here is no month in the whole year in which nature wearsa more beautiful appearance than in the month of August.

　　Spring has many beauties, and May is a fresh andblooming month, but the charms of this time of year are enhancedby their contrast with the winter season. August has no suchadvantage. It comes when we remember nothing but clear skies,green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers―when the recollection ofsnow, and ice, and bleak winds, has faded from our minds ascompletely as they have disappeared from the earth―and yetwhat a pleasant time it is! Orchards and cornfields ring with thehum of labour; trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruitwhich bow their branches to the ground; and the corn, piled ingraceful sheaves, or waving in every light breath that sweepsabove it, as if it wooed the sickle, tinges the landscape with agolden hue. A mellow softness appears to hang over the wholeearth; the influence of the season seems to extend itself to the verywagon, whose slow motion across the well-reaped field isperceptible only to the eye, but strikes with no harsh sound uponthe ear.

　　As the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards whichskirt the road, groups of women and children, piling the fruit insieves, or gathering the scattered ears of corn, pause for an instantfrom their labour, and shading the sun-burned face with a stillbrowner hand, gaze upon the passengers with curious eyes, whilesome stout urchin, too small to work, but too mischievous to be leftat home, scrambles over the side of the basket in which he hasbeen deposited for security, and kicks and screams with delight.

　　The reaper stops in his work, and stands with folded arms, lookingat the vehicle as it whirls past; and the rough cart-horses bestow asleepy glance upon the smart coach team, which says as plainly asa horse’s glance can, ‘It’s all very fine to look at, but slow going,over a heavy field, is better than warm work like that, upon adusty road, after all.’ You cast a look behind you, as you turn acorner of the road. The women and children have resumed theirlabour; the reaper once more stoops to his work; the cart-horseshave moved on; and all are again in motion. The influence of ascene like this, was not lost upon the well-regulated mind of Mr.

　　Pickwick. Intent upon the resolution he had formed, of exposingthe real character of the nefarious Jingle, in any quarter in whichhe might be pursuing his fraudulent designs, he sat at firsttaciturn and contemplative, brooding over the means by which hispurpose could be best attained. By degrees his attention grewmore and more attracted by the objects around him; and at last hederived as much enjoyment from the ride, as if it had beenundertaken for the pleasantest reason in the world.

　　‘Delightful prospect, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Beats the chimbley-pots, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, touching hishat.

　　‘I suppose you have hardly seen anything but chimney-pots andbricks and mortar all your life, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling.

　　‘I worn’t always a boots, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, with a shake of thehead. ‘I wos a wagginer’s boy, once.’

　　‘When was that?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘When I wos first pitched neck and crop into the world, to playat leap-frog with its troubles,’ replied Sam. ‘I wos a carrier’s boy atstartin’; then a wagginer’s, then a helper, then a boots. Now I’m agen’l’m’n’s servant. I shall be a gen’l’m’n myself one of these days,perhaps, with a pipe in my mouth, and a summer-house in theback-garden. Who knows? I shouldn’t be surprised for one.’

　　‘You are quite a philosopher, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘It runs in the family, I b’lieve, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Myfather’s wery much in that line now. If my mother-in-law blowshim up, he whistles. She flies in a passion, and breaks his pipe; hesteps out, and gets another. Then she screams wery loud, and fallsinto ‘sterics; and he smokes wery comfortably till she comes toagin. That’s philosophy, sir, ain’t it?’

　　‘A very good substitute for it, at all events,’ replied Mr.

　　Pickwick, laughing. ‘It must have been of great service to you, inthe course of your rambling life, Sam.’

　　‘Service, sir,’ exclaimed Sam. ‘You may say that. Arter I runaway from the carrier, and afore I took up with the vaginer, I hadunfurnished lodgin’s for a fortnight.’

　　‘Unfurnished lodgings?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Yes―the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge. Fine sleeping-place―vithin ten minutes’ walk of all the public offices―only if there isany objection to it, it is that the sitivation’s rayther too airy. I seesome queer sights there.’

　　‘Ah, I suppose you did,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with an air ofconsiderable interest.

　　‘Sights, sir,’ resumed Mr. Weller, ‘as ’ud penetrate yourbenevolent heart, and come out on the other side. You don’t seethe reg’lar wagrants there; trust ’em, they knows better than that.

　　Young beggars, male and female, as hasn’t made a rise in theirprofession, takes up their quarters there sometimes; but it’sgenerally the worn-out, starving, houseless creeturs as rollthemselves in the dark corners o’ them lonesome places―poorcreeturs as ain’t up to the twopenny rope.’

　　‘And pray, Sam, what is the twopenny rope?’ inquired Mr.

　　Pickwick.

　　‘The twopenny rope, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘is just a cheaplodgin’ house, where the beds is twopence a night.’

