaise--ready saddled for Mr. Winkle.

'Bless my soul!' said Mr. Pickwick, as they stood upon the pavement
while the coats were being put in. 'Bless my soul! who's to drive? I
never thought of that.'

'Oh! you, of course,' said Mr. Tupman.

'Of course,' said Mr. Snodgrass.

'I!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

'Not the slightest fear, Sir,' interposed the hostler. 'Warrant him
quiet, Sir; a hinfant in arms might drive him.'

'He don't shy, does he?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Shy, sir?-he wouldn't shy if he was to meet a vagin-load of monkeys
with their tails burned off.'

The last recommendation was indisputable. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass
got into the bin; Mr. Pickwick ascended to his perch, and deposited his
feet on a floor-clothed shelf, erected beneath it for that purpose.

'Now, shiny Villiam,' said the hostler to the deputy hostler, 'give the
gen'lm'n the ribbons.'

Shiny Villiam'--so called, probably, from his sleek hair and oily
countenance--placed the reins in Mr. Pickwick's left hand; and the upper
hostler thrust a whip into his right.

'Wo-o!' cried Mr. Pickwick, as the tall quadruped evinced a decided
inclination to back into the coffee-room window.

'Wo-o!' echoed Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass, from the bin.

'Only his playfulness, gen'lm'n,' said the head hostler encouragingly;
'jist kitch hold on him, Villiam.' The deputy restrained the animal's
impetuosity, and the principal ran to assist Mr. Winkle in mounting.

'T'other side, sir, if you please.'

'Blowed if the gen'lm'n worn't a-gettin' up on the wrong side,'
whispered a grinning post-boy to the inexpressibly gratified waiter.

Mr. Winkle, thus instructed, climbed into his saddle, with about as much
difficulty as he would have experienced in getting up the side of a
first-rate man-of-war.

'All right?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, with an inward presentiment that it
was all wrong.

'All right,' replied Mr. Winkle faintly.

'Let 'em go,' cried the hostler.--'Hold him in, sir;' and away went the
chaise, and the saddle-horse, with Mr. Pickwick on the box of the one,
and Mr. Winkle on the back of the other, to the delight and
gratification of the whole inn-yard.

'What makes him go sideways?' said Mr. Snodgrass in the bin, to Mr.
Winkle in the saddle.

'I can't imagine,' replied Mr. Winkle. His horse was drifting up the
street in the most mysterious manner--side first, with his head towards
one side of the way, and his tail towards the other.

Mr. Pickwick had no leisure to observe either this or any other
particular, the whole of his faculties being concentrated in the
management of the animal attached to the chaise, who displayed various
peculiarities, highly interesting to a bystander, but by no means
equally amusing to any one seated behind him. Besides constantly jerking
his head up, in a very unpleasant and uncomfortable manner, and tugging
at the reins to an extent which rendered it a matter of great difficulty
for Mr. Pickwick to hold them, he had a singular propensity for darting
suddenly every now and then to the side of the road, then stopping
short, and then rushing forward for some minutes, at a speed which it
was wholly impossible to control.

'What _can_ he mean by this?' said Mr. Snodgrass, when the horse had
executed this manoeuvre for the twentieth time.

'I don't know,' replied Mr. Tupman; 'it looks very like shying, don't
it?' Mr. Snodgrass was about to reply, when he was interrupted by a
shout from Mr. Pickwick.

'Woo!' said that gentleman; 'I have dropped my whip.'

'Winkle,' said Mr. Snodgrass, as the equestrian came trotting up on the
tall horse, with his hat over his ears, and shaking all over, as if he
would shake to pieces, with the violence of the exercise, 'pick up the
whip, there's a good fellow.' Mr. Winkle pulled at the bridle of the
tall horse till he was black in the face; and having at length succeeded
in stopping him, dismounted, handed the whip to Mr. Pickwick, and
grasping the reins, prepared to remount.


Now whether the tall horse, in the natural playfulness of his
disposition, was desirous of having a little innocent recreation with
Mr. Winkle, or whether it occurred to him that he could perform the
journey as much to his own satisfaction without a rider as with one, are
points upon which, of course, we can arrive at no definite and distinct
conclusion. By whatever motives the animal was actuated, certain it is
that Mr. Winkle had no sooner touched the reins, than he slipped them
over his head, and darted backwards to their full length.

'Poor fellow,' said Mr. Winkle soothingly--'poor fellow--good old
horse.' The 'poor fellow' was proof against flattery; the more Mr.
Winkle tried to get nearer him, the more he sidled away; and,
notwithstanding all kinds of coaxing and wheedling, there were Mr.
Winkle and the horse going round and round each other for ten minutes,
at the end of which time each was at precisely the same distance from
the other as when they first commenced--an unsatisfactory sort of thing
under any circumstances, but particularly so in a lonely road, where no
assistance can be procured.

'What am I to do?' shouted Mr. Winkle, after the dodging had been
prolonged for a considerable time. 'What am I to do? I can't get on
him.'

'You had better lead him till we come to a turnpike,' replied Mr.
Pickwick from the chaise.

'But he won't come!' roared Mr. Winkle. 'Do come and hold him.'

Mr. Pickwick was the very personation of kindness and humanity: he threw
the reins on the horse's back, and having descended from his seat,
carefully drew the chaise into the hedge, lest anything should come
along the road, and stepped back to the assistance of his distressed
companion, leaving Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in the vehicle.

The horse no sooner beheld Mr. Pickwick advancing towards him with the
chaise whip in his hand, than he exchanged the rotary motion in which he
had previously indulged, for a retrograde movement of so very determined
a character, that it at once drew Mr. Winkle, who was still at the end
of the bridle, at a rather quicker rate than fast walking, in the
direction from which they had just come. Mr. Pickwick ran to his
assistance, but the faster Mr. Pickwick ran forward, the faster the
horse ran backward. There was a great scraping of feet, and kicking up
of the dust; and at last Mr. Winkle, his arms being nearly pulled out of
their sockets, fairly let go his hold. The horse paused, stared, shook
his head, turned round, and quietly trotted home to Rochester, leaving
Mr. Winkle and Mr. Pickwick gazing on each other with countenances of
blank dismay. A rattling noise at a little distance attracted their
attention. They looked up.

'Bless my soul!' exclaimed the agonised Mr. Pickwick; 'there's the other
horse running away!'

It was but too true. The animal was startled by the noise, and the reins
were on his back. The results may be guessed. He tore off with the four-
wheeled chaise behind him, and Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in the four-
wheeled chaise. The heat was a short one. Mr. Tupman threw himself into
the hedge, Mr. Snodgrass followed his example, the horse dashed the
four--wheeled chaise against a wooden bridge, separated the wheels from
the body, and the bin from the perch; and finally stood stock still to
gaze upon the ruin he had made.

The first care of the two unspilt friends was to extricate their
unfortunate companions from their bed of quickset--a process which gave
them the unspeakable satisfaction of discovering that they had sustained
no injury, beyond sundry rents in their garments, and various
lacerations from the brambles. The next thing to be done was to
unharness the horse. This complicated process having been effected, the
party walked slowly forward, leading the horse among them, and
abandoning the chaise to its fate.

An hour's walk brought the travellers to a little road-side public-
house, with two elm-trees, a horse trough, and a signpost, in front; one
or two deformed hay-ricks behind, a kitchen garden at the side, and
rotten sheds and mouldering outhouses jumbled in strange confusion all
about it. A red-headed man was working in the garden; and to him Mr.
Pickwick called lustily, 'Hollo there!'

The red-headed man raised his body, shaded his eyes with his hand, and
stared, long and coolly, at Mr. Pickwick and his companions.

'Hollo there!' repeated Mr. Pickwick.

'Hollo!' was the red-headed man's reply.

'How far is it to Dingley Dell?'

'Better er seven mile.'

'Is it a good road?'

'No, 'tain't.' Having uttered this brief reply, and apparently satisfied
himself with another scrutiny, the red-headed man resumed his work. 'We
want to put this horse up here,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I suppose we can,
can't we?'

Want to put that ere horse up, do ee?' repeated the red-headed man,
leaning on his spade.

'Of course,' replied Mr. Pickwick, who had by this time advanced, horse
in hand, to the garden rails.

'Missus'--roared the man with the red head, emerging from the garden,
and looking very hard at the horse--'missus!'

A tall, bony woman--straight all the way down--in a coarse, blue
pelisse, with the waist an inch or two below her arm-pits, responded to
the call.

'Can we put this horse up here, my good woman?' said Mr. Tupman,
advancing, and speaking in his most seductive tones. The woman looked
very hard at the whole party; and the red-headed man whispered something
in her ear.

'No,' replied the woman, after a little consideration, 'I'm afeerd on
it.'

