 28 A good-humored 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 Pequikians 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 civilized 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 luster 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 proud 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 portmantos and carpet bags have been stowed away, and Mr. Weller in the guard are endeavoring to insinuate into the fore-boot a huge codfish several sizes too large for it, which is snugly packed up in a long-ground 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 codfish into the boot, first head first, and then tail first, and then top upward, and then bottom upward, and then sideways, and then long ways, all of which artifices the implacable codfish 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 codfish, experiences a very unexpected shock to the unsmotherable delight of all the porters and bystanders. Upon this Mr. Pickwick smiles with great good humor, 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 messes snodgrass Winkle and Tubman, all smiling 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 reached 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, codfish, 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 fore 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 halfway in 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. One 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 ribbons 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. Wickle, 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 cheese monger shop and turns into the marketplace. And before Mr. Snodgrass, who sits next to him, has recovered from his alarm, they pull up at the in-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 in-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 leather 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 hustler about the grey mare that hurt her off foreleg 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 hustlers 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 ball. A distant response is heard from the yard, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tuttman come running down it quite out of breath, for they have been having a glass of ale apiece, and Mr. Pickwick's fingers are so cold that he has been full five minutes before he could find the six pence to pay for it. The coachman shouts in admonitory now then, gentlemen. 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. Tuttman on the other, Mr. Winkle cries, all right, and off they start. Shawls are pulled up, coat collars are readjusted, 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. Such was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by the Muggleton Telegraph on their way to Dingley Del. And at three o'clock that afternoon they all stood high and dry, safe and sound, hail 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 and its iron fetters, and weaving its beautiful network 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. Looking round he discovered that the individual who resorted to this mode of catching his attention was no other than Mr. Wharton's favorite page, better known to the readers of this unvarnished history by the distinguishing appellation of the fat boy. Ah-ha! said Mr. Pickwick, ah-ha! 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 the fat boy, who had heated himself to the color of a new chimney pot in the course of an hour's nap. Naster sent me over with a shake heart to carry your luggage up to the house. He'd have 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 traveled 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 luggage rapidly away in the cart, while the fat boy stood quietly by and seemed to think at 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. Well, young twenty-stun, said Sam, you're a nice specimen of a prized boy you are. Thank you, said the fat boy. You ain't got nothing on your mind as makes you pret yourself have you, inquired Sam. Not as I nose on, replied the fat boy. I should rather have thought to look at you, that you was a laboring under an unrequited attachment to some young woman, said Sam. The fat boy shook his head. Well said Sam, I am glad to hear it. Do you ever drink anything? I like eating better, replied the boy. Ah, said Sam. I should have sposed that, but what I mean is, should you like a drop of anything as it warm you? But I suppose you never was cold with all them elastic fixtures, was you? Sometimes, replied the boy, and it 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 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 rather 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 codfish, and placing an oyster barrel under his head for a pillow, fell asleep instantaneously. Well, said Sam, of all the cool boys ever I set my eyes on, this here young gentleman is the coolest. Come, wake up, young dropsy. But as young dropsy even snow symptoms of returning animation, Sam Weller sat himself down in front of the cart and, starting the old horse with a jerk of the rain, jogged steadily on towards the 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 gray twilight, slate-colored as a better term in frosty weather, made them look forward with pleasant anticipation to the comforts which awaited them at their hospitable entertainers. 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 leapfrog in pure lightness of heart and gaiety. And we firmly believe that had Mr. Tuttman at that moment proffered aback, Mr. Pickwick would have accepted his offer with the utmost avidity. However, Mr. Tuttman did not volunteer any such accommodation, and the friends walked on, conversing merrily. As they turned into a lane they had to cross, the sound of many voices burst upon their ears. And before they had even had time to form a guest to whom they belonged, they walked into the very center 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 who 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. 