A GOOD-HUMOURED CHRISTMAS CHAPTER,CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF A WEDDING,AND SOME OTHER SPORTS BESIDE: WHICHALTHOUGH IN THEIR WAY, EVEN AS GOODCUSTOMS AS MARRIAGE ITSELF, ARE NOTQUITE SO RELIGIOUSLY KEPT UP,IN THESE DEGENERATE TIMESs brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies, did thefour Pickwickians assemble on the morning of the twenty-second day of December, in the year of grace in whichthese, their faithfully-recorded adventures, were undertaken andaccomplished. Christmas was close at hand, in all his bluff andhearty honesty; it was the season of hospitality, merriment, andopen-heartedness; the old year was preparing, like an ancientphilosopher, to call his friends around him, and amidst the soundof feasting and revelry to pass gently and calmly away. Gay andmerry was the time; and right gay and merry were at least four ofthe numerous hearts that were gladdened by its coming.

　　And numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas bringsa 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 onceagain in that happy state of companionship and mutual goodwill,which is a source of such pure and unalloyed delight; and one soincompatible with the cares and sorrows of the world, that thereligious belief of the most civilised nations, and the rudetraditions of the roughest savages, alike number it among the firstjoys of a future condition of existence, provided for the blessedand happy! How many old recollections, and how many dormantsympathies, does Christmas time awaken!

　　We write these words now, many miles distant from the spot atwhich, year after year, we met on that day, a merry and joyouscircle. Many of the hearts that throbbed so gaily then, have ceasedto beat; many of the looks that shone so brightly then, have ceasedto glow; the hands we grasped, have grown cold; the eyes wesought, 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 thosehappy meetings, crowd upon our mind at each recurrence of theseason, as if the last assemblage had been but yesterday! Happy,happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of ourchildish days; that can recall to the old man the pleasures of hisyouth; that can transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands ofmiles away, back to his own fireside and his quiet home!

　　But we are so taken up and occupied with the good qualities ofthis saint Christmas, that we are keeping Mr. Pickwick and hisfriends 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 havebeen stowed away, and Mr. Weller and the guard areendeavouring to insinuate into the fore-boot a huge cod-fishseveral sizes too large for it―which is snugly packed up, in a longbrown basket, with a layer of straw over the top, and which hasbeen left to the last, in order that he may repose in safety on thehalf-dozen barrels of real native oysters, all the property of Mr.

　　Pickwick, which have been arranged in regular order at thebottom of the receptacle. The interest displayed in Mr. Pickwick’scountenance is most intense, as Mr. Weller and the guard try tosqueeze the cod-fish into the boot, first head first, and then tailfirst, and then top upward, and then bottom upward, and thenside-ways, and then long-ways, all of which artifices theimplacable cod-fish sturdily resists, until the guard accidentallyhits him in the very middle of the basket, whereupon he suddenlydisappears into the boot, and with him, the head and shoulders ofthe guard himself, who, not calculating upon so sudden a cessationof the passive resistance of the cod-fish, experiences a veryunexpected shock, to the unsmotherable delight of all the portersand bystanders. Upon this, Mr. Pickwick smiles with great good-humour, and drawing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket, begsthe guard, as he picks himself out of the boot, to drink his health ina glass of hot brandy-and-water; at which the guard smiles too,and Messrs. Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman, all smile incompany. The guard and Mr. Weller disappear for five minutes,most probably to get the hot brandy-and-water, for they smell verystrongly of it, when they return, the coachman mounts to the box,Mr. Weller jumps up behind, the Pickwickians pull their coatsround their legs and their shawls over their noses, the helpers pullthe horse-cloths off, the coachman shouts out a cheery ‘All right,’

　　and away they go.

