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Bright and pleasant was the sky, balmy the air, and beautiful theappearance of every object around, as Mr. Pickwick leaned over thebalustrades of Rochester Bridge, contemplating nature, and waiting forbreakfast. The scene was indeed one which might well have charmed a farless reflective mind, than that to which it was presented.

On the left of the spectator lay the ruined wall, broken in many places,and in some, overhanging the narrow beach below in rude and heavymasses. Huge knots of seaweed hung upon the jagged and pointed stones,trembling in every breath of wind; and the green ivy clung mournfullyround the dark and ruined battlements. Behind it rose the ancientcastle, its towers roofless, and its massive walls crumbling away, buttelling us proudly of its old might and strength, as when, seven hundredyears ago, it rang with the clash of arms, or resounded with the noiseof feasting and revelry. On either side, the banks of the Medway,covered with cornfields and pastures, with here and there a windmill, ora distant church, stretched away as far as the eye could see, presentinga rich and varied landscape, rendered more beautiful by the changingshadows which passed swiftly across it as the thin and half-formedclouds skimmed away in the light of the morning sun. The river,reflecting the clear blue of the sky, glistened and sparkled as itflowed noiselessly on; and the oars of the fishermen dipped into thewater with a clear and liquid sound, as their heavy but picturesqueboats glided slowly down the stream.

Mr. Pickwick was roused from the agreeable reverie into which he hadbeen led by the objects before him, by a deep sigh, and a touch on hisshoulder. He turned round: and the dismal man was at his side.

'Contemplating the scene?' inquired the dismal man. 'I was,' said Mr.Pickwick.

'And congratulating yourself on being up so soon?'

Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.

'Ah! people need to rise early, to see the sun in all his splendour, forhis brightness seldom lasts the day through. The morning of day and themorning of life are but too much alike.'

'You speak truly, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'How common the saying,' continued the dismal man, '"The morning's toofine to last." How well might it be applied to our everyday existence.God! what would I forfeit to have the days of my childhood restored, orto be able to forget them for ever!'

'You have seen much trouble, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick compassionately.

'I have,' said the dismal man hurriedly; 'I have. More than those whosee me now would believe possible.' He paused for an instant, and thensaid abruptly--

'Did it ever strike you, on such a morning as this, that drowning wouldbe happiness and peace?'

'God bless me, no!' replied Mr. Pickwick, edging a little from thebalustrade, as the possibility of the dismal man's tipping him over, byway of experiment, occurred to him rather forcibly.

'I have thought so, often,' said the dismal man, without noticing theaction. 'The calm, cool water seems to me to murmur an invitation torepose and rest. A bound, a splash, a brief struggle; there is an eddyfor an instant, it gradually subsides into a gentle ripple; the watershave closed above your head, and the world has closed upon your miseriesand misfortunes for ever.' The sunken eye of the dismal man flashedbrightly as he spoke, but the momentary excitement quickly subsided; andhe turned calmly away, as he said--

'There--enough of that. I wish to see you on another subject. Youinvited me to read that paper, the night before last, and listenedattentively while I did so.' 'I did,' replied Mr. Pickwick; 'and Icertainly thought--'

'I asked for no opinion,' said the dismal man, interrupting him, 'and Iwant none. You are travelling for amusement and instruction. Suppose Iforward you a curious manuscript--observe, not curious because wild orimprobable, but curious as a leaf from the romance of real life--wouldyou communicate it to the club, of which you have spoken so frequently?'

'Certainly,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'if you wished it; and it would beentered on their transactions.' 'You shall have it,' replied thedismal man. 'Your address;' and, Mr. Pickwick having communicated theirprobable route, the dismal man carefully noted it down in a greasypocket-book, and, resisting Mr. Pickwick's pressing invitation tobreakfast, left that gentleman at his inn, and walked slowly away.

Mr. Pickwick found that his three companions had risen, and were waitinghis arrival to commence breakfast, which was ready laid in temptingdisplay. They sat down to the meal; and broiled ham, eggs, tea, coffeeand sundries, began to disappear with a rapidity which at once boretestimony to the excellence of the fare, and the appetites of itsconsumers.

'Now, about Manor Farm,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'How shall we go?'

'We had better consult the waiter, perhaps,' said Mr. Tupman; and thewaiter was summoned accordingly.

'Dingley Dell, gentlemen--fifteen miles, gentlemen--crossroad--post-chaise, sir?'

'Post-chaise won't hold more than two,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'True, sir--beg your pardon, sir.--Very nice four-wheel chaise,sir--seat for two behind--one in front for the gentleman thatdrives--oh! beg your pardon, sir--that'll only hold three.'