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. In two minutes thereafter Mr. Pickwick was joking with the young ladies who wouldn't come over the style while he looked, or who, having pretty feet and unexceptionable ankles, preferred standing on the top rail for five minutes or so, 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 style, 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 around 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 style 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 colored up as red as the fat boy after the taproom fire, and the young lady with the black eyes and the fur around 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 around 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. Tubman, 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 with customary state in the front parlor, 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 anybody else took the liberty of doing what she couldn't. So, bless her old soul, she said 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. Never mind, replied the old lady with great dignity. Don't trouble Mr. Pickwick about an old creed or like me. Nobody cares about me now, and it's very natural they shouldn't. Here the old lady tossed her head and smoothed down her lavender-colored soap-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-colored 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. In 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 granddaughter's neck and all the little ill humor evaporated in a gush of silent tears. A happy party they were that night. Night and solemn were the score of rubbers in which Mr. Pickwick and the old lady played together. 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 and arched 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 a 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 hot 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 and 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 brand new uniform of pink muzz and 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 accepting such truant rays as had stolen through the chinks in the box in which it had been laid by during the whole time. Mr. Trondo was in high feather and spirits, but a little nervous with all. 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 honored with the private view of the bride and bridesmaids upstairs. 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 hobbly hoys 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 there too 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. Next 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, 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 had expected, and that although the owner of the black eyes and the arched smile informed Mr. Wardle 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 jewelers had ever beheld before. Then the old church bell rang as gaily as it could, and they all returned to breakfast. Where does the mince pies go, young opiometer? 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. Very good, said Sam. Stick a bit of Christmas in them. Tother dish opposite. There. Now we look compact and comfortable, as the father said, when he cut his little boy's head off to cure him of squinton. 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 honor of his 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, turning 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 characterized 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 once 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 hardly. Mrs. Wardle, said Mr. Pickwick, we old folks must have a glass of wine together in honor of this joyful event. The old lady was in a state of great grandeur just then, for she was sitting at the top of the table in the brocaded gown with her newly married granddaughter 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 Ptolema Glower, deceased, at all of which the old lady herself laughed very hardly indeed, and so did the young ladies, too, for they were wondering among themselves what on earth Grammel was talking about. When they laughed, the old lady laughed ten times more hardly, and said that these always had been considered capital stories, which caused them all to laugh again, and put the old lady into the very best of humors. Then the cake was cut and passed through the ring, 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 drunk very hardly, and laughed at everything. Mr. Pickwick expressed his heart-felt 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, cried 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's 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 the 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 them, 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 two last, 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 the whirlwind of applause, and once more with the lungs of the supernumeries under Mr. Weller's command brought into active and efficient operation. Mr. Wardle proposed Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick proposed the old lady. Mr. Snodgrass proposed Mr. Wardle. Mr. Wardle proposed Mr. Snodgrass. One of the poor relations proposed Mr. Tubman, and the other poor relations proposed Mr. Winkle. 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. That 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 kept 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 and 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. The best sitting-room at Manor Farm was a good long, dark paneled 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 burned 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 anything could have added to the interest of this agreeable scene, it would have been the remarkable fact that Mr. Pickwick's appearing without his gators 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?' Mr. Pickwick called attention to his speckled silk stockings and smartly-tied pumps. "'You and silk stockings?' exclaimed Mr. Tubman jocously. "'And why not, sir? Why not?' said Mr. Pickwick, turning warmly upon him. "'Of course there is no reason why you shouldn't wear them,' responded Mr. Tubman. "'I imagine not, sir. I imagine not,' said Mr. Pickwick in a very peremptory tone. Mr. Tubman had contemplated a laugh, but he found it was a serious matter, so he looked grave and said they were a pretty pattern. "'I hope they are,' said Mr. Pickwick, fixing his eyes upon his friend. "'You see nothing extraordinary in the stockings as stockings, I trust, sir.' "'Certainly not. Oh, certainly not,' replied Mr. Tubman. 