The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, v. 1 (of 2)

by Charles Dickens

  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 theclergyman's tale operated so strongly on the drowsy tendencies of Mr.Pickwick, that in less than five minutes after he had been shown to hiscomfortable bedroom, he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep, fromwhich he was only awakened by the morning sun darting his bright beamsreproachfully into the apartment. Mr. Pickwick was no sluggard; and hesprang like an ardent warrior from his tent--bedstead.

  "Pleasant, pleasant country," sighed the enthusiastic gentleman, ashe opened his lattice window. "Who could live to gaze from day to dayon bricks and slates, who had once felt the influence of a scene likethis? Who could continue to exist, where there are no cows but the cowson the chimney-pots; nothing redolent of Pan but pan-tiles; no crop butstone-crop? Who could bear to drag out a life in such a spot? Who, Iask, could endure it?" and, having cross-examined solitude after themost approved precedents, at considerable length, Mr. Pickwick thrusthis head out of the lattice, and looked around him.

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

  "Hallo!" was the sound that roused him.

  He looked to the right, but he saw nobody; his eyes wandered to theleft, and pierced the prospect; he stared into the sky, but he wasn'twanted there; and then he did what a common mind would have done atonce--looked into the garden, and there saw Mr. Wardle.

  "How are you?" said that good-humoured individual, out of breath withhis own anticipations of pleasure. "Beautiful morning, an't it? Glad tosee you up so early. Make haste down and come out. I'll wait for youhere."

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

  "Hallo!" said Mr. Pickwick in his turn: seeing that his companion wasarmed with a gun, and that another lay ready on the grass. "What'sgoing forward?"

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

  "I've heard him say he's a capital one," replied Mr. Pickwick; "but Inever 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 notappear to be more than three parts and a fraction asleep, emerged fromthe 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 bothguns like a second Robinson Crusoe, led the way from the garden.

  "This is the place," said the old gentleman, pausing after a fewminutes' walking, in an avenue of trees. The information wasunnecessary; for the incessant cawing of the unconscious rookssufficiently indicated their whereabout.

  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. Thefat boy, not being quite certain which gentleman he was directed tocall, had with peculiar sagacity, and to prevent the possibility of anymistake, called them all.

  "Come along," shouted the old gentleman, addressing Mr. Winkle; "a keenhand like you ought to have been up long ago, even to such poor work asthis."

  Mr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up the spare gunwith an expression of countenance which a metaphysical rook, impressedwith a foreboding of his approaching death by violence, may be supposedto assume. It might have been keenness, but it looked remarkably likemisery.

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

  "What are those lads for?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, abruptly. He wasrather alarmed; for he was not quite certain but that the distress ofthe agricultural interest, about which he had often heard a great deal,might have compelled the small boys attached to the soil to earn aprecarious and hazardous subsistence by making marks of themselves forinexperienced 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 dozenyoung rooks in violent conversation, flew out to ask what the matterwas. The old gentleman fired by way of reply. Down fell one bird, andoff flew the others.

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

  There was a smile upon the youth's face as he advanced. Indistinctvisions of rook-pie floated through his imagination. He laughed as heretired 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 friendscowered involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of rooks,which they felt quite certain would be occasioned by the devastatingbarrel of their friend. There was a solemn pause--a shout--a flappingof wings--a faint click.

  "Hallo!" said the old gentleman.

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

  "Missed fire," said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale: probably fromdisappointment.

  "Odd," said the old gentleman, taking the gun. "Never knew one of themmiss 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; andMr. Tupman looked out from behind a tree. The boy shouted; four birdsflew out. Mr. Winkle fired. There was a scream as of an individual--nota rook--in corporeal anguish. Mr. Tupman had saved the lives ofinnumerable unoffending birds by receiving a portion of the charge inhis left arm.

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

  _"Bless my soul!" said Mr. Winkle, "I declare I forgotthe cap."_]

  They drew near the house. The ladies were at the garden-gate, waitingfor their arrival and their breakfast. The spinster aunt appeared; shesmiled, and beckoned them to walk quicker. 'Twas evident she knew notof the disaster. Poor thing! there are times when ignorance is blissindeed.

  They approached nearer.

  "Why, what _is_ the matter with the little old gentleman?" saidIsabella Wardle. The spinster aunt heeded not the remark; she thoughtit applied to Mr. Pickwick. In her eyes Tracy Tupman was a youth; sheviewed his years through a diminishing glass.

