At length Mr. Stiggins, with several most indubitable symptoms of having

quite as much pine-apple rum-and-water about him as he could comfortably

accommodate, took his hat, and his leave; and Sam was, immediately

afterwards, shown to bed by his father. The respectable old gentleman

wrung his hand fervently, and seemed disposed to address some

observation to his son; but on Mrs. Weller advancing towards him, he

appeared to relinquish that intention, and abruptly bade him good-night.

Sam was up betimes next day, and having partaken of a hasty breakfast,

prepared to return to London. He had scarcely set foot without the

house, when his father stood before him.

‘Goin’, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Off at once,’ replied Sam.

‘I vish you could muffle that ‘ere Stiggins, and take him vith you,’

said Mr. Weller.

‘I am ashamed on you!’ said Sam reproachfully; ‘what do you let him show

his red nose in the Markis o’ Granby at all, for?’

Mr. Weller the elder fixed on his son an earnest look, and replied,

‘’Cause I’m a married man, Samivel, ‘cause I’m a married man. Ven you’re

a married man, Samivel, you’ll understand a good many things as you

don’t understand now; but vether it’s worth while goin’ through so much,

to learn so little, as the charity-boy said ven he got to the end of the

alphabet, is a matter o’ taste. I rayther think it isn’t.’

Well,’ said Sam, ‘good-bye.’

‘Tar, tar, Sammy,’ replied his father.

‘I’ve only got to say this here,’ said Sam, stopping short, ‘that if I

was the properiator o’ the Markis o’ Granby, and that ‘ere Stiggins came

and made toast in my bar, I’d--’

‘What?’ interposed Mr. Weller, with great anxiety. ‘What?’

‘Pison his rum-and-water,’ said Sam.

‘No!’ said Mr. Weller, shaking his son eagerly by the hand, ‘would you

raly, Sammy-would you, though?’

‘I would,’ said Sam. ‘I wouldn’t be too hard upon him at first. I’d drop

him in the water-butt, and put the lid on; and if I found he was

insensible to kindness, I’d try the other persvasion.’

The elder Mr. Weller bestowed a look of deep, unspeakable admiration on

his son, and, having once more grasped his hand, walked slowly away,

revolving in his mind the numerous reflections to which his advice had

given rise.

Sam looked after him, until he turned a corner of the road; and then set

forward on his walk to London. He meditated at first, on the probable

consequences of his own advice, and the likelihood of his father’s

adopting it. He dismissed the subject from his mind, however, with the

consolatory reflection that time alone would show; and this is the

reflection we would impress upon the reader.

CHAPTER XXVIII. 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 the time; and right 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 reunited, and meet once again in that happy state of

companionship and mutual goodwill, 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 blessed

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 mind 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 the 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 in

safety 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 to 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 a 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 gray 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 a-piece,

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’l’m’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

readjusted, 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.

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

network 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 distinguishing 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 taproom 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 chay-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.

‘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!’

Thank’ee,’ 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 am 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’l’m’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 the 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 gray 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 greatcoats

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, there was Wardle himself, looking, if that were 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 taproom 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 with 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 chair, 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 old 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 granddaughter’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, and 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 bran 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 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 thereto, 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. Wardle 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 o’ 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 drunk 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

burned 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 silk

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 keeping 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, wen you comes 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-going 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 manufacter, 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. “Well,” says he, “I should like to see the thief as

could get this here watch out, for I’m blessed if I ever can, it’s such

a tight fit,” says he, “and wenever I vants 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 with the chain

hangin’ out furder than ever, and the great round watch almost bustin’

through his gray 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 of 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 penderlum of a Dutch clock. At last, one

day the old gen’l’m’n was a-rollin’ along, and he sees a pickpocket as

he know’d by sight, a-coming up, arm in arm with a little boy with a

wery 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, wen, 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 with the

pain. “Murder!” says the old gen’l’m’n. “All right, Sir,” says the

pickpocket, a-wisperin’ in his ear. And wen 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 afterwards, 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 forefathers 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 in 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 blind-man’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 blind-man 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 all tired of blind-man’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 farthest

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 the 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 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 snowdrift, 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 of 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.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE STORY OF THE GOBLINS WHO STOLE A SEXTON

‘In an old abbey town, down in this part of the country, a long, long

while ago--so long, that the story must be a true one, because our

great-grandfathers implicitly believed it--there officiated as sexton

and grave-digger in the churchyard, one Gabriel Grub. It by no means

follows that because a man is a sexton, and constantly surrounded by the

emblems of mortality, therefore he should be a morose and melancholy

man; your undertakers are the merriest fellows in the world; and I once

had the honour of being on intimate terms with a mute, who in private

life, and off duty, was as comical and jocose a little fellow as ever

chirped out a devil-may-care song, without a hitch in his memory, or

drained off a good stiff glass without stopping for breath. But

notwithstanding these precedents to the contrary, Gabriel Grub was an

ill-conditioned, cross-grained, surly fellow--a morose and lonely man,

who consorted with nobody but himself, and an old wicker bottle which

fitted into his large deep waistcoat pocket--and who eyed each merry

face, as it passed him by, with such a deep scowl of malice and ill-

humour, as it was difficult to meet without feeling something the worse

for.

‘A little before twilight, one Christmas Eve, Gabriel shouldered his

spade, lighted his lantern, and betook himself towards the old

churchyard; for he had got a grave to finish by next morning, and,

feeling very low, he thought it might raise his spirits, perhaps, if he

went on with his work at once. As he went his way, up the ancient

street, he saw the cheerful light of the blazing fires gleam through the

old casements, and heard the loud laugh and the cheerful shouts of those

who were assembled around them; he marked the bustling preparations for

next day’s cheer, and smelled the numerous savoury odours consequent

thereupon, as they steamed up from the kitchen windows in clouds. All

this was gall and wormwood to the heart of Gabriel Grub; and when groups

of children bounded out of the houses, tripped across the road, and were

met, before they could knock at the opposite door, by half a dozen

curly-headed little rascals who crowded round them as they flocked

upstairs to spend the evening in their Christmas games, Gabriel smiled

grimly, and clutched the handle of his spade with a firmer grasp, as he

thought of measles, scarlet fever, thrush, whooping-cough, and a good

many other sources of consolation besides.

‘In this happy frame of mind, Gabriel strode along, returning a short,

sullen growl to the good-humoured greetings of such of his neighbours as

now and then passed him, until he turned into the dark lane which led to

the churchyard. Now, Gabriel had been looking forward to reaching the

dark lane, because it was, generally speaking, a nice, gloomy, mournful

place, into which the townspeople did not much care to go, except in

broad daylight, and when the sun was shining; consequently, he was not a

little indignant to hear a young urchin roaring out some jolly song

about a merry Christmas, in this very sanctuary which had been called

Coffin Lane ever since the days of the old abbey, and the time of the

shaven-headed monks. As Gabriel walked on, and the voice drew nearer, he

found it proceeded from a small boy, who was hurrying along, to join one

of the little parties in the old street, and who, partly to keep himself

company, and partly to prepare himself for the occasion, was shouting

out the song at the highest pitch of his lungs. So Gabriel waited until

the boy came up, and then dodged him into a corner, and rapped him over

the head with his lantern five or six times, just to teach him to

modulate his voice. And as the boy hurried away with his hand to his

head, singing quite a different sort of tune, Gabriel Grub chuckled very

heartily to himself, and entered the churchyard, locking the gate behind

him.

‘He took off his coat, set down his lantern, and getting into the

unfinished grave, worked at it for an hour or so with right good-will.

But the earth was hardened with the frost, and it was no very easy

matter to break it up, and shovel it out; and although there was a moon,

it was a very young one, and shed little light upon the grave, which was

in the shadow of the church. At any other time, these obstacles would

have made Gabriel Grub very moody and miserable, but he was so well

pleased with having stopped the small boy’s singing, that he took little

heed of the scanty progress he had made, and looked down into the grave,

when he had finished work for the night, with grim satisfaction,

murmuring as he gathered up his things--

Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one, A few feet of cold

earth, when life is done; A stone at the head, a stone at the feet, A

rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat; Rank grass overhead, and damp

clay around, Brave lodgings for one, these, in holy ground!

