candidates. We will behold, and minutely examine, a scene so

interesting to every Englishman.'

'We will,' was the animated cry of three voices.

Mr Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervour of his

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. 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 Cobham -

when Mr Pickwick retired to the bedroom 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

himself and placing his light in the chimney, got into bed.

Every 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 was, his thoughts kept

reverting very uncomfortably to the grim pictures downstairs, 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

conclusion, 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

The Pickwick Papers