　　They have rumbled through the streets, and jolted over thestones, and at length reach the wide and open country. The wheelsskim over the hard and frosty ground; and the horses, burstinginto a canter at a smart crack of the whip, step along the road as ifthe load behind them―coach, passengers, cod-fish, oyster-barrels,and all―were but a feather at their heels. They have descended agentle slope, and enter upon a level, as compact and dry as a solidblock of marble, two miles long. Another crack of the whip, and onthey speed, at a smart gallop, the horses tossing their heads andrattling the harness, as if in exhilaration at the rapidity of themotion; while the coachman, holding whip and reins in one hand,takes off his hat with the other, and resting it on his knees, pullsout his handkerchief, and wipes his forehead, partly because hehas a habit of doing it, and partly because it’s as well to show thepassengers how cool he is, and what an easy thing it is to drivefour-in-hand, when you have had as much practice as he has.

　　Having done this very leisurely (otherwise the effect would bematerially impaired), he replaces his handkerchief, pulls on hishat, 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 sometown or village. The lively notes of the guard’s key-bugle vibrate inthe clear cold air, and wake up the old gentleman inside, who,carefully letting down the window-sash half-way, and standingsentry over the air, takes a short peep out, and then carefullypulling it up again, informs the other inside that they’re going tochange directly; on which the other inside wakes himself up, anddetermines to postpone his next nap until after the stoppage.

　　Again the bugle sounds lustily forth, and rouses the cottager’s wifeand children, who peep out at the house door, and watch thecoach till it turns the corner, when they once more crouch roundthe blazing fire, and throw on another log of wood against fathercomes home; while father himself, a full mile off, has justexchanged a friendly nod with the coachman, and turned round totake a good long stare at the vehicle as it whirls away.

　　And now the bugle plays a lively air as the coach rattles throughthe ill-paved streets of a country town; and the coachman, undoingthe buckle which keeps his ribands together, prepares to throwthem off the moment he stops. Mr. Pickwick emerges from his coatcollar, and looks about him with great curiosity; perceiving which,the coachman informs Mr. Pickwick of the name of the town, andtells him it was market-day yesterday, both of which pieces ofinformation Mr. Pickwick retails to his fellow-passengers;whereupon they emerge from their coat collars too, and look aboutthem also. Mr. Winkle, who sits at the extreme edge, with one legdangling in the air, is nearly precipitated into the street, as thecoach twists round the sharp corner by the cheesemonger’s shop,and turns into the market-place; and before Mr. Snodgrass, whosits next to him, has recovered from his alarm, they pull up at theinn yard where the fresh horses, with cloths on, are alreadywaiting. The coachman throws down the reins and gets downhimself, and the other outside passengers drop down also; exceptthose who have no great confidence in their ability to get up again;and they remain where they are, and stamp their feet against thecoach to warm them―looking, with longing eyes and red noses, atthe bright fire in the inn bar, and the sprigs of holly with redberries which ornament the window.

　　But the guard has delivered at the corn-dealer’s shop, thebrown paper packet he took out of the little pouch which hangsover his shoulder by a leathern strap; and has seen the horsescarefully put to; and has thrown on the pavement the saddle whichwas brought from London on the coach roof; and has assisted inthe conference between the coachman and the hostler about thegray 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 fulltwo inches all this time, has pulled it up again, and the cloths areoff, and they are all ready for starting, except the ‘two stoutgentlemen,’ whom the coachman inquires after with someimpatience. Hereupon the coachman, and the guard, and SamWeller, and Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, and all the hostlers,and every one of the idlers, who are more in number than all theothers put together, shout for the missing gentlemen as loud asthey can bawl. A distant response is heard from the yard, and Mr.

　　Pickwick and Mr. Tupman come running down it, quite out ofbreath, 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 minutesbefore he could find the sixpence to pay for it. The coachmanshouts an admonitory ‘Now then, gen’l’m’n,’ the guard re-echoesit; the old gentleman inside thinks it a very extraordinary thingthat 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 pulledup, coat collars are readjusted, the pavement ceases, the housesdisappear; and they are once again dashing along the open road,with the fresh clear air blowing in their faces, and gladdening theirvery hearts within them.