'Afraid!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, 'what's the woman afraid of?'

'It got us in trouble last time,' said the woman, turning into the
house; 'I woan't have nothin' to say to 'un.'

'Most extraordinary thing I have ever met with in my life,' said the
astonished Mr. Pickwick.

'I--I--really believe,' whispered Mr. Winkle, as his friends gathered
round him, 'that they think we have come by this horse in some dishonest
manner.'

'What!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in a storm of indignation. Mr. Winkle
modestly repeated his suggestion.

'Hollo, you fellow,' said the angry Mr. Pickwick, 'do you think we stole
the horse?'

'I'm sure ye did,' replied the red-headed man, with a grin which
agitated his countenance from one auricular organ to the other. Saying
which he turned into the house and banged the door after him.

'It's like a dream,' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, 'a hideous dream. The idea
of a man's walking about all day with a dreadful horse that he can't get
rid of!' The depressed Pickwickians turned moodily away, with the tall
quadruped, for which they all felt the most unmitigated disgust,
following slowly at their heels.

It was late in the afternoon when the four friends and their four-footed
companion turned into the lane leading to Manor Farm; and even when they
were so near their place of destination, the pleasure they would
otherwise have experienced was materially damped as they reflected on
the singularity of their appearance, and the absurdity of their
situation. Torn clothes, lacerated faces, dusty shoes, exhausted looks,
and, above all, the horse. Oh, how Mr. Pickwick cursed that horse: he
had eyed the noble animal from time to time with looks expressive of
hatred and revenge; more than once he had calculated the probable amount
of the expense he would incur by cutting his throat; and now the
temptation to destroy him, or to cast him loose upon the world, rushed
upon his mind with tenfold force. He was roused from a meditation on
these dire imaginings by the sudden appearance of two figures at a turn
of the lane. It was Mr. Wardle, and his faithful attendant, the fat boy.

'Why, where have you been?' said the hospitable old gentleman; 'I've
been waiting for you all day. Well, you _do_ look tired. What!
Scratches! Not hurt, I hope--eh? Well, I _am_ glad to hear that--very.
So you've been spilt, eh? Never mind. Common accident in these parts.
Joe--he's asleep again!--Joe, take that horse from the gentlemen, and
lead it into the stable.'

The fat boy sauntered heavily behind them with the animal; and the old
gentleman, condoling with his guests in homely phrase on so much of the
day's adventures as they thought proper to communicate, led the way to
the kitchen.

'We'll have you put to rights here,' said the old gentleman, 'and then
I'll introduce you to the people in the parlour. Emma, bring out the
cherry brandy; now, Jane, a needle and thread here; towels and water,
Mary. Come, girls, bustle about.'

Three or four buxom girls speedily dispersed in search of the different
articles in requisition, while a couple of large-headed, circular-
visaged males rose from their seats in the chimney-corner (for although
it was a May evening their attachment to the wood fire appeared as
cordial as if it were Christmas), and dived into some obscure recesses,
from which they speedily produced a bottle of blacking, and some half-
dozen brushes.

'Bustle!' said the old gentleman again, but the admonition was quite
unnecessary, for one of the girls poured out the cherry brandy, and
another brought in the towels, and one of the men suddenly seizing Mr.
Pickwick by the leg, at imminent hazard of throwing him off his balance,
brushed away at his boot till his corns were red-hot; while the other
shampooed Mr. Winkle with a heavy clothes-brush, indulging, during the
operation, in that hissing sound which hostlers are wont to produce when
engaged in rubbing down a horse.

Mr. Snodgrass, having concluded his ablutions, took a survey of the
room, while standing with his back to the fire, sipping his cherry
brandy with heartfelt satisfaction. He describes it as a large
apartment, with a red brick floor and a capacious chimney; the ceiling
garnished with hams, sides of bacon, and ropes of onions. The walls were
decorated with several hunting-whips, two or three bridles, a saddle,
and an old rusty blunderbuss, with an inscription below it, intimating
that it was 'Loaded'--as it had been, on the same authority, for half a
century at least. An old eight-day clock, of solemn and sedate
demeanour, ticked gravely in one corner; and a silver watch, of equal
antiquity, dangled from one of the many hooks which ornamented the
dresser.

'Ready?' said the old gentleman inquiringly, when his guests had been
washed, mended, brushed, and brandied.

'Quite,' replied Mr. Pickwick.

'Come along, then;' and the party having traversed several dark
passages, and being joined by Mr. Tupman, who had lingered behind to
snatch a kiss from Emma, for which he had been duly rewarded with sundry
pushings and scratchings, arrived at the parlour door.

'Welcome,' said their hospitable host, throwing it open and stepping
forward to announce them, 'welcome, gentlemen, to Manor Farm.'


Several guests who were assembled in the old parlour rose to greet Mr.
Pickwick and his friends upon their entrance; and during the performance
of the ceremony of introduction, with all due formalities, Mr. Pickwick
had leisure to observe the appearance, and speculate upon the characters
and pursuits, of the persons by whom he was surrounded--a habit in which
he, in common with many other great men, delighted to indulge.

A very old lady, in a lofty cap and faded silk gown--no less a personage
than Mr. Wardle's mother--occupied the post of honour on the right-hand
corner of the chimney-piece; and various certificates of her having been
brought up in the way she should go when young, and of her not having
departed from it when old, ornamented the walls, in the form of samplers
of ancient date, worsted landscapes of equal antiquity, and crimson silk
tea-kettle holders of a more modern period. The aunt, the two young
ladies, and Mr. Wardle, each vying with the other in paying zealous and
unremitting attentions to the old lady, crowded round her easy-chair,
one holding her ear-trumpet, another an orange, and a third a smelling-
bottle, while a fourth was busily engaged in patting and punching the
pillows which were arranged for her support. On the opposite side sat a
bald-headed old gentleman, with a good-humoured, benevolent face--the
clergyman of Dingley Dell; and next him sat his wife, a stout, blooming
old lady, who looked as if she were well skilled, not only in the art
and mystery of manufacturing home-made cordials greatly to other
people's satisfaction, but of tasting them occasionally very much to her
own. A little hard-headed, Ripstone pippin-faced man, was conversing
with a fat old gentleman in one corner; and two or three more old
gentlemen, and two or three more old ladies, sat bolt upright and
motionless on their chairs, staring very hard at Mr. Pickwick and his
fellow-voyagers.

'Mr. Pickwick, mother,' said Mr. Wardle, at the very top of his voice.

'Ah!' said the old lady, shaking her head; 'I can't hear you.'

'Mr. Pickwick, grandma!' screamed both the young ladies together.

'Ah!' exclaimed the old lady. 'Well, it don't much matter. He don't care
for an old 'ooman like me, I dare say.'

'I assure you, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, grasping the old lady's hand,
and speaking so loud that the exertion imparted a crimson hue to his
benevolent countenance--'I assure you, ma'am, that nothing delights me
more than to see a lady of your time of life heading so fine a family,
and looking so young and well.'

'Ah!' said the old lady, after a short pause: 'it's all very fine, I
dare say; but I can't hear him.'

'Grandma's rather put out now,' said Miss Isabella Wardle, in a low
tone; 'but she'll talk to you presently.'

Mr. Pickwick nodded his readiness to humour the infirmities of age, and
entered into a general conversation with the other members of the
circle.

'Delightful situation this,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Delightful!' echoed Messrs. Snodgrass, Tupman, and Winkle.

'Well, I think it is,' said Mr. Wardle.

'There ain't a better spot o' ground in all Kent, sir,' said the hard-
headed man with the pippin--face; 'there ain't indeed, sir--I'm sure
there ain't, Sir.' The hard-headed man looked triumphantly round, as if
he had been very much contradicted by somebody, but had got the better
of him at last.

'There ain't a better spot o' ground in all Kent,' said the hard-headed
man again, after a pause.

''Cept Mullins's Meadows,' observed the fat man solemnly.

'Mullins's Meadows!' ejaculated the other, with profound contempt.

'Ah, Mullins's Meadows,' repeated the fat man.

'Reg'lar good land that,' interposed another fat man.

'And so it is, sure-ly,' said a third fat man.

'Everybody knows that,' said the corpulent host.

The hard-headed man looked dubiously round, but finding himself in a
minority, assumed a compassionate air and said no more.

'What are they talking about?' inquired the old lady of one of her
granddaughters, in a very audible voice; for, like many deaf people, she
never seemed to calculate on the possibility of other persons hearing
what she said herself.

'About the land, grandma.'

'What about the land?--Nothing the matter, is there?'

'No, no. Mr. Miller was saying our land was better than Mullins's
Meadows.'

