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134 accessible, would be clean felling, followed by replanting as soon as possible, in the same manner as is generally adopted in the south of Japan.

I could not learn the exact range of Cryptomeria as a wild tree, but in the north, where the winter is long and hard, and the snow lies deep for months, it prefers the shady aspect, though it does not attain the same gigantic proportions as it does farther south.

Nikko is approached by a magnificent avenue of Cryptomerias on both sides of the road, 20 miles long, known more or less imperfectly by every visitor to that place, but which can only be properly appreciated by going some way east of Imaichi station, to the point where the trees in good soil attain their greatest dimensions. I took a photographer here specially to take the picture reproduced, and measured the finest trees I could find, of which the tallest was about 145 feet high, and the average 110 to 120 feet, with a girth of 12 to 20 feet on the better soils. Many of the trees have been planted so close together that they have now grown into one tree. The one which I figure (Plate 40) is composed of six stems, which measure 21 feet in greatest diameter, and about 60 in girth. Cf. Sargent, Forest Flora of Japan, p. 75.

The age of these trees, of which many have been blown down by recent gales and some felled, is, as near as I could count the rings of wood, 260 to 270 years, of which over 200 is red wood. The bark is not over ½ to ¾ inch thick, and though some of the trees were beginning to decay at the heart, others were quite sound. The soil is generally a rich black humus overlying a yellow tufaceous volcanic gravel, and the influence of bad soil on the trees is seen very clearly at a point about three miles east of Imaichi, where the road crosses a low ridge of dry and sandy soil, and where they are not more than 80 to 90 feet high by 6 to 8 feet girth.

At the celebrated temples of Nikko there are larger trees than any that I saw in the avenue. The best—shown in Plate 41—is about 150 feet high by 23 feet in girth, but I could not measure the height exactly on account of its position. They are said to be about 300 years old, being probably older than those in the avenue, and seem mostly in perfect health on a slope facing south where the soil is evidently deep and good.

But these magnificent trees are quite eclipsed by those which I saw later at the celebrated monastery town of Koyasan, in the province of Kishu, not nearly so well known to European tourists as it should be. The magnificent cemetery at this place is over a mile long, and planted as an irregular avenue with many lateral annexes—each of which was in the past the private burying ground of great families—with Cryptomeria trees which are said to be 400 years old, and which, I believe, surpass in grandeur any other trees planted by man in the world. They grow at an elevation of about 2800 feet, in a climate which is much milder, and gives evidence of a much heavier rainfall than that at Nikko; for many of the trees had shrubs growing on them as epiphytes on their trunks. In one case a tree of Cupressus obtusa has its stem, 6 to 8 inches thick, completely embedded in the trunk of a sound and


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136 appears astonishing, is perhaps exceptional, but all the plantations I saw gave evidence of extremely rapid growth, and showed a larger proportion of clean useful poles and timber than any plantations which I have seen in other countries.

The wood is used for almost every purpose in Japan, but especially for tubs, staves, and building. Though not as valuable as the best wood of Cupressus obtusa for high-class buildings and internal work, it is, when properly selected, sawn, and planed, highly ornamental both in colour and grain, easy to work, durable, and strong enough for most purposes. It has also a most agreeable odour due to the presence of a volatile oil called sugiol by Kimoto, who gives an analysis of it, and states that the wood on this account is used for making saké casks, the saké acquiring a peculiar pleasant aroma.

It varies very much in colour and figure, the most valuable being the wide planks—sometimes 3 to 4 feet wide and over—which are used for doors, ceilings, and partitions in the best houses. The darkest in colour comes from the southern island of Kiusiu, and is known as Satsuma sugi. When it shows a very fine red grain in old gnarled butts it is known as Ozura-moko, the best of this colour being very valuable. There is also a grey-coloured variety known as Gindai sugi, which appears to be taken from trees which have died before felling, but I could not get very definite information on this point.

The finest example I know of the ornamental use of Cryptomeria wood is the ceiling of the large dining-room in Kanaya's Hotel at Nikko, which is composed of panels about 30 inches square, cut from the butts of trees which show very curly and intricate graining, and without polish have a natural lustrous gloss. The Japanese never paint or varnish the wood in their houses inside or out, and attach more importance than European builders do to its quality, colour, and figuring. It seems very strange that none of the numerous travellers and writers on Japan have, so far as I can learn, as yet paid any attention to the beauty of the Japanese timbers. As a rule Cryptomeria is spoken of by English-speaking Japanese and Europeans as cedar, but sugi is the native name.

The bark of the tree is also largely used, when taken off in large sheets, for covering outbuildings of secondary importance, but does not appear to be so much valued or so durable as the bark of Cupressus obtusa, Thujopsis dolabrata, or Sciadopitys verticillata. An ounce of the seed contains about 50,000 seeds. For raising trees to plant in the colder parts of Europe I should certainly prefer seed from the natural forests of the north to what is grown in the subtropical climate of South and Central Japan, and I should therefore warn anyone wishing to plant this tree largely to be very careful about the origin of the seed or plants.

The value of this wood varies considerably in Japan according to locality and

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138 Cryptomeria japonica yields in Japan a turpentine or semi-solid resin, named sugi-no-janai, which was shown at the Edinburgh Forestry Exhibition. This resin, which is very aromatic, is used as incense in Buddhist temples, and as a plaster for wounds and ulcers.

The tree ripens seeds in good summers in the south of England, which are easy to raise, and the seedlings grow rapidly after the first year. Seeds which I gathered in 1900 from a tree at Stratton Park, Hants, the seat of the Earl of Northbrook, and sowed in the open ground, germinated at the end of April, whilst others sown in a pot on Christmas Day and kept in a greenhouse, germinated on 17th April, and grew much better than those sown in the open. Some of the young trees planted out at two years old are now (January 1905) 3 to 4 feet high, and have not suffered at all from the spring frosts.

The seedlings are easy to transplant, and might be raised in nurseries at a lower rate than many trees, though they should have some protection for the first two or three years, and if kept in pots the roots should not be allowed to become cramped, and if twisted round the bottom of the pot should be carefully spread when planted out. The tree may also be propagated from cuttings, and this plan is sometimes adopted in Japan, as being cheaper and quicker than raising seedlings, but except in the case of varieties, should not be adopted if tall, straight trees are desired. I have seen in the garden of Mr. Chambers at Grayswood, near Hazlemere, Sussex, a self-sown Cryptomeria which had germinated in a chink of the garden steps, and which is now growing at Colesborne, and I have no doubt that others might be found in suitable situations, as Mr. Bartlett has lately found a seedling at Pencarrow, Cornwall, growing at the base of the parent tree. Cryptomeria seems to be more adaptable to various kinds of soil than many exotic trees, and does not mind a moderate amount of lime, but loves a situation well sheltered from cold winds, and a soil deep enough and light enough to keep its roots moist during summer. I have not seen it grow well on heavy clay, where it suffers from spring frost. If timber and not ornament is the object, I should plant it about 10 feet apart, alternate with some fast-growing conifer, such as common larch or spruce, which might be cut out when the trees became too crowded.

Mayr considers that in warm, damp parts of Europe the Cryptomeria may probably be planted profitably as a timber tree in sheltered valleys and in good soil, but recommends the mixture of other trees as nurses wherever the winter temperature is low, and says that alders are preferred by the Japanese for this purpose. He says that a plantation of this tree in East Friesland had attained 12 metres in height and 23 centimetres in diameter; and on the island of Mainau, on Lake Constance, he measured, in 1897, a tree which was 18 metres high and 40 centimetres in diameter.


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Rhabdothamnus.]

Shrubs or trees. Leaves alternate or scattered, rarely opposite, simple, entire or toothed; stipules wanting. Flowers hermaphrodite, irregular or almost regular. Calyx inferior, persistent, 5partite or 5-fid. Corolla gamopetalous, hypogynous, 5-lobed; lobes imbricate. Stamens 4, didynamous, rarely 5–6, inserted at the base of the corolla-tube; anthers introrse, cells confluent. Ovary superior, not lobed, normally 2-celled with 2 (rarely more) pendulous ovules in each cell, but sometimes the cells are more or less completely divided into 2, with a single ovule in each cell, or very rarely the cells may be as many as 5–10; style terminal: stigma small, entire or emarginate. Fruit drupaceous, indehiscent, succulent or almost dry, 2–4-celled, rarely more-celled. Seeds solitary in each cell; albumen scanty, fleshy; embryo straight; radicle superior, next the hilum.

Shrubs or small trees, glabrous or the branchlets glutinous. Leaves alternate, entire or serrate, studded with pellucid glands. Flowers small, axillary, solitary or fascicled. Calyx 5-lobed or -partite, not enlarged after flowering. Corolla campanulate; tube short; limb 5-lobed, lobes subequal or the lowest rather larger. Stamens 4, rarely 5 or 6, nearly equal, included or shortly exserted. Ovary ovoid, 2–4-celled, very rarely 5–10-celled, with 1 ovule in each cell, rarely 2-celled with 2 ovules in each cell. Drupe ovoid or subglobose, more or less succulent.

1. M. lætum, Forst. Prodr. n. 238.—A shrub or small tree 8–25 ft. high; trunk 9–18 in. diam.; bark brown, thick and furrowed; branches spreading, viscid at the tips. Leaves 1½–4 in. long, lanceolate to oblong-lanceolate or obovate, acute or acuminate, narrowed into petioles ½–1 in. long, serrulate above the middle, bright-green, quite glabrous, almost fleshy, veins inconspicuous. Flowers in axillary fascicles of 2–6, small, about ½ in. diam., white


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140 63 feet by 5 feet 3 inches, and proves that the tree will thrive on good soil even in the east of England.

