<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<div class = "mynote">
<p>Unless otherwise noted, spelling and punctuation have been left
unchanged. The spelling “pue” is used consistently. The variation
between “De Camp” and “de Camp” is as in the original.</p>
<p>“December 21st, Friday” and other dates agree with the year 1850.</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<!-- png 001 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="frontis" id = "frontis"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic001.gif" width = "468" height = "519" alt = "John Brown Esq. As He Appeared Every Eve" title = "John Brown Esq. As He Appeared Every Eve"></p>
<p> <br/> </p>
<!-- png 002 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic002.gif" width = "442" height = "216" alt = "Christmas Comes But Once a Year" title = "Christmas Comes But Once a Year"></p>
<h6>SHOWING WHAT</h6>
<h4>MR. BROWN DID, THOUGHT, AND INTENDED TO DO,</h4>
<h5>DURING THAT FESTIVE SEASON.</h5>
<h6>NOW FIRST EDITED FROM THE ORIGINAL MSS. (MESS).</h6>
<h5 class = "boldf">With Notes and Illustrations</h5>
<h4 class = "smallcaps">By LUKE LIMNER, Esq.</h4>
<p> </p>
<h4>LONDON:</h4>
<h5>WILLIAM TEGG AND CO., 85, QUEEN STREET, CHEAPSIDE.</h5>
<h6>M.DCCC.L.</h6>
<!-- png 003 -->
<hr class = "mid">
<p> <br/> </p>
<!-- png 004 -->
<h4 class = "boldf">Prime Movers.</h4>
<hr class = "tiny">
<div class = "cast">
<p><span class = "smallcaps">John Brown, Esq.</span>—<i>Citizen of
London and Suburban Snob.</i></p>
<p><span class = "smallcaps">John Brown, Jun.,
Esq.</span>—<i>“Fast Gent;” Son and Heir to the above
“Brick!”—I believe you, my boys, rather!</i></p>
<p><span class = "smallcaps">Master Thomas Brown.</span>—<i>Apple
of his Mother’s eye—“her Tommy-wommy”—“her dear
boy”—“her jewel of a pet.”</i></p>
<p><span class = "smallcaps">Captain Bonaventure de
Camp.</span>—<i>Officer, late of the Hon. E. I. Co’s.
Service, but now at the service of any one.</i></p>
<p><span class = "smallcaps">Latimer de Camp.</span>—<i>Master of
(He) Arts; Elder Son of the above, of Nobodynose College,
Oxford.</i></p>
<p><span class = "smallcaps">Wellesley de Camp.</span>—<i>Cadet of
Sandboys Military College.</i></p>
<p><span class = "smallcaps">Soavo Spohf.</span>—<i>Composer;
Organist at St. Stiff’s the Martyr; Mr. Brown’s ex-friend.</i></p>
<p><span class = "smallcaps">John (Brown).</span>—<i>Footman to
John Brown, Esq.; late Private in the 44th foot.</i></p>
<p><span class = "smallcaps">Tobias Strap.</span>—<i>Grocer in
Greens, Landlord to Mr. Spohf, and Supernumerary help to any
body.</i></p>
<p><span class = "smallcaps">Ichabod Strap.</span>—<i>(Son of his
sire) commonly called “Alphonso,” but sometimes “Buttons.”</i></p>
<p><span class = "smallcaps">Mrs. Benigma Brown.</span>—<i>Rib of
John Brown, Esq.—Ruler of his roast and boiled.</i></p>
<table class = "inline" summary = "formatted text">
<tr>
<td class = "nowrap">
<p class = "smallcaps">Miss Jemima Brown.</p>
</td>
<td class = "middle" rowspan = "2">
<ANTIMG src = "images/bracket.gif" width = "9" height = "41" alt = "}" title = "}">
</td>
<td rowspan = "2">
<p><i>Eligible Young Ladies—very so—to any one inclined to a
matter-o’-money-all alliance.</i></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class = "nowrap">
<p class = "smallcaps">Miss Angelina Brown.</p>
</td>
<!--<td></td>-->
<!--<td></td>-->
</tr>
</table>
<p><span class = "smallcaps">Lady Lucretia de
Camp.</span>—<i>Spouse of “the Captain;” Lady in her own right
(and wrong).</i></p>
<p><span class = "smallcaps">Deborah Strap.</span>—<i>(Consort of
T. S. above) Pue-packer at St. Stiff’s the Martyr.</i></p>
<p><i>Guests, Cooks, Maids, Lanthorn-bearers, extra Flunkeys, Police,
&c., &c., &c., &c.</i></p>
</div>
<p align = "center">
<span class = "smallcaps">Scene.</span>—<i>Victoria and Albert
Villas, Mizzlington, near London.</i></p>
<p align = "center">
<span class = "smallcaps">Time.</span>—<i>Christmas.</i></p>
<p> <br/> </p>
<!-- png 005 -->
<h4 class = "boldf">List of Plates.</h4>
<hr class = "tiny">
<table class = "toc" summary = "list of full-page illustrations">
<tr>
<td></td>
<td class = "number smallcaps">page</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
John Brown, Esq., as he appeared every Evening</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#frontis"><i>Frontispiece.</i></SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
The Carol—“Tidings of Comfort and Joy!”</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig1">
1</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
The Waits serenading Victoria and Albert Villas</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig5">
5</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
Christmas Eve—The Market—Brown buying Holly</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig13">
13</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
Christmas Dinners—Good Living, at least, Once a Year</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig18">
18</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
The Pudding, as it ought to have appeared</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig23">
23</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
Bringing in the Yule-log</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig25">
25</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
Boxing-day—The Beadle offended</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig28">
28</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
The Pantomime—“Here we are again!”</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig34">
34</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
The Compliments of the Season (a cold)</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig40">
40</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
The Quadrille—Cavalier seul</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig57">
57</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
The Stair-case—Captain de Camp and the Wall-flower</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig63">
63</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
Forfeits—The Double Toilet</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig80">
80</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
The Christmas Tree—Presentation of Fruit</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig83">
83</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
Mummery—Trick of the Old Dame</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig84">
84</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p class = "smallcaps">
Kitchen Conversation</p>
</td>
<td class = "number"><SPAN href = "#fig92">
92</SPAN></td>
</tr>
</table>
<p> </p>
<!-- png 006 -->
<!-- png 007 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig1" id = "fig1"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic007.gif" width = "451" height = "452" alt = "The Carol. “Tidings of Comfort & Joy.”" title = "The Carol. “Tidings of Comfort & Joy.”"></p>
<p> <br/> </p>
<span class = "pagenum">1</span>
<!-- png 008 -->
<p><ANTIMG src = "images/pic008top.gif" width = "450" height = "282" alt = "Christmas Comes But Once A Year" title = "Christmas Comes But Once A Year"></p>
<span class = "floatleft">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic008bottom.gif" width = "113" height = "88" alt = "V: Very">
</span>
<p class = "first">
ERY cold, very bleak; the thermometer and snow are falling fast; eggs
and suet are rising faster; everything at this season is “prized,” and
everybody apprizes everybody else of the good they wish
them,—“<span class = "smallcaps">A Merry Christmas and a Happy New
Year!</span>” Even the shivering caroller, for “it is a poor heart that
never rejoices,” is yelling forth the “tidings of comfort and joy.” The
snow that descends, making park and common alike—topping palace
and pigsty, now crowns the semi-detached villas, Victoria and Albert.
They were erected from the
<span class = "pagenum">2</span>
<!-- png 009 -->
designs of John Brown, Esq. and his architect (or builder), and are
considered a fine specimen of compo-cockney-gothic, in which the
constructor has made the most of his materials; for, to save digging, he
sank the foundation in an evacuated pond, and, as an antidote to damp,
used wood with the dry-rot—the little remaining moisture being
pumped out daily by the domestics. The floors are
<span class = "pagenum">3</span>
<!-- png 010 -->
delightfully springy, having cracks to precipitate the dirt, and are
sloped towards the doorways, so that the furniture is perpetually trying
to walk out of the rooms; but those apertures are ingeniously planned to
prevent the evil—the doors obstinately refusing to open at all,
without force. That the whole may not appear too light, few windows are
introduced. By casual observers the Victoria and Albert would be taken
for one—so united are they; and had we not seen the parting
division, we should have doubted also. Of the entrance lodges, we have
noticed one of the chimneys smoking periodically; and, from the mollient
white vapour issuing over the window at such times, presume Victoria is
washing, whilst Albert is locked up and doing nothing.</p>
<p class = "illustration">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic009.gif" width = "466" height = "293" alt = "picture"></p>
<p>Their lord and master is John Brown, Esq., Director of the Deptford
Direct, the Stag Assurance, and Churchwarden of this parish—St.
Stiff the Martyr,—a portly upright man; for had he not been
so erect, to balance a “fair round belly,” he would have toppled on his
nose. Everybody said that he was clever, too—and, moreover, always
thought so; for luck had made our friend a rising man amongst the
suburban aristocracy of Mizzlington. Of Mrs. Brown, she is his match,
and portly too; though older and more crusty—a crummy dame,
to whom her lord must bow; for, upon his hinting at duty, and an
obedient wife’s <i>commanding</i> her husband, she ordered him off,
reading the adage as a woman <i>ought</i>. Of the Misses Brown, Jemima
and Angelina, they are decidedly getting old—for young
<span class = "pagenum">4</span>
<!-- png 011 -->
ladies, having been “out” for some time; and, like the back numbers of
an old periodical, are not the more interesting or marketable for it. Of
the sons, the elder, John Brown, jun., is spoiling himself by
patronising all that is “fast;” whilst the younger is being educated for
a faster age, being spoilt first by his mother.</p>
<p class = "illustration">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic011.gif" width = "434" height = "245" alt = "picture"></p>
<p>Having characterised the Brown family, we will now introduce you to
the first scene of this domestic drama. Victoria
Villa—a dormitory—midnight; in the back ground may be
seen and heard
<span class = "pagenum">5</span>
<!-- png 014 -->
a lady in a rich mellow snore, whilst distant music—the Christmas
Waits, is “softly o’er the senses stealing,” and loud in the promise of
“a good time coming,” provided you will “wait a little longer.” Mr.