'How should he know anything about it?'inquired the old lady
indignantly. 'Miller's a conceited coxcomb, and you may tell him I said
so.' Saying which, the old lady, quite unconscious that she had spoken
above a whisper, drew herself up, and looked carving-knives at the hard-
headed delinquent.

'Come, come,' said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to change
the conversation, 'what say you to a rubber, Mr. Pickwick?'

'I should like it of all things,' replied that gentleman; 'but pray
don't make up one on my account.'

'Oh, I assure you, mother's very fond of a rubber,' said Mr. Wardle;
'ain't you, mother?'

The old lady, who was much less deaf on this subject than on any other,
replied in the affirmative.

'Joe, Joe!' said the gentleman; 'Joe--damn that--oh, here he is; put out
the card-tables.'

The lethargic youth contrived without any additional rousing to set out
two card-tables; the one for Pope Joan, and the other for whist. The
whist-players were Mr. Pickwick and the old lady, Mr. Miller and the fat
gentleman. The round game comprised the rest of the company.

The rubber was conducted with all that gravity of deportment and
sedateness of demeanour which befit the pursuit entitled 'whist'--a
solemn observance, to which, as it appears to us, the title of 'game'
has been very irreverently and ignominiously applied. The round-game
table, on the other hand, was so boisterously merry as materially to
interrupt the contemplations of Mr. Miller, who, not being quite so much
absorbed as he ought to have been, contrived to commit various high
crimes and misdemeanours, which excited the wrath of the fat gentleman
to a very great extent, and called forth the good-humour of the old lady
in a proportionate degree.

'There!' said the criminal Miller triumphantly, as he took up the odd
trick at the conclusion of a hand; 'that could not have been played
better, I flatter myself; impossible to have made another trick!'

'Miller ought to have trumped the diamond, oughtn't he, Sir?' said the
old lady.

Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.

'Ought I, though?' said the unfortunate, with a doubtful appeal to his
partner.

'You ought, Sir,' said the fat gentleman, in an awful voice.

'Very sorry,' said the crestfallen Miller.

'Much use that,' growled the fat gentleman.

'Two by honours--makes us eight,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Another hand. 'Can you one?' inquired the old lady.

'I can,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Double, single, and the rub.'

'Never was such luck,' said Mr. Miller.

'Never was such cards,' said the fat gentleman.

A solemn silence; Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious, the fat
gentleman captious, and Mr. Miller timorous.

'Another double,' said the old lady, triumphantly making a memorandum of
the circumstance, by placing one sixpence and a battered halfpenny under
the candlestick.

'A double, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Quite aware of the fact, Sir,' replied the fat gentleman sharply.

Another game, with a similar result, was followed by a revoke from the
unlucky Miller; on which the fat gentleman burst into a state of high
personal excitement which lasted until the conclusion of the game, when
he retired into a corner, and remained perfectly mute for one hour and
twenty-seven minutes; at the end of which time he emerged from his
retirement, and offered Mr. Pickwick a pinch of snuff with the air of a
man who had made up his mind to a Christian forgiveness of injuries
sustained. The old lady's hearing decidedly improved and the unlucky
Miller felt as much out of his element as a dolphin in a sentry-box.

Meanwhile the round game proceeded right merrily. Isabella Wardle and
Mr. Trundle 'went partners,' and Emily Wardle and Mr. Snodgrass did the
same; and even Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt established a joint-
stock company of fish and flattery. Old Mr. Wardle was in the very
height of his jollity; and he was so funny in his management of the
board, and the old ladies were so sharp after their winnings, that the
whole table was in a perpetual roar of merriment and laughter. There was
one old lady who always had about half a dozen cards to pay for, at
which everybody laughed, regularly every round; and when the old lady
looked cross at having to pay, they laughed louder than ever; on which
the old lady's face gradually brightened up, till at last she laughed
louder than any of them, Then, when the spinster aunt got 'matrimony,'
the young ladies laughed afresh, and the Spinster aunt seemed disposed
to be pettish; till, feeling Mr. Tupman squeezing her hand under the
table, she brightened up too, and looked rather knowing, as if matrimony
in reality were not quite so far off as some people thought for;
whereupon everybody laughed again, and especially old Mr. Wardle, who
enjoyed a joke as much as the youngest. As to Mr. Snodgrass, he did
nothing but whisper poetical sentiments into his partner's ear, which
made one old gentleman facetiously sly, about partnerships at cards and
partnerships for life, and caused the aforesaid old gentleman to make
some remarks thereupon, accompanied with divers winks and chuckles,
which made the company very merry and the old gentleman's wife
especially so. And Mr. Winkle came out with jokes which are very well
known in town, but are not all known in the country; and as everybody
laughed at them very heartily, and said they were very capital, Mr.
Winkle was in a state of great honour and glory. And the benevolent
clergyman looked pleasantly on; for the happy faces which surrounded the
table made the good old man feel happy too; and though the merriment was
rather boisterous, still it came from the heart and not from the lips;
and this is the right sort of merriment, after all.

The evening glided swiftly away, in these cheerful recreations; and when
the substantial though homely supper had been despatched, and the little
party formed a social circle round the fire, Mr. Pickwick thought he had
never felt so happy in his life, and at no time so much disposed to
enjoy, and make the most of, the passing moment.

'Now this,' said the hospitable host, who was sitting in great state
next the old lady's arm-chair, with her hand fast clasped in his--'this
is just what I like--the happiest moments of my life have been passed at
this old fireside; and I am so attached to it, that I keep up a blazing
fire here every evening, until it actually grows too hot to bear it.
Why, my poor old mother, here, used to sit before this fireplace upon
that little stool when she was a girl; didn't you, mother?'

The tear which starts unbidden to the eye when the recollection of old
times and the happiness of many years ago is suddenly recalled, stole
down the old lady's face as she shook her head with a melancholy smile.

'You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr. Pickwick,' resumed
the host, after a short pause, 'for I love it dearly, and know no other-
-the old houses and fields seem like living friends to me; and so does
our little church with the ivy, about which, by the bye, our excellent
friend there made a song when he first came amongst us. Mr. Snodgrass,
have you anything in your glass?'

'Plenty, thank you,' replied that gentleman, whose poetic curiosity had
been greatly excited by the last observation of his entertainer. 'I beg
your pardon, but you were talking about the song of the Ivy.'

'You must ask our friend opposite about that,' said the host knowingly,
indicating the clergyman by a nod of his head.

'May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir?' said Mr.
Snodgrass.

'Why, really,' replied the clergyman, 'it's a very slight affair; and
the only excuse I have for having ever perpetrated it is, that I was a
young man at the time. Such as it is, however, you shall hear it, if you
wish.'

A murmur of curiosity was of course the reply; and the old gentleman
proceeded to recite, with the aid of sundry promptings from his wife,
the lines in question. 'I call them,' said he,


THE IVY GREEN

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of
right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty
whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for
him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart
has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend the
huge Oak Tree! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he
gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of
dead men's graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant
is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, And nations have scattered
been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty
green. The brave old plant in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the
past; For the stateliest building man can raise, Is the Ivy's food at
last. Creeping on where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy
green.



While the old gentleman repeated these lines a second time, to enable
Mr. Snodgrass to note them down, Mr. Pickwick perused the lineaments of
his face with an expression of great interest. The old gentleman having
concluded his dictation, and Mr. Snodgrass having returned his note-book
to his pocket, Mr. Pickwick said--

'Excuse me, sir, for making the remark on so short an acquaintance; but
a gentleman like yourself cannot fail, I should think, to have observed
many scenes and incidents worth recording, in the course of your
experience as a minister of the Gospel.'

'I have witnessed some certainly,' replied the old gentleman, 'but the
incidents and characters have been of a homely and ordinary nature, my
sphere of action being so very limited.'

'You did make some notes, I think, about John Edmunds, did you not?'
inquired Mr. Wardle, who appeared very desirous to draw his friend out,
for the edification of his new visitors.

The old gentleman slightly nodded his head in token of assent, and was
proceeding to change the subject, when Mr. Pickwick said--

'I beg your pardon, sir, but pray, if I may venture to inquire, who was
John Edmunds?'

'The very thing I was about to ask,' said Mr. Snodgrass eagerly.

'You are fairly in for it,' said the jolly host. 'You must satisfy the
curiosity of these gentlemen, sooner or later; so you had better take
advantage of this favourable opportunity, and do so at once.'

