‘Now make haste,’ said Mr. Wardle; for the fat boy was hanging fondly

over a capon, which he seemed wholly unable to part with. The boy sighed

deeply, and, bestowing an ardent gaze upon its plumpness, unwillingly

consigned it to his master.

‘That’s right--look sharp. Now the tongue--now the pigeon pie. Take care

of that veal and ham--mind the lobsters--take the salad out of the

cloth--give me the dressing.’ Such were the hurried orders which issued

from the lips of Mr. Wardle, as he handed in the different articles

described, and placed dishes in everybody’s hands, and on everybody’s

knees, in endless number.

‘Now ain’t this capital?’ inquired that jolly personage, when the work

of destruction had commenced.

‘Capital!’ said Mr. Winkle, who was carving a fowl on the box.

‘Glass of wine?’

‘With the greatest pleasure.’

‘You’d better have a bottle to yourself up there, hadn’t you?’

‘You’re very good.’

‘Joe!’

‘Yes, Sir.’ (He wasn’t asleep this time, having just succeeded in

abstracting a veal patty.)

‘Bottle of wine to the gentleman on the box. Glad to see you, Sir.’

‘Thank’ee.’ Mr. Winkle emptied his glass, and placed the bottle on the

coach-box, by his side.

‘Will you permit me to have the pleasure, Sir?’ said Mr. Trundle to Mr.

Winkle.

‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Winkle to Mr. Trundle, and then the

two gentlemen took wine, after which they took a glass of wine round,

ladies and all.

‘How dear Emily is flirting with the strange gentleman,’ whispered the

spinster aunt, with true spinster-aunt-like envy, to her brother, Mr.

Wardle.

‘Oh! I don’t know,’ said the jolly old gentleman; ‘all very natural, I

dare say--nothing unusual. Mr. Pickwick, some wine, Sir?’ Mr. Pickwick,

who had been deeply investigating the interior of the pigeon-pie,

readily assented.

‘Emily, my dear,’ said the spinster aunt, with a patronising air, ‘don’t

talk so loud, love.’

‘Lor, aunt!’

‘Aunt and the little old gentleman want to have it all to themselves, I

think,’ whispered Miss Isabella Wardle to her sister Emily. The young

ladies laughed very heartily, and the old one tried to look amiable, but

couldn’t manage it.

‘Young girls have such spirits,’ said Miss Wardle to Mr. Tupman, with an

air of gentle commiseration, as if animal spirits were contraband, and

their possession without a permit a high crime and misdemeanour.

‘Oh, they have,’ replied Mr. Tupman, not exactly making the sort of

reply that was expected from him. ‘It’s quite delightful.’

‘Hem!’ said Miss Wardle, rather dubiously.

‘Will you permit me?’ said Mr. Tupman, in his blandest manner, touching

the enchanting Rachael’s wrist with one hand, and gently elevating the

bottle with the other. ‘Will you permit me?’

‘Oh, sir!’ Mr. Tupman looked most impressive; and Rachael expressed her

fear that more guns were going off, in which case, of course, she should

have required support again.

‘Do you think my dear nieces pretty?’ whispered their affectionate aunt

to Mr. Tupman.

‘I should, if their aunt wasn’t here,’ replied the ready Pickwickian,

with a passionate glance.

‘Oh, you naughty man--but really, if their complexions were a little

better, don’t you think they would be nice-looking girls--by

candlelight?’

‘Yes; I think they would,’ said Mr. Tupman, with an air of indifference.

‘Oh, you quiz--I know what you were going to say.’

‘What?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, who had not precisely made up his mind to

say anything at all.

‘You were going to say that Isabel stoops--I know you were--you men are

such observers. Well, so she does; it can’t be denied; and, certainly,

if there is one thing more than another that makes a girl look ugly it

is stooping. I often tell her that when she gets a little older she’ll

be quite frightful. Well, you are a quiz!’

Mr. Tupman had no objection to earning the reputation at so cheap a

rate: so he looked very knowing, and smiled mysteriously.

‘What a sarcastic smile,’ said the admiring Rachael; ‘I declare I’m

quite afraid of you.’

‘Afraid of me!’

‘Oh, you can’t disguise anything from me--I know what that smile means

very well.’

‘What?’ said Mr. Tupman, who had not the slightest notion himself.