‘“Ho! ho!” laughed Gabriel Grub, as he sat himself down on a flat

tombstone which was a favourite resting-place of his, and drew forth his

wicker bottle. “A coffin at Christmas! A Christmas box! Ho! ho! ho!”

‘“Ho! ho! ho!” repeated a voice which sounded close behind him.

‘Gabriel paused, in some alarm, in the act of raising the wicker bottle

to his lips, and looked round. The bottom of the oldest grave about him

was not more still and quiet than the churchyard in the pale moonlight.

The cold hoar frost glistened on the tombstones, and sparkled like rows

of gems, among the stone carvings of the old church. The snow lay hard

and crisp upon the ground; and spread over the thickly-strewn mounds of

earth, so white and smooth a cover that it seemed as if corpses lay

there, hidden only by their winding sheets. Not the faintest rustle

broke the profound tranquillity of the solemn scene. Sound itself

appeared to be frozen up, all was so cold and still.

‘“It was the echoes,” said Gabriel Grub, raising the bottle to his lips

again.

‘“It was _not_,” said a deep voice.

‘Gabriel started up, and stood rooted to the spot with astonishment and

terror; for his eyes rested on a form that made his blood run cold.

‘Seated on an upright tombstone, close to him, was a strange, unearthly

figure, whom Gabriel felt at once, was no being of this world. His long,

fantastic legs which might have reached the ground, were cocked up, and

crossed after a quaint, fantastic fashion; his sinewy arms were bare;

and his hands rested on his knees. On his short, round body, he wore a

close covering, ornamented with small slashes; a short cloak dangled at

his back; the collar was cut into curious peaks, which served the goblin

in lieu of ruff or neckerchief; and his shoes curled up at his toes into

long points. On his head, he wore a broad-brimmed sugar-loaf hat,

garnished with a single feather. The hat was covered with the white

frost; and the goblin looked as if he had sat on the same tombstone very

comfortably, for two or three hundred years. He was sitting perfectly

still; his tongue was put out, as if in derision; and he was grinning at

Gabriel Grub with such a grin as only a goblin could call up.

‘“It was _not _the echoes,” said the goblin.

‘Gabriel Grub was paralysed, and could make no reply.

‘“What do you do here on Christmas Eve?” said the goblin sternly.

‘“I came to dig a grave, Sir,” stammered Gabriel Grub.

‘“What man wanders among graves and churchyards on such a night as

this?” cried the goblin.

‘“Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!” screamed a wild chorus of voices that

seemed to fill the churchyard. Gabriel looked fearfully round--nothing

was to be seen.

‘“What have you got in that bottle?” said the goblin.

‘“Hollands, sir,” replied the sexton, trembling more than ever; for he

had bought it of the smugglers, and he thought that perhaps his

questioner might be in the excise department of the goblins.

‘“Who drinks Hollands alone, and in a churchyard, on such a night as

this?” said the goblin.

‘“Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!” exclaimed the wild voices again.

‘The goblin leered maliciously at the terrified sexton, and then raising

his voice, exclaimed--

‘“And who, then, is our fair and lawful prize?”

‘To this inquiry the invisible chorus replied, in a strain that sounded

like the voices of many choristers singing to the mighty swell of the

old church organ--a strain that seemed borne to the sexton’s ears upon a

wild wind, and to die away as it passed onward; but the burden of the

reply was still the same, “Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!”

‘The goblin grinned a broader grin than before, as he said, “Well,

Gabriel, what do you say to this?”

‘The sexton gasped for breath.

‘“What do you think of this, Gabriel?” said the goblin, kicking up his

feet in the air on either side of the tombstone, and looking at the

turned-up points with as much complacency as if he had been

contemplating the most fashionable pair of Wellingtons in all Bond

Street.

‘“It’s--it’s--very curious, Sir,” replied the sexton, half dead with

fright; “very curious, and very pretty, but I think I’ll go back and

finish my work, Sir, if you please.”

‘“Work!” said the goblin, “what work?”

‘“The grave, Sir; making the grave,” stammered the sexton.

‘“Oh, the grave, eh?” said the goblin; “who makes graves at a time when

all other men are merry, and takes a pleasure in it?”

‘Again the mysterious voices replied, “Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!”

‘“I am afraid my friends want you, Gabriel,” said the goblin, thrusting

his tongue farther into his cheek than ever--and a most astonishing

tongue it was--“I’m afraid my friends want you, Gabriel,” said the

goblin.

‘“Under favour, Sir,” replied the horror-stricken sexton, “I don’t think

they can, Sir; they don’t know me, Sir; I don’t think the gentlemen have

ever seen me, Sir.”

‘“Oh, yes, they have,” replied the goblin; “we know the man with the

sulky face and grim scowl, that came down the street to-night, throwing

his evil looks at the children, and grasping his burying-spade the

tighter. We know the man who struck the boy in the envious malice of his

heart, because the boy could be merry, and he could not. We know him, we

know him.”

‘Here, the goblin gave a loud, shrill laugh, which the echoes returned

twentyfold; and throwing his legs up in the air, stood upon his head, or

rather upon the very point of his sugar-loaf hat, on the narrow edge of

the tombstone, whence he threw a Somerset with extraordinary agility,

right to the sexton’s feet, at which he planted himself in the attitude

in which tailors generally sit upon the shop-board.

‘“I--I--am afraid I must leave you, Sir,” said the sexton, making an

effort to move.

‘“Leave us!” said the goblin, “Gabriel Grub going to leave us. Ho! ho!

ho!”

‘As the goblin laughed, the sexton observed, for one instant, a

brilliant illumination within the windows of the church, as if the whole

building were lighted up; it disappeared, the organ pealed forth a

lively air, and whole troops of goblins, the very counterpart of the

first one, poured into the churchyard, and began playing at leap-frog

with the tombstones, never stopping for an instant to take breath, but

“overing” the highest among them, one after the other, with the most

marvellous dexterity. The first goblin was a most astonishing leaper,

and none of the others could come near him; even in the extremity of his

terror the sexton could not help observing, that while his friends were

content to leap over the common-sized gravestones, the first one took

the family vaults, iron railings and all, with as much ease as if they

had been so many street-posts.

‘At last the game reached to a most exciting pitch; the organ played

quicker and quicker, and the goblins leaped faster and faster, coiling

themselves up, rolling head over heels upon the ground, and bounding

over the tombstones like footballs. The sexton’s brain whirled round

with the rapidity of the motion he beheld, and his legs reeled beneath

him, as the spirits flew before his eyes; when the goblin king, suddenly

darting towards him, laid his hand upon his collar, and sank with him

through the earth.

‘When Gabriel Grub had had time to fetch his breath, which the rapidity

of his descent had for the moment taken away, he found himself in what

appeared to be a large cavern, surrounded on all sides by crowds of

goblins, ugly and grim; in the centre of the room, on an elevated seat,

was stationed his friend of the churchyard; and close behind him stood

Gabriel Grub himself, without power of motion.

‘“Cold to-night,” said the king of the goblins, “very cold. A glass of

something warm here!”

‘At this command, half a dozen officious goblins, with a perpetual smile

upon their faces, whom Gabriel Grub imagined to be courtiers, on that

account, hastily disappeared, and presently returned with a goblet of

liquid fire, which they presented to the king.

‘“Ah!” cried the goblin, whose cheeks and throat were transparent, as he

tossed down the flame, “this warms one, indeed! Bring a bumper of the

same, for Mr. Grub.”

‘It was in vain for the unfortunate sexton to protest that he was not in

the habit of taking anything warm at night; one of the goblins held him

while another poured the blazing liquid down his throat; the whole

assembly screeched with laughter, as he coughed and choked, and wiped

away the tears which gushed plentifully from his eyes, after swallowing

the burning draught.