At Williamstrip Park, Gloucestershire, the seat of Lord St. Aldwyn, there is a tree 45 feet by 5 feet, probably one of the first introduced.

At Penrhyn, North Wales, there is a fine tree, 64 feet by 5 feet 5 inches.

The best example I know of the growth of Cryptomeria as a forest tree is at Tan-y-bwlch, in Merionethshire, the property of W.E. Oakeley, Esq., where a large number of seedlings were raised about 40 years ago from a tree which is now 62 by 6 feet, and has apparently not grown much lately.

The best of its progeny, growing on a slate formation where rhododendrons flourish exceedingly, near sea level, is already 53 by 4½ feet, and many others average about 40 by 3½ feet. Some are growing among beech and oak, others in a plantation of larch and Corsican pine facing north. In the latter the average girth of 8 trees was 3½ feet, whilst larch of the same age was little over 2 feet, and Corsican pine about the same. Mr. Richards, forester to Lord Penrhyn, who saw this plantation shortly after it was made, agreed with me that its success would amply justify planting Cryptomeria on a large scale in North and West Wales in sheltered places on good land up to about 300 feet above the sea. But, judging from a large board sent me by Sir John Llewellyn, grown in South Wales, the timber is much lighter and softer than it is in Japan, and perhaps will not be equal for outside work to that of Douglas fir grown on similar land.

At Dynevor Park, in Caermarthenshire, the seat of Lord Dynevor, there are some well-grown trees, the tallest of which is 56 feet by 6 feet 10 inches.

At Belshill, Northumberland, the property of Sir W. Church, there is a tree 50 feet by 4 feet 8 inches, which is about 50 years old and quite healthy.

In Scotland the tree seems quite hardy, and at Keir, the seat of A. Stirling, Esq., a tree planted in 1851 has increased from 42½ feet in 1892 to 52 feet by 8 feet girth in 1905. It has the trunk covered with burrs. At Castle Kennedy, the seat of the Earl of Stair, there is a tree 56 feet by 6 feet inch.

In Ireland there are several fine trees. At Coollattin, Wicklow, the property of Earl Fitzwilliam, a tree measured 63 feet high by 6 feet in girth in 1906. At Woodstock, Kilkenny, a tree of the variety Lobbii, which was planted by Miss Tighe in 1857, is now (1904) 67 feet high by 6 feet 7 inches in girth. Close by this tree is a wonderful group of Cryptomerias, which have been produced by natural layering. The parent tree in the centre is about 50 feet high, and around it are over 20 trees, with straight stems, which are themselves layering, so that in course of time a grove may be produced.

At Fota there are many examples of Cryptomeria and its varieties. The form spiralis is about 15 feet high. The variety araucarioides is 31 feet by 3 feet 8 inches in girth, very compact in habit. Elegans is 42 feet by 4 feet 9 inches. The variety Fortunei measures 72 feet high, with a girth of 8 feet, a beautiful pyramidal tree, displaying the stem below with its characteristic stringy bark. This tree was planted in 1847.


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274 the tales, "Liv og Död" (Life and death) and Kjöd og Aand" (Flesh and Spirit), which are strongly influenced by the religious and philosophical agitations of the age and betray a certain spiritual affinity to Kjerkegaard. After a silence of many years he again appeared in 1875 with a long novel "Livslænker" (Fetters of Life). (1814-65) published talented works of criticism and a few volumes of lyric poems, which have some value, though they show more thought and æsthetic taste than any richly flowing vein of poetry.  (1817-54) was a conspicuous comical talent, which sometimes, however, was rather crude in regard to form. He also wrote both novels and dramas, and his best and most widely known work is the novel "Fra Gaden" (From the street).

Toward the middle of the century this plethora of poets began to decrease. Poetry, which up to that time had played a very prominent part, began to recede somewhat into the background. The spirit of freedom gradually absorbed all powers and interests, and though people still liked to hear the old well known voices, still the unmistakable change in the tendencies of the age revealed the fact that the number of new poets was considerably diminished. In (born 1813) editor of the daily paper "Faedrelandet," we meet with a very characteristic combination of the poet and the new practical ideas which had such great influence on the younger generation. From his youth he was a strenuous advocate of Scandinavianism and of liberal progressive ideas, and for these he fought both in his songs and in the paper which he edited. He began his literary career as a writer of songs for the students, for whom he wrote a number of witty


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Rh and graceful poems. They were originally intended simply for the narrow circle of his comrades, but on account of their peculiar power and freshness they soon found their way to the people. In several dramatic works ("Attelaner") overflowing with wanton humor, he poured forth a most telling satire on the political and literary conditions of his time. It was not long before he became the bard of the whole people, and for many years his mighty voice was heard on every great national event whether of joy or sorrow. Many of his best poems are associated with certain definite occasions, and the most of them are the poetical expression of the vital ideas of the times, but they all, whether relating to a certain occasion or not, are marked by a peculiarly powerful style, and contain the finest poetical sentiments.

(born 1818), like Ploug, proceeded from the circle of university students for whom he wrote songs brimful of youthful buoyancy. Soon he also wrote comedies, amusing operettas, which at first were played with great success at the Students' Union, but which also reached the public at large, and by his comedy "Gjenboerne" he at once became the favorite of all classes. This piece was soon followed by a series of others, some of them short, merry vaudevilles, "Intrigerne," and "Soldaterlöier," and other operas, "En Spurv i Tranedans," "Mester og Lærling," "Eventyr paa Fodreisen," and all are brimful of bright, harmless fun, while some of them do not lack a serious background. In the text are inserted excellent songs sung to most charming airs, so that his plays are of the most amusing and popular to be found on the Danish stage. They continue to be represented with great applause in all the leading theaters in the country. In addition to these dramatical works, Hostrup has written a number of merry, beautiful songs and graceful lyric poems, among which his patriotic hymns are marked by a rare sublimity of style.


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564 spotted with purple; peduncles ⅓–⅔ in. long. Calyx-segments lanceolate, acuminate. Corolla campanulate; lobes rounded, villous within. Stamens 4, scarcely exserted. Ovary 4-celled. Drupe ¼–⅓ in. long, oblong, succulent, reddish-purple.—''A. Rich. Fl. Nouv. Zel.'' 195; A. Cunn. Precur. n. 387; Raoul, Choix, 43; ''Hook. f. Fl. Nov. Zel. i. 204; Handb. N.Z. Fl. 225; Kirk, Forest Fl.'' t. 124. Citharexylum perforatum, ''Forst. Prodr.'' sub. n. 238.

Herbs or shrubs or trees. Leaves opposite or whorled, very rarely alternate, usually simple (digitate in Vitex); stipules wanting. Flowers generally hermaphrodite, irregular or rarely regular. Calyx inferior, persistent, 4–5-toothed. Corolla gamopetalous, hypogynous; limb 2-lipped or equal, 4–5-lobed, lobes imbricate. Stamens usually 4, didynamous, inserted on the tube of the corolla; anthers 2-celled, dehiscing lengthwise. Ovary superior, entire or shortly 4-lobed, 2–4-celled; style terminal, simple; stigma entire or 2-lobed; ovules solitary or 2 collateral in each cell, erect or ascending. Fruit drupaceous or almost capsular, 2–4-celled (1-celled in Avicennia), indehiscent or the whole fruit or the endocarp alone separating into 2–4 pyrenes. Seeds solitary in each cell, usually erect or ascending; albumen present or wanting; embryo straight, radicle inferior.

Trees or shrubs. Leaves opposite, digitately 3–5-foliolate, very rarely simple. Flowers in axillary or terminal cymes or panicles.


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 58 great evolutionists; the philosopher, Spencer; Cope, the American paleontologist, and Huxley, the English champion of scientific rationalism—these, and a host of others spent their lives in demonstrating the workings of evolution. But unfortunately, the opposition which they encountered forced them to write and work largely along lines of argument and thus much of their work was fruitless so far as the discovery of new principles is concerned.

During this same period the doctrine of evolution suffered much from over-enthusiasm on the part of some of its defenders. Even Wallace overdid the hypothesis of sexual selection, and the kindred hypotheses of concealing and protective coloration. Naturalists sought to explain every coloring of animals and plants as being of some value to them, and therefore the real cause of the existence of the species; not a few carried the idea of value in sexual differences, such as those between the male and female peacock, to a similar extreme. But in spite of the inaccuracies which they published, these enthusiasts did far more good than harm, for they aided greatly in securing popular support for the main theory.

It was toward the beginning of this century that evolutionary studies received another great stimulus. Professor Hugo de Vries, a Dutch botanist of considerable note, proposed what he called the "mutation theory" as a substitute for Darwin's conception of "natural selection." He began his studies by attempting to produce by careful selection a variety


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 Rh of buttercup which should contain in its flower more than the normal number of petals. He actually achieved the desired increase, but it was far from a stable condition; while some of the flowers possessed eight, nine, or ten petals, and a few as high as thirty-one, many of them possessed the original number, five. When selection was abandoned there appeared at once a general retrogression toward the primitive state, and this fact caused de Vries to conclude that selection alone was not enough to cause the formation of a new species of plant or animal. Instead, he concluded that when a change of permanent value took place in a plant or animal it was something entirely different from the constant variations on which Darwin and his followers relied; it was a discontinuous variation—a 'sport,' the florist or gardener would call it—to which de Vries applied the new name mutation. Mutation, he believed, involved a very definite change in the reproductive cells of the organism—a change which had absolutely no relation to the environment. They arose from conditions within the plant and animal, and might or might not affect it favorably. Those mutations which were not beneficial would be eliminated by selection; those which were of value to the creature would probably be preserved. Thus, in de Vries' mind evolution was a process due primarily to internal causes, its course being merely guided by en-


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 60 vironment, which selected those mutations capable of surviving.