‘You mean,’ said the amiable aunt, sinking her voice still lower--‘you

mean, that you don’t think Isabella’s stooping is as bad as Emily’s

boldness. Well, she is bold! You cannot think how wretched it makes me

sometimes--I’m sure I cry about it for hours together--my dear brother

is _so_ good, and so unsuspicious, that he never sees it; if he did, I’m

quite certain it would break his heart. I wish I could think it was only

manner--I hope it may be--’ (Here the affectionate relative heaved a

deep sigh, and shook her head despondingly).

‘I’m sure aunt’s talking about us,’ whispered Miss Emily Wardle to her

sister--‘I’m quite certain of it--she looks so malicious.’

‘Is she?’ replied Isabella.--‘Hem! aunt, dear!’

‘Yes, my dear love!’

‘I’m _so_ afraid you’ll catch cold, aunt--have a silk handkerchief to

tie round your dear old head--you really should take care of yourself--

consider your age!’

However well deserved this piece of retaliation might have been, it was

as vindictive a one as could well have been resorted to. There is no

guessing in what form of reply the aunt’s indignation would have vented

itself, had not Mr. Wardle unconsciously changed the subject, by calling

emphatically for Joe.

‘Damn that boy,’ said the old gentleman, ‘he’s gone to sleep again.’

‘Very extraordinary boy, that,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘does he always sleep

in this way?’

‘Sleep!’ said the old gentleman, ‘he’s always asleep. Goes on errands

fast asleep, and snores as he waits at table.’

‘How very odd!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah! odd indeed,’ returned the old gentleman; ‘I’m proud of that boy--

wouldn’t part with him on any account--he’s a natural curiosity! Here,

Joe--Joe--take these things away, and open another bottle--d’ye hear?’

The fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of pie he

had been in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep, and slowly

obeyed his master’s orders--gloating languidly over the remains of the

feast, as he removed the plates, and deposited them in the hamper. The

fresh bottle was produced, and speedily emptied: the hamper was made

fast in its old place--the fat boy once more mounted the box--the

spectacles and pocket-glass were again adjusted--and the evolutions of

the military recommenced. There was a great fizzing and banging of guns,

and starting of ladies--and then a mine was sprung, to the gratification

of everybody--and when the mine had gone off, the military and the

company followed its example, and went off too.

‘Now, mind,’ said the old gentleman, as he shook hands with Mr. Pickwick

at the conclusion of a conversation which had been carried on at

intervals, during the conclusion of the proceedings, ‘we shall see you

all to-morrow.’

‘Most certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘You have got the address?’

‘Manor Farm, Dingley Dell,’ said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his pocket-

book.

‘That’s it,’ said the old gentleman. ‘I don’t let you off, mind, under a

week; and undertake that you shall see everything worth seeing. If

you’ve come down for a country life, come to me, and I’ll give you

plenty of it. Joe--damn that boy, he’s gone to sleep again--Joe, help

Tom put in the horses.’

The horses were put in--the driver mounted--the fat boy clambered up by

his side--farewells were exchanged--and the carriage rattled off. As the

Pickwickians turned round to take a last glimpse of it, the setting sun

cast a rich glow on the faces of their entertainers, and fell upon the

form of the fat boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom; and he slumbered

again.

CHAPTER V. A SHORT ONE--SHOWING, AMONG OTHER MATTERS, HOW Mr. PICKWICK

UNDERTOOK TO DRIVE, AND MR. WINKLE TO RIDE, AND HOW THEY BOTH DID IT

Bright and pleasant was the sky, balmy the air, and beautiful the

appearance of every object around, as Mr. Pickwick leaned over the

balustrades of Rochester Bridge, contemplating nature, and waiting for

breakfast. The scene was indeed one which might well have charmed a far

less reflective mind, than that to which it was presented.

On the left of the spectator lay the ruined wall, broken in many places,

and in some, overhanging the narrow 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.’

CHAPTER VI. AN OLD-FASHIONED CARD-PARTY--THE CLERGYMAN’S VERSES--THE

STORY OF THE CONVICT’S RETURN

Several guests who were assembled in the old parlour rose to greet Mr.

Pickwick and his friends upon their entrance; and during the performance

of the 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.’