‘“And now,” said the king, fantastically poking the taper corner of his

sugar-loaf hat into the sexton’s eye, and thereby occasioning him the

most exquisite pain; “and now, show the man of misery and gloom, a few

of the pictures from our own great storehouse!”

‘As the goblin said this, a thick cloud which obscured the remoter end

of the cavern rolled gradually away, and disclosed, apparently at a

great distance, a small and scantily furnished, but neat and clean

apartment. A crowd of little children were gathered round a bright fire,

clinging to their mother’s gown, and gambolling around her chair. The

mother occasionally rose, and drew aside the window-curtain, as if to

look for some expected object; a frugal meal was ready spread upon the

table; and an elbow chair was placed near the fire. A knock was heard at

the door; the mother opened it, and the children crowded round her, and

clapped their hands for joy, as their father entered. He was wet and

weary, and shook the snow from his garments, as the children crowded

round him, and seizing his cloak, hat, stick, and gloves, with busy

zeal, ran with them from the room. Then, as he sat down to his meal

before the fire, the children climbed about his knee, and the mother sat

by his side, and all seemed happiness and comfort.

‘But a change came upon the view, almost imperceptibly. The scene was

altered to a small bedroom, where the fairest and youngest child lay

dying; the roses had fled from his cheek, and the light from his eye;

and even as the sexton looked upon him with an interest he had never

felt or known before, he died. His young brothers and sisters crowded

round his little bed, and seized his tiny hand, so cold and heavy; but

they shrank back from its touch, and looked with awe on his infant face;

for calm and tranquil as it was, and sleeping in rest and peace as the

beautiful child seemed to be, they saw that he was dead, and they knew

that he was an angel looking down upon, and blessing them, from a bright

and happy Heaven.

‘Again the light cloud passed across the picture, and again the subject

changed. The father and mother were old and helpless now, and the number

of those about them was diminished more than half; but content and

cheerfulness sat on every face, and beamed in every eye, as they crowded

round the fireside, and told and listened to old stories of earlier and

bygone days. Slowly and peacefully, the father sank into the grave, and,

soon after, the sharer of all his cares and troubles followed him to a

place of rest. The few who yet survived them, kneeled by their tomb, and

watered the green turf which covered it with their tears; then rose, and

turned away, sadly and mournfully, but not with bitter cries, or

despairing lamentations, for they knew that they should one day meet

again; and once more they mixed with the busy world, and their content

and cheerfulness were restored. The cloud settled upon the picture, and

concealed it from the sexton’s view.

‘“What do you think of _that_?” said the goblin, turning his large face

towards Gabriel Grub.

‘Gabriel murmured out something about its being very pretty, and looked

somewhat ashamed, as the goblin bent his fiery eyes upon him.

‘“You a miserable man!” said the goblin, in a tone of excessive

contempt. “You!” He appeared disposed to add more, but indignation

choked his utterance, so he lifted up one of his very pliable legs, and,

flourishing it above his head a little, to insure his aim, administered

a good sound kick to Gabriel Grub; immediately after which, all the

goblins in waiting crowded round the wretched sexton, and kicked him

without mercy, according to the established and invariable custom of

courtiers upon earth, who kick whom royalty kicks, and hug whom royalty

hugs.

‘“Show him some more!” said the king of the goblins.

‘At these words, the cloud was dispelled, and a rich and beautiful

landscape was disclosed to view--there is just such another, to this

day, within half a mile of the old abbey town. The sun shone from out

the clear blue sky, the water sparkled beneath his rays, and the trees

looked greener, and the flowers more gay, beneath its cheering

influence. The water rippled on with a pleasant sound, the trees rustled

in the light wind that murmured among their leaves, the birds sang upon

the boughs, and the lark carolled on high her welcome to the morning.

Yes, it was morning; the bright, balmy morning of summer; the minutest

leaf, the smallest blade of grass, was instinct with life. The ant crept

forth to her daily toil, the butterfly fluttered and basked in the warm

rays of the sun; myriads of insects spread their transparent wings, and

revelled in their brief but happy existence. Man walked forth, elated

with the scene; and all was brightness and splendour.

’”_You _a miserable man!” said the king of the goblins, in a more

contemptuous tone than before. And again the king of the goblins gave

his leg a flourish; again it descended on the shoulders of the sexton;

and again the attendant goblins imitated the example of their chief.

‘Many a time the cloud went and came, and many a lesson it taught to

Gabriel Grub, who, although his shoulders smarted with pain from the

frequent applications of the goblins’ feet thereunto, looked on with an

interest that nothing could diminish. He saw that men who worked hard,

and earned their scanty bread with lives of labour, were cheerful and

happy; and that to the most ignorant, the sweet face of Nature was a

never-failing source of cheerfulness and joy. He saw those who had been

delicately nurtured, and tenderly brought up, cheerful under privations,

and superior to suffering, that would have crushed many of a rougher

grain, because they bore within their own bosoms the materials of

happiness, contentment, and peace. He saw that women, the tenderest and

most fragile of all God’s creatures, were the oftenest superior to

sorrow, adversity, and distress; and he saw that it was because they

bore, in their own hearts, an inexhaustible well-spring of affection and

devotion. Above all, he saw that men like himself, who snarled at the

mirth and cheerfulness of others, were the foulest weeds on the fair

surface of the earth; and setting all the good of the world against the

evil, he came to the conclusion that it was a very decent and

respectable sort of world after all. No sooner had he formed it, than

the cloud which had closed over the last picture, seemed to settle on

his senses, and lull him to repose. One by one, the goblins faded from

his sight; and, as the last one disappeared, he sank to sleep.

‘The day had broken when Gabriel Grub awoke, and found himself lying at

full length on the flat gravestone in the churchyard, with the wicker

bottle lying empty by his side, and his coat, spade, and lantern, all

well whitened by the last night’s frost, scattered on the ground. The

stone on which he had first seen the goblin seated, stood bolt upright

before him, and the grave at which he had worked, the night before, was

not far off. At first, he began to doubt the reality of his adventures,

but the acute pain in his shoulders when he attempted to rise, assured

him that the kicking of the goblins was certainly not ideal. He was

staggered again, by observing no traces of footsteps in the snow on

which the goblins had played at leap-frog with the gravestones, but he

speedily accounted for this circumstance when he remembered that, being

spirits, they would leave no visible impression behind them. So, Gabriel

Grub got on his feet as well as he could, for the pain in his back; and,

brushing the frost off his coat, put it on, and turned his face towards

the town.

‘But he was an altered man, and he could not bear the thought of

returning to a place where his repentance would be scoffed at, and his

reformation disbelieved. He hesitated for a few moments; and then turned

away to wander where he might, and seek his bread elsewhere.

‘The lantern, the spade, and the wicker bottle were found, that day, in

the churchyard. There were a great many speculations about the sexton’s

fate, at first, but it was speedily determined that he had been carried

away by the goblins; and there were not wanting some very credible

witnesses who had distinctly seen him whisked through the air on the

back of a chestnut horse blind of one eye, with the hind-quarters of a

lion, and the tail of a bear. At length all this was devoutly believed;

and the new sexton used to exhibit to the curious, for a trifling

emolument, a good-sized piece of the church weathercock which had been

accidentally kicked off by the aforesaid horse in his aerial flight, and

picked up by himself in the churchyard, a year or two afterwards.

‘Unfortunately, these stories were somewhat disturbed by the unlooked-

for reappearance of Gabriel Grub himself, some ten years afterwards, a

ragged, contented, rheumatic old man. He told his story to the

clergyman, and also to the mayor; and in course of time it began to be

received as a matter of history, in which form it has continued down to

this very day. The believers in the weathercock tale, having misplaced

their confidence once, were not easily prevailed upon to part with it

again, so they looked as wise as they could, shrugged their shoulders,

touched their foreheads, and murmured something about Gabriel Grub

having drunk all the Hollands, and then fallen asleep on the flat

tombstone; and they affected to explain what he supposed he had

witnessed in the goblin’s cavern, by saying that he had seen the world,

and grown wiser. But this opinion, which was by no means a popular one

at any time, gradually died off; and be the matter how it may, as

Gabriel Grub was afflicted with rheumatism to the end of his days, this

story has at least one moral, if it teach no better one--and that is,

that if a man turn sulky and drink by himself at Christmas time, he may

make up his mind to be not a bit the better for it: let the spirits be

never so good, or let them be even as many degrees beyond proof, as

those which Gabriel Grub saw in the goblin’s cavern.’

