The Pickwick Papers - Chapter 6
AN OLD-FASHIONED CARD-PARTY--THE CLERGYMAN'S VERSES--THE STORY OF THE CONVICT'S RETURN
Several guests who were assembled in the old parlour rose to greet Mr. Pickwick and his friends upon their
entrance; and during the performance of the ceremony of introduction, with all due formalities, Mr. Pickwick had
leisure to observe the appearance, and speculate upon the characters and pursuits, of the persons by whom he was
surrounded--a habit in which he, in common with many other great men, delighted to indulge.
A very old lady, in a lofty cap and faded silk gown--no less a personage than Mr. Wardle's mother--occupied the
post of honour on the right-hand corner of the chimney-piece; and various certificates of her having been brought
up in the way she should go when young, and of her not having departed from it when old, ornamented the walls, in
the form of samplers of ancient date, worsted landscapes of equal antiquity, and crimson silk tea-kettle holders of
a more modern period. The aunt, the two young ladies, and Mr. Wardle, each vying with the other in paying zealous
and unremitting attentions to the old lady, crowded round her easy-chair, one holding her ear-trumpet, another an
orange, and a third a smelling-bottle, while a fourth was busily engaged in patting and punching the pillows which
were arranged for her support. On the opposite side sat a bald- headed old gentleman, with a good-humoured,
benevolent face-- the clergyman of Dingley Dell; and next him sat his wife, a stout, blooming old lady, who looked
as if she were well skilled, not only in the art and mystery of manufacturing home-made cordials greatly to other
people's satisfaction, but of tasting them occasionally very much to her own. A little hard-headed, Ripstone
pippin-faced man, was conversing with a fat old gentleman in one corner; and two or three more old gentlemen, and
two or three more old ladies, sat bolt upright and motionless on their chairs, staring very hard at Mr. Pickwick
and his fellow-voyagers.
'Mr. Pickwick, mother,' said Mr. Wardle, at the very top of his voice.
'Ah!' said the old lady, shaking her head; 'I can't hear you.'
'Mr. Pickwick, grandma!' screamed both the young ladies together.
'Ah!' exclaimed the old lady. 'Well, it don't much matter. He don't care for an old 'ooman like me, I dare
'I assure you, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, grasping the old lady's hand, and speaking so loud that the exertion
imparted a crimson hue to his benevolent countenance--'I assure you, ma'am, that nothing delights me more than to
see a lady of your time of life heading so fine a family, and looking so young and well.'
'Ah!' said the old lady, after a short pause: 'it's all very fine, I dare say; but I can't hear him.'
'Grandma's rather put out now,' said Miss Isabella Wardle, in a low tone; 'but she'll talk to you
Mr. Pickwick nodded his readiness to humour the infirmities of age, and entered into a general conversation with
the other members of the circle.
'Delightful situation this,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Delightful!' echoed Messrs. Snodgrass, Tupman, and Winkle.
'Well, I think it is,' said Mr. Wardle.
'There ain't a better spot o' ground in all Kent, sir,' said the hard-headed man with the pippin--face; 'there
ain't indeed, sir-- I'm sure there ain't, Sir.' The hard-headed man looked triumphantly round, as if he had been
very much contradicted by somebody, but had got the better of him at last.
'There ain't a better spot o' ground in all Kent,' said the hard-headed man again, after a pause.
''Cept Mullins's Meadows,' observed the fat man solemnly. 'Mullins's Meadows!' ejaculated the other, with
'Ah, Mullins's Meadows,' repeated the fat man.
'Reg'lar good land that,' interposed another fat man.
'And so it is, sure-ly,' said a third fat man.
'Everybody knows that,' said the corpulent host.
The hard-headed man looked dubiously round, but finding himself in a minority, assumed a compassionate air and
said no more. 'What are they talking about?' inquired the old lady of one of her granddaughters, in a very audible
voice; for, like many deaf people, she never seemed to calculate on the possibility of other persons hearing what
she said herself.
'About the land, grandma.'
'What about the land?--Nothing the matter, is there?'
'No, no. Mr. Miller was saying our land was better than Mullins's Meadows.'
'How should he know anything about it?'inquired the old lady indignantly. 'Miller's a conceited coxcomb, and you
may tell him I said so.' Saying which, the old lady, quite unconscious that she had spoken above a whisper, drew
herself up, and looked carving-knives at the hard-headed delinquent.
