[Illustration]
_A Good-humoured Christmas Chapter, containing an Account of a
Wedding, and some other Sports beside: which although in their
Way even as Good Customs as Marriage itself, are not quite so
religiously kept up, in these Degenerate Times_
As brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies, did the
four Pickwickians assemble on the morning of the twenty-second
day of December, in the year of grace in which these, their
faithfully-recorded adventures, were undertaken and accomplished.
Christmas was close at hand, in all his bluff and hearty honesty; it
was the season of hospitality, merriment, and open-heartedness; the old
year was preparing, like an ancient philosopher, to call his friends
around him, and amidst the sound of feasting and revelry to pass
gently and calmly away. Gay and merry was as the time, and gay and
merry were at least four of the numerous hearts that were gladdened by
its coming.
And numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief
season of happiness and enjoyment. How many families, whose members
have been dispersed and scattered far and wide, in the restless
struggles of life, are then re-united, and meet once again in that
happy state of companionship and mutual good-will, which is a source
of such pure and unalloyed delight, and one so incompatible with
the cares and sorrows of the world, that the religious belief of
the most civilised nations, and the rude traditions of the roughest
savages, alike number it among the first joys of a future condition
of existence, provided for the blest and happy! How many old
recollections, and how many dormant sympathies, does Christmas time
awaken!
We write these words now, many miles distant from the spot at which,
year after year, we met on that day, a merry and joyous circle. Many
of the hearts that throbbed so gaily then, have ceased to beat; many
of the looks that shone so brightly then, have ceased to glow; the
hands we grasped, have grown cold; the eyes we sought, have hid their
lustre in the grave; and yet the old house, the room, the merry voices
and smiling faces, the jest, the laugh, the most minute and trivial
circumstances connected with those happy meetings, crowd upon our
minds at each recurrence of the season, as if the last assemblage had
been but yesterday! Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to
the delusions of our childish days; that can recall to the old man
the pleasures of his youth; that can transport the sailor and the
traveller, thousands of miles away, back to his own fireside and his
quiet home!
But we are so taken up and occupied with the good qualities of this
saint Christmas, that we are keeping Mr. Pickwick and his friends
waiting in the cold on the outside of the Muggleton coach, which
they have just attained, well wrapped up in great-coats, shawls, and
comforters. The portmanteaus and carpet-bags have been stowed away, and
Mr. Weller and the guard are endeavouring to insinuate into a fore-boot
a huge cod-fish several sizes too large for it--which is snugly packed
up, in a long brown basket, with a layer of straw over the top, and
which has been left to the last, in order that he may repose safely on
the half-dozen barrels of real native oysters, all the property of Mr.
Pickwick, which have been arranged in regular order at the bottom of
the receptacle. The interest displayed in Mr. Pickwick's countenance is
most intense, as Mr. Weller and the guard try to squeeze the cod-fish
into the boot, first head first, and then tail first, and then top
upward, and then bottom upward, and then side-ways, and then long-ways,
all of which artifices the implacable cod-fish sturdily resists, until
the guard accidentally hits him in the very middle of the basket,
whereupon he suddenly disappears into the boot, and with him, the head
and shoulders of the guard himself, who, not calculating upon so sudden
a cessation of the passive resistance of the cod-fish, experiences a
very unexpected shock, to the unsmotherable delight of all the porters
and bystanders. Upon this, Mr. Pickwick smiles with great good-humour,
and drawing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket, begs the guard,
as he picks himself out of the boot, to drink his health in a glass
of hot brandy and water; at which the guard smiles too, and Messrs.
Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman, all smile in company. The guard and Mr.
Weller disappear for five minutes: most probably to get the hot brandy
and water, for they smell very strongly of it, when they return; the
coachman mounts the box, Mr. Weller jumps up behind, the Pickwickians
pull their coats round their legs and their shawls over their noses,
the helpers pull the horse-cloths off, the coachman shouts out a cheery
"All right!" and away they go.
They have rumbled through the streets, and jolted over the stones,
and at length reach the wide and open country. The wheels skim over
the hard and frosty ground; and the horses, bursting into a canter at
a smart crack of the whip, step along the road as if the load behind
them--coach, passengers, cod-fish, oyster barrels, and all--were but
a feather at their heels. They have descended a gentle slope, and
enter upon a level, as compact and dry as a solid block of marble, two
miles long. Another crack of the whip, and on they speed, at a smart
gallop: the horses tossing their heads and rattling the harness, as
if in exhilaration at the rapidity of the motion: while the coachman,
holding whip and reins in one hand, takes off his hat with the other,
and resting it on his knees, pulls out his handkerchief, and wipes
his forehead: partly because he has the habit of doing it, and partly
because it's as well to show the passengers how cool he is, and what
an easy thing it is to drive four-in-hand, when you have had as much
practice as he has. Having done this very leisurely (otherwise the
effect would be materially impaired), he replaces his handkerchief,
pulls on his hat, adjusts his gloves, squares his elbows, cracks the
whip again, and on they speed, more merrily than before.
A few small houses, scattered on either side of the road, betoken the
entrance to some town or village. The lively notes of the guard's
key-bugle vibrate in the clear cold air, and wake up the old gentleman
inside, who, carefully letting down the window-sash half-way, and
standing sentry over the air, takes a short peep out, and then
carefully pulling it up again, informs the other inside that they're
going to change directly; on which the other inside wakes himself up,
and determines to postpone his next nap until after the stoppage. Again
the bugle sounds lustily forth, and rouses the cottager's wife and
children, who peep out at the house-door, and watch the coach till it
turns the corner, when they once more crouch round the blazing fire,
and throw on another log of wood against father comes home; while
father himself, a full mile off, has just exchanged a friendly nod with
the coachman, and turned round to take a good long stare at the vehicle
as it whirls away.