The old gentleman smiled good-humouredly as he drew his chair forward--
the remainder of the party drew their chairs closer together, especially
Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt, who were possibly rather hard of
hearing; and the old lady's ear-trumpet having been duly adjusted, and
Mr. Miller (who had fallen asleep during the recital of the verses)
roused from his slumbers by an admonitory pinch, administered beneath
the table by his ex-partner the solemn fat man, the old gentleman,
without further preface, commenced the following tale, to which we have
taken the liberty of prefixing the title of


THE CONVICT'S RETURN

'When I first settled in this village,' said the old gentleman, 'which
is now just five-and-twenty years ago, the most notorious person among
my parishioners was a man of the name of Edmunds, who leased a small
farm near this spot. He was a morose, savage-hearted, bad man; idle and
dissolute in his habits; cruel and ferocious in his disposition. Beyond
the few lazy and reckless vagabonds with whom he sauntered away his time
in the fields, or sotted in the ale-house, he had not a single friend or
acquaintance; no one cared to speak to the man whom many feared, and
every one detested--and Edmunds was shunned by all.

'This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here, was about
twelve years old. Of the acuteness of that woman's sufferings, of the
gentle and enduring manner in which she bore them, of the agony of
solicitude with which she reared that boy, no one can form an adequate
conception. Heaven forgive me the supposition, if it be an uncharitable
one, but I do firmly and in my soul believe, that the man systematically
tried for many years to break her heart; but she bore it all for her
child's sake, and, however strange it may seem to many, for his father's
too; for brute as he was, and cruelly as he had treated her, she had
loved him once; and the recollection of what he had been to her,
awakened feelings of forbearance and meekness under suffering in her
bosom, to which all God's creatures, but women, are strangers.

'They were poor--they could not be otherwise when the man pursued such
courses; but the woman's unceasing and unwearied exertions, early and
late, morning, noon, and night, kept them above actual want. These
exertions were but ill repaid. People who passed the spot in the
evening--sometimes at a late hour of the night--reported that they had
heard the moans and sobs of a woman in distress, and the sound of blows;
and more than once, when it was past midnight, the boy knocked softly at
the door of a neighbour's house, whither he had been sent, to escape the
drunken fury of his unnatural father.

'During the whole of this time, and when the poor creature often bore
about her marks of ill-usage and violence which she could not wholly
conceal, she was a constant attendant at our little church. Regularly
every Sunday, morning and afternoon, she occupied the same seat with the
boy at her side; and though they were both poorly dressed--much more so
than many of their neighbours who were in a lower station--they were
always neat and clean. Every one had a friendly nod and a kind word for
"poor Mrs. Edmunds"; and sometimes, when she stopped to exchange a few
words with a neighbour at the conclusion of the service in the little
row of elm-trees which leads to the church porch, or lingered behind to
gaze with a mother's pride and fondness upon her healthy boy, as he
sported before her with some little companions, her careworn face would
lighten up with an expression of heartfelt gratitude; and she would
look, if not cheerful and happy, at least tranquil and contented.

'Five or six years passed away; the boy had become a robust and well-
grown youth. The time that had strengthened the child's slight frame and
knit his weak limbs into the strength of manhood had bowed his mother's
form, and enfeebled her steps; but the arm that should have supported
her was no longer locked in hers; the face that should have cheered her,
no more looked upon her own. She occupied her old seat, but there was a
vacant one beside her. The Bible was kept as carefully as ever, the
places were found and folded down as they used to be: but there was no
one to read it with her; and the tears fell thick and fast upon the
book, and blotted the words from her eyes. Neighbours were as kind as
they were wont to be of old, but she shunned their greetings with
averted head. There was no lingering among the old elm-trees now--no
cheering anticipations of happiness yet in store. The desolate woman
drew her bonnet closer over her face, and walked hurriedly away.

'Shall I tell you that the young man, who, looking back to the earliest
of his childhood's days to which memory and consciousness extended, and
carrying his recollection down to that moment, could remember nothing
which was not in some way connected with a long series of voluntary
privations suffered by his mother for his sake, with ill-usage, and
insult, and violence, and all endured for him--shall I tell you, that
he, with a reckless disregard for her breaking heart, and a sullen,
wilful forgetfulness of all she had done and borne for him, had linked
himself with depraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing a
headlong career, which must bring death to him, and shame to her? Alas
for human nature! You have anticipated it long since.

'The measure of the unhappy woman's misery and misfortune was about to
be completed. Numerous offences had been committed in the neighbourhood;
the perpetrators remained undiscovered, and their boldness increased. A
robbery of a daring and aggravated nature occasioned a vigilance of
pursuit, and a strictness of search, they had not calculated on. Young
Edmunds was suspected, with three companions. He was apprehended--
committed--tried--condemned--to die.

'The wild and piercing shriek from a woman's voice, which resounded
through the court when the solemn sentence was pronounced, rings in my
ears at this moment. That cry struck a terror to the culprit's heart,
which trial, condemnation--the approach of death itself, had failed to
awaken. The lips which had been compressed in dogged sullenness
throughout, quivered and parted involuntarily; the face turned ashy pale
as the cold perspiration broke forth from every pore; the sturdy limbs
of the felon trembled, and he staggered in the dock.

'In the first transports of her mental anguish, the suffering mother
threw herself on her knees at my feet, and fervently sought the Almighty
Being who had hitherto supported her in all her troubles to release her
from a world of woe and misery, and to spare the life of her only child.
A burst of grief, and a violent struggle, such as I hope I may never
have to witness again, succeeded. I knew that her heart was breaking
from that hour; but I never once heard complaint or murmur escape her
lips.

'It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison-yard from
day to day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection and entreaty,
to soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. It was in vain. He
remained moody, obstinate, and unmoved. Not even the unlooked-for
commutation of his sentence to transportation for fourteen years,
softened for an instant the sullen hardihood of his demeanour.

'But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so long upheld
her, was unable to contend against bodily weakness and infirmity. She
fell sick. She dragged her tottering limbs from the bed to visit her son
once more, but her strength failed her, and she sank powerless on the
ground.

'And now the boasted coldness and indifference of the young man were
tested indeed; and the retribution that fell heavily upon him nearly
drove him mad. A day passed away and his mother was not there; another
flew by, and she came not near him; a third evening arrived, and yet he
had not seen her--, and in four-and-twenty hours he was to be separated
from her, perhaps for ever. Oh! how the long-forgotten thoughts of
former days rushed upon his mind, as he almost ran up and down the
narrow yard--as if intelligence would arrive the sooner for his
hurrying--and how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolation
rushed upon him, when he heard the truth! His mother, the only parent he
had ever known, lay ill--it might be, dying--within one mile of the
ground he stood on; were he free and unfettered, a few minutes would
place him by her side. He rushed to the gate, and grasping the iron
rails with the energy of desperation, shook it till it rang again, and
threw himself against the thick wall as if to force a passage through
the stone; but the strong building mocked his feeble efforts, and he
beat his hands together and wept like a child.

'I bore the mother's forgiveness and blessing to her son in prison; and
I carried the solemn assurance of repentance, and his fervent
supplication for pardon, to her sick-bed. I heard, with pity and
compassion, the repentant man devise a thousand little plans for her
comfort and support when he returned; but I knew that many months before
he could reach his place of destination, his mother would be no longer
of this world.

'He was removed by night. A few weeks afterwards the poor woman's soul
took its flight, I confidently hope, and solemnly believe, to a place of
eternal happiness and rest. I performed the burial service over her
remains. She lies in our little churchyard. There is no stone at her
grave's head. Her sorrows were known to man; her virtues to God.

'It had been arranged previously to the convict's departure, that he
should write to his mother as soon as he could obtain permission, and
that the letter should be addressed to me. The father had positively
refused to see his son from the moment of his apprehension; and it was a
matter of indifference to him whether he lived or died. Many years
passed over without any intelligence of him; and when more than half his
term of transportation had expired, and I had received no letter, I
concluded him to be dead, as, indeed, I almost hoped he might be.

'Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up the country
on his arrival at the settlement; and to this circumstance, perhaps, may
be attributed the fact, that though several letters were despatched,
none of them ever reached my hands. He remained in the same place during
the whole fourteen years. At the expiration of the term, steadily
adhering to his old resolution and the pledge he gave his mother, he
made his way back to England amidst innumerable difficulties, and
returned, on foot, to his native place.

'On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds set foot
in the village he had left with shame and disgrace seventeen years
before. His nearest way lay through the churchyard. The man's heart
swelled as he crossed the stile. The tall old elms, through whose
branches the declining sun cast here and there a rich ray of light upon
the shady part, awakened the associations of his earliest days. He
pictured himself as he was then, clinging to his mother's hand, and
walking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to look up into
her pale face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she
gazed upon his features--tears which fell hot upon his forehead as she
stooped to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he little knew then
what bitter tears hers were. He thought how often he had run merrily
down that path with some childish playfellow, looking back, ever and
again, to catch his mother's smile, or hear her gentle voice; and then a
veil seemed lifted from his memory, and words of kindness unrequited,
and warnings despised, and promises broken, thronged upon his
recollection till his heart failed him, and he could bear it no longer.