Without question, de Vries had a real basis for his theory. Mutations do take place among both wild and domestic creatures; thus among the dandelions there constantly appear special types which breed true and are, as Castle has called them, "little species within the dandelion species." Similar mutations are well known in peas, beans, evening primroses, and such domestic animals as the sheep. Clearly, therefore, species do arise as de Vries stated; the question is, is this the only way in which they arise?

This problem was raised little more than twenty years ago—a period far too short to allow for the settling of a question that is merely another statement of the problem that has puzzled scientists and philosophers for more than twenty centuries.

There is, however, excellent reason for believing that the conceptions of both de Vries and Darwin are true; that neither of them excludes the other from operation. Thus in the famous chalk formation of England there may be found an evolutionary chain of sea-urchina which, according to the general concensus of opinion, represent true Darwinian evolution. As N. C. Macnamara says, "They are first found in their shelled, sparsely ornamented forms, from which spring, as we ascend the zone, all the other species of the genus. The progression is unbroken and minute in the last degree. We can connect together into continuous series each minute variation and


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 Rh each species of graduation of structure so insensible that not a link in the chain of evidence is wanting."

On the other hand, the writer has recently completed a microscopic study of a group of ancient lamp-shells—animals which looked somewhat like molluscs, but which were very different internally—with altogether different results. The particular changes involved were minor matters of surface markings, which could have had no conceivable importance to the animals. Selection, therefore, may be virtually ruled out: indeed, many of the different forms lived close together, with apparently equal success. But in the small markings on the shells there appear, as one follows the series from bottom to top, very decided changes, and those changes are, in some cases, abrupt and complete.

In others the variations are very small—indeed they could be distinguished only with the microscope—but so far as could be told, were distinct. This, therefore, points to a course of evolution that was clearly a matter of mutation, without any apparent governing by the process of natural selection.

The conclusion which we may reach, therefore, is that both natural selection and mutation operate in the development of new forms from old. The variations, for which Darwin was at a complete loss to account, are in many cases the mutations emphasized by de Vries and his followers. But to what extent climate, food; habits, and multitudinous other environmental factors, coupled with such in-


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 62 ternal ones as racial old age, complicate the processes of variation and selection cannot yet be said. De Vries, in his mutation theory, supplied one of the deficiencies of Darwinism, and at the same time led scientists in general to realize that evolution is a far more complex problem than was supposed during the later portion of the last century. Darwin's primitive mudfish, with its trace of mind, and the process of natural selection, will not by any means account for the multitude of higher vertebrate forms which people, and have peopled the lands and waters of the globe.

At the same time the scientific public was awaking to the fact that evolution was an almost inconceivably complex affair, many of the post-Darwinian hypotheses began to show themselves of very doubtful importance. The theory of sexual selection, which Darwin elaborated in the "Descent of Man" began a steady decline. Such selection undoubtedly does take place, but it is not carried on to so great an extent as was once supposed. The idea of the protective value of colors and color arrangement, too, began to be doubted, although at the same time its principles became much better known and therefore more strongly emphasized by some naturalists. Inheritance of directly acquired characters was proved to be an impossibility, and much doubt was thrown upon the hypothesis of use and disuse. Instead of legs disappearing because they. are not used, they are now thought to disappear because the evolutionary processes going on


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The object of this work is to give a complete account of all the trees which grow naturally or are cultivated in Great Britain, and which have attained, or seem likely to attain, a size which justifies their being looked on as timber trees; but does not include those which are naturally of shrubby or bushy habit.

Although sixty years have passed since Loudon's great work was published, no book has been written which describes in full the species which in his time were unknown, or so recently introduced that their cultural requirements and economic or ornamental value had not been tested.

Many deciduous trees, which were commonly planted before his time, have gone out of popular favour, and are almost forgotten; whilst the rage for conifers which sprang up about seventy years ago has led to the introduction of almost every species which can be grown in this country; and many of these have now reached an age at which their value can be accurately judged of.

Special books dealing with conifers have appeared which may satisfy the wants of a horticulturist, but none exists that at all meets the requirements of landowners, foresters, and arboriculturists, and will enable them to distinguish the species with certainty, or guide them in selecting the species the best suited for economic culture in different parts of England.

Forestry is at last making headway as a science in this country, but too many of the books recently published on the subject have been based on continental experience, which is not directly applicable to the very different conditions of climate, soil, labour, and market existing here. In the cultural part of the work we base our conclusions on home experience and practice; and in this connection it may be stated that for almost every exotic species there are older specimens of individual trees and of plantations in these islands than on the Continent. After having seen the trees of every country in Europe, of nearly all the States of North America, of Canada, Japan, China, West Siberia, and Chile, we confidently assert that these islands contain a greater number of fine trees from the temperate regions of the world than any other country. Descriptions of the best examples of all of these and of interesting woods and plantations will be a prominent feature of the book.

We have the special qualification that we have seen with our own eyes and studied on the spot, both at home and abroad, most of the trees which will be included in the book.


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xvi Knowing how difficult it is for the general public to understand the descriptions of nearly allied species, usually made by compilers who are unacquainted with the crucial points of distinction, we hope to supply this information in concise, clear, and simple language. What we understand by scientific knowledge is accuracy, expressed in plain words; and in order to ensure this we have copied nothing from other authors that we could verify for ourselves.

In order to give a history of the finest trees in this country, we have visited during the past five years nearly every important place in England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland where large and rare trees are found; and have received from landowners, estate agents, foresters, and gardeners an amount of information and assistance which justifies us in believing that our work will be generally appreciated. Though the historic trees of some places in England and of more in Scotland have been described in scattered publications, those of Ireland have been almost totally neglected; and Dr. Henry has paid special attention to the many interesting properties in that country.

A prominent feature of the work will be the illustrations. Modern photography enables the authors to give accurate pictures of the trees as they grow. Almost all the photographs of trees and of forest scenes have been taken by skilful photographers specially engaged for the purpose. In dealing with about 300 species of trees, many of which will require several illustrations to show the best specimens both as park and forest trees, the authors have accumulated a large number of photographs, which are being reproduced by the Autotype Company of London, who guarantee their permanency.

With regard to these illustrations we desire to say, that though in some cases they may not be perfect from the point of view of the photographic artist, yet the amount of time, skill, and money that has been spent on them is very far beyond what would be imagined by any one who has not had experience of the difficulty of securing good negatives of trees scattered over so large an area, under all conditions of light and weather, and in situations often extremely difficult to the photographer.

In some cases two or three special journeys have been made to obtain a photograph of one tree only, as the object has been to show the finest individual trees known to the authors rather than to make pretty pictures of scenery.

Besides these reproductions of photographs there will be lithographed drawings of seedlings, buds, leaves, flowers, and fruit, so far as is necessary to distinguish the trees in winter and in summer. These original drawings have all been done under the personal supervision of Dr. Henry, who has carefully studied the material, living and dead, that exists in the unrivalled establishment at Kew.

All measurements have been taken by the authors themselves with Stanley's Apomecometer, or by practical foresters on whose accuracy they could rely, and though in many cases errors to the extent of a few feet may have been made, owing to the shape or position of the tree measured, we believe them to be as accurate as possible under the conditions.


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 Rh within the animal demands their disappearance. What these processes are we do not know, but our frank avowal of ignorance gives us a certain confidence that we shall eventually find out.

But it is not only ideas that have changed within the last two decades; methods of study have undergone an even greater revolution. De Vries, at almost the same time he discovered mutation, rediscovered the fact that heredity was by no means so mysterious and erratic as it had been generally thought. Animals and plants, he discovered, possessed many characters which behaved in very definite ways when two varieties were crossed, and that the characters of an organism could be determined largely by the interbreeding of its ancestors. Thus arose the science of genetics, which seeks to find out the numerous factors underlying the various phenomena of heredity. And since heredity is the base of all evolution, genetics has for its ultimate aim the determination of the causes of that great process which is responsible for the existence of whatever animals and plants inhabit and have inhabited the earth. The geneticist is the most modern of evolutionists; he is not satisfied with finding out what has taken place in the past; he sets out to make evolution, or tiny portions of it, take place within his own laboratories and greenhouses.

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 64 before. Paleontologists are studying their fossil shells and corals and bones in order to find out what has taken place during the millions upon millions of years during which living things have inhabited our planet. Anatomists are studying the bodies of modern animals, from the simplest to the highest, to determine their relationships one to the other; embryologists are tracing out the evolution of the individual in his life before birth. The geneticists are breeding plants, rabbits, mice, fishes, flies, potato bugs so that they may discover what evolution is doing today. Everywhere men are studying, comparing, experimenting. Their purpose is not to discover whether or not evolution is a fact; on that point they have long ago been satisfied. They are trying to find out how it operates and what forms it has produced; how differences arise among organisms, and what are their effects, and by what means they are passed from one generation to another until they become part and parcel of the inheritance, thereby establishing a new species.


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genus, as understood by Bentham and Hooker, included all the beeches, those of the southern as well as of the northern hemisphere. Blume separated the southern beeches as a distinct genus, Nothofagus; and his arrangement, on account of its convenience, will be followed by us. Fagus belongs to the family Quercineæ, which includes the oaks, chestnuts, castanopsis, and beeches. The genus, limited to include only the northern beeches, consists of large trees with smooth bark and spindle-shaped buds arranged alternately on the twigs in two rows. Leaves: deciduous, simple, pinnately-nerved, folded in the bud along the primary nerves. Flowers monœcious: the staminate flowers numerous in pendulous globose heads, the pistillate flowers in pairs in involucres. The male flower has a 4 to 8 lobed calyx with 8 to 16 stamens. The female flower has a 6 lobed calyx, adnate to a 3 celled ovary, with 2 ovules in each cell; styles 3, filiform. On ripening, the involucre is enlarged, woody, and covered with bristly deltoid or foliaceous processes; it dehisces by 4 valves, allowing the 2 fruits enclosed to escape. Each fruit is 3 angled and contains 1 seed, which has no albumen.

