and sparkled as it flowed noiselessly on; and the oars of the fishermen dipped into the water with a clear and liquid sound, as the heavy but picturesque boats glided slowly down the stream.
Mr. Pickwick was roused from the agreeable reverie into which he had been led by the objects before him, by a deep sigh, and a touch on his shoulder. He turned round: and the dismal man was at his side.
"Contemplating the scene?" inquired the dismal man.
"I was," said Mr. Pickwick.
"And congratulating yourself on being up so soon?" Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.
"Ah! people need to rise early, to see the sun in all his splendour, for his brightness seldom lasts the day through. The morning of day and the morning of life are but too much alike."
"You speak truly, sir," said Mr. Pickwick.
"How common the saying," continued the dismal man, "'The morning's too fine to last.' How well might it be applied to our every-day existence. God! what would I forfeit to have the days of my childhood restored, or to be able to forget them for ever!"
"You have seen much trouble sir," said Mr. Pickwick, compassionately.
"I have," said the dismal man, hurriedly;"I have. More than those who see me now would believe possible." He paused for an instant, and then said, abruptly—
"Did it ever strike you, on such a morning as this, that drowning would be happiness and peace?"
"God bless me, no!" replied Mr. Pickwick, edging a little from the balustrade, as the possibility of the dismal man's tipping him over, by way of experiment, occurred to him rather forcibly.
"I have thought so, often," said the dismal man, without noticing the action. "The calm, cool water seems to me to murmur an invitation to repose and rest. A bound, a splash,
