substituted in her stead, did that gentleman, when there was no demand
whatever on his exertions, keep perpetually dancing in his place, to
keep time to the music, smiling on his partner all the while with a
blandness of demeanour which baffles all description.
Long before Mr. Pickwick was weary of dancing, the newly-married couple
had retired from the scene. There was a glorious supper downstairs,
notwithstanding, and a good long sitting after it; and when Mr. Pickwick
awoke, late the next morning, he had a confused recollection of having,
severally and confidentially, invited somewhere about five-and-forty
people to dine with him at the George and Vulture, the very first time
they came to London; which Mr. Pickwick rightly considered a pretty
certain indication of his having taken something besides exercise, on
the previous night.
'And so your family has games in the kitchen to-night, my dear, has
they?' inquired Sam of Emma.
'Yes, Mr. Weller,' replied Emma; 'we always have on Christmas Eve.
Master wouldn't neglect to keep it up on any account.'
'Your master's a wery pretty notion of keeping anythin' up, my dear,'
said Mr. Weller; 'I never see such a sensible sort of man as he is, or
such a reg'lar gen'l'm'n.' 'Oh, that he is!' said the fat boy, joining
in the conversation; 'don't he breed nice pork!' The fat youth gave a
semi-cannibalic leer at Mr. Weller, as he thought of the roast legs and
gravy.
'Oh, you've woke up, at last, have you?' said Sam.
The fat boy nodded.
'I'll tell you what it is, young boa-constructer,' said Mr. Weller
impressively; 'if you don't sleep a little less, and exercise a little
more, wen you comes to be a man you'll lay yourself open to the same
sort of personal inconwenience as was inflicted on the old gen'l'm'n as
wore the pigtail.'
'What did they do to him?' inquired the fat boy, in a faltering voice.
'I'm a-going to tell you,' replied Mr. Weller; 'he was one o' the
largest patterns as was ever turned out--reg'lar fat man, as hadn't
caught a glimpse of his own shoes for five-and-forty year.'
'Lor!' exclaimed Emma.
'No, that he hadn't, my dear,' said Mr. Weller; 'and if you'd put an
exact model of his own legs on the dinin'-table afore him, he wouldn't
ha' known 'em. Well, he always walks to his office with a wery handsome
gold watch-chain hanging out, about a foot and a quarter, and a gold
watch in his fob pocket as was worth--I'm afraid to say how much, but as
much as a watch can be--a large, heavy, round manufacter, as stout for
a watch, as he was for a man, and with a big face in proportion. "You'd
better not carry that 'ere watch," says the old gen'l'm'n's friends,
"you'll be robbed on it," says they. "Shall I?" says he. "Yes, you
will," says they. "Well," says he, "I should like to see the thief as
could get this here watch out, for I'm blessed if I ever can, it's such
a tight fit," says he, "and wenever I vants to know what's o'clock, I'm
obliged to stare into the bakers' shops," he says. Well, then he laughs
as hearty as if he was a-goin' to pieces, and out he walks agin with
his powdered head and pigtail, and rolls down the Strand with the chain
hangin' out furder than ever, and the great round watch almost bustin'
through his gray kersey smalls. There warn't a pickpocket in all London
as didn't take a pull at that chain, but the chain 'ud never break, and
the watch 'ud never come out, so they soon got tired of dragging such a
heavy old gen'l'm'n along the pavement, and he'd go home and laugh till
the pigtail wibrated like the penderlum of a Dutch clock. At last, one
day the old gen'l'm'n was a-rollin' along, and he sees a pickpocket as
he know'd by sight, a-coming up, arm in arm with a little boy with a
wery large head. "Here's a game," says the old gen'l'm'n to himself,
"they're a-goin' to have another try, but it won't do!" So he begins
a-chucklin' wery hearty, wen, all of a sudden, the little boy leaves
hold of the pickpocket's arm, and rushes head foremost straight into the
old gen'l'm'n's stomach, and for a moment doubles him right up with
the pain. "Murder!" says the old gen'l'm'n. "All right, Sir," says the
pickpocket, a-wisperin' in his ear. And wen he come straight agin,
the watch and chain was gone, and what's worse than that, the old
gen'l'm'n's digestion was all wrong ever afterwards, to the wery last
day of his life; so just you look about you, young feller, and take care
you don't get too fat.'
As Mr. Weller concluded this moral tale, with which the fat boy appeared
much affected, they all three repaired to the large kitchen, in which
the family were by this time assembled, according to annual custom
on Christmas Eve, observed by old Wardle's forefathers from time
immemorial.
From the centre of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just
suspended, with his own hands, a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same
branch of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of general and
most delightful struggling and confusion; in the midst of which, Mr.
Pickwick, with a gallantry that would have done honour to a descendant
of Lady Tollimglower herself, took the old lady by the hand, led her
beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all courtesy and decorum.
The old lady submitted to this piece of practical politeness with all
the dignity which befitted so important and serious a solemnity, but
the younger ladies, not being so thoroughly imbued with a superstitious
veneration for the custom, or imagining that the value of a salute is
very much enhanced if it cost a little trouble to obtain it, screamed
and struggled, and ran into corners, and threatened and remonstrated,
and did everything but leave the room, until some of the less
adventurous gentlemen were on the point of desisting, when they all at
once found it useless to resist any longer, and submitted to be kissed
with a good grace. Mr. Winkle kissed the young lady with the black eyes,
and Mr. Snodgrass kissed Emily; and Mr. Weller, not being particular
about the form of being under the mistletoe, kissed Emma and the other
female servants, just as he caught them. As to the poor relations, they
kissed everybody, not even excepting the plainer portions of the young
lady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right under the
mistletoe, as soon as it was hung up, without knowing it! Wardle stood
with his back to the fire, surveying the whole scene, with the utmost
satisfaction; and the fat boy took the opportunity of appropriating to
his own use, and summarily devouring, a particularly fine mince-pie,
that had been carefully put by, for somebody else.
