THE WILLIAMS EDITION OF
_A CHRISTMAS CAROL and THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH_
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR AND LINE BY
GEORGE ALFRED WILLIAMS
A COMPANION VOLUME TO “MR. PICKWICK’S CHRISTMAS”
$2.00
THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO.
..._Publishers_...
33–37 EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET, NEW YORK
[Illustration:
_As brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies, did the four
Pickwickians assemble...._
]
MR. PICKWICK’S CHRISTMAS
BEING AN ACCOUNT OF THE PICKWICKIANS’ CHRISTMAS AT THE MANOR FARM, OF
THE ADVENTURES THERE; THE TALE OF THE GOBLIN WHO STOLE A SEXTON, AND OF
THE FAMOUS SPORTS ON THE ICE
AS WRITTEN IN THE PICKWICK PAPERS
BY CHARLES DICKENS
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR AND LINE
BY GEORGE ALFRED WILLIAMS
[Illustration]
THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY
Publishers
33–37 EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET (UNION SQUARE NORTH)
NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1906, by_ THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY
Published, September, 1906
[Illustration]
_The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.S.A._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
INTRODUCTION
To begin with nothing and end with something as great as Pickwick is an
achievement given to few men to realise. Yet it seems that in this most
haphazard way Pickwick was created.
At the age of twenty-three Charles Dickens opened his door in Furnival’s
Inn to the managing partner of the firm of “Chapman and Hall.”
The idea then propounded to Dickens was that a monthly publication
should be the vehicle for certain plates to be executed by Robert
Seymour, an admirable humourist-artist of great popularity. These were
to deal with a Nimrod Club and their adventures, fishing, hunting, and
so forth, rendered intensely humorous by exposing the lack of experience
and dexterity of the members. Dickens was requested to contribute a
letter-press to these pictures, but he objected on the grounds that he
was not familiar enough with sports or the sportsman’s life to produce
such material and also because the idea was not fresh. He thought the
results would be much happier if he wrote more freely of the English
people and their customs, and, too, it would be infinitely better were
the plates to be inspired by the text. The suggestions were accepted and
“I then wrote,” says Dickens, “the first number and from the proofsheets
Mr. Seymour made the drawing of the Pickwick Club, producing that happy
portrait of the founder by which he was made a reality.”
In March, 1836, the first monthly number of the “Posthumous Papers of
the Pickwick Club” made its appearance and “... in less than six months
from this time the whole reading world was talking about them; the names
of Winkle, Wardle, Weller, Snodgrass, Dodson, and Fogg had become
familiar in our mouths as household words. ‘Pickwick chintzes’ figured
in linen-drapers’ windows, and ‘Weller corduroys’ in breechesmakers’
advertisements; ‘Boz cabs’ might be seen rattling through the streets,
and the portrait of the author of Pelham and Crichton was scraped down
or pasted over to make room for that of the new popular favourite in the
omnibuses.”
It was only natural that a work so launched, with the author pressed for
copy for each part, should be lacking in any definite form or plot.
Dickens writes in the preface to the original edition:
“The publication of the book in monthly numbers, containing only
thirty-two pages in each, rendered it an object of paramount importance
that, while the different incidents were linked together by a chain of
interest strong enough to prevent their appearing unconnected or
impossible, the general design should be so simple as to sustain no
injury from this detached and desultory form of publication, extending
over no fewer than twenty months. In short, it was necessary—or it
appeared so to the author—that every number should be, to a certain
extent, complete in itself, and yet that the whole twenty numbers, when
collected, should form one tolerably harmonious whole, each leading to
the other by a gentle and not unnatural progress of adventure.
“It is obvious that in a work published with a view to such
considerations, no artfully interwoven or ingeniously complicated plot
can with reason be expected. The author ventures to express a hope that
he has successfully surmounted the difficulties of his undertaking. And
if it be objected to the Pickwick Papers, that they are a mere series of
adventure, in which the scenes are ever changing, and the characters
come and go like the men and women we encounter in the real world, he
can only content himself with the reflection that they claim to be
nothing else, and that the same objection has been made to the works of
some of the greatest novelists in the English language.”
The publishers of the present volume felt that the very manner in which
“Pickwick” was first issued justifies the separate reprinting of those
chapters which deal with the Christmas festivities at the Manor farm.
Aside from this there is an especial interest attached to the Christmas
sentiment contained in these chapters, because it marks the first formal
expression of that Christmas feeling to which Dickens afterwards devoted
a considerable series of delightful works.