CHAPTER XXX. HOW THE PICKWICKIANS MADE AND CULTIVATED THE ACQUAINTANCE

OF A COUPLE OF NICE YOUNG MEN BELONGING TO ONE OF THE LIBERAL

PROFESSIONS; HOW THEY DISPORTED THEMSELVES ON THE ICE; AND HOW THEIR

VISIT CAME TO A CONCLUSION

Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as that favoured servitor entered his

bed-chamber, with his warm water, on the morning of Christmas Day,

‘still frosty?’

‘Water in the wash-hand basin’s a mask o’ ice, Sir,’ responded Sam.

‘Severe weather, Sam,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Fine time for them as is well wropped up, as the Polar bear said to

himself, ven he was practising his skating,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I shall be down in a quarter of an hour, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick,

untying his nightcap.

‘Wery good, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘There’s a couple o’ sawbones

downstairs.’

‘A couple of what!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sitting up in bed.

‘A couple o’ sawbones,’ said Sam.

‘What’s a sawbones?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, not quite certain whether it

was a live animal, or something to eat.

‘What! Don’t you know what a sawbones is, sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller. ‘I

thought everybody know’d as a sawbones was a surgeon.’

‘Oh, a surgeon, eh?’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

‘Just that, sir,’ replied Sam. ‘These here ones as is below, though,

ain’t reg’lar thoroughbred sawbones; they’re only in trainin’.’

In other words they’re medical students, I suppose?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Sam Weller nodded assent.

‘I am glad of it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, casting his nightcap energetically

on the counterpane. ‘They are fine fellows--very fine fellows; with

judgments matured by observation and reflection; and tastes refined by

reading and study. I am very glad of it.’

‘They’re a-smokin’ cigars by the kitchen fire,’ said Sam.

‘Ah!’ observed Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands, ‘overflowing with kindly

feelings and animal spirits. Just what I like to see.’

And one on ‘em,’ said Sam, not noticing his master’s interruption, ‘one

on ‘em’s got his legs on the table, and is a-drinking brandy neat, vile

the t’other one--him in the barnacles--has got a barrel o’ oysters

atween his knees, which he’s a-openin’ like steam, and as fast as he

eats ‘em, he takes a aim vith the shells at young dropsy, who’s a

sittin’ down fast asleep, in the chimbley corner.’

‘Eccentricities of genius, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘You may retire.’

Sam did retire accordingly. Mr. Pickwick at the expiration of the

quarter of an hour, went down to breakfast.

‘Here he is at last!’ said old Mr. Wardle. ‘Pickwick, this is Miss

Allen’s brother, Mr. Benjamin Allen. Ben we call him, and so may you, if

you like. This gentleman is his very particular friend, Mr.--’

‘Mr. Bob Sawyer,’ interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen; whereupon Mr. Bob

Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen laughed in concert.

Mr. Pickwick bowed to Bob Sawyer, and Bob Sawyer bowed to Mr. Pickwick.

Bob and his very particular friend then applied themselves most

assiduously to the eatables before them; and Mr. Pickwick had an

opportunity of glancing at them both.

Mr. Benjamin Allen was a coarse, stout, thick-set young man, with black

hair cut rather short, and a white face cut rather long. He was

embellished with spectacles, and wore a white neckerchief. Below his

single-breasted black surtout, which was buttoned up to his chin,

appeared the usual number of pepper-and-salt coloured legs, terminating

in a pair of imperfectly polished boots. Although his coat was short in

the sleeves, it disclosed no vestige of a linen wristband; and although

there was quite enough of his face to admit of the encroachment of a

shirt collar, it was not graced by the smallest approach to that

appendage. He presented, altogether, rather a mildewy appearance, and

emitted a fragrant odour of full-flavoured Cubas.

Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was habited in a coarse, blue coat, which, without

being either a greatcoat or a surtout, partook of the nature and

qualities of both, had about him that sort of slovenly smartness, and

swaggering gait, which is peculiar to young gentlemen who smoke in the

streets by day, shout and scream in the same by night, call waiters by

their Christian names, and do various other acts and deeds of an equally

facetious description. He wore a pair of plaid trousers, and a large,

rough, double-breasted waistcoat; out of doors, he carried a thick stick

with a big top. He eschewed gloves, and looked, upon the whole,

something like a dissipated Robinson Crusoe.

Such were the two worthies to whom Mr. Pickwick was introduced, as he

took his seat at the breakfast-table on Christmas morning.

‘Splendid morning, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Mr. Bob Sawyer slightly nodded his assent to the proposition, and asked

Mr. Benjamin Allen for the mustard.

‘Have you come far this morning, gentlemen?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Blue Lion at Muggleton,’ briefly responded Mr. Allen.

‘You should have joined us last night,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘So we should,’ replied Bob Sawyer, ‘but the brandy was too good to

leave in a hurry; wasn’t it, Ben?’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen; ‘and the cigars were not bad, or

the pork-chops either; were they, Bob?’

‘Decidedly not,’ said Bob. The particular friends resumed their attack

upon the breakfast, more freely than before, as if the recollection of

last night’s supper had imparted a new relish to the meal.

‘Peg away, Bob,’ said Mr. Allen, to his companion, encouragingly.

‘So I do,’ replied Bob Sawyer. And so, to do him justice, he did.

‘Nothing like dissecting, to give one an appetite,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer,

looking round the table.

Mr. Pickwick slightly shuddered.

‘By the bye, Bob,’ said Mr. Allen, ‘have you finished that leg yet?’

‘Nearly,’ replied Sawyer, helping himself to half a fowl as he spoke.

‘It’s a very muscular one for a child’s.’

Is it?’ inquired Mr. Allen carelessly.

‘Very,’ said Bob Sawyer, with his mouth full.

‘I’ve put my name down for an arm at our place,’ said Mr. Allen. ‘We’re

clubbing for a subject, and the list is nearly full, only we can’t get

hold of any fellow that wants a head. I wish you’d take it.’

‘No,’ replied ‘Bob Sawyer; ‘can’t afford expensive luxuries.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Allen.

‘Can’t, indeed,’ rejoined Bob Sawyer, ‘I wouldn’t mind a brain, but I

couldn’t stand a whole head.’

Hush, hush, gentlemen, pray,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I hear the ladies.’

As Mr. Pickwick spoke, the ladies, gallantly escorted by Messrs.

Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman, returned from an early walk.

‘Why, Ben!’ said Arabella, in a tone which expressed more surprise than

pleasure at the sight of her brother.

‘Come to take you home to-morrow,’ replied Benjamin.

Mr. Winkle turned pale.

‘Don’t you see Bob Sawyer, Arabella?’ inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen,

somewhat reproachfully. Arabella gracefully held out her hand, in

acknowledgment of Bob Sawyer’s presence. A thrill of hatred struck to

Mr. Winkle’s heart, as Bob Sawyer inflicted on the proffered hand a

perceptible squeeze.

‘Ben, dear!’ said Arabella, blushing; ‘have--have--you been introduced

to Mr. Winkle?’

‘I have not been, but I shall be very happy to be, Arabella,’ replied

her brother gravely. Here Mr. Allen bowed grimly to Mr. Winkle, while

Mr. Winkle and Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced mutual distrust out of the corners

of their eyes.

The arrival of the two new visitors, and the consequent check upon Mr.

Winkle and the young lady with the fur round her boots, would in all

probability have proved a very unpleasant interruption to the hilarity

of the party, had not the cheerfulness of Mr. Pickwick, and the good

humour of the host, been exerted to the very utmost for the common weal.