'Come, come,' said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to change the conversation, 'what say you to a
rubber, Mr. Pickwick?'
'I should like it of all things,' replied that gentleman; 'but pray don't make up one on my account.'
'Oh, I assure you, mother's very fond of a rubber,' said Mr. Wardle; 'ain't you, mother?'
The old lady, who was much less deaf on this subject than on any other, replied in the affirmative.
'Joe, Joe!' said the gentleman; 'Joe--damn that--oh, here he is; put out the card--tables.'
The lethargic youth contrived without any additional rousing to set out two card-tables; the one for Pope Joan,
and the other for whist. The whist-players were Mr. Pickwick and the old lady, Mr. Miller and the fat gentleman.
The round game comprised the rest of the company.
The rubber was conducted with all that gravity of deportment and sedateness of demeanour which befit the pursuit
entitled 'whist'--a solemn observance, to which, as it appears to us, the title of 'game' has been very
irreverently and ignominiously applied. The round-game table, on the other hand, was so boisterously merry as
materially to interrupt the contemplations of Mr. Miller, who, not being quite so much absorbed as he ought to have
been, contrived to commit various high crimes and misdemeanours, which excited the wrath of the fat gentleman to a
very great extent, and called forth the good-humour of the old lady in a proportionate degree.
'There!' said the criminal Miller triumphantly, as he took up the odd trick at the conclusion of a hand; 'that
could not have been played better, I flatter myself; impossible to have made another trick!'
'Miller ought to have trumped the diamond, oughtn't he, Sir?' said the old lady.
Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.
'Ought I, though?' said the unfortunate, with a doubtful appeal to his partner.
'You ought, Sir,' said the fat gentleman, in an awful voice.
'Very sorry,' said the crestfallen Miller.
'Much use that,' growled the fat gentleman.
'Two by honours--makes us eight,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Another hand. 'Can you one?' inquired the old lady.
'I can,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Double, single, and the rub.'
'Never was such luck,' said Mr. Miller.
'Never was such cards,' said the fat gentleman.
A solemn silence; Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious, the fat gentleman captious, and Mr. Miller
'Another double,' said the old lady, triumphantly making a memorandum of the circumstance, by placing one
sixpence and a battered halfpenny under the candlestick.
'A double, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Quite aware of the fact, Sir,' replied the fat gentleman sharply.
Another game, with a similar result, was followed by a revoke from the unlucky Miller; on which the fat
gentleman burst into a state of high personal excitement which lasted until the conclusion of the game, when he
retired into a corner, and remained perfectly mute for one hour and twenty-seven minutes; at the end of which time
he emerged from his retirement, and offered Mr. Pickwick a pinch of snuff with the air of a man who had made up his
mind to a Christian forgiveness of injuries sustained. The old lady's hearing decidedly improved and the unlucky
Miller felt as much out of his element as a dolphin in a sentry-box.
Meanwhile the round game proceeded right merrily. Isabella Wardle and Mr. Trundle 'went partners,' and Emily
Wardle and Mr. Snodgrass did the same; and even Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt established a joint-stock company
of fish and flattery. Old Mr. Wardle was in the very height of his jollity; and he was so funny in his management
of the board, and the old ladies were so sharp after their winnings, that the whole table was in a perpetual roar
of merriment and laughter. There was one old lady who always had about half a dozen cards to pay for, at which
everybody laughed, regularly every round; and when the old lady looked cross at having to pay, they laughed louder
than ever; on which the old lady's face gradually brightened up, till at last she laughed louder than any of them,
Then, when the spinster aunt got 'matrimony,' the young ladies laughed afresh, and the Spinster aunt seemed
disposed to be pettish; till, feeling Mr. Tupman squeezing her hand under the table, she brightened up too, and
looked rather knowing, as if matrimony in reality were not quite so far off as some people thought for; whereupon
everybody laughed again, and especially old Mr. Wardle, who enjoyed a joke as much as the youngest. As to Mr.
Snodgrass, he did nothing but whisper poetical sentiments into his partner's ear, which made one old gentleman
facetiously sly, about partnerships at cards and partnerships for life, and caused the aforesaid old gentleman to
make some remarks thereupon, accompanied with divers winks and chuckles, which made the company very merry and the
old gentleman's wife especially so. And Mr. Winkle came out with jokes which are very well known in town, but are
not all known in the country; and as everybody laughed at them very heartily, and said they were very capital, Mr.
