Christmas time! That man must be a misanthrope indeed, in
whose breast something like a jovial feeling is not roused - in whose mind some
pleasant associations are not awakened - by the recurrence of Christmas. Who
can be insensible to the outpourings of good feeling, and the honest interchange
of affectionate attachment, which abound at this season of the year? A
Christmas family-party! We know nothing in nature more delightful! And of all
the Christmas parties, what can be more delightful than the annual gathering of
the Fezziwigs, and all their friends and relations?
The floor has been swept and cleared and the fiddler is at his
post with his music book, tuning his instrument like fifty stomach-aches. From
the centre of the ceiling, Mr Fezziwig has just suspended, with his own hands,
a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same branch instantaneously gives rise to
a scene of the most delightful confusion: in the midst of which, Mr Headstone
is struggling to maintain his dignity as the ladies of the party, young and
old, avail themselves of the custom traditionally associated with that sprig of
winter greenery. The fiddler strikes up a reel, and the revels begin with the
entrance of the guests.
In comes Mr Winkle on the arm of a pretty black-eyed young
lady in fur-topped boots. In comes Mr Snodgrass with his arm around the tiny
waist of Miss Emily Wardle. In comes Bill Sykes, with his Nancy in a red dress. In comes Mark Tapley, who
appears to be bearing up extremely well in the company of Mrs Lupin. In come
Mr Dick Swiveller and the Marchioness, as mismatched a pair for dancing as you
could possibly conceive. In come Mr Benjamin Allen and Mr Bob Sawyer, who make
their way directly towards the bar and treat each other to a pint of Burton Ale in honour of
the season. In come Mr and Mrs Crummles dressed in motley in readiness for a
dramatic performance, which they have been prevailed upon to deliver for
positively the very last time. In come Mr Guppy and Mr Tappertit, already
half-drunk and determined to make up the difference. In comes Mr Poll Sweedlepipe together
with Sairey Gamp, the lady much flushed in the face having just come in from the
cold. In come Mr Toots and Diogenes, followed by the Game Chicken, whose
footwork is much admired by all the ladies. In they all come, one after
another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some
pushing, some pulling; in they all come, anyhow and everyhow.
There are dances and forfeits, and more dances, and there is
cake, and there is smoking bishop, and there is a great piece of cold roast,
and a great piece of cold boiled, and there are mince pies, and plenty of beer. The evening concludes with a glorious game of blind-man's-buff, in which Mr Headstone knocks down the fire-irons, tumbles over the chairs, bumps up against the piano, and smothers himself in the curtains but never catches anything but a footstool. When
the clock strikes eleven the company breaks up, and Mr and Mrs Fezziwig take
their stations, one on either side of the door, and, shaking hands with every person
individually as he or she goes out, wishes him or her a Merry Christmas. Mr
Headstone leaves arm in arm with Mr Bob Cratchit, whose acquaintance he has
only just made this very evening, and the two weave a tipsy path through the snow,
singing a Christmas carol as they go.