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!' "'Upstruck the two fiddles and the one harp, and off went Mr. Pickwick into hands across, when there was a general clapping of hands in 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?' cried a dozen voices. "'And Winkle,' added Mr. Tubman. "'Here we are,' exclaimed that gentleman, emerging with his pretty companion from the corner. 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 petishly, 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 halfway up the chimney, back again to the door, who sat 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. 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 demeanor 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, in 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 tonight, 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 weary pretty notion of keeping anything up, my dear, said Mr. Weller. I never see such a sensible sort of man as he is, or such a regular gentleman. Oh, that he is, said the fat boy, joining in the conversation. Don't he breed nice pork? The fat youth give a semi-cannibali clear at Mr. Weller as he thought of the roast, legs, and gravy. Oh, you woke up at last, have you, said Sam? The fat boy nodded. I'll tell you what it is, young boa constructor, said Mr. Weller impressively. If you don't sleep a little less and exercise a little more, when you come to be a man you'll lay yourself open to the same sort of personal inconvenience as was inflicted on the old gentleman as wore the pigtail. What did they do to him? inquired the fat boy in a false ring voice. I'm going to tell you, replied Mr. Weller. He was one of the largest patterns as was ever turned out. Regular fat man has hadn't caught a glimpse of his own shoes for five and forty years. LORE! exclaimed Emma. Know that he hadn't, my dear, said Mr. Weller, and if you'd put an exact model of his own legs on the dining table before him, he wouldn't hanon him. Well, he always walked to his office with a very handsome gold watch chain hanging out about a foot and a quarter, and a gold watch in his bob 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 or a watch, says the old gentleman's friends. You'll be robbed in 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 whenever I've harnessed to know what's o'clock, I'm obliged to stare into the baker's shops, he says. Well, then he laughs as hardy as if he was going to pieces, and out he walks again with his powdered head and pigtail and rolls down the strand with the chain hanging out further than ever, and the great round watch almost busting through his gray, cursey smalls. There weren't a pickpocket in all London, as didn't take a pull at that chain, but the chain had never break, and the watch had never come out. So they soon got tired of dragging such a heavy old gentleman along the pavement, and he'd go home and laugh till the pigtail vibrated like the pendulum of a Dutch clock. At last one day, the old gentleman was a rolling along, and he sees a pickpocket, as he knowed by sight, a coming up, arm in arm with a little boy with a very large head. Here's a game, says the old gentleman to himself. There are going to have another try, but it won't do. So he begins a chuckling, wary hardy, when, all of a sudden, the little boy leaves hold of the pickpockets arm and rushes head foremost straight into the old gentleman's stomach, and for a moment doubles him right up with the pain. Murder, says the old gentleman. All right, sir, says the pickpocket, a whispering in his ear. And when he comes straight again, the watch and chain was gone, and what's worse than that, the old gentleman's digestion was all wrong ever afterwards to the wary 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 center 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 honor to a descendant of Lady Tollengower 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 accepting 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, though 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 center 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 peels 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 lazing logs to a substantial supper and a mighty bowl of wasale, 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 color of the wasale. 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 that the blossoms and buds be born. He woos them amane with his treacherous rain, and he scatters them ere the morn. An inconstant elf he knows not himself nor his own changing mind and hour. He'll smile in your face, and with wide 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 wean, 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 if by no means agrees with me. But my song I troll out for Christmas stout, the hearty, the true and the bold, a bumper-eyed 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 will part. In his fine honest pride he scorns to hide one jot of his hard-weather scars. There 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 white, fair welcome to night as the king of the seasons all. The 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 wasale round. How it snows, said one of the men in a low tone. Snows does it, said Wardle. Rough cold nights, 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 Grubb. The story about what, said Mr. Pickwick. Oh, nothing, nothing, replied Wardle, about an old sexton that the good people down here supposed 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 wasale with no stinted hand, nodded a help 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 goblins a fair start and a new one, a clear stage and no favor for the goblins, ladies and gentlemen, if you please. End of Chapter 28 Chapter 29 of the Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Deborah Lynn. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. Chapter 29. The Story of the Goblins Who Stole a Sexton. In an old Abbey town, down in this part of the country, a long, long while ago, so long that the story must be a true one, because our great-grandfathers implicitly believed it. They are officiated as Sexton and Gravedigger in the churchyard, one Gabriel Grubb. It by no means follows that because a man is a Sexton and constantly surrounded by the emblems of mortality, therefore he should be a morose and melancholy man. Your undertakers are the merriest fellows in the world, and I once had the honor of being on intimate terms with a mute who, in private life and off duty, was as comical and jocos a little fellow as ever chirped out a Devil May Care song without a hitch in his memory, or drained off a good stiff glass without stopping for breath. But notwithstanding these precedents to the contrary, Gabriel Grubb was an ill-conditioned, cross-grained, surly fellow, a morose and lonely man who consorted with nobody but himself and an old wicker bottle which fitted into his large, deep waistcoat pocket, and who eyed each merry face as it passed him by with such a deep scowl of malice and ill-humor as it was difficult to meet without feeling something the worse for. A little before twilight, one Christmas Eve, Gabriel shouldered his spade, lighted his lantern, and betook himself towards the old churchyard, for he had got a grave to finish by next morning, and, feeling very low, he thought it might raise his spirits, perhaps, if he went on with his work at once. As he went his way up the ancient street, he saw the cheerful light of the blazing fires gleam through the old casements, and heard the loud laugh and the cheerful shouts of those who were assembled around them. He marked the bustling preparations for next day's cheer, and smelled the numerous savory odors consequent thereupon, as they steamed up from the kitchen windows in clouds. All this was gall and wormwood to the heart of Gabriel grub, and when groups of children bounded out of the houses, tripped across the road, and were met before they could knock at the opposite door, by half a dozen curly-headed little rascals who crowded round them as they flocked upstairs to spend the evening in their Christmas games. Gabriel smiled grimly, and clutched the handle of his spade with a firmer grasp, as he thought of measles, scarlet fever, brush, whooping cough, and a good many other sources of consolation besides. In this happy frame of mind, Gabriel strode along, returning a short sullen growl to the good-humored greetings of such of his neighbors as now and then passed him, until he turned into the dark lane which led to the churchyard. Now Gabriel had been looking forward to reaching the dark lane, because it was, generally speaking, a nice gloomy, mournful place into which the townspeople did not much care to go, except in broad daylight and when the sun was shining. Consequently he was not a little indignant to hear a young urchin roaring out some jolly song about a merry Christmas in this very sanctuary which had been called Coffin Lane ever since the days of the old Abbey and the time of the shaven-headed monks. As Gabriel walked on in the voice drew nearer, he found it preceded from a small boy who was hurrying along to join one of the little parties in the old street, and who, partly to keep himself company and partly to prepare himself for the occasion, was shouting out the song at the highest pitch of his lungs. So Gabriel waited until the boy came up and then dodged him into a corner and wrapped him over the head with his lantern five or six times just to teach him to modulate his voice. And as the boy hurried away with his hand to his head, making quite a different sort of tune, Gabriel grubb chuckled very heartily to himself and entered the churchyard, locking the gate behind him. He took off his coat, set down his lantern, and getting into the unfinished grave worked at it for an hour or so with right good will. But the earth was hardened with the frost, and it was no very easy matter to break it up and shovel it out. And although there was a moon it was a very young one and shed little light upon the grave which was in the shadow of the church. At any other time these obstacles would have made Gabriel grubb very moody and miserable, but he was so well pleased with having stopped the small boy's singing, that he took little heed of the scanty progress he had made and looked down into the grave when he had finished work for the night with grim satisfaction, murmuring as he gathered up his things, brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one, a few feet of cold earth when life is done, a stone at the head, a stone at the feet, a rich juicy meal for the worms to eat, rank grass overhead and damp clay around, brave lodgings for one, these in holy ground. Ho ho, laughed Gabriel grubb, as he sat himself down on a flat tombstone which was a favorite resting place of his and drew forth his wicker bottle. A coffin at Christmas, a Christmas box, ho ho, ho ho, repeated a voice which sounded close behind him. Gabriel paused in some alarm in the act of raising the wicker bottle to his lips and looked round. The bottom of the oldest grave about him was not more still and quiet than the churchyard in the pale moonlight. The cold horror frost glistened on the tombstones and sparkled like rows of gems among the stone carvings of the old church. The snow lay hard and crisp upon the ground and spread over the thickly strewn mounds of earth, so white and smooth the cover that it seemed as if corpses lay there, hidden only by their winding sheets. Not the faintest rustle broke the profound tranquility of the solemn scene. Sound itself appeared to be frozen up, all was so cold and still. It was the echoes, said Gabriel grubb, raising the bottle to his lips again. It was not, said a deep voice. Gabriel started up and stood rooted to the spot with astonishment and terror, for his eyes rested on a form that made his blood run cold. Seated on an upright tombstone close to him was a strange unearthly figure whom Gabriel felt at once was no being of this world. His long, fantastic legs which might have reached the ground were cocked up and crossed after a quaint, fantastic fashion. The sinewy arms were bare and his hands rested on his knees. On his short, round body he wore a close covering ornamented with small slashes, a short cloak dangled at his back. The collar was cut into curious peaks which served the goblin in lieu of rough or neckerchief, and his shoes curled up at his toes into long points. On his head he wore a broad-rimmed sugar-loaf hat garnished with a single feather. The hat was covered with the white frost, and the goblin looked as if he had sat on the same tombstone very comfortably for two or three hundred years. He was sitting perfectly still, his tongue was put out as if in derision, and he was grinning at Gabriel Grubb with such a grin as only a goblin could call