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.
‘And congratulating yourself on being up so soon?’
‘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 everyday 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, a brief struggle; there is an eddy for an instant, it gradually subsides into a gentle ripple; the waters have closed above your head, and the world has closed upon your miseries and misfortunes for ever.’ The sunken eye of the dismal man flashed brightly as he spoke, but the momentary excitement quickly subsided; and he turned calmly away, as he said--
‘There--enough of that. I wish to see you on another subject. You invited me to read that paper, the night before last, and listened attentively while I did so.’
‘I did,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘and I certainly thought--’
‘I asked for no opinion,’ said the dismal man, interrupting him, ‘and I want none. You are travelling for amusement and instruction. Suppose I forward you a curious manuscript--observe, not curious because wild or improbable, but curious as a leaf from the romance of real life--would you communicate it to the club, of which you have spoken so frequently?’