　　Such was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by theMuggleton Telegraph, on their way to Dingley Dell; and at threeo’clock that afternoon they all stood high and dry, safe and sound,hale and hearty, upon the steps of the Blue Lion, having taken onthe road quite enough of ale and brandy, to enable them to biddefiance to the frost that was binding up the earth in its ironfetters, and weaving its beautiful network upon the trees andhedges. Mr. Pickwick was busily engaged in counting the barrelsof oysters and superintending the disinterment of the cod-fish,when he felt himself gently pulled by the skirts of the coat.

　　Looking round, he discovered that the individual who resorted tothis mode of catching his attention was no other than Mr. Wardle’sfavourite page, better known to the readers of this unvarnishedhistory, by the distinguishing appellation of the fat boy.

　　‘Aha!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Aha!’ said the fat boy.

　　As he said it, he glanced from the cod-fish to the oyster-barrels,and chuckled joyously. He was fatter than ever.

　　‘Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend,’ said Mr.

　　Pickwick.

　　‘I’ve been asleep, right in front of the taproom fire,’ replied thefat 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 theshay-cart, to carry your luggage up to the house. He’d ha’ sentsome saddle-horses, but he thought you’d rather walk, being acold day.’

　　‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily, for he remembered howthey had travelled over nearly the same ground on a previousoccasion. ‘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 thefields, and walked briskly away, leaving Mr. Weller and the fat boyconfronted together for the first time. Sam looked at the fat boywith great astonishment, but without saying a word; and began tostow the luggage rapidly away in the cart, while the fat boy stoodquietly by, and seemed to think it a very interesting sort of thing tosee Mr. Weller working by himself.

　　‘There,’ said Sam, throwing in the last carpet-bag, ‘there theyare!’

　　‘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 aprize boy, you are!’

　　‘Thank’ee,’ said the fat boy.

　　‘You ain’t got nothin’ on your mind as makes you fret yourself,have you?’ inquired Sam.

　　‘Not as I knows on,’ replied the fat boy.

　　‘I should rayther ha’ thought, to look at you, that you was a-labourin’ under an unrequited attachment to some young ’ooman,’

　　said Sam.

　　The fat boy shook his head.

　　‘Vell,’ said Sam, ‘I am glad to hear it. Do you ever drinkanythin’?’

　　‘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 younever was cold, with all them elastic fixtures, was you?’

　　‘Sometimes,’ replied the boy; ‘and I likes a drop of something,when it’s good.’

　　‘Oh, you do, do you?’ said Sam, ‘come this way, then!’

　　The Blue Lion tap was soon gained, and the fat boy swallowed aglass of liquor without so much as winking―a feat whichconsiderably advanced him in Mr. Weller’s good opinion. Mr.

　　Weller having transacted a similar piece of business on his ownaccount, 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, andpointing 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 downby the side of the cod-fish, and, placing an oyster-barrel under hishead for a pillow, fell asleep instantaneously.

　　‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘of all the cool boys ever I set my eyes on, thishere young gen’l’m’n is the coolest. Come, wake up, youngdropsy!’

　　But as young dropsy evinced no symptoms of returninganimation, Sam Weller sat himself down in front of the cart, andstarting the old horse with a jerk of the rein, jogged steadily on,towards the Manor Farm.

　　Meanwhile, Mr. Pickwick and his friends having walked theirblood into active circulation, proceeded cheerfully on. The pathswere hard; the grass was crisp and frosty; the air had a fine, dry,bracing coldness; and the rapid approach of the gray twilight(slate-coloured is a better term in frosty weather) made them lookforward with pleasant anticipation to the comforts which awaitedthem at their hospitable entertainer’s. It was the sort of afternoonthat might induce a couple of elderly gentlemen, in a lonely field,to take off their greatcoats and play at leap-frog in pure lightnessof heart and gaiety; and we firmly believe that had Mr. Tupman atthat moment proffered ‘a back,’ Mr. Pickwick would have acceptedhis offer with the utmost avidity.

