21. It was at this very moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching the hole with cautious steps and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a hurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleeding the company generally, as an improving little bit of professional practice,--it was at this very moment that a face, head, and shoulders emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick.

22. "Keep yourself up for an instant, for only one instant," bawled Mr.

Snodgra.s.s.

"Yes--do: let me implore you--for my sake," roared Mr. Winkle, deeply affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being, that, if Mr. Pickwick had not decided to keep himself up for anybody else's sake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so for his own.

"Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?" said Wardle.

"Yes--certainly," replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head and face, and gasping for breath. "I fell upon my back. I couldn't get on my feet at first."

23. The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat as was yet visible bore testimony to the accuracy of this statement; and, as the fears of the spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy's suddenly recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodigies of valor were performed to get him out. After a vast quant.i.ty of splashing and cracking and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated from his unpleasant situation, and once more stood on dry land.

24. Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started off for home, presenting the singular phenomenon of an elderly gentleman dripping wet, and without a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground without any clearly defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an hour.

CHARLES d.i.c.kENS.

THE REALM OF FANCY.

I.

Ever let the Fancy roam; Pleasure never is at home: At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Then let winged Fancy wander Through the thought still spread beyond her: Open wide the mind's cage-door, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.

II.

O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Summer's joys are spoilt by use, And the enjoying of the Spring Fades as does its blossoming; Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, Blushing through the mist and dew, Cloys with tasting: What do then?

Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear f.a.ggot blazes bright, Spirit of a winter's night; When the soundless earth is m.u.f.fled, And the caked snow is shuffled From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; When the Night doth meet the Noon In a dark conspiracy To banish Even from her sky.

III.

Sit thee there, and send abroad, With a mind self-overaw'd, Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her!

She has va.s.sals to attend her: She will bring, in spite of frost, Beauties that the earth hath lost; She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather; All the buds and bells of May, From dewy sward of th.o.r.n.y spray; All the heaped Autumn's wealth, With a still, mysterious stealth:

IV.

She will mix these pleasures up Like three fit wines in a cup, And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear Distant harvest-carols clear; Rustle of the reaped corn; Sweet birds antheming the morn: And, in the same moment--hark!

'Tis the early April lark, Or the rooks, with busy caw, Foraging for sticks and straw.

V.

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold The daisy and the marigold; White-plumed lilies, and the first Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; Shaded hyacinth, alway Sapphire queen of the mid-May; And every leaf, and every flower Pearled with the self-same shower.

VI.

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep Meagre from its celled sleep; And the snake all winter-thin Cast on sunny bank its skin; Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, When the hen-bird's wing doth rest Quiet on her mossy nest; Then the hurry and alarm When the bee-hive casts its swarm; Acorns ripe down-pattering, While the autumn breezes sing.

VII.

Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; Everything is spoilt by use: Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new?

Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where's the face One would meet in every place?

Where's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft?

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.

VIII.

Let then winged Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind: Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, Ere the G.o.d of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's, when her zone Slipt its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash; Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she'll bring.

--Let the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.

J. KEATS.

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY.

I.

Oh, wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the north, With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?

And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which we tread?

II.

Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, And crimson was the juice of the vintage that ye trod; For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, Who sat in the high places, and slew the saints of G.o.d.

III.

It was about the noon of a glorious day in June, That we saw their banner's dance, and their cuira.s.ses shine: And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair, And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.

IV.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, The general rode along us, to form us to the fight, When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout, Among the G.o.dless hors.e.m.e.n, upon the tyrant's right.

V.

And, hark! like the roar of the billows on the sh.o.r.e, The cry of battle rises along their charging line!

For G.o.d! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!

For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!

VI.

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks, For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.

VII.

They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.

O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!

Stand back to back, in G.o.d's name, and fight it to the last.