“Never mind,” replied the old lady with great dignity. “Don’t trouble Mr. Pickwick about an old creetur like me. Nobody cares about me now, and it’s very nat’ral they shouldn’t.” Here the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down her lavender-coloured silk 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-coloured 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,”—and 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 grand-daughter’s neck, and all the little ill-humour evaporated in a gush of silent tears.

A happy party they were, that night. Sedate and solemn were the score of rubbers in which Mr. Pickwick and the old lady played together; and 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, an arch 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 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 warm 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 in 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 bran new uniform of pink muslin 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 excepting such truant rays as had stolen through the chinks in the box in which it had been laid by, during the whole time. Mr. Trundle was in high feather and spirits, but a little nervous withal. 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 honoured with a private view of the bride and bridesmaids, up stairs. 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 hobbledehoys 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 thereto, 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. Mixed 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; and 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 expected; and that although the owner of the black eyes and the arch smile informed Mr. Winkle 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 jeweller’s had ever beheld before. Then the old church bell rang as gaily as it could, and they all returned to breakfast.

“Vere does the mince-pies go, young opium eater?” 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.

“Wery good,” said Sam, “stick a bit o’ Christmas in ’em. T’other dish opposite. There; now ve look compact and comfortable, as the father said ven he cut his little boy’s head off, to cure him o’ squintin’.”

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 honour of this 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, starting 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 characterised 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 whence 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, heartily.

“Mrs. Wardle,” said Mr. Pickwick, “we old folks must have a glass of wine together, in honour 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 her brocaded gown, with her newly-married grand-daughter 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 Tollimglower, deceased, at all of which the old lady herself laughed very heartily indeed, and so did the young ladies too, for they were wondering among themselves what on earth grandma was talking about. When they laughed, the old lady laughed ten times more heartily: and said that they always had been considered capital stories, which caused them all to laugh again, and put the old lady into the very best of humours. Then the cake was cut, and passed through the ring; and 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 drank very heartily, and laughed at every thing.

Mr. Pickwick expressed his heartfelt 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, hear!” said 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 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 a 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 ’em (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 last two). 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 a whirlwind of applause; and once more were the lungs of the supernumeraries, under Mr. Weller’s command, brought into active and efficient operation. Mr. Wardle proposed Mr. Pickwick; and Mr. Pickwick proposed the old lady. Mr. Snodgrass proposed Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Wardle proposed Mr. Snodgrass. One of the poor relations proposed Mr. Tupman, and the other poor relation proposed Mr. Winkle; and 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.

At 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 lain 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 an 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 pannelled 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 burnt 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 any thing could have added to the interest of this agreeable scene, it would have been the remarkable fact of Mr. Pickwick’s appearing without his gaiters, 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?” and Mr. Pickwick called attention to his speckled silk stockings, and smartly tied pumps.

“You in silk stockings!” exclaimed Mr. Tupman, jocosely.

“And why not Sir—why not?” said Mr. Pickwick, turning warmly upon him.

“Oh, of course there is no reason why you shouldn’t wear them,” responded Mr. Tupman.

“I imagine not Sir—I imagine not,” said Mr. Pickwick in a very peremptory tone.

Mr. Tupman had contemplated a laugh, but he found it was a serious matter; so he looked grave, and said they were a very pretty pattern.

“I hope they are,” said Mr. Pickwick fixing his eyes upon his friend. “You see nothing extraordinary in these stockings, as stockings, I trust Sir?”

“Certainly not—oh certainly not,” replied Mr. Tupman. 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.”

Up struck the two fiddles and the one harp, and off went Mr. Pickwick into hands across, when there was a general clapping of hands, and 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?” said a dozen voices.

“And Winkle!” added Mr. Tupman.

“Here we are!” exclaimed that gentleman, emerging with his pretty companion from the corner; and, 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 pettishly, “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 half way up the chimney, back again to the door—poussette 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; and 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 demeanour 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 down stairs, notwithstanding, and 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 to-night, 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 wery pretty notion of keepin’ anythin’ up, my dear,” said Mr. Weller; “I never see such a sensible sort of man as he is, or such a reg’lar gen’l’m’n.”