　　However, Mr. Tupman did not volunteer any suchaccommodation, and the friends walked on, conversing merrily. Asthey turned into a lane they had to cross, the sound of many voicesburst upon their ears; and before they had even had time to form aguess to whom they belonged, they walked into the very centre ofthe party who were expecting their arrival―a fact which was firstnotified to the Pickwickians, by the loud ‘Hurrah,’ which burstfrom 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 faithfulTrundle; and, lastly, there were Emily and some eight or tenyoung ladies, who had all come down to the wedding, which was totake place next day, and who were in as happy and important astate as young ladies usually are, on such momentous occasions;and they were, one and all, startling the fields and lanes, far andwide, with their frolic and laughter.

　　The ceremony of introduction, under such circumstances, wasvery soon performed, or we should rather say that theintroduction was soon over, without any ceremony at all. In twominutes thereafter, Mr. Pickwick was joking with the young ladieswho wouldn’t come over the stile while he looked―or who, havingpretty feet and unexceptionable ankles, preferred standing on thetop rail for five minutes or so, declaring that they were toofrightened to move―with as much ease and absence of reserve orconstraint, as if he had known them for life. It is worthy of remark,too, that Mr. Snodgrass offered Emily far more assistance than theabsolute 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 bootswith fur round the top, was observed to scream very loudly, whenMr. Winkle offered to help her over.

　　All this was very snug and pleasant. And when the difficulties ofthe stile were at last surmounted, and they once more entered onthe open field, old Wardle informed Mr. Pickwick how they had allbeen down in a body to inspect the furniture and fittings-up of thehouse, which the young couple were to tenant, after the Christmasholidays; at which communication Bella and Trundle bothcoloured up, as red as the fat boy after the taproom fire; and theyoung lady with the black eyes and the fur round the boots,whispered something in Emily’s ear, and then glanced archly atMr. Snodgrass; to which Emily responded that she was a foolishgirl, but turned very red, notwithstanding; and Mr. Snodgrass,who was as modest as all great geniuses usually are, felt thecrimson rising to the crown of his head, and devoutly wished, inthe inmost recesses of his own heart, that the young ladyaforesaid, with her black eyes, and her archness, and her bootswith the fur round the top, were all comfortably deposited in theadjacent county.

　　But if they were social and happy outside the house, what wasthe warmth and cordiality of their reception when they reachedthe farm! The very servants grinned with pleasure at sight of Mr.

　　Pickwick; and Emma bestowed a half-demure, half-impudent, andall-pretty look of recognition, on Mr. Tupman, which was enoughto make the statue of Bonaparte in the passage, unfold his arms,and clasp her within them.

　　The old lady was seated with customary state in the frontparlour, but she was rather cross, and, by consequence, mostparticularly deaf. She never went out herself, and like a greatmany other old ladies of the same stamp, she was apt to consider itan act of domestic treason, if anybody else took the liberty of doingwhat she couldn’t. So, bless her old soul, she sat as upright as shecould, in her great chair, and looked as fierce as might be―andthat was benevolent after all.

　　‘Mother,’ said Wardle, ‘Mr. Pickwick. You recollect him?’

　　‘Never mind,’ replied the old lady, with great dignity. ‘Don’ttrouble Mr. Pickwick about an old creetur like me. Nobody caresabout me now, and it’s very nat’ral they shouldn’t.’ Here the oldlady tossed her head, and smoothed down her lavender-colouredsilk 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 comedown expressly to have a long talk, and another rubber with you;and we’ll show these boys and girls how to dance a minuet, beforethey’re eight-and-forty hours older.’

　　The old lady was rapidly giving way, but she did not like to do itall 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 herspirits up, poor girl.’