It is perfectly natural that Pickwick should be the character to inspire
Dickens to those warm, whole-souled thoughts at a season when our
enthusiasm is always more perceptible. A quotation from a preface
prepared for an edition of his writings, which was designated in the
dedication to John Forster as the best edition of his works, will allow
us to realise the importance of Pickwick as such a vehicle. Dickens
says:
“It has been observed of Mr. Pickwick, that there is a decided change in
his character, as these pages proceed, and that he becomes more good and
more sensible. I do not think this change will appear forced or
unnatural to my readers, if they will reflect that in real life the
peculiarities and oddities of a man who has anything whimsical about him
generally impress us first, and that it is not until we are better
acquainted with him that we usually begin to look below these
superficial traits, and to know the better part of him.”
So here at the Manor Farm we find ourselves joining in those wholesome
sports and human interests that make these Christmas chapters so
contagious. “As brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies,
did the four Pickwickians assemble on the morning of the 22nd of
December.” Who can resist such enthusiasm and not feel the purport of
these lines.
“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 good-will, which is a source of such pure and
unalloyed delight and one so incompatible with the cares and sorrows of
the world, that the religious belief of the most civilised nations and
the rude traditions of the roughest savages alike number it among the
first joys of a future condition of existence provided for the 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 old; 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; and transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of
miles away, back to his own fireside and quiet home.”
What wonder that the idea to present Pickwick pictorially should appeal
to Robert Seymour and inspire that famous plate, “Pickwick addressing
the Club”! This is a happy portrait and has fixed for all time the
indelible image of its subject upon the world’s mind.
In this matter of pictorial embellishment Dickens’s writings have always
held a unique position. Dickens himself preferred to have his works
appear unadorned by pictures, but the demand made by his public called
into service the most talented pencils from George Cruikshank to
Frederick Barnard. Hence, beside the plates for the original editions,
we have innumerable engravings for subsequent editions and for special
forms of reproduction.
Forster, the biographer of Dickens, informs us that rarely, if ever, did
anything but disappointment await the novelist so far as the
illustrations were concerned; a fact easily determined by tracing the
dissatisfaction he evinced through his intimate and friendly intercourse
with the pictorial interpreters of his text.
The artist of the earlier part of the nineteenth century seldom resorted
to the use of the living model in preparing their pictures, and this in
no small way accounts for the puppet-like appearance of many of their
figures. The only guide was the vivid descriptions of the author, an
artist who drew all his inspiration from life.
However, in the early sixties there arose a new school of illustrators
who lavished the same care upon the preparation of an illustration as a
painter does upon his canvases. The result was a series of pictures
filled with human interest,—pictures not relying upon exaggeration of
details and facial expression to convey their meaning. The only claim
that can be made for the early plates as compared to these later ones is
their charm of association. Work of men such as Frederick Barnard and
Charles Green far surpasses technically these earlier productions and
gives to us an interpretation more human and living.
In the illustration of the original edition of “Pickwick” we are
concerned with three artists, Robert Seymour, Robert Buss, and Hablôt K.
Browne, better known as “Phiz.”
Seymour’s services were prematurely ended by his suicide. His successor,
Buss, was also of short duration and evidently not satisfactory to the
author or publisher, for there follows a long list of applicants
desiring to fill the vacant post, among them Wm. M. Thackeray. In
responding to a toast of “Literature,” at the Royal Academy banquet
years after, the latter said, “I can remember when Mr. Dickens was a
very young man and had commenced delighting the world with some charming
humorous works, of which I cannot mention the name but which were
coloured light green and came out once a month, that this young man
wanted an artist to illustrate his writings, and I recollect walking up
to his chambers with two or three drawings in my hand, which, strange to
say, he did not find suitable. But for that unfortunate blight which
came over my artistical existence it would have been my pride and my
pleasure to have endeavoured one day to find a place on these walls for
one of my performances.” Later he alluded to the rejection of his
services as “Mr. Pickwick’s lucky escape.”
In the end Browne was accepted and of all the illustrators of those
early editions he is the one par excellence, excepting only Luke Fildes
R. A., the illustrator of the first edition of “Edwin Drood.”
When Fildes interviewed Dickens preparatory to taking up this
commission, he informed the author that although he appreciated the
honour of being selected to illustrate “Edwin Drood,” he felt compelled
to forego most reluctantly the pleasure of it if the designs had to be
of a comic and wholly humorous nature after the manner of Phiz and his
predecessors. He reminded Dickens that his writings possessed an
intensely serious as well as a jocular side and would lend themselves
admirably to a graver style of handling. Dickens replied that he was
rather tired of having his illustrators consider him entirely as a
humourist and caricaturist. While there is a vast difference between
“Pickwick” and “Edwin Drood,” yet there is much of serious life depicted
in the various escapades of the club, and it is the keen appreciation of
this quality that seems to have escaped entirely the earlier artists.