Brown is seated at the dressing-table, making up his Diary, or rather
trying to cram the events of twenty-four hours into the leaf of a
pocket-book, five and a half inches by three and a quarter—his
usual custom before rest:—</p>
<!-- png 012 -->
<!-- png 013 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig5" id = "fig5"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic013.gif" width = "442" height = "445" alt = "The Waits. “Softly O’er the Senses Stealing.”" title = "The Waits. “Softly O’er the Senses Stealing.”"></p>
<p>“<span class = "smallcaps">December</span> 21st,
<i>Friday</i>.—Advertised in this day’s ‘Times,’ to let Albert,
furnished, from the 25th, with use of servants, if required
(double-house and household at half-price—grand effect united with
economy). Tommy came home from Dr. Tortem’s, with holiday-letter, bill,
and wonderful crop of hair—considering it costs me five shillings
per quarter to cut; brimstone and treacle, under head—medicine,
charged ten and six; firing and broken windows, two pounds;
&c.:—what most unlucky things turn up on a Friday! I much
wish I had not advertised Albert to-day—no one will come.” With
these observations, and a consolatory grumble about Christmas coming but
once a year, Mr. Brown seeks repose beside his consort; whilst the Waits
make the lowing wind, the frigid vegetation, and the rattling shutters,
dance again to the “Bridal Polka.”</p>
<p>Sweet sleep—and morning dawns.—The Browns depart, as is
their daily custom, by the omnibus—the elder to chat inside, the
younger to smoke out;—and both to business in the city. Whilst, at
home, Master Tommy displays the “advancement made in his
studies”—as
<span class = "pagenum">6</span>
<!-- png 015 -->
the holiday-letter states,—by practising writing in the “Book of
Beauty;”
<span class = "floatleft">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic015.gif" width = "220" height = "198" alt = "picture">
</span>
his knowledge of natural history, by attempting to rear gold-fish (like
eels) in sand; searching for the tick in an eight-day clock; setting
bits of raw beef in the back garden, that the portion (like potatoes)
might grow to young bullocks; filling the bellows’ snout with gunpowder,
that they may blow the fire up; putting the cat in walnut-shells upon
the icy pond, and himself in the middle of it; playing racket in the
drawing-room; and constructing a snow man against the back-door to fall
in upon Sarah, almost frightening her to death; and many other
experimental, philosophical tricks, too numerous to mention.</p>
<p>During this day the semi-detached is besieged by a lady and gentleman
in search of a home. The gentleman, dressed in a very tight frock-coat,
dusty and worn; a highly-glazed cap, the strap of which dangled
above a tuft of hair, that graced his chin, its peak resting upon the
tip of his nose, affording him little more than a view of his boots,
with a portion of the hose protruding therefrom; his
<span class = "pagenum">7</span>
<!-- png 016 -->
tightly-strapped trowsers carrying a broad stripe, of which he appeared
proud, being engaged in the manufacture of many more in other parts, by
knocking the dust out of them with a slight cane;
<span class = "floatright">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic016.gif" width = "295" height = "219" alt = "picture">
</span>
of his gloves, they seemed determined to end their days in their normal
state, and to produce neither mits nor finger-stalls. The couple looking
very limp and tumbled;—a thing duly apologised for, and not
to be wondered at—having just arrived from abroad. Mrs. Brown
being much taken with the gentleman—for he curried favour by
stroking only the way of the grain. So, with Lady Lucretia, Captain de
Camp, of the Hon. East India Company’s Service, from
Madras—awaiting his luggage,—is at home in the Albert,
having given himself a character that satisfied Mrs. Brown; for, he
omitted the objectionable parts (fearing they might distress that good
lady), like
<span class = "pagenum">8</span>
<!-- png 017 -->
the woman with a large family, who, finding it impossible to get
lodgings, sent her children among the graves; that, when asked, she
might say, with a sigh, “Alas! they are all in the churchyard.”</p>
<p>That evening Mrs. Brown’s rich mellow snore commenced later than
usual—for she had been loud and long in the praise of their new
neighbours. Mr. Brown making entry against <span class =
"smallcaps">December</span> 22nd, <i>Saturday</i>.—That Albert was
let:—whilst, the Waits were playing the “Phantom Dancers,” and
Captain de Camp busy, there, screwing his empty trunk to the floor, that
it might appear heavy, and full of valuables; and whilst, between the
villas in the rear, there might be seen a glimmering candle, and by that
light be found—one not unknown to Brown—a poor little
musician, in a little second-floor room, containing a little organ much
too large for it, and a litter of dirty soft papers,—who is not a
little perplexed at a note, from Mrs. Brown, dispensing with his
services:—he, the poor little music-master, more amiable than
handsome, less symmetrical than serviceable;—who had, in less
favoured times, contracted friendship, and to teach the Misses Brown
music at thirty shillings per quarter—who had gotten so familiar
as to love—had dared to offer that person Nature had deformed,
with that mind Nature had adorned, to Miss Jemima Brown. There was a
time when his anecdotes had been prized, and his long, delicate, white
fingers kept playing to perpetual dancers; and that fine voice, Nature
had bestowed in lieu of symmetry, sang the merriest and most
<span class = "pagenum">9</span>
<!-- png 018 -->
sentimental songs for love:—the retrospect is too much for poor
Spohf—so he seeks refuge in his organ, much to the annoyance of a
little tailor in the attic, who has no soul in him—save the sole
he had for supper.</p>
<p class = "illustration">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic018.gif" width = "225" height = "222" alt = "picture"></p>
<p>Sunday.—The perpetual bell of St. Stiff the Martyr is calling
to service, as it is wont to do at all times and hours—for
mysterious purposes but little known:—it seems as if the bell
disliked its little wooden cottage, on the unfinished spire; or was
inspired, or in a towering passion to live in a tower, or saw no fun in
waiting for funds; and so, continually pealed an appeal
<span class = "pagenum">10</span>
<!-- png 019 -->
to the public:—however, it was a puny, little, curious bell, with
a tongue of its own, now clacking for a charity sermon; and, curiously,
Mr. Brown thinks a charity sermon always edifies him with the headache,
and is doubtful about going, as they make him a reluctant
giver—for mere vain show; but he, curiously, wonders where the De
Camps go; and, curiously, Victoria and Albert meet at the gate; and,
curiously, the family pue, at St. Stiff’s, seems capable of
accommodating them.</p>
<p>Mr. Spohf, the little organist, being perched up aloft, sees, through
the curtain, the Christmas holly and the Captain—taking care to
mark that individual with mental chalk. The musician’s eyes are in the
Brown pue; but the eyes that used to meet them are turned another
way—all favour is centred upon their spurious exotic, who grows
thicker, twines tighter, and takes deeper root, the more he is
encouraged:—of the species, or genus, we cannot do better than
quote Mr. B.’s own words, written against <span class =
"smallcaps">December</span> 23rd, <i>Sunday</i>—(whilst the Waits,
as usual, were serenading the semi-detached, in a full conviction of its
being Monday, and the possibility of “living and loving together,” and
“being happy yet”).—“To church with my new tenant, who is
delightful company: Lady Lucre. says he is a ‘refined duck,’ a
‘gentlemanly angel,’ and a ‘manly poppet:’ to which I made answer, that
I thought so too; and that she was a ‘seraphine concert.’ Sermon, by the
Rev. Loyalla à Becket, ‘in aid of funds for supplying the poor,
<span class = "pagenum">11</span>
<!-- png 020 -->
during this inclement but festive season, with food for the mind.’
Captain de Camp did borrow a sovereign of me, to put in the plate; and I
was told by my fellow-churchwarden, Mr. Flyntflayer, that he did put in
a bad shilling, wrapt in paper, and did take out fifteen shillings in
change:—this, I said was untrue—as, of course, it
was;—having lent him a sovereign myself, for the express purpose.
We are to have Captain de C.’s two noble sons here, during the holidays;
one, I believe, comes from Oxford, and the other from Sandboys
Military College:—now is the time—Jemy. and Angel. must be
on the alert, for</p>
<p class = "verse">
‘There is a tide in the affairs of <i>women</i>,</p>
<p class = "verse">
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to <i>matrimony</i>;</p>
<p class = "verse">
Omitted, all the voyage of their life</p>
<p class = "verse">
Is bound in shallows, and in <i>spinsterhood</i>.</p>
<p class = "verse">
On such a full sea are we now afloat;</p>
<p class = "verse">
And we must take the current when it serves,</p>
<p class = "verse">
Or lose our ventures.’”</p>
<p>Monday, the 24th December’s sun rises in a fog:—everybody has
lost the day of the week, and come upon what appears an infinity of
Saturdays rolled into one—beginning the week with a grand
end,—for it is the advent of Christmas!</p>
<p>The Masters de Camp arrive as was expected.—Cadet Wellesley
exhibiting his military accomplishments by surveying the back field; all
the holes and corners; riddling the sty and pigs with Mr. Brown’s
blunderbuss; bivouacking in the pantry at Victoria’s
<span class = "pagenum">12</span>
<!-- png 021 -->
expence; and, when remonstrated with, for mere sport knocking the
plaster Albert off the garden wall into the lane. Mr. Latimer de Camp
introduces himself more civilly, as Miss Jemima is playing and singing
(of course for practice), by accompanying “How happy could I be with
either,” on the wooden partition with his thumb, after the fashion of a
tambarine.</p>
<p>This is the annual busy day.—Packets and parcels are being
delivered unceasingly by uncommonly civil butcher-boys, graceful
grocers, and urbanic green-grocers, who are near enough to boxing-day to
know that silver on the tongue is necessary to charm silver from the
pocket. The Captain has sent to learn if any consignments are for him,
to ask the loan of a pack of cards, and Victoria’s company to spend the
evening at the Albert—which invitation is graciously accepted.</p>
<!-- png 022 -->
<!-- png 023 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig13" id = "fig13"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic023.gif" width = "460" height = "471" alt = "Christmas Eve. The Food in Perspective" title = "Christmas Eve. The Food in Perspective"></p>
<p>It is eve—Christmas-eve.—Mrs. Brown’s candied mixture,
the pudding, is simmering in the copper; the turkey, chine, and hundred
etceteras are on their way from Plumpsworth; while Captain de Camp’s
baggage is at the very wildest verge of that gentleman’s imagination,
and its appearance would have surprised him more than any one else, so
speculative was it.</p>
<p>Mr. Brown is in the City, homeward bound by the omnibus, intending to
realize “a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.” It is so foggy that
he finds he is going at an invisible pace, obliging him to abandon the
invisible vehicle in an invisible street, paying an invisible fare.</p>
<span class = "pagenum">13</span>
<!-- png 024 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic024.gif" width = "396" height = "145" alt = "picture"></p>
<p>He ties a handkerchief round his foot to prevent slipping; and has
something “short” to keep out the cold; and a little brandy-punch to
keep out the fog; and a little egg-flip to keep him warm; and a link
that he may see the way, for his vision is not very distinct;—his
head is delightfully buoyant, his optics inclined to multiply, and his
legs very refractory, having a great desire to dance or go sideways, but
obstinately refusing, in their eccentricity, to proceed in a straight
line; for Mr. Brown is more merry than particular—taking Newgate
Market in his way home to Mizzlington from the ’Change. Having a great
veneration for old customs, he buys a boar’s head there and boy to carry
it; next, being taken with a crockery-shop-sign, “The Little Bason”
(which, by-the-bye, was a very large one), he purchases that also,
thinking it will do for a wassail-bowl; likewise some holly; and an old
butcher’s-block
<span class = "pagenum">14</span>
<!-- png 025 -->
to serve as the yule-log; not forgetting the last new Christmas book of
sympathy and sentiment, “The Black Beetle on the Hob,” a faery tale of a
register-stove,
<span class = "floatleft">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic025.gif" width = "234" height = "269" alt = "picture">
</span>
by the author of the “Old Hearth Broom and the
Kettle-Holder:”—With these articles Mr. Brown and his retinue
reach home in safety—a miracle, considering the toast and ale
they have consumed,—the Holly being jolly, the Bason groggy, the
Log stupid, and the Boar pig-headed. They find Victoria deaf; for Mr.
