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Mr. Pickwick's conscience had been somewhat reproaching him for hisrecent neglect of his friends at the Peacock; and he was just on thepoint of walking forth in quest of them, on the third morning after theelection had terminated, when his faithful valet put into his hand acard, on which was engraved the following inscription:--

Mrs. Leo Hunter THE DEN. EATANSWILL.

'Person's a-waitin',' said Sam, epigrammatically.

'Does the person want me, Sam?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'He wants you partickler; and no one else 'll do, as the devil's privatesecretary said ven he fetched avay Doctor Faustus,' replied Mr. Weller.

'HE. Is it a gentleman?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'A wery good imitation o' one, if it ain't,' replied Mr. Weller.

'But this is a lady's card,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Given me by a gen'l'm'n, howsoever,' replied Sam, 'and he's a-waitin'in the drawing-room--said he'd rather wait all day, than not see you.'

Mr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to thedrawing-room, where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance, andsaid, with an air of profound respect:--

'Mr. Pickwick, I presume?'

'The same.'

'Allow me, Sir, the honour of grasping your hand. Permit me, Sir, toshake it,' said the grave man.

'Certainly,' said Mr. Pickwick. The stranger shook the extended hand,and then continued--

'We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquariandiscussion has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter--my wife, sir; Iam Mr. Leo Hunter'--the stranger paused, as if he expected that Mr.Pickwick would be overcome by the disclosure; but seeing that heremained perfectly calm, proceeded--

'My wife, sir--Mrs. Leo Hunter--is proud to number among heracquaintance all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by theirworks and talents. Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part of thelist the name of Mr. Pickwick, and his brother-members of the club thatderives its name from him.'

'I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady,sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick.

'You SHALL make it, sir,' said the grave man. 'To-morrow morning, sir,we give a public breakfast--a FETE CHAMPETRE--to a great number of thosewho have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents.Permit Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir, to have the gratification of seeing you atthe Den.'

'With great pleasure,' replied Mr. Pickwick.

'Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, Sir,' resumed the newacquaintance--'"feasts of reason," sir, "and flows of soul," as somebodywho wrote a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter on her breakfasts, feelingly andoriginally observed.'

'Was HE celebrated for his works and talents?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'He was Sir,' replied the grave man, 'all Mrs. Leo Hunter'sacquaintances are; it is her ambition, sir, to have no otheracquaintance.'

'It is a very noble ambition,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'When I inform Mrs. Leo Hunter, that that remark fell from yourlips, sir, she will indeed be proud,' said the grave man. 'You have agentleman in your train, who has produced some beautiful little poems, Ithink, sir.'

'My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a great taste for poetry,' replied Mr.Pickwick.

'So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir. She dotes on poetry, sir. She adores it; Imay say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it.She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have metwith her "Ode to an Expiring Frog," sir.'

'I don't think I have,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'You astonish me, Sir,' said Mr. Leo Hunter. 'It created an immensesensation. It was signed with an "L" and eight stars, and appearedoriginally in a lady's magazine. It commenced--

'"Can I view thee panting, lying On thy stomach, without sighing; Can I unmoved see thee dying On a log Expiring frog!"'

'Beautiful!' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Fine,' said Mr. Leo Hunter; 'so simple.'

'Very,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it?'

'If you please,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'It runs thus,' said the grave man, still more gravely.

'"Say, have fiends in shape of boys, With wild halloo, and brutal noise, Hunted thee from marshy joys, With a dog, Expiring frog!"'

'Finely expressed,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'All point, Sir,' said Mr.Leo Hunter; 'but you shall hear Mrs. Leo Hunter repeat it. She can dojustice to it, Sir. She will repeat it, in character, Sir, to-morrowmorning.'

'In character!'

'As Minerva. But I forgot--it's a fancy-dress DEJEUNE.'

'Dear me,' said Mr. Pickwick, glancing at his own figure--'I can'tpossibly--'

'Can't, sir; can't!' exclaimed Mr. Leo Hunter. 'Solomon Lucas, the Jewin the High Street, has thousands of fancy-dresses. Consider, Sir, howmany appropriate characters are open for your selection. Plato, Zeno,Epicurus, Pythagoras--all founders of clubs.'

'I know that,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but as I cannot put myself incompetition with those great men, I cannot presume to wear theirdresses.'