Seven distinct species of Fagus have been described, of which three, the European beech, the American beech, and the peculiar Fagus japonica are recognised by all botanists as good species. The Caucasian beech, the two Chinese beeches, and the common beech of Japan are considered by some authorities to be mere varieties of Fagus sylvatica; but these can all readily be distinguished, and in the following account will be treated as independent species.

I. Nuts projecting out of the top of the involucre.

 * I. Fagus japonica. Japan.

Rh


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to the common rest that crowns our days, Called in the noon of life, the good man goes. Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays His silver temples in their last repose;


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4


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Author talk:W. Atkins

Auckland-based?
The trees Atkins wrote about were near Auckland.

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/periodicals/TPRSNZ1879-12.2.8.2.4 Wainuiomartian (talk) 19:31, 20 January 2024 (UTC)

W Atkins from Tamaki was a judge at an agricultural show in Auckland in 1880. This may be William Atkins of Tamaki who wrote to the paper in 1875. https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/NZH18801110.2.24 https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/NZH18751201.2.27.6

I 1871 William Atkin is a new member of the Auckland Institute: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/periodicals/TPRSNZ1871-4.2.7.2

1870: Letter to editor received from William Atkin, Tamaki https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/DSC18701128.2.9

1888 Death of William Atkin, printer of Devonport https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/AS18811010.2.7

Had a son also called William Atkin who apparently was the William Atkin of Tamaki. https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/NZH18811013.2.19 https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/NZH18931030.2.7.3

Article about William Atkin of Tamaki, who died 1901: As his wife was fond of flowers, William, to lighten the soil around the house, brought up loads of shell from the beach, which they mixed with the heavy clay loam. https://www.missionbaykohi.co.nz/uploads/1/2/7/6/127645299/mission_bay_chapter_1.pdf

title: Author talk:W. Atkins


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Rh ::“(G) —The provisions of this section concerning digital phonorecord deliveries shall not apply to any exempt transmissions or retransmissions under section 114(d)(1). The exemptions created in section 114(d)(1) do not expand or reduce the rights of copyright owners under paragraphs (1) through (5) of section 106 with respect to such transmissions and retransmissions.
 * “(H) —A compulsory license obtained under subsection (b)(1) to make and distribute phonorecords includes the right of the maker of such a phonorecord to distribute or authorize distribution of such phonorecord, other than by means of a digital phonorecord delivery, by rental, lease, or lending (or by acts or practices in the nature of rental, lease, or lending). With respect to each nondramatic musical work embodied in the phonorecord, the royalty shall be a proportion of the revenue received by the compulsory licensee from every such act of distribution of the phonorecord under this clause equal to the proportion of the revenue received by the compulsory licensee from distribution of the phonorecord under subsection (a)(1)(A)(ii)(II) that is payable by a compulsory licensee under that clause and under chapter 8. The Register of Copyrights shall issue regulations to carry out the purpose of this subparagraph.
 * “(I) —Except as provided in paragraphs (4)(A)(i) and (10)(B) of subsection (d), royalty payments shall be made on or before the twentieth day of each month and shall include all royalties for the month next preceding. Each monthly payment shall be made under oath and shall comply with requirements that the Register of Copyrights shall prescribe by regulation. The Register shall also prescribe regulations under which detailed cumulative annual statements of account, certified by a certified public accountant, shall be filed for every compulsory license under subsection (a). The regulations covering both the monthly and the annual statements of account shall prescribe the form, content, and manner of certification with respect to the number of records made and the number of records distributed.
 * “(J) —In the case of a license obtained under paragraph (1), (2)(A), or (3) of subsection (b), if the copyright owner does not receive the monthly payment and the monthly and annual statements of account when due, the owner may give written notice to the licensee that, unless the default is remedied not later than 30 days after the date on which the notice is sent, the compulsory license will be automatically terminated. Such termination renders either the making or the distribution, or both, of all phonorecords for which the royalty has not been paid, actionable as acts of infringement under section 501 and fully subject to the remedies provided by sections 502 through 506. In the case of a license obtained under subsection (b)(2)(B), license authority under the compulsory

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276 In 1855 he became a preacher. Since that time he has but seldom been heard from and then always in simple lyric poems, yet these always contain the same freshness of thought and forms, and the same genial warmth of feeling and sentiment as his earlier productions.

(born 1831) has written a number of excellent poems that show strong and deep feeling. The form of his verses is frequently very original, but always exceedingly elegant. When he abandons the lyrical field, as for instance in his fairy tale "Tornerose," and the biblical poem of Judith, he assumes a task beyond his strength, though he has given many proofs of his poetical powers in these works. His recently published lyrical drama "Drot og Marsk," (King—Erik Slipping—and Marshal—Stig) is an exception. In this drama he had a fine opportunity of displaying his great talents, and he has succeeded in imparting to the varying mood a splendid and characteristic expression.

(born 1818) published in 1858 a collection of poems under the title "Et Foraar" (a spring), which was very well received. It is not very comprehensive, but what it contains is full of grace and harmony. His poems are excellent, and so are his animal fables, for which he seems to be endowed with exceptionally fine talents, while he at the same time knows how to paint scenes from human life in a no less attractive form. Before the above volume of poems appeared, he had repeatedly tried his hand in various kinds of poetical composition, but without success. His epic "Kong Halfdan den Stærke," as well as his dramatic work "Valkyrien Göndul," betrayed an utter lack of self-criticism. It is all the more surprising that Kaalund is the author of the excellent play "Fulvia," recently published, the plot of which is laid in the times of the early Christians. In a


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 her word she did not know that it was so very bad after all; what was over couldn't be begun, and what couldn't be cured must be endured: with various other assurances of the like novel and strengthening description. To all of these, Mr. Benjamin Allen replied that he meant no disrespect to his aunt, or anybody there, but if it were all the same to them, and they would allow him to have his own way, he would rather have the pleasure of hating his sister till death, and after it.

At length, when this determination had been announced half a hundred times, the old lady suddenly bridling up and looking very majestic, wished to know what she had done that no respect was to be paid to her years or station, and that she should be obliged to beg and pray, in that way, of her own nephew, whom she remembered about five-and-twenty years before he was born, and whom she had known, personally, when he hadn't a tooth in his head? To say nothing of her presence on the first occasion of his having his hair cut, and assistance at numerous other times and ceremonies during his babyhood, of sufficient importance to found a claim upon his affection, obedience, and sympathies, for ever.

While the good lady was bestowing this objurgation on Mr. Ben Allen, Bob Sawyer and Mr. Pickwick had retired in close conversation to the inner room, where Mr. Sawyer was observed to apply himself several times to the mouth of a black bottle, under the influence of which, his features gradually assumed a cheerful and even jovial expression. And at last he emerged from the room, bottle in hand, and, remarking that he was very sorry to say he had been making a fool of himself, begged to propose the health and happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, whose felicity, so far from envying, he would be the first to congratulate them upon. Hearing this, Mr. Ben Allen suddenly arose from his chair, and, seizing the black bottle, drank the toast so heartily, that, the liquor being strong, he became nearly as black in the face as the


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Rh series of effective scenes he has here given us a graphic picture of the struggle between Christianity and the heathen faith. The drama is largely lyric in its character, and this fact makes it less adapted for the stage. Since the above mentioned volume of poems he has from time to time published single poems, which are in every way equal to the former ones.

(born 1822) is a very peculiar genius who has acquired a remarkable command of the chit-chat style in "feuilletons," in lectures, and in light stories. His numerous poems, of which some are very popular, always contain something racy, though they are usually very ordinary as to contents. He is also master in the art of localizing foreign vaudevilles, which under his hand receive an entirely new stamp. Of the plays which he has himself written, "Fastelavnsgildet," a most exquisite comedy, is the best.

(born 1821) has collected his youthful, poetic compositions into two volumes, which, in addition to a number of lyric poems and romances, (among them "Billeder af Jesu Liv"), also contain a few dramatic compositions and among them "Dante." All these works show great mastership of form, but do not betray any rare poetical gifts. The more surprising it is that Molbech has recently produced the drama, "Ambrosius," which is a most charming work both on account of its characters, which are drawn with a steady hand, and on account of the beautiful and poetic style in which it is written. The main figure in the play is the poet Ambrosius Stub. By this drama Molbech's genius seems to have broken entirely new ground. His faithful and elegant translation of Dante's Divina Comedia is an excellent work, and together with the translations


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 Mr. Martin, who was a man of few words and possessed but little power of eloquence or persuasion, submitted to this operation with a very calm and agreeable expression of countenance, for some seconds; finding, however, that it threatened speedily to lead to a result which would place it beyond his power to claim any wages, board or otherwise, in all time to come, he muttered an inarticulate remonstrance and felled Mr. Benjamin Allen to the ground. As that gentleman had his hands entangled in his cravat, he had no alternative but to follow him to the floor. There they both lay struggling, when the shop door opened, and the party was increased by the arrival of two most unexpected visitors: to wit, Mr. Pickwick, and Mr. Samuel Weller.

The impression at once produced on Mr. Weller's mind by what he saw, was, that Mr. Martin was hired by the establish- ment of Sawyer late Nockemorf, to take strong medicine, or to go into fits and be experimentalised upon, or to swallow poison now and then with the view of testing the efficacy of some new antidotes, or to do something or other to promote the great science of medicine, and gratify the ardent spirit of inquiry burning in the bosoms of its two young professors. So, without presuming to interfere, Sam stood perfectly still, and looked on, as if he were mightily interested in the result of the then pending experiment. Not so, Mr. Pickwick. He at once threw himself on the astonished combatants, with his accustomed energy, and loudly called upon the by-standers to interpose.

