'Thank'ee, my love,' said Mr. Weller. 'Come, come, father,' said Sam,
'none o' these little lovin's afore strangers. Here's the reverend
gen'l'm'n a-comin' in now.' At this announcement, Mrs. Weller hastily
wiped off the tears which she had just begun to force on; and Mr. W.
drew his chair sullenly into the chimney-corner.
Mr. Stiggins was easily prevailed on to take another glass of the hot
pine-apple rum-and-water, and a second, and a third, and then to refresh
himself with a slight supper, previous to beginning again. He sat on the
same side as Mr. Weller, senior; and every time he could contrive to do
so, unseen by his wife, that gentleman indicated to his son the hidden
emotions of his bosom, by shaking his fist over the deputy-shepherd's
head; a process which afforded his son the most unmingled delight and
satisfaction, the more especially as Mr. Stiggins went on, quietly
drinking the hot pine-apple rum-and-water, wholly unconscious of what
was going forward.
The major part of the conversation was confined to Mrs. Weller and the
reverend Mr. Stiggins; and the topics principally descanted on, were
the virtues of the shepherd, the worthiness of his flock, and the high
crimes and misdemeanours of everybody beside--dissertations which the
elder Mr. Weller occasionally interrupted by half-suppressed references
to a gentleman of the name of Walker, and other running commentaries of
the same kind.
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