　　‘What do they call a bed a rope for?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Bless your innocence, sir, that ain’t it,’ replied Sam. ‘When thelady and gen’l’m’n as keeps the Hot-el first begun business, theyused to make the beds on the floor; but this wouldn’t do at noprice, ‘cos instead o’ taking a moderate twopenn’orth o’ sleep, thelodgers used to lie there half the day. So now they has two ropes,’bout six foot apart, and three from the floor, which goes rightdown the room; and the beds are made of slips of coarse sacking,stretched across ’em.’

　　‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Well,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘the adwantage o’ the plan’s hobvious.

　　At six o’clock every mornin’ they let’s go the ropes at one end, anddown falls the lodgers. Consequence is, that being thoroughlywaked, they get up wery quietly, and walk away! Beg your pardon,sir,’ said Sam, suddenly breaking off in his loquacious discourse.

　　‘Is this Bury St. Edmunds?’

　　‘It is,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

　　The coach rattled through the well-paved streets of a handsomelittle town, of thriving and cleanly appearance, and stopped beforea large inn situated in a wide open street, nearly facing the oldabbey.

　　‘And this,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking up. ‘Is the Angel! Wealight here, Sam. But some caution is necessary. Order a privateroom, and do not mention my name. You understand.’

　　‘Right as a trivet, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, with a wink ofintelligence; and having dragged Mr. Pickwick’s portmanteaufrom the hind boot, into which it had been hastily thrown whenthey joined the coach at Eatanswill, Mr. Weller disappeared on hiserrand. A private room was speedily engaged; and into it Mr.

　　Pickwick was ushered without delay. ‘Now, Sam,’ said Mr.

　　Pickwick, ‘the first thing to be done is to―’

　　‘Order dinner, sir,’ interposed Mr. Weller. ‘It’s wery late, sir.”

　　‘Ah, so it is,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch. ‘You areright, Sam.’

　　‘And if I might adwise, sir,’ added Mr. Weller, ‘I’d just have agood night’s rest arterwards, and not begin inquiring arter thishere deep ’un till the mornin’. There’s nothin’ so refreshen’ assleep, sir, as the servant girl said afore she drank the egg-cupful oflaudanum.’

　　‘I think you are right, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘But I must firstascertain that he is in the house, and not likely to go away.’

　　‘Leave that to me, sir,’ said Sam. ‘Let me order you a snug littledinner, and make my inquiries below while it’s a-getting ready; Icould worm ev’ry secret out O’ the boots’s heart, in five minutes,sir.’

　　‘Do so,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and Mr. Weller at once retired.

　　In half an hour, Mr. Pickwick was seated at a very satisfactorydinner; and in three-quarters Mr. Weller returned with theintelligence that Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall had ordered his privateroom to be retained for him, until further notice. He was going tospend the evening at some private house in the neighbourhood,had ordered the boots to sit up until his return, and had taken hisservant with him.

　　‘Now, sir,’ argued Mr. Weller, when he had concluded hisreport, ‘if I can get a talk with this here servant in the mornin’,he’ll tell me all his master’s concerns.’

　　‘How do you know that?’ interposed Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Bless your heart, sir, servants always do,’ replied Mr. Weller.

　　‘Oh, ah, I forgot that,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Well.’

　　‘Then you can arrange what’s best to be done, sir, and we canact accordingly.’

　　As it appeared that this was the best arrangement that could bemade, it was finally agreed upon. Mr. Weller, by his master’spermission, retired to spend the evening in his own way; and wasshortly afterwards elected, by the unanimous voice of theassembled company, into the taproom chair, in which honourablepost he acquitted himself so much to the satisfaction of thegentlemen-frequenters, that their roars of laughter andapprobation penetrated to Mr. Pickwick’s bedroom, and shortenedthe term of his natural rest by at least three hours.

　　Early on the ensuing morning, Mr. Weller was dispelling all thefeverish remains of the previous evening’s conviviality, throughthe instrumentality of a halfpenny shower-bath (having induced ayoung gentleman attached to the stable department, by the offer ofthat coin, to pump over his head and face, until he was perfectlyrestored), when he was attracted by the appearance of a youngfellow in mulberry-coloured livery, who was sitting on a bench inthe yard, reading what appeared to be a hymn-book, with an air ofdeep abstraction, but who occasionally stole a glance at theindividual under the pump, as if he took some interest in hisproceedings, nevertheless.

　　‘You’re a rum ’un to look at, you are!’ thought Mr. Weller, thefirst time his eyes encountered the glance of the stranger in themulberry suit, who had a large, sallow, ugly face, very sunkeneyes, and a gigantic head, from which depended a quantity of lankblack hair. ‘You’re a rum ’un!’ thought Mr. Weller; and thinkingthis, he went on washing himself, and thought no more about him.

