t us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass,' said he.
This proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous applause.
Having himself deposited the important stone in a small deal box,
purchased from the landlady for the purpose, he placed himself in an
arm-chair, at the head of the table; and the evening was devoted to
festivity and conversation.

It was past eleven o'clock--a late hour for the little village of
Cobham--when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bedroom which had been prepared
for his reception. He threw open the lattice window, and setting his
light upon the table, fell into a train of meditation on the hurried
events of the two preceding days.

The hour and the place were both favourable to contemplation; Mr.
Pickwick was roused by the church clock striking twelve. The first
stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bell ceased
the stillness seemed insupportable--he almost felt as if he had lost a
companion. He was nervous and excited; and hastily undressing himself
and placing his light in the chimney, got into bed.

Every one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in which a
sensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against an inability to
sleep. It was Mr. Pickwick's condition at this moment: he tossed first
on one side and then on the other; and perseveringly closed his eyes
as if to coax himself to slumber. It was of no use. Whether it was
the unwonted exertion he had undergone, or the heat, or the
brandy-and-water, or the strange bed--whatever it was, his thoughts kept
reverting very uncomfortably to the grim pictures downstairs, and the
old stories to which they had given rise in the course of the evening.
After half an hour's tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory
conclusion, that it was of no use trying to sleep; so he got up and
partially dressed himself. Anything, he thought, was better than lying
there fancying all kinds of horrors. He looked out of the window--it was
very dark. He walked about the room--it was very lonely.

He had taken a few turns from the door to the window, and from the
window to the door, when the clergyman's manuscript for the first time
entered his head. It was a good thought. If it failed to interest him,
it might send him to sleep. He took it from his coat pocket, and
drawing a small table towards his bedside, trimmed the light, put on his
spectacles, and composed himself to read. It was a strange handwriting