the life!" are the comments of friends to whom we show it, who personally knew, or remembered, the original. Here is the ball-room, entered from the first-floor landing of the principal staircase, and the card-room adjoining, precisely as it was in Mr. Pickwick's days:-- "It was a long room with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in glass chandeliers. The musicians were confined in an elevated den, and quadrilles were being systematically got through by two or three sets of dancers. Two card-tables were made up in the adjoining card-room, and two pair of old ladies, and a corresponding number of old gentlemen, were executing whist therein." A very little stretch of the imagination carries us back sixty years, and, _presto!_ the ball-room stands before us, with the wax candles lighted, and the room filled with the _elite_ of Chatham and Rochester society, who, acting on the principle of "that general benevolence which was one of the leading features of the Pickwickian theory," had given their support to that "ball for the benefit of a charity," then being held there, and which was attended by Mr. Tracy Tupman, in his new dress-coat with the P. C. button and bust of Mr. Pickwick in the centre, and by Mr. Jingle, in the borrowed garments of the same nature belonging to Mr. Winkle. "P. C.," said the stranger.--"Queer set out--old fellow's likeness and 'P. C.'--What does 'P. C.' stand for? 'Peculiar Coat,' eh?" Imagine the "rising indignation" and impatience of Mr. Tupman, as with "great importance" he explains the mystic device! [Illustration: The "Elevated Den" in the Ball Room: ("Bull" Inn)] Everybody remembers how, declining the usual introduction, the two entered the ball-room _incog._, as "Gentlemen from London--distinguished foreigners--anything;" how Mr. Jingle said in reply to Mr. Tupman's remark, "Wait a minute--fun presently--nobs not come yet--queer place--Dock-yard people of upper rank don't know Dock-yard people of lower rank--Dock-yard people of lower rank don't know small gentry--small gentry don't know tradespeople--Commissioner don't know anybody." The "man at the door,"--the local M.C.,--announces the arrivals. "Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber, and the Miss Clubbers!" "Commissioner--head of the yard--great man--remarkably great man," whispers the stranger in Mr. Tupman's ear. "Colonel Bulder, Mrs. Colonel Bulder, and Miss Bulder," are announced. "Head of the garrison," says Mr. Jingle. "They exchanged snuff-boxes [how old-fashioned it appears to us who don't take snuff], and looked very much like a pair of Alexander Selkirks--Monarchs of all they surveyed."