　　Still the man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam, andfrom Sam to his hymn-book, as if he wanted to open aconversation. So at last, Sam, by way of giving him an opportunity,said with a familiar nod―‘How are you, governor?’

　　‘I am happy to say, I am pretty well, sir,’ said the man, speakingwith great deliberation, and closing the book. ‘I hope you are thesame, sir?’

　　‘Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle I shouldn’t bequite so staggery this mornin’,’ replied Sam. ‘Are you stoppin’ inthis house, old ’un ?’

　　The mulberry man replied in the affirmative.

　　‘How was it you worn’t one of us, last night?’ inquired Sam,scrubbing his face with the towel. ‘You seem one of the jolly sort―looks as conwivial as a live trout in a lime basket,’ added Mr.

　　Weller, in an undertone.

　　‘I was out last night with my master,’ replied the stranger.

　　‘What’s his name?’ inquired Mr. Weller, colouring up very redwith sudden excitement, and the friction of the towel combined.

　　‘Fitz-Marshall,’ said the mulberry man.

　　‘Give us your hand,’ said Mr. Weller, advancing; ‘I should like toknow you. I like your appearance, old fellow.’

　　‘Well, that is very strange,’ said the mulberry man, with greatsimplicity of manner. ‘I like yours so much, that I wanted to speakto you, from the very first moment I saw you under the pump.’

　　‘Did you though?’ ‘Upon my word. Now, isn’t that curious?’

　　‘Wery sing’ler,’ said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself uponthe softness of the stranger. ‘What’s your name, my patriarch?’

　　‘Job.’

　　‘And a wery good name it is; only one I know that ain’t got anickname to it. What’s the other name?’

　　‘Trotter,’ said the stranger. ‘What is yours?’

　　Sam bore in mind his master’s caution, and replied―‘My name’s Walker; my master’s name’s Wilkins. Will you takea drop o’ somethin’ this mornin’, Mr. Trotter?’

　　Mr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal; and havingdeposited his book in his coat pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller tothe tap, where they were soon occupied in discussing anexhilarating compound, formed by mixing together, in a pewtervessel, certain quantities of British Hollands and the fragrantessence of the clove.

　　‘And what sort of a place have you got?’ inquired Sam, as hefilled his companion’s glass, for the second time.

　　‘Bad,’ said Job, smacking his lips, ‘very bad.’

　　‘You don’t mean that?’ said Sam.

　　‘I do, indeed. Worse than that, my master’s going to bemarried.’

　　‘No.’

　　‘Yes; and worse than that, too, he’s going to run away with animmense rich heiress, from boarding-school.’

　　‘What a dragon!’ said Sam, refilling his companion’s glass. ‘It’ssome boarding-school in this town, I suppose, ain’t it?’ Now,although this question was put in the most careless toneimaginable, Mr. Job Trotter plainly showed by gestures that heperceived his new friend’s anxiety to draw forth an answer to it.

　　He emptied his glass, looked mysteriously at his companion,winked both of his small eyes, one after the other, and finallymade a motion with his arm, as if he were working an imaginarypump-handle; thereby intimating that he (Mr. Trotter) consideredhimself as undergoing the process of being pumped by Mr.

　　Samuel Weller.

　　‘No, no,’ said Mr. Trotter, in conclusion, ‘that’s not to be told toeverybody. That is a secret―a great secret, Mr. Walker.’ As themulberry man said this, he turned his glass upside down, by wayof reminding his companion that he had nothing left wherewith toslake his thirst. Sam observed the hint; and feeling the delicatemanner in which it was conveyed, ordered the pewter vessel to berefilled, whereat the small eyes of the mulberry man glistened.

　　‘And so it’s a secret?’ said Sam.

　　‘I should rather suspect it was,’ said the mulberry man, sippinghis liquor, with a complacent face.

　　‘I suppose your mas’r’s wery rich?’ said Sam.

　　Mr. Trotter smiled, and holding his glass in his left hand, gavefour distinct slaps on the pockets of his mulberry indescribableswith his right, as if to intimate that his master might have done thesame without alarming anybody much by the chinking of coin.

　　 ‘Ah,’ said Sam, ‘that’s the game, is it?’

　　The mulberry man nodded significantly.

　　‘Well, and don’t you think, old feller,’ remonstrated Mr. Weller,‘that if you let your master take in this here young lady, you’re aprecious rascal?’

　　‘I know that,’ said Job Trotter, turning upon his companion acountenance of deep contrition, and groaning slightly, ‘I knowthat, and that’s what it is that preys upon my mind. But what am Ito do?’

　　‘Do!’ said Sam; ‘di-wulge to the missis, and give up yourmaster.’