And now the bugle plays a lively air as the coach rattles through the
ill-paved streets of a country town; and the coachman, undoing the
buckle which keeps his ribands together, prepares to throw them off
the moment he stops. Mr. Pickwick emerges from his coat collar, and
looks about him with great curiosity; perceiving which, the coachman
informs Mr. Pickwick of the name of the town, and tells him it was
market-day yesterday, both of which pieces of information Mr. Pickwick
retails to his fellow-passengers; whereupon they emerge from their coat
collars too, and look about them also. Mr. Winkle, who sits at the
extreme edge, with one leg dangling in the air, is nearly precipitated
into the street, as the coach twists round the sharp corner by the
cheesemonger's shop, and turns into the market-place; and before Mr.
Snodgrass, who sits next to him, has recovered from his alarm, they
pull up at the inn-yard, where the fresh horses, with cloths on, are
already waiting. The coachman throws down the reins and gets down
himself, and the other outside passengers drop down also: except those
who have no great confidence in their ability to get up again; and they
remain where they are, and stamp their feet against the coach to warm
them--looking, with longing eyes and red noses, at the bright fire in
the inn bar, and the sprigs of holly with red berries which ornament
the window.
But the guard has delivered at the corn-dealer's shop the brown paper
packet he took out of the little pouch which hangs over his shoulder
by a leathern strap; and has seen the horses carefully put to; and has
thrown on the pavement the saddle which was brought from London on the
coach-roof; and has assisted in the conference between the coachman
and the hostler about the grey mare that hurt her off-fore-leg last
Tuesday; and he and Mr. Weller are all right behind, and the coachman
is all right in front, and the old gentleman inside, who has kept the
window down full two inches all this time, has pulled it up again,
and the cloths are off, and they are all ready for starting, except
the "two stout gentlemen," whom the coachman inquires after with some
impatience. Hereupon the coachman, and the guard, and Sam Weller, and
Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, and all the hostlers, and every one of
the idlers, who are more in number than all the others put together,
shout for the missing gentlemen as loud as they can bawl. A distant
response is heard from the yard, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman come
running down it, quite out of breath, for they have been having a glass
of ale apiece, and Mr. Pickwick's fingers are so cold that he has been
full five minutes before he could find the sixpence to pay for it.
The coachman shouts an admonitory "Now, then, gen'lm'n!" the guard
re-echoes it; the old gentleman inside thinks it a very extraordinary
thing that people _will_ get down when they know there isn't time for
it; Mr. Pickwick struggles up on one side, Mr. Tupman on the other;
Mr. Winkle cries "All right!" and off they start. Shawls are pulled
up, coat-collars are re-adjusted, the pavement ceases, the houses
disappear, and they are once again dashing along the open road, with
the fresh clear air blowing in their faces, and gladdening their
very hearts within them.
[Illustration: _A distant response is heard from the yard, and Mr.
Pickwick and Mr. Tupman come running down it._]
Such was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by the Muggleton
Telegraph, on their way to Dingley Dell; and at three o'clock that
afternoon they all stood, high and dry, safe and sound, hale and
hearty, upon the steps of the Blue Lion, having taken on the road quite
enough of ale and brandy to enable them to bid defiance to the frost
that was binding up the earth in its iron fetters, and weaving its
beautiful net-work upon the trees and hedges. Mr. Pickwick was busily
engaged in counting the barrels of oysters, and superintending the
disinterment of the cod-fish, when he felt himself gently pulled by the
skirts of the coat. Looking round, he discovered that the individual
who resorted to this mode of catching his attention was no other than
Mr. Wardle's favourite page, better known to the readers of this
unvarnished history, by the distinguished appellation of the fat boy.
"Aha!" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Aha!" said the fat boy.
As he said it, he glanced from the cod-fish to the oyster-barrels, and
chuckled joyously. He was fatter than ever.
"Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend," said Mr. Pickwick.
"I've been asleep, right in front of the tap-room fire," replied the
fat boy, who had heated himself to the colour of a new chimney-pot, in
the course of an hour's nap. "Master sent me over with the shay-cart to
carry your luggage up to the house. He'd ha' sent some saddle-horses,
but he thought you'd rather walk, being a cold day."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Pickwick, hastily, for he remembered how they had
travelled over nearly the same ground on a previous occasion. "Yes, we
would rather walk. Here, Sam!"
"Sir?" said Mr. Weller.
"Help Mr. Wardle's servant to put the packages into the cart, and then
ride on with him. We will walk forward at once."
Having given this direction, and settled with the coachman, Mr.
Pickwick and his three friends struck into the footpath across the
fields, and walked briskly away, leaving Mr. Weller and the fat boy
confronted together for the first time. Sam looked at the fat boy with
great astonishment, but without saying a word; and began to stow the
luggage rapidly away in the cart, while the fat boy stood quietly by,
and seemed to think it a very interesting sort of thing to see Mr.
Weller working by himself.
[Illustration: "_Aha!" said the fat boy_]
"There," said Sam, throwing in the last carpet-bag. "There they are!"
"Yes," said the fat boy, in a very satisfied tone, "there they are!"
"Vell, young twenty stun," said Sam, "you're a nice specimen of a prize
boy, you are!"
"Thankee," said the fat boy.
"You ain't got nothin' on your mind as makes you fret yourself, have
you?" inquired Sam.
"Not as I knows on," replied the fat boy.