CHAPTER VII. HOW MR. WINKLE, INSTEAD OF SHOOTING AT THE PIGEON AND

KILLING THE CROW, SHOT AT THE CROW AND WOUNDED THE PIGEON; HOW THE

DINGLEY DELL CRICKET CLUB PLAYED ALL-MUGGLETON, AND HOW ALL-MUGGLETON

DINED AT THE DINGLEY DELL EXPENSE; WITH OTHER INTERESTING AND

INSTRUCTIVE MATTERS

The fatiguing adventures of the day or the 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.’

CHAPTER VIII. STRONGLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE POSITION, THAT THE COURSE OF

TRUE LOVE IS NOT A RAILWAY

The quiet seclusion of Dingley Dell, the presence of so many of the

gentler sex, and the solicitude and anxiety they evinced in his behalf,

were all favourable to the growth and development of those softer

feelings which nature had implanted deep in the bosom of Mr. Tracy

Tupman, and which now appeared destined to centre in one lovely object.

The young ladies were pretty, their manners winning, their dispositions

unexceptionable; but there was a dignity in the air, a touch-me-not-

ishness in the walk, a majesty in the eye, of the spinster aunt, to

which, at their time of life, they could lay no claim, which

distinguished her from any female on whom Mr. Tupman had ever gazed.

That there was something kindred in their nature, something congenial in

their souls, something mysteriously sympathetic in their bosoms, was

evident. Her name was the first that rose to Mr. Tupman’s lips as he lay

wounded on the grass; and her hysteric laughter was the first sound that

fell upon his ear when he was supported to the house. But had her

agitation arisen from an amiable and feminine sensibility which would

have been equally irrepressible in any case; or had it been called forth

by a more ardent and passionate feeling, which he, of all men living,

could alone awaken? These were the doubts which racked his brain as he

lay extended on the sofa; these were the doubts which he determined

should be at once and for ever resolved.

It was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr. Trundle;

the deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair; the snoring of the fat

boy, penetrated in a low and monotonous sound from the distant kitchen;

the buxom servants were lounging at the side door, enjoying the

pleasantness of the hour, and the delights of a flirtation, on first

principles, with certain unwieldy animals attached to the farm; and

there sat the interesting pair, uncared for by all, caring for none, and

dreaming only of themselves; there they sat, in short, like a pair of

carefully-folded kid gloves--bound up in each other.

‘I have forgotten my flowers,’ said the spinster aunt.

‘Water them now,’ said Mr. Tupman, in accents of persuasion.

‘You will take cold in the evening air,’ urged the spinster aunt

affectionately.

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Tupman, rising; ‘it will do me good. Let me accompany

you.’

The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth

was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.

There was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle, jessamine, and

creeping plants--one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for

the accommodation of spiders.

The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in one corner,

and was about to leave the arbour. Mr. Tupman detained her, and drew her

to a seat beside him.

‘Miss Wardle!’ said he.

The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles which had accidentally

found their way into the large watering-pot shook like an infant’s

rattle.

‘Miss Wardle,’ said Mr. Tupman, ‘you are an angel.’

‘Mr. Tupman!’ exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as the watering-pot

itself.

‘Nay,’ said the eloquent Pickwickian--‘I know it but too well.’

‘All women are angels, they say,’ murmured the lady playfully.

‘Then what can you be; or to what, without presumption, can I compare

you?’ replied Mr. Tupman. ‘Where was the woman ever seen who resembled

you? Where else could I hope to find so rare a combination of excellence

and beauty? Where else could I seek to--Oh!’ Here Mr. Tupman paused, and

pressed the hand which clasped the handle of the happy watering-pot.

The lady turned aside her head. ‘Men are such deceivers,’ she softly

whispered.

‘They are, they are,’ ejaculated Mr. Tupman; ‘but not all men. There

lives at least one being who can never change--one being who would be

content to devote his whole existence to your happiness--who lives but

in your eyes--who breathes but in your smiles--who bears the heavy

burden of life itself only for you.’

‘Could such an individual be found--’ said the lady.

‘But he _can_ be found,’ said the ardent Mr. Tupman, interposing. ‘He

_is_ found. He is here, Miss Wardle.’ And ere the lady was aware of his

intention, Mr. Tupman had sunk upon his knees at her feet.

‘Mr. Tupman, rise,’ said Rachael.

‘Never!’ was the valorous reply. ‘Oh, Rachael!’ He seized her passive

hand, and the watering-pot fell to the ground as he pressed it to his

lips.--‘Oh, Rachael! say you love me.’