Winkle was in a state of great honour and glory. And the benevolent clergyman looked pleasantly on; for the happy
faces which surrounded the table made the good old man feel happy too; and though the merriment was rather
boisterous, still it came from the heart and not from the lips; and this is the right sort of merriment, after
The evening glided swiftly away, in these cheerful recreations; and when the substantial though homely supper
had been despatched, and the little party formed a social circle round the fire, Mr. Pickwick thought he had never
felt so happy in his life, and at no time so much disposed to enjoy, and make the most of, the passing moment.
'Now this,' said the hospitable host, who was sitting in great state next the old lady's arm-chair, with her
hand fast clasped in his--'this is just what I like--the happiest moments of my life have been passed at this old
fireside; and I am so attached to it, that I keep up a blazing fire here every evening, until it actually grows too
hot to bear it. Why, my poor old mother, here, used to sit before this fireplace upon that little stool when she
was a girl; didn't you, mother?'
The tear which starts unbidden to the eye when the recollection of old times and the happiness of many years ago
is suddenly recalled, stole down the old lady's face as she shook her head with a melancholy smile.
'You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr. Pickwick,' resumed the host, after a short pause, 'for I
love it dearly, and know no other--the old houses and fields seem like living friends to me; and so does our little
church with the ivy, about which, by the bye, our excellent friend there made a song when he first came amongst us.
Mr. Snodgrass, have you anything in your glass?'
'Plenty, thank you,' replied that gentleman, whose poetic curiosity had been greatly excited by the last
observation of his entertainer. 'I beg your pardon, but you were talking about the song of the Ivy.'
'You must ask our friend opposite about that,' said the host knowingly, indicating the clergyman by a nod of his
'May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir?' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'Why, really,' replied the clergyman, 'it's a very slight affair; and the only excuse I have for having ever
perpetrated it is, that I was a young man at the time. Such as it is, however, you shall hear it, if you wish.'
A murmur of curiosity was of course the reply; and the old gentleman proceeded to recite, with the aid of sundry
promptings from his wife, the lines in question. 'I call them,' said he,
THE IVY GREEN
Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim;
And the mouldering dust that years have made,
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy's food at last.
Creeping on where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
While the old gentleman repeated these lines a second time, to enable Mr. Snodgrass to note them down, Mr.
Pickwick perused the lineaments of his face with an expression of great interest. The old gentleman having
concluded his dictation, and Mr. Snodgrass having returned his note-book to his pocket, Mr. Pickwick said--
'Excuse me, sir, for making the remark on so short an acquaintance; but a gentleman like yourself cannot fail, I
should think, to have observed many scenes and incidents worth recording, in the course of your experience as a
minister of the Gospel.'
'I have witnessed some certainly,' replied the old gentleman, 'but the incidents and characters have been of a
homely and ordinary nature, my sphere of action being so very limited.'
'You did make some notes, I think, about John Edmunds, did you not?' inquired Mr. Wardle, who appeared very
desirous to draw his friend out, for the edification of his new visitors.
The old gentleman slightly nodded his head in token of assent, and was proceeding to change the subject, when
Mr. Pickwick said--
'I beg your pardon, sir, but pray, if I may venture to inquire, who was John Edmunds?'
'The very thing I was about to ask,' said Mr. Snodgrass eagerly.
'You are fairly in for it,' said the jolly host. 'You must satisfy the curiosity of these gentlemen, sooner or
later; so you had better take advantage of this favourable opportunity, and do so at once.'
The old gentleman smiled good-humouredly as he drew his chair forward--the remainder of the party drew their
chairs closer together, especially Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt, who were possibly rather hard of hearing; and
the old lady's ear-trumpet having been duly adjusted, and Mr. Miller (who had fallen asleep during the recital of
the verses) roused from his slumbers by an admonitory pinch, administered beneath the table by his ex-partner the
solemn fat man, the old gentleman, without further preface, commenced the following tale, to which we have taken
the liberty of prefixing the title of
THE CONVICT'S RETURN
'When I first settled in this village,' said the old gentleman, 'which is now just five-and-twenty years ago,
the most notorious person among my parishioners was a man of the name of Edmunds, who leased a small farm near this
spot. He was a morose, savage-hearted, bad man; idle and dissolute in his habits; cruel and ferocious in his
disposition. Beyond the few lazy and reckless vagabonds with whom he sauntered away his time in the fields, or
sotted in the ale-house, he had not a single friend or acquaintance; no one cared to speak to the man whom many
feared, and every one detested--and Edmunds was shunned by all.