"I should rayther ha' thought, to look at you, that you was a labourin'
under an unrequited attachment to some young 'ooman," said Sam.
The fat boy shook his head.
"Vell," said Sam, "I'm glad to hear it. Do you ever drink anythin'?"
"I likes eating better," replied the boy.
"Ah," said Sam, "I should ha' s'posed that; but what I mean is, should
you like a drop of anythin' as 'd warm you? but I s'pose you never was
cold, with all them elastic fixtures, was you?"
"Sometimes," replied the boy; "and I likes a drop of something, when
it's good."
"Oh, you do, do you?" said Sam, "come this way, then!"
The Blue Lion tap was soon gained, and the fat boy swallowed a glass of
liquor without so much as winking; a feat which considerably advanced
him in Mr. Weller's good opinion. Mr. Weller having transacted a
similar piece of business on his own account, they got into the cart.
"Can you drive?" said the fat boy.
"I should rayther think so," replied Sam.
"There, then," said the fat boy, putting the reins in his hand, and
pointing up a lane, "it's as straight as you can go; you can't miss it."
With these words, the fat boy laid himself affectionately down by the
side of the cod-fish: and placing an oyster-barrel under his head for a
pillow, fell asleep instantaneously.
"Well," said Sam, "of all the cool boys ever I set my eyes on, this
here young gen'lm'n is the coolest. Come, wake up, young dropsy!"
But as young dropsy evinced no symptoms of returning animation, Sam
Weller sat himself down in front of the cart, and starting the old
horse with a jerk of the rein, jogged steadily on, towards Manor Farm.
Meanwhile, Mr. Pickwick and his friends having walked their blood into
active circulation, proceeded cheerfully on. The paths were hard; the
grass was crisp and frosty; the air had a fine, dry, bracing coldness;
and the rapid approach of the grey twilight (slate-coloured is a
better term in frosty weather) made them look forward with pleasant
anticipation to the comforts which awaited them at their hospitable
entertainer's. It was the sort of afternoon that might induce a couple
of elderly gentlemen, in a lonely field, to take off their great-coats
and play at leap-frog in pure lightness of heart and gaiety; and we
firmly believe that had Mr. Tupman at that moment proffered "a back,"
Mr. Pickwick would have accepted his offer with the utmost avidity.
However, Mr. Tupman did not volunteer any such accommodation, and the
friends walked on, conversing merrily. As they turned into a lane they
had to cross, the sound of many voices burst upon their ears; and
before they had even had time to form a guess to whom they belonged,
they walked into the very centre of the party who were expecting their
arrival--a fact which was first notified to the Pickwickians, by the
loud "Hurrah!" which burst from old Wardle's lips, when they appeared
in sight.
First, here was Wardle himself, looking, if possible, more jolly than
ever; then there were Bella and her faithful Trundle; and, lastly,
there were Emily and some eight or ten young ladies, who had all come
down to the wedding, which was to take place next day, and who were in
as happy and important a state as young ladies usually are, on such
momentous occasions; and they were, one and all, startling the fields
and lanes, far and wide, with their frolic and laughter.
The ceremony of introduction, under such circumstances, was very soon
performed, or we should rather say that the introduction was soon
over, without any ceremony at all. In two minutes thereafter, Mr.
Pickwick was joking with the young ladies who wouldn't come over the
stile while he looked--or who, having pretty feet and unexceptionable
ankles, preferred standing on the top-rail for five minutes or so,
declaring that they were too frightened to move--with as much ease and
absence of reserve or constraint, as if he had known them for life. It
is worthy of remark, too, that Mr. Snodgrass offered Emily far more
assistance than the absolute terrors of the stile (although it was full
three feet high, and had only a couple of stepping-stones) would seem
to require; while one black-eyed young lady in a very nice little pair
of boots, with fur round the top, was observed to scream very loudly,
when Mr. Winkle offered to help her over.
All this was very snug and pleasant. And when the difficulties of the
stile were at last surmounted, and they once more entered on the open
field, old Wardle informed Mr. Pickwick how they had all been down in a
body to inspect the furniture and fittings-up of the house, which the
young couple were to tenant, after the Christmas holidays; at which
communication Bella and Trundle both coloured up, as red as the fat
boy after the tap-room fire; and the young lady with the black eyes
and the fur round the boots, whispered something in Emily's ear, and
then glanced archly at Mr. Snodgrass; to which Emily responded that
she was a foolish girl, but turned very red, notwithstanding; and Mr.
Snodgrass, who was as modest as all great geniuses usually are, felt
the crimson rising to the crown of his head, and devoutly wished in the
inmost recesses of his own heart that the young lady aforesaid, with
her black eyes, and her archness, and her boots with the fur round the
top, were all comfortably deposited in the adjacent county.
But if they were social and happy outside the house, what was the
warmth and cordiality of their reception when they reached the farm!
The very servants grinned with pleasure at sight of Mr. Pickwick;
and Emma bestowed a half-demure, half-impudent, and all pretty, look
of recognition on Mr. Tupman, which was enough to make the statue of
Bonaparte in the passage unfold his arms, and clasp her within them.
The old lady was seated in customary state in the front parlour, but
she was rather cross, and, by consequence, most particularly deaf. She
never went out herself, and like a great many other old ladies of the
same stamp, she was apt to consider it an act of domestic treason if
anybody else took the liberty of doing what she couldn't. So, bless her
old soul, she sat as upright as she could, in her great armchair, and
looked as fierce as might be--and that was benevolent after all.
"Mother," said Wardle, "Mr. Pickwick. You recollect him?"