'He entered the church. The evening service was concluded and the
congregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed. His steps echoed
through the low building with a hollow sound, and he almost feared to be
alone, it was so still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was
changed. The place seemed smaller than it used to be; but there were the
old monuments on which he had gazed with childish awe a thousand times;
the little pulpit with its faded cushion; the Communion table before
which he had so often repeated the Commandments he had reverenced as a
child, and forgotten as a man. He approached the old seat; it looked
cold and desolate. The cushion had been removed, and the Bible was not
there. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer seat, or possibly she
had grown infirm and could not reach the church alone. He dared not
think of what he feared. A cold feeling crept over him, and he trembled
violently as he turned away. 'An old man entered the porch just as he
reached it. Edmunds started back, for he knew him well; many a time he
had watched him digging graves in the churchyard. What would he say to
the returned convict?

'The old man raised his eyes to the stranger's face, bade him "good-
evening," and walked slowly on. He had forgotten him.

'He walked down the hill, and through the village. The weather was warm,
and the people were sitting at their doors, or strolling in their little
gardens as he passed, enjoying the serenity of the evening, and their
rest from labour. Many a look was turned towards him, and many a
doubtful glance he cast on either side to see whether any knew and
shunned him. There were strange faces in almost every house; in some he
recognised the burly form of some old schoolfellow--a boy when he last
saw him--surrounded by a troop of merry children; in others he saw,
seated in an easy-chair at a cottage door, a feeble and infirm old man,
whom he only remembered as a hale and hearty labourer; but they had all
forgotten him, and he passed on unknown.

'The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth, casting
a rich glow on the yellow corn sheaves, and lengthening the shadows of
the orchard trees, as he stood before the old house--the home of his
infancy--to which his heart had yearned with an intensity of affection
not to be described, through long and weary years of captivity and
sorrow. The paling was low, though he well remembered the time that it
had seemed a high wall to him; and he looked over into the old garden.
There were more seeds and gayer flowers than there used to be, but there
were the old trees still--the very tree under which he had lain a
thousand times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft, mild
sleep of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices within
the house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear; he knew
them not. They were merry too; and he well knew that his poor old mother
could not be cheerful, and he away. The door opened, and a group of
little children bounded out, shouting and romping. The father, with a
little boy in his arms, appeared at the door, and they crowded round
him, clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out, to join their
joyous sports. The convict thought on the many times he had shrunk from
his father's sight in that very place. He remembered how often he had
buried his trembling head beneath the bedclothes, and heard the harsh
word, and the hard stripe, and his mother's wailing; and though the man
sobbed aloud with agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist was
clenched, and his teeth were set, in a fierce and deadly passion.

'And such was the return to which he had looked through the weary
perspective of many years, and for which he had undergone so much
suffering! No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness, no house to
receive, no hand to help him--and this too in the old village. What was
his loneliness in the wild, thick woods, where man was never seen, to
this!

'He felt that in the distant land of his bondage and infamy, he had
thought of his native place as it was when he left it; and not as it
would be when he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at his heart,
and his spirit sank within him. He had not courage to make inquiries, or
to present himself to the only person who was likely to receive him with
kindness and compassion. He walked slowly on; and shunning the roadside
like a guilty man, turned into a meadow he well remembered; and covering
his face with his hands, threw himself upon the grass.

'He had not observed that a man was lying on the bank beside him; his
garments rustled as he turned round to steal a look at the new-comer;
and Edmunds raised his head.

'The man had moved into a sitting posture. His body was much bent, and
his face was wrinkled and yellow. His dress denoted him an inmate of the
workhouse: he had the appearance of being very old, but it looked more
the effect of dissipation or disease, than the length of years. He was
staring hard at the stranger, and though his eyes were lustreless and
heavy at first, they appeared to glow with an unnatural and alarmed
expression after they had been fixed upon him for a short time, until
they seemed to be starting from their sockets. Edmunds gradually raised
himself to his knees, and looked more and more earnestly on the old
man's face. They gazed upon each other in silence.

'The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered and tottered to his feet.
Edmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two. Edmunds advanced.

'"Let me hear you speak," said the convict, in a thick, broken voice.

'"Stand off!" cried the old man, with a dreadful oath. The convict drew
closer to him.

'"Stand off!" shrieked the old man. Furious with terror, he raised his
stick, and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face.

'"Father--devil!" murmured the convict between his set teeth. He rushed
wildly forward, and clenched the old man by the throat--but he was his
father; and his arm fell powerless by his side.

'The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fields
like the howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black, the gore rushed
from his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a deep, dark red, as he
staggered and fell. He had ruptured a blood-vessel, and he was a dead
man before his son could raise him.


'In that corner of the churchyard,' said the old gentleman, after a
silence of a few moments, 'in that corner of the churchyard of which I
have before spoken, there lies buried a man who was in my employment for
three years after this event, and who was truly contrite, penitent, and
humbled, if ever man was. No one save myself knew in that man's lifetime
who he was, or whence he came--it was John Edmunds, the returned
convict.'


The fatiguing adventures of the day or the somniferous influence of the
clergyman's tale operated so strongly on the drowsy tendencies of Mr.
Pickwick, that in less than five minutes after he had been shown to his
comfortable bedroom he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep, from which
he was only awakened by the morning sun darting his bright beams
reproachfully into the apartment. Mr. Pickwick was no sluggard, and he
sprang like an ardent warrior from his tent-bedstead.

'Pleasant, pleasant country,' sighed the enthusiastic gentleman, as he
opened his lattice window. 'Who could live to gaze from day to day on
bricks and slates who had once felt the influence of a scene like this?
Who could continue to exist where there are no cows but the cows on the
chimney-pots; nothing redolent of Pan but pan-tiles; no crop but stone
crop? Who could bear to drag out a life in such a spot? Who, I ask,
could endure it?' and, having cross-examined solitude after the most
approved precedents, at considerable length, Mr. Pickwick thrust his
head out of the lattice and looked around him.

The rich, sweet smell of the hay-ricks rose to his chamber window; the
hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air
around; the deep-green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened
on every leaf as it trembled in the gentle air; and the birds sang as if
every sparkling drop were to them a fountain of inspiration. Mr.
Pickwick fell into an enchanting and delicious reverie.

'Hollo!' was the sound that roused him.

He looked to the right, but he saw nobody; his eyes wandered to the
left, and pierced the prospect; he stared into the sky, but he wasn't
wanted there; and then he did what a common mind would have done at
once--looked into the garden, and there saw Mr. Wardle.

'How are you?' said the good-humoured individual, out of breath with his
own anticipations of pleasure.'Beautiful morning, ain't it? Glad to see
you up so early. Make haste down, and come out. I'll wait for you here.'

Mr. Pickwick needed no second invitation. Ten minutes sufficed for the
completion of his toilet, and at the expiration of that time he was by
the old gentleman's side.

'Hollo!' said Mr. Pickwick in his turn, seeing that his companion was
armed with a gun, and that another lay ready on the grass; 'what's going
forward?'

'Why, your friend and I,' replied the host, 'are going out rook-shooting
before breakfast. He's a very good shot, ain't he?'

'I've heard him say he's a capital one,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'but I
never saw him aim at anything.'

'Well,' said the host, 'I wish he'd come. Joe--Joe!'

The fat boy, who under the exciting influence of the morning did not
appear to be more than three parts and a fraction asleep, emerged from
the house.

'Go up, and call the gentleman, and tell him he'll find me and Mr.
Pickwick in the rookery. Show the gentleman the way there; d'ye hear?'

The boy departed to execute his commission; and the host, carrying both
guns like a second Robinson Crusoe, led the way from the garden.

'This is the place,' said the old gentleman, pausing after a few minutes
walking, in an avenue of trees. The information was unnecessary; for the
incessant cawing of the unconscious rooks sufficiently indicated their
whereabouts.

The old gentleman laid one gun on the ground, and loaded the other.

'Here they are,' said Mr. Pickwick; and, as he spoke, the forms of Mr.
Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle appeared in the distance. The fat
boy, not being quite certain which gentleman he was directed to call,
had with peculiar sagacity, and to prevent the possibility of any
mistake, called them all.

'Come along,' shouted the old gentleman, addressing Mr. Winkle; 'a keen
hand like you ought to have been up long ago, even to such poor work as
this.'

Mr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up the spare gun with
an expression of countenance which a metaphysical rook, impressed with a
foreboding of his approaching death by violence, may be supposed to
assume. It might have been keenness, but it looked remarkably like
misery.