Brown has made her little gothic door to shiver, and the bolts to
chatter with the blows, yet none respond; for the servants are very
jovial over boiled ale in the crypt—little thinking or caring
about their master; who, after having rung all the bells singly, walked
backwards, surveyed the windows, tumbled over the block, and endangered
the wassail-bowl, tries ringing all the bells at once without avail; so
enters by the back window, and performs a dexterous summerset down the
stairs, in company with some evergreens and a flower-stand,
<span class = "pagenum">15</span>
<!-- png 026 -->
ending in a series of double knocks performed upon the inside of the
door with the back of his head, and a cuffing from Mr. Brown junior, who
happens to be coming in with the key, taking his respected governor for
a burglar.</p>
<p>The Browns are next door:—Victoria is fraternizing with Albert,
and both are exceedingly happy, although the latter has won greatly at
the game of <i>speculation</i>—having played his cards well; so,
Mr. Brown, after being packed in brown paper, steeped in vinegar, and
well soda-watered, joins the social party;—finding Captain de Camp
busy concocting an extraordinary oriental mixture (the name of which we
quite forget) out of old bottles, from Victoria’s cellar; and telling a
tremendous Eastern <i>story</i> of a tiger captured in a jungle, after a
chase of ten hours—he should have said minutes, in a penny
magazine!</p>
<p>Mr. Brown and the Captain soon became familiar—in twenty
minutes you would have thought them friends of twenty
years:—so,—before the last speculator had invested his last
weekly sixpence in a goose-club, and drawn the last adamantine old
gander; or the last Christmas-pudding-sweep swept away the chimerical
puddings, that ought to have been very rich, and everybody thought
everybody else had won; before the last trader, who had sold out, dared
to mount a notice, intimating that he had joined an “Association to
suppress Christmas-boxes,”—the Browns and De Camps had attained
that state denominated “thick”—an appellation that might, with
propriety, have been applied to Mr. Brown’s
<span class = "pagenum">16</span>
<!-- png 027 -->
brains;—for he had obliged Captain de Camp by discounting a bill,
due twelve days after date (Christmas), and had invited him to dine on
the morrow, to partake of the poultry, that always came up at Christmas,
from Plumpsworth; and was taken out in a visit made by the worthy donor,
Great-uncle Clayclod, during the “May-meetings,” when he does a dozen
shilling exhibitions in a day, and knocks up a fly-horse. So, rather
late to bed; Mr. Brown making up his Diary, as usual, on the
dressing-table—a rule he always observed, though, in some
cases, it would have been better left until the morning; for, against
December 24th, Tuesday, we find his feelings richly expressed in cramped
<ins class = "correction" title = "spelling unchanged">caligraphy</ins>,
upside down, bearing evident marks of excitement;—having been
penned—in a dream—with hair-dye, mistaken for ink; pounced
with carmine, and blotted with the small-tooth-comb in lieu of paper; it
is, moreover, curious for its allegorical allusions—likening
Captain de Camp to a “brick,” a “downey card,” a “sharp file,”
and several other inanimate poetical images.</p>
<p>Of our mild friend, Spohf, he is sleeping soundly upon a light
supper—obtained from “St. Stiff’s dairy”—some very thin
milk, divested of all unctuous quality—that having gone to an
epicure Captain, at the Albert Villa. Poor Spohf’s talent has not put
many <i>talents</i> in his purse—these real racing times run over
genius!—they would tunnel Helicon, turn Hippocrene to flush a
city’s drains,—make Pegasus serve letters by carrying a post-boy,
and, in the
<span class = "pagenum">17</span>
<!-- png 028 -->
end, sell the noble beast for feline food:—everything now must be
tangible. The little organist, who had spent so many a Merry Christmas
with the Browns—he has no pleasure to anticipate on the morrow,
<span class = "floatright">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic028.gif" width = "238" height = "306" alt = "“Safe Bind—Safe Find.”" title = "“Safe Bind—Safe Find.”">
</span>
except the performance of his new hymn, “The Star of Bethlehem,”
a composition of which the little tailor in the attic thought small
things, for it did not <i>compose</i> him to sleep.</p>
<p>The 25th of December arrives.—The festival of the year has
come. Christmas-day commences with the rising of the cook, who finished
the evening, kneading and gaping over pies and puddings; and wakes with
the same operation, gaping and kneading her eyes, which do not fairly
open until she comes to look after her first care—the
pudding:—the fire, having been made up over night, is discovered a
“beauty;” but, behold,—within the copper, the pudding has
dissolved!—there is nothing to be found but a cloth, which
<span class = "pagenum">18</span>
<!-- png 029 -->
must have been boiling all night in a rich plum-soup,—the string
having come untied; or rather, never been tied at all, but popped in by
Mrs. B. without attending to that operation:—a piece of
neglect, for which the cook gets “warning,” and all the servants
rated—until the bells of St. Stiff’s remind Mrs. B. that it
is time to depart, for the duties of a Christian, to eschew all the
vanities of this wicked world, in a rich purple Genoa velvet paletot and
duck of a plum bonnet. That day Mr. Churchwarden Brown’s pue would not
hold all, so Mrs. Strap, the pue-opener, had to manœuvre by
appropriating part of another to their use, losing her Christmas-box for
the offence against its owner, Mr. Din, the copper-smith.</p>
<p>Mr. Spohf’s Christmas hymn is much liked, and is really so fine as to
make that essence of gentleness, himself, temporarily egotistical; he
wonders what impression it has made upon Miss Jemima, and the strange
gentleman who is so attentive to her—could he do as much? But Mr.
Latimer de Camp is heedless of other good things flying about him; for,
upon the walk home after service, among the savoury Christmas dinners
that are hurrying in every direction, he is so abstracted as to find a
sucking-pig in his stomach, and not a little gravy spilt upon his
trowsers, compelling him to change them, upon his arrival at home, for a
neat pair of young Brown’s.</p>
<!-- png 030 -->
<!-- png 031 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig18" id = "fig18"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic030.gif" width = "482" height = "506" alt = "Good living at least once a year" title = "Good living at least once a year"></p>
<p>Mr. Spohf, having played all out of St. Stiff the Martyr, walks home
moodily:—instead of finding his dinner as usual, the chop and
potato, he learns that his landlord, Mr. Strap, the greengrocer, has
<span class = "pagenum">19</span>
<!-- png 032 -->
stopped the supplies. It is quarter-day!—Strap thinks of the five
weeks’ arrears, and Mr. Spohf’s inability to pay for his lodgings; so,
Mr. and Mrs. Strap have surprised him, by preparing a huge leg of mutton
and pudding; for they know he does not, as of old, go to the “Willer.”
After this humble repast, which was relished as much as any could be,
and was far less likely to leave unpleasant sensations than if it had
been more costly, they draw round the fire; and master Ichabod Strap,
one of the choristers of St. Stiff the Martyr, is playing with a
shilling, polishing the coin upon his sleeve—it is the identical
one said to have been put in the plate by Captain de Camp, and given by
Mr. Flyntflayer (the gentleman who held the gothic platter) to Mrs.
Strap, the pue-opener, advising her at the same time to nail it to the
counter—a counterfeit to deter “smashers.” But, somehow, the
coin seemed doomed to remain unholy, for no orifice or artifice could
have rendered it a <i>lucky</i> one; it was shown to Mr. Spohf, who
thought it bad, and that it might have gotten into the plate by mistake;
Mrs. Strap knew it bad—an intentional perpetration,—and,
like the giver, not worth a dump; Mr. Strap not only thought it bad, but
proved it so; for, after having spun, sounded, and eaten a portion of
it, he cast the coin into the glowing fire, where the silver quickly
changed, dropping, like quick-silver, among the ashes, to be picked out
by Ichabod, very unlike a sterling coin.</p>
<p>Old Strap, who had taken “the pledge,” but since introduced an
<span class = "pagenum">20</span>
<!-- png 033 -->
exceptional clause in favour of feasts and festivals,
<span class = "floatright">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic033top.gif" width = "130" height = "110" alt = "picture">
</span>
<span class = "floatright">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic033middle.gif" width = "206" height = "32" alt = "picture">
</span>
<span class = "floatright">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic033bottom.gif" width = "478" height = "320" alt = "picture">
</span>
gets out the black bottle for fraternity’s sake. They take a pipe
a-piece, and so softened is the little organist with their genuine
unsophisticated kindness, that he sees all his cares fly, and nothing
but joys in the wreathed curls of smoke betaking themselves up the
chimney:—he sees Messrs. Blow
<span class = "pagenum">21</span>
<!-- png 034 -->
and Grumble, the eminent organ-builders, making a fortune by his “new
movement;” having purchased and patented it: he has found a publisher
for his church music, and sold his old opera. Captain de Camp has
vanished in smoke—he has exploded of spontaneous
combustion,—they find him all deceit, leaving a glass eye and a
cork leg. Mr. Latimer gets the Colonial Bishopric of Bushantee, in New
Zealand, and cuts Miss Jemima. Mr. Wellesley having gone to India for
glory, returns with it,—a hook, and a patch over his eye.
Miss Angelina vows to die a virgin. Mr. Brown says to Mr. Spohf, “my
son!”—Mr. Spohf says to Mr. Brown, “my father!” Mr. Strap is
standing in triumph upon a pyramid of “carpets to beat,” viewing a
lesser one of “boots to brush;” having been entrusted with more
“messages” than mortal ever could “deliver;” whilst innumerable vans,
bearing the name of Strap, traverse innumerable roads in “Town and
Country.” Mrs. Strap, dressed in a plain plum silk, turns a mahogany
mangle, and gets up nothing but “fine things.” Ichabod has cut the
choir, and made his <i>début</i> in an opera as Herr Strapii,
a perfect triumph.</p>
<p>But here we will leave Mr. Spohf’s reverie—for Victoria and
reality; where the company is arriving to the annual dinner, and sitting
about the drawing-room, looking as happy as patients at a dentist’s; or
festive, as disappointed toadeaters at the funeral of an opulent
relative, who had left all his property to found an asylum for decayed
postboys—after leading everybody to expect the lion’s share of
it:—the guests, for want of more exciting topics, admiring the
<span class = "pagenum">22</span>
<!-- png 035 -->
gimcracks they admired a year ago; thinking the portrait of Mr.
Brown—“done,” twenty years since, at a portrait
club,—a splendid likeness, and that the original grows
younger (query, richer?); stating truths and untruths about the weather;
inquiring energetically after each other’s health—not caring for
the answers; with other homely pleasantries, too numerous to mention;
until some of the juveniles—the only ones who really seem at
home—espy from the window a loaded parcel-cart; this they observe
as funny on a Sunday (little thinking, at that moment, it was Tuesday).