The grave man considered deeply, for a few seconds, and then said--

'On reflection, Sir, I don't know whether it would not afford Mrs. LeoHunter greater pleasure, if her guests saw a gentleman of your celebrityin his own costume, rather than in an assumed one. I may venture topromise an exception in your case, sir--yes, I am quite certain that, onbehalf of Mrs. Leo Hunter, I may venture to do so.'

'In that case,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I shall have great pleasure incoming.'

'But I waste your time, Sir,' said the grave man, as if suddenlyrecollecting himself. 'I know its value, sir. I will not detain you. Imay tell Mrs. Leo Hunter, then, that she may confidently expect you andyour distinguished friends? Good-morning, Sir, I am proud to have beheldso eminent a personage--not a step sir; not a word.' And without givingMr. Pickwick time to offer remonstrance or denial, Mr. Leo Hunterstalked gravely away.

Mr. Pickwick took up his hat, and repaired to the Peacock, but Mr.Winkle had conveyed the intelligence of the fancy-ball there, beforehim.

'Mrs. Pott's going,' were the first words with which he saluted hisleader.

'Is she?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'As Apollo,' replied Winkle. 'Only Pott objects to the tunic.'

'He is right. He is quite right,' said Mr. Pickwick emphatically.

'Yes; so she's going to wear a white satin gown with gold spangles.'

'They'll hardly know what she's meant for; will they?' inquired Mr.Snodgrass.

'Of course they will,' replied Mr. Winkle indignantly. 'They'll see herlyre, won't they?'

'True; I forgot that,' said Mr. Snodgrass.

'I shall go as a bandit,'interposed Mr. Tupman.

'What!' said Mr. Pickwick, with a sudden start.

'As a bandit,' repeated Mr. Tupman, mildly.

'You don't mean to say,' said Mr. Pickwick, gazing with solemn sternnessat his friend--'you don't mean to say, Mr. Tupman, that it is yourintention to put yourself into a green velvet jacket, with a two-inchtail?'

'Such IS my intention, Sir,' replied Mr. Tupman warmly. 'And why not,sir?'

'Because, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, considerably excited--'because youare too old, Sir.'

'Too old!' exclaimed Mr. Tupman.

'And if any further ground of objection be wanting,' continued Mr.Pickwick, 'you are too fat, sir.'

'Sir,' said Mr. Tupman, his face suffused with a crimson glow, 'this isan insult.'

'Sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone, 'it is not half theinsult to you, that your appearance in my presence in a green velvetjacket, with a two-inch tail, would be to me.'

'Sir,' said Mr. Tupman, 'you're a fellow.'

'Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'you're another!'

Mr. Tupman advanced a step or two, and glared at Mr. Pickwick. Mr.Pickwick returned the glare, concentrated into a focus by means of hisspectacles, and breathed a bold defiance. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winklelooked on, petrified at beholding such a scene between two such men.

'Sir,' said Mr. Tupman, after a short pause, speaking in a low, deepvoice, 'you have called me old.'

'I have,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'And fat.'

'I reiterate the charge.'

'And a fellow.'

'So you are!'

There was a fearful pause.

'My attachment to your person, sir,' said Mr. Tupman, speaking in avoice tremulous with emotion, and tucking up his wristbands meanwhile,'is great--very great--but upon that person, I must take summaryvengeance.'

'Come on, Sir!' replied Mr. Pickwick. Stimulated by the exciting natureof the dialogue, the heroic man actually threw himself into a paralyticattitude, confidently supposed by the two bystanders to have beenintended as a posture of defence.

'What!' exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, suddenly recovering the power ofspeech, of which intense astonishment had previously bereft him,and rushing between the two, at the imminent hazard of receiving anapplication on the temple from each--'what! Mr. Pickwick, with the eyesof the world upon you! Mr. Tupman! who, in common with us all, derives alustre from his undying name! For shame, gentlemen; for shame.'

The unwonted lines which momentary passion had ruled in Mr. Pickwick'sclear and open brow, gradually melted away, as his young friend spoke,like the marks of a black-lead pencil beneath the softening influence ofindia-rubber. His countenance had resumed its usual benign expression,ere he concluded.

'I have been hasty,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'very hasty. Tupman; your hand.'

The dark shadow passed from Mr. Tupman's face, as he warmly grasped thehand of his friend.

'I have been hasty, too,' said he.

'No, no,' interrupted Mr. Pickwick, 'the fault was mine. You will wearthe green velvet jacket?'

'No, no,' replied Mr. Tupman.

'To oblige me, you will,' resumed Mr. Pickwick.

'Well, well, I will,' said Mr. Tupman.