Mr. Winkle gradually insinuated himself into the good graces of Mr.

Benjamin Allen, and even joined in a friendly conversation with Mr. Bob

Sawyer; who, enlivened with the brandy, and the breakfast, and the

talking, gradually ripened into a state of extreme facetiousness, and

related with much glee an agreeable anecdote, about the removal of a

tumour on some gentleman’s head, which he illustrated by means of an

oyster-knife and a half-quartern loaf, to the great edification of the

assembled company. Then the whole train went to church, where Mr.

Benjamin Allen fell fast asleep; while Mr. Bob Sawyer abstracted his

thoughts from worldly matters, by the ingenious process of carving his

name on the seat of the pew, in corpulent letters of four inches long.

‘Now,’ said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, with the agreeable items

of strong beer and cherry-brandy, had been done ample justice to, ‘what

say you to an hour on the ice? We shall have plenty of time.’

‘Capital!’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

‘Prime!’ ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer.

‘You skate, of course, Winkle?’ said Wardle.

‘Ye-yes; oh, yes,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘I--I--am _rather _out of

practice.’

‘Oh, _do_ skate, Mr. Winkle,’ said Arabella. ‘I like to see it so much.’

‘Oh, it is _so_ graceful,’ said another young lady.

A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her

opinion that it was ‘swan-like.’

‘I should be very happy, I’m sure,’ said Mr. Winkle, reddening; ‘but I

have no skates.’

This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pair, and

the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more downstairs;

whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely

uncomfortable.

Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy

and Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which had

fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a

dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described

circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon

the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant

and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick,

Mr. Tupman, and the ladies; which reached a pitch of positive

enthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the

aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they

called a reel.

All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold,

had been forcing a gimlet into the sole of his feet, and putting his

skates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very

complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass,

who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however,

with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly

screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.

‘Now, then, Sir,’ said Sam, in an encouraging tone; ‘off vith you, and

show ‘em how to do it.’

‘Stop, Sam, stop!’ said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching

hold of Sam’s arms with the grasp of a drowning man. ‘How slippery it

is, Sam!’

‘Not an uncommon thing upon ice, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Hold up,

Sir!’

This last observation of Mr. Weller’s bore reference to a demonstration

Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in

the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.

‘These--these--are very awkward skates; ain’t they, Sam?’ inquired Mr.

Winkle, staggering.

‘I’m afeerd there’s a orkard gen’l’m’n in ‘em, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Now, Winkle,’ cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was

anything the matter. ‘Come; the ladies are all anxiety.’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. ‘I’m coming.’

‘Just a-goin’ to begin,’ said Sam, endeavouring to disengage himself.

‘Now, Sir, start off!’

‘Stop an instant, Sam,’ gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately

to Mr. Weller. ‘I find I’ve got a couple of coats at home that I don’t

want, Sam. You may have them, Sam.’

‘Thank’ee, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Never mind touching your hat, Sam,’ said Mr. Winkle hastily. ‘You

needn’t take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five

shillings this morning for a Christmas box, Sam. I’ll give it you this

afternoon, Sam.’

‘You’re wery good, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘There--that’s

right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not

too fast.’

Mr. Winkle, stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being

assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like

manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite

bank--

‘Sam!’

‘Sir?’

‘Here. I want you.’

‘Let go, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘Don’t you hear the governor a-callin’? Let go,

sir.’

With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of

the agonised Pickwickian, and, in so doing, administered a considerable

impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of

dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman

bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when

Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr.

Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell

heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his

feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind, in

skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but

anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.

‘Are you hurt?’ inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.

‘Not much,’ said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.

‘I wish you’d let me bleed you,’ said Mr. Benjamin, with great

eagerness.

‘No, thank you,’ replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly.

‘I really think you had better,’ said Allen.

‘Thank you,’ replied Mr. Winkle; ‘I’d rather not.’

‘What do _you _think, Mr. Pickwick?’ inquired Bob Sawyer.

Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and

said in a stern voice, ‘Take his skates off.’

‘No; but really I had scarcely begun,’ remonstrated Mr. Winkle.

‘Take his skates off,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly.

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it,

in silence.

‘Lift him up,’ said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and,

beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and

uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable

words--

‘You’re a humbug, sir.’

A what?’ said Mr. Winkle, starting.

‘A humbug, Sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir.’

With those words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined

his friends.

While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just

recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavours

cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon, in a very

masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying

that beautiful feat of fancy-sliding which is currently denominated

‘knocking at the cobbler’s door,’ and which is achieved by skimming over

the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a postman’s knock upon it

with the other. It was a good long slide, and there was something in the

motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could

not help envying.

‘It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn’t it?’ he inquired of Wardle,

when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason of the

indefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of

compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice.

‘Ah, it does, indeed,’ replied Wardle. ‘Do you slide?’

‘I used to do so, on the gutters, when I was a boy,’ replied Mr.

Pickwick.

‘Try it now,’ said Wardle.

‘Oh, do, please, Mr. Pickwick!’ cried all the ladies.

‘I should be very happy to afford you any amusement,’ replied Mr.

Pickwick, ‘but I haven’t done such a thing these thirty years.’

‘Pooh! pooh! Nonsense!’ said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the

impetuosity which characterised all his proceedings. ‘Here; I’ll keep

you company; come along!’ And away went the good-tempered old fellow

down the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller,

and beat the fat boy all to nothing.

Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in

his hat; took two or three short runs, baulked himself as often, and at

last took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with

his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts

of all the spectators.

‘Keep the pot a-bilin’, Sir!’ said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and

then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob

Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closely

upon each other’s heels, and running after each other with as much

eagerness as if their future prospects in life depended on their

expedition.

It was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe the manner in

which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the

torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon

him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually

expend the painful force he had put on at first, and turn slowly round

on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he had started;

to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face when he had

accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round

when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor, his black gaiters

tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness

and gladness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down (which

happened upon the average every third round), it was the most

invigorating sight that can possibly be imagined, to behold him gather

up his hat, gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, and

resume his station in the rank, with an ardour and enthusiasm that

nothing Could abate.

The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the

laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp smart crack was heard. There

was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a

shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; the water

bubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick’s hat, gloves, and handkerchief were

floating on the surface; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody

could see.

Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance; the males turned

pale, and the females fainted; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each

other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had gone

down, with frenzied eagerness; while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the

promptest assistance, and at the same time conveying to any persons who

might be within hearing, the clearest possible notion of the

catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed, screaming

‘Fire!’ with all his might.

It was at this moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching

the hole with cautious steps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a

hurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleeding

the company generally, as an improving little bit of professional

practice--it was at this very moment, that a face, head, and shoulders,

emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and

spectacles of Mr. Pickwick.

‘Keep yourself up for an instant--for only one instant!’ bawled Mr.

Snodgrass.

‘Yes, do; let me implore you--for my sake!’ roared Mr. Winkle, deeply

affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being,

that if Mr. Pickwick had declined to keep himself up for anybody else’s

sake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so, for his

own.

‘Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?’ said Wardle.

‘Yes, certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head

and face, and gasping for breath. ‘I fell upon my back. I couldn’t get

on my feet at first.’

The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick’s coat as was yet visible, bore

testimony to the accuracy of this statement; and as the fears of the

spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy’s suddenly

recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep,

prodigies of valour were performed to get him out. After a vast quantity

of splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length

fairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more stood on

dry land.

‘Oh, he’ll catch his death of cold,’ said Emily.

‘Dear old thing!’ said Arabella. ‘Let me wrap this shawl round you, Mr.

Pickwick.’

‘Ah, that’s the best thing you can do,’ said Wardle; ‘and when you’ve

got it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into

bed directly.’

A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four of the

thickest having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started

off, under the guidance of Mr. Weller; presenting the singular

phenomenon of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat,

with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground, without

any clearly-defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an

hour.

