“We went towards Camberwell Green, and when we were thereabouts, Wemmick said suddenly, ‘Halloa! Here’s a church!’ There was nothing very surprising in that; but again I was rather surprised when he said, as if he were animated by a brilliant idea, ‘Let’s go in!’ We went in and looked all round. In the meantime Wemmick was diving into his coat pockets, and getting something out of paper there. ‘Halloa!’ said he. ‘Here’s a couple of pairs of gloves! Let’s put ’em on!’ As the gloves were white kid gloves, I now began to have my strong suspicions. They were strengthened into certainty, when I beheld the Aged enter at a side door, escorting a lady. ‘Halloa!’ said Wemmick. ‘Here’s Miss Skiffins! Let’s have a wedding!’ . . . True to his notion of seeming to do it all without preparation, I heard Wemmick say to himself, as he took something out of his waistcoat pocket before the service began, ‘Halloa! Here’s a ring!’ . . . ‘Now, Mr. Pip,’ said Wemmick triumphantly, as we came out, ‘let me ask you whether anybody would suppose this to be a wedding party.’” The route being continued past _Herne Hill Station_, the train arrives at Dulwich, which we may recollect _en passant_ as being the locality of Mr. Pickwick’s retirement, before the days of railway locomotion. The house—a white, comfortable-looking residence—stands (left) near the station, as we approach, corresponding in style and position with its Pickwickian description. _Mr. Tupman_, too, may have been met with in olden time, walking in the public promenades or loitering in the Dulwich Picture Gallery—“with a youthful and jaunty air”—still in the enjoyment of single blessedness, and the cynosure of the numerous elderly ladies of the neighbourhood. _Mr. Snodgrass_ and _Emily Wardle_, as we all know, were married at DULWICH CHURCH, in this vicinity; the wedding guests—including “the poor relations, who got there somehow”—assembling at Mr. Pickwick’s new house on that interesting occasion; and we may remember the general verdict then unanimously given as to the elegance, comfort, and suitability of our old friend’s suburban retreat— “Nothing was to be heard but congratulations and commendations. Everything was so beautiful! The lawn in front, the garden behind, the miniature conservatory, the dining-room, the drawing-room, the bedrooms, the smoking-room; and, above all, the study—with its pictures and easy chairs, and odd cabinets and queer tables, and nooks out of number, with a large cheerful window opening upon a pleasant lawn, and commanding a pretty landscape, just dotted here and there with little houses, almost hidden by the trees.” Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Weller and family—retainers in the Pickwickian establishment—also flourished aforetime in these arcadian groves, in faithful attendance on their illustrious patron.