Chapter XXVIII

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 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 lustre

in the grave; and yet the old house, the room, the merry voices and

smiling faces, the jest, the laugh, the most minute and trivial

circumstances connected with those happy meetings, crowd 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

The Pickwick Papers