‘Mr. Tupman,’ said the spinster aunt, with averted head, ‘I can hardly

speak the words; but--but--you are not wholly indifferent to me.’

Mr. Tupman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded to do what his

enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for aught we know (for we are

but little acquainted with such matters), people so circumstanced always

do. He jumped up, and, throwing his arm round the neck of the spinster

aunt, imprinted upon her lips numerous kisses, which after a due show of

struggling and resistance, she received so passively, that there is no

telling how many more Mr. Tupman might have bestowed, if the lady had

not given a very unaffected start, and exclaimed in an affrighted tone--

‘Mr. Tupman, we are observed!--we are discovered!’

Mr. Tupman looked round. There was the fat boy, perfectly motionless,

with his large circular eyes staring into the arbour, but without the

slightest expression on his face that the most expert physiognomist

could have referred to astonishment, curiosity, or any other known

passion that agitates the human breast. Mr. Tupman gazed on the fat boy,

and the fat boy stared at him; and the longer Mr. Tupman observed the

utter vacancy of the fat boy’s countenance, the more convinced he became

that he either did not know, or did not understand, anything that had

been going forward. Under this impression, he said with great firmness--

‘What do you want here, Sir?’

‘Supper’s ready, sir,’ was the prompt reply.

‘Have you just come here, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, with a piercing

look.

‘Just,’ replied the fat boy.

Mr. Tupman looked at him very hard again; but there was not a wink in

his eye, or a curve in his face.

Mr. Tupman took the arm of the spinster aunt, and walked towards the

house; the fat boy followed behind.

‘He knows nothing of what has happened,’ he whispered.

‘Nothing,’ said the spinster aunt.

There was a sound behind them, as of an imperfectly suppressed chuckle.

Mr. Tupman turned sharply round. No; it could not have been the fat boy;

there was not a gleam of mirth, or anything but feeding in his whole

visage.

‘He must have been fast asleep,’ whispered Mr. Tupman.

‘I have not the least doubt of it,’ replied the spinster aunt.

They both laughed heartily.

Mr. Tupman was wrong. The fat boy, for once, had not been fast asleep.

He was awake--wide awake--to what had been going forward.

The supper passed off without any attempt at a general conversation. The

old lady had gone to bed; Isabella Wardle devoted herself exclusively to

Mr. Trundle; the spinster’s attentions were reserved for Mr. Tupman; and

Emily’s thoughts appeared to be engrossed by some distant object--

possibly they were with the absent Snodgrass.

Eleven--twelve--one o’clock had struck, and the gentlemen had not

arrived. Consternation sat on every face. Could they have been waylaid

and robbed? Should they send men and lanterns in every direction by

which they could be supposed likely to have travelled home? or should

they--Hark! there they were. What could have made them so late? A

strange voice, too! To whom could it belong? They rushed into the

kitchen, whither the truants had repaired, and at once obtained rather

more than a glimmering of the real state of the case.

Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked

completely over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser, shaking

his head from side to side, and producing a constant succession of the

blandest and most benevolent smiles without being moved thereunto by any

discernible cause or pretence whatsoever; old Mr. Wardle, with a highly-

inflamed countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange gentleman

muttering protestations of eternal friendship; Mr. Winkle, supporting

himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking destruction upon the

head of any member of the family who should suggest the propriety of his

retiring for the night; and Mr. Snodgrass had sunk into a chair, with an

expression of the most abject and hopeless misery that the human mind

can imagine, portrayed in every lineament of his expressive face.

‘Is anything the matter?’ inquired the three ladies.

‘Nothing the matter,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘We--we’re--all right.--I

say, Wardle, we’re all right, ain’t we?’

‘I should think so,’ replied the jolly host.--‘My dears, here’s my

friend Mr. Jingle--Mr. Pickwick’s friend, Mr. Jingle, come ‘pon--little

visit.’

‘Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, Sir?’ inquired Emily, with

great anxiety.

‘Nothing the matter, ma’am,’ replied the stranger. ‘Cricket dinner--

glorious party--capital songs--old port--claret--good--very good--wine,

ma’am--wine.’

‘It wasn’t the wine,’ murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. ‘It was

the salmon.’ (Somehow or other, it never is the wine, in these cases.)