'This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here, was about twelve years old. Of the acuteness of
that woman's sufferings, of the gentle and enduring manner in which she bore them, of the agony of solicitude with
which she reared that boy, no one can form an adequate conception. Heaven forgive me the supposition, if it be an
uncharitable one, but I do firmly and in my soul believe, that the man systematically tried for many years to break
her heart; but she bore it all for her child's sake, and, however strange it may seem to many, for his father's
too; for brute as he was, and cruelly as he had treated her, she had loved him once; and the recollection of what
he had been to her, awakened feelings of forbearance and meekness under suffering in her bosom, to which all God's
creatures, but women, are strangers.
'They were poor--they could not be otherwise when the man pursued such courses; but the woman's unceasing and
unwearied exertions, early and late, morning, noon, and night, kept them above actual want. These exertions were
but ill repaid. People who passed the spot in the evening--sometimes at a late hour of the night--reported that
they had heard the moans and sobs of a woman in distress, and the sound of blows; and more than once, when it was
past midnight, the boy knocked softly at the door of a neighbour's house, whither he had been sent, to escape the
drunken fury of his unnatural father.
'During the whole of this time, and when the poor creature often bore about her marks of ill-usage and violence
which she could not wholly conceal, she was a constant attendant at our little church. Regularly every Sunday,
morning and afternoon, she occupied the same seat with the boy at her side; and though they were both poorly
dressed--much more so than many of their neighbours who were in a lower station--they were always neat and clean.
Every one had a friendly nod and a kind word for "poor Mrs. Edmunds"; and sometimes, when she stopped to exchange a
few words with a neighbour at the conclusion of the service in the little row of elm-trees which leads to the
church porch, or lingered behind to gaze with a mother's pride and fondness upon her healthy boy, as he sported
before her with some little companions, her careworn face would lighten up with an expression of heartfelt
gratitude; and she would look, if not cheerful and happy, at least tranquil and contented.
'Five or six years passed away; the boy had become a robust and well-grown youth. The time that had strengthened
the child's slight frame and knit his weak limbs into the strength of manhood had bowed his mother's form, and
enfeebled her steps; but the arm that should have supported her was no longer locked in hers; the face that should
have cheered her, no more looked upon her own. She occupied her old seat, but there was a vacant one beside her.
The Bible was kept as carefully as ever, the places were found and folded down as they used to be: but there was no
one to read it with her; and the tears fell thick and fast upon the book, and blotted the words from her eyes.
Neighbours were as kind as they were wont to be of old, but she shunned their greetings with averted head. There
was no lingering among the old elm-trees now-no cheering anticipations of happiness yet in store. The desolate
woman drew her bonnet closer over her face, and walked hurriedly away.
'Shall I tell you that the young man, who, looking back to the earliest of his childhood's days to which memory
and consciousness extended, and carrying his recollection down to that moment, could remember nothing which was not
in some way connected with a long series of voluntary privations suffered by his mother for his sake, with
ill-usage, and insult, and violence, and all endured for him--shall I tell you, that he, with a reckless disregard
for her breaking heart, and a sullen, wilful forgetfulness of all she had done and borne for him, had linked
himself with depraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing a headlong career, which must bring death to him,
and shame to her? Alas for human nature! You have anticipated it long since.
'The measure of the unhappy woman's misery and misfortune was about to be completed. Numerous offences had been
committed in the neighbourhood; the perpetrators remained undiscovered, and their boldness increased. A robbery of
a daring and aggravated nature occasioned a vigilance of pursuit, and a strictness of search, they had not
calculated on. Young Edmunds was suspected, with three companions. He was apprehended--
committed--tried--condemned--to die. 'The wild and piercing shriek from a woman's voice, which resounded through
the court when the solemn sentence was pronounced, rings in my ears at this moment. That cry struck a terror to the
culprit's heart, which trial, condemnation--the approach of death itself, had failed to awaken. The lips which had
been compressed in dogged sullenness throughout, quivered and parted involuntarily; the face turned ashy pale as
the cold perspiration broke forth from every pore; the sturdy limbs of the felon trembled, and he staggered in the
'In the first transports of her mental anguish, the suffering mother threw herself on her knees at my feet, and
fervently sought the Almighty Being who had hitherto supported her in all her troubles to release her from a world
of woe and misery, and to spare the life of her only child. A burst of grief, and a violent struggle, such as I
hope I may never have to witness again, succeeded. I knew that her heart was breaking from that hour; but I never
once heard complaint or murmur escape her lips. 'It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison-yard
from day to day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection and entreaty, to soften the hard heart of her
obdurate son. It was in vain. He remained moody, obstinate, and unmoved. Not even the unlooked-for commutation of
his sentence to transportation for fourteen years, softened for an instant the sullen hardihood of his
'But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so long upheld her, was unable to contend against bodily
weakness and infirmity. She fell sick. She dragged her tottering limbs from the bed to visit her son once more, but
her strength failed her, and she sank powerless on the ground.
