Page:The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.djvu/156

106 106 POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF

We will heboid, and minutely examine, a »cere so interesting to every Englishman."

" We will/' was the animated cry of three voices.

Mr. Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervour of Iiis followers, lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He was their leader, and he felt it.

" Let us celebrate this happy meeting, with a convivial glass,'* said he. This proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous applause. And having himself deposited the important stone in a small deal box, purchased from the landlady for the purpose, he placed himself in an arm-chair at the head of the table ; and the evening was devoted to festivity and conversation.

It was past eleven o'clock — a late hour for the little village of Cob- ham — when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bed-room which had been prepared for his reception. He threw open the lattice-window, and setting his light upon the table, fell into a train of meditation on the hurried events of the two preceding days.

The hour and the place were both favourable to contemplation ; Mr. Pickwick was roused, by the church-clock striking twelve. The first stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bell ceased the stillness seemed insupportable ; — he almost felt as if he had lost a companion. He. was nervous and excited ; and hastily undressing him- self, and placing his light in the chimney, got into bed.

Everj'^ one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in which a sensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against an inability to sleep. It was Mr. Pickwick's condition at this moment : he tossed first on one side and then on the other; and perseveringly closed his eyes as if to coax himself to slumber. It was of no use. Whether it was the unwonted exertion he had undergone, or the heat, or the brandy and water, or the strange bed — whatever it v/as, his thoughts kept reverting very uncomfortably to the grim pictures down stairs, and the old stories to which they had given rise in the course of the evening. After half an hour's tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory con- clusion, that it was of no use trying to sleep ; so he got up and partially dressed himself. Anything, he thought, was better than lying there fancying all kinds of horrors. He looked out of the window — it was very dark. He walked about the room — it was very lonely.

He had taken a few turns from the door to the window, and from the window to the door, when the clergyman's manuscript for the first time entered his head. It was a good thought. If it failed to interest him, it might send him to sleep. He took it from his coat-pocket, and drawing a small table towards his bed-side, trimmed the light, put on his spectacles, and composed himself to read. It was a strange hand- writing, and the paper was much soiled and blotted. The title gave him a sadden start, too; and he could not avoid casting a wistful glance round the room. Reflecting on the absurdity of giving way to such feelings, however, he trimmed the light again, and read as follows:

I