We turn to Charles Green and find in his series of large water-colours
one entitled, “The Pickwick Club,” and our intimate friend clothed, not
in caricature, but in all the atmosphere of reality, losing thereby none
of his jovial and comic characteristics. The real Winkle, the real
Snodgrass, the real Tupman, are listening to his address, and the
unnatural elements of the first plates have given way to a more suitable
form of expression though retaining the quaint humour of the text.
Who does not find here the Pickwick we have always sought—the Pickwick
created by Dickens?
The writer has endeavoured to produce in this series of pictures the
true atmosphere, human in the blending of the serious and the comic, and
to give to them the semblance of reality produced in our minds by the
text.
GEORGE ALFRED WILLIAMS.
_Chatham, N. J._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
_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_ 25
CHAPTER II
_The Story of the Goblins who stole a Sexton_ 87
CHAPTER III
_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_ 118
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATIONS
_As brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies,
did the four Pickwickians assemble_ Frontispiece
_Facing Page_
_Emily Wardle_ 42
_Then the old church bell rang ... and they all returned
to breakfast_ 56
_A five and twenty mile walk, undertaken by the males at
Wardle’s recommendation_ 64
_Wardle singing the Christmas Carol_ 80
_As he wended his way up the ancient street, he saw the
cheerful light of the blazing fires_ 90
_Gabriel started up, and stood rooted to the spot with
astonishment and terror_ 96
_A rich and beautiful landscape was disclosed to view_ 110
“_How slippery it is, Sam!_” 130
_Went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet
about a yard and a quarter apart_ 138
A GOOD-HUMOURED CHRISTMAS CHAPTER
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
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 good-will, which is a source of such pure and
unalloyed delight, and one so incompatible with the cares and sorrows of
the world, that the religious belief of the most civilised nations, and
the rude traditions of the roughest savages, alike number it among the
first joys of a future state of existence, provided for the blest and
happy! How many old recollections, and how many dormant sympathies, does
Christmas time awaken!
We write these words now, many miles distant from the spot at which,
year after year, we met on that day, a merry and joyous circle. Many of
the hearts that throbbed so gaily then, have ceased to beat; many of the
looks that shone so brightly then, have ceased to glow; the hands we
grasped, have grown cold; the eyes we sought, have hid their lustre in
the grave; and yet the old house, the room, the merry voices and smiling
faces, the jest, the laugh, the most minute and trivial circumstance
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, and 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
Christmas, who, by the way, is quite a country gentleman of the old
school, 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
upwards, and then bottom upwards, and then sideways, and then longways,
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 shew 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.
[Illustration]
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 which pieces of information Mr. Pickwick retails to his
fellow-passengers, whereupon they emerge from their coat collars too,
and look about them also. Mr. Winkle, who sits at the extreme edge, with
one leg dangling in the air, is nearly precipitated into the street, as
the coach twists round the sharp corner by the cheesemonger’s shop, and
turns into the market-place; and before Mr. Snodgrass, who sits next to
him, has recovered from his alarm, they pull up at the inn yard, where
the fresh horses, with cloths on, are already waiting. The coachman
throws down the reins and gets down himself, and the other outside
passengers drop down also, except those who have no great confidence in
their ability to get up again, and they remain where they are, and stamp
their feet against the coach to warm them; looking with longing eyes and
red noses at the bright fire in the inn bar, and the sprigs of holly
with red berries which ornament the window.
But the guard has delivered at the corn-dealer’s shop, the brown paper
packet he took out of the little pouch which hangs over his shoulder by
a leathern strap, and has seen the horses carefully put to, and has
thrown on the pavement the saddle which was brought from London on the
coach-roof, and has assisted in the conference between the coachman and
the hostler about the grey mare that hurt her off-fore-leg last Tuesday,
and he and Mr. Weller are all right behind, and the coachman is all
right in front, and the old gentleman inside, who has kept the window
down full two inches all this time, has pulled it up again, and the
cloths are off, and they are all ready for starting, except the “two
stout gentlemen,” whom the coachman enquires 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 gentleman 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’lm’n,” the guard re-echoes it—the
old gentleman inside, thinks it a very extraordinary thing that people
_will_ get down when they know there isn’t time for it—Mr. Pickwick
struggles up on one side, Mr. Tupman on the other, Mr. Winkle cries “All
right,” and off they start. Shawls are pulled up, coat collars are
re-adjusted, the pavement ceases, the houses disappear; and they are
once again dashing along the open road, with the fresh clear air blowing
in their faces, and gladdening their very hearts within them.
