Charles Dickens : The Complete Novels (Best Navigation, Active TOC) (A to Z Classics). A to Z Classics
uncomfortable. Upon this, the women calls a meetin’, sings a hymn, wotes your mother–in–law into the chair, wolunteers a collection next Sunday, and hands it all over to the shepherd. And if he ain’t got enough out on ’em, Sammy, to make him free of the water company for life,’ said Mr. Weller, in conclusion, ‘I’m one Dutchman, and you’re another, and that’s all about it.’
Mr. Weller smoked for some minutes in silence, and then resumed—
‘The worst o’ these here shepherds is, my boy, that they reg’larly turns the heads of all the young ladies, about here. Lord bless their little hearts, they thinks it’s all right, and don’t know no better; but they’re the wictims o’ gammon, Samivel, they’re the wictims o’ gammon.’
‘I s’pose they are,’ said Sam.
‘Nothin’ else,’ said Mr. Weller, shaking his head gravely; ‘and wot aggrawates me, Samivel, is to see ’em a–wastin’ all their time and labour in making clothes for copper–coloured people as don’t want ’em, and taking no notice of flesh–coloured Christians as do. If I’d my vay, Samivel, I’d just stick some o’ these here lazy shepherds behind a heavy wheelbarrow, and run ’em up and down a fourteen–inch–wide plank all day. That ’ud shake the nonsense out of ’em, if anythin’ vould.’
Mr. Weller, having delivered this gentle recipe with strong emphasis, eked out by a variety of nods and contortions of the eye, emptied his glass at a draught, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe, with native dignity.
He was engaged in this operation, when a shrill voice was heard in the passage.
‘Here’s your dear relation, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller; and Mrs. W. hurried into the room.
‘Oh, you’ve come back, have you!’ said Mrs. Weller.
‘Yes, my dear,’ replied Mr. Weller, filling a fresh pipe.
‘Has Mr. Stiggins been back?’ said Mrs. Weller.
‘No, my dear, he hasn’t,’ replied Mr. Weller, lighting the pipe by the ingenious process of holding to the bowl thereof, between the tongs, a red–hot coal from the adjacent fire; and what’s more, my dear, I shall manage to surwive it, if he don’t come back at all.’
‘Ugh, you wretch!’ said Mrs. Weller.
‘Thank’ee, my love,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Come, come, father,’ said Sam, ‘none o’ these little lovin’s afore strangers. Here’s the reverend gen’l’m’n a–comin’ in now.’ At this announcement, Mrs. Weller hastily wiped off the tears which she had just begun to force on; and Mr. W. drew his chair sullenly into the chimney–corner.
Mr. Stiggins was easily prevailed on to take another glass of the hot pine–apple rum–and–water, and a second, and a third, and then to refresh himself with a slight supper, previous to beginning again. He sat on the same side as Mr. Weller, senior; and every time he could contrive to do so, unseen by his wife, that gentleman indicated to his son the hidden emotions of his bosom, by shaking his fist over the deputy–shepherd’s head; a process which afforded his son the most unmingled delight and satisfaction, the more especially as Mr. Stiggins went on, quietly drinking the hot pine–apple rum–and–water, wholly unconscious of what was going forward.
The major part of the conversation was confined to Mrs. Weller and the reverend Mr. Stiggins; and the topics principally descanted on, were the virtues of the shepherd, the worthiness of his flock, and the high crimes and misdemeanours of everybody beside—dissertations which the elder Mr. Weller occasionally interrupted by half–suppressed references to a gentleman of the name of Walker, and other running commentaries of the same kind.
At length Mr. Stiggins, with several most indubitable symptoms of having quite as much pine–apple rum–and–water about him as he could comfortably accommodate, took his hat, and his leave; and Sam was, immediately afterwards, shown to bed by his father. The respectable old gentleman wrung his hand fervently, and seemed disposed to address some observation to his son; but on Mrs. Weller advancing towards him, he appeared to relinquish that intention, and abruptly bade him good–night.
Sam was up betimes next day, and having partaken of a hasty breakfast, prepared to return to London. He had scarcely set foot without the house, when his father stood before him.
‘Goin’, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller.
‘Off at once,’ replied Sam.
‘I vish you could muffle that ‘ere Stiggins, and take him vith you,’ said Mr. Weller.
‘I am ashamed on you!’ said Sam reproachfully; ‘what do you let him show his red nose in the Markis o’ Granby at all, for?’
Mr. Weller the elder fixed on his son an earnest look, and replied, ‘‘Cause I’m a married man, Samivel,‘cause I’m a married man. Ven you’re a married man, Samivel, you’ll understand a good many things as you don’t understand now; but vether it’s worth while goin’ through so much, to learn so little, as the charity–boy said ven he got to the end of the alphabet, is a matter o’ taste. I rayther think it isn’t.’ ‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘good–bye.’
‘Tar, tar, Sammy,’ replied his father.
‘I’ve only got to say this here,’ said Sam, stopping short, ‘that if I was the properiator o’ the Markis o’ Granby, and that ‘ere Stiggins came and made toast in my bar, I’d—’
‘What?’ interposed Mr. Weller, with great anxiety. ‘What?’
‘Pison his rum–and–water,’ said Sam.
‘No!’ said Mr. Weller, shaking his son eagerly by the hand, ‘would you raly, Sammy–would you, though?’
‘I would,’ said Sam. ‘I wouldn’t be too hard upon him at first. I’d drop him in the water–butt, and put the lid on; and if I found he was insensible to kindness, I’d try the other persvasion.’
The elder Mr. Weller bestowed a look of deep, unspeakable admiration on his son, and, having once more grasped his hand, walked slowly away, revolving in his mind the numerous reflections to which his advice had given rise.
Sam looked after him, until he turned a corner of the road; and then set forward on his walk to London. He meditated at first, on the probable consequences of his own advice, and the likelihood of his father’s adopting it. He dismissed the subject from his mind, however, with the consolatory reflection that time alone would show; and this is the reflection we would impress upon the reader.
Chapter 28 A good–humoured Christmas Chapter, containing an Account of a Wedding, and some other Sports beside: which although in their Way even as good Customs as Marriage itself, are not quite so religiously kept up, in these degenerate Times
As brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies, did the four Pickwickians assemble on the morning of the twenty–second day of December, in the year of grace in which these, their faithfully–recorded adventures, were undertaken and accomplished. Christmas was close at hand, in all his bluff and hearty honesty; it was the season of hospitality, merriment, and open–heartedness; the old year was preparing, like an ancient philosopher, to call his friends around him, and amidst the sound of feasting and revelry to pass gently and calmly away. Gay and merry was the time; and right gay and merry were at least four of the numerous hearts that were gladdened by its coming.
And numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief season of happiness and enjoyment. How many families, whose members have been dispersed and scattered far and wide, in the restless struggles of life, are then reunited, and meet once again in that happy state of companionship and mutual goodwill, which is a source of such pure and unalloyed delight; and one so incompatible with the cares and sorrows of the world, that the religious belief of the most civilised nations, and the rude traditions of the roughest savages, alike number it among the first joys of a future condition of existence, provided for the blessed