This roused Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been hitherto quite paralysed by the frenzy of his companion. With that gentleman's assistance, Mr. Pickwick raised Ben Allen to his feet. Mr. Martin finding himself alone on the floor, got up, and looked about him.

"Mr. Allen," said Mr. Pickwick, "what is the matter, sir?"

"Never mind, sir!" replied Mr. Allen, with haughty defiance.


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 hearts that emerged from its hospitable door next morning. The owners thereof were Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, the former of whom was speedily deposited inside a comfortable post coach, with a little dickey behind, in which the latter mounted with great agility.

"Sir," called out Mr. Weller to his master.

"Well, Sam," replied Mr. Pickwick, thrusting his head out of the window.

"I wish them horses had been three months and better in the Fleet, sir."

"Why, Sam?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.

"Wy, sir," exclaimed Mr. Weller, rubbing his hands, "how they would go if they had been!"


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 to consider Mr. Pickwick as in some degree the guardian and adviser of his son, and that it consequently behoved that gentleman, and was indeed due to his personal character, to acquaint the aforesaid Winkle, senior, personally, and by word of mouth, with the whole circumstances of the case, and with the share he had taken in the transaction.

Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass arrived, most opportunely, in this stage of the pleadings, and as it was necessary to explain to them all that had occurred, together with the various reasons pro and con, the whole of the arguments were gone over again, after which everybody urged every argument in his own way, and at his own length. And, at last, Mr. Pickwick, fairly argued and remonstrated out of all his resolutions, and being in imminent danger of being argued and remonstrated out of his wits, caught Arabella in his arms, and declaring that she was a very amiable creature, and that he didn't know how it was, but he had always been very fond of her from the first, said he could never find it in his heart to stand in the way of young people's happiness, and they might do with him as they pleased.

Mr. Weller's first act, on hearing this concession, was to despatch Job Trotter to the illustrious Mr. Pell, with an authority to deliver to the bearer the formal discharge which his prudent parent had had the foresight to leave in the hands of that learned gentleman, in case it should be, at any time, required on an emergency; his next proceeding was, to invest his whole stock of ready money, in the purchase of five-and-twenty gallons of mild porter: which he himself dispensed on the racket ground to everybody who would partake of it; this done, he hurra'd in divers parts of the building until he lost his voice, and then quietly relapsed into his usual collected and philosophical condition.

At three o'clock that afternoon, Mr. Pickwick took a last look at his little room, and made his way, as well as he could, through the throng of debtors who pressed eagerly forward to shake him by the hand, until he reached the


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 You must prevent mischief, my dear sir. Hot blood, hot blood." And the little man took a warning pinch, and shook his head doubtfully.

"You forget, my love," said Mr. Pickwick, gently, "you forget that I am a prisoner."

"No, indeed I do not, my dear sir," replied Arabella. "I never have forgotten it. I have never ceased to think how great your sufferings must have been in this shocking place. But I hoped that what no consideration for yourself would induce you to do, a regard to our happiness, might. If my brother hears of this, first, from you, I feel certain we shall be reconciled. He is my only relation in the world, Mr. Pickwick, and unless you plead for me, I fear I have lost even him. I have done wrong, very, very wrong, I know." Here poor Arabella hid her face in her handkerchief, and wept bitterly.

Mr. Pickwick's nature was a good deal worked upon, by these same tears; but when Mrs. Winkle, drying her eyes, took to coaxing and entreating in the sweetest tones of a very sweet voice, he became particularly restless, and evidently undecided how to act. As was evinced by sundry nervous rubbings of his spectacle-glasses, nose, tights, head, and gaiters.

Taking advantage of these symptoms of indecision, Mr. Perker (to whom, it appeared, the young couple had driven straight that morning) urged with legal point and shrewdness that Mr. Winkle, senior, was still unacquainted with the important rise in life's flight of steps which his son had taken; that the future expectations of the said son depended entirely upon the said Winkle, senior, continuing to regard him with undiminished feelings of affection and attachment, which it was very unlikely he would, if this great event were long kept a secret from him; that Mr. Pickwick, repairing to Bristol to seek Mr. Allen, might, with equal reason, repair to Birmingham to seek Mr. Winkle, senior; lastly, that Mr. Winkle, senior, had good right and title


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 decided as they thought right, and it is against you. You have now an opportunity, on easy terms, of placing yourself in a much higher position than you ever could, by remaining here; which would only be imputed, by people who didn't know you, to sheer dogged, wrongheaded, brutal obstinacy: nothing else, my dear sir, believe me. Can you hesitate to avail yourself of it, when it restores you to your friends, your old pursuits, your health and amusements; when it liberates your faithful and attached servant, whom you otherwise doom to imprisonment for the whole of your life; and above all, when it enables you to take the very magnanimous revenge—which I know, my dear sir, is one after your own heart—of releasing this woman from a scene of misery and debauchery, to which no man should ever be consigned, if I had my will, but the infliction of which on any woman, is even more frightful and barbarous. Now I ask you, my dear sir, not only as your legal adviser, but as your very true friend, will you let slip the occasion of attaining all these objects, and doing all this good, for the paltry consideration of a few pounds finding their way into the pockets of a couple of rascals, to whom it makes no manner of difference, except that the more they gain, the more they'll seek, and so the sooner be led into some piece of knavery that must end in a crash? I have put these considerations to you, my dear sir, very feebly and imperfectly, but I ask you to think of them. Turn them over in your mind as long as you please. I wait here most patiently for your answer."

Before Mr. Pickwick could reply; before Mr. Perker had taken one twentieth part of the snuff with which so unusually long an address imperatively required to be followed up; there was a low murmuring of voices outside, and then a hesitating knock at the door.

"Dear, dear," exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had been evidently roused by his friend's appeal; "what an annoyance that door is! Who is that?"

"Me, sir," replied Sam Weller, putting in his head.


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 "Never mind me," replied Job. "I can sleep anywhere. But won't it be better to see Mr. Perker to-night, so that we may be there, the first thing in the morning?"

"Why," responded Lowten, after a little consideration. "if it was in anybody else's case, Perker wouldn't be best pleased at my going up to his house; but as it's Mr. Pickwick's, I think I may venture to take a cab and charge it to the office." Deciding on this line of conduct, Mr. Lowten took up his hat, and begging the assembled company to appoint a deputy chairman during his temporary absence, led the way to the nearest coach-stand. Summoning the cab of most promising appearance, he directed the driver to repair to Montague Place, Russell Square.

Mr. Perker had had a dinner party that day, as was testified by the appearance of lights in the drawing-room windows, the sound of an improved grand piano, and an improvable cabinet voice issuing therefrom, and a rather overpowering smell of meat which pervaded the steps and entry. In fact a couple of very good country agencies happening to come up to town, at the same time, an agreeable little party had been got together to meet them: comprising Mr. Snicks the Life Office Secretary, Mr. Prosee the eminent counsel, three solicitors, one commissioner of bankrupts, a special pleader from the Temple, a small-eyed peremptory young gentleman, his pupil, who had written a lively book about. the law of demises, with a vast quantity of marginal notes and references; and several other eminent and distinguished personages. From this society, little Mr. Perker detached himself, on his clerk being announced in a whisper; and repairing to the dining-room, there found Mr. Lowten and Job Trotter looking very dim and shadowy by the light of a kitchen candle, which the gentleman who condescended to appear in plush shorts and cottons for a quarterly stipend, had, with a becoming contempt for the clerk and all things appertaining to "the office," placed upon the table.

"Now, Lowten," said little Mr. Perker, shutting the door,


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 "Run to Mr. Perker's, Job. I want him directly. I see some good in this. Here's a game. Hooray! were's the gov'nor?"

But there was no reply to these inquiries, for Job had started furiously off, the instant he received his commission, and Mrs. Bardell had fainted in real downright earnest.


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278 of Shakespeare by Foerson (1777-1817), of Homer and Euripides by (1797-1840), and of Shakespeare and a part of Byron by  (born 1815), it is the best of what has hitherto been translated from the foreign classics into Danish.

(born 1823) is to be mentioned less on account of his poetical productions than on account of his really valuable work on Baggesen and Oehlenschläger.

Among the prose writers of recent times, the two pseudonyms, and, have addressed themselves to the public at large, and must be regarded as popular writers in the best sense of that word. The former, (born 1807), has published a number of novels, mostly treating of popular heroes, such as Tordenskjold, Niels Juel and others, and presenting faithful, vivid pictures of the same. These books have had a very wide circulation, and have contributed much to awakening among the people a taste for national history. The latter, (born 1820), describes in his numerous tales episodes from Danish history, or scenes from the popular life of Jutland, with which he is almost as familiar as Blicher, and thus he may in one sense be regarded as his successor. He has a lively, sometimes even an unbridled, imagination, and a fresh and fluent style which makes his works both attractive and amusing. His most successful works are a series of descriptions from the middle of the seventeenth century, when Denmark was threatened with the Swedish yoke. Among these are "Dronningens Vagtmester" and "Gjöngehövdingen" (the chief of the Gjonges), a small clan in northern Scania. He has also written several sketches of modern life with its social conflicts, but in these he has not been successful.


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 greater part of his fellow prisoners were in bed or carousing in their rooms. His health was beginning to suffer from the closeness of the confinement, but neither the often-repeated entreaties of Perker and his friends, nor the still more frequently-repeated warnings and admonitions of Mr. Samuel Weller, could induce him to alter one jot of his inflexible resolution.


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 heart broke when my child died, and I could not even kiss him in his little coffin. My loneliness since then, in all this noise and riot, has been very dreadful. May God forgive me! He has seen my solitary, lingering death."