　　The good old lady heard this, for her lip quivered as her sonsaid it. But age has its little infirmities of temper, and she was notquite 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 thereason why I would make much of the few that have any traces ofthe old stock’―and saying this, Mr. Pickwick gently pulled Bellatowards him, and bestowing a kiss upon her forehead, bade her sitdown on the little stool at her grandmother’s feet. Whether theexpression of her countenance, as it was raised towards the oldlady’s face, called up a thought of old times, or whether the oldlady was touched by Mr. Pickwick’s affectionate good-nature, orwhatever was the cause, she was fairly melted; so she threwherself on her granddaughter’s neck, and all the little ill-humourevaporated in a gush of silent tears.

　　A happy party they were, that night. Sedate and solemn werethe score of rubbers in which Mr. Pickwick and the old lady playedtogether; uproarious was the mirth of the round table. Long afterthe ladies had retired, did the hot elder wine, well qualified withbrandy and spice, go round, and round, and round again; andsound was the sleep and pleasant were the dreams that followed.

　　It is a remarkable fact that those of Mr. Snodgrass bore constantreference to Emily Wardle; and that the principal figure in Mr.

　　Winkle’s visions was a young lady with black eyes, and arch smile,and a pair of remarkably nice boots with fur round the tops.

　　Mr. Pickwick was awakened early in the morning, by a hum ofvoices and a pattering of feet, sufficient to rouse even the fat boyfrom his heavy slumbers. He sat up in bed and listened. Thefemale servants and female visitors were running constantly toand fro; and there were such multitudinous demands for hotwater, such repeated outcries for needles and thread, and so manyhalf-suppressed entreaties of ‘Oh, do come and tie me, there’s adear!’ that Mr. Pickwick in his innocence began to imagine thatsomething dreadful must have occurred―when he grew moreawake, and remembered the wedding. The occasion being animportant one, he dressed himself with peculiar care, anddescended to the breakfast-room.

　　There were all the female servants in a brand new uniform ofpink muslin gowns with white bows in their caps, running aboutthe house in a state of excitement and agitation which it would beimpossible to describe. The old lady was dressed out in a brocadedgown, which had not seen the light for twenty years, saving andexcepting such truant rays as had stolen through the chinks in thebox 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 andunconcerned, but failing signally in the attempt. All the girls werein tears and white muslin, except a select two or three, who werebeing honoured with a private view of the bride and bridesmaids,upstairs. All the Pickwickians were in most blooming array; andthere was a terrific roaring on the grass in front of the house,occasioned by all the men, boys, and hobbledehoys attached to thefarm, each of whom had got a white bow in his button-hole, and allof whom were cheering with might and main; being incitedthereto, and stimulated therein by the precept and example of Mr.

　　Samuel Weller, who had managed to become mighty popularalready, and was as much at home as if he had been born on theland.

　　A wedding is a licensed subject to joke upon, but there really isno great joke in the matter after all;―we speak merely of theceremony, and beg it to be distinctly understood that we indulgein no hidden sarcasm upon a married life. Mixed up with thepleasure and joy of the occasion, are the many regrets at quittinghome, the tears of parting between parent and child, theconsciousness of leaving the dearest and kindest friends of thehappiest portion of human life, to encounter its cares and troubleswith others still untried and little known―natural feelings whichwe would not render this chapter mournful by describing, andwhich we should be still more unwilling to be supposed to ridicule.

　　Let us briefly say, then, that the ceremony was performed bythe old clergyman, in the parish church of Dingley Dell, and thatMr. Pickwick’s name is attached to the register, still preserved inthe vestry thereof; that the young lady with the black eyes signedher name in a very unsteady and tremulous manner; that Emily’ssignature, as the other bridesmaid, is nearly illegible; that it allwent off in very admirable style; that the young ladies generallythought it far less shocking than they had expected; and thatalthough the owner of the black eyes and the arch smile informedMr. Wardle that she was sure she could never submit to anythingso dreadful, we have the very best reasons for thinking she wasmistaken. To all this, we may add, that Mr. Pickwick was the firstwho saluted the bride, and that in............