It was accordingly settled that Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr.Snodgrass, should all wear fancy-dresses. Thus Mr. Pickwick was ledby the very warmth of his own good feelings to give his consent to aproceeding from which his better judgment would have recoiled--a morestriking illustration of his amiable character could hardly have beenconceived, even if the events recorded in these pages had been whollyimaginary.

Mr. Leo Hunter had not exaggerated the resources of Mr. Solomon Lucas.His wardrobe was extensive--very extensive--not strictly classicalperhaps, not quite new, nor did it contain any one garment madeprecisely after the fashion of any age or time, but everything was moreor less spangled; and what can be prettier than spangles! It may beobjected that they are not adapted to the daylight, but everybody knowsthat they would glitter if there were lamps; and nothing can be clearerthan that if people give fancy-balls in the day-time, and the dressesdo not show quite as well as they would by night, the fault lies solelywith the people who give the fancy-balls, and is in no wise chargeableon the spangles. Such was the convincing reasoning of Mr. Solomon Lucas;and influenced by such arguments did Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr.Snodgrass engage to array themselves in costumes which his taste andexperience induced him to recommend as admirably suited to the occasion.

A carriage was hired from the Town Arms, for the accommodation of thePickwickians, and a chariot was ordered from the same repository, forthe purpose of conveying Mr. and Mrs. Pott to Mrs. Leo Hunter's grounds,which Mr. Pott, as a delicate acknowledgment of having received aninvitation, had already confidently predicted in the EatanswillGAZETTE 'would present a scene of varied and delicious enchantment--abewildering coruscation of beauty and talent--a lavish and prodigaldisplay of hospitality--above all, a degree of splendour softened by themost exquisite taste; and adornment refined with perfect harmony and thechastest good keeping--compared with which, the fabled gorgeousness ofEastern fairyland itself would appear to be clothed in as many dark andmurky colours, as must be the mind of the splenetic and unmanly beingwho could presume to taint with the venom of his envy, the preparationsmade by the virtuous and highly distinguished lady at whose shrine thishumble tribute of admiration was offered.' This last was a piece ofbiting sarcasm against the INDEPENDENT, who, in consequence of nothaving been invited at all, had been, through four numbers, affectingto sneer at the whole affair, in his very largest type, with all theadjectives in capital letters.

The morning came: it was a pleasant sight to behold Mr. Tupman in fullbrigand's costume, with a very tight jacket, sitting like a pincushionover his back and shoulders, the upper portion of his legs incased inthe velvet shorts, and the lower part thereof swathed in the complicatedbandages to which all brigands are peculiarly attached. It was pleasingto see his open and ingenuous countenance, well mustachioed and corked,looking out from an open shirt collar; and to contemplate the sugar-loafhat, decorated with ribbons of all colours, which he was compelled tocarry on his knee, inasmuch as no known conveyance with a top to it,would admit of any man's carrying it between his head and the roof.Equally humorous and agreeable was the appearance of Mr. Snodgrass inblue satin trunks and cloak, white silk tights and shoes, and Grecianhelmet, which everybody knows (and if they do not, Mr. Solomon Lucasdid) to have been the regular, authentic, everyday costume of atroubadour, from the earliest ages down to the time of their finaldisappearance from the face of the earth. All this was pleasant, butthis was as nothing compared with the shouting of the populace when thecarriage drew up, behind Mr. Pott's chariot, which chariot itself drewup at Mr. Pott's door, which door itself opened, and displayed the greatPott accoutred as a Russian officer of justice, with a tremendous knoutin his hand--tastefully typical of the stern and mighty power of theEatanswill GAZETTE, and the fearful lashings it bestowed on publicoffenders.

'Bravo!' shouted Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass from the passage, whenthey beheld the walking allegory.

'Bravo!' Mr. Pickwick was heard to exclaim, from the passage.

'Hoo-roar Pott!' shouted the populace. Amid these salutations, Mr. Pott,smiling with that kind of bland dignity which sufficiently testifiedthat he felt his power, and knew how to exert it, got into the chariot.

Then there emerged from the house, Mrs. Pott, who would have looked verylike Apollo if she hadn't had a gown on, conducted by Mr. Winkle, who,in his light-red coat could not possibly have been mistaken for anythingbut a sportsman, if he had not borne an equal resemblance to a generalpostman. Last of all came Mr. Pickwick, whom the boys applauded as loudas anybody, probably under the impression that his tights and gaiterswere some remnants of the dark ages; and then the two vehicles proceededtowards Mrs. Leo Hunter's; Mr. Weller (who was to assist in waiting)being stationed on the box of that in which his master was seated.