Here Mr. Brown descends, to hold an altercation with the guard of that
cart, who makes light of a huge hamper of game; whilst the guests at the
windows above, speculate upon having to eat an uncooked turkey, or fancy
their ravenous appetites waiting while it is cooked—the youngsters
calculating upon a dinner all pudding. Mr. Brown returns, and tenders
his arm to Lady Lucretia de Camp—in the excitement, leading her
down the side where the stairs taper to nothing,—causing that lady
to lose both equilibrium and temper.</p>
<!-- png 036 -->
<!-- png 037 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig23" id = "fig23"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic037.gif" width = "438" height = "436" alt = "The Pudding. As It ought to have Appeared." title = "The Pudding. As It ought to have Appeared."></p>
<p>In the hall they are introduced to the viands, all thought to partake
of;—which have arrived too late, and are now displayed in their
primitive state—a picture of still life; whilst the
guests—a picture of disappointment—have to put up with
odds and ends, concocted to meet the emergency, ending with a series of
plum-dumplings, in place of the legitimate large pudding. However, the
indigent relatives, who prefer the cold corners, and take “any part,”
declare
<!-- png 038 -->
<span class = "pagenum">23</span>
themselves well satisfied:—all partaking of everything, and brandy
afterwards, as if the viands were rich. Master Brown does justice to
everything, of course—that sweet child is now pulling the <i>merry
thought</i> with his maiden aunt; he is victor, and, as no one wishes to
<span class = "pagenum">24</span>
<!-- png 039 -->
know his <i>thoughts</i>, seems determined to tell
them,—<i>wishing</i> “Jemy. and Mr. Latimer would look sharp, and
knock up the match Mamma spoke of; as then he should be breeched, have
pockets, and money:” here the little dear turned to the Captain, saying,
“You’ll give me a crown, won’t you?”—a question at which the
maiden aunt blushed intensely, as did Mrs. Brown, who attempted to hide
her emotion by saying, “What strange things children do think
of!”—at the same time helping a gentleman who had had
enough—the bashful gentleman, who sat at the junction of the
tables, and appeared so incommoded by the table-land of one being higher
than the table-land of the other—causing his plate to oscillate in
a very remarkable manner, and discharge its contents in his
lap,—the conjoined legs compelling him either to sit at a fearful
distance, and spill the gravy, or to split his kerseymeres, by extending
them too much for their frail make:—however, he has at last
succeeded in thrusting one knee between them, and the shorter leg of the
two off Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress”—used to stilt
it;—letting the unfortunate gentleman’s pudding down, and his
plate travel, until at last it stops, performing a gyration, all to
itself, under the sideboard.</p>
<p class = "illustration">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic038.gif" width = "296" height = "330" alt = "The Merry Thought" title = "The Merry Thought"></p>
<p>During this clatter, the ladies rise and depart, leaving the
gentlemen to drown all disappointments in the wine. Mr. Brown, “feeling
called upon,” rises, apologizing for certain misfortunes, herein
described—at the same time trusting that such events might never
happen again; and, in the end, eulogizing Mrs. B., who is painted
<span class = "pagenum">25</span>
<!-- png 042 -->
in glowing colours, by a painter who said he should not have painted it;
or, as any one else might have observed, introduced two virtuously
amiable daughters, so prominently in the foreground. After a noble reply
by Captain de Camp, of the Hon. East India Company’s service, from
Madras, and much applause from the diners, they ascend, to join the
ladies; forming, round the drawing-room-fire, a vast amphitheatre,
in the centre of which, gladiatorial children contend for nuts and
oranges—Captain de Camp filling the post of honour,—making
himself at home in Mr. Brown’s easy chair and slippers. Mr. Wellesley
drags in the yule-log, much to the detriment of the Brussels, and the
annoyance of the guests; for, upon placing it in the grate, it causes
everything to be covered with black tadpoles, nearly extinguishing the
fire—until it ignites, roasting the company, and making the pot a
white-heat.</p>
<!-- png 040 -->
<!-- png 041 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig25" id = "fig25"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic041.gif" width = "459" height = "522" alt = "Bringing in the Yule-log" title = "Bringing in the Yule-log"></p>
<p>The Captain has repeated last evening’s brew, upon a larger scale, in
the “little bason,” or wassail-bowl. Master Wellesley has kissed
Angelina under the <ins class = "correction" title =
"spelling unchanged">misletoe</ins>, suspended from the chandelier, and
placed in the centre of the amphitheatre, for that purpose. Mr. Latimer
has “taken the opportunity,” as Jemima turned up a refractory burner;
and everybody kissed everybody else they liked, or could catch there.
The entertaining Captain has narrated an effective anecdote of an
enraged elephant, and a precious big boar speared in a savage
jungle—to which he might have added, with no more personal risk
than Mrs. Brown may experience when hunting
<span class = "pagenum">26</span>
<!-- png 043 -->
for a boa in her wardrobe. And, Mr. Mouldy, the city merchant, who dealt
in rags, sang about a little excitable pig, and “Mac Mullin’s Lament;”
whilst Mr. Snobbins—who it was hoped would sit and be
silent,—has broken the spell, dared to remember old times,
sleeping under a counter, and the pugnacity of Brown, when they were in
a <i>mess</i> at the <i>blues</i>—making Captain de Camp think
more of a military repast than Christ’s Hospital;—until the
“<i>blues</i>” were dispelled by Mr. Snobbins singing “The gallant
’prentice boy:”—not that the company would have lacked a military
man, had the Captain been absent, for there was Cowed, the meek
Bermondsey tanner, by livery a hatter, and withal a
soldier—a member of the Hon. Artillery Company,—he who
sang about God blessing the old cow’s hide, and a</p>
<p class = "verse">
"Wish that his soul in heaven might dwell,</p>
<p class = "verse">
Who first invented the leather bottel;"</p>
<p>—and, Mrs. Brown’s brother, Mr. Barthe Brick, familiarly known
as <i>the</i> “Brick,” who had just commenced a song, a parody upon
Fra Diavolo,—a something very, very low, supposed to be sung
by a dealer in hearth-stones; who, at the end of each verse, vociferates
“who’ll buy,” heightening the illusion by trundling a chair, on its
back, round the family circle, to represent a barrow.</p>
<p>No one knows where the barbarous atrocities would have ended, and all
before the refined strangers, too, had not the
olive-branches—disposed for rest by their several mammas in the
room above—all awoke
<span class = "pagenum">27</span>
<!-- png 044 -->
at once, tumbled out of bed, and joined in a combined cry; this breaks
the family circle—mothers fly to pack their turbulent innocents
for travel; the candles flare, and carriages clatter, grinding the
flints in the lane. John, the footman, finds he has a dozen half-crowns,
and Mary seven. The last fly has departed with the little Bricks; lights
appear and disappear in the bed-chambers; and the
Christmas-day—that comes but once a year—has vanished, like
a dream!</p>
<p>Mr. Brown has jotted the events, in his Diary, in a hand scarcely
legible. It must have been penned in a somnambulistic fit—thinking
he was at a meeting of St. Stiff’s vestry, in the union
board-room,—for, after a list of <ins class = "correction" title =
"apostrophe in original">member’s</ins> present (the names of his
guests), Captain de Camp in the chair, follow these minutes of
proceedings:—Firstly, that one Spohf be dismissed as organist of
St. Stiff’s, confined in the idiot-ward, fed on water gruel, and handed
over to his own parish (Vienna); proposed by Latimer, and seconded by
Wellesley de Camp. The second proposition appears to be to the effect
that a vagrant named Brick, dealer in hearth-stones, be confined in the
refractory-ward, and fed upon bread and water.</p>
<p>The morning after the festivities London oversleeps
itself:—and, awaking, finds it boxing-day. Variegated dips are
being disseminated among delighted, dirty, juveniles; whilst the boys
seem chagrined at notices for “the extinction of abuses,” or
“suppression of Christmas-boxes;” which seems only to make them the more
pertinacious at Victoria Villa: for an irregular dustman has chalked the
post, and the Postman
<span class = "pagenum">28</span>
<!-- png 045 -->
vowed to mark Mr. Brown; the Turncock is turned off; the Waits have to
“wait a little longer;” and the Beadle, who declared Mr. Brown no
generous churchwarden, has, withal,
<span class = "floatleft">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic045.gif" width = "183" height = "264" alt = "picture">
</span>
found enough alcohol to make him stupid before night—causing that
dignitary to cry a lost boy instead of a girl, and to see twice as many
posts round St. Stiff’s as usual; taking half of them to be boys about
to vault over the other half, he rushes on to disperse them, soundly
chastising the granite.</p>
<p>All the little boys secure their mites before mid-day; taking their
posts at the gallery-door of a popular theatre, five hours before
opening, to practise that rare virtue, patience, at the shrine of “Hot
Codlings,” and “George Barnwell.”</p>
<p>Master Ichabod Strap, in his richest yellow breeches, and burnished
badge of St. Stiff the Martyr, is perambulating the parish with his gay
phylactery, or Christmas-piece—“The History of Joseph,” painted,
like the coat, in many colours:—he shows it to Mrs. Brown, who
approves the performance; “stroking the head of modest and ingenuous
worth that blushed at its own praise;” measuring
<span class = "pagenum">29</span>
<!-- png 048 -->
the boy at a glance, and proffering him promotion in the shape of an
uniform, of buttons, just vacated by a youth—called by his peers
“Nobby Jones,” but by his mistress “Alphonso;”—who, having grown
to the great risk of buttons and stitches, was dispossessed of his
regimentals, being sent home one dark night in his bed-gown. “Ichabod”
promises to resign that title and all connection with the dirty boys, to
reign as Alphonso the second page; being missed by Mr. Spohf, for whom
he used to blow the organ, in the little second
floor—a bereavement Mrs. B. enjoyed, saying, she
wondered how the unworthy little animal would raise the wind now.</p>
<!-- png 046 -->
<!-- png 047 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig28" id = "fig28"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic046.gif" width = "436" height = "486" alt = "Boxing Day. ’Bolish the Boxes, Indeed: ’Spect Next They’l ’Bolish the Bishops.—What’s a Season Without Compliments?" title = "Boxing Day. ’Bolish the Boxes, Indeed: ’Spect Next They’l ’Bolish the Bishops.—What’s a Season Without Compliments?"></p>
<p>There is an universal adage about risking sprats to capture
herrings—a sport not unknown to our cosmopolite Captain, for
he had fished in troubled waters, and hunted for a dinner many a
time;—he knew the traps and snares to secure game, the days and
seasons; so, on Boxing-day, he baits the servants with crowns; Tommy
with a sovereign; Angelina with “The Keepsake;” Jemima with a
modern-ancient missal, or portion of Scripture made dear and difficult
to read; presenting Mrs. B. with the last new art
manufacture—“The Knowing Blade, a brazen-faced sharper, to
