hundred and twenty-six. I'll read you,' added the editor, turning to Mr

Pickwick - 'I'll just read you a few of the leaders I wrote at that time

upon the Buff job of appointing a new tollman to the turnpike here; I

rather think they'll amuse you.'

'I should like to hear them very much indeed,' said Mr Pickwick.

Up came the file, and down sat the editor, with Mr Pickwick at his

side.

We have in vain pored over the leaves of Mr Pickwick's note-book, in

the hope of meeting with a general summary of these beautiful

compositions. We have every reason to believe that he was perfectly

enraptured with the vigour and freshness of the style; indeed Mr

Winkle has recorded the fact that his eyes were closed, as if with

excess of pleasure, during the whole time of their perusal.

The announcement of supper put a stop both to the game of ecarte,

and the recapitulation of the beauties of the Eatanswill GAZETTE.

Mrs. Pott was in the highest spirits and the most agreeable humour.

Mr Winkle had already made considerable progress in her good

opinion, and she did not hesitate to inform him, confidentially, that

Mr Pickwick was 'a delightful old dear.' These terms convey a

familiarity of expression, in which few of those who were intimately

acquainted with that colossal-minded man, would have presumed to

indulge. We have preserved them, nevertheless, as affording at once a

touching and a convincing proof of the estimation in which he was

held by every class of society, and the case with which he made his

way to their hearts and feelings.

It was a late hour of the night - long after Mr Tupman and Mr

Snodgrass had fallen asleep in the inmost recesses of the Peacock -

when the two friends retired to rest. Slumber soon fell upon the

senses of Mr Winkle, but his feelings had been excited, and his

admiration roused; and for many hours after sleep had rendered him

insensible to earthly objects, the face and figure of the agreeable Mrs.

Pott presented themselves again and again to his wandering

imagination.

The noise and bustle which ushered in the morning were sufficient to

dispel from the mind of the most romantic visionary in existence, any

associations but those which were immediately connected with the

rapidly-approaching election. The beating of drums, the blowing of

horns and trumpets, the shouting of men, and tramping of horses,

echoed and re - echoed through the streets from the earliest dawn of

day; and an occasional fight between the light skirmishers of either

party at once enlivened the preparations, and agreeably diversified

their character. 'Well, Sam,' said Mr Pickwick, as his valet appeared at

The Pickwick Papers