But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and

urged on by Sam Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he

reached the door of Manor Farm, where Mr. Tupman had arrived some five

minutes before, and had frightened the old lady into palpitations of the

heart by impressing her with the unalterable conviction that the kitchen

chimney was on fire--a calamity which always presented itself in glowing

colours to the old lady’s mind, when anybody about her evinced the

smallest agitation.

Mr. Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug in bed. Sam Weller

lighted a blazing fire in the room, and took up his dinner; a bowl of

punch was carried up afterwards, and a grand carouse held in honour of

his safety. Old Wardle would not hear of his rising, so they made the

bed the chair, and Mr. Pickwick presided. A second and a third bowl were

ordered in; and when Mr. Pickwick awoke next morning, there was not a

symptom of rheumatism about him; which proves, as Mr. Bob Sawyer very

justly observed, that there is nothing like hot punch in such cases; and

that if ever hot punch did fail to act as a preventive, it was merely

because the patient fell into the vulgar error of not taking enough of

it.

The jovial party broke up next morning. Breakings-up are capital things

in our school-days, but in after life they are painful enough. Death,

self-interest, and fortune’s changes, are every day breaking up many a

happy group, and scattering them far and wide; and the boys and girls

never come back again. We do not mean to say that it was exactly the

case in this particular instance; all we wish to inform the reader is,

that the different members of the party dispersed to their several

homes; that Mr. Pickwick and his friends once more took their seats on

the top of the Muggleton coach; and that Arabella Allen repaired to her

place of destination, wherever it might have been--we dare say Mr.

Winkle knew, but we confess we don’t--under the care and guardianship of

her brother Benjamin, and his most intimate and particular friend, Mr.

Bob Sawyer.

Before they separated, however, that gentleman and Mr. Benjamin Allen

drew Mr. Pickwick aside with an air of some mystery; and Mr. Bob Sawyer,

thrusting his forefinger between two of Mr. Pickwick’s ribs, and thereby

displaying his native drollery, and his knowledge of the anatomy of the

human frame, at one and the same time, inquired--

‘I say, old boy, where do you hang out?’ Mr. Pickwick replied that he

was at present suspended at the George and Vulture.

‘I wish you’d come and see me,’ said Bob Sawyer.

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘There’s my lodgings,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer, producing a card. ‘Lant

Street, Borough; it’s near Guy’s, and handy for me, you know. Little

distance after you’ve passed St. George’s Church--turns out of the High

Street on the right hand side the way.’

‘I shall find it,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Come on Thursday fortnight, and bring the other chaps with you,’ said

Mr. Bob Sawyer; ‘I’m going to have a few medical fellows that night.’

Mr. Pickwick expressed the pleasure it would afford him to meet the

medical fellows; and after Mr. Bob Sawyer had informed him that he meant

to be very cosy, and that his friend Ben was to be one of the party,

they shook hands and separated.

We feel that in this place we lay ourself open to the inquiry whether

Mr. Winkle was whispering, during this brief conversation, to Arabella

Allen; and if so, what he said; and furthermore, whether Mr. Snodgrass

was conversing apart with Emily Wardle; and if so, what _he_ said. To

this, we reply, that whatever they might have said to the ladies, they

said nothing at all to Mr. Pickwick or Mr. Tupman for eight-and-twenty

miles, and that they sighed very often, refused ale and brandy, and

looked gloomy. If our observant lady readers can deduce any satisfactory

inferences from these facts, we beg them by all means to do so.

CHAPTER XXXI. WHICH IS ALL ABOUT THE LAW, AND SUNDRY GREAT AUTHORITIES

LEARNED THEREIN

Scattered about, in various holes and corners of the Temple, are certain

dark and dirty chambers, in and out of which, all the morning in

vacation, and half the evening too in term time, there may be seen

constantly hurrying with bundles of papers under their arms, and

protruding from their pockets, an almost uninterrupted succession of

lawyers’ clerks. There are several grades of lawyers’ clerks. There is

the articled clerk, who has paid a premium, and is an attorney in

perspective, who runs a tailor’s bill, receives invitations to parties,

knows a family in Gower Street, and another in Tavistock Square; who

goes out of town every long vacation to see his father, who keeps live

horses innumerable; and who is, in short, the very aristocrat of clerks.

There is the salaried clerk--out of door, or in door, as the case may

be--who devotes the major part of his thirty shillings a week to his

Personal pleasure and adornments, repairs half-price to the Adelphi

Theatre at least three times a week, dissipates majestically at the

cider cellars afterwards, and is a dirty caricature of the fashion which

expired six months ago. There is the middle-aged copying clerk, with a

large family, who is always shabby, and often drunk. And there are the

office lads in their first surtouts, who feel a befitting contempt for

boys at day-schools, club as they go home at night, for saveloys and

porter, and think there’s nothing like ‘life.’ There are varieties of

the genus, too numerous to recapitulate, but however numerous they may

be, they are all to be seen, at certain regulated business hours,

hurrying to and from the places we have just mentioned.

These sequestered nooks are the public offices of the legal profession,

where writs are issued, judgments signed, declarations filed, and

numerous other ingenious machines put in motion for the torture and

torment of His Majesty’s liege subjects, and the comfort and emolument

of the practitioners of the law. They are, for the most part, low-

roofed, mouldy rooms, where innumerable rolls of parchment, which have

been perspiring in secret for the last century, send forth an agreeable

odour, which is mingled by day with the scent of the dry-rot, and by

night with the various exhalations which arise from damp cloaks,

festering umbrellas, and the coarsest tallow candles.

About half-past seven o’clock in the evening, some ten days or a

fortnight after Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London, there

hurried into one of these offices, an individual in a brown coat and

brass buttons, whose long hair was scrupulously twisted round the rim of

his napless hat, and whose soiled drab trousers were so tightly strapped

over his Blucher boots, that his knees threatened every moment to start

from their concealment. He produced from his coat pockets a long and

narrow strip of parchment, on which the presiding functionary impressed

an illegible black stamp. He then drew forth four scraps of paper, of

similar dimensions, each containing a printed copy of the strip of

parchment with blanks for a name; and having filled up the blanks, put

all the five documents in his pocket, and hurried away.

The man in the brown coat, with the cabalistic documents in his pocket,

was no other than our old acquaintance Mr. Jackson, of the house of

Dodson & Fogg, Freeman’s Court, Cornhill. Instead of returning to the

office whence he came, however, he bent his steps direct to Sun Court,

and walking straight into the George and Vulture, demanded to know

whether one Mr. Pickwick was within.

‘Call Mr. Pickwick’s servant, Tom,’ said the barmaid of the George and

Vulture.

‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ said Mr. Jackson. ‘I’ve come on business. If

you’ll show me Mr. Pickwick’s room I’ll step up myself.’

‘What name, Sir?’ said the waiter.

‘Jackson,’ replied the clerk.

The waiter stepped upstairs to announce Mr. Jackson; but Mr. Jackson

saved him the trouble by following close at his heels, and walking into

the apartment before he could articulate a syllable.

Mr. Pickwick had, that day, invited his three friends to dinner; they

were all seated round the fire, drinking their wine, when Mr. Jackson

presented himself, as above described.

‘How de do, sir?’ said Mr. Jackson, nodding to Mr. Pickwick.

That gentleman bowed, and looked somewhat surprised, for the physiognomy

of Mr. Jackson dwelt not in his recollection.

‘I have called from Dodson and Fogg’s,’ said Mr. Jackson, in an

explanatory tone.

Mr. Pickwick roused at the name. ‘I refer you to my attorney, Sir; Mr.

Perker, of Gray’s Inn,’ said he. ‘Waiter, show this gentleman out.’

‘Beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Jackson, deliberately depositing

his hat on the floor, and drawing from his pocket the strip of

parchment. ‘But personal service, by clerk or agent, in these cases, you

know, Mr. Pickwick--nothing like caution, sir, in all legal forms--eh?’

Here Mr. Jackson cast his eye on the parchment; and, resting his hands

on the table, and looking round with a winning and persuasive smile,

said, ‘Now, come; don’t let’s have no words about such a little matter

as this. Which of you gentlemen’s name’s Snodgrass?’