remove blunt;” and procuring for Mr. B. the skin of the identical
Bengal tiger he killed, as may be seen from a legend running up the back
bone—though an inscription on the tip of the tail states it to be
sold by Fitch of Regent Street. The bait secures its amount of
flat-fish; for that evening, Captain de Camp was more than usually
lucky—he caught enough at <i>ecarté</i> to clear himself;—a
<span class = "pagenum">30</span>
<!-- png 049 -->
freak of fortune that caused no asperity in the noble breast of Brown;
for here are his own thoughts in his own words:—“<span class =
"smallcaps">December</span> 26<i>th</i>, <i>Wednesday</i>
(Boxing-day).—My dear friend, De Camp, has this day given us all
tokens of the warmest attachment—sadly wanting to do something for
me—‘Colonial,’ ‘War,’ or ‘Admiralty.’ Not requiring anything just
now, this will form an admirable reserve; I must, in the meantime,
profit by his refined society, as I hope and trust the girls will by his
sons’. If there be any drawback to the delight I feel, it is the
non-arrival of his luggage; for I am personally inconvenienced by his
wearing my best coat. I may be over-scrupulous in wishing he would
return the books he devours with such avidity:—Mrs. B. says,
she thinks, the paragon of knowledge swallows them; for they are not to
be found.”</p>
<p>Next morning Ichabod enters the Brown suit and service, having spent
Boxing-night and the proceeds of the Christmas-piece at the play, where
he saw “Jane Shore” and “Harlequin House that Jack built;” the plot and
tricks of which he recounted to Master Tommy, as he took that young
gentleman for a walk, inoculating him with a great desire to go and
behold it. So, after having coaxed his mother, teased his father, and
cried his lovely blue eyes into a good imitation of red veined marble,
the youth triumphed; for on Thursday evening, they all went to the play
in the fusty fly from Drone’s yard, driven by old Drone, in his
pepper-and-salt suit of pseudo livery, that looked as if he always
brushed it with the currycomb; and so tindery about the breast, from
<span class = "pagenum">31</span>
<!-- png 050 -->
the number of marriage-favours annually pinned there, that it is a
wonder it holds together. Alphonso rode upon the box, giving the vehicle
a certain amount of smartness. On their arrival under the dirt-embrowned
portico of the theatre, they are cordially recognised by the De Camps;
who, thinking it a pity the box should not be filled, have just dropped
down to see “London Assurance”—intending to quit before the
pantomime, but forgetting to do so after all.</p>
<p class = "illustration">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic051.gif" width = "415" height = "314" alt = "picture"></p>
<p>During the play, Master Tommy disposes of a vast quantity of oranges
and sponge-cakes—vanishing between each act to obtain a fresh
supply;—making butterflies of the bill, and causing the
double-barrelled <i>lorgnette</i> (which was hired for the occasion from
an adjacent oyster-shop) to slip off the cushion, falling upon a bald
gentleman in the pit:—the excited little pest remarking
everything, and fairly shouting at the discovery of Alphonso below,
until chid by his mother. Oh! that we could participate in thy youthful
enthusiasm, or feel pleased at that hotch-potch—the overture; or,
a thrill when the muffin-bell tinkles, causing the lovely
drop-scene—that combined the grandeur of the pretty Parthenon with
the sublimity of Virginia Water—to vanish into its own intensely
blue sky; disclosing the “Harlequin House that Jack built,” and Mr. John
Bull’s huge paste-board thick head, snoring like thunder, in a
“property” summer-house—an elephantine blue-bottle on his
proboscis, and a sleeping bull-dog, the size of an Alderney steer, at
his feet;—here Master Brown, with a grin, calls the house Victoria
Villa, and the paste-board mask his papa. Now enters the rat, to eat
<span class = "pagenum">32</span>
<!-- png 051 -->
the good things that lay in the house that John built, represented by a
stealthy seedy gentleman, who, after reading a board intimating that
apartments were to let, crept slyly past the sleepy Bull, to mount the
house-steps; and there deliver himself of the following doggerel, in a
mellifluous voice:—</p>
<span class = "pagenum">33</span>
<!-- png 052 -->
<p class = "verse">
"I search for lodgings—here’s the very thing,—</p>
<p class = "verse">
Though I’ve not got a <i>rap</i>, I think I’ll <i>ring</i>;</p>
<p class = "verse">
For all I want is to be <i>taken in</i>,—</p>
<p class = "verse">
As I would others <i>take</i>—sure ’tis no sin</p>
<p class = "verse">
To do to others—only tit for tat—</p>
<p class = "verse">
So here goes—Rat—tat, tat—a tat!!!!!"</p>
<!-- png 054 -->
<!-- png 055 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig34" id = "fig34"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic054.gif" width = "436" height = "516" alt = "Here We Are Again!" title = "Here We Are Again!"></p>
<p>The orchestra, loud in wishing to know “who’s dat knocking at de
door?” and Master Tom, deep in the bill, with Mr. Rat, who is there
described as a “scamp”—an unknown term to Tom, for he asked its
meaning; observing that Uncle Brick said Captain de Camp was a scamp.
This question remained unanswered; for no one heard it except the
Captain, who felt a great itching to pull a young monkey’s ears, but did
not. The cat (a sort of Puss in Boots, with a short stick and strip
of paper) entering, to catch the rat, is worried by the dog; who is
tossed by a cow with a very crumpled horn; who was milked by a maid said
to be very forlorn; who is kissed by a sweet-looking beggar, all
tattered and torn—the loving pair being likened to Jemima and
Latimer, by Master Tom, causing his sister’s face to redden as a
furnace, that heightened the more it was fanned; and when the priest,
all shaven and shorn (whom Tom called the Rev. Loyalla à Becket),
commenced marrying the couple, then Miss Jemima entertained serious
notions of fainting; and, probably, would, had not the solemnization of
matrimony been violated by the priest, who shed his sack-cloth surplice,
vaulting over the rails of the altar, between the astonished couple,
leaving that sanctuary to change into a <i>match
maker’s</i>—appearing, himself,
<span class = "pagenum">34</span>
<!-- png 053 -->
a perfect <i>clown</i>, stating that sublime, veritable,
truth—“<i>here we are again!</i>”—working his geometric,
chromatic, physiognomy into endless contortions, extending his arms like
the sails of contrary windmills, twiddling his legs like a
fly,—and when called upon, by unearthly voices, for
“Tippytiwitchet,” appears so scared that he tumbles through the big
drum, to oblige them with the song from the slips; instantly afterwards
presenting himself upon the stage, dilating his spotted inexpressibles,
until they put him in mind of a friend, <i>Pantaloon</i>, that, by a
curious coincidence, resides at a tailor’s, in the back-ground, having
just completed a patch-work skin, for <i>Harlequin</i>; who, the instant
he is fitted, flies through the panel of a door, inscribed
“<i>cutting-out</i> room,” into the next house, a <i>florist’s</i>,
there to obtain his favourite flower, the <i>Columbine</i>, with whom he
has a long dance in the centre of a very solitary street; whilst Clown
and Pantaloon arrange a partnership concern, which they carry on in the
middle of the road, in front of the shop, until Clown renders himself
more plague than profit, by warming his partner’s lumbar region with a
very red-hot goose, basting him with the sleeve-board, and sticking him
to the road with wax—Clown dissolving partnership by walking off,
in a new wrap-rascal, with the cash-box, that no one may rob them. The
best things must come to an end!—and so does the
Pantomime—with a gorgeous display of red fire, tinsel and gold,
real water and the electric light—all chopped off in the middle by
the descending curtain. The box-fronts have been enveloped in their
night-gowns; the Columbine is clattering, in pattens,
<span class = "pagenum">35</span>
<!-- png 056 -->
to her lodgings;
<span class = "floatleft">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic056a.gif" width = "294" height = "274" alt = "The Notorious Singer at the “Warren,” Singing His Celebrated Bits “The Drop” and “The Drain.”" title = "The Notorious Singer at the “Warren,” Singing His Celebrated Bits “The Drop” and “The Drain.”">
</span>
the Harlequin has been bolted out, unable to vault through the
fan-light; and the Clown is running in his painted face, having
forgotten to wash it, for at home he left a dear wife seriously ill, to
come and be funny in sadness.</p>
<span class = "floatright">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic056b.gif" width = "159" height = "224" alt = "picture">
</span>
<p>Drone’s fly is homeward bound, heavily laden. The young men of the
party have dived into “The Welsh Rarebit Warren,” there to spend the
early hours of the morning, listening to sentimental songs chanted amid
fumes of tobacco and spirits, to hear sorry wit, and make vapid remarks.
The great feature of the evening being a melodramatic
<span class = "pagenum">36</span>
<!-- png 057 -->
dirge, supposed to be sung by a condemned felon—a triumphant
lamentation and delineation of brutal character,—so eloquent and
thrilling, in its monosyllabic groans of anguish, that it is a wonder
the kidneys, consumed in such numbers, are ever digested. But,
alas!—such is life—those most swayed by animal propensities
see the least warning therein:—as, the thief combines business and
pleasure at the gallow’s foot; so, with the frequenters of the
“Warren”—they imbue their sentiment and supper,—only
digesting the latter. Wellesley has devoured several “rabbits,” and
Latimer disposed of numberless kidneys, whilst young Brown has had to
wait the usual forty minutes for a steak; and, in the interim, had five
“stouts,” four “goes,” and several cigars, <i>i.e.</i>, with assistance
from the De Camps; who have made free, ay, to order goblets of
champagne, and, in the end, not having change to repair the “damage”
(a mean, but true, term, as often applied), they get young Brown to
pay the complicated sum added up by the waiter, upon a mahogany ditto,
in lieu of a slate, with stale stout spilled in the corner, receipted
with a wipe of the towel:—and so, home in the “safety” cab, with
large wheels and a spanking grey,—lettered along the side “<i>Nil
desperandum</i>,” thinking “handsome is as <i>Hansom</i> does;” tumbling
into bed just before the peep o’ day, and five hours after Mr. Brown had
made up his Diary—writing against December the 27th., Thursday,
that he had taken Tom and the girls to a pantomime; been agreeably
surprised to find the De Camps there, especially the sons, who did sit
in front, with
<span class = "pagenum">37</span>
<!-- png 058 -->
Jemy. and Angel., looking made as much for one another as he could
desire:—Tom behaving very sadly; and, were it not for his mother,
the boy should spend the vacations at a Yorkshire school;—twice
every year—in the Dog-days and December—is the house turned
topsy-turvy,—it may be sport to you, Master Tom, but ’tis death
to us.</p>
<p class = "illustration">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic059.gif" width = "341" height = "324" alt = "picture"></p>
<p>Thus older grew the year, and fuller got the Diary—Mr. Brown
graphically recounting the doings and disasters of “<span class =
"smallcaps">December</span> 28<i>th</i>,
<i>Friday</i>.—Unpropitious, fatal, Friday! I never knew it
lucky save once, and then it <i>was</i>—I let the Albert.