He folded his hands, and murmuring something more they could not hear, fell into a sleep—only a sleep at first, for they saw him smile.

They whispered together for a little time, and the turnkey, stooping over the pillow, drew hastily back. "He has got his discharge, by G—!" said the man.

He had. But he had grown so like death in life, that they knew not when he died.


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 This law of our nature, which is so often brought to bear upon intellectual progress, should be enlisted as an adjunct in moral education. Can we be too attentive to the habits that our children form 1 too assiduous that the virtues which we cherish in them, should have a deep root in correct principle? We wish them to be- come benevolent. The proper basis of their bene- volence, is sympathetic feeling, a desire for the comfort and improvement of others, in conformity to the command and example of their Heavenly Father.

That fine sentiment of Terence, "I am a man, and therefore I feel for all mankind," might be uttered with additional emphasis by our sex, whose sympathies should be ever kept in action, by our own infirmities, dependences, and sorrows. Let us therefore, in our domestic teachings, strive to extirpate selfishness, especially from the breasts of our daughters. Selfishness is not to be en- dured in woman. In the catalogue of her faults, we do not expect to have forbearance with that. It wars with the nature of her duties, and sub- verts her happiness. It will be found on a com- parative analysis of character, that those females who through life have been distinguished for true goodness, were eminently disinterested.

Forgetfulness of self, and that amiable temper which at once ensures and imparts happiness, are

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 "No, no," said Mr. Winkle, colouring beneath Mr. Pickwick's gaze; "there is really nothing. I assure you there is nothing, my dear sir. It will be necessary for me to leave town, for a short time, on private business, and I had hoped to have prevailed upon you to allow Sam to accompany me."

Mr. Pickwick looked more astonished than before.

"I think," faltered Mr. Winkle, "that Sam would have had no objection to do so; but, of course, his being a prisoner here, renders it impossible. So I must go alone."

As Mr. Winkle said these words, Mr. Pickwick felt, with some astonishment, that Sam's fingers were trembling at the gaiters, as if he were rather surprised or startled. Sam looked up at Mr. Winkle, too, when he had finished speaking; and though the glance they exchanged was instantaneous, they seemed to understand each other.

"Do you know anything of this, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick, sharply.

"No, I don't, sir," replied Mr. Weller, beginning to button with extraordinary assiduity.

"Are you sure, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick.

"Wy, sir," responded Mr. Weller; "I'm sure so far, that I've never heerd anythin' on the subject afore this moment. If I makes any guess about it," added Sam, looking at Mr. Winkle, "I haven't got any right to say what it is, 'fear it should be a wrong 'un."

"I have no right to make any further inquiry into the private affairs of a friend, however intimate a friend," said Mr. Pickwick, after a short silence; "at present let me merely say, that I do not understand this at all. There. We have had quite enough of the subject."

Thus expressing himself, Mr. Pickwick led the conversation to different topics, and Mr. Winkle gradually appeared more at ease, though still very far from being completely so. They had all so much to converse about, that the morning very quickly passed away; and when, at three o'clock, Mr. Weller produced upon the little dining table, a roast leg of mutton


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 "What's that?" inquired Sam.

"A legal instrument, which is as much as to say, it's no go," replied the cobbler.

"I see," said Sam, "a sort of brother-in-law o' the havehis-carcase. Well."

"But," continued the cobbler, "finding that they couldn't agree among themselves, and consequently couldn't get up a case against the will, they withdrew the caveat, and I paid all the legacies. I'd hardly done it, when one nevy brings an action to set the will aside. The case comes on, some months afterwards, afore a deaf old gentleman, in a back room somewhere down by Paul's Churchyard; and arter four counsels had taken a day a-piece to bother him regularly, he takes a week or two to consider, and read the evidence in six vollums, and then gives his judgment that how the testator was not quite right in his head, and I must pay all the money back again, and all the costs. I appealed; the case come on before three or four very sleepy gentlemen, who had heard it all before in the other court, where they're lawyers without work; the only difference being, that, there, they're called doctors, and in the other place delegates, if you understand that; and they very dutifully confirmed the decision of the old gentleman below. After that, we went into Chancery, where we are still, and where I shall always be. My lawyers have had all my thousand pound long ago; and what between the estate, as they call it, and the costs, I'm here for ten thousand, and shall stop here, till I die, mending shoes. Some gentlemen have talked of bringing it afore parliament, and I dare say would have done it, only they hadn't time to come to me, and I hadn't power to go to them, and they got tired of my long letters, and dropped the business. And this is God's truth, without one word of suppression or exaggeration, as fifty people, both in this place and out of it, very well know."

The cobbler paused to ascertain what effect his story had produced on Sam; but finding that he had dropped asleep,


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 says the doctor. I'll send you a box of pills directly, and don't you never take no more of 'em,' he says. No more o' wot?' says the patient—'Pills?' 'No; crumpets,' says the doctor. Wy?' says the patient, starting up in bed; I've eat four crumpets, ev'ry night for fifteen year, on principle. Well, then, you'd better leave 'em off, on principle,' says the doctor. Crumpets is wholesome, sir,' says the patient. 'Crumpets is not wholesome, sir,' says the doctor, wery fierce. comin' down a little, But they're so cheap,' says the patient, and so wery fillin' at the price.' They'd be dear to you, at any price; dear if you wos paid to eat 'em,' says the doctor. Four crumpets a night,' he says, 'vill do your business in six months!' The patient looks him full in the face, and turns it over in his mind for a long time, and at last he says, 'Are you sure o' that 'ere, sir?' 'I'll stake my professional reputation on it,' says the doctor. 'How many crumpets, at a sittin', do you think 'ud kill me off at once?' says the patient. I don't know,' says the doctor. 'Do you think half a crown's wurth 'ud do it?' says the patient. I think it might,' says the doctor. Three shillins' wurth 'ud be sure to do it, I s'pose?' says the patient. 'Certainly,' says the doctor. Wery good,' says the patient; 'good night.' Next mornin' he gets up, has a fire lit, orders in three shillins' wurth o' crumpets, toasts 'em all, eats 'em all, and blows his brains out."

"What did he do that for?" inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly; for he was considerably startled by this tragical termination of the narrative.

"Wot did he do it for, sir?" reiterated Sam. "Wy in support of his great principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that he wouldn't be put out of his way for nobody!"

With such like shiftings and changings of the discourse, did Mr. Weller meet his master's questioning on the night of his taking up his residence in the Fleet. Finding all gentle remonstrance useless, Mr. Pickwick at length yielded a


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 suits a year, and send back the old uns. Being a wery reg'lar gen'l'm'n, he din'd ev'ry day at the same place, where it wos one and nine to cut off the joint, and a wery good one and nine's worth he used to cut, as the landlord often said, with the tears a tricklin' down his face: let alone the way he used to poke the fire in the vinter time, which wos a dead loss o' four-pence ha'penny a day: to say nothin' at all o' the aggrawation o' seein' him do it. So uncommon grand with it too! Post arter the next gen'lm'n', he sings out ev'ry day ven he comes in. 'See arter the Times, Thomas; let me look at the Mornin' Herald, wen it's out o' hand; don't forget to bespeak the Chronicle; and just bring the "Tizer, vill you:' and then he'd set vith his eyes fixed on the clock, and rush out, just a quarter of a minit afore the time, to waylay the boy as wos a comin' in with the evenin' paper, wich he'd read with sich intense interest and persewerance as worked the other customers up to the wery confines o' desperation and insanity, 'specially one i-rascible old gen'l'm'n as the vaiter wos always obliged to keep a sharp eye on, at sich times, fear he should be tempted to commit some rash act with the carving knife. Vell, sir, here he'd stop, occupyin' the best place for three hours, and never takin' nothin' arter his dinner, but sleep, and then he'd go away to a coffee-house a few streets off, and have a small pot o' coffee and four crumpets, arter wich he'd walk home to Kensington and go to bed. One night he wos took very ill; sends for a doctor; doctor comes in a green fly, with a kind o' Robinson Crusoe set o' steps, as he could let down wen he got out, and pull up arter him wen he got in, to perwent the necessity o' the coachman's gettin' down, and thereby undeceivin' the public by lettin' 'em see that it wos only a livery coat as he'd got on, and not the trousers to match. Wot's the matter?" says the doctor. 'Wery ill,' says the patient. Wot have you been a eatin' on?" says the doctor. Roast weal,' says the patient. Wot's the last thing you dewoured?' says the doctor.. Crumpets,' says the patient. "That's it!"


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 Deferring to his son's feeling upon this point, Mr. Weller at once sought the erudite Solomon Pell, and acquainted him with his desire to issue a writ, instantly, for the sum of twenty-five pounds, and costs of process; to be executed without delay upon the body of one Samuel Weller; the charges thereby incurred, to be paid in advance to Solomon Pell.

The attorney was in high glee, for the embarrassed coach-horser was ordered to be discharged forthwith. He highly approved of Sam's attachment to his master; declared that it strongly reminded him of his own feelings of devotion to his friend, the Chancellor; and at once led the elder Mr. Weller down to the Temple, to swear the affidavit of debt, which the boy, with the assistance of the blue bag, had drawn up on the spot.

Meanwhile, Sam, having been formally introduced to the whitewashed gentleman and his friends, as the offspring of Mr. Weller, of the Belle Savage, was treated with marked distinction, and invited to regale himself with them in honour of the occasion; an invitation which he was by no means backward in accepting.