The old gentleman nodded; and two ragged boys who had been marshalled to
the spot under the direction of the infant Lambert, forthwith commenced
climbing up two of the trees.

'What are these lads for?' inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly. He was rather
alarmed; for he was not quite certain but that the distress of the
agricultural interest, about which he had often heard a great deal,
might have compelled the small boys attached to the soil to earn a
precarious and hazardous subsistence by making marks of themselves for
inexperienced sportsmen.

'Only to start the game,' replied Mr. Wardle, laughing.

'To what?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Why, in plain English, to frighten the rooks.'

'Oh, is that all?'

'You are satisfied?'

'Quite.'

'Very well. Shall I begin?'

'If you please,' said Mr. Winkle, glad of any respite.

'Stand aside, then. Now for it.'

The boy shouted, and shook a branch with a nest on it. Half a dozen
young rooks in violent conversation, flew out to ask what the matter
was. The old gentleman fired by way of reply. Down fell one bird, and
off flew the others.

'Take him up, Joe,' said the old gentleman.

There was a smile upon the youth's face as he advanced. Indistinct
visions of rook-pie floated through his imagination. He laughed as he
retired with the bird--it was a plump one.

'Now, Mr. Winkle,' said the host, reloading his own gun. 'Fire away.'

Mr. Winkle advanced, and levelled his gun. Mr. Pickwick and his friends
cowered involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of rooks,
which they felt quite certain would be occasioned by the devastating
barrel of their friend. There was a solemn pause--a shout--a flapping of
wings--a faint click.

'Hollo!' said the old gentleman.

'Won't it go?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Missed fire,' said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale--probably from
disappointment.

'Odd,' said the old gentleman, taking the gun. 'Never knew one of them
miss fire before. Why, I don't see anything of the cap.'

Bless my soul!' said Mr. Winkle, 'I declare I forgot the cap!'

The slight omission was rectified. Mr. Pickwick crouched again. Mr.
Winkle stepped forward with an air of determination and resolution; and
Mr. Tupman looked out from behind a tree. The boy shouted; four birds
flew out. Mr. Winkle fired. There was a scream as of an individual--not
a rook--in corporal anguish. Mr. Tupman had saved the lives of
innumerable unoffending birds by receiving a portion of the charge in
his left arm.

To describe the confusion that ensued would be impossible. To tell how
Mr. Pickwick in the first transports of emotion called Mr. Winkle
'Wretch!' how Mr. Tupman lay prostrate on the ground; and how Mr. Winkle
knelt horror-stricken beside him; how Mr. Tupman called distractedly
upon some feminine Christian name, and then opened first one eye, and
then the other, and then fell back and shut them both--all this would be
as difficult to describe in detail, as it would be to depict the gradual
recovering of the unfortunate individual, the binding up of his arm with
pocket-handkerchiefs, and the conveying him back by slow degrees
supported by the arms of his anxious friends.

They drew near the house. The ladies were at the garden gate, waiting
for their arrival and their breakfast. The spinster aunt appeared; she
smiled, and beckoned them to walk quicker. 'Twas evident she knew not of
the disaster. Poor thing! there are times when ignorance is bliss
indeed.

They approached nearer.

'Why, what is the matter with the little old gentleman?' said Isabella
Wardle. The spinster aunt heeded not the remark; she thought it applied
to Mr. Pickwick. In her eyes Tracy Tupman was a youth; she viewed his
years through a diminishing glass.

'Don't be frightened,' called out the old host, fearful of alarming his
daughters. The little party had crowded so completely round Mr. Tupman,
that they could not yet clearly discern the nature of the accident.

'Don't be frightened,' said the host.

'What's the matter?' screamed the ladies.

'Mr. Tupman has met with a little accident; that's all.'

The spinster aunt uttered a piercing scream, burst into an hysteric
laugh, and fell backwards in the arms of her nieces.

'Throw some cold water over her,' said the old gentleman.

'No, no,' murmured the spinster aunt; 'I am better now. Bella, Emily--a
surgeon! Is he wounded?--Is he dead?--Is he--Ha, ha, ha!' Here the
spinster aunt burst into fit number two, of hysteric laughter
interspersed with screams.

'Calm yourself,' said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by this
expression of sympathy with his sufferings. 'Dear, dear madam, calm
yourself.'

'It is his voice!' exclaimed the spinster aunt; and strong symptoms of
fit number three developed themselves forthwith.

'Do not agitate yourself, I entreat you, dearest madam,' said Mr. Tupman
soothingly. 'I am very little hurt, I assure you.'

'Then you are not dead!' ejaculated the hysterical lady. 'Oh, say you
are not dead!'

'Don't be a fool, Rachael,' interposed Mr. Wardle, rather more roughly
than was consistent with the poetic nature of the scene. 'What the
devil's the use of his saying he isn't dead?'

'No, no, I am not,' said Mr. Tupman. 'I require no assistance but yours.
Let me lean on your arm.' He added, in a whisper, 'Oh, Miss Rachael!'
The agitated female advanced, and offered her arm. They turned into the
breakfast parlour. Mr. Tracy Tupman gently pressed her hand to his lips,
and sank upon the sofa.

'Are you faint?' inquired the anxious Rachael.

'No,' said Mr. Tupman. 'It is nothing. I shall be better presently.' He
closed his eyes.

'He sleeps,' murmured the spinster aunt. (His organs of vision had been
closed nearly twenty seconds.) 'Dear--dear--Mr. Tupman!'

Mr. Tupman jumped up--'Oh, say those words again!' he exclaimed.

The lady started. 'Surely you did not hear them!' she said bashfully.

'Oh, yes, I did!' replied Mr. Tupman; 'repeat them. If you would have me
recover, repeat them.'

Hush!' said the lady. 'My brother.' Mr. Tracy Tupman resumed his former
position; and Mr. Wardle, accompanied by a surgeon, entered the room.

The arm was examined, the wound dressed, and pronounced to be a very
slight one; and the minds of the company having been thus satisfied,
they proceeded to satisfy their appetites with countenances to which an
expression of cheerfulness was again restored. Mr. Pickwick alone was
silent and reserved. Doubt and distrust were exhibited in his
countenance. His confidence in Mr. Winkle had been shaken--greatly
shaken--by the proceedings of the morning.

'Are you a cricketer?' inquired Mr. Wardle of the marksman.

At any other time, Mr. Winkle would have replied in the affirmative. He
felt the delicacy of his situation, and modestly replied, 'No.'

'Are you, sir?' inquired Mr. Snodgrass.

'I was once upon a time,' replied the host; 'but I have given it up now.
I subscribe to the club here, but I don't play.'

'The grand match is played to-day, I believe,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'It is,' replied the host. 'Of course you would like to see it.'

'I, sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'am delighted to view any sports which
may be safely indulged in, and in which the impotent effects of
unskilful people do not endanger human life.' Mr. Pickwick paused, and
looked steadily on Mr. Winkle, who quailed beneath his leader's
searching glance. The great man withdrew his eyes after a few minutes,
and added: 'Shall we be justified in leaving our wounded friend to the
care of the ladies?'

'You cannot leave me in better hands,' said Mr. Tupman.

'Quite impossible,' said Mr. Snodgrass.

It was therefore settled that Mr. Tupman should be left at home in
charge of the females; and that the remainder of the guests, under the
guidance of Mr. Wardle, should proceed to the spot where was to be held
that trial of skill, which had roused all Muggleton from its torpor, and
inoculated Dingley Dell with a fever of excitement.

As their walk, which was not above two miles long, lay through shady
lanes and sequestered footpaths, and as their conversation turned upon
the delightful scenery by which they were on every side surrounded, Mr.
Pickwick was almost inclined to regret the expedition they had used,
when he found himself in the main street of the town of Muggleton.

Everybody whose genius has a topographical bent knows perfectly well
that Muggleton is a corporate town, with a mayor, burgesses, and
freemen; and anybody who has consulted the addresses of the mayor to the
freemen, or the freemen to the mayor, or both to the corporation, or all
three to Parliament, will learn from thence what they ought to have
known before, that Muggleton is an ancient and loyal borough, mingling a
zealous advocacy of Christian principles with a devoted attachment to
commercial rights; in demonstration whereof, the mayor, corporation, and
other inhabitants, have presented at divers times, no fewer than one
thousand four hundred and twenty petitions against the continuance of
negro slavery abroad, and an equal number against any interference with
the factory system at home; sixty-eight in favour of the sale of livings
in the Church, and eighty-six for abolishing Sunday trading in the
street.