‘Christmas comes but once a year,’ with a train of nasty bills, not to
be bilk’d; and sorry consolation is it thinking you ‘paid at the time,’
when the receipt is not to be found. Miss-Fortune, that never came
single, now visits with a large family of little pests—out of
season and uninvited!—Here is Needy, the pianist, who, one would
think, had married her; for he has children enough to fill a charity
school. Needy, of No. 9, Brown Terrace, has absconded without
paying the rent—sending the key, and £12. 10<i>s.</i>, instead of
£14., with a shabby excuse about hoping to be able to make up the
difference some day:—this is the return for showing compassion to
a poor devil!—I ought to have known, when I took the
cottage-piano for last quarter, though Spohf did say it was a
six-and-three-quarters, worth three times the money!—I am a
good-natured fool, and ought, in justice to my family, to be a little
more selfish—these mean professionals estimating their rubbish far
beyond all reason!—My spirits are damped—and so are we all,
for the water-pipes
<span class = "pagenum">38</span>
<!-- png 059 -->
that that rascal Plummer fixed, at the low contract, have burst with
this evening’s thaw, and were discovered just as the water was coming
in; having played, I know not how long, a fountain in the
bathroom, tumbling down the stairs like the falls of the Niagara,
obliging us to insert tobacco-pipes all over the drawing-room ceiling,
to drain the
<span class = "pagenum">39</span>
<!-- png 060 -->
inundation:—it has spoilt the watered paper, stained the aquatint
of the Aqueduct, and ‘Wellington at Waterloo,’ done for the
water-gilding, and saturated the ‘Momentous Question;’ the ‘Heart’s
Misgivings’ is a sop; and the water-colour of the ‘Flood’ is washed
away. Alphonso is sitting up in goloshes to empty the pots, and I doubt
much if I shall sleep over the dropping-well.”</p>
<p>How Mr. Brown slept we do not know, but can imagine, for here is the
Diurnal Record, made up in bed:—“<span class =
"smallcaps">December</span> 29<i>th</i>, <i>Saturday</i>.—Dreamed
Victoria Villa turned into a hydropathic establishment—that I was
being frozen, thawed, and suffocated; did wake, this day, with an
enlarged cheek—the influenza compelling me to keep my bed, bathe
my chilblains, and anoint my nose; I take slops internally, and
wear a heart upon the outside of my chest. The kind, considerate Captain
called, smoking a cigar, that made me cough, and think his visit a
visitation.”</p>
<!-- png 062 -->
<!-- png 063 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig40" id = "fig40"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic062.gif" width = "457" height = "520" alt = "Compliments of the Season." title = "Compliments of the Season."></p>
<p>The first Sunday after Christmas is here:—Brown is in bed; the
little bell of St. Stiff’s has stopped, and many another vibratory sound
is dying in the distance; flakes of snow are moodily
descending—causing the fire to spit angrily, and the face of
heaven to look black—all light appearing to come from the earth;
sound is deadened, the carpet is darker than usual, and the ceiling
lighter; Mr. Brown’s eyes are up there, for he is lying, tracing amid
the cracks and stains, vast palaces like pictures by Martin, or aërial
phantasmagorias by Turner. Brown is lying, nursing his influenza
according to the approved adage; though
<span class = "pagenum">40</span>
<!-- png 061 -->
some read the maxim thus, “Stuff a cold, and (have to) starve a fever.”
Let us hope Brown has the right version. Captain de Camp has come to
read to the invalid, and drink his brandy and water—he has begun
“Blair’s Sermons,” or rather the life of Blair, prefixed to the volume,
in a full conviction of its religious tendency; whilst in the room above
is John, the footman, standing upon his bed, breathing on the single
pane of glass, inserted in the sloped roof, that he may melt the snow,
and see to read a mysterious document—a tumbled
note,—not on the Bank of England, but an epistolatory one, found
in the trowsers pockets of Mr. Latimer de Camp—the same cast off
by that gentleman on Christmas-day, when he stumbled over the strange
dinner, in coming from church, and so much deteriorated their appearance
as to give them to John;—who now, thinking he has found
evidence,—<ins class = "correction" title =
"text unchanged">thinks he always thought he thought</ins> the De Camps
scamps. John is perplexed at the purport of the letter; and feeling a
cold thrill run through him, he turns into bed, there to reflect for ten
minutes upon the downy pillow, pondering with intensely closed eyes,
considering before he puts himself in the power of an enemy—for
John had been a soldier once, and would have been one now, had not his
poor old mother starved and mangled together enough to buy him off; he
bore the stamp of military drill, took in “Tales of the Wars,” in penny
numbers, and had a cheap print of the “Battle of Waterloo” pasted to the
sloping roof, above the bed, in which we left him pondering. Having
considered enough, he takes once more to the document, folding and
unfolding it, examining the thimble
<span class = "pagenum">41</span>
<!-- png 064 -->
impress on the seal, tasting a corner of it in his excitement, and
reading it with intense energy for the last time: it is directed to
“Latimer de Camp, Esq., M.A., Albert Villa, Mizzlington;” and was posted
in the New Cut:—</p>
<p class = "smallroman" align = "right">No. 2, Grubb’s Rents.</p>
<p>“<span class = "smallcaps">Dear Edward,</span></p>
<p>“I am anxiously awaiting the ‘<i>Conspiracy</i>,’—do not keep
me in suspense!—<i>do</i> <span class = "smallroman">DO</span> it,
for my <i>benefit</i>.—I sadly want <i>money</i>. Is the
<i>plot</i> too <i>horrible</i> for you!—you know how to do for a
‘<i>Victoria</i>’ company!—make a <i>domestic tragedy</i> of
it—<i>shoot</i> the <i>father</i> and <i>son</i>!—you know
the rest. Pray communicate, or I shall think you in trouble.</p>
<p align = "right">
“Your forlorn—<span class = "smallcaps">Emma</span>.”</p>
<p>For this last perusal John appears none the wiser, being unable to
divine more than at first—murder and treachery seem the plot. John
thinks the Captain just like Gory, the murderer, in the Chamber of
Horrors, at the wax-works; and that Victoria Villa resembles “Greenacre
Hall,” depicted in the pictorial newspaper. John is sadly perplexed as
to where he shall seek counsel—of course, thinking of every one
foreign to the case; until, happily, he remembers one that ought to have
been thought of first—to Mr. Spohf will he send the mysterious
note, ask his advice, and act upon it:—but, unfortunately, John
sealed the envelope with Mr. Brown’s crest—a circumstance
that made Mr. Spohf think the letter from his old friend Brown; so he
answers it as such—feeling much pleasure that <i>his</i> advice
should be
<span class = "pagenum">42</span>
<!-- png 065 -->
sought;—saying, the enclosed note appeared to be about some drama
some one had to write—a document of no serious import. As to
<i>strangers</i>, he should advise caution; for it is the aim of a rogue
to look as much like a trusty friend as possible; quiet watchfulness is
well, for that can harm no one. This answer from Mr. Spohf was promptly
delivered by the little tailor’s daughter to the expectant John; who
naturally thought it for him. Curiously, John and his master both owned
the name of Brown—John Brown:—now John, the servant, was
conscientious; and would not, on any account, have opened his master’s
letters—he drew the line of propriety much further off,—it
stopped at reading in at the ends. John felt sure <i>this</i> letter was
for him—not that he liked being called an esquire; yet, for all
that, he felt safe, for there, extra-large and important, was the word
“<i>Private</i>”—a military distinction that made him doubly
certain; so, he bore away the letter, in great trepidation, to his
quarters in the tiles, there to be much relieved by its contents;
vowing, as he lay on his bed, to be watchful as the Duke on the look-out
in his “Battle of Waterloo,” and dumb as a dead drummer in the
foreground.</p>
<p>Happily Victoria and Albert were ignorant of these despatches, or
John might have lost his commission and uniform. Confidence is
unshaken;—for, on <span class = "smallcaps">December</span>
30<i>th</i>, <i>Sunday</i>, Captain de Camp is reported a “glorious
oriental brick,”—he having kindly prescribed all sorts of good
things for his invalid friend, without the slightest regard to expense;
and, moreover, broken Brown’s quinsy by administering an
<span class = "pagenum">43</span>
<!-- png 066 -->
extraordinary anecdote, or “crammer,” that scarcely any one could
<i>swallow</i>; but Brown did, and laughed so much afterwards, that the
quinsy was gone; for the Captain had anecdotes suited to all times and
seasons—he only wanted listeners, and off he went like an alarum.
Sunday put him in mind of that day twelvemonths; and that day put him in
mind of Richard Spark, of the Native Infantry; Rich. Spark put him in
mind of how they got that Hindoo millionaire, Makemuchjee Catch-muchjee,
into a Christian church, by walking him between them, in a state of
ether; how he (the Hindoo) was mollified by the sermon, and went
home—melted the Idol, Boobobum, that had golden hair, diamond
eyes, pearly teeth, coral lips, a silver tongue, and a copper
bottom; how he handed her over in lumps to the church; and yet, with all
these poetical attributes she was the ugliest and most precious god he
ever set eyes on. She was the subscription of the district—the
poor put the copper and the rich the gold;—the Captain telling of
how he made a posthumous portrait of her, which is quite correct; only
he forgot five bosoms in the bust, and left out a right arm:—it is
engraved in No. 365 of the “Missionary Record.”</p>
<p>This paragraph opens with the last day of the old year.—The
cold that stiffened Mr. Brown’s neck, and choked up his throat has
thawed; his nose has resumed its accustomed hue; his temper is unusually
good in the prospect of vacating his room, and beginning the year with
redoubled energy. Mrs. Brown is preparing for something important; and,
from the delicate scented note you observed inserted in our
<span class = "pagenum">44</span>
<!-- png 067 -->
chimney-glass-frame—the one with the Brown crest, a rampant
locomotive proper, and motto of “Go-a-head” (which, between ourselves,
was <i>found</i> by a very subtle seal-engraver in Change
Alley);—from that, and the remarks of Master Brown, when we called
this morning, you may pretty well judge:—he said Jemy. wrote such
a lot o’ letters the other day; that they have a pillow-case filled with
oranges—quite a sack-full; and, moreover, his Ma’. just was
clever—for she said she could kill two parties with one
chandelier, and make rout-seats hold double! The fact is, Mrs. Brown
intends to give a ball on the 4th of January, and a juvenile party on
the 5th—the former to be extra-superb, on account of the De Camps;
who, of course, are expected—having received an invitation by
post. We wonder the Browns did not write to invite themselves; for John
passed the Albert door in taking the Captain’s letter to the post, and
the preparations were as much under the guidance of those worthies as of
the Browns themselves. The boudoir is in a litter—all cuttings of
satin and book muslin,—in the midst of which may be seen pretty
Miss Bib and little Madame Tucker, very busily employed—Lady
Lucretia de Camp proffering advice; and superintending the construction
of an amber satin, covered with black lace—a dress that Mrs.