　　‘Who’d believe me?’ replied Job Trotter. ‘The young lady’sconsidered the very picture of innocence and discretion. She’ddeny it, and so would my master. Who’d believe me? I should losemy place, and get indicted for a conspiracy, or some such thing;that’s all I should take by my motion.’

　　‘There’s somethin’ in that,’ said Sam, ruminating; ‘there’ssomethin’ in that.’

　　‘If I knew any respectable gentleman who would take thematter up,’ continued Mr. Trotter. ‘I might have some hope ofpreventing the elopement; but there’s the same difficulty, Mr.

　　Walker, just the same. I know no gentleman in this strange place;and ten to one if I did, whether he would believe my story.’

　　‘Come this way,’ said Sam, suddenly jumping up, and graspingthe mulberry man by the arm. ‘My mas’r’s the man you want, Isee.’ And after a slight resistance on the part of Job Trotter, Samled his newly-found friend to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, towhom he presented him, together with a brief summary of thedialogue we have just repeated.

　　‘I am very sorry to betray my master, sir,’ said Job Trotter,applying to his eyes a pink checked pocket-handkerchief about sixinches square.

　　‘The feeling does you a great deal of honour,’ replied Mr.

　　Pickwick; ‘but it is your duty, nevertheless.’

　　‘I know it is my duty, sir,’ replied Job, with great emotion. ‘Weshould all try to discharge our duty, sir, and I humbly endeavourto discharge mine, sir; but it is a hard trial to betray a master, sir,whose clothes you wear, and whose bread you eat, even though heis a scoundrel, sir.’

　　‘You are a very good fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, much affected;‘an honest fellow.’

　　‘Come, come,’ interposed Sam, who had witnessed Mr. Trotter’stears with considerable impatience, ‘blow this ’ere water-cartbis’ness. It won’t do no good, this won’t.’

　　‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick reproachfully. ‘I am sorry to find thatyou have so little respect for this young man’s feelings.’

　　‘His feelin’s is all wery well, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘and asthey’re so wery fine, and it’s a pity he should lose ’em, I think he’dbetter keep ’em in his own buzzum, than let ’em ewaporate in hotwater, ’specially as they do no good. Tears never yet wound up aclock, or worked a steam ingin’. The next time you go out to asmoking party, young fellow, fill your pipe with that ’ere reflection;and for the present just put that bit of pink gingham into yourpocket. ‘Tain’t so handsome that you need keep waving it about, asif you was a tight-rope dancer.’

　　‘My man is in the right,’ said Mr. Pickwick, accosting Job,‘although his mode of expressing his opinion is somewhat homely,and occasionally incomprehensible.’

　　‘He is, sir, very right,’ said Mr. Trotter, ‘and I will give way nolonger.’

　　‘Very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Now, where is this boarding-school?’

　　‘It is a large, old, red brick house, just outside the town, sir,’

　　replied Job Trotter.

　　‘And when,’ said Mr. Pickwick―‘when is this villainous designto be carried into execution―when is this elopement to takeplace?’

　　‘To-night, sir,’ replied Job.

　　‘To-night!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. ‘This very night, sir,’

　　replied Job Trotter. ‘That is what alarms me so much.’

　　‘Instant measures must be taken,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I will seethe lady who keeps the establishment immediately.’

　　‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Job, ‘but that course of proceedingwill never do.’

　　‘Why not?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘My master, sir, is a very artful man.’

　　‘I know he is,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘And he has so wound himself round the old lady’s heart, sir,’

　　resumed Job, ‘that she would believe nothing to his prejudice, ifyou went down on your bare knees, and swore it; especially as youhave no proof but the word of a servant, who, for anything sheknows (and my master would be sure to say so), was dischargedfor some fault, and does this in revenge.’

　　‘What had better be done, then?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Nothing but taking him in the very act of eloping, will convincethe old lady, sir,’ replied Job.

　　‘All them old cats will run their heads agin milestones,’

　　observed Mr. Weller, in a parenthesis.

　　‘But this taking him in the very act of elopement, would be avery difficult thing to accomplish, I fear,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Mr. Trotter, after a few moments’

　　reflection. ‘I think it might be very easily done.’

　　‘How?’ was Mr. Pickwick’s inquiry.

　　‘Why,’ replied Mr. Trotter, ‘my master and I, being in theconfidence of the two servants, will be secreted in the kitchen atten o’clock. When the family have retired to rest, we shall comeout of the kitchen, and the young lady out of her bedroom. A post-chaise will be waiting, and away we go.’

　　‘Well?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were in waiting in thegarden behind, alone―’

　　‘Alone,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Why alone?’

　　‘I thought it very natural,’ replied Job, ‘that the old ladywouldn’t like such an unpleasant discovery to be made beforemore persons than can possibly be helped. The young lady, too,sir―consider her feelings.’

　　‘You are very right,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘The considerationevinces your delicacy of feeling. Go on; you are ve............