'What's to be done?' said Mr. Snodgrass.

'Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like to ride, sir?' suggested thewaiter, looking towards Mr. Winkle; 'very good saddle-horses, sir--anyof Mr. Wardle's men coming to Rochester, bring 'em back, Sir.'

'The very thing,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Winkle, will you go on horseback?'

Now Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable misgivings in the very lowestrecesses of his own heart, relative to his equestrian skill; but, as hewould not have them even suspected, on any account, he at once repliedwith great hardihood, 'Certainly. I should enjoy it of all things.' Mr.Winkle had rushed upon his fate; there was no resource. 'Let them be atthe door by eleven,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Very well, sir,' replied the waiter.

The waiter retired; the breakfast concluded; and the travellers ascendedto their respective bedrooms, to prepare a change of clothing, to takewith them on their approaching expedition.

Mr. Pickwick had made his preliminary arrangements, and was looking overthe coffee-room blinds at the passengers in the street, when the waiterentered, and announced that the chaise was ready--an announcementwhich the vehicle itself confirmed, by forthwith appearing before thecoffee-room blinds aforesaid.

It was a curious little green box on four wheels, with a low place likea wine-bin for two behind, and an elevated perch for one in front, drawnby an immense brown horse, displaying great symmetry of bone. An hostlerstood near, holding by the bridle another immense horse--apparently anear relative of the animal in the chaise--ready saddled for Mr. Winkle.

'Bless my soul!' said Mr. Pickwick, as they stood upon the pavementwhile the coats were being put in. 'Bless my soul! who's to drive? Inever thought of that.'

'Oh! you, of course,' said Mr. Tupman.

'Of course,' said Mr. Snodgrass.

'I!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

'Not the slightest fear, Sir,' interposed the hostler. 'Warrant himquiet, Sir; a hinfant in arms might drive him.'

'He don't shy, does he?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Shy, sir?-he wouldn't shy if he was to meet a vagin-load of monkeyswith their tails burned off.'

The last recommendation was indisputable. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrassgot into the bin; Mr. Pickwick ascended to his perch, and deposited hisfeet on a floor-clothed shelf, erected beneath it for that purpose.

'Now, shiny Villiam,' said the hostler to the deputy hostler, 'give thegen'lm'n the ribbons.' 'Shiny Villiam'--so called, probably, from hissleek hair and oily countenance--placed the reins in Mr. Pickwick's lefthand; and the upper hostler thrust a whip into his right.

'Wo-o!' cried Mr. Pickwick, as the tall quadruped evinced a decidedinclination to back into the coffee-room window. 'Wo-o!' echoedMr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass, from the bin. 'Only his playfulness,gen'lm'n,' said the head hostler encouragingly; 'jist kitch hold onhim, Villiam.' The deputy restrained the animal's impetuosity, and theprincipal ran to assist Mr. Winkle in mounting.

'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 asmuch difficulty as he would have experienced in getting up the side of afirst-rate man-of-war.

'All right?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, with an inward presentiment that itwas all wrong.

'All right,' replied Mr. Winkle faintly.

'Let 'em go,' cried the hostler.--'Hold him in, sir;' and away went thechaise, and the saddle-horse, with Mr. Pickwick on the box of theone, and Mr. Winkle on the back of the other, to the delight andgratification 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 drifting up thestreet in the most mysterious manner--side first, with his head towardsone side of the way, and his tail towards the other.

Mr. Pickwick had no leisure to observe either this or any otherparticular, the whole of his faculties being concentrated in themanagement of the animal attached to the chaise, who displayed variouspeculiarities, highly interesting to a bystander, but by no meansequally amusing to any one seated behind him. Besides constantly jerkinghis head up, in a very unpleasant and uncomfortable manner, and tuggingat the reins to an extent which rendered it a matter of great difficultyfor Mr. Pickwick to hold them, he had a singular propensity for dartingsuddenly every now and then to the side of the road, then stoppingshort, and then rushing forward for some minutes, at a speed which itwas wholly impossible to control.

'What CAN he mean by this?' said Mr. Snodgrass, when the horse hadexecuted this manoeuvre for the twentieth time.

'I don't know,' replied Mr. Tupman; 'it looks very like shying, don'tit?' Mr. Snodgrass was about to reply, when he was interrupted by ashout from Mr. Pickwick.