up. It was not the echoes, said the goblin. Gabriel Grubb was paralyzed and could make no reply. What do you do here on Christmas Eve? said the goblin sternly. I came to dig a grave, sir, stammered Gabriel Grubb. What man wanders among graves and church-yards on such a night as this? cried the goblin. Gabriel Grubb! Gabriel Grubb! screamed a wild chorus of voices that seemed to fill the church-yard. Gabriel looked fearfully round. Nothing was to be seen. What have you got in that bottle? said the goblin. Holland, sir, replied the sexton, trembling more than ever, for he had bought it of the smugglers, and he thought that perhaps his questioner might be in the excise department of the goblins. Who drinks Holland's alone and in a church-yard on such a night as this? said the goblin. Gabriel Grubb! Gabriel Grubb! exclaimed the wild voices again. The goblin leered maliciously at the terrified sexton and then raising his voice exclaimed, and who then is our fair and lawful prize? To this inquiry the invisible chorus replied in a strain that sounded like the voices of many choristers singing to the mighty swell of the old church organ, a strain that seemed born to the sexton's ears upon a wild wind, and to die away as it passed onward. But the burden of the reply was still the same. Gabriel Grubb! Gabriel Grubb! The goblin grinned a broader grin than before, as he said, Well, Gabriel, what do you say to this? The sexton gasped for breath. What do you think of this, Gabriel? said the goblin, kicking up his feet in the air on either side of the tombstone, and looking at the turned-up points with as much complacency as if he had been contemplating the most fashionable pair of wellingtons in all Bond Street. It's very curious, sir, replied the sexton, half dead with fright. Very curious, and very pretty. But I think I'll go back and finish my work, sir, if you please. Work! said the goblin. What work! The grave, sir, making the grave, stammered the sexton. Oh, the grave, eh! said the goblin. Who makes graves at a time when all other men are merry and takes a pleasure in it? Again the mysterious voices replied, Gabriel Grubb! Gabriel Grubb! I am afraid my friends want you, Gabriel, said the goblin, thrusting his tongue farther into his cheek than ever, and the most astonishing tongue it was. I'm afraid my friends want you, Gabriel, said the goblin. Under favor, sir, replied the Horus trick and sexton. I don't think they can, sir. They don't know me, sir. I don't think the gentlemen have ever seen me, sir. Oh, yes they have, replied the goblin. We know the man with the sulky face and grim scowl that came down the street tonight, throwing his evil looks at the children and grasping his burying spade the tighter. We know the man who struck the boy in the envious malice of his heart because the boy could be merry and he could not. We know him. We know him. Here the goblin gave a loud shrill laugh, which the echoes returned twentyfold, and throwing his legs up in the air, sit upon his head, or rather upon the very point of his sugar-loaf hat, on the narrow edge of the tombstone, whence he threw a somerset with extraordinary agility right to the sexton's feet, at which he planted himself in the attitude in which tailors generally sit upon the shop-board. I—I—I'm afraid I must leave you, sir, said the sexton, making an effort to move. Leave us, said the goblin. Gabriel grub going to leave us. Ho, ho, ho! As the goblin laughed, sexton observed, for one instant a brilliant illumination within the windows of the church, as if the whole building were lighted up. It disappeared, the organ peeled forth a lively air, and whole troops of goblins, the very counterpart of the first one, poured into the churchyard and began playing at leapfrog with the tombstones, never stopping for an instant to take breath, but overing the highest among them, one after the other with the most marvelous dexterity. The first goblin was a most astonishing leaper, and none of the others could come near him, even in the extremity of his terror the sexton could not help observing, that while his friends were content to leap over the common-sized gravestones, the first one took the family vaults, iron railings and all, with as much ease as if they had been so many street-posts. At last the game reached to a most exciting pitch. The organ played quicker and quicker, and the goblins leaped faster and faster, coiling themselves up, rolling head over heels upon the ground, and bounding over the tombstones like footballs. The sexton's brain whirled round with the rapidity of the motion he beheld, and his legs reeled beneath him as the spirits flew before his eyes, when the goblin king, suddenly darting towards him, laid his hand upon his collar and sank with him through the earth. When Gabriel Grubb had had time to fetch his breath, which the rapidity of his dissent had for the moment taken away, he found himself in what appeared to be a large cavern surrounded on all sides by crowds of goblins, ugly and grim. In the center of the room, on an elevated seat, was stationed his friend of the churchyard, and close behind him stood Gabriel Grubb himself without power of motion. Cold tonight, said the king of the goblins, very cold, a glass of something warm here. At this command half a dozen officious goblins with a perpetual smile upon their faces, whom Gabriel Grubb imagined to be courtiers on that account, hastily disappeared and presently returned with a goblet of liquid fire which they presented to the king. Ah! cried the goblin, whose cheeks and throat were transparent as he tossed down the flame. This warms one indeed. Bring a bumper of the same for Mr. Grubb. It was in vain for the unfortunate sexton to protest that he was not in the habit of taking anything warm at night. One of the goblins held him, while another poured the blazing liquid down his throat. The whole assembly screeched with laughter as he coughed and choked and wiped away the tears which gushed plentifully from his eyes after swallowing the burning draught. Now, said the king, fantastically poking the taper corner of his sugar-loaf hat into the sexton's eye, and thereby occasioning him the most exquisite pain, and now show the man of misery and gloom a few of the pictures from our own great storehouse. As the goblin said this, a thick cloud which obscured the remotor end of the cavern, rolled