‘Hadn’t they better go to bed, ma’am?’ inquired Emma. ‘Two of the boys

will carry the gentlemen upstairs.’

‘I won’t go to bed,’ said Mr. Winkle firmly.

‘No living boy shall carry me,’ said Mr. Pickwick stoutly; and he went

on smiling as before.

‘Hurrah!’ gasped Mr. Winkle faintly.

‘Hurrah!’ echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on the

floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the

kitchen. At this humorous feat he laughed outright.

‘Let’s--have--‘nother--bottle,’ cried Mr. Winkle, commencing in a very

loud key, and ending in a very faint one. His head dropped upon his

breast; and, muttering his invincible determination not to go to his

bed, and a sanguinary regret that he had not ‘done for old Tupman’ in

the morning, he fell fast asleep; in which condition he was borne to his

apartment by two young giants under the personal superintendence of the

fat boy, to whose protecting care Mr. Snodgrass shortly afterwards

confided his own person, Mr. Pickwick accepted the proffered arm of Mr.

Tupman and quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever; and Mr. Wardle,

after taking as affectionate a leave of the whole family as if he were

ordered for immediate execution, consigned to Mr. Trundle the honour of

conveying him upstairs, and retired, with a very futile attempt to look

impressively solemn and dignified.

‘What a shocking scene!’ said the spinster aunt.

‘Dis-gusting!’ ejaculated both the young ladies.

‘Dreadful--dreadful!’ said Jingle, looking very grave: he was about a

bottle and a half ahead of any of his companions. ‘Horrid spectacle--

very!’

‘What a nice man!’ whispered the spinster aunt to Mr. Tupman.

‘Good-looking, too!’ whispered Emily Wardle.

‘Oh, decidedly,’ observed the spinster aunt.

Mr. Tupman thought of the widow at Rochester, and his mind was troubled.

The succeeding half-hour’s conversation was not of a nature to calm his

perturbed spirit. The new visitor was very talkative, and the number of

his anecdotes was only to be exceeded by the extent of his politeness.

Mr. Tupman felt that as Jingle’s popularity increased, he (Tupman)

retired further into the shade. His laughter was forced--his merriment

feigned; and when at last he laid his aching temples between the sheets,

he thought, with horrid delight, on the satisfaction it would afford him

to have Jingle’s head at that moment between the feather bed and the

mattress.

The indefatigable stranger rose betimes next morning, and, although his

companions remained in bed overpowered with the dissipation of the

previous night, exerted himself most successfully to promote the

hilarity of the breakfast-table. So successful were his efforts, that

even the deaf old lady insisted on having one or two of his best jokes

retailed through the trumpet; and even she condescended to observe to

the spinster aunt, that ‘He’ (meaning Jingle) ‘was an impudent young

fellow:’ a sentiment in which all her relations then and there present

thoroughly coincided.

It was the old lady’s habit on the fine summer mornings to repair to the

arbour in which Mr. Tupman had already signalised himself, in form and

manner following: first, the fat boy fetched from a peg behind the old

lady’s bedroom door, a close black satin bonnet, a warm cotton shawl,

and a thick stick with a capacious handle; and the old lady, having put

on the bonnet and shawl at her leisure, would lean one hand on the stick

and the other on the fat boy’s shoulder, and walk leisurely to the

arbour, where the fat boy would leave her to enjoy the fresh air for the

space of half an hour; at the expiration of which time he would return

and reconduct her to the house.

The old lady was very precise and very particular; and as this ceremony

had been observed for three successive summers without the slightest

deviation from the accustomed form, she was not a little surprised on

this particular morning to see the fat boy, instead of leaving the

arbour, walk a few paces out of it, look carefully round him in every

direction, and return towards her with great stealth and an air of the

most profound mystery.

The old lady was timorous--most old ladies are--and her first impression

was that the bloated lad was about to do her some grievous bodily harm

with the view of possessing himself of her loose coin. She would have

cried for assistance, but age and infirmity had long ago deprived her of

the power of screaming; she, therefore, watched his motions with

feelings of intense horror which were in no degree diminished by his

coming close up to her, and shouting in her ear in an agitated, and as

it seemed to her, a threatening tone--

‘Missus!’