"Never mind," replied the old lady with great dignity. "Don't trouble
Mr. Pickwick about an old creetur like me. Nobody cares about me
now, and it's very nat'ral they shouldn't." Here the old lady tossed
her head, and smoothed down her lavender-coloured silk dress, with
trembling hands.
"Come, come, ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, "I can't let you cut an old
friend in this way. I have come down expressly to have a long talk, and
another rubber with you; and we'll show these boys and girls how to
dance a minuet, before they're eight-and-forty hours older."
The old lady was rapidly giving way, but she did not like to do it all
at once; so she only said, "Ah! I can't hear him!"
"Nonsense, mother," said Wardle. "Come, come, don't be cross, there's
a good soul. Recollect Bella; come, you must keep her spirits up, poor
girl."
The good lady heard this, for her lip quivered as her son said it. But
age has its little infirmities of temper, and she was not quite brought
round yet. So, she smoothed down the lavender-coloured dress again, and
turning to Mr. Pickwick said, "Ah, Mr. Pickwick, young people was very
different, when I was a girl."
"No doubt of that, ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, "and that's the reason
why I would make much of the few that have any traces of the old
stock,"--and saying this, Mr. Pickwick gently pulled Bella towards
him, and bestowing a kiss upon her forehead, bade her sit down on the
little stool at her grandmother's feet. Whether the expression of her
countenance, as it was raised towards the old lady's face, called up
a thought of old times, or whether the old lady was touched by Mr.
Pickwick's affectionate good nature, or whatever was the cause, she was
fairly melted; so she threw herself on her grand-daughter's neck, and
all the little ill-humour evaporated in a gush of silent tears.
A happy party they were, that night. Sedate and solemn were the score
of rubbers in which Mr. Pickwick and the old lady played together;
uproarious was the mirth of the round table. Long after the ladies had
retired, did the hot elder-wine, well qualified with brandy and spice,
go round, and round, and round again; and sound was the sleep and
pleasant were the dreams that followed. It is a remarkable fact that
those of Mr. Snodgrass bore constant reference to Emily Wardle; and
that the principal figure in Mr. Winkle's visions was a young lady with
black eyes, an arch smile, and a pair of remarkably nice boots with fur
round the tops.
Mr. Pickwick was awakened, early in the morning, by a hum of voices
and a pattering of feet, sufficient to rouse even the fat boy from his
heavy slumbers. He sat up in bed and listened. The female servants and
female visitors were running constantly to and fro; and there were such
multitudinous demands for hot water, such repeated outcries for needles
and thread, and so many half-suppressed entreaties of "Oh, do come and
tie me, there's a dear!" that Mr. Pickwick in his innocence began to
imagine that something dreadful must have occurred: when he grew more
awake, and remembered the wedding. The occasion being an important one
he dressed himself with peculiar care, and descended to the breakfast
room.
There were all the female servants in a brand new uniform of pink
muslin gowns with white bows in their caps, running about the house in
a state of excitement and agitation which it would be impossible to
describe. The old lady was dressed out in a brocaded gown which had not
seen the light for twenty years, saving and excepting such truant rays
as had stolen through the chinks in the box in which it had been laid
by, during the whole time. Mr. Trundle was in high feather and spirits,
but a little nervous withal. The hearty old landlord was trying to look
very cheerful and unconcerned, but failing signally in the attempt.
All the girls were in tears and white muslin, except a select two or
three who were being honoured with a private view of the bride and
bridesmaids, upstairs. All the Pickwickians were in a most blooming
array; and there was a terrific roaring on the grass in front of the
house, occasioned by all the men, boys, and hobbledehoys attached to
the farm, each of whom had got a white bow in his button-hole, and all
of whom were cheering with might and main: being incited thereunto,
and stimulated therein, by the precept and example of Mr. Samuel
Weller, who had managed to become mighty popular already, and was as
much at home as if he had been born on the land.
A wedding is a licensed subject to joke upon, but there really is no
great joke in the matter after all;--we speak merely of the ceremony,
and beg it to be distinctly understood that we indulge in no hidden
sarcasm upon a married life. Mixed up with the pleasure and joy of the
occasion, are the many regrets at quitting home, the tears of parting
between parent and child, the consciousness of leaving the dearest and
kindest friends of the happiest portion of human life, to encounter its
cares and troubles with others still untried and little known: natural
feelings which we would not render this chapter mournful by describing,
and which we should be still more unwilling to be supposed to ridicule.
Let us briefly say, then, that the ceremony was performed by the
old clergyman, in the parish church of Dingley Dell, and that Mr.
Pickwick's name is attached to the register, still preserved in the
vestry thereof; that the young lady with the black eyes signed her
name in a very unsteady and tremulous manner; that Emily's signature,
as the other bridesmaid, is nearly illegible; that it all went off in
very admirable style; that the young ladies generally thought it far
less shocking than they had expected; and that although the owner of
the black eyes and the arch smile informed Mr. Winkle that she was sure
she could never submit to anything so dreadful, we have the very best
reasons for thinking she was mistaken. To all this, we may add, that
Mr. Pickwick was the first who saluted the bride, and that in so doing,
he threw over her neck a rich gold watch and chain, which no mortal
eyes but the jeweller's had ever beheld before. Then, the old church
bell rang as gaily as it could, and they all returned to breakfast.
"Vere does the mince pies go, young opium-eater?" said Mr. Weller to
the fat boy, as he assisted in laying out such articles of consumption
as had not been duly arranged on the previous night.
The fat boy pointed to the destination of the pies.
"Wery good," said Sam, "stick a bit o' Christmas in 'em. T'other dish
opposite. There; now we look compact and comfortable, as the father
said ven he cut his little boy's head off, to cure him of squintin'."