At this inquiry, Mr. Snodgrass gave such a very undisguised and palpable

start, that no further reply was needed.

‘Ah! I thought so,’ said Mr. Jackson, more affably than before. ‘I’ve a

little something to trouble you with, Sir.’

‘Me!’ exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass.

‘It’s only a subpoena in Bardell and Pickwick on behalf of the

plaintiff,’ replied Jackson, singling out one of the slips of paper, and

producing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket. ‘It’ll come on, in the

settens after Term: fourteenth of Febooary, we expect; we’ve marked it a

special jury cause, and it’s only ten down the paper. That’s yours, Mr.

Snodgrass.’ As Jackson said this, he presented the parchment before the

eyes of Mr. Snodgrass, and slipped the paper and the shilling into his

hand.

Mr. Tupman had witnessed this process in silent astonishment, when

Jackson, turning sharply upon him, said--

‘I think I ain’t mistaken when I say your name’s Tupman, am I?’

Mr. Tupman looked at Mr. Pickwick; but, perceiving no encouragement in

that gentleman’s widely-opened eyes to deny his name, said--

‘Yes, my name is Tupman, Sir.’

‘And that other gentleman’s Mr. Winkle, I think?’ said Jackson. Mr.

Winkle faltered out a reply in the affirmative; and both gentlemen were

forthwith invested with a slip of paper, and a shilling each, by the

dexterous Mr. Jackson.

‘Now,’ said Jackson, ‘I’m afraid you’ll think me rather troublesome, but

I want somebody else, if it ain’t inconvenient. I have Samuel Weller’s

name here, Mr. Pickwick.’

‘Send my servant here, waiter,’ said Mr. Pickwick. The waiter retired,

considerably astonished, and Mr. Pickwick motioned Jackson to a seat.

There was a painful pause, which was at length broken by the innocent

defendant.

‘I suppose, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, his indignation rising while he

spoke--‘I suppose, Sir, that it is the intention of your employers to

seek to criminate me upon the testimony of my own friends?’

Mr. Jackson struck his forefinger several times against the left side of

his nose, to intimate that he was not there to disclose the secrets of

the prison house, and playfully rejoined--

‘Not knowin’, can’t say.’

‘For what other reason, Sir,’ pursued Mr. Pickwick, ‘are these subpoenas

served upon them, if not for this?’

‘Very good plant, Mr. Pickwick,’ replied Jackson, slowly shaking his

head. ‘But it won’t do. No harm in trying, but there’s little to be got

out of me.’

Here Mr. Jackson smiled once more upon the company, and, applying his

left thumb to the tip of his nose, worked a visionary coffee-mill with

his right hand, thereby performing a very graceful piece of pantomime

(then much in vogue, but now, unhappily, almost obsolete) which was

familiarly denominated ‘taking a grinder.’

‘No, no, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Jackson, in conclusion; ‘Perker’s people

must guess what we’ve served these subpoenas for. If they can’t, they

must wait till the action comes on, and then they’ll find out.’

Mr. Pickwick bestowed a look of excessive disgust on his unwelcome

visitor, and would probably have hurled some tremendous anathema at the

heads of Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, had not Sam’s entrance at the instant

interrupted him.

‘Samuel Weller?’ said Mr. Jackson, inquiringly.

‘Vun o’ the truest things as you’ve said for many a long year,’ replied

Sam, in a most composed manner.

‘Here’s a subpoena for you, Mr. Weller,’ said Jackson.

‘What’s that in English?’ inquired Sam.

‘Here’s the original,’ said Jackson, declining the required explanation.

‘Which?’ said Sam.

‘This,’ replied Jackson, shaking the parchment.

‘Oh, that’s the ‘rig’nal, is it?’ said Sam. ‘Well, I’m wery glad I’ve

seen the ‘rig’nal, ‘cos it’s a gratifyin’ sort o’ thing, and eases vun’s

mind so much.’

‘And here’s the shilling,’ said Jackson. ‘It’s from Dodson and Fogg’s.’

‘And it’s uncommon handsome o’ Dodson and Fogg, as knows so little of

me, to come down vith a present,’ said Sam. ‘I feel it as a wery high

compliment, sir; it’s a wery honorable thing to them, as they knows how

to reward merit werever they meets it. Besides which, it’s affectin’ to

one’s feelin’s.’

As Mr. Weller said this, he inflicted a little friction on his right

eyelid, with the sleeve of his coat, after the most approved manner of

actors when they are in domestic pathetics.

Mr. Jackson seemed rather puzzled by Sam’s proceedings; but, as he had

served the subpoenas, and had nothing more to say, he made a feint of

putting on the one glove which he usually carried in his hand, for the

sake of appearances; and returned to the office to report progress.

Mr. Pickwick slept little that night; his memory had received a very

disagreeable refresher on the subject of Mrs. Bardell’s action. He

breakfasted betimes next morning, and, desiring Sam to accompany him,

set forth towards Gray’s Inn Square.

‘Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking round, when they got to the end of

Cheapside.

‘Sir?’ said Sam, stepping up to his master.

‘Which way?’

Up Newgate Street.’

Mr. Pickwick did not turn round immediately, but looked vacantly in

Sam’s face for a few seconds, and heaved a deep sigh.

‘What’s the matter, sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘This action, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘is expected to come on, on the

fourteenth of next month.’

Remarkable coincidence that ‘ere, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Why remarkable, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Walentine’s day, sir,’ responded Sam; ‘reg’lar good day for a breach o’

promise trial.’

Mr. Weller’s smile awakened no gleam of mirth in his master’s

countenance. Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly round, and led the way in

silence.

They had walked some distance, Mr. Pickwick trotting on before, plunged

in profound meditation, and Sam following behind, with a countenance

expressive of the most enviable and easy defiance of everything and

everybody, when the latter, who was always especially anxious to impart

to his master any exclusive information he possessed, quickened his pace

until he was close at Mr. Pickwick’s heels; and, pointing up at a house

they were passing, said--

‘Wery nice pork-shop that ‘ere, sir.’

‘Yes, it seems so,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Celebrated sassage factory,’ said Sam.

‘Is it?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Is it!’ reiterated Sam, with some indignation; ‘I should rayther think

it was. Why, sir, bless your innocent eyebrows, that’s where the

mysterious disappearance of a ‘spectable tradesman took place four years

ago.’

‘You don’t mean to say he was burked, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking

hastily round.

‘No, I don’t indeed, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘I wish I did; far worse

than that. He was the master o’ that ‘ere shop, sir, and the inwentor o’

the patent-never-leavin’-off sassage steam-ingin, as ‘ud swaller up a

pavin’ stone if you put it too near, and grind it into sassages as easy

as if it was a tender young babby. Wery proud o’ that machine he was, as

it was nat’ral he should be, and he’d stand down in the celler a-lookin’

at it wen it was in full play, till he got quite melancholy with joy. A

wery happy man he’d ha’ been, Sir, in the procession o’ that ‘ere ingin

and two more lovely hinfants besides, if it hadn’t been for his wife,

who was a most owdacious wixin. She was always a-follerin’ him about,

and dinnin’ in his ears, till at last he couldn’t stand it no longer.

“I’ll tell you what it is, my dear,” he says one day; “if you persewere

in this here sort of amusement,” he says, “I’m blessed if I don’t go

away to ‘Merriker; and that’s all about it.” “You’re a idle willin,”

says she, “and I wish the ‘Merrikins joy of their bargain.” Arter which

she keeps on abusin’ of him for half an hour, and then runs into the

little parlour behind the shop, sets to a-screamin’, says he’ll be the

death on her, and falls in a fit, which lasts for three good hours--one

o’ them fits wich is all screamin’ and kickin’. Well, next mornin’, the

husband was missin’. He hadn’t taken nothin’ from the till--hadn’t even

put on his greatcoat--so it was quite clear he warn’t gone to ‘Merriker.

