“‘You’re wery good, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

“‘Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?’ said Mr. Winkle.  ’There—­that’s right.  I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam.  Not too fast, Sam; not too fast.’

“Mr. Winkle, stooping forward with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swanlike manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank,—­

“‘Sam!’

“‘Sir?’ said Mr. Weller.

“‘Here, I want you.’

“‘Let go, Sir,’ said Sam.  ’Don’t you hear the governor a-callin’?  Let go, Sir.’

“With a violent effort Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonised Pickwickian; and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle.  With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty.  Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell heavily down.

“Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot.  Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind, in skates.  He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile, but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.

“‘Are you hurt?’ inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.

“‘Not much,’ said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.

“‘I wish you’d let me bleed you,’ said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness.

“‘No, thank you,’ replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly.

“‘What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?’ enquired Bob Sawyer.

“Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant.  He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, ‘Take his skates off.’

“‘No; but really I had scarcely begun,’ remonstrated Mr. Winkle.

“‘Take his skates off,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly.

“The command was not to be resisted.  Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it, in silence.

“‘Lift him up,’ said Mr. Pickwick.  Sam assisted him to rise.

“Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttering in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words,—­

“‘You’re a humbug, Sir.’

“‘A what!’ said Mr. Winkle starting.

“’A humbug, Sir.  I will speak plainer, if you wish it.  An impostor, Sir.’

“With these words Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends.”

There is much life and fun and jollity and some vulgarity in Pickwick.  There is a good deal of eating and far too much drinking.  But when the fun is rather rough, we must remember that Dickens wrote of the England of seventy years ago and more, when life was rougher than it is now, and when people did not see that drinking was the sordid sin we know it to be now.