As Mr. Weller made the comparison, he fell back a step or two, to
give full effect to it, and surveyed the preparations with the utmost
satisfaction.
"Wardle," said Mr. Pickwick, almost as soon as they were all seated, "a
glass of wine in honour of this happy occasion!"
"I shall be delighted, my boy," said Wardle. "Joe--damn that boy, he's
gone to sleep."
"No, I ain't, sir," replied the fat boy, starting up from a remote
corner, where, like the patron saint of fat boys--the immortal
Horner--he had been devouring a Christmas pie: though not with the
coolness and deliberation which characterised that young gentleman's
proceedings.
"Fill Mr. Pickwick's glass."
"Yes, sir."
The fat boy filled Mr. Pickwick's glass, and then retired behind his
master's chair, from whence he watched the play of the knives and
forks, and the progress of the choice morsels from the dishes to the
mouths of the company, with a kind of dark and gloomy joy that was most
impressive.
"God bless you, old fellow!" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Same to you, my boy," replied Wardle, and they pledged each other
heartily.
"Mrs. Wardle," said Mr. Pickwick, "we old folks must have a glass of
wine together, in honour of this joyful event."
The old lady was in a state of great grandeur just then, for she
was sitting at the top of the table in the brocaded gown, with her
newly-married granddaughter on one side and Mr. Pickwick on the other,
to do the carving. Mr. Pickwick had not spoken in a very loud tone,
but she understood him at once, and drank off a full glass of wine to
his long life and happiness; after which the worthy old soul launched
forth into a minute and particular account of her own wedding, with
a dissertation on the fashion of wearing high-heeled shoes, and some
particulars concerning the life and adventures of the beautiful Lady
Tollimglower, deceased: at all of which the old lady herself laughed
very heartily indeed, and so did the young ladies too, for they were
wondering among themselves what on earth grandma was talking about.
When they laughed, the old lady laughed ten times more heartily, and
said that these always had been considered capital stories: which
caused them all to laugh again, and put the old lady into the very best
of humours. Then, the cake was cut, and passed through the ring; the
young ladies saved pieces to put under their pillows to dream of their
future husbands on; and a great deal of blushing and merriment was
thereby occasioned.
"Mr. Miller," said Mr. Pickwick to his old acquaintance the hard-headed
gentleman, "a glass of wine?"
"With great satisfaction, Mr. Pickwick," replied the hard-headed
gentleman, solemnly.
"You'll take me in?" said the benevolent old clergyman.
"And me," interposed his wife.
"And me, and me," said a couple of poor relations at the bottom of the
table, who had eaten and drank very heartily, and laughed at everything.
Mr. Pickwick expressed his heartfelt delight at every additional
suggestion: and his eyes beamed with hilarity and cheerfulness.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly rising.
"Hear, hear! Hear, hear! Hear, hear!" cried Mr. Weller, in the
excitement of his feelings.
"Call in all the servants," cried old Wardle, interposing to prevent
the public rebuke which Mr. Weller would otherwise most indubitably
have received from his master. "Give them a glass of wine each, to
drink the toast in. Now, Pickwick."
Amidst the silence of the company, the whispering of the women
servants, and the awkward embarrassment of the men, Mr. Pickwick
proceeded.
"Ladies and gentlemen--no, I won't say ladies and gentlemen, I'll call
you my friends, my dear friends, if the ladies will allow me to take so
great a liberty"----
Here Mr. Pickwick was interrupted by immense applause from the ladies,
echoed by the gentlemen, during which the owner of the eyes was
distinctly heard to state that she could kiss that dear Mr. Pickwick.
Whereupon Mr. Winkle gallantly inquired if it couldn't be done by
deputy: to which the young lady with the black eyes replied, "Go
away"--and accompanied the request with a look which said as plainly as
a look could do--"if you can."
"My dear friends," resumed Mr. Pickwick, "I am going to propose the
health of the bride and bridegroom--God bless 'em (cheers and tears).
My young friend, Trundle, I believe to be a very excellent and manly
fellow; and his wife I know to be a very amiable and lovely girl, well
qualified to transfer to another sphere of action the happiness which
for twenty years she has diffused around her, in her father's house.
(Here, the fat boy burst forth into stentorian blubberings, and was led
forth by the coat collar, by Mr. Weller.) I wish," added Mr. Pickwick,
"I wish I was young enough to be her sister's husband (cheers), but,
failing that, I am happy to be old enough to be her father; for, being
so, I shall not be suspected of any latent designs when I say, that
I admire, esteem, and love them both (cheers and sobs). The bride's
father, our good friend there, is a noble person, and I am proud to
know him (great uproar). He is a kind, excellent, independent-spirited,
fine-hearted, hospitable, liberal man (enthusiastic shouts from the
poor relations, at all the adjectives; and especially at the two last).
That his daughter may enjoy all the happiness, even he can desire;
and that he may derive from the contemplation of her felicity all the
gratification of heart and peace of mind which he so well deserves, is,
I am persuaded, our united wish. So, let us drink their healths, and
wish them prolonged life, and every blessing!"
Mr. Pickwick concluded amidst a whirlwind of applause; and once more
were the lungs of the supernumeraries, under Mr. Weller's command,
brought into active and efficient operation. Mr. Wardle proposed Mr.
Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick proposed the old lady. Mr. Snodgrass proposed
Mr. Wardle; Mr. Wardle proposed Mr. Snodgrass. One of the poor
relations proposed Mr. Tupman, and the other poor relation proposed
Mr. Winkle; all was happiness and festivity, until the mysterious
disappearance of both the poor relations beneath the table warned the
party that it was time to adjourn.