“Oh, that he is!” said the fat boy, joining in the conversation; “don’t he breed nice pork!” and the fat youth gave a semi-cannibalic leer at Mr. Weller, as he thought of the roast legs and gravy.

“Oh, you’ve woke up, at last, have you?” said Sam.

The fat boy nodded.

“I’ll tell you what it is, young boa constructer,” said Mr. Weller, impressively, “if you don’t sleep a little less, and exercise a little more, ven you comes to be a man you’ll lay yourself open to the same sort o’ personal inconwenience as was inflicted on the old gen’lm’n as wore the pig-tail.”

“What did they do to him?” inquired the fat boy, in a faltering voice.

“I’m a goin’ to tell you,” replied Mr. Weller; “he was one o’ the largest patterns as was ever turned out—reg’lar fat man, as hadn’t caught a glimpse of his own shoes for five-and-forty years.”

“Lor!” exclaimed Emma.

“No, that he hadn’t, my dear,” said Mr. Weller, “and if you’d put an exact model of his own legs on the dinin’ table afore him, he wouldn’t ha’ known ’em. Well, he always walks to his office with a wery handsome gold watch-chain hanging out, about a foot and a half; and a gold watch in his fob 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 ’ere watch,’ says the old gen’l’m’n’s friends, ‘you’ll be robbed on it,’ says they. ‘Shall I?’ says he. ‘Yes, will you,’ says they. ‘Vell,’ 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 venever I vants to know what’s o’clock, I’m obliged to stare into the bakers’ shops,’ he says. Well, then he laughs as hearty as if he was a goin’ to pieces, and out he walks agin’ with his powdered head and pig-tail, and rolls down the Strand vith the chain hangin’ out furder than ever, and the great round watch almost bustin’ through his grey kersey smalls. There warn’t a pickpocket in all London as didn’t take a pull at that chain, but the chain ’ud never break, and the watch ’ud never come out, so they soon got tired o’ dragging such a heavy old gen’l’m’n along the pavement, and he’d go home and laugh till the pig-tail wibrated like the penderlum of a Dutch clock. At last, one day the old gen’l’m’n was a rollin’ along, and he sees a pickpocket as he know’d by sight, a-comin’ up, arm in arm vith a little boy vith a wery large head. ‘Here’s a game,’ says the old gen’l’m’n to himself, ‘they’re a goin’ to have another try, but it won’t do.’ So he begins a chucklin’ wery hearty, ven, all of a sudden, the little boy leaves hold of the pickpocket’s arm, and rushes headforemost straight into the old gen’l’m’n’s stomach, and for a moment doubled him right up vith the pain. ‘Murder!’ says the old gen’l’m’n. ‘All right, Sir,’ says the pickpocket, a whisperin’ in his ear. And ven he come straight agin’, the watch and chain was gone, and what’s worse than that, the old gen’l’m’n’s digestion was all wrong ever artervards, to the wery 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 wended their way 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 centre 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 which would have done honour to a descendant of Lady Tollimglower 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 of 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 every thing 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 excepting the plainer portion of the young-lady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right under the mistletoe, directly 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 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 centre 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 peals 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 just the people whom they thought would like it; and when the game flagged, got caught themselves. When they were all tired of blind-man’s buff, there was a great game at snapdragon, and when fingers enough were burned with that, and all the raisins gone, they sat down by the huge fire of blazing logs to a substantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail, 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 till the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and wile away 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, and the deep red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the furthest 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 colour of the wassail; 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—

This song was tumultuously applauded, for friends and dependents make a capital audience; and the poor relations especially were in perfect extasies 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 any thing the matter, is there?”

“No, no, mother,” replied Wardle; “he says there’s a snow-drift, 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 any body 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—

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 goblin a fair start in a new one. A clear stage and no favour for the goblins, ladies and gentlemen, if you please.