[Illustration]
Such was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by the Muggleton
Telegraph, on their way to Dingley Dell; and at three o’clock that
afternoon, they all stood, high and dry, safe and sound, hale and
hearty, upon the steps of the Blue Lion, having taken on the road quite
enough of ale and brandy, to enable them to bid defiance to the frost
that was binding up the earth in its iron fetters, and weaving its
beautiful net-work upon the trees and hedges. Mr. Pickwick was busily
engaged in counting the barrels of oysters, and superintending the
disinterment of the cod-fish, when he felt himself gently pulled by the
skirts of the coat; and 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.
And as he said it, he glanced from the cod-fish to the oyster barrels,
and chuckled joyously. He was fatter than ever.
“Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“I’ve been asleep, right in front of the tap-room fire,” replied the fat
boy, who had heated himself to the colour of a new chimney-pot, in the
course of an hour’s nap. “Master sent me over with the 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 things
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.”
“Thankee,” said the fat boy.
“You ain’t got nothin’ on your mind, as makes you fret yourself, have
you?” inquired Sam.
“Not as I knows on,” replied the boy.
“I should rayther ha’ thought, to look at you, that you was a labourin’
under an unrequited attachment to some young ’ooman,” said Sam.
The fat boy shook his head.
“Vell,” said Sam, “I’m glad to hear it. Do you ever drink anythin’?”
“I likes eating, better,” replied the boy.
“Ah,” said Sam, “I should ha’ s’posed that; but what I mean is, should
you like a drop of anythin’ as’d warm you? but I s’pose you never was
cold, with all them elastic fixtures, was you?”
“Sometimes,” replied the boy; “and I likes a drop of something, when
it’s good.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” said Sam, “come this vay, 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.
“Vell,” said Sam, “of all the cool boys ever I set my eyes on, this here
young gen’lm’n is about the coolest. Come, vake up, young dropsy.”
But as young dropsy evinced no symptoms of returning animation, Sam
Weller sat himself down in front of the cart, and starting the old horse
with a jerk of the rein, jogged steadily on, towards Manor Farm.
Meanwhile, Mr. Pickwick and his friends having walked their blood into
active circulation, proceeded cheerfully on; the paths were hard, the
grass was crisp and frosty, the air had a fine, dry, bracing coldness,
and the rapid approach of the grey twilight (slate-coloured is a better
term in frosty weather) made them look forward with pleasant
anticipation to the comforts which awaited them at their hospitable
entertainer’s. It was the sort of afternoon that might induce a couple
of elderly gentlemen, in a lonely field, to take off their great coats
and play at leap-frog in pure lightness of heart and gaiety; and we
firmly believe that had Mr. Tupman at that moment proffered “a back,”
Mr. Pickwick would have accepted his offer with the utmost avidity.
However, Mr. Tupman did not volunteer any such personal accommodation,
and the friends walked on, conversing merrily. As they turned into a
lane which they had to cross, the sound of many voices burst upon their
ears; and before they had even had time to form a guess as 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 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.
[Illustration:
_Emily Wardle._
]
[Illustration]
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; and 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, and declaring
that they were too frightened to move, with as much ease and absence of
reserve or constraint, as if he had known them for life. It is worthy of
remark too, that Mr. Snodgrass offered Emily far more assistance than
the absolute terrors of the stile (although it was full three feet high,
and had only a couple of stepping-stones) would seem to require; while
one black-eyed young lady in a very nice little pair of boots with fur
round the top, was observed to scream very loudly, when Mr. Winkle
offered to help her over.
All this was very snug and pleasant: and when the difficulties of the
stile were at last surmounted, and they once more entered on the open
field, old Wardle informed Mr. Pickwick how they had all been down in a
body to inspect the furniture and fittings-up of the house, which the
young couple were to tenant, after the Christmas holidays; at which
communication Bella and Trundle both coloured up, as red as the fat boy
after the tap-room fire; and the young lady with the black eyes and the
fur round the boots, whispered something in Emily’s ear, and then
glanced archly at Mr. Snodgrass, to which Emily responded that she was a
foolish girl, but turned very red, notwithstanding; and Mr. Snodgrass,
who was as modest as all great geniuses usually are, felt the crimson
rising to the crown of his head, and devoutly wished, in the inmost
recesses of his own heart, that the young lady aforesaid, with her black
eyes, and her archness, and her boots with the fur round the top, were
all comfortably deposited in the adjacent county.
