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stood stock still to gaze upon the ruin he had made. The 180 first care of the two unspilled friends was to extricate their unfortunate companions from their bed of quickseta process which gave them the unspeakable satisfaction of discovering that they had sustained no injury, beyond sundry rents in their garments, and various lacerations from the brambles. The next 185 thing to be done was, to unharness the horse. This complicated process having been effected, the party walked slowly forward, leading the horse among them, and abandoning the chaise to its fate.

* * *

An hour's walking brought the travelers to a little road-side 190 public house. "We want to put this horse up here," said Mr. Pickwick; "I suppose we can, can't we?" * * Missus, roared the man with the red head, emerging from the garden, and looking very hard at the horse-"Missus.”


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"Can we put this horse up here, my good woman?" said Mr. 195 Tupman advancing and speaking in his most seductive tones. "No," replied the woman, after a little consideration, "I'm afeerd on it."

"I-I really believe," whispered Mr. Winkle as his friends gathered round him, "that they think that we have come by this 200 horse in some dishonest manner."

"Hallo, you fellow!" said the angry Mr. Pickwick, “do you think we stole this horse?"

"I'm sure ye did,' replied the red-headed man.

"It's like a dream," ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, "a hideous 205 dream. The idea of a man's walking about, all day, with a dreadful horse he can't get rid of.”



The household from above and from below: the maids and footmen from the basement; the nurses, children, and governesses from the attics, all poured into the room at the sound of a certain bell.

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I do not sneer at the purpose for which, at that chiming eight- 5 o'clock bell, the household is called together. The urns are hissing, the plate is shining; the father of the house, standing up, reads from a gilt book for three or four minutes in a measured cadence. The members of the family are around the table in an attitude of decent reverence; the younger children whisper 10 responses at their mother's knees; the governess worships a little apart; the maids and the large footmen are in a cluster before their chairs, the upper servants performing their devotions on the other side of the sideboard; the nurse whisks about the unconscious last-born, and tosses it up and down during the 15 ceremony. I do not sneer at that at the act at which all these people are assembled—it is at the rest of the day I marvel; at the rest of the day, and what it brings. At the very instant when the voice has ceased speaking, and the gilded book is shut, the world begins again, and for the next twenty-three hours and 20 fifty-seven minutes all that household is given up to it. The servile squad rises up and marches away to its basement, whence, should it happen to be a gala-day, those tall gentlemen, at present attired in Oxford mixture, will issue forth with flour plastered on their heads, yellow coats, pink breeches, sky-blue waistcoats, 25 silver lace, buckles in their shoes, black silk bags on their backs, and I don't know what insane emblems of servility and absurd

bedizenments of folly. Their very manner of speaking to what we call their masters and mistresses will be a like monstrous 30 masquerade. You know no more of that race which inhabits the basement floor than of the men and brethren of Timbuctoo, to whom some among us send missionaries. If you meet some of your servants in the streets (I respectfully suppose for a moment that the reader is a person of high fashion and a great establish35 ment) you would not know their faces. You might sleep under the same roof for half a century and know nothing about them. If they were ill, you would not visit them, though you would send them an apothecary and, of course, order that they lacked for nothing. You are not unkind, you are not worse than your 40 neighbors. Nay, perhaps, if you did go into the kitchen, or take tea in the servants' hall, you would do little good, and only bore the folks assembled there. But so it is. With those fellowChristians who have been just saying "Amen” you have scarcely the community of Charity. 45 don't know whence; they think and talk, you they die, and you don't care, or vice versa. They answer the bell for prayers as they answer the bell for coals; for exactly three minutes in the day you all kneel together on one carpet — and, the desires and petitions of the servants and masters over, 50 the rite called family worship is ended.


to your prayers, They come, you don't know what;

Exeunt servants, save those two who warm the newspaper, administer the muffins, and serve out the tea. Sir Brian reads his letters, and chumps his dry toast. Ethel whispers to her mother, she thinks Eliza is looking very ill. Lady Ann asks,


I which is Eliza? Is it the woman that was ill before they left town? If she is ill, Mrs. Trotter had better send her away. Mrs. Trotter is only a great deal too good-natured. She is always keeping people who are ill." Then her Ladyship begins to read the Morning Post, and glances over the names of the 60 persons who were present at Baroness Bosco's ball, and Mrs. Toddle Tompkyns's soirée dansante in Belgrave Square.



Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!
Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance,
Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land
of France!

And thou Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, 5
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters;
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,
For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy wall's annoy.
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field has turned the chance of war,
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land!
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand;
And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,
To fight for His own holy name and Henry of Navarre.

The king has come to marshal us, in all his armor drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.




25 Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line in deafening shout, "God save our Lord, the King."

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,

For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of


30 And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre.”

Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. 35 Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies now,-upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white


And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, 40 Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne has turned his rein,

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter-the Flemish Count is slain, Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.

45 And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van,
"Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man;
But out spake gentle Henry then, "No Frenchman is my foe;
Down, down with every foreigner; but let your brethren go.”
Oh! was there ever such a Knight, in friendship or in war,
50 As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre !

Ho! maidens of Vienna ! Ho! matrons of Lucerne !
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return;
Ho! Philip, send for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's


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