The Pickwick Papers

‘I care not for Spring; on his fickle wingLet the blossoms and buds be borne;He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,And he scatters them ere the morn. An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,Nor his own changing mind an hour,He’ll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace,He’ll wither your youngest flower. ‘Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,He shall never be sought by me;

When he’s dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloudAnd care not how sulky he be! For his darling child is the madness wildThat 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 lightOf the modest and gentle moon,Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween,Than the broad and unblushing noon. But every leaf awakens my grief,

As it lieth beneath the tree;So let Autumn air be never so fair,It by no means agrees with me. ‘But my song I troll out, for christmas Stout,The hearty, the true, and the bold;A bumper I drain, and with might and mainGive three cheers for this Christmas old! We’ll usher him in with a merry dinThat shall gladden his joyous heart,And we’ll keep him up, while there’s bite or sup,

And in fellowship good, we’ll part. ‘In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hideOne jot of his hard–weather scars;They’re no disgrace, for there’s much the same traceOn the cheeks of our bravest tars. Then again I sing till the roof doth ringAnd it echoes from wall to wall—To the stout old wight, fair welcome to–night,As the King of the Seasons all!’

This song was tumultuously applauded—for friends and dependents make a capital audience—and the poor relations, especially, were in perfect ecstasies of rapture. Again was the fire replenished, and again went the wassail round.

‘How it snows!’ said one of the men, in a low tone.

‘Snows, does it?’ said Wardle.

‘Rough, cold night, Sir,’ replied the man; ‘and there’s a wind got up, that drifts it across the fields, in a thick white cloud.’

‘What does Jem say?’ inquired the old lady. ‘There ain’t anything the matter, is there?’

‘No, no, mother,’ replied Wardle; ‘he says there’s a snowdrift, and a wind that’s piercing cold. I should know that, by the way it rumbles in the chimney.’

‘Ah!’ said the old lady, ‘there was just such a wind, and just such a fall of snow, a good many years back, I recollect—just five years before your poor father died. It was a Christmas Eve, too; and I remember that on that very night he told us the story about the goblins that carried away old Gabriel Grub.’

‘The story about what?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ replied Wardle. ‘About an old sexton, that the good people down here suppose to have been carried away by goblins.’

‘Suppose!’ ejaculated the old lady. ‘Is there anybody hardy enough to disbelieve it? Suppose! Haven’t you heard ever since you were a child, that he was carried away by the goblins, and don’t you know he was?’

‘Very well, mother, he was, if you like,’ said Wardle laughing. ‘He was carried away by goblins, Pickwick; and there’s an end of the matter.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘not an end of it, I assure you; for I must hear how, and why, and all about it.’

Wardle smiled, as every head was bent forward to hear, and filling out the wassail with no stinted hand, nodded a health to Mr. Pickwick, and began as follows—