Mr. Pickwick stood in the principal street of this illustrious town, and
gazed with an air of curiosity, not unmixed with interest, on the
objects around him. There was an open square for the market-place; and
in the centre of it, a large inn with a sign-post in front, displaying
an object very common in art, but rarely met with in nature--to wit, a
blue lion, with three bow legs in the air, balancing himself on the
extreme point of the centre claw of his fourth foot. There were, within
sight, an auctioneer's and fire-agency office, a corn-factor's, a linen-
draper's, a saddler's, a distiller's, a grocer's, and a shoe-shop--the
last-mentioned warehouse being also appropriated to the diffusion of
hats, bonnets, wearing apparel, cotton umbrellas, and useful knowledge.
There was a red brick house with a small paved courtyard in front, which
anybody might have known belonged to the attorney; and there was,
moreover, another red brick house with Venetian blinds, and a large
brass door-plate with a very legible announcement that it belonged to
the surgeon. A few boys were making their way to the cricket-field; and
two or three shopkeepers who were standing at their doors looked as if
they should like to be making their way to the same spot, as indeed to
all appearance they might have done, without losing any great amount of
custom thereby. Mr. Pickwick having paused to make these observations,
to be noted down at a more convenient period, hastened to rejoin his
friends, who had turned out of the main street, and were already within
sight of the field of battle.

The wickets were pitched, and so were a couple of marquees for the rest
and refreshment of the contending parties. The game had not yet
commenced. Two or three Dingley Dellers, and All-Muggletonians, were
amusing themselves with a majestic air by throwing the ball carelessly
from hand to hand; and several other gentlemen dressed like them, in
straw hats, flannel jackets, and white trousers--a costume in which they
looked very much like amateur stone-masons--were sprinkled about the
tents, towards one of which Mr. Wardle conducted the party.

Several dozen of 'How-are-you's?' hailed the old gentleman's arrival;
and a general raising of the straw hats, and bending forward of the
flannel jackets, followed his introduction of his guests as gentlemen
from London, who were extremely anxious to witness the proceedings of
the day, with which, he had no doubt, they would be greatly delighted.

'You had better step into the marquee, I think, Sir,' said one very
stout gentleman, whose body and legs looked like half a gigantic roll of
flannel, elevated on a couple of inflated pillow-cases.

'You'll find it much pleasanter, Sir,' urged another stout gentleman,
who strongly resembled the other half of the roll of flannel aforesaid.

'You're very good,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'This way,' said the first speaker; 'they notch in here--it's the best
place in the whole field;' and the cricketer, panting on before,
preceded them to the tent.

'Capital game--smart sport--fine exercise--very,' were the words which
fell upon Mr. Pickwick's ear as he entered the tent; and the first
object that met his eyes was his green-coated friend of the Rochester
coach, holding forth, to the no small delight and edification of a
select circle of the chosen of All-Muggleton. His dress was slightly
improved, and he wore boots; but there was no mistaking him.

The stranger recognised his friends immediately; and, darting forward
and seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand, dragged him to a seat with his
usual impetuosity, talking all the while as if the whole of the
arrangements were under his especial patronage and direction.

'This way--this way--capital fun--lots of beer--hogsheads; rounds of
beef--bullocks; mustard--cart-loads; glorious day--down with you--make
yourself at home--glad to see you--very.'

Mr. Pickwick sat down as he was bid, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass
also complied with the directions of their mysterious friend. Mr. Wardle
looked on in silent wonder.

'Mr. Wardle--a friend of mine,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Friend of yours!--My dear sir, how are you?--Friend of my friend's--
give me your hand, sir'--and the stranger grasped Mr. Wardle's hand with
all the fervour of a close intimacy of many years, and then stepped back
a pace or two as if to take a full survey of his face and figure, and
then shook hands with him again, if possible, more warmly than before.

'Well; and how came you here?' said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile in which
benevolence struggled with surprise.

'Come,' replied the stranger--'stopping at Crown--Crown at Muggleton--
met a party--flannel jackets--white trousers--anchovy sandwiches--
devilled kidney--splendid fellows--glorious.'

Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently versed in the stranger's system of
stenography to infer from this rapid and disjointed communication that
he had, somehow or other, contracted an acquaintance with the All-
Muggletons, which he had converted, by a process peculiar to himself,
into that extent of good-fellowship on which a general invitation may be
easily founded. His curiosity was therefore satisfied, and putting on
his spectacles he prepared himself to watch the play which was just
commencing.

All-Muggleton had the first innings; and the interest became intense
when Mr. Dumkins and Mr. Podder, two of the most renowned members of
that most distinguished club, walked, bat in hand, to their respective
wickets. Mr. Luffey, the highest ornament of Dingley Dell, was pitched
to bowl against the redoubtable Dumkins, and Mr. Struggles was selected
to do the same kind office for the hitherto unconquered Podder. Several
players were stationed, to 'look out,' in different parts of the field,
and each fixed himself into the proper attitude by placing one hand on
each knee, and stooping very much as if he were 'making a back' for some
beginner at leap-frog. All the regular players do this sort of thing;--
indeed it is generally supposed that it is quite impossible to look out
properly in any other position.

The umpires were stationed behind the wickets; the scorers were prepared
to notch the runs; a breathless silence ensued. Mr. Luffey retired a few
paces behind the wicket of the passive Podder, and applied the ball to
his right eye for several seconds. Dumkins confidently awaited its
coming with his eyes fixed on the motions of Luffey.

'Play!' suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his hand straight
and swift towards the centre stump of the wicket. The wary Dumkins was
on the alert: it fell upon the tip of the bat, and bounded far away over
the heads of the scouts, who had just stooped low enough to let it fly
over them.

'Run--run--another.--Now, then throw her up--up with her--stop there--
another--no--yes--no--throw her up, throw her up!'--Such were the shouts
which followed the stroke; and at the conclusion of which All-Muggleton
had scored two. Nor was Podder behindhand in earning laurels wherewith
to garnish himself and Muggleton. He blocked the doubtful balls, missed
the bad ones, took the good ones, and sent them flying to all parts of
the field. The scouts were hot and tired; the bowlers were changed and
bowled till their arms ached; but Dumkins and Podder remained
unconquered. Did an elderly gentleman essay to stop the progress of the
ball, it rolled between his legs or slipped between his fingers. Did a
slim gentleman try to catch it, it struck him on the nose, and bounded
pleasantly off with redoubled violence, while the slim gentleman's eyes
filled with water, and his form writhed with anguish. Was it thrown
straight up to the wicket, Dumkins had reached it before the ball. In
short, when Dumkins was caught out, and Podder stumped out, All-
Muggleton had notched some fifty-four, while the score of the Dingley
Dellers was as blank as their faces. The advantage was too great to be
recovered. In vain did the eager Luffey, and the enthusiastic Struggles,
do all that skill and experience could suggest, to regain the ground
Dingley Dell had lost in the contest--it was of no avail; and in an
early period of the winning game Dingley Dell gave in, and allowed the
superior prowess of All-Muggleton.

The stranger, meanwhile, had been eating, drinking, and talking, without
cessation. At every good stroke he expressed his satisfaction and
approval of the player in a most condescending and patronising manner,
which could not fail to have been highly gratifying to the party
concerned; while at every bad attempt at a catch, and every failure to
stop the ball, he launched his personal displeasure at the head of the
devoted individual in such denunciations as--'Ah, ah!--stupid'--'Now,
butter-fingers'--'Muff'--'Humbug'--and so forth--ejaculations which
seemed to establish him in the opinion of all around, as a most
excellent and undeniable judge of the whole art and mystery of the noble
game of cricket.

'Capital game--well played--some strokes admirable,' said the stranger,
as both sides crowded into the tent, at the conclusion of the game.

'You have played it, sir?' inquired Mr. Wardle, who had been much amused
by his loquacity.

'Played it! Think I have--thousands of times--not here--West Indies--
exciting thing--hot work--very.' 'It must be rather a warm pursuit in
such a climate,' observed Mr. Pickwick.

'Warm!--red hot--scorching--glowing. Played a match once--single wicket-
-friend the colonel--Sir Thomas Blazo--who should get the greatest
number of runs.--Won the toss--first innings--seven o'clock A.M.--six
natives to look out--went in; kept in--heat intense--natives all
fainted--taken away--fresh half-dozen ordered--fainted also--Blazo
bowling--supported by two natives--couldn't bowl me out--fainted too--
cleared away the colonel--wouldn't give in--faithful attendant--Quanko
Samba--last man left--sun so hot, bat in blisters, ball scorched brown--
five hundred and seventy runs--rather exhausted--Quanko mustered up last
remaining strength--bowled me out--had a bath, and went out to dinner.'

'And what became of what's-his-name, Sir?' inquired an old gentleman.

'Blazo?'

'No--the other gentleman.'