But if they were social and happy, outside the house, what was the
warmth and cordiality of their reception when they reached the farm! The
very servants grinned with pleasure at sight of Mr. Pickwick: and Emma
bestowed a half-demure, half-impudent, and all pretty look of
recognition on Mr. Tupman, which was enough to make the statue of
Bonaparte in the passage, unfold his arms, and clasp her within them.
The old lady was seated in customary state in the front parlour, but she
was rather cross, and by consequence, most particularly deaf. She never
went out herself, and like a great many other old ladies of the same
stamp, she was apt to consider it an act of domestic treason, if any
body 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.”
[Illustration]
“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 grand-daughter’s neck, and all the little ill-humour
evaporated in a gush of silent tears.
A happy party they were, that night. Sedate and solemn were the score of
rubbers in which Mr. Pickwick and the old lady played together; and
uproarious was the mirth of the round table. Long after the ladies had
retired, did the hot elder wine, well qualified with brandy and spice,
go round, and round, and round again; and sound was the sleep, and
pleasant were the dreams that followed. It is a remarkable fact, that
those of Mr. Snodgrass bore constant reference to Emily Wardle; and that
the principal figure in Mr. Winkle’s visions, was a young lady with
black eyes, an arch smile, and a pair of remarkably nice boots, with fur
round the tops.
Mr. Pickwick was awakened early in the morning, by a hum of voices and
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 warm 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, up
stairs. 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 buttonhole, 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; and 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 expected; and that although the owner of the black eyes and
the arch smile informed Mr. Winkle that she was sure she could never
submit to anything so dreadful, we have the very best reasons for
thinking she was mistaken. To all this, we may add, that Mr. Pickwick
was the first who saluted the bride: and that in so doing, he threw over
her neck, a rich gold watch and chain, which no mortal eyes but the
jeweller’s had ever beheld before. Then the old church bell rang as
gaily as it could, and they all returned to breakfast.
“Vere does the mince-pies go, young opium eater?” said Mr. Weller to the
fat boy, as he assisted in laying out such articles of consumption as
had not been duly arranged on the previous night.
The fat boy pointed to the destination of the pies.
“Wery good,” said Sam, “stick a bit o’ Christmas in ’em. T’other dish
opposite. There; now ve 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.”
[Illustration:
_Then the old church bell rang ... and they all returned to
breakfast._
]
The old lady was in a state of great grandeur just then, for she was
sitting at the top of the table in her brocaded gown, with her
newly-married grand-daughter 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 they 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; and the young ladies
saved pieces to put under their pillows to dream of their future
husbands on; and a great deal of blushing and merriment was thereby
occasioned.
“Mr. Miller,” said Mr. Pickwick to his old acquaintance, the hard-headed
gentleman, “a glass of wine?”
“With great satisfaction Mr. Pickwick,” replied the hard-headed
gentleman, solemnly.
“You’ll take me in?” said the benevolent old clergyman.
“And me,” interposed his wife.
“And me, and me,” said a couple of poor relations at the bottom of the
table, who had eaten and drank very heartily, and laughed at every
thing.
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!” said 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 last two). 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; and Mr. Pickwick proposed the old lady. Mr. Snodgrass proposed
Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Wardle proposed Mr. Snodgrass. One of the poor
relations proposed Mr. Tupman, and the other poor relation proposed Mr.
Winkle; and 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 lain 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.
[Illustration:
_A five and twenty mile walk, undertaken by the males at Wardle’s
recommendation._
]
The best sitting room at Manor Farm was a good, long, dark pannelled
room with a high chimney piece, and a capacious chimney, up which you
could have driven one of the new patent cabs, wheels and all. At the
upper end of the room, seated in a shady bower of holly and evergreens,
were the two best fiddlers, and the only harp, in all Muggleton. In all
sorts of recesses, and on all kinds of brackets, stood massive old
silver candlesticks with four branches each. The carpet was up, the
candles burnt bright, the fire blazed and crackled on the hearth; and
merry voices and light-hearted laughter rang through the room. If any of
the old English yeomen had turned into fairies when they died, it was
just the place in which they would have held their revels.
