Page:The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.djvu/104

62 62 POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF

dead man before his son could raise him from that thick, sluggish,

pool.



" In that corner of the churchyard," said the old gentleman, after a silence of a few moments, " In that corner of the churchyard of which I have before spoken, there lies buried a man, who was in my employ- ment for three years after this event : and who was truly contrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever man was. No one save myself knew in that man's life-time who he was, or whence he came : — it was John Edmunds the returned convict."

CHAPTER VII.

HOW MR. WINKLE, INSTEAD OF SHOOTING AT THE PIGEON AND KILLING THE CROW, SHOT AT THE CROW AND WOUNDED THE PIGEON ; HOW THE DINGLEY DELL CRICKET CLUB, PLAYED ALL MUGGLETON, AND HOW ALL MUGGLETON DINED AT THE DINGLEY DELL EXPENSE : WITH OTHER INTERESTING AND INSTRUCTIVE MATTERS,

The fatiguing adventures of the day or the somniferous influence of the clergyman's tale, operated so strongly on the drowsy tendencies of Mr. Pickwick, that, in less than five minutes after he had been shown to his comfortable bed-room, he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep, from which he was only awakened by the morning sun darting his bright beams reproachfully into the apartment. Mr. Pickwick was no sluggard ; and he sprang like an ardent warrior from his tent — bedstead.

he opened his lattice window. " Who could live to gaze from day to day on bricks and slates, who had once felt the influence of a scene like this ? Who could continue to exist, where there are no cows but the cows on the chimney-pots ; nothing redolent of Pan but pan-tiles ; no crop but stone crop ? Who could bear to drag out a life in such a spot ? Who I ask could endure it ? " and, having cross-examined solitude after the most approved precedents, at considerable length, Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of the lattice, and looked around him.
 * ' Pleasant, pleasant country," sighed the enthusiastic gentleman, as

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

" Hallo I " was the sound that roused him.

He looked to the right but he saw nobody; his eyes wandered to the left, and pierced the prospect ; he stared into the sky, but he wasn't wanted there ; and then he did what a common mind would have done at once — looked into the garden, and there saw Mr. Wardle.

" How are you ?" said that good-humoured individual, out of breath with his own anticipations of pleasure. " Beautiful morning, ain't it?