Now, the screaming had subsided, and faces were in a glow, and curls
in a tangle, and Mr. Pickwick, after kissing the old lady as before
mentioned, was standing under the mistletoe, looking with a very pleased
countenance on all that was passing around him, when the young lady with
the black eyes, after a little whispering with the other young ladies,
made a sudden dart forward, and, putting her arm round Mr. Pickwick's
neck, saluted him affectionately on the left cheek; and before Mr.
Pickwick distinctly knew what was the matter, he was surrounded by the
whole body, and kissed by every one of them.
It was a pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick in the centre of the group,
now pulled this way, and then that, and first kissed on the chin, and
then on the nose, and then on the spectacles, and to hear the peals
of laughter which were raised on every side; but it was a still more
pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick, blinded shortly afterwards with
a silk handkerchief, falling up against the wall, and scrambling into
corners, and going through all the mysteries of blind-man's buff, with
the utmost relish for the game, until at last he caught one of the poor
relations, and then had to evade the blind-man himself, which he did
with a nimbleness and agility that elicited the admiration and applause
of all beholders. The poor relations caught the people who they thought
would like it, and, when the game flagged, got caught themselves.
When they all tired of blind-man's buff, there was a great game at
snap-dragon, and when fingers enough were burned with that, and all the
raisins were gone, they sat down by the huge fire of blazing logs to a
substantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail, something smaller than
an ordinary wash-house copper, in which the hot apples were hissing
and bubbling with a rich look, and a jolly sound, that were perfectly
irresistible.
'This,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him, 'this is, indeed,
comfort.' 'Our invariable custom,' replied Mr. Wardle. 'Everybody sits
down with us on Christmas Eve, as you see them now--servants and all;
and here we wait, until the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas
in, and beguile the time with forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy,
rake up the fire.'
Up flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred. The deep
red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the farthest
corner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.
'Come,' said Wardle, 'a song--a Christmas song! I'll give you one, in
default of a better.'
'Bravo!' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Fill up,' cried Wardle. 'It will be two hours, good, before you see the
bottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail; fill up
all round, and now for the song.'
Thus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice,
commenced without more ado--
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
'I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing
Let the blossoms and buds be borne;
He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,
And he scatters them ere the morn.
An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,
Nor his own changing mind an hour,
He'll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace,
He'll wither your youngest flower.
'Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,
He shall never be sought by me;
When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud
And care not how sulky he be!
For his darling child is the madness wild
That sports in fierce fever's train;
And when love is too strong, it don't last long,
As many have found to their pain.
'A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light
Of the modest and gentle moon,
Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween,
Than the broad and unblushing noon.
But every leaf awakens my grief,
As it lieth beneath the tree;
So let Autumn air be never so fair,
It by no means agrees with me.
'But my song I troll out, for CHRISTMAS Stout,
The hearty, the true, and the bold;
A bumper I drain, and with might and main
Give three cheers for this Christmas old!
We'll usher him in with a merry din
That shall gladden his joyous heart,
And we'll keep him up, while there's bite or sup,
And in fellowship good, we'll part.
'In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide
One jot of his hard-weather scars;
They're no disgrace, for there's much the same trace
On the cheeks of our bravest tars.
Then again I sing till the roof doth ring
And it echoes from wall to wall--
To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,
As the King of the Seasons all!'
This song was tumultuously applauded--for friends and dependents make
a capital audience--and the poor relations, especially, were in perfect
ecstasies of rapture. Again was the fire replenished, and again went the
wassail round.
'How it snows!' said one of the men, in a low tone.
'Snows, does it?' said Wardle.
'Rough, cold night, Sir,' replied the man; 'and there's a wind got up,
that drifts it across the fields, in a thick white cloud.'
'What does Jem say?' inquired the old lady. 'There ain't anything the
matter, is there?'
'No, no, mother,' replied Wardle; 'he says there's a snowdrift, and a
wind that's piercing cold. I should know that, by the way it rumbles in
the chimney.'
'Ah!' said the old lady, 'there was just such a wind, and just such
a fall of snow, a good many years back, I recollect--just five years
before your poor father died. It was a Christmas Eve, too; and I
remember that on that very night he told us the story about the goblins
that carried away old Gabriel Grub.'
'The story about what?' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Oh, nothing, nothing,' replied Wardle. 'About an old sexton, that the
good people down here suppose to have been carried away by goblins.'
'Suppose!' ejaculated the old lady. 'Is there anybody hardy enough to
disbelieve it? Suppose! Haven't you heard ever since you were a child,
that he WAS carried away by the goblins, and don't you know he was?'
'Very well, mother, he was, if you like,' said Wardle laughing. 'He WAS
carried away by goblins, Pickwick; and there's an end of the matter.'
'No, no,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'not an end of it, I assure you; for I must
hear how, and why, and all about it.'
Wardle smiled, as every head was bent forward to hear, and filling out
the wassail with no stinted hand, nodded a health to Mr. Pickwick, and