The mirth of gentlemen of this class is of a grave and quiet character, usually; but the present instance was one of peculiar festivity, and they relaxed in proportion. After some rather tumultuous toasting of the Chief Commissioner and Mr. Solomon Pell, who had that day displayed such transcendent abilities, a mottled-faced gentleman in a blue shawl proposed that somebody should sing a song. The obvious suggestion was, that the mottled-faced gentleman, being anxious for a song, should sing it himself; but this the mottled-faced gentleman sturdily, and somewhat offensively, declined to do. Upon which, as is not unusual in such cases, a rather angry colloquy ensued.

“Gentlemen,” said the coach-horser, "rather than disturb the harmony of this delightful occasion, perhaps Mr. Samuel Weller will oblige the company."


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 good deal looked up to, in my profession--it may be that I am not. Most people know. I say nothing. Observations have already been made, in this room, injurious to the reputation of my noble friend. You will excuse me, gentle- men; I was imprudent. I feel that I have no right to mention this matter without his concurrence. Thank you, sir; thank you." Thus delivering himself, Mr. Pell thrust his hands into his pockets, and, frowning grimly around, rattled three- halfpence with terrible determination.

This virtuous resolution had scarcely been formed, when the boy and the blue bag, who were inseparable companions, rushed violently into the room, and said (at least the boy did, for the blue bag took no part in the announcement) that the case was coming on directly. The intelligence was no sooner received than the whole party hurried across the street, and began to fight their way into Court--a preparatory ceremony, which has been calculated to occupy, in ordinary cases, from twenty-five minutes to thirty.

Mr. Weller, being stout, cast himself at once into the crowd, with the desperate hope of ultimately turning up in some place which would suit him. His success was not quite equal to his expectations; for having neglected to take his hat off, it was knocked over his eyes by some unseen person, upon whose toes he had alighted with considerable force. Apparently, this individual regretted his impetuosity im- mediately afterwards; for, muttering an indistinct exclama- tion of surprise, he dragged the old man out into the hall, and, after a violent struggle, released his head and face.

"Samivel!" exclaimed Mr. Weller, when he was thus enabled to behold his rescuer.

Sam nodded.

"You're a dutiful and affectionate little boy, you are, ain't you?" said Mr. Weller, "to come a bonnetin' your father in his old age?"

"How should I know who you wos?" responded the son. "Do you s'pose I wos to tell you by the weight o' your foot?"


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 least shadow of business in, or the remotest connection with, the place they so indefatigably attend. If they had, it would be no matter of surprise, and the singularity of the thing would cease. Some of them sleep during the greater part of the sitting; others carry small portable dinners wrapped in pocket-haviefs or sticking out of their worn-out pockets, and munch and listen with equal relish; but no one among them was ever known to have the slightest personal interest in any case that was ever brought forward. Whatever they do, there they sit from the first moment to the last. When it is heavy rainy weather, they all come in, wet through; and at such times the vapours of the Court are like those of a fungus-pit.

A casual visitor might suppose this place to be a Temple dedicated to the Genius of Seediness. There is not a messenger or process-server attached to it, who wears a coat that was mar made for him; not a tolerably fresh, or wholesome-looking man in the whole establishment, except a little white-headed apple-faced tipstaff, and even he, like an ill-conditioned cherry preserved in brandy, seems to have artificially dried and withered up into a state of preservation to which he can lay no natural claim. The very barristers wigs are ill-powdered, and their curls lack crispness.

But the attorneys, who sit at a large bare table below the Commissioners, are, after all, the greatest curiosities. The professional establishment of the more opulent of these gentlemen, consists of a blue bag and a boy: generally a youth of the Jewish persuasion. They have no fixed offices, their legal business being transacted in the parlours of public-houses, or the yards of prisons: whither they repair in crowds, and canvass for customers after the manner of omnibus cads. They are of a greasy and mildewed appearance; and if they can be said to have any vices at all, perhaps drinking and cheating are the most conspicuous among them. Their residences are usually on the outskirts of "the Rules," chiefly lying within a circle of one mile from the obelisk in St.


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 of succeeding ages, the just and wholesome law which declares that the sturdy felon shall be fed and clothed, and that the penniless debtor shall be left to die of starvation and nakedness. This is no fiction. Not a week passes over our heads, but, in every one of our prisons for debt, some of these men must inevitably expire in the slow agonies of want, if they were not relieved by their fellow-prisoners.

Turning these things in his mind, as he mounted the narrow staircase at the foot of which Roker had left him, Mr. Pickwick gradually point; and so excited worked himself to the boiling-over was he with his reflections on this subject, that he had burst into the room to which he had been directed, before he had any distinct recollection, either of the place in which he was, or of the object of his visit.

The general aspect of the room recalled him to himself at once; but he had no sooner cast his eyes on the figure of a man who was brooding over the dusty fire, than, letting his hat fall on the floor, he stood perfectly fixed, and immoveable, with astonishment.

Yes; in tattered garments, and without a coat; his common calico shirt, yellow and in rags; his hair hanging over his face; his features changed with suffering, and pinched with famine; there sat Mr. Alfred Jingle: his head resting on his hand, his eyes fixed upon the fire, and his whole appearance denoting misery and dejection!

Near him, leaning listlessly against the wall, stood a strong-built countryman, flicking with a worn-out hunting-whip the top-boot that adorned his right foot: his left being (for he dressed by easy stages) thrust into an old slipper. Horses, dogs, and drink, had brought him there, pell-mell. There was a rusty spur on the solitary boot, which he occasionally jerked into the empty air, at the same time giving the boot a smart blow, and muttering some of the sounds by which a sportsman encourages his horse. He was riding, in imagination, some desperate steeple-chase at that moment. Poor wretch! He never rode a match on the swiftest animal in his costly stud,


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 "Why, yes," said Mr. Pickwick, who had been musing deeply for some time. "Are there any people here, who run on errands, and so forth?"

"Outside, do you mean?" inquired Mr. Roker.

"Yes. I mean who are able to go outside. Not prisoners."

"Yes, there is," said Roker. "There's an unfortunate devil, who has got a friend on the poor side, that's glad to do anything of that sort. He's been running odd jobs, and that, for the last two months. Shall I send him?"

"If you please," rejoined Mr. Pickwick. "Stay; no. The poor side, you say? I should like to see it. I'll go to him myself."

The poor side of a debtor's prison, is, as its name imports, that in which the most miserable and abject class of debtors are confined. A prisoner having declared upon the poor side, pays neither rent nor chummage. His fees, upon entering and leaving the gaol, are reduced in amount, and he becomes entitled to a share of some small quantities of food: to provide which, a few charitable persons have, from time to time, left trifling legacies in their wills. Most of our readers will remember, that, until within a very few years past, there was a kind of iron cage in the wall of the Fleet Prison, within which was posted some man of hungry looks, who, from time to time, rattled a money-box, and exclaimed in a mournful voice, "Pray, remember the poor debtors; pray, remember the poor debtors." The receipts of this box, when there were any, were divided among the poor prisoners; and the men on the poor side relieved each other in this degrading office.

Although this custom has been abolished, and the cage is now boarded up, the miserable and destitute condition of these unhappy persons remains the same. We no longer suffer them to appeal at the prison gates to the charity and compassion of the passers by; but we still leave unblotted in the leaves of our statute book, for the reverence and admiration


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 The man gathered up the money with a trembling hand, and replied that he didn't know yet; he must go and see where he could move his bed to.

"I am afraid, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand gently and compassionately on his arm; "I am afraid you will have to live in some noisy crowded place. Now, pray, consider this room your own when you want quiet, or when any of your friends come to see you."

"Friends!" interposed the man, in a voice which rattled in his throat. "If I lay dead at the bottom of the deepest mine in the world; tight screwed down and soldered in my coffin; rotting in the dark and filthy ditch that drags its slime along, beneath the foundations of this prison; I could not be more forgotten or unheeded than I am here. I am a dead man; dead to society, without the pity they bestow on those whose souls have passed to judgment. Friends to see me! My God! I have sunk, from the prime of life into old age, in this place, and there is not one to raise his hand above my bed when I lie dead upon it, and say, 'It is a blessing he is gone!

The excitement, which had cast an unwonted light over the man's face, while he spoke, subsided as he concluded; and, pressing his withered hands together in a hasty and disordered manner, he shuffled from the room.

"Rides rather rusty," said Mr. Roker, with a smile. "Ah! they're like the elephants. They feel it now and then, and it makes 'em wild!"

Having made this deeply-sympathising remark, Mr. Roker entered upon his arrangements with such expedition, that in a short time the room was furnished with a carpet, six chairs, a table, a sofa bedstead, a tea-kettle, and various small articles, on hire, at the very reasonable rate of sevenand-twenty shillings and sixpence per week.

"Now, is there anything more we can do for you?" inquired Mr. Roker, looking round with great satisfaction, and gaily chinking the first week's hire in his closed fist.


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 a gentleman, were concluded, Mr. Mivins had betaken himself to bed, and had set in snoring for the night: leaving the timid stranger and Mr. Pickwick to the full benefit of Mr. Smangle's experiences.

Nor were the two last-named gentlemen as much edified as they might have been, by the moving passages narrated. Mr. Pickwick had been in a state of slumber for some time, when he had a faint perception of the drunken man bursting out afresh with the comic song, and receiving from Mr. Smangle a gentle intimation, through the medium of the water jug, that his audience were not musically disposed. Mr. Pickwick then once again dropped off to sleep, with a confused consciousness that Mr. Smangle was still engaged in relating a long story, the chief point of which appeared to be, that, on some occasion particularly stated and set forth, he had "done" a bill and a gentleman at the same time.


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 like to taste the porter, sir? Allow me to have the felicity of hanging up your nightcap, sir."

With this, the speaker snatched that article of dress from Mr. Pickwick's head, and fixed it in a twinkling on that of the drunken man, who, firmly impressed with the belief that. he was delighting a numerous assembly, continued to hammer away at the comic song in the most melancholy strains imaginable.