Every one of the men, women, boys, girls, and babies, who were assembledto see the visitors in their fancy-dresses, screamed with delightand ecstasy, when Mr. Pickwick, with the brigand on one arm, and thetroubadour on the other, walked solemnly up the entrance. Never weresuch shouts heard as those which greeted Mr. Tupman's efforts to fix thesugar-loaf hat on his head, by way of entering the garden in style.

The preparations were on the most delightful scale; fully realisingthe prophetic Pott's anticipations about the gorgeousness of Easternfairyland, and at once affording a sufficient contradiction to themalignant statements of the reptile INDEPENDENT. The grounds were morethan an acre and a quarter in extent, and they were filled with people!Never was such a blaze of beauty, and fashion, and literature. There wasthe young lady who 'did' the poetry in the Eatanswill GAZETTE, in thegarb of a sultana, leaning upon the arm of the young gentleman who'did' the review department, and who was appropriately habited in afield-marshal's uniform--the boots excepted. There were hosts of thesegeniuses, and any reasonable person would have thought it honour enoughto meet them. But more than these, there were half a dozen lions fromLondon--authors, real authors, who had written whole books, and printedthem afterwards--and here you might see 'em, walking about, likeordinary men, smiling, and talking--aye, and talking pretty considerablenonsense too, no doubt with the benign intention of rendering themselvesintelligible to the common people about them. Moreover, there was a bandof music in pasteboard caps; four something-ean singers in the costumeof their country, and a dozen hired waiters in the costume of THEIRcountry--and very dirty costume too. And above all, there was Mrs.Leo Hunter in the character of Minerva, receiving the company, andoverflowing with pride and gratification at the notion of having calledsuch distinguished individuals together.

'Mr. Pickwick, ma'am,' said a servant, as that gentleman approachedthe presiding goddess, with his hat in his hand, and the brigand andtroubadour on either arm.

'What! Where!' exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, starting up, in an affectedrapture of surprise.

'Here,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Is it possible that I have really the gratification of beholding Mr.Pickwick himself!' ejaculated Mrs. Leo Hunter.

'No other, ma'am,' replied Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. 'Permit meto introduce my friends--Mr. Tupman--Mr. Winkle--Mr. Snodgrass--to theauthoress of "The Expiring Frog."' Very few people but those who havetried it, know what a difficult process it is to bow in green velvetsmalls, and a tight jacket, and high-crowned hat; or in blue satintrunks and white silks, or knee-cords and top-boots that were nevermade for the wearer, and have been fixed upon him without the remotestreference to the comparative dimensions of himself and the suit. Neverwere such distortions as Mr. Tupman's frame underwent in his effortsto appear easy and graceful--never was such ingenious posturing, as hisfancy-dressed friends exhibited.

'Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'I must make you promise not tostir from my side the whole day. There are hundreds of people here, thatI must positively introduce you to.'

'You are very kind, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'In the first place, here are my little girls; I had almost forgottenthem,' said Minerva, carelessly pointing towards a couple of full-grownyoung ladies, of whom one might be about twenty, and the other a yearor two older, and who were dressed in very juvenile costumes--whetherto make them look young, or their mamma younger, Mr. Pickwick does notdistinctly inform us.

'They are very beautiful,' said Mr. Pickwick, as the juveniles turnedaway, after being presented.

'They are very like their mamma, Sir,' said Mr. Pott, majestically.

'Oh, you naughty man,' exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, playfully tapping theeditor's arm with her fan (Minerva with a fan!).

'Why now, my dear Mrs. Hunter,' said Mr. Pott, who was trumpeterin ordinary at the Den, 'you know that when your picture was in theexhibition of the Royal Academy, last year, everybody inquired whetherit was intended for you, or your youngest daughter; for you were so muchalike that there was no telling the difference between you.'

'Well, and if they did, why need you repeat it, before strangers?' saidMrs. Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of theEatanswill GAZETTE.

'Count, count,' screamed Mrs. Leo Hunter to a well-whiskered individualin a foreign uniform, who was passing by.

'Ah! you want me?' said the count, turning back.

'I want to introduce two very clever people to each other,' said Mrs.Leo Hunter. 'Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducing you toCount Smorltork.' She added in a hurried whisper to Mr. Pickwick--'Thefamous foreigner--gathering materials for his great work onEngland--hem!--Count Smorltork, Mr. Pickwick.' Mr. Pickwick saluted thecount with all the reverence due to so great a man, and the count drewforth a set of tablets.