'And now the boasted coldness and indifference of the young man were tested indeed; and the retribution that
fell heavily upon him nearly drove him mad. A day passed away and his mother was not there; another flew by, and
she came not near him; a third evening arrived, and yet he had not seen her--, and in four- and-twenty hours he was
to be separated from her, perhaps for ever. Oh! how the long-forgotten thoughts of former days rushed upon his
mind, as he almost ran up and down the narrow yard-- as if intelligence would arrive the sooner for his
hurrying--and how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolation rushed upon him, when he heard the truth! His
mother, the only parent he had ever known, lay ill--it might be, dying--within one mile of the ground he stood on;
were he free and unfettered, a few minutes would place him by her side. He rushed to the gate, and grasping the
iron rails with the energy of desperation, shook it till it rang again, and threw himself against the thick wall as
if to force a passage through the stone; but the strong building mocked his feeble efforts, and he beat his hands
together and wept like a child.
'I bore the mother's forgiveness and blessing to her son in prison; and I carried the solemn assurance of
repentance, and his fervent supplication for pardon, to her sick-bed. I heard, with pity and compassion, the
repentant man devise a thousand little plans for her comfort and support when he returned; but I knew that many
months before he could reach his place of destination, his mother would be no longer of this world. 'He was removed
by night. A few weeks afterwards the poor woman's soul took its flight, I confidently hope, and solemnly believe,
to a place of eternal happiness and rest. I performed the burial service over her remains. She lies in our little
churchyard. There is no stone at her grave's head. Her sorrows were known to man; her virtues to God. 'it had been
arranged previously to the convict's departure, that he should write to his mother as soon as he could obtain
permission, and that the letter should be addressed to me. The father had positively refused to see his son from
the moment of his apprehension; and it was a matter of indifference to him whether he lived or died. Many years
passed over without any intelligence of him; and when more than half his term of transportation had expired, and I
had received no letter, I concluded him to be dead, as, indeed, I almost hoped he might be.
'Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up the country on his arrival at the settlement; and to
this circumstance, perhaps, may be attributed the fact, that though several letters were despatched, none of them
ever reached my hands. He remained in the same place during the whole fourteen years. At the expiration of the
term, steadily adhering to his old resolution and the pledge he gave his mother, he made his way back to England
amidst innumerable difficulties, and returned, on foot, to his native place.
'On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds set foot in the village he had left with shame
and disgrace seventeen years before. His nearest way lay through the churchyard. The man's heart swelled as he
crossed the stile. The tall old elms, through whose branches the declining sun cast here and there a rich ray of
light upon the shady part, awakened the associations of his earliest days. He pictured himself as he was then,
clinging to his mother's hand, and walking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to look up into her pale
face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she gazed upon his features--tears which fell hot upon
his forehead as she stooped to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he little knew then what bitter tears hers
were. He thought how often he had run merrily down that path with some childish playfellow, looking back, ever and
again, to catch his mother's smile, or hear her gentle voice; and then a veil seemed lifted from his memory, and
words of kindness unrequited, and warnings despised, and promises broken, thronged upon his recollection till his
heart failed him, and he could bear it no longer. 'He entered the church. The evening service was concluded and the
congregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed. His steps echoed through the low building with a hollow
sound, and he almost feared to be alone, it was so still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was changed. The
place seemed smaller than it used to be; but there were the old monuments on which he had gazed with childish awe a
thousand times; the little pulpit with its faded cushion; the Communion table before which he had so often repeated
the Commandments he had reverenced as a child, and forgotten as a man. He approached the old seat; it looked cold
and desolate. The cushion had been removed, and the Bible was not there. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer
seat, or possibly she had grown infirm and could not reach the church alone. He dared not think of what he feared.