If any thing 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?” and 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 very pretty pattern.
“I hope they are,” said Mr. Pickwick fixing his eyes upon his friend.
“You see nothing extraordinary in these 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?” said a dozen voices.
“And Winkle!” added Mr. Tupman.
“Here we are!” exclaimed that gentleman, emerging with his pretty
companion from the corner; and, 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; and 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 down stairs,
notwithstanding, and a good long sitting after it; and when Mr. Pickwick
awoke, late the next morning, he had a confused recollection of having,
severally and confidentially, invited somewhere about five-and-forty
people to dine with him at the George and Vulture, the very first time
they came to London; which Mr. Pickwick rightly considered a pretty
certain indication of his having taken something besides exercise, on
the previous night.
“And so your family has games in the kitchen to-night, my dear, has
they?” inquired Sam of Emma.
“Yes, Mr. Weller,” replied Emma; “we always have on Christmas eve.
Master wouldn’t neglect to keep it up on any account.”
“Your master’s a wery pretty notion of keepin’ anythin’ up, my dear,”
said Mr. Weller; “I never see such a sensible sort of man as he is, or
such a reg’lar gen’l’m’n.”
“Oh, that he is!” said the fat boy, joining in the conversation; “don’t
he breed nice pork!” and the fat youth gave a semi-cannibalic leer at
Mr. Weller, as he thought of the roast legs and gravy.
“Oh, you’ve woke up, at last, have you?” said Sam.
The fat boy nodded.
“I’ll tell you what it is, young boa constructer,” said Mr. Weller,
impressively, “if you don’t sleep a little less, and exercise a little
more, ven you comes to be a man you’ll lay yourself open to the same
sort o’ personal inconwenience as was inflicted on the old gen’lm’n as
wore the pig-tail.”
“What did they do to him?” inquired the fat boy, in a faltering voice.
“I’m a goin’ to tell you,” replied Mr. Weller; “he was one o’ the
largest patterns as was ever turned out—reg’lar fat man, as hadn’t
caught a glimpse of his own shoes for five-and-forty years.”
“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 half; 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 manufacturer, 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, will
you,’ says they. ‘Vell,’ 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 venever 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 pig-tail, and rolls down the Strand vith the
chain hangin’ out furder than ever, and the great round watch almost
bustin’ through his grey kersey smalls. There warn’t a pickpocket in all
London as didn’t take a pull at that chain, but the chain ’ud never
break, and the watch ’ud never come out, so they soon got tired o’
dragging such a heavy old gen’l’m’n along the pavement, and he’d go home
and laugh till the pig-tail 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-comin’ up, arm in arm vith a
little boy vith 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, ven, all of a sudden, the
little boy leaves hold of the pickpocket’s arm, and rushes headforemost
straight into the old gen’l’m’n’s stomach, and for a moment doubled him
right up vith the pain. ‘Murder!’ says the old gen’l’m’n. ‘All right,
Sir,’ says the pickpocket, a whisperin’ in his ear. And ven 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 artervards, 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 wended their way 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 which 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 of 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 every thing 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 portion of the
young-lady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right under
the mistletoe, directly 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 just the people whom they
thought would like it; and when the game flagged, got caught themselves.
When they were all tired of blind-man’s buff, there was a great game at
snapdragon, and when fingers enough were burned with that, and all the
raisins 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 till the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and wile away
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, and the
deep red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the furthest
corner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.
“Come,” said Wardle, “a song—a Christmas song. I’ll give you one, in
default of a better.”
“Bravo,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Fill up,” cried Wardle. “It will be two hours good, before you see the
bottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail; fill up
all round, and now for 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,
Or 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!
[Illustration:
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.
]
This song was tumultuously applauded, for friends and dependents make a
capital audience; and the poor relations especially were in perfect
extasies 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 any thing the
matter, is there?”
“No, no, mother,” replied Wardle; “he says there’s a snow-drift, and a
wind that’s piercing cold. I should know that, by the way it rumbles in
the chimney.”
“Ah!” said the old lady, “there was just such a wind, and just such a
fall of snow, a good many years back, I recollect—just five years before
your poor father died. It was a Christmas eve, too; and I remember that
on that very night he told us the story about the goblins that carried
away old Gabriel Grub.”
“The story about what?” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Oh, nothing—nothing,” replied Wardle. “About an old sexton, that the
good people down here suppose to have been carried away by goblins.”
“Suppose!” ejaculated the old lady. “Is there any body 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.
[Illustration]