gradually away and disclosed apparently at a great distance, a small and scantily furnished but neat and clean apartment. A crowd of little children were gathered round a bright fire clinging to their mother's gown and gambling around her chair. The mother occasionally rose and drew aside the window curtain as if to look for some expected object. A frugal meal was ready spread upon the table, and an elbow chair was placed near the fire. A knock was heard at the door. The mother opened it, and the children crowded round her and clapped their hands for joy as their father entered. He was wet and weary and shook the snow from his garments as the children crowded round him, and seizing his cloak-hat, stick and gloves with busy zeal, ran with them from the room. Then as he sat down to his meal before the fire, the children climbed about his knee and the mother sat by his side and all seemed happiness and comfort. But a change came upon the view almost imperceptibly. The scene was altered to a small bedroom where the fairest and youngest child lay dying, the roses had fled from his cheek and the light from his eye, and even as the sexton looked upon him with an interest he had never felt or known before, he died. His young brothers and sisters crowded round his little bed and seized his tiny hand so cold and heavy, but they shrank back from its touch and looked with awe on his infant face for calm and tranquil as it was, and sleeping in rest and peace as the beautiful child seemed to be, they saw that he was dead, and they knew that he was an angel looking down upon and blessing them from a bright and happy heaven. Again the light cloud passed across the picture, and again the subject changed. The father and mother were old and helpless now, and the number of those about them was diminished more than half. But content and cheerfulness sat on every face and beamed in every eye as they crowded round the fireside and told and listened to old stories of earlier and bygone days. Slowly and peacefully the father sank into the grave, and soon after the sharer of all his cares and troubles followed him to a place of rest. The few who yet survived them kneeled by their tomb and watered the green turf which covered it with their tears. Then rose and turned away, sadly and mournfully, but not with bitter cries or despairing lamentations, for they knew that they should one day meet again, and once more they mixed with the busy world, and their content and cheerfulness were restored. The clouds settled upon the picture and concealed it from the sexton's view. What do you think of that? said the goblin, turning his large face towards Gabriel Grubb. Gabriel murmured out something about its being very pretty and looked somewhat ashamed, as the goblin bent his fiery eyes upon him. You miserable man! said the goblin, in a tone of excessive contempt. You! He appeared disposed to add more, but indignation choked his utterance, so he lifted up one of his very pliable legs, and flourishing it above his head a little to ensure his aim, administered a good-sound kick to Gabriel Grubb. Immediately after which all the goblins in waiting crowded round the wretched sexton, and kicked him without mercy according to the established and invariable custom of courtiers upon earth, who kick whom royalty kicks, and hug whom royalty hugs. Show him some more, said the king of the goblins. At these words the cloud was dispelled, and a rich and beautiful landscape was disclosed to view. There is just such another to this day within half a mile of the old Abbey town. The sun shone from out the clear blue sky, the water sparkled beneath his rays, and the trees looked greener, and the flowers more gay beneath its cheering influence. The water rippled down with a pleasant sound. The trees rustled in the light wind that murmured among their leaves. The birds sang upon the boughs, and the lark Carol Dan High her welcome to the morning. Yes, it was morning. The bright balmy morning of summer. The minutest leaf, the smallest blade of grass, was instinct with life. The ant crept forth through her daily toil. The butterfly fluttered and basked in the warm rays of the sun. Myriads of insects spread their transparent wings, and rubbled in their brief but happy existence. Man walked forth elated with the scene, and all was brightness and splendor. You, a miserable man, said the king of the goblins, in a more contemptuous tone than before. And again the king of the goblins gave his leg a flourish. Again it descended on the shoulders of the sexton, and again the attendant goblins imitated the example of their chief. Many a time the cloud went and came, and many a lesson it taught to Gabriel Grubb, who, although his shoulders smarted with pain from the frequent applications of the goblins' feet thereunto, looked down with an interest that nothing could diminish. He saw that men who worked hard and earned their scanty bread with lives of labor were cheerful and happy, and that to the most ignorant the sweet face of nature was a never-failing source of cheerfulness and joy. He saw those who had been delicately nurtured and tenderly brought up, cheerful under privations and superior to suffering, that would have crushed many of a rougher grain, because they bore within their own bosoms the materials of happiness, contentment, and peace. He saw that women, the tenderest and most fragile of all God's creatures, were the oftenest, superior to sorrow, adversity, and distress, and he saw that it was because they bore in their own hearts an inexhaustible wellspring of affection and devotion. Above all, he saw that men like himself who snarled at the mirth and cheerfulness of others were the foulest weeds on the fair surface of the earth, and setting all the good of the world against evil he came to the conclusion that it was a very decent and respectable sort of world after all. No sooner had he formed it than the cloud which had closed over the last picture seemed to settle on his senses and allow him to repose. One by one the goblins faded from his sight, and as the last one disappeared he sank to sleep. The day had broken when Gabriel grub awoke and found himself lying at full length on the flat gravestone in the churchyard, with the wicker bottle lying empty by his side, and his coat spade and lantern all well whitened by the last night's frost scattered on the