Didn’t come back next day; didn’t come back next week; missis had bills

printed, sayin’ that, if he’d come back, he should be forgiven

everythin’ (which was very liberal, seein’ that he hadn’t done nothin’

at all); the canals was dragged, and for two months arterwards, wenever

a body turned up, it was carried, as a reg’lar thing, straight off to

the sassage shop. Hows’ever, none on ‘em answered; so they gave out that

he’d run away, and she kep’ on the bis’ness. One Saturday night, a

little, thin, old gen’l’m’n comes into the shop in a great passion and

says, “Are you the missis o’ this here shop?” “Yes, I am,” says she.

“Well, ma’am,” says he, “then I’ve just looked in to say that me and my

family ain’t a-goin’ to be choked for nothin’; and more than that,

ma’am,” he says, “you’ll allow me to observe that as you don’t use the

primest parts of the meat in the manafacter o’ sassages, I’d think you’d

find beef come nearly as cheap as buttons.” “As buttons, Sir!” says she.

“Buttons, ma’am,” says the little, old gentleman, unfolding a bit of

paper, and showin’ twenty or thirty halves o’ buttons. “Nice seasonin’

for sassages, is trousers’ buttons, ma’am.” “They’re my husband’s

buttons!” says the widder beginnin’ to faint, “What!” screams the little

old gen’l’m’n, turnin’ wery pale. “I see it all,” says the widder; “in a

fit of temporary insanity he rashly converted hisself into sassages!”

And so he had, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, looking steadily into Mr.

Pickwick’s horror-stricken countenance, ‘or else he’d been draw’d into

the ingin; but however that might ha’ been, the little, old gen’l’m’n,

who had been remarkably partial to sassages all his life, rushed out o’

the shop in a wild state, and was never heerd on arterwards!’

The relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master

and man to Mr. Perker’s chambers. Lowten, holding the door half open,

was in conversation with a rustily-clad, miserable-looking man, in boots

without toes and gloves without fingers. There were traces of privation

and suffering--almost of despair--in his lank and care-worn countenance;

he felt his poverty, for he shrank to the dark side of the staircase as

Mr. Pickwick approached.

‘It’s very unfortunate,’ said the stranger, with a sigh.

‘Very,’ said Lowten, scribbling his name on the doorpost with his pen,

and rubbing it out again with the feather. ‘Will you leave a message for

him?’

‘When do you think he’ll be back?’ inquired the stranger.

‘Quite uncertain,’ replied Lowten, winking at Mr. Pickwick, as the

stranger cast his eyes towards the ground.

‘You don’t think it would be of any use my waiting for him?’ said the

stranger, looking wistfully into the office.

‘Oh, no, I’m sure it wouldn’t,’ replied the clerk, moving a little more

into the centre of the doorway. ‘He’s certain not to be back this week,

and it’s a chance whether he will be next; for when Perker once gets out

of town, he’s never in a hurry to come back again.’

‘Out of town!’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘dear me, how unfortunate!’

‘Don’t go away, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Lowten, ‘I’ve got a letter for you.’

The stranger, seeming to hesitate, once more looked towards the ground,

and the clerk winked slyly at Mr. Pickwick, as if to intimate that some

exquisite piece of humour was going forward, though what it was Mr.

Pickwick could not for the life of him divine.

‘Step in, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Lowten. ‘Well, will you leave a message,

Mr. Watty, or will you call again?’

‘Ask him to be so kind as to leave out word what has been done in my

business,’ said the man; ‘for God’s sake don’t neglect it, Mr. Lowten.’

‘No, no; I won’t forget it,’ replied the clerk. ‘Walk in, Mr. Pickwick.

Good-morning, Mr. Watty; it’s a fine day for walking, isn’t it?’ Seeing

that the stranger still lingered, he beckoned Sam Weller to follow his

master in, and shut the door in his face.

‘There never was such a pestering bankrupt as that since the world

began, I do believe!’ said Lowten, throwing down his pen with the air of

an injured man. ‘His affairs haven’t been in Chancery quite four years

yet, and I’m d----d if he don’t come worrying here twice a week. Step

this way, Mr. Pickwick. Perker _is_ in, and he’ll see you, I know.

Devilish cold,’ he added pettishly, ‘standing at that door, wasting

one’s time with such seedy vagabonds!’ Having very vehemently stirred a

particularly large fire with a particularly small poker, the clerk led

the way to his principal’s private room, and announced Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah, my dear Sir,’ said little Mr. Perker, bustling up from his chair.

‘Well, my dear sir, and what’s the news about your matter, eh? Anything

more about our friends in Freeman’s Court? They’ve not been sleeping, I

know that. Ah, they’re very smart fellows; very smart, indeed.’

As the little man concluded, he took an emphatic pinch of snuff, as a

tribute to the smartness of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg.

‘They are great scoundrels,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Aye, aye,’ said the little man; ‘that’s a matter of opinion, you know,

and we won’t dispute about terms; because of course you can’t be

expected to view these subjects with a professional eye. Well, we’ve

done everything that’s necessary. I have retained Serjeant Snubbin.’

‘Is he a good man?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Good man!’ replied Perker; ‘bless your heart and soul, my dear Sir,

Serjeant Snubbin is at the very top of his profession. Gets treble the

business of any man in court--engaged in every case. You needn’t mention

it abroad; but we say--we of the profession--that Serjeant Snubbin leads

the court by the nose.’

The little man took another pinch of snuff as he made this

communication, and nodded mysteriously to Mr. Pickwick.

‘They have subpoenaed my three friends,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah! of course they would,’ replied Perker. ‘Important witnesses; saw

you in a delicate situation.’

‘But she fainted of her own accord,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘She threw

herself into my arms.’

‘Very likely, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker; ‘very likely and very

natural. Nothing more so, my dear Sir, nothing. But who’s to prove it?’

‘They have subpoenaed my servant, too,’ said Mr. Pickwick, quitting the

other point; for there Mr. Perker’s question had somewhat staggered him.

‘Sam?’ said Perker.

Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.

‘Of course, my dear Sir; of course. I knew they would. I could have told

you that, a month ago. You know, my dear Sir, if you _will _take the

management of your affairs into your own hands after entrusting them to

your solicitor, you must also take the consequences.’ Here Mr. Perker

drew himself up with conscious dignity, and brushed some stray grains of

snuff from his shirt frill.

‘And what do they want him to prove?’ asked Mr. Pickwick, after two or

three minutes’ silence.

‘That you sent him up to the plaintiff ‘s to make some offer of a

compromise, I suppose,’ replied Perker. ‘It don’t matter much, though; I

don’t think many counsel could get a great deal out of _him_.’

‘I don’t think they could,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling, despite his

vexation, at the idea of Sam’s appearance as a witness. ‘What course do

we pursue?’

‘We have only one to adopt, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker; ‘cross-examine

the witnesses; trust to Snubbin’s eloquence; throw dust in the eyes of

the judge; throw ourselves on the jury.’

‘And suppose the verdict is against me?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Mr. Perker smiled, took a very long pinch of snuff, stirred the fire,

shrugged his shoulders, and remained expressively silent.

‘You mean that in that case I must pay the damages?’ said Mr. Pickwick,

who had watched this telegraphic answer with considerable sternness.

Perker gave the fire another very unnecessary poke, and said, ‘I am

afraid so.’

‘Then I beg to announce to you my unalterable determination to pay no

damages whatever,’ said Mr. Pickwick, most emphatically. ‘None, Perker.

Not a pound, not a penny of my money, shall find its way into the

pockets of Dodson and Fogg. That is my deliberate and irrevocable

determination.’ Mr. Pickwick gave a heavy blow on the table before him,

in confirmation of the irrevocability of his intention.

‘Very well, my dear Sir, very well,’ said Perker. ‘You know best, of

course.’

‘Of course,’ replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. ‘Where does Serjeant Snubbin

live?’

In Lincoln’s Inn Old Square,’ replied Perker.

‘I should like to see him,’ said Mr. Pickwick.