'Woo!' said that gentleman; 'I have dropped my whip.' 'Winkle,' said Mr.Snodgrass, as the equestrian came trotting up on the tall horse, withhis hat over his ears, and shaking all over, as if he would shake topieces, with the violence of the exercise, 'pick up the whip, there's agood fellow.' Mr. Winkle pulled at the bridle of the tall horse till hewas 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 hisdisposition, was desirous of having a little innocent recreation withMr. Winkle, or whether it occurred to him that he could perform thejourney as much to his own satisfaction without a rider as with one, arepoints upon which, of course, we can arrive at no definite and distinctconclusion. By whatever motives the animal was actuated, certain it isthat Mr. Winkle had no sooner touched the reins, than he slipped themover his head, and darted backwards to their full length.

'Poor fellow,' said Mr. Winkle soothingly--'poor fellow--good oldhorse.' The 'poor fellow' was proof against flattery; the moreMr. 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 fromthe other as when they first commenced--an unsatisfactory sort of thingunder any circumstances, but particularly so in a lonely road, where noassistance can be procured.

'What am I to do?' shouted Mr. Winkle, after the dodging had beenprolonged for a considerable time. 'What am I to do? I can't get onhim.'

'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 humanity: hethrew the reins on the horse's back, and having descended from his seat,carefully drew the chaise into the hedge, lest anything should comealong the road, and stepped back to the assistance of his distressedcompanion, leaving Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in the vehicle.

The horse no sooner beheld Mr. Pickwick advancing towards him with thechaise whip in his hand, than he exchanged the rotary motion in which hehad previously indulged, for a retrograde movement of so very determineda character, that it at once drew Mr. Winkle, who was still at theend of the bridle, at a rather quicker rate than fast walking, inthe direction from which they had just come. Mr. Pickwick ran to hisassistance, but the faster Mr. Pickwick ran forward, the faster thehorse ran backward. There was a great scraping of feet, and kicking upof the dust; and at last Mr. Winkle, his arms being nearly pulled out oftheir sockets, fairly let go his hold. The horse paused, stared, shookhis head, turned round, and quietly trotted home to Rochester, leavingMr. Winkle and Mr. Pickwick gazing on each other with countenances ofblank dismay. A rattling noise at a little distance attracted theirattention. They looked up.

'Bless my soul!' exclaimed the agonised Mr. Pickwick; 'there's the otherhorse running away!'

It was but too true. The animal was startled by the noise, and thereins were on his back. The results may be guessed. He tore off with thefour-wheeled chaise behind him, and Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in thefour-wheeled chaise. The heat was a short one. Mr. Tupman threw himselfinto the hedge, Mr. Snodgrass followed his example, the horse dashed thefour--wheeled chaise against a wooden bridge, separated the wheels fromthe body, and the bin from the perch; and finally stood stock still togaze upon the ruin he had made.

The first care of the two unspilt friends was to extricate theirunfortunate companions from their bed of quickset--a process which gavethem the unspeakable satisfaction of discovering that they hadsustained no injury, beyond sundry rents in their garments, andvarious lacerations from the brambles. The next thing to be done was tounharness the horse. This complicated process having been effected,the party walked slowly forward, leading the horse among them, andabandoning the chaise to its fate.

An hour's walk brought the travellers to a little road-sidepublic-house, with two elm-trees, a horse trough, and a signpost, infront; one or two deformed hay-ricks behind, a kitchen garden at theside, and rotten sheds and mouldering outhouses jumbled in strangeconfusion all about it. A red-headed man was working in the garden; andto him Mr. Pickwick called lustily, 'Hollo there!'

The red-headed man raised his body, shaded his eyes with his hand, andstared, long and coolly, at Mr. Pickwick and his companions.

'Hollo there!' repeated Mr. Pickwick.

'Hollo!' was the red-headed man's reply.

'How far is it to Dingley Dell?'

'Better er seven mile.'

'Is it a good road?'

'No, 'tain't.' Having uttered this brief reply, and apparently satisfiedhimself with another scrutiny, the red-headed man resumed his work. 'Wewant to put this horse up here,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I suppose wecan, can't we?' 'Want to put that ere horse up, do ee?' repeated thered-headed man, leaning on his spade.

'Of course,' replied Mr. Pickwick, who had by this time advanced, horsein hand, to the garden rails.

'Missus'--roared the man with the red head, emerging from the garden,and looking very hard at the horse--'missus!'

A tall, bony woman--straight all the way down--in a coarse, bluepelisse, with the waist an inch or two below her arm-pits, responded tothe call.

'Can we put this horse up here, my good woman?' said Mr. Tupman,advancing, and speaking in his most seductive tones. The woman lookedvery hard at the whole party; and the red-headed man whispered somethingin her ear.

'No,' replied the woman, after a little consideration, 'I'm afeerd onit.'

'Afraid!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, 'what's the woman afraid of?'