At dinner they met again, after a five-and-twenty mile walk, undertaken
by the males at Wardle's recommendation, to get rid of the effects of
the wine at breakfast. The poor relations had kept in bed all day, with
the view of attaining the same happy consummation, but, as they had
been unsuccessful, they stopped there. Mr. Weller kept the domestics in
a state of perpetual hilarity; and the fat boy divided his time into
small alternate allotments of eating and sleeping.
The dinner was as hearty an affair as the breakfast, and was quite as
noisy, without the tears. Then came the dessert and some more toasts.
Then came the tea and coffee; and then the ball.
The best sitting-room at Manor Farm was a good, long, dark-panelled
room, with a high chimney-piece, and a capacious chimney, up which you
could have driven one of the new patent cabs, wheels and all. At the
upper end of the room, seated in a shady bower of holly and evergreens,
were the two best fiddlers, and the only harp, in all Muggleton. In
all sorts of recesses, and on all kinds of brackets, stood massive old
silver candlesticks with four branches each. The carpet was up, the
candles burnt bright, the fire blazed and crackled on the hearth, and
merry voices and light-hearted laughter rang through the room. If any
of the old English yeomen had turned into fairies when they died, it
was just the place in which they would have held their revels.
If anything could have added to the interest of this agreeable scene,
it would have been the remarkable fact of Mr. Pickwick's appearing
without his gaiters, for the first time within the memory of his oldest
friends.
"You mean to dance?" said Wardle.
"Of course I do," replied Mr. Pickwick. "Don't you see I am dressed for
the purpose?" Mr. Pickwick called attention to his speckled stockings,
and smartly tied pumps.
"_You_ in silk stockings!" exclaimed Mr. Tupman, jocosely.
"And why not, sir--why not?" said Mr. Pickwick, turning warmly upon him.
"Oh, of course there is no reason why you shouldn't wear them,"
responded Mr. Tupman.
"I imagine not, sir, I imagine not," said Mr. Pickwick in a very
peremptory tone.
Mr. Tupman had contemplated a laugh, but he found it was a serious
matter; so he looked grave, and said they were a pretty pattern.
"I hope they are," said Mr. Pickwick, fixing his eyes upon his friend.
"You see nothing extraordinary in the stockings, _as_ stockings, I
trust, sir?"
"Certainly not. Oh certainly not," replied Mr. Tupman. He walked away;
and Mr. Pickwick's countenance resumed its customary benign expression.
"We are all ready, I believe," said Mr. Pickwick, who was stationed
with the old lady at the top of the dance, and had already made four
false starts, in his excessive anxiety to commence.
"Then begin at once," said Wardle. "Now!"
Up struck the two fiddles and the one harp, and off went Mr. Pickwick
into hands across, when there was a general clapping of hands and a cry
of "Stop, stop!"
"What's the matter?" said Mr. Pickwick, who was only brought to by the
fiddles and harp desisting, and could have been stopped by no other
earthly power, if the house had been on fire.
"Where's Arabella Allen?" cried a dozen voices.
"And Winkle?" added Mr. Tupman.
"Here we are!" exclaimed that gentleman, emerging with his pretty
companion from the corner; as he did so, it would have been hard to
tell which was the redder in the face, he or the young lady with the
black eyes.
"What an extraordinary thing it is, Winkle," said Mr. Pickwick, rather
pettishly, "that you couldn't have taken your place before."
"Not at all extraordinary," said Mr. Winkle.
"Well," said Mr. Pickwick, with a very expressive smile, as his eyes
rested on Arabella, "well, I don't know that it _was_ extraordinary
either, after all."
However, there was no time to think more about the matter, for the
fiddles and harp began in real earnest. Away went Mr. Pickwick--hands
across--down the middle to the very end of the room, and half-way up
the chimney, back again to the door--poussette everywhere--loud stamp
on the ground--ready for the next couple--off again--all the figure
over once more--another stamp to beat out the time--next couple,
and the next, and the next again--never was such going! At last,
after they had reached the bottom of the dance, and full fourteen
couple after the old lady had retired in an exhausted state, and the
clergyman's wife had been substituted in her stead, did that gentleman,
when there was no demand whatever on his exertions, keep perpetually
dancing in his place, to keep time to the music; smiling on his
partner all the while with a blandness of demeanour which baffles all
description.
Long before Mr. Pickwick was weary of dancing, the newly-married couple
had retired from the scene. There was a glorious supper downstairs,
notwithstanding, and a good long sitting after it; and when Mr.
Pickwick awoke, late the next morning, he had a confused recollection
of having, severally and confidentially, invited somewhere about
five-and-forty people to dine with him at the George and Vulture,
the very first time they came to London; which Mr. Pickwick rightly
considered a pretty certain indication of his having taken something
besides exercise, on the previous night.
"And so your family has games in the kitchen to-night, my dear, has
they?" inquired Sam of Emma.
"Yes, Mr. Weller," replied Emma; "we always have on Christmas Eve.
Master wouldn't neglect to keep it up on any account."
"Your master's a wery pretty notion of keepin' anythin' up, my dear,"
said Mr. Weller; "I never see such a sensible sort of man as he is, or
such a reg'lar gen'l'm'n."
"Oh, that he is!" said the fat boy, joining in the conversation; "don't
he breed nice pork!" The fat youth gave a semi-cannibalic leer at Mr.
Weller, as he thought of the roast legs and gravy.
"Oh, you've woke up, at last, have you?" said Sam.
The fat boy nodded.