Now it so happened that Mr. Jingle was walking in the garden close to

the arbour at that moment. He too heard the shouts of ‘Missus,’ and

stopped to hear more. There were three reasons for his doing so. In the

first place, he was idle and curious; secondly, he was by no means

scrupulous; thirdly, and lastly, he was concealed from view by some

flowering shrubs. So there he stood, and there he listened.

‘Missus!’ shouted the fat boy.

‘Well, Joe,’ said the trembling old lady. ‘I’m sure I have been a good

mistress to you, Joe. You have invariably been treated very kindly. You

have never had too much to do; and you have always had enough to eat.’

This last was an appeal to the fat boy’s most sensitive feelings. He

seemed touched, as he replied emphatically--

‘I knows I has.’

‘Then what can you want to do now?’ said the old lady, gaining courage.

‘I wants to make your flesh creep,’ replied the boy.

This sounded like a very bloodthirsty mode of showing one’s gratitude;

and as the old lady did not precisely understand the process by which

such a result was to be attained, all her former horrors returned.

‘What do you think I see in this very arbour last night?’ inquired the

boy.

‘Bless us! What?’ exclaimed the old lady, alarmed at the solemn manner

of the corpulent youth.

‘The strange gentleman--him as had his arm hurt--a-kissin’ and huggin’--

‘

‘Who, Joe? None of the servants, I hope.’

Worser than that,’ roared the fat boy, in the old lady’s ear.

‘Not one of my grandda’aters?’

‘Worser than that.’

‘Worse than that, Joe!’ said the old lady, who had thought this the

extreme limit of human atrocity. ‘Who was it, Joe? I insist upon

knowing.’

The fat boy looked cautiously round, and having concluded his survey,

shouted in the old lady’s ear--

‘Miss Rachael.’

‘What!’ said the old lady, in a shrill tone. ‘Speak louder.’

‘Miss Rachael,’ roared the fat boy.

‘My da’ater!’

The train of nods which the fat boy gave by way of assent, communicated

a blanc-mange like motion to his fat cheeks.

‘And she suffered him!’ exclaimed the old lady. A grin stole over the

fat boy’s features as he said--

‘I see her a-kissin’ of him agin.’

If Mr. Jingle, from his place of concealment, could have beheld the

expression which the old lady’s face assumed at this communication, the

probability is that a sudden burst of laughter would have betrayed his

close vicinity to the summer-house. He listened attentively. Fragments

of angry sentences such as, ‘Without my permission!’--‘At her time of

life’--‘Miserable old ‘ooman like me’--‘Might have waited till I was

dead,’ and so forth, reached his ears; and then he heard the heels of

the fat boy’s boots crunching the gravel, as he retired and left the old

lady alone.

It was a remarkable coincidence perhaps, but it was nevertheless a fact,

that Mr. Jingle within five minutes of his arrival at Manor Farm on the

preceding night, had inwardly resolved to lay siege to the heart of the

spinster aunt, without delay. He had observation enough to see, that his

off-hand manner was by no means disagreeable to the fair object of his

attack; and he had more than a strong suspicion that she possessed that

most desirable of all requisites, a small independence. The imperative

necessity of ousting his rival by some means or other, flashed quickly

upon him, and he immediately resolved to adopt certain proceedings

tending to that end and object, without a moment’s delay. Fielding tells

us that man is fire, and woman tow, and the Prince of Darkness sets a

light to ‘em. Mr. Jingle knew that young men, to spinster aunts, are as

lighted gas to gunpowder, and he determined to essay the effect of an

explosion without loss of time.

Full of reflections upon this important decision, he crept from his

place of concealment, and, under cover of the shrubs before mentioned,

approached the house. Fortune seemed determined to favour his design.

Mr. Tupman and the rest of the gentlemen left the garden by the side

gate just as he obtained a view of it; and the young ladies, he knew,

had walked out alone, soon after breakfast. The coast was clear.

The breakfast-parlour door was partially open. He peeped in. The

spinster aunt was knitting. He coughed; she looked up and smiled.

Hesitation formed no part of Mr. Alfred Jingle’s character. He laid his

finger on his lips mysteriously, walked in, and closed the door.

‘Miss Wardle,’ said Mr. Jingle, with affected earnestness, ‘forgive

intrusion--short acquaintance--no time for ceremony--all discovered.’

‘Sir!’ said the spinster aunt, rather astonished by the unexpected

apparition and somewhat doubtful of Mr. Jingle’s sanity.