  "Don't
be frightened," called out the old host, fearful of alarming hisdaughters. 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 hystericlaugh, 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--asurgeon! Is he wounded?--Is he dead?--Is he----ha, ha, ha!" Herethe spinster aunt burst into fit number two, of hysteric laughterinterspersed with screams.

  "Calm yourself," said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by thisexpression of sympathy with his sufferings. "Dear, dear madam, calmyourself."

  "It is his voice!" exclaimed the spinster aunt; and strong symptoms offit 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 youare not dead!"

  "Don't be a fool, Rachael," interposed Mr. Wardle, rather more roughlythan was quite consistent with the poetic nature of the scene. "Whatthe devil's the use of his _saying_ he isn't dead?"

  "No, no, I am not," said Mr. Tupman. "I require no assistance butyours. Let me lean on your arm." He added in a whisper, "Oh, MissRachael!" The agitated female advanced, and offered her arm. Theyturned into the breakfast parlour. Mr. Tracy Tupman pressed her hand tohis 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." Heclosed his eyes.

  "He sleeps," murmured the spinster aunt. (His organs of vision had beenclosed 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 merecover, 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 veryslight one; and the minds of the company having been thus satisfied,they proceeded to satisfy their appetites with countenances to whichan expression of cheerfulness was again restored. Mr. Pickwick alonewas silent and reserved. Doubt and distrust were exhibited in hiscountenance. His confidence in Mr. Winkle had been shaken--greatlyshaken--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. Hefelt the delicacy of the 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 upnow. 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 sport whichmay be safely indulged in, and in which the impotent effects ofunskilful people do not endanger human life." Mr. Pickwick paused,and looked steadily on Mr. Winkle, who quailed beneath his leader'ssearching glance. The great man withdrew his eyes after a few minutes,and added; "Shall we be justified in leaving our wounded friend to thecare 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 incharge of the females; and that the remainder of the guests, under theguidance of Mr. Wardle, should proceed to the spot where was to be heldthat 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 shadylanes, and sequestered footpaths, and as their conversation turned uponthe 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 wellthat Muggleton is a corporate town, with a mayor, burgesses, andfreemen; and anybody who has consulted the addresses of the mayor tothe freemen, or the freemen to the mayor, or both to the corporation,or all three to Parliament, will learn from thence what they ought tohave known before, that Muggleton is an ancient and loyal borough,mingling a zealous advocacy of Christian principles with a devotedattachment to commercial rights; in demonstration whereof, the mayor,corporation, and other inhabitants, have presented at divers times, nofewer than one thousand four hundred and twenty petitions against thecontinuance of negro slavery abroad, and an equal number against anyinterference with the factory system at home; sixty-eight in favour ofthe sale of livings in the Church, and eighty-six for abolishing Sundaytrading 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 theobjects around him. There was an open square for the market-place; andin the centre of it, a large inn with a sign-post in front, displayingan 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 onthe 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 ashoe-shop--the last-mentioned warehouse being also appropriated tothe diffusion of hats, bonnets, wearing apparel, cotton umbrellas,and useful knowledge. There was a red brick house with a small pavedcourt-yard in front, which anybody might have known belonged to theattorney; and there was, moreover, another red brick house withVenetian blinds, and a large brass door-plate, with a very legibleannouncement that it belonged to the surgeon. A few boys were makingtheir way to the cricket-field; and two or three shop-keepers who werestanding at their doors looked as if they should like to be makingtheir way to the same spot, as indeed to all appearance they might havedone, without losing any great amount of custom thereby. Mr. Pickwickhaving paused to make these observations, to be noted down at a moreconvenient period, hastened to rejoin his friends, who had turned outof the main street, and were already within sight of the field ofbattle.

  The wickets were pitched, and so were a couple of marquees for therest and refreshment of the contending parties. The game had not yetcommenced. Two or three Dingley Dellers, and All-Muggletonians, wereamusing themselves with a majestic air by throwing the ball carelesslyfrom hand to hand; and several other gentlemen dressed like them, instraw hats, flannel jackets, and white trousers--a costume in whichthey looked very much like amateur stone-masons--were sprinkled aboutthe 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 theflannel jackets, followed his introduction of his guests as gentlemenfrom London, who were extremely anxious to witness the proceedings ofthe day, with which, he had no doubt, they would be greatly delighted.

  "You had better step into the marquee, I think, sir," said one verystout gentleman, whose body and legs looked like half a gigantic rollof 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; "t
hey notch in here--it's thebest 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 whichfell upon Mr. Pickwick's ear as he entered the tent; and the firstobject that met his eyes was his green-coated friend of the Rochestercoach, holding forth, to the no small delight and edification of aselect circle of the chosen of All-Muggleton. His dress was slightlyimproved, and he wore boots; but there was no mistaking him.

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

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

  Mr. Pickwick sat down as he was bid, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrassalso 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 hisface and figure, and then shook hands with him again, if possible, morewarmly than before.

  "Well; and how came you here?" said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile in whichbenevolence struggled with surprise.

  "Come," replied the stranger--"stopping at the Crown--Crown atMuggleton--met a party--flannel jackets--white trousers--anchovysandwiches--devilled kidneys--splendid fellows--glorious."

  Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently versed in the stranger's system ofstenography to infer from this rapid and disjointed communicationthat he had, somehow or other, contracted an acquaintance with theAll-Muggletons, which he had converted, by a process peculiar tohimself, into that extent of good fellowship on which a generalinvitation may be easily founded. His curiosity was thereforesatisfied, and putting on his spectacles he prepared himself to watchthe play which was just commencing.

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

  The umpires were stationed behind the wickets; the scorers wereprepared to notch the runs; a breathless silence ensued. Mr. Luffeyretired a few paces behind the wicket of the passive Podder, andapplied the ball to his right eye for several seconds. Dumkinsconfidently awaited its coming with his eyes fixed on the motions ofLuffey.

  "Play!" suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his hand straightand swift towards the centre stump of the wicket. The wary Dumkins wason the alert; it fell upon the tip of the bat, and bounded far awayover the heads of the scouts, who had just stooped low enough to let itfly over them.

  "Run--run--another.--Now, then, throw her up--up with her--stopthere--another--no--yes--no--throw her up, throw her up!"--Such werethe shouts which followed the stroke; and, at the conclusion of whichAll-Muggleton had scored two. Nor was Podder behindhand in earninglaurels wherewith to garnish himself and Muggleton. He blocked thedoubtful balls, missed the bad ones, took the good ones, and sent themflying to all parts of the field. The scouts were hot and tired; thebowlers were changed and bowled till their arms ached; but Dumkins andPodder remained unconquered. Did an elderly gentleman essay to stop theprogress of the ball, it rolled between his legs or slipped betweenhis fingers. Did a slim gentleman try to catch it, it struck him onthe nose, and bounded pleasantly off with redoubled violence, whilethe slim gentleman's eyes filled with water, and his form writhed withanguish. Was it thrown straight up to the wicket, Dumkins had reachedit before the ball. In short, when Dumkins was caught out, and Podderstumped out, All-Muggleton had notched some fifty-four, while the scoreof the Dingley Dellers was as blank as their faces. The advantagewas too great to be recovered. In vain did the eager Luffey, and theenthusiastic Struggles, do all that skill and experience could suggest,to regain the ground Dingley Dell had lost in the contest;--it was ofno avail; and in an early period of the winning game Dingley Dell gavein, 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 satisfactionand approval of the player in a most condescending and patronisingmanner, which could not fail to have been highly gratifying to theparty concerned; while at every bad attempt at a catch, and everyfailure to stop the ball, he launched his personal displeasure atthe head of the devoted individual in such denunciations as "Ah,ah!--stupid"--"Now, butter-fingers"--"Muff"--"Humbug"--and soforth--ejaculations which seemed to establish him in the opinion of allaround, as a most excellent and undeniable judge of the whole art andmystery of the noble game of cricket.

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

  "You have played it, sir?" inquired Mr. Wardle, who had been muchamused by his loquacity.

  "Played it! Think I have--thousands of times--not here--WestIndies--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--singlewicket--friend the Colonel--Sir Thomas Blazo--who should get thegreatest number of runs.--Won the toss--first innings--seveno'clock +A.M.+--six natives to look out--went in; kept in--heatintense--natives all fainted--taken away--fresh half-dozenordered--fainted also--Blazo bowling--supported by two natives--couldn'tbowl me out--fainted too--cleared away the Colonel--wouldn't givein--faithful attendant--Quanko Samba--last man left--sun so hot, bat inblisters, ball scorched brown--five hundred and seventy runs--ratherexhausted--Quanko mustered up last remaining strength--bowled meout--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 abrown jug, but whether to hide his emotion or imbibe its contents, wecannot distinctly affirm. We only know that he paused suddenly, drew along and deep breath, and looked anxiously on, as two of the principalmembers of the Dingley Dell club approached Mr. Pickwick, and said--

  "We are about to partake of a plain dinner at the Blue Lion, sir; wehope 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 whisperedconfidentially in the ear of the former gentleman--

  "Devilish good dinner--cold, but capital--peeped into the room thismorning--fowls and pies, and all that sort of thing--pleasant fellowsthese--well behaved, too--very."

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

  There was a vast deal of talking and rattling of knives and forks andplates: a great running about of three ponderous-headed waiters, anda rapid disappearance of the substantial viands on the table; to eachand every of which item of confusion, the facetious Mr. Jingle lent theaid of half-a-dozen ordinary men at least. When everybody had eaten asmuch as possible, the cloth was removed, bottles, glasses, and dessertwere placed on the table; and the waiters withdrew to "clear away," orin other words, to appropriate to their own private use and emolumentwhatever remnants of the eatables and drinkables they could contrive tolay their hands on.

  Amidst the general hum of mirth and conversation that ensued, there wasa little man with a puffy Say-nothing-to-me,-or-I'll-contradict-yousort of countenance, who remained very quiet; occasionally lookinground him when the conversation slackened, as if he contemplatedputting in something very weighty; and now and then bursting into ashort cough of inexpressible grandeur. At length, during a moment ofcomparative silence, the little man called out in a very loud, solemnvoice--

  "Mr. Luffey!"

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

  "Sir!"

  "I wish to address a few words to you, sir, if you will entreat thegentlemen to fill their glasses."

  Mr. Jingle uttering a patronising "hear, hear," which was responded toby the remainder of the company: and the glasses having been filledthe Vice-President assumed an air of wisdom in a state of profoundattention; and said--

  "Mr. Staple."

  "Sir," said the little man, rising, "I wish to address what I haveto say to _you_ and not to our worthy chairman, because our worthychairman is in some measure--I may say in a great degree--the subjectof 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 certainlyfrom Mr. Jingle)--for the suggestion. Sir, I am a Deller--a DingleyDeller (cheers). I cannot lay claim to the honour of forming an itemin the population of Muggleton; nor, sir, I will frankly admit, do Icovet that honour: and I will tell you why, sir--(hear); to MuggletonI will readily concede all those honours and distinctions to whichit can fairly lay claim--they are too numerous and too well-known torequire aid or recapitulation from me. But, sir, while we rememberthat Muggleton has given birth to a Dumkins and a Podder, let usnever forget that Dingley Dell can boast a Luffey and a Struggles.(Vociferous cheering.) Let me not be considered as wishing to detractfrom the merits of the former gentlemen. Sir, I envy them the luxuryof their own feelings on this occasion. (Cheers.) Every gentleman whohears 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 theemperor Alexander:--'If I were not Diogenes,' said he, 'I would beAlexander.' I can well imagine these gentlemen to say, 'If I were notDumkins I would be Luffey; if I were not Podder I would be Struggles.'(Enthusiasm.) But, gentlemen of Muggleton, is it in cricket alone thatyour fellow-townsmen stand pre-eminent? Have you never heard of Dumkinsand determination? Have you never been taught to associate Podderwith property? (Great applause.) Have you never, when strugglingfor your rights, your liberties, and your privileges, been reduced,if only for an instant, to misgiving and despair? And when you havebeen thus depressed, has not the name of Dumkins laid afresh withinyour breast the fire which had just gone out; and has not a word fromthat man, lighted it again as brightly as if it had never expired?(Great cheering.) Gentlemen, I beg to surround with a rich halo ofenthusiastic cheering the united names of 'Dumkins and Podder.'"

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

  Enthusiastic as we are in the noble cause to which we have devotedourselves, we should have felt a sensation of pride which we cannotexpress, and a consciousness of having done something to meritimmortality of which we are now deprived, could we have laid thefaintest outline of these addresses before our ardent readers. Mr.Snodgrass, as usual, took a great mass of notes, which would no doubthave afforded most valuable and useful information, had not the burningeloquence of the words or the feverish influence of the wine madethat gentleman's hand so extremely unsteady, as to render his writingnearly unintelligible, and his style wholly so. By dint of patientinvestigation, we have been enabled to trace some characters bearing afaint resemblance to the names of the speakers; and we can also discernan entry of a song (supposed to have been sung by Mr. Jingle), in whichthe words "bowl" "sparkling" "ruby" "bright" and "wine" are frequentlyrepeated at short intervals. We fancy too, that we can discern at thevery end of the notes, some indistinct reference to "broiled bones;"and then the words "cold" "without" occur: but as any hypothesis wecould found upon them must necessarily rest upon mere conjecture, weare not disposed to indulge in any of the speculations to which theymay give rise.

  We will therefore return to Mr. Tupman; merely adding that within somefew minutes before twelve o'clock that night, the convocation ofworthies of Dingley Dell and Muggleton were heard to sing, with greatfeeling 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.