Brown thought to wear, but felt obliged to resign, so much did her kind
patron, Lady de Camp, dote upon it.</p>
<p>Above this last-named apartment is Brown’s bedchamber, where he and
the Captain are spending a quiet evening, reviewing their prospects
<span class = "pagenum">45</span>
<!-- png 068 -->
and relating their experiences:—the Captain stating his intention
of living retired upon his property, for all his friend Major Cant’s
trying to persuade him to take an adjoining house in Belgravia. No! he
was content to stay where he was—Albert was snug; but if Mr. Brown
thought of removing to Mayfair or Tyburnia, why then, a house next
such a capital individual might be a desideratum:—<i>he</i> said
it—an Army Captain that should not say it, but did not
care,—stock-brokers and merchants were men of bottom; though
probably his friend Major Cant would say <i>that</i> bottom meant the
<i>baser</i> stuff they were composed of—the joke was better than
the simile, and neither bad. After this opinion the Captain paused to
think, drink, and—with a blow that made the table
quiver,—demand, to know what a man without money was
<i>worth?</i>—answering the question, in the same breath, with an
emphatic <i>nothing!</i>—a man of wealth <i>was</i> a man of
worth! We know not if Mr. Brown thought this logic or no;—but he,
Captain de Camp, knew it, and intended to let his friends know it also;
for next season he would give a grand entertainment, get Spread and Co.
to throw a marquee over the lawn, and see if Major Cant would
come—the Captain rather thought <i>he</i> would; or the Hon. Sam.
Dummy—the coxcomb, who, when asked to dine with Alderman Fig, in
Bloomsbury Square, said <i>his</i> horses never crossed Tottenham Court
Road—Stinkomalee and the Brutish Museum savouring too much of the
“people” for the exquisite;—but the Captain winked, and said he
knew how the Dummy would get out of the fix—he would come along
the New Road, as the Captain said he once
<span class = "pagenum">46</span>
<!-- png 069 -->
knew him do, when in search of an asthmatic poodle that had been stolen,
and was at a dog-fancier’s on Pentonville Hill. Then should we have the
lane filled with carriages, like at a Chiswick fête; I would
introduce my friend to the world, and be at rest;—for we are a
couple of old boys, willing to make sacrifices for our dear
children.</p>
<p>Having delivered himself of these lofty sentiments as the bells were
ringing out the old year—stopping to strike its knell;—the
Captain also stopped, to seize a glass and the hand of
Brown—wishing him the merriest, maniest, and happiest of New
Years;—drinking eternal unity to the B.’s and
De C.’s—at the same time shedding a very visible tear, that
dropped into his brandy and water, like the pearl of Cleopatra, to be
sacrificed to self—to a very affectionate man—so <i>very</i>
affectionate, that he loved himself, we do believe.</p>
<p>The spirits and sentiment so overcame Brown, that he buried his
emotion in the bolster—a state of mind the Captain did not
fail to observe, and take advantage of; for—“he supposed Mr. Brown
could <i>not</i> spare £8, until Saturday?”—An affirmation that
gentleman repudiated; for he granted the small favour with
pleasure—presenting the leaf of an oblong book, and his autograph,
to the Captain; who retired with the same—by an ingenious plan to
render it of ten times the value—adding to the <i>eight</i> a
letter <i>y</i>, making it eight<i>y</i>, and the figure to keep company
with a naught—£80.</p>
<p>The events of this day are chronicled in the Diary of Brown—all
<i>couleur de rose</i>,—the literal purport of which it would be
tedious to
<span class = "pagenum">47</span>
<!-- png 070 -->
repeat; suffice it to say, the aphorisms on the demise of the year ran
foul of the “<i>occasional memoranda</i>,” and were brought to a dead
stop by the “<i>general accounts</i>;” not that his ideas stopped on
paper, for he continued them in bed. Brown dreamed “his ship had come
home;”—that he dwelt in a Belgravian palace; that he was an
M.P.;—that he was known as <i>Brown</i>, the “King of
’Change”—that he ruled with an iron ruler—that he was
enthroned upon a cash-box—that he wore a crown of
dollars—that the four quarters of the globe adored him—that
Great and Little Britain worshipped him;—that the <i>world</i>
told his <i>wife</i>, Brown was a great man:—but,
alas!—trains of wild ideas, like locomotives that go too fast, may
run off the rail when least expected, or explode as a train of
gunpowder, without notice; so, in Mr. Brown’s imagination, he feels as
if shot into the air, after being dreadfully scalded—Mrs. Brown,
kind soul, having applied a bottle of boiling water (forgetting the
flannel) to the feet of her spouse, before retiring, herself—that
good lady little thinking it was so warm. But there were other things
Mrs. Brown did not know of; for she little thought the servants were
round the kitchen-fire, quiet as mice, all deep in the “Mysteries of the
Courts and Sewers of London”—a work affording the greatest
amount of horrible excitement at the lowest rate,—a book in
which Alphonso has discovered a Captain de Camp; and cook, a Lady
Thingamy, whom, she says, “ain’t no better than she should
be”—a rather vague but significant truth, that might as
appropriately have been applied to a saint as to a sinner, though cook
intended it for the latter:—as to the Capting,
<span class = "pagenum">48</span>
<!-- png 071 -->
the only think she had agin him was a wish he wouldn’t spile everythink
with soy and cayenne, for it got into the wash, and made the pigs
sneeze. Mary, too, must have her opinion—saying Wellesley wasn’t
no gentleman, for he wiped his dirty boots on the towels, and would pull
the plug out of the wash-bason when there was nothing under to catch the
soapy water. During this scandal, John, whom all thought knew something,
only said the Captain was <i>an umbug</i>—as he noiselessly
disappeared, bearing his shoes in his hand; for it was considerably past
midnight.</p>
<p>Young Brown and his two friends are at the “Planets” harmonic
meeting, stating their intention not to return till morning—an
useless proclamation, for it is impossible to do otherwise,
now—they having been at the Casino, “getting their feet in,” for
the hop on Friday, as young Brown termed the practice of dancing.</p>
<p>Mr. Spohf is in bed, but cannot sleep—so great is his
pleasure,—Messrs. Blow and Grumble having patented “Spohf’s new
organ-movement.”</p>
<p>“A Happy New Year—and may you live to see many of
them!”—The New Year is born with every characteristic of its
defunct sire—seeming no better behaved (as some people would have
little boys after a birthday or a breeching):—the old year died
with a drizzle; and the young one, that everybody hoped promising, is
born with the same attributes.</p>
<p>Mr. Brown is at his post again—the parish lamp-post at the
corner
<span class = "pagenum">49</span>
<!-- png 072 -->
of the lane—awaiting the “Favourite” omnibus, that is to bear him
to the City. He is trying to arrange the thousand and one little
commissions he has to execute for Mrs. Brown. How many he remembered or
forgot we know not; but that day he purchased a fair blank
Diary—the stationer who sold it not only wishing him “a Happy New
Year,” but that he might “live to fill fifty such:”—a wish
that made Mr. Brown very contemplative—thinking 18,250 entries no
joke;—of many bright, bright days of pleasure; two score and ten
of birthdays; half a century of weddings, anniversaries, and
deaths—let us hope of peaceful, happy deaths,—for clouds
will sometimes gather, darkening the brightest sky; but, thank Heaven,
there is plenty of sunshine for those who seek it—ay, to find it,
too, though it be midnight and beside a kitchen-fire. Of this new Diary
the first page is penned with more care than usual—as all first
pages are:—there the De Camp dynasty reign in confidence; and it
is evident that Mr. Brown anticipates a glorious future.</p>
<p>Young Time, we have often imagined, must be born fledged; for he can
fly quickly as his sire!—It is the 3rd of January—the day
prior to Mrs. Brown’s ball.—Thus thought we, wending our way to
Victoria Villa; having promised the Miss Browns to step in and practise
the “<i>deux-temps</i>” with them; but, as we have since heard, it is
another new double-shuffle that is turning the brains of the dancing
world just now;—however, we went, and found Victoria in a pretty
pickle—a perfect mixed pickle, we may say,—our dear
young friends being
<span class = "pagenum">50</span>
<!-- png 073 -->
much too busy to remember the appointment:—for there was the
“Broadwood” standing upon the landing; and Master Tom cutting out slides
upon the bare boards in the drawing-room, the carpet being taken to St.
Stiff’s Union, that it might be beaten—a thing we exceedingly
rejoiced in; for last year the guests were obliged to beat it with their
feet, and afterwards to carry the dust home upon their
shoulders—the first polka being performed as if in the Great
Desert, during a sand-storm. There was the chandelier (that looked all
the year like a giant pear enveloped in holland) being removed to the
parlour, and a much more splendid one suspended in its stead. We peeped
into the drawing-room, and had our dignity compromised by a man on some
steps; who directed us to “look alive and bring that hammer.” So, it
being very evident we were in the way, we withdrew, tumbling over a
barricade of fenders and other furniture in the hall, raised during our
absence by the insurgent housemaids; who, we are sorry to say, seemed
rather diverted at the mishap, for we heard them giggle, though of
course we appeared not to notice, and tried to walk away with a joyous
air; at the same time vowing never to visit, even our best friends, on
the day prior to a party.</p>
<p>So we took care to keep away until the memorable evening arrived; but
being particularly requested to come early, and bring our amiable
sisters, we wished to do so. The Brougham was waiting, as were
we—thinking to do so for some time:—having made up our mind
and the study-fire—diving deep into the first book handy—an
"Essay upon Light
<span class = "pagenum">51</span>
<!-- png 074 -->
and Shade in Painting." Well, we were in the dark—with
Rembrandt;—when the room appeared to fill with odoriferous vapour,
and a blonde fairy stealthily touched our shoulder, making a mock
salutation, that startled us very much:—it was our playful sister,
whom we complimented upon appearance and expedition; well knowing ladies
to be unable to dress in a given time for a ball, whatever they may do
for an opera!</p>
<span class = "floatright">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic074.gif" width = "231" height = "136" alt = "picture">
</span>
<p>However, we had no cause for umbrage on this occasion; for the
carriage rumbled over the hard, dry, ground, just as St. Stiff’s was
striking nine—the stars above, twinkling, as they only can, upon a
clear, frosty night. Having knocked mildly, for fear of frightening Mrs.
