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 skaiting,” 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 down
stairs.”
“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 every body 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 drinkin’ brandy neat, vile
the t’other one—him in the barnacles—has got a barrel o’ oysters atween
his knees, vich 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 settin’ down
fast asleep, in the chimbley corner.”
“Eccentricities of genius, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. “You may retire.”
Sam did retire accordingly; and Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of the
quarter of an hour, went down to breakfast.
“Here he is at last,” said old 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. ——”
[Illustration]
“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, thickset 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 greatcoat or 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; and out of doors, 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. And 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.
“Lor, 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?” enquired 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 about 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 skait, of course, Winkle?” said Wardle.
“Ye—yes; oh, yes;” replied Mr. Winkle. “I—I—am _rather_ out of
practice.”
“Oh, _do_ skait, 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 “swanlike.”
“I should be very happy, I’m sure,” said Mr. Winkle, reddening; “but I
have no skaits.”
This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had got a couple of pair,
and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more, down
stairs, 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 skaits 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 soles of his feet, and putting his
skaits 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 skaits than a Hindoo. At length, however,
with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skaits 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 skaits; ain’t they, Sam?” inquired Mr.
Winkle, staggering.
“I’m afeerd there’s orkard gen’lm’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.”
[Illustration:
“_How slippery it is, Sam!_”
]
“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.”
“Thankee, 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?” said Mr. Weller.
“Here. I want you.”
“Let go, Sir,” said Sam. “Don’t you hear the governor a callin’? Let go,
Sir.”
[Illustration]
With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of
the agonized 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
skaits. 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 skaits off.”
“No; but really I had scarcely begun,” remonstrated Mr. Winkle.
“Take his skaits 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 these 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 two-penny 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 enquired 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 skaits 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.
[Illustration:
_Went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet about a yard
and a quarter apart._
]
“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 all 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 which 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 which
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, and 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 and main.
It was at this very 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; and 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
the most 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, enquired—
“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 Saint 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 week, 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 cosey, 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 enquiry 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.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as
printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
End of Project Gutenberg's Mr. Pickwick's Christmas, by Charles Dickens