Taking a man's nightcap from his brow by violent means, and adjusting it on the head of an unknown gentleman of dirty exterior, however ingenious a witticism in itself, is unquestionably one of those which come under the denomination of practical jokes. Viewing the matter precisely in this light, Mr. Pickwick, without the slightest intimation of his purpose, sprang vigorously out of bed, struck the Zephyr so smart a blow in the chest as to deprive him of a considerable portion of the commodity which sometimes bears his name, and then, recapturing his nightcap, boldly placed himself in an attitude of defence.

"Now," said Mr. Pickwick, gasping no less from excitement than from the expenditure of so much energy, come on—both of you—both of you!" With this liberal invitation the worthy gentleman communicated a revolving motion to his clenched fists, by way of appalling his antagonists with a display of science.

It might have been Mr. Pickwick's very unexpected gallantry, or it might have been the complicated manner in which he had got himself out of bed, and fallen all in a mass upon the hornpipe man, that touched his adversaries. Touched they were; for, instead of then and there making an attempt to commit manslaughter, as Mr. Pickwick implicitly believed they would have done, they paused, stared at each other a short time, and finally laughed outright.

"Well; you're a trump, and I like you all the better for it," said the Zephyr. "Now jump into bed again, or you'll catch the rheumatics. No malice, I hope?" said the man,


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 would almost seem to be considerately provided by the Legislature for the sole purpose of rearing them.

He was a tall fellow, with an olive complexion, long dark hair, and very thick bushy whiskers meeting under his chin. He wore no neckerchief, as he had been playing rackets all day, and his open shirt collar displayed their full luxuriance. On his head he wore one of the common eighteenpenny French skull-caps, with a gawdy tassel dangling therefrom, very happily in keeping with a common fustian coat. His legs: which, being long, were afflicted with weakness: graced a pair of Oxford-mixture trousers, made to show the full symmetry of those limbs. Being somewhat negligently braced, however, and, morover, but imperfectly buttoned, they fell in a series of not the most graceful folds over a pair of shoes sufficiently down at heel to display a pair of very soiled white stockings. There was a rakish, vagabond smartness, and a kind of boastful rascality, about the whole man, that was worth a mine of gold.

This figure was the first to perceive that Mr. Pickwick was looking on; upon which he winked to the Zephyr, and entreated him, with mock gravity, not to wake the gentleman.

"Why, bless the gentleman's honest heart and soul!" said the Zephyr, turning round and affecting the extremity of surprise; "the gentleman is awake. Hem, Shakespeare! How do you do, sir? How is Mary and Sarah, sir? and the dear old lady at home, sir? Will you have the kindness to put my compliments into the first little parcel you're sending that way, sir, and say that I would have sent 'em before, only I was afraid they might be broken in the waggon, sir?"

"Don't overwhelm the gentleman with ordinary civilities when you see he's anxious to have something to drink," said the gentleman with the whiskers, with a jocose air. "Why don't you ask the gentleman what he'll take?"

"Dear me, I quite forgot," replied the other. "What will you take, sir? Will you take port wine, sir, or sherry wine, sir? I can recommend the ale, sir; or perhaps you'd


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 he began to be conscious that he was getting sleepy; whereupon he took his nightcap out of the pocket in which he had had the precaution to stow it in the morning, and, leisurely undressing himself, got into bed, and fell asleep.

"Bravo! Heel over toe—cut and shuffle—pay away at it, Zephyr! I'm smothered if the Opera House isn't your proper hemisphere. Keep it up! Hooray!" These expressions, delivered in a most boisterous tone, and accompanied with loud peals of laughter, roused Mr. Pickwick from one of those sound slumbers which, lasting in reality some half hour, seem to the sleeper to have been protracted for three weeks or a month.

The voice had no sooner ceased than the room was shaken with such violence that the windows rattled in their frames, and the bedsteads trembled again. Mr. Pickwick started up, and remained for some minutes fixed in mute astonishment at the scene before him.

On the floor of the room, a man in a broad-skirted green coat, with corderoy knee smalls and grey cotton stockings, was performing the most popular steps of a hornpipe, with a slang and burlesque caricature of grace and lightness, which, combined with the very appropriate character of his costume, was inexpressibly absurd. Another man, evidently very drunk, who had probably been tumbled into bed by his companions, was sitting up between the sheets, warbling as much as he could recollect of a comic song, with the most intensely sentimental feeling and expression; while a third, seated on one of the bedsteads, was applauding both performers with the air of a profound connoisseur, and encouraging them by such ebullitions of feeling as had already roused Mr. Pickwick from his sleep.

This last man was an admirable specimen of a class of gentry which never can be seen in full perfection but in such places;—they may be met with, in an imperfect state, occasionally about stable-yards and public-houses; but they never attain their full bloom except in these hot-beds, which


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 he depression of spirit and sinking of heart, naturally consequent on the reflection that he was cooped and caged up, without a prospect of liberation. As to the idea of releasing himself by ministering to the sharpness of Dodson and Fogg, it never for an instant entered his thoughts.

In this frame of mind he turned again into the coffee-room gallery, and walked slowly to and fro. The place was intolerably dirty, and the smell of tobacco-smoke perfectly suffocating. There was a perpetual slamming and banging of doors as the people went in and out; and the noise of their voices and footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the passages constantly. A young woman, with a child in her arms, who seemed scarcely able to crawl, from emaciation and misery, was walking up and down the passage in conversation with her husband, who had no other place to see her in. As they passed Mr. Pickwick, he could hear the female sob; and once she burst into such a passion of grief, that she was compelled to lean against the wall for support, while the man took the child in his arms, and tried to soothe her.

Mr. Pickwick's heart was really too full to bear it, and he went up stairs to bed.

Now, although the warden's room was a very uncomfortable one (being, in every point of decoration and convenience, several hundred degrees inferior to the common infirmary of a county gaol), it had at present the merit of being wholly deserted save by Mr. Pickwick himself. So, he sat down at the foot of his little iron bedstead, and began to wonder how much a year the warden made out of the dirty room. Having satisfied himself, by mathematical calculation, that the apartment was about equal in annual value to the freehold of a small street in the suburbs of London, he took to wondering what possible temptation could have induced a dingy-looking fly that was crawling over his pantaloons, to come into a close prison, when he had the choice of so many airy situations a course of meditation which led him to the irresistible conclusion that the insect was mad. After settling this point,


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 how the time vent, or care nothin' at all about it, and he vent on gettin' later and later, till vun night his old friend wos just a shuttin' the gate—had turned the key in fact—wen he come up. Hold hard, Bill,' he says. 'Wot, ain't you come home yet, Tventy?' says the turnkey, 'I thought you wos in, long ago.' 'No I wasn't,' says the little man, vith a smile. "Well then, I'll tell you wot it is, my friend,' says the turnkey; openin' the gate wery slow and sulky, 'it's my 'pinion as you've got into bad company o' late, which I'm wery sorry to see. Now, I don't wish to do nothing harsh,' he says, 'but if you can't confine yourself to steady circles, and find your vay back at reg'lar hours, as sure as you're a standin' there, I'll shut you out altogether!' The little man was seized vith a wiolent fit o' tremblin', and never vent outside the prison walls artervards!"

As Sam concluded, Mr. Pickwick slowly retraced his steps down stairs. After a few thoughtful turns in the Painted Ground, which, as it was now dark, was nearly deserted, he intimated to Mr. Weller that he thought it high time for him to withdraw for the night; requesting him to seek a bed in some adjacent public-house, and return early in the morning, to make arrangements for the removal of his master's wardrobe from the George and Vulture. This request Mr. Samuel Weller prepared to obey, with as good a grace as he could assume, but with a very considerable show of reluctance nevertheless. He even went so far as to essay sundry ineffectual hints regarding the expediency of stretching himself on the gravel for that night; but finding Mr. Pickwick obstinately deaf to any such suggestions, finally withdrew.

There is no disguising the fact that Mr. Pickwick felt very low-spirited and uncomfortable; not for lack of society, for the prison was very full, and a bottle of wine would at once have purchased the utmost good-fellowship of a few choice spirits, without any more formal ceremony of introduction; but he was alone in the coarse vulgar crowd, and felt


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 "And I s'pose," said Sam, with a sidelong glance at his master, as if to see whether there were any symptoms of his determination being shaken by what passed, "I s'pose the other gen'l'men as sleeps here, are gen'l'men."

"Nothing but it," said Mr. Roker. "One of 'em takes his twelve pints of ale a-day, and never leaves off smoking even at his meals."

"He must be a first-rater," said Sam.

"A, 1," replied Mr. Roker.

Nothing daunted, even by this intelligence, Mr. Pickwick smilingly announced his determination to test the powers of the narcotic bedstead for that night; and Mr. Roker, after informing him that he could retire to rest at whatever hour he thought proper, without any further notice or formality, walked off, leaving him standing with Sam in the gallery.

It was getting dark; that is to say, a few gas jets were kindled in this place which was never light, by way of compliment to the evening, which had set in outside. As it was rather warm, some of the tenants of the numerous little rooms which opened into the gallery on either hand, had set their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwick peeped into them as he passed along, with great curiosity and interest. Here four or five great hulking fellows, just visible through a cloud of tobacco-smoke, were engaged in noisy and riotous conversation over half-emptied pots of beer, or playing at all-fours with a very greasy pack of cards. In the adjoining room, some solitary tenant might be seen, poring, by the light of a feeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers, yellow with dust and dropping to pieces from age: writing, for the hundredth time, some lengthened statement of his grievances, for the perusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach, or whose heart it would never touch. In a third, a man, with his wife and a whole crowd of children, might be seen making up a scanty bed on the ground, or upon a few chairs, for the younger ones to pass the night in. And in a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh, the noise,