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
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