Brown thus early, and been kept waiting some time, we were admitted;
after being taken for Mr. Strap, the help, by John, whom we surprised in
his fustian jacket and the middle of a fugitive tea. The ladies soon
disappeared into an upper region, not soon to return, leaving us to find
amusement as we best could:—to examine the tiger-skin, ingeniously
sewn upon a form to resemble a living animal (which, by the bye, it did
not); to peep into the parlour, and discover the supper, looking
mysteriously vast, by the light of one burner, very much turned down; to
pace the
<span class = "pagenum">52</span>
<!-- png 075 -->
hall; warm our kids at the Arnott; and, standing upon the mat, listen to
the unsophisticated talk without—speculating as to what a foreign
traveller could divine the conversation to mean, or the diurnal
occupation of the lanthorn-men to be:—</p>
<p>1st voice. “<i>Droves</i>, did yer say, in <i>Mad-ox</i> Street?”</p>
<p>2nd do. “Yes, <i>herds</i>; I got eight <i>bulls</i> and a
<i>hog</i> out of <i>Bullstrode</i> Street.”</p>
<p>1st do. “See to that <i>bull’s-eye</i>, <i>calf</i>; and, as there
ain’t no <i>kids</i> a-coming, I’ll <i>toss</i> yer for a
<i>tanner</i>.”</p>
<p>Here “the noblest study of mankind” was broken off—Alphonso
appearing. We left our men, to pace the hall—abandoning character
for a slow march,—whilst the page constructed a scaffold of
clothes-horses and table-covers, forming a repository for hats, over the
back kitchen-stairs; the lobby beyond which, we discovered had been
metamorphosed into a still-room, and was now presided over by two
pretty, plump damsels, in the finest cobweb caps—mere blond
buttons, of no earthly use, but, withal, very becoming:—one of
these maids being in converse with a young “gent.,” who, it appears, has
been forgotten in the excitement, and discovered here—his face
very sticky with candy and cream. Master Thomas Brown, fearing that such
search might be instituted for him, has taken a great affection to the
leg of the still-room table; from which he is coaxed by more attractive
substances, seized, and borne up to bed—his yells becoming “small
by degrees and beautifully less,” until lost altogether.</p>
<span class = "pagenum">53</span>
<!-- png 076 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic076.gif" width = "312" height = "270" alt = "picture"></p>
<p>Now comes Mr. Strap, to help and wait at table—in his huge
white cravat, yellow vest, and new pair of second-hand plush smalls,
disappearing below to develope his calves, which are enveloped in
gaiters,—gingerly beckoning the man with the bad hat, who had been
tuning the piano, and Mr. Palaver, the Mizzlington Artist in hair, to
follow, that they may escape by the back door.</p>
<p>We had been promenading the hall for some time, having become pretty
well acquainted with the pattern of the encaustic tiles with
<span class = "pagenum">54</span>
<!-- png 077 -->
which it was paved; and were going towards the entrance for the last
time, pluming ourself that we might appear to the greatest
advantage—for we felt assured the ladies were descending, having
heard a rustling and tittering;—when, just turning by the door, we
were electrified by three distinct bangs, that subsided into a sharp
rat, with an infinity of tail, causing the lid of the letter-box to look
as if it had the palsy, and ourself to retreat like a shot—feeling
alternately hot and cold; whilst Strap, who, upon hearing Mrs. Brown’s
footsteps, began to be very busy, performing a feat of strength with
seven waiters, a copper scuttle and an ice-pail, is put in such
trepidation that he loses his grip—all coming to the flags;
causing the greatest amount of clamour at the smallest amount of
sacrifice—Mrs. Brown saying she is happy it is not glass, and
hoping Strap hasn’t been drinking. The effect having annihilated the
cause, the door is not opened; so the dose gets repeated, with similar
gusto, by Fred. Lark—for it was he that gave the “stunner,” and
witnessed the commotion through the attenuated windows at either side
the door,—a piece of pleasantry for which he got stigmatised
by Mrs. B. as a naughty, noisome, noisy man; and for which he
himself proposed the <i>still</i>-room, as an antidote. Now, Mr. Lark is
one of those funny little men, rather liked, because not over given to
sarcasm, and quite capable of laughing at his own jokes; or rather the
jokes he has picked up and disseminates—such whimsies in their
place being very well, but out of it intolerable nuisances. Mr. Lark
commenced his vagaries in the still-room, when we were taking coffee,
<span class = "pagenum">55</span>
<!-- png 078 -->
placing the toast on the table, and the buttered bread to the fire;
proffering the sugar to Miss Angelina; inquiring of that lady if she
<i>liked</i> her tea—because, if not, she might <i>lump</i> it;
and upon our observing some cracknels, as hard, the Lark said—it
was <i>harder</i> where there were none; and that evening he completely
confounded Mr. Brown, by informing the worthy gentleman—he had not
seen him this year!—nothing very remarkable, considering it only
three days’ old; but enough, withal, to make Mr. Brown think of three
hundred and sixty-five—doubting the statement.</p>
<p>Now arrive the musicians, with a gentle knock:—up goes the harp
(like a huge blade-bone in baize), followed by the cornet, violin, and
pianist. We ascend:—Mrs. Brown popping and firing her parting
injunctions in every direction—at Alphonso, in the (library)
coffee-room; at Mr. Strap, by the door; at John, by the foot of the
stairs;—and, I was going to say, at the listless
supernumerary footman, lolling over the banisters; who appeared in, or
rather out of, character, by especial desire, for this night only, being
lent with the rout-seats at a sure salary. As Mrs. Brown passed this
latter gentleman in silence, we could not help smiling—hoping she
might have to think as well of his powers as he did himself, and that
all titles entrusted to his care might be safely delivered; for we knew
Mrs. Bramston would not be called <i>Brimstone</i>, without turning
fiery; or Mr. Reynard Sly put up with anything but <i>Slée</i>, though
he may write it Sly, himself.</p>
<p>Having gained the drawing-room, and got fairly through the
muslin-barrier
<span class = "pagenum">56</span>
<!-- png 079 -->
in the doorway, which made the staircase look as if in a fog, we found
the appearance within very gratifying—everything well out of the
way, and no stinting of wax-lights:—altogether exhibiting a
clearer stage than is often to be met with—some antique people
inviting you to polk in an old curiosity shop;—as, the other
evening, at the Dowager Lady Oldbuck’s, young Whisk, of the Heavies,
brought down a <i>buhl</i> table, covered with porcelain gimcracks;
a thing that Lark observed—ought to cure itself, if people
wished to save their <i>Sèvres</i>. Evening parties are not the slow
things they used to be:—here the back balcony is all evergreens
and tissue-paper blossoms, lit up with a Chinese lanthorn—looking
like a fairy bower, tenanted by four gaping gold-fish and a dissipated
canary; the little boudoir, beyond, so snug in sage and silver, seeming
but small accommodation for card-players. We thought of Lady
Oldbuck’s—the valuable space occupied by <i>chaperones</i> and
corpulent cronies,—blessing the new mode;—dances now being
given to dancers, not to dowagers and matrimonial slave-dealers, as
heretofore. Mrs. Brown calculates her company; and thinking there is
enough for a quadrille in either room, she commences to form
them—pouncing, from time to time, upon timid young men by the
door, who are led forward, like lambs from a flock, to
sacrifice,—until the sets are completed—all but one
couple—Mrs. Brown stating herself “distressed for
ladies;”—a combination of suffering by no means acute, for
she stood up herself, having engaged the amiable young Slowcoach to fill
the gap.</p>
<!-- png 080 -->
<!-- png 081 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig57" id = "fig57"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic081.gif" width = "458" height = "496" alt = "The Quadrille." title = "The Quadrille."></p>
<p><span class = "pagenum">57</span>
<!-- png 082 -->
No sooner did the orchestra commence—barely having finished the
first eight bars of “the Martyrs”,—than the guests came rushing up
from the coffee-room, like sheep through a hedge, one bolder than the
rest leading the way, causing Mrs. Brown to desert her partner in <ins
class = "correction" title =
"text unchanged: picture caption has “l’eté”"><i>l’éte</i></ins>—a figure
the gentleman feels
bound to execute twice, though he would much rather have been excused
either performance; and upon Mrs. Brown’s presenting a substitute he
became so beside himself as to forget the figure—a mishap
rendered none the clearer by a wag’s performing <i>la pastorale</i>,
when he ought to have done <i>trenise</i>, and moreover, not have done
it in such a facetious manner, as to render it a matter of doubt if he
himself could have recognized it; the audacity being accompanied by a
certain amount of shyness, that had to be hidden, altogether sadly
deranging our amiable youth’s comprehension, he being led by his
partner, instead of leading <i>her</i>—to be left, alone, in a
mental pillory, a specimen of blushing mortification more diverting
to behold than to experience;—but, upon being kindly treated by
his gentle partner, he recovers, in the <i>galop finale</i>, feeling
truly grateful to the guardian spirit that has conducted him through the
purgatory. Ladies, be gentle with youthful bashfulness—it often
arises from pure feelings, modest diffidence, or
unselfishness;—such, unlike many proficient dancers, carry their
brains in their hats, and not in their boots:—weigh your
“<i>fantastic-toes</i>” against them, and see which are the most
empty.</p>
<p>Somehow, the first quadrille is always unfortunate!—In the back
<span class = "pagenum">58</span>
<!-- png 083 -->
room they succeeded no better than in the front:—here, Miss
Charmer was top of the dance, as she always is, if it can be obtained;
especially in the <i>Lancers</i> or <i>Caledonians</i> (which, we dare
say, are pleasant quadrilles to those who know them, and the Charmer
does). Well, she is top, with young Hoy (heir to Sir Hobbedy), for a
partner, a brave youth at quoits, cricket, boxing, or
boating—his hands, horny as a tortoise and large as Polyphemus’,
over which he split three right-hand gloves:—a glance will
suffice to show how much he is <i>out</i> of his, and she <i>in</i> her,
element—Miss Charmer looking, Lark said, as if she would prefer
performing the “first <i>set</i>” (or sit) upon a vacant seat, beside
Arthur Beau, who has just arrived, and by whom, we know, she disliked to
be quizzed;—so, upon the completion of the first eight bars, the
Charmer flounced, bringing the flounces of her dress into contact with
the bars of the grate, causing the smoke to come out, and Arthur to come
round, that he might lean upon the shelf, engage himself for the next
dance, and stand behind the fair partner, a fire-guard of honour,
unable to keep from smiling at Mr. Hoy, who dances upon his heels, as
though enamoured of his large feet, and afraid of knocking his head
against the chandelier. Their <i>vis-à-vis</i> is a lively lady,
apparently taking stock of a <i>bouquet</i>, but, in reality, joking an
absent gentleman, opposite:—it is Miss Gay, whom Lark (her
partner) is making laugh, by observing—the gentleman is not so
<i>absent</i> as he ought to be; causing that lady to forget
herself—making many mistakes and false starts; which, being those
of a person who knew better, were very diverting. Miss Gay is voluble as
volatile, no subject coming
<span class = "pagenum">59</span>
<!-- png 084 -->
amiss—she is now speculating as to how far the gentlemen will
permit the buttons to travel down their backs, or their skirts to be
curtailed; and Mr. Lark, unable to find a reason, must get up a contrary
supposition—imagining some middle-aged ladies to resemble a
cork-screw, as they have at different periods shifted the waist from the
armpits downward;—<i>waists</i> making us think of the short lady
(in this set) with a very long one—Miss Price, only child of
Alderman Price, chandler and dry-salter, of Candlewick
ward—daughter and <i>hair</i>, as Mr. Lark jocosely observed, in
allusion to the luxuriant red tresses of that lady;—saying her
papa was the great crony of Sir Rich. Big, the free vintner, late of
Portsoken ward, