HOW Mr. WINKLE, INSTEAD OF SHOOTING ATTHE PIGEON AND KILLING THE CROW, SHOTAT THE CROW AND WOUNDED THE PIGEON;HOW THE DINGLEY DELL CRICKET CLUBPLAYED ALL-MUGGLETON, AND HOW ALL-MUGGLETON DINED AT THE DINGLEY DELLEXPENSE; WITH OTHER INTERESTING ANDINSTRUCTIVE MATTERShe fatiguing adventures of the day or the somniferousinfluence of the clergyman’s tale operated so strongly onthe drowsy tendencies of Mr. Pickwick, that in less thanfive minutes after he had been shown to his comfortable bedroomhe fell into a sound and dreamless sleep, from which he was onlyawakened by the morning sun darting his bright beamsreproachfully 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 dayto day on bricks and slates who had once felt the influence of ascene like this? Who could continue to exist where there are nocows but the cows on the chimney-pots; nothing redolent of Panbut pan-tiles; no crop but stone crop? Who could bear to drag outa life in such a spot? Who, I ask, could endure it?’ and, havingcross-examined solitude after the most approved precedents, atconsiderable length, Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of the latticeand looked around him.

　　The rich, sweet smell of the hay-ricks rose to his chamberwindow; the hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneathscented the air around; the deep-green meadows shone in themorning dew that glistened on every leaf as it trembled in thegentle air; and the birds sang as if every sparkling drop were tothem a fountain of inspiration. Mr. Pickwick fell into anenchanting and delicious reverie.

　　‘Hollo!’ was the sound that roused him.

　　He looked to the right, but he saw nobody; his eyes wandered tothe left, and pierced the prospect; he stared into the sky, but hewasn’t wanted there; and then he did what a common mind wouldhave done at once―looked into the garden, and there saw Mr.

　　Wardle. ‘How are you?’ said the good-humoured individual, out ofbreath with his own anticipations of pleasure.’ Beautiful morning,ain’t it? Glad to see you up so early. Make haste down, and comeout. I’ll wait for you here.’ Mr. Pickwick needed no secondinvitation. Ten minutes sufficed for the completion of his toilet,and at the expiration of that time he was by the old gentleman’sside.

　　‘Hollo!’ said Mr. Pickwick in his turn, seeing that his companionwas 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 morningdid 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 andMr. 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 wayfrom 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 whereabouts.

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

　　‘Here they are,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and, as he spoke, the formsof Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle appeared in thedistance. The fat boy, not being quite certain which gentleman hewas directed to call, had with peculiar sagacity, and to prevent thepossibility 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 a go,even to such poor work as this.’

　　Mr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up thespare gun with an expression of countenance which ametaphysical rook, impressed with a foreboding of hisapproaching death by violence, may be supposed to assume. Itmight have been keenness, but it looked remarkably like misery.

　　The old gentleman nodded; and two ragged boys who had beenmarshalled to the spot under the direction of the infant Lambert,forthwith commenced climbing up two of the trees. ‘What arethese lads for?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly. He was ratheralarmed; for he was not quite certain but that the distress of theagricultural 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 ofthemselves 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 adozen young rooks in violent conversation, flew out to ask whatthe matter was. The old gentleman fired by way of reply. Down fellone 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. Helaughed as he retired with the bird―it was a plump one.

　　‘Now, Mr. Winkle,’ said the host, reloading his own gun. ‘Fireaway.’

　　Mr. Winkle advanced, and levelled his gun. Mr. Pickwick andhis friends cowered involuntarily to escape damage from theheavy fall of rooks, which they felt quite certain would beoccasioned by the devastating barrel of their friend. There was asolemn 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―probablyfrom disappointment.

　　‘Odd,’ said the old gentleman, taking the gun. ‘Never knew oneof 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 andresolution; and Mr. Tupman looked out from behind a tree. Theboy shouted; four birds flew out. Mr. Winkle fired. There was ascream as of an individual―not a rook―in corporal anguish. Mr.

　　Tupman had saved the lives of innumerable unoffending birds byreceiving a portion of the charge in his left arm.

　　To describe the confusion that ensued would be impossible. Totell 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 fellback and shut them both―all this would be as difficult to describein detail, as it would be to depict the gradual recovering of theunfortunate individual, the binding up of his arm with pocket-handkerchiefs, and the conveying him back by slow degreessupported 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 auntappeared; she smiled, and beckoned them to walk quicker. ’Twasevident she knew not of the disaster. Poor thing! there are timeswhen ignorance is bliss indeed.

　　They approached nearer.

　　‘Why, what is the matter with the little old gentleman?’ saidIsabella Wardle. The spinster aunt heeded not the remark; shethought it applied to Mr. Pickwick. In her eyes Tracy Tupman wasa youth; she viewed his years through a diminishing glass.

　　‘Don’t be frightened,’ called out the old host, fearful of alarminghis daughters. The little party had crowded so completely roundMr. Tupman, that they could not yet clearly discern the nature ofthe 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 anhysteric 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 hystericlaughter interspersed with screams.

　　‘Calm yourself,’ said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears bythis expression of sympathy with his sufferings. ‘Dear, dearmadam, calm yourself.’

　　‘It is his voice!’ exclaimed the spinster aunt; and strongsymptoms 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, sayyou are not dead!’

　　‘Don’t be a fool, Rachael,’ interposed Mr. Wardle, rather moreroughly 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 butyours. Let me lean on your arm.’ He added, in a whisper, ‘Oh, MissRachael!’ The agitated female advanced, and offered her arm.

　　They turned into the breakfast parlour. Mr. Tracy Tupman gentlypressed 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 betterpresently.’ He closed his eyes.

　　‘He sleeps,’ murmured the spinster aunt. (His organs of visionhad been closed nearly twenty seconds.) ‘Dear―dear―Mr.

　　Tupman!’

　　Mr. Tupman jumped up―‘Oh, say those words again!’ heexclaimed.

　　The lady started. ‘Surely you did not hear them!’ she saidbashfully.

　　‘Oh, yes, I did!’ replied Mr. Tupman; ‘repeat them. If you wouldhave me recover, repeat them.’

　　‘Hush!’ said the lady. ‘My brother.’ Mr. Tracy Tupman resumedhis former position; and Mr. Wardle, accompanied by a surgeon,entered the room.

　　The arm was examined, the wound dressed, and pronounced tobe a very slight one; and the minds of the company having beenthus satisfied, they proceeded to satisfy their appetites withcountenances to which an expression of cheerfulness was againrestored. Mr. Pickwick alone was silent and reserved. Doubt anddistrust were exhibited in his countenance. His confidence in Mr.

　　Winkle had been shaken―greatly shaken―by the proceedings ofthe morning. ‘Are you a cricketer?’ inquired Mr. Wardle of themarksman.

　　At any other time, Mr. Winkle would have replied in theaffirmative. He felt the delicacy of his situation, and modestlyreplied, ‘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 sportswhich may be safely indulged in, and in which the impotent effectsof unskilful people do not endanger human life.’ Mr. Pickwickpaused, and looked steadily on Mr. Winkle, who quailed beneathhis leader’s searching glance. The great man withdrew his eyesafter a few minutes, and added: ‘Shall we be justified in leavingour 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 homein charge of the females; and that the remainder of the guests,under the guidance of Mr. Wardle, should proceed to the spotwhere was to be held that trial of skill, which had roused allMuggleton from its torpor, and inoculated Dingley Dell with afever of excitement. As their walk, which was not above two miles long, lay throughshady lanes and sequestered footpaths, and as their conversationturned upon the delightful scenery by which they were on everyside surrounded, Mr. Pickwick was almost inclined to regret theexpedition they had used, when he found himself in the mainstreet of the town of Muggleton. Everybody whose genius has atopographical bent knows perfectly well that Muggleton is acorporate town, with a mayor, burgesses, and freemen; andanybody who has consulted the addresses of the mayor to thefreemen, or the freemen to the mayor, or both to the corporation,or all three to Parliament, will learn from thence what they oughtto have known before, that Muggleton is an ancient and loyalborough, mingling a zealous advocacy of Christian principles witha devoted attachment to commercial rights; in demonstrationwhereof, the mayor, corporation, and other inhabitants, havepresented at divers times, no fewer than one thousand fourhundred and twenty petitions against the continuance of negroslavery abroad, and an equal number against any interferencewith the factory system at home; sixty-eight in favour of the sale oflivings in the Church, and eighty-six for abolishing Sunday tradingin the street.

　　Mr. Pickwick stood in the principal street of this illustrioustown, and gazed with an air of curiosity, not unmixed withinterest, on the objects around him. There was an open square forthe 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 rarelymet with in nature―to wit, a blue lion, with three bow legs in theair, balancing himself on the extreme point of the centre claw ofhis fourth foot. There were, within sight, an auctioneer’s and fire-agency office, a corn-factor’s, a linen-draper’s, a saddler’s, adistiller’s, a grocer’s, and a shoe-shop―the last-mentionedwarehouse being also appropriated to the diffusion of hats,bonnets, wearing apparel, cotton umbrellas, and usefulknowledge. There was a red brick house with a small pavedcourtyard in front, which anybody might have known belonged tothe attorney; and there was, moreover, another red brick housewith Venetian blinds, and a large brass door-plate with a verylegible announcement that it belonged to the surgeon. A few boyswere making their way to the cricket-field; and two or threeshopkeepers who were standing at their doors looked as if theyshould like to be making their way to the same spot, as indeed toall appearance they might have done, without losing any greatamount of custom thereby. Mr. Pickwick having paused to makethese observations, to be noted down at a more convenient period,hastened to rejoin his friends, who had turned out of the mainstreet, and were already within sight of the field of battle.

　　The wickets were pitched, and so were a couple of marquees forthe rest and refreshment of the contending parties. The game hadnot yet commenced. Two or three Dingley Dellers, and All-Muggletonians, were amusing themselves with a majestic air bythrowing the ball carelessly from hand to hand; and several othergentlemen dressed like them, in straw hats, flannel jackets, andwhite trousers―a costume in which they looked very much likeamateur stone-masons―were sprinkled about the tents, towardsone of which Mr. Wardle conducted the party.

　　Several dozen of ‘How-are-you’s?’ hailed the old gentleman’sarrival; and a general raising of the straw hats, and bendingforward of the flannel jackets, followed his introduction of hisguests as gentlemen from London, who were extremely anxious towitness 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 onevery stout gentleman, whose body and legs looked like half agigantic roll of flannel, elevated on a couple of inflated pillow-cases.

　　‘You’ll find it much pleasanter, sir,’ urged another stoutgentleman, who strongly resembled the other half of the roll offlannel aforesaid.

　　‘You’re very good,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘This way,’ said the first speaker; ‘they 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 thewords 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 ofthe Rochester coach, holding forth, to the no small delight andedification of a select circle of the chosen of All-Muggleton. Hisdress was slightly improved, and he wore boots; but there was nomistaking him.

　　The stranger recognised his friends immediately; and, dartingforward and seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand, dragged him to aseat with his usual impetuosity, talking all the while as if the wholeof the arrangements were under his especial patronage anddirection.

　　‘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 mysteriousfriend. 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 myfriend’s―give me your hand, sir’―and the stranger grasped Mr.

　　Wardle’s hand with all the fervour of a close intimacy of manyyears, and then stepped back a pace or two as if to take a fullsurvey of his face and figure, and then shook hands with himagain, if possible, more warmly than before.

　　‘Well; and how came you here?’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smilein which benevolence struggled with surprise. ‘Come,’ replied thestranger―‘stopping at Crown―Crown at Muggleton―met aparty―flannel jackets―white trousers―anchovy sandwiches―devilled kidney―splendid fellows―glorious.’

　　Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently versed in the stranger’s system ofstenography to infer from this rapid and disjointedcommunication that he had, somehow or other, contracted anacquaintance with the All-Muggletons, which he had converted, bya process peculiar to himself, into that extent of good-fellowshipon which a general invitation may be easily founded. His curiositywas therefore satisfied, and putting on his spectacles he preparedhimself to watch the play which was just commencing.

　　All-Muggleton had the first innings; and the interest becameintense when Mr. Dumkins and Mr. Podder, two of the mostrenowned members of that most distinguished club, walked, bat inhand, to their respective wickets. Mr. Luffey, the highestornament of Dingley Dell, was pitched to bowl against theredoubtable Dumkins, and Mr. Struggles was selected to do thesame 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 onehand on each knee, and stooping very much as if he were ‘makinga back’ for some beginner at leap-frog. All the regular players dothis sort of thing;―indeed it is generally supposed that it is quiteimpossible to look out properly in any other position.

　　The umpires were stationed behind the wickets; the scorerswere prepared to notch the runs; a breathless silence ensued. Mr.

　　Luffey retired a few paces behind the wicket of the passivePodder, and applied the ball to his right eye for several seconds.

　　Dumkins confidently awaited its coming with his eyes fixed on themotions of Luffey.

　　‘Play!’ suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his handstraight and swift towards the centre stump of the wicket. Thewary Dumkins was on the alert: it fell upon the tip of the bat, andbounded far away over the heads of the scouts, who had juststooped 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 herup!’―Such were the shouts which followed the stroke; and at theconclusion of which All-Muggleton had scored two. Nor wasPodder behindhand in earning laurels wherewith to garnishhimself and Muggleton. He blocked the doubtful balls, missed thebad ones, took the good ones, and sent them flying to all parts ofthe field. The scouts were hot and tired; the bowlers were changedand bowled till their arms ached; but Dumkins and Podderremained unconquered. Did an elderly gentleman essay to stopthe progress of the ball, it rolled between his legs or slippedbetween his fingers. Did a slim gentleman try to catch it, it struckhim on the nose, and bounded pleasantly off with redoubledviolence, while the slim gentleman’s eyes filled with water, and hisform writhed with anguish. Was it thrown straight up to thewicket, Dumkins had reached it before the ball. In short, whenDumkins was caught out, and Podder stumped out, All-Muggletonhad notched some fifty-four, while the score of the Dingley Dellerswas as blank as their faces. The advantage was too great to berecovered. In vain did the eager Luffey, and the enthusiasticStruggles, do all that skill and experience could suggest, to regainthe 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, andtalking, without cessation. At every good stroke he expressed hissatisfaction and approval of the player in a most condescendingand patronising manner, which could not fail to have been highlygratifying to the party concerned; while at every bad attempt at acatch, and every failure to stop the ball, he launched his personaldispleasure at the head of the devoted individual in suchdenunciations as―‘Ah, ah!―stupid’―‘Now, butter-fingers’―‘Muff’―‘Humbug’―and so forth―ejaculations which seemed toestablish him in the opinion of all around, as a most excellent andundeniable judge of the whole art and mystery of the noble gameof cricket.

　　‘Capital game―well played―some strokes admirable,’ said thestranger, as both sides crowded into the tent, at the conclusion ofthe game.

　　‘You have played it, sir?’ inquired Mr. Wardle, who had beenmuch amused by his loquacity. ‘Played it! Think I have―thousands of times―not here―West Indies―exciting thing―hotwork―very.’

　　‘It must be rather a warm pursuit in such a climate,’ observedMr. Pickwick.

　　‘Warm!―red hot―scorching―glowing. Played a match once―single wicket―friend the colonel―Sir Thomas Blazo―who shouldget the greatest number of runs.―Won the toss―first innings―seven o’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 twonatives―couldn’t bowl me out―fainted too―cleared away thecolonel―wouldn’t give in―faithful attendant―Quanko Samba―last man left―sun so hot, bat in blisters, ball scorched brown―fivehundred and seventy runs―rather exhausted―Quanko musteredup last remaining strength―bowled me out―had a bath, and wentout to dinner.’

　　‘And what became of what’s-his-name, sir?’ inquired an oldgentleman.

　　‘Blazo?’

　　‘No―the other gentleman.’

　　‘Quanko Samba?’

　　‘Yes, sir.’

　　‘Poor Quanko―never recovered it―bowled on, on myaccount―bowled off, on his own―died, sir.’ Here the strangerburied his countenance in a brown jug, but whether to hide hisemotion or imbibe its contents, we cannot distinctly affirm. Weonly know that he paused suddenly, drew a long and deep breath,and looked anxiously on, as two of the principal members of theDingley 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 includeMr.―;’ 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 confidentiallyin the ear of the former gentleman:―‘Devilish good dinner―cold, but capital―peeped into the roomthis morning―fowls and pies, and all that sort of thing―pleasantfellows these―well behaved, too―very.’

　　There being no further preliminaries to arrange, the companystraggled into the town in little knots of twos and threes; andwithin a quarter of an hour were all seated in the great room of theBlue Lion Inn, Muggleton―Mr. Dumkins acting as chairman, andMr. 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-headedwaiters, and a rapid disappearance of the substantial viands on thetable; to each and every of which item of confusion, the facetiousMr. Jingle lent the aid of half-a-dozen ordinary men at least. Wheneverybody had eaten as much as possible, the cloth was removed,bottles, glasses, and dessert were placed on the table; and thewaiters withdrew to ‘clear away,’ or in other words, to appropriateto their own private use and emolument whatever remnants of theeatables 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 nowand then bursting into a short cough of in expressible grandeur. Atlength, during a moment of comparative silence, the little mancalled out in a very loud, solemn voice,―‘Mr. Luffey!’

　　Everybody was hushed into a profound stillness as theindividual addressed, replied―‘Sir!’

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

　　Mr. Jingle uttered a patronising ‘Hear, hear,’ which wasresponded to by the remainder of the company; and the glasseshaving been filled, the vice-president assumed an air of wisdom ina state of profound attention; and said―‘Mr. Staple.’

　　‘Sir,’ said the little man, rising, ‘I wish to address what I have tosay to you and not to our worthy chairman, because our worthychairman is in some measure―I may say in a great degree―thesubject 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 honourablefriend, if he will allow me to call him so (four hears and onecertainly from Mr. Jingle), for the suggestion. Sir, I am a Deller―aDingley Deller (cheers). I cannot lay claim to the honour offorming an item in the population of Muggleton; nor, sir, I willfrankly admit, do I covet that honour: and I will tell you why, sir(hear); to Muggleton I will readily concede all these honours anddistinctions to which it can fairly lay claim―they are toonumerous and too well known to require aid or recapitulationfrom me. But, sir, while we remember that Muggleton has givenbirth to a Dumkins and a Podder, let us never forget that DingleyDell can boast a Luffey and a Struggles. (Vociferous cheering.) Letme not be considered as wishing to detract from the merits of theformer gentlemen. Sir, I envy them the luxury of their ownfeelings on this occasion. (Cheers.) Every gentleman who hearsme, is probably acquainted with the reply made by an individual,who―to use an ordinary figure of speech―“hung out” in a tub, tothe emperor Alexander:―“if I were not Diogenes,” said he, “Iwould be Alexander.” I can well imagine these gentlemen to say,“If I were not Dumkins I would be Luffey; if I were not Podder Iwould 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 aninstant, to misgiving and despair? And when you have been thusdepressed, has not the name of Dumkins laid afresh within yourbreast 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 andPodder.”’

　　Here the little man ceased, and here the company commenceda raising of voices, and thumping of tables, which lasted with littleintermission during the remainder of the evening. Other toastswere 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 havedevoted ourselves, we should have felt a sensation of pride whichwe cannot express, and a consciousness of having done somethingto merit immortality of which we are now deprived, could we havelaid the faintest outline on these addresses before our ardentreaders. Mr. Snodgrass, as usual, took a great mass of notes, whichwould no doubt have afforded most useful and valuableinformation, had not the burning eloquence of the words or thefeverish influence of the wine made that gentleman’s hand soextremely unsteady, as to render his writing nearly unintelligible,and his style wholly so. By dint of patient investigation, we havebeen enabled to trace some characters bearing a faintresemblance to the names of the speakers; and we can onlydiscern 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 indistinctreference to ‘broiled bones’; and then the words ‘cold’ ‘without’

　　occur: but as any hypothesis we could found upon them mustnecessarily rest upon mere conjecture, we are not disposed toindulge in any of the speculations to which they may give rise.

　　We will therefore return to Mr. Tupman; merely adding thatwithin some few minutes before twelve o’clock that night, theconvocation of worthies of Dingley Dell and Muggleton were heardto sing, with great feeling and emphasis, the beautiful and patheticnational 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.’