‘Hush!’ said Mr. Jingle, in a stage-whisper--‘Large boy--dumpling face--

round eyes--rascal!’ Here he shook his head expressively, and the

spinster aunt trembled with agitation.

‘I presume you allude to Joseph, Sir?’ said the lady, making an effort

to appear composed.

‘Yes, ma’am--damn that Joe!--treacherous dog, Joe--told the old lady--

old lady furious--wild--raving--arbour--Tupman--kissing and hugging--all

that sort of thing--eh, ma’am--eh?’

‘Mr. Jingle,’ said the spinster aunt, ‘if you come here, Sir, to insult

me--’

‘Not at all--by no means,’ replied the unabashed Mr. Jingle--‘overheard

the tale--came to warn you of your danger--tender my services--prevent

the hubbub. Never mind--think it an insult--leave the room’--and he

turned, as if to carry the threat into execution.

‘What _shall_ I do!’ said the poor spinster, bursting into tears. ‘My

brother will be furious.’

‘Of course he will,’ said Mr. Jingle pausing--‘outrageous.’

Oh, Mr. Jingle, what _can_ I say!’ exclaimed the spinster aunt, in

another flood of despair.

‘Say he dreamt it,’ replied Mr. Jingle coolly.

A ray of comfort darted across the mind of the spinster aunt at this

suggestion. Mr. Jingle perceived it, and followed up his advantage.

‘Pooh, pooh!--nothing more easy--blackguard boy--lovely woman--fat boy

horsewhipped--you believed--end of the matter--all comfortable.’

Whether the probability of escaping from the consequences of this ill-

timed discovery was delightful to the spinster’s feelings, or whether

the hearing herself described as a ‘lovely woman’ softened the asperity

of her grief, we know not. She blushed slightly, and cast a grateful

look on Mr. Jingle.

That insinuating gentleman sighed deeply, fixed his eyes on the spinster

aunt’s face for a couple of minutes, started melodramatically, and

suddenly withdrew them.

‘You seem unhappy, Mr. Jingle,’ said the lady, in a plaintive voice.

‘May I show my gratitude for your kind interference, by inquiring into

the cause, with a view, if possible, to its removal?’

‘Ha!’ exclaimed Mr. Jingle, with another start--‘removal! remove my

unhappiness, and your love bestowed upon a man who is insensible to the

blessing--who even now contemplates a design upon the affections of the

niece of the creature who--but no; he is my friend; I will not expose

his vices. Miss Wardle--farewell!’ At the conclusion of this address,

the most consecutive he was ever known to utter, Mr. Jingle applied to

his eyes the remnant of a handkerchief before noticed, and turned

towards the door.

‘Stay, Mr. Jingle!’ said the spinster aunt emphatically. ‘You have made

an allusion to Mr. Tupman--explain it.’

‘Never!’ exclaimed Jingle, with a professional (i.e., theatrical) air.

‘Never!’ and, by way of showing that he had no desire to be questioned

further, he drew a chair close to that of the spinster aunt and sat

down.

‘Mr. Jingle,’ said the aunt, ‘I entreat--I implore you, if there is any

dreadful mystery connected with Mr. Tupman, reveal it.’

‘Can I,’ said Mr. Jingle, fixing his eyes on the aunt’s face--‘can I

see--lovely creature--sacrificed at the shrine--heartless avarice!’ He

appeared to be struggling with various conflicting emotions for a few

seconds, and then said in a low voice-- ‘Tupman only wants your money.’

‘The wretch!’ exclaimed the spinster, with energetic indignation. (Mr.

Jingle’s doubts were resolved. She _had_ money.)

‘More than that,’ said Jingle--‘loves another.’

‘Another!’ ejaculated the spinster. ‘Who?’

Short girl--black eyes--niece Emily.’

There was a pause.

Now, if there was one individual in the whole world, of whom the

spinster aunt entertained a mortal and deep-rooted jealousy, it was this

identical niece. The colour rushed over her face and neck, and she

tossed her head in silence with an air of ineffable contempt. At last,

biting her thin lips, and bridling up, she said--

‘It can’t be. I won’t believe it.’

‘Watch ‘em,’ said Jingle.

‘I will,’ said the aunt.

‘Watch his looks.’

‘I will.’

‘His whispers.’