'It got us in trouble last time,' said the woman, turning into thehouse; 'I woan't have nothin' to say to 'un.'

'Most extraordinary thing I have ever met with in my life,' said theastonished Mr. Pickwick.

'I--I--really believe,' whispered Mr. Winkle, as his friends gatheredround him, 'that they think we have come by this horse in some dishonestmanner.'

'What!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in a storm of indignation. Mr. Winklemodestly repeated his suggestion.

'Hollo, you fellow,' said the angry Mr. Pickwick,'do you think we stolethe horse?'

'I'm sure ye did,' replied the red-headed man, with a grin whichagitated his countenance from one auricular organ to the other. Sayingwhich he turned into the house and banged the door after him.

'It's like a dream,' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, 'a hideous dream. The ideaof a man's walking about all day with a dreadful horse that he can't getrid of!' The depressed Pickwickians turned moodily away, with thetall quadruped, for which they all felt the most unmitigated disgust,following slowly at their heels.

It was late in the afternoon when the four friends and their four-footedcompanion turned into the lane leading to Manor Farm; and even whenthey were so near their place of destination, the pleasure they wouldotherwise have experienced was materially damped as they reflectedon the singularity of their appearance, and the absurdity of theirsituation. Torn clothes, lacerated faces, dusty shoes, exhausted looks,and, above all, the horse. Oh, how Mr. Pickwick cursed that horse: hehad eyed the noble animal from time to time with looks expressive ofhatred and revenge; more than once he had calculated the probableamount of the expense he would incur by cutting his throat; and now thetemptation to destroy him, or to cast him loose upon the world, rushedupon his mind with tenfold force. He was roused from a meditation onthese dire imaginings by the sudden appearance of two figures at a turnof the lane. It was Mr. Wardle, and his faithful attendant, the fat boy.

'Why, where have you been?' said the hospitable old gentleman; 'I'vebeen waiting for you all day. Well, you DO look tired. What! Scratches!Not hurt, I hope--eh? Well, I AM glad to hear that--very. So you've beenspilt, eh? Never mind. Common accident in these parts. Joe--he's asleepagain!--Joe, take that horse from the gentlemen, and lead it into thestable.'

The fat boy sauntered heavily behind them with the animal; and the oldgentleman, condoling with his guests in homely phrase on so much of theday's adventures as they thought proper to communicate, led the way tothe kitchen.

'We'll have you put to rights here,' said the old gentleman, 'and thenI'll introduce you to the people in the parlour. Emma, bring out thecherry brandy; now, Jane, a needle and thread here; towels and water,Mary. Come, girls, bustle about.'

Three or four buxom girls speedily dispersed in search of thedifferent articles in requisition, while a couple of large-headed,circular-visaged males rose from their seats in the chimney-corner (foralthough it was a May evening their attachment to the wood fire appearedas cordial as if it were Christmas), and dived into some obscurerecesses, from which they speedily produced a bottle of blacking, andsome half-dozen brushes.

'Bustle!' said the old gentleman again, but the admonition was quiteunnecessary, for one of the girls poured out the cherry brandy, andanother brought in the towels, and one of the men suddenly seizing Mr.Pickwick by the leg, at imminent hazard of throwing him off his balance,brushed away at his boot till his corns were red-hot; while the othershampooed Mr. Winkle with a heavy clothes-brush, indulging, during theoperation, in that hissing sound which hostlers are wont to produce whenengaged in rubbing down a horse.

Mr. Snodgrass, having concluded his ablutions, took a survey of theroom, while standing with his back to the fire, sipping his cherrybrandy with heartfelt satisfaction. He describes it as a largeapartment, with a red brick floor and a capacious chimney; the ceilinggarnished with hams, sides of bacon, and ropes of onions. The walls weredecorated with several hunting-whips, two or three bridles, a saddle,and an old rusty blunderbuss, with an inscription below it, intimatingthat it was 'Loaded'--as it had been, on the same authority, for halfa century at least. An old eight-day clock, of solemn and sedatedemeanour, ticked gravely in one corner; and a silver watch, of equalantiquity, dangled from one of the many hooks which ornamented thedresser.

'Ready?' said the old gentleman inquiringly, when his guests had beenwashed, mended, brushed, and brandied.

'Quite,' replied Mr. Pickwick.

'Come along, then;' and the party having traversed several darkpassages, and being joined by Mr. Tupman, who had lingered behind tosnatch a kiss from Emma, for which he had been duly rewarded with sundrypushings and scratchings, arrived at the parlour door.

'Welcome,' said their hospitable host, throwing it open and steppingforward to announce them, 'welcome, gentlemen, to Manor Farm.'