"I'll tell you what it is, young boa-constructer," said Mr. Weller,
impressively; "if you don't sleep a little less, and exercise a little
more, ven you come to be a man you'll lay yourself open to the same
sort of personal inconwenience as was inflicted on the old gen'l'm'n as
wore the pigtail."
"What did they do to him?" inquired the fat boy, in a faltering voice.
"I'm a goin' to tell you," replied Mr. Weller; "he was one o' the
largest patterns as was ever turned out--reg'lar fat man, as hadn't
caught a glimpse of his own shoes for five-and-forty year."
"Lor!" exclaimed Emma.
"No, that he hadn't, my dear," said Mr. Weller; "and if you'd put an
exact model of his own legs on the dinin' table afore him, he wouldn't
ha' known 'em. Well, he always walks to his office with a wery handsome
gold watch-chain hanging out, about a foot and a quarter, and a gold
watch in his fob pocket as was worth--I'm afraid to say how much, but
as much as a watch can be--a large, heavy, round manafacter, as stout
for a watch, as he was for a man, and with a big face in proportion.
'You'd better not carry that 'ere watch,' says the old gen'l'm'n's
friends, 'you'll be robbed on it,' says they. 'Shall I?' says he.
'Yes, you will,' says they. 'Vell,' says he, 'I should like to see the
thief as could get this here watch out, for I'm blest if _I_ ever can,
it's such a tight fit,' says he; 'and venever I wants to know what's
o'clock, I'm obliged to stare into the bakers' shops,' he says. Well,
then he laughs as hearty as if he was a-goin' to pieces, and out he
walks agin, with his powdered head and pigtail, and rolls down the
Strand vith the chain hangin' out furder than ever, and the great round
watch almost bustin' through his grey kersey smalls. There warn't a
pickpocket in all London as didn't take a pull at that chain, but the
chain 'ud never break, and the watch 'ud never come out, so they soon
got tired o' dragging such a heavy old gen'l'm'n along the pavement,
and he'd go home and laugh till the pigtail wibrated like the perderlum
of a Dutch clock. At last one day the old gen'l'm'n was a-rolling along
and he sees a pickpocket as he know'd by sight, a-comin' up, arm in arm
vith a little boy with a very large head. 'Here's a game,' says the
old gen'l'm'n to himself, 'they're a-goin' to have another try, but it
won't do!' So he begins a-chucklin' wery hearty, ven all of a sudden,
the little boy leaves hold of the pickpocket's arm, and rushes head
foremost straight into the old gen'l'm'n's stomach, and for a moment
doubles him right up vith the pain. 'Murder!' says the old gen'l'm'n.
'All right, sir,' says the pickpocket, a-whisperin' in his ear. And
when he come straight agin, the watch and chain was gone, and what's
worse than that, the old gen'l'm'n's digestion was all wrong ever
arterwards, to the wery last day of his life; so just you look about
you, young feller, and take care you don't get too fat."
As Mr. Weller concluded this moral tale, with which the fat boy
appeared much affected, they all three repaired to the large kitchen,
in which the family were by this time assembled, according to annual
custom on Christmas Eve, observed by old Wardle's fore-fathers from
time immemorial.
From the centre of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just
suspended, with his own hands, a huge branch of mistletoe, and this
same branch of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of
general and most delightful struggling and confusion; in the midst
of which, Mr. Pickwick, with a gallantry that would have done honour
to a descendant of Lady Tollimglower herself, took the old lady by
the hand, led her beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all
courtesy and decorum. The old lady submitted to this piece of practical
politeness with all the dignity which befitted so important and serious
a solemnity, but the younger ladies, not being so thoroughly imbued
with a superstitious veneration for the custom: or imagining that the
value of a salute is very much enhanced if it cost a little trouble to
obtain it: screamed and struggled, and ran into corners, and threatened
and remonstrated, and did everything but leave the room, until some of
the less adventurous gentlemen were on the point of desisting, when
they all at once found it useless to resist any longer, and submitted
to be kissed with a good grace. Mr. Winkle kissed the young lady with
the black eyes, and Mr. Snodgrass kissed Emily, and Mr. Weller, not
being particular about the form of being under the mistletoe, kissed
Emma and the other female servants, just as he caught them. As to
the poor relations, they kissed everybody, not even excepting the
plainer portions of the young-lady visitors, who, in their excessive
confusion, ran right under the mistletoe, as soon as it was hung up,
without knowing it! Wardle stood with his back to the fire, surveying
the whole scene, with the utmost satisfaction; and the fat boy took the
opportunity of appropriating to his own use, and summarily devouring,
a particularly fine mince-pie, that had been carefully put by for
somebody else.
Now the screaming had subsided, and faces were in a glow, and curls
in a tangle, and Mr. Pickwick, after kissing the old lady as before
mentioned, was standing under the mistletoe, looking with a very
pleased countenance on all that was passing around him, when the young
lady with the black eyes, after a little whispering with the other
young ladies, made a sudden dart forward, and, putting her arm round
Mr. Pickwick's neck, saluted him affectionately on the left cheek;
and before Mr. Pickwick distinctly knew what was the matter, he was
surrounded by the whole body and kissed by every one of them.