'What you say, Mrs. Hunt?' inquired the count, smiling graciously onthe gratified Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'Pig Vig or Big Vig--what youcall--lawyer--eh? I see--that is it. Big Vig'--and the count wasproceeding to enter Mr. Pickwick in his tablets, as a gentleman ofthe long robe, who derived his name from the profession to which hebelonged, when Mrs. Leo Hunter interposed.

'No, no, count,' said the lady, 'Pick-wick.'

'Ah, ah, I see,' replied the count. 'Peek--christian name;Weeks--surname; good, ver good. Peek Weeks. How you do, Weeks?'

'Quite well, I thank you,' replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his usualaffability. 'Have you been long in England?'

'Long--ver long time--fortnight--more.'

'Do you stay here long?'

'One week.'

'You will have enough to do,' said Mr. Pickwick smiling, 'to gather allthe materials you want in that time.'

'Eh, they are gathered,' said the count.

'Indeed!' said Mr. Pickwick.

'They are here,' added the count, tapping his forehead significantly.'Large book at home--full of notes--music, picture, science, potry,poltic; all tings.'

'The word politics, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'comprises in itself, adifficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude.'

'Ah!' said the count, drawing out the tablets again, 'ver good--finewords to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word polticsurprises by himself--' And down went Mr. Pickwick's remark, in CountSmorltork's tablets, with such variations and additions as the count'sexuberant fancy suggested, or his imperfect knowledge of the languageoccasioned.

'Count,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter. 'Mrs. Hunt,' replied the count.

'This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick's, and a poet.'

'Stop,' exclaimed the count, bringing out the tablets once more. 'Head,potry--chapter, literary friends--name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introducedto Snowgrass--great poet, friend of Peek Weeks--by Mrs. Hunt, whichwrote other sweet poem--what is that name?--Fog--Perspiring Fog--vergood--ver good indeed.' And the count put up his tablets, and withsundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied thathe had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock ofinformation.

'Wonderful man, Count Smorltork,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter.

'Sound philosopher,' said Mr. Pott.

'Clear-headed, strong-minded person,' added Mr. Snodgrass.

A chorus of bystanders took up the shout of Count Smorltork's praise,shook their heads sagely, and unanimously cried, 'Very!'

As the enthusiasm in Count Smorltork's favour ran very high, his praisesmight have been sung until the end of the festivities, if the foursomething-ean singers had not ranged themselves in front of a smallapple-tree, to look picturesque, and commenced singing their nationalsongs, which appeared by no means difficult of execution, inasmuch asthe grand secret seemed to be, that three of the something-ean singersshould grunt, while the fourth howled. This interesting performancehaving concluded amidst the loud plaudits of the whole company, a boyforthwith proceeded to entangle himself with the rails of a chair,and to jump over it, and crawl under it, and fall down with it, and doeverything but sit upon it, and then to make a cravat of his legs, andtie them round his neck, and then to illustrate the ease with which ahuman being can be made to look like a magnified toad--all which featsyielded high delight and satisfaction to the assembled spectators.After which, the voice of Mrs. Pott was heard to chirp faintly forth,something which courtesy interpreted into a song, which was all veryclassical, and strictly in character, because Apollo was himself acomposer, and composers can very seldom sing their own music or anybodyelse's, either. This was succeeded by Mrs. Leo Hunter's recitation ofher far-famed 'Ode to an Expiring Frog,' which was encored once, andwould have been encored twice, if the major part of the guests, whothought it was high time to get something to eat, had not said that itwas perfectly shameful to take advantage of Mrs. Hunter's good nature.So although Mrs. Leo Hunter professed her perfect willingness to recitethe ode again, her kind and considerate friends wouldn't hear of it onany account; and the refreshment room being thrown open, all thepeople who had ever been there before, scrambled in with all possibledespatch--Mrs. Leo Hunter's usual course of proceedings being, to issuecards for a hundred, and breakfast for fifty, or in other words to feedonly the very particular lions, and let the smaller animals take care ofthemselves.

'Where is Mr. Pott?' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaidlions around her.

'Here I am,' said the editor, from the remotest end of the room; farbeyond all hope of food, unless something was done for him by thehostess.

'Won't you come up here?'

'Oh, pray don't mind him,' said Mrs. Pott, in the most obligingvoice--'you give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs.Hunter. You'll do very well there, won't you--dear?'