Quanko Samba?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Poor Quanko--never recovered it--bowled on, on my account--bowled off,
on his own--died, sir.' Here the stranger buried his countenance in a
brown jug, but whether to hide his emotion or imbibe its contents, we
cannot distinctly affirm. We only know that he paused suddenly, drew a
long and deep breath, and looked anxiously on, as two of the principal
members of the Dingley Dell club approached Mr. Pickwick, and said--

'We are about to partake of a plain dinner at the Blue Lion, Sir; we
hope you and your friends will join us.'

Of course,' said Mr. Wardle, 'among our friends we include Mr.--;' and
he looked towards the stranger.

'Jingle,' said that versatile gentleman, taking the hint at once.
'Jingle--Alfred Jingle, Esq., of No Hall, Nowhere.'

'I shall be very happy, I am sure,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'So shall I,' said Mr. Alfred Jingle, drawing one arm through Mr.
Pickwick's, and another through Mr. Wardle's, as he whispered
confidentially in the ear of the former gentleman:--

'Devilish good dinner--cold, but capital--peeped into the room this
morning--fowls and pies, and all that sort of thing--pleasant fellows
these--well behaved, too--very.'

There being no further preliminaries to arrange, the company straggled
into the town in little knots of twos and threes; and within a quarter
of an hour were all seated in the great room of the Blue Lion Inn,
Muggleton--Mr. Dumkins acting as chairman, and Mr. Luffey officiating as
vice.

There was a vast deal of talking and rattling of knives and forks, and
plates; a great running about of three ponderous-headed waiters, and a
rapid disappearance of the substantial viands on the table; to each and
every of which item of confusion, the facetious Mr. Jingle lent the aid
of half-a-dozen ordinary men at least. When everybody had eaten as much
as possible, the cloth was removed, bottles, glasses, and dessert were
placed on the table; and the waiters withdrew to 'clear away,' or in
other words, to appropriate to their own private use and emolument
whatever remnants of the eatables and drinkables they could contrive to
lay their hands on.

Amidst the general hum of mirth and conversation that ensued, there was
a little man with a puffy Say-nothing-to-me,-or-I'll-contradict-you sort
of countenance, who remained very quiet; occasionally looking round him
when the conversation slackened, as if he contemplated putting in
something very weighty; and now and then bursting into a short cough of
inexpressible grandeur. At length, during a moment of comparative
silence, the little man called out in a very loud, solemn voice,--

'Mr. Luffey!'

Everybody was hushed into a profound stillness as the individual
addressed, replied--

'Sir!'

'I wish to address a few words to you, Sir, if you will entreat the
gentlemen to fill their glasses.'

Mr. Jingle uttered a patronising 'Hear, hear,' which was responded to by
the remainder of the company; and the glasses having been filled, the
vice-president assumed an air of wisdom in a state of profound
attention; and said--

'Mr. Staple.'

'Sir,' said the little man, rising, 'I wish to address what I have to
say to you and not to our worthy chairman, because our worthy chairman
is in some measure--I may say in a great degree--the subject of what I
have to say, or I may say to--to--'

'State,' suggested Mr. Jingle.

'Yes, to state,' said the little man, 'I thank my honourable friend, if
he will allow me to call him so (four hears and one certainly from Mr.
Jingle), for the suggestion. Sir, I am a Deller--a Dingley Deller
(cheers). I cannot lay claim to the honour of forming an item in the
population of Muggleton; nor, Sir, I will frankly admit, do I covet that
honour: and I will tell you why, Sir (hear); to Muggleton I will readily
concede all these honours and distinctions to which it can fairly lay
claim--they are too numerous and too well known to require aid or
recapitulation from me. But, sir, while we remember that Muggleton has
given birth to a Dumkins and a Podder, let us never forget that Dingley
Dell can boast a Luffey and a Struggles. (Vociferous cheering.) Let me
not be considered as wishing to detract from the merits of the former
gentlemen. Sir, I envy them the luxury of their own feelings on this
occasion. (Cheers.) Every gentleman who hears me, is probably acquainted
with the reply made by an individual, who--to use an ordinary figure of
speech--"hung out" in a tub, to the emperor Alexander:--"if I were not
Diogenes," said he, "I would be Alexander." I can well imagine these
gentlemen to say, "If I were not Dumkins I would be Luffey; if I were
not Podder I would be Struggles." (Enthusiasm.) But, gentlemen of
Muggleton, is it in cricket alone that your fellow-townsmen stand pre-
eminent? Have you never heard of Dumkins and determination? Have you
never been taught to associate Podder with property? (Great applause.)
Have you never, when struggling for your rights, your liberties, and
your privileges, been reduced, if only for an instant, to misgiving and
despair? And when you have been thus depressed, has not the name of
Dumkins laid afresh within your breast the fire which had just gone out;
and has not a word from that man lighted it again as brightly as if it
had never expired? (Great cheering.) Gentlemen, I beg to surround with a
rich halo of enthusiastic cheering the united names of "Dumkins and
Podder."'

Here the little man ceased, and here the company commenced a raising of
voices, and thumping of tables, which lasted with little intermission
during the remainder of the evening. Other toasts were drunk. Mr. Luffey
and Mr. Struggles, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Jingle, were, each in his turn,
the subject of unqualified eulogium; and each in due course returned
thanks for the honour.

Enthusiastic as we are in the noble cause to which we have devoted
ourselves, we should have felt a sensation of pride which we cannot
express, and a consciousness of having done something to merit
immortality of which we are now deprived, could we have laid the
faintest outline on these addresses before our ardent readers. Mr.
Snodgrass, as usual, took a great mass of notes, which would no doubt
have afforded most useful and valuable information, had not the burning
eloquence of the words or the feverish influence of the wine made that
gentleman's hand so extremely unsteady, as to render his writing nearly
unintelligible, and his style wholly so. By dint of patient
investigation, we have been enabled to trace some characters bearing a
faint resemblance to the names of the speakers; and we can only discern
an entry of a song (supposed to have been sung by Mr. Jingle), in which
the words 'bowl' 'sparkling' 'ruby' 'bright' and 'wine' are frequently
repeated at short intervals. We fancy, too, that we can discern at the
very end of the notes, some indistinct reference to 'broiled bones'; and
then the words 'cold' 'without' occur: but as any hypothesis we could
found upon them must necessarily rest upon mere conjecture, we are not
disposed to indulge in any of the speculations to which they may give
rise.

We will therefore return to Mr. Tupman; merely adding that within some
few minutes before twelve o'clock that night, the convocation of
worthies of Dingley Dell and Muggleton were heard to sing, with great
feeling and emphasis, the beautiful and pathetic national air of


'We won't go home till morning, We won't go home till morning, We won't
go home till morning, Till daylight doth appear.'

 Mr. Pickwick rises early and walks to Rochester Bridge, where he meets "Dismal Jemmy" contemplating suicide, or so he says. Jemmy promises to send Mr. Pickwick a manuscript, and Pickwick returns to eat breakfast and prepare for the visit to Wardle's farm. The Pickwickians obtain a chaise, but the inexperienced Winkle must ride horseback. The horses prove unruly, and Winkle loses his while Tupman and Snodgrass are overturned. After trying unsuccessfully to get rid of a horse, the four men arrive at Wardle's bruised and disgruntled. But Mr. Wardle sees that they are cleaned up and given brandy, which refreshes them. The Pickwickians are introduced to Mr. Wardle's crotchety, cherished, slightly deaf mother and to several neighbors present. The gathering settles down to a card party. Mr. Pickwick and the old lady trounce two neighbors at whist; and the other card table, which is full of young people, is merry and playful. When the card games are finished the local minister is invited to recite a poem about the ivy and how it thrives on decay. That done, the minister is requested by Mr. Wardle to tell the story of "The Convict's Return," in which John Edmunds, a man with a brutal father and a devoted mother, is convicted of theft and serves fourteen years. When he is released he returns home to find his mother dead and his father in a workhouse. Edmunds and his father get into a violent fight, during which the evil father dies of a burst blood vessel. Edmunds then lives repentantly until his death. When the story is finished, everyone retires. Mr. Pickwick gets up early and sees Wardle ready to go crow hunting with Winkle. A group assembles, and Winkle is fearful of his lack of skill -- in fact, he shoots Tupman in the arm. Tupman is carried back and greeted by the hysterical Rachael. The Pickwickians leave Tupman in Rachael's care and go with Wardle to nearby Muggleton to see a cricket match. There they meet the glib stranger again, who introduces himself as Alfred Jingle and who is on familiar terms with the All-Muggleton team. The Dingley Dell team is badly beaten, which means they must buy dinner for the winners. Under the influence of alcohol, any ill-feeling between the two groups is lost, and everyone stays up drinking until the morning hours.