A cold feeling crept over him, and he trembled violently as he turned away. 'An old man entered the porch just as
he reached it. Edmunds started back, for he knew him well; many a time he had watched him digging graves in the
churchyard. What would he say to the returned convict?
'The old man raised his eyes to the stranger's face, bade him "good-evening," and walked slowly on. He had
'He walked down the hill, and through the village. The weather was warm, and the people were sitting at their
doors, or strolling in their little gardens as he passed, enjoying the serenity of the evening, and their rest from
labour. Many a look was turned towards him, and many a doubtful glance he cast on either side to see whether any
knew and shunned him. There were strange faces in almost every house; in some he recognised the burly form of some
old schoolfellow--a boy when he last saw him--surrounded by a troop of merry children; in others he saw, seated in
an easy-chair at a cottage door, a feeble and infirm old man, whom he only remembered as a hale and hearty
labourer; but they had all forgotten him, and he passed on unknown.
'The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth, casting a rich glow on the yellow corn sheaves,
and lengthening the shadows of the orchard trees, as he stood before the old house --the home of his infancy--to
which his heart had yearned with an intensity of affection not to be described, through long and weary years of
captivity and sorrow. The paling was low, though he well remembered the time that it had seemed a high wall to him;
and he looked over into the old garden. There were more seeds and gayer flowers than there used to be, but there
were the old trees still--the very tree under which he had lain a thousand times when tired of playing in the sun,
and felt the soft, mild sleep of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices within the house. He
listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear; he knew them not. They were merry too; and he well knew that his
poor old mother could not be cheerful, and he away. The door opened, and a group of little children bounded out,
shouting and romping. The father, with a little boy in his arms, appeared at the door, and they crowded round him,
clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out, to join their joyous sports. The convict thought on the many times
he had shrunk from his father's sight in that very place. He remembered how often he had buried his trembling head
beneath the bedclothes, and heard the harsh word, and the hard stripe, and his mother's wailing; and though the man
sobbed aloud with agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist was clenched, and his teeth were set, in a fierce and
'And such was the return to which he had looked through the weary perspective of many years, and for which he
had undergone so much suffering! No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness, no house to receive, no hand to help
him--and this too in the old village. What was his loneliness in the wild, thick woods, where man was never seen,
'He felt that in the distant land of his bondage and infamy, he had thought of his native place as it was when
he left it; and not as it would be when he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at his heart, and his spirit
sank within him. He had not courage to make inquiries, or to present himself to the only person who was likely to
receive him with kindness and compassion. He walked slowly on; and shunning the roadside like a guilty man, turned
into a meadow he well remembered; and covering his face with his hands, threw himself upon the grass.
'He had not observed that a man was lying on the bank beside him; his garments rustled as he turned round to
steal a look at the new-comer; and Edmunds raised his head.
'The man had moved into a sitting posture. His body was much bent, and his face was wrinkled and yellow. His
dress denoted him an inmate of the workhouse: he had the appearance of being very old, but it looked more the
effect of dissipation or disease, than the length of years. He was staring hard at the stranger, and though his
eyes were lustreless and heavy at first, they appeared to glow with an unnatural and alarmed expression after they
had been fixed upon him for a short time, until they seemed to be starting from their sockets. Edmunds gradually
raised himself to his knees, and looked more and more earnestly on the old man's face. They gazed upon each other
'The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered and tottered to his feet. Edmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a
pace or two. Edmunds advanced.
'"Let me hear you speak," said the convict, in a thick, broken voice.
'"Stand off!" cried the old man, with a dreadful oath. The convict drew closer to him.
'"Stand off!" shrieked the old man. Furious with terror, he raised his stick, and struck Edmunds a heavy blow
across the face.
'"Father--devil!" murmured the convict between his set teeth. He rushed wildly forward, and clenched the old man
by the throat--but he was his father; and his arm fell powerless by his side.
'The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fields like the howl of an evil spirit. His face
turned black, the gore rushed from his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a deep, dark red, as he staggered and
fell. He had ruptured a blood-vessel, and he was a dead man before his son could raise him. 'In that corner of the
churchyard,' said the old gentleman, after a silence of a few moments, 'in that corner of the churchyard of which I
have before spoken, there lies buried a man who was in my employment for three years after this event, and who was
truly contrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever man was. No one save myself knew in that man's lifetime who he was,
or whence he came--it was John Edmunds, the returned convict.'