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 ribbins." "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.

"Woo!" 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.

66

"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 going up the street in the most mysterious manner, - side first, with his head towards one side of the way, and his tail to 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,” cried 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 hu

manity; he threw the reins on the horse's back, and, having descended from his seat, carefully drew the chaise into the hedge, lest any thing 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 agonized 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 result 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 fourwheeled chaise against a wooden bridge, separated the wheels from the body, and finally stood stock still to gaze upon the ruin he had made.

After extricating themselves, the party are compelled to walk and to lead the horse; and it is not until late in the afternoon that they reach Manor Farm, tired, dusty, and foot-sore;

VI

A company of neighbors had been invited to meet the guests, and the evening was passed in getting acquainted, playing cards, and listening to two recitations from an old gentleman present, one a poem, The Ivy Green, the other a tale, The Convict's Return.

After a good night's rest, Mr. Wardle takes the party of VII four out for rook-shooting before breakfast, as a special compliment to Mr. Winkle, the sportsman, who covers himself with confusion, for he peppers Mr. Tupman instead of the rooks.

The susceptible Tupman, meanwhile, has been shot by another archer whose second arrow was aimed at the heart of Miss Rachael Wardle. He remained at Dingley Dell on the excuse of his gunshot wounds, while the rest went to Muggleton to witness a cricket match. Here Mr. Jingle turned up again, having, in some mysterious fashion, got into the good graces of the cricketers, and in the supper which followed the game, he corkscrewed himself into the Wardle party.

In the absence of the rest of the party at Muggleton, VIII Tracy Tupman made rapid approaches to the heart of

Rachael Wardle; had indeed nearly entered the citadel, when the two were thrown into consternation by discovering that they were discovered by Joe, the Fat Boy, who, however, looked so absolutely vacant as he announced that supper was ready, as to deceive this elect couple. It was late in the evening before Mr. Wardle and the Pickwickians returned, Mr. Jingle with them, all somewhat discomposed by their hilarious feasting, but Mr. Jingle in full possession of all his faculties. This lively visitor at once ingratiated himself by his anecdotes and his good nature, to the great alarm of Mr. Tupman, who was seized with vague fears as to what he might do. Mr. Jingle had his wits about him. Early the next morning, he overheard Joe revealing the secret of the lovers to old Mrs. Wardle, who was terribly indignant. He laid his plans accordingly; getting Rachael by herself he disclosed Joe's perfidy, and then in a series of explosive sentences gave her to understand that Tupman was really making love to her niece Emily. He offered to prove it, and the price of his proof was to be the substitution of himself in the affections of Miss Rachael. That done, he repaired to Tupman and made him believe that Miss Rachael wished him to deceive the rest by pretending to make love to Emily. This the wretched Tupman did to the best of his ability, to the decided estrangement of the affections of Miss Rachael Wardle, who at once transferred them to the artful Jingle.

IX

This farce was kept up for three or four days, and then came the climax. Jingle eloped with Rachael Wardle in a post chaise. Their flight was quickly made known by one of the household servants, and Mr. Wardle and Mr. Pickwick set off in pursuit in a gig. The chase was an exciting one; it lasted through the night, and came to an end only by the most unfortunate upset of the pursuers' gig, which went all to pieces, while Mr. Jingle dashed forward derisively.

X

The house at which Mr. Jingle put up was the White Hart Inn, High Street, Borough, and early in the morning the next scene disclosed the yard of the inn, with a new and impor

tant personage in the foreground. This was Sam Weller, the boots of the inn. Sam carries Mr. Jingle's boots to him, and being asked where Doctors' Commons is, at once divines that the owner of the boots wants to procure a marriage-license.

"My father," said Sam in reply to a question, "vos a coachman. A vidower he vos, and fat enough for anything, - uncommon fat, to be sure! His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt, wery smart, top-boots on, nosegay in his button-hole, broad-brimmed tile, green shawl,- quite the gen❜lm'n. Goes through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money; up comes the touter, touches his hat, License, sir, license? ' 'What's that?' says my father. 'License, sir,' says he. What license?' says my father. 'Marriage-license,' says the touter. 'Dash my veskit!' says my father, 'I never thought o' that.' 'I think you wants one, sir,' says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit. 'No,' says he, ' damme, I'm too old; b'sides, I'm a many sizes too large,' says he. Not a bit on it, sir!' says the touter. Think pot?' says my father. 'I'm sure not,' says he. We married a gen'lm'n twice your size last Monday.''Did you, though?' says my father. To be sure ve did!' says the touter: 'you 're a babby to him. This vay, sir, this vay!' And, sure enough, my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back-office vere a feller sat among dirty papers and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. 'Pray take a seat vile I makes out the affidavit, sir,' says the lawyer. "Thankee, sir!' says my father; and down he sat, and stared vith all his eyes, and his mouth vide open, at the names on the boxes. 'What's your name, sir?' says the lawyer. Tony Weller,' says my father. Parish?' says the lawyer. Belle Savage,' says my father; for he stopped there ven he drove up; and he know'd nothing about parishes, he did n't. And what's the lady's name?' says the lawyer. My father was struck all of a heap. 'Bless'd if I know!' says he. Not know!' says the lawyer. 'No more nor you,' says my father. Can't I put that in arterwards?'-'Impossible!' says the lawyer. Wery well,' says my father, after he'd thought a moment, 'put down Mrs. Clarke.' 'What Clarke?' says the lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink. 'Susan Clarke, Markis o' Granby, Dorking,' says my father: 'she'll have me, if I ask her, I des-say. I never said nothing to her; but she'll have me, I know.' The license was made out, and she did have him; and, what's more, she's got him now; and I never had any of the four hundred pound, worse luck! Beg your pardon, sir," said Sam when he had concluded, "but,