ground. The stone on which he had first seen the goblins seated stood bolt upright before him, and the grave at which he had worked the night before was not far off. At first he began to doubt the reality of his adventures, but the acute pain in his shoulders when he attempted to rise assured him that the kicking of the goblins was certainly not ideal. He was staggered again by observing no traces of footsteps in the snow on which the goblins had played at leapfrog with the gravestones. But he speedily accounted for this circumstance when he remembered that being spirits they would leave no visible impression behind them. So Gabriel grub got on his feet as well as he could for the pain in his back, and brushing the frost off his coat put it on and turned his face towards the town. But he was an altered man, and he could not bear the thought of returning to a place where his repentance would be scoffed at, and his reformation disbelieved. He hesitated for a few moments, and then turned away to wander where he might and seek his bread elsewhere. The lantern, the spade, and the wicker bottle were found that day in the churchyard. There were a great many speculations about the sexton's fate at first, but it was speedily determined that he had been carried away by the goblins, and there were not wanting some very credible witnesses who had distinctly seen him whisked through the air on the back of a chestnut horse blind of one eye with the hind quarters of a lion and the tail of a bear. At length all this was devoutly believed, and the new sexton used to exhibit to the curious for a trifling emolument a good-sized piece of the church weathercock which had been accidentally kicked off by the aforesaid horse in his aerial flight, and picked up by himself in the churchyard a year or two afterwards. Unfortunately these stories were somewhat disturbed by the unlooked-for reappearance of Gabriel Grubb himself some ten years afterward, a ragged, contented, dramatic old man. He told his story to the clergymen and also to the mayor, and in course of time it began to be received as a matter of history in which format has continued down to this very day. The believers in the weathercock tale, having misplaced their confidence once, were not easily prevailed upon to part with it again, so they looked as wise as they could, shrug their shoulders, touched their foreheads, and murmured something about Gabriel Grubb having drunk all the hollands, and then fallen asleep on the flat tombstone, and they affected to explain what he supposed he had witnessed in the goblins' cavern by saying that he had seen the world and grown wiser. But this opinion, which was by no means a popular one at any time, gradually died off. And be the matter how it may, as Gabriel Grubb was afflicted with rheumatism to the end of his days, this story has at least one moral, if it keeps no better one. And that is, that if a man turns salky and drink by himself at Christmas time, he may make up his mind to be not a bit the better for it. Let the spirits be never so good, or let them be even as many degrees beyond proof as those which Gabriel Grubb saw in the goblins' cavern. CHAPTER XXXXX 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 favored servitor entered his bed-chamber with his warm water on the morning of Christmas day. Still frosty, water in the wash-hand basins, a mask-a-ice, sir, responded Sam. Severe weather, Sam, observed Mr. Pickwick. Fine time for them is as well robbed up, as the polar bear said to himself, and he was practicing his skating, replied Mr. Weller. I shall be down in a quarter of an hour, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, untieing his nightcap. Very good, sir, replied Sam. There's a couple of saw-bones downstairs. A couple of what, exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sitting up in bed. A couple of saw-bones, said Sam. What's a saw-bones, inquired Mr. Pickwick, not quite certain whether it was a live animal or something to eat. What? Don't you know what a saw-bones is, sir, inquired Mr. Weller? I thought everybody know'd, as a saw-bones 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 regular thoroughbred saw-bones. They're only in training. In other words, they're medical students, I suppose, said Mr. Pickwick. Sam Weller nodded ascent. 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. There are 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 of them, said Sam, not noticing his master's interruption, one of them's got his legs on the table and is a drinking, brandy, neat, vowed tether one, him in the barnacles, has got a barrel of oysters between his knees, which he's an open and like steam. And as fast as he eats them, he takes the aims of the shells at young dropsy, who's a sittin' down fast asleep in the jimbly corner. Ex-centricities of genius, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick. You may retire. Sam did retire accordingly. Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of the quarter of an hour, went down to breakfast. Here he is at last, said old Mr. 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. 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 friends 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, thick-set 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 shirt out, which was buttoned up to his chin, appeared the usual number of pepper and salt-colored 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 odor of full-flavored tubas. Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was habited in a coarse blue coat, which, without being either a great coat or a shirt out, 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 in a large, rough double-breasted waistcoat. Out of doors he carried a thick stick with a big top. He eschewed gloves and looked upon the hall 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. 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 by, Bob, said Mr. Allen, have you finished that leg yet? Nearly, replied Sawyer, helping himself to half a foul as he spoke. It's a very muscular one for a child. Is it, inquired Mr. Allen carelessly. Very, said Bob Sawyer, with his mouth full. I 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, praise said Mr. Pickwick. I hear the ladies. As Mr. Pickwick spoke, the ladies gallantly escorted by Messrs. Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tubman returned from an early walk. Why, Ben, said Arabella, in a tone which expressed more surprise than pleasure at the sight of her brother. Come to take you home tomorrow, replied Benjamin. Mr. Winkle turned pale. Don't you see, Bob Sawyer, Arabella inquired 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 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 around 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 humor of the host been exerted to the very utmost for the common wheel. 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 and agreeable anecdote about the removal of a tumor on some gentleman's head, which he illustrated by means of an oyster knife and a half-quartered 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 four inches long. Now, said Wardle, after a substantial lunch with the agreeable items of strong beer and cherry brandy had been on ample justice too, let's 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 skate, of course, Winkle, said Wardle. Yes, oh yes, replied Mr. Winkle. I am rather out of practice. Oh, do skate, 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 the fourth expressed her opinion that it was swan-like. I should be very happy, I'm sure, said Mr. Winkle reddening, but I have no skates. This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pair and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more downstairs, where at 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 shoveled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night. Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvelous 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. Tubman 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 real. All this time Mr. Winkle with his face and hands blew with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the sole of his feet and putting his skates 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 skates than a Hindu. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet. Now then, sir, said Sam in an encouraging tone, off with you and show him how to do it. Stop, Sam, stop, said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently and clutching a 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 are very awkward skates, ain't they, Sam? inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering. I'm afraid there's an orchard gentleman in them, 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. Just to go on to begin, said Sam, endeavoring 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. Thank you, sir, replied Mr. Weller. Never mind touching your hat, Sam, said Mr. Winkle hastily. You didn't take your hat in the way to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas box, Sam. I'll give it to you this afternoon, Sam. You're very 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 unswan-like manner when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank, Sam, sir? Here, I want you. Let go, sir, said Sam. Don't you hear the governor calling? Let go, sir. 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 ensured that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the center 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 skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile, but anguish was depicted on every linear amount 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 skates off. No, but really I had scarcely begun, demonstrated Mr. Winkle. Take his skates 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 imposter, sir. With those 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 endeavors 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 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 inquired 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 30 years. Poo, poo, nonsense, said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the impetuosity which characterized 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, balked 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. Keep the pot of island, sirs, 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 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 he had put on at first and turned 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 ardor and enthusiasm that 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. Tubman. A large mass of ice disappeared, the water bubbled up over it. 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. Tubman, 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. It was at this 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 these very moments 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, while Mr. Snodgrass, yes, do let me implore you for my sake, word Mr. Winkle, deeply affected. The adoration 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, bringing 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 boys suddenly recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodigies of valor 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. 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. Tubman 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 glowing colors to the old lady's mind when anybody about her evens 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 honor 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 the preventative it was merely because the patient fell into the vulgar error of not taking enough of it. The jovial party broke up next morning. Breaking's up are capital things in our school days but in afterlife they are painful enough. Death, self-interest and fortunes changes are everyday 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 inquired. I say old boy, where do you hang out? Mr. Pickwick replied that he was at present suspended at the Georgian 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. Lance Street Burl, it's near guys and handy for me, you know. Little distance after you've passed St. George's Church. Turns out of the high street on the right hand side of the way. I shall find it, said Mr. Pickwick. Come on Thursday fortnight 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 cozy 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 ourselves open to the inquiry 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. Tubman for eight and 20 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. End of chapter 30.