It was a pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick the centre of the group,
now pulled this way, and then that, and first kissed on the chin, and
then on the nose, and then on the spectacles: and to hear the peals
of laughter which were raised on every side; but it was a still more
pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick, blinded shortly afterwards with a
silk handkerchief, falling up against the wall, and scrambling into
corners, and going through all the mysteries of blindman's buff, with
the utmost relish for the game, until at last he caught one of the poor
relations, and then had to evade the blindman himself, which he did
with a nimbleness and agility that elicited the admiration and applause
of all beholders. The poor relations caught the people who they thought
would like it, and, when the game flagged, got caught themselves. When
they were all tired of blindman's buff, there was a great game at
snap-dragon, and when fingers enough were burned with that, and all the
raisins were gone, they sat down by the huge fire of blazing logs to
a substantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail, something smaller
than an ordinary wash-house copper, in which the hot apples were
hissing and bubbling with a rich look, and a jolly sound, that were
perfectly irresistible.
"This," said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him, "this is, indeed,
comfort."
"Our invariable custom," replied Mr. Wardle. "Everybody sits down with
us on Christmas Eve, as you see them now--servants and all; and here
we wait, until the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and
beguile the time with forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy, rake
up the fire."
Up flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred. The deep
red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the furthest
corner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.
"Come," said Wardle, "a song--a Christmas song! I'll give you one, in
default of a better."
"Bravo!" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Fill up!" cried Wardle. "It will be two hours, good, before you see
the bottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail;
fill up all round, and now for a song."
Thus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice,
commenced without more ado:
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing
Let the blossoms and buds be borne:
He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,
And he scatters them ere the morn.
An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,
Nor his own changing mind an hour,
He'll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace,
He'll wither your youngest flower.
Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,
He shall never be sought by me;
When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,
And care not how sulky he be!
For his darling child is the madness wild
That sports in fierce fever's train;
And when love is too strong it don't last long,
As many have found to their pain.
A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light
Of the modest and gentle moon,
Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween,
Than the broad and unblushing noon.
But every leaf awakens my grief,
As it lieth beneath the tree;
So let Autumn air be never so fair,
It by no means agrees with me.
But my song I troll out, for +Christmas+ Stout,
The hearty, the true and the bold;
A bumper I drain, and with might and main
Give three cheers for this Christmas old!
We'll usher him in with a merry din
That shall gladden his joyous heart,
And we'll keep him up, while there's bite or sup,
And in fellowship good, we'll part.
In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide
One jot of his hard-weather scars;
They're no disgrace, for there's much the same trace
On the cheeks of our bravest tars.
Then again I'll sing 'till the roof doth ring,
And it echoes from wall to wall--
To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,
As the King of the Seasons all!
This song was tumultuously applauded--for friends and dependents make a
capital audience--and the poor relations, especially, were in perfect
ecstasies of rapture. Again was the fire replenished, and again went
the wassail round.
"How it snows!" said one of the men, in a low tone.
"Snows, does it?" said Wardle.
"Rough, cold night, sir," replied the man; "and there's a wind got up,
that drifts it across the fields, in a thick white cloud."
"What does Jem say?" inquired the old lady. "There ain't anything the
matter, is there?"
"No, no, mother," replied Wardle; "he says there's a snow-drift, and a
wind that's piercing cold. I should know that, by the way it rumbles in
the chimney."
"Ah!" said the old lady, "there was just such a wind, and just such
a fall of snow, a good many years back, I recollect--just five years
before your poor father died. It was a Christmas Eve, too; and I
remember that on that very night he told us the story about the goblins
that carried away old Gabriel Grub."
"The story about what?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Oh, nothing, nothing," replied Wardle. "About an old sexton, that the
good people down here suppose to have been carried away by goblins."
"Suppose!" ejaculated the old lady. "Is there anybody hardy enough to
disbelieve it? Suppose! Haven't you heard ever since you were a child,
that he _was_ carried away by the goblins, and don't you know he was?"
"Very well, mother, he was, if you like," said Wardle, laughing. "He
_was_ carried away by goblins, Pickwick; and there's an end to the
matter."
"No, no," said Mr. Pickwick, "not an end of it, I assure you; for I
must hear how, and why, and all about it."
Wardle smiled as every head was bent forward to hear; and filling out
the wassail with no stinted hand, nodded a health to Mr. Pickwick, and
began as follows:
But bless our editorial heart, what a long chapter we have been
betrayed into! We had quite forgotten all such petty restrictions as
chapters, we solemnly declare. So here goes, to give the goblin a fair
start in a new one! A clear stage and no favour for the goblins, ladies
and gentlemen, if you please.
END OF VOL. I
Printed by +Ballantyne, Hanson, & Co.+
Edinburgh & London
Transcriber's note
Text in italics was surrounded with _underscores_, an antique
font with *asterisks* and small capitals with +signs+.
Small errors in punctuation were corrected without note, also the
following changes were made, on page
14 "Snodrgass" changed to "Snodgrass" (said Mr. Snodgrass.)
32 "horizon" changed to "heroism" (but his heroism was invincible.)
70 "it" removed (replied Mr. Winkle.)
72 "nothwithstanding" changed to "notwithstanding" (notwithstanding
all kinds of coaxing and wheedling)
78 "haraccters" changed to "characters" (and speculate upon the
characters and pursuits)
204 "smkoe" changed to "smoke" (who continued to smoke with great
vehemence.)
286 "su er" changed to "suffer" (caption: "I won't suffer this
barrow to)
289 "tail" changed to "tall" (the very spot where the tall man's
brain would have been)
320 "asid" changed to "said" ( said Mr. Pickwick, laughing.)
359 "aimable" changed to "amiable" (it's a amiable weakness)
428 "junps" changed to "jumps" (Mr. Weller jumps up behind)
441 "drive" changed to "derive" (that he may derive from the
contemplation of her felicity)
446 "that" changed to "than" (and what's worse than that).
Otherwise the original of this edition was preserved, including
inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation etc.