'Certainly--love,' replied the unhappy Pott, with a grim smile. Alas forthe knout! The nervous arm that wielded it, with such a gigantic forceon public characters, was paralysed beneath the glance of the imperiousMrs. Pott.

Mrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smorltork was busilyengaged in taking notes of the contents of the dishes; Mr. Tupman wasdoing the honours of the lobster salad to several lionesses, with adegree of grace which no brigand ever exhibited before; Mr. Snodgrasshaving cut out the young gentleman who cut up the books for theEatanswill GAZETTE, was engaged in an impassioned argument with theyoung lady who did the poetry; and Mr. Pickwick was making himselfuniversally agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render the selectcircle complete, when Mr. Leo Hunter--whose department on theseoccasions, was to stand about in doorways, and talk to the lessimportant people--suddenly called out--'My dear; here's Mr. CharlesFitz-Marshall.'

'Oh dear,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'how anxiously I have been expectinghim. Pray make room, to let Mr. Fitz-Marshall pass. Tell Mr.Fitz-Marshall, my dear, to come up to me directly, to be scolded forcoming so late.'

'Coming, my dear ma'am,' cried a voice, 'as quick as I can--crowds ofpeople--full room--hard work--very.'

Mr. Pickwick's knife and fork fell from his hand. He stared across thetable at Mr. Tupman, who had dropped his knife and fork, and was lookingas if he were about to sink into the ground without further notice.

'Ah!' cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the lastfive-and-twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, and Charles the Seconds,that remained between him and the table, 'regular mangle--Baker'spatent--not a crease in my coat, after all this squeezing--might have"got up my linen" as I came along--ha! ha! not a bad idea, that--queerthing to have it mangled when it's upon one, though--tryingprocess--very.'

With these broken words, a young man dressed as a naval officer made hisway up to the table, and presented to the astonished Pickwickians theidentical form and features of Mr. Alfred Jingle. The offender hadbarely time to take Mrs. Leo Hunter's proffered hand, when his eyesencountered the indignant orbs of Mr. Pickwick.

'Hollo!' said Jingle. 'Quite forgot--no directions to postillion--give'em at once--back in a minute.'

'The servant, or Mr. Hunter will do it in a moment, Mr. Fitz-Marshall,'said Mrs. Leo Hunter.

'No, no--I'll do it--shan't be long--back in no time,' replied Jingle.With these words he disappeared among the crowd.

'Will you allow me to ask you, ma'am,' said the excited Mr. Pickwick,rising from his seat, 'who that young man is, and where he resides?'

'He is a gentleman of fortune, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'towhom I very much want to introduce you. The count will be delighted withhim.'

'Yes, yes,' said Mr. Pickwick hastily. 'His residence--'

'Is at present at the Angel at Bury.'

'At Bury?'

'At Bury St. Edmunds, not many miles from here. But dear me, Mr.Pickwick, you are not going to leave us; surely Mr. Pickwick you cannotthink of going so soon?'

But long before Mrs. Leo Hunter had finished speaking, Mr. Pickwickhad plunged through the throng, and reached the garden, whither he wasshortly afterwards joined by Mr. Tupman, who had followed his friendclosely.

'It's of no use,' said Mr. Tupman. 'He has gone.'

'I know it,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'and I will follow him.'

'Follow him! Where?' inquired Mr. Tupman.

'To the Angel at Bury,' replied Mr. Pickwick, speaking very quickly.'How do we know whom he is deceiving there? He deceived a worthy manonce, and we were the innocent cause. He shall not do it again, if I canhelp it; I'll expose him! Sam! Where's my servant?'

'Here you are, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, emerging from a sequestered spot,where he had been engaged in discussing a bottle of Madeira, which hehad abstracted from the breakfast-table an hour or two before. 'Here'syour servant, Sir. Proud o' the title, as the living skellinton said,ven they show'd him.'

'Follow me instantly,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Tupman, if I stay at Bury,you can join me there, when I write. Till then, good-bye!'

Remonstrances were useless. Mr. Pickwick was roused, and his mind wasmade up. Mr. Tupman returned to his companions; and in another hour haddrowned all present recollection of Mr. Alfred Jingle, or Mr. CharlesFitz-Marshall, in an exhilarating quadrille and a bottle of champagne.By that time, Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, perched on the outside ofa stage-coach, were every succeeding minute placing a less and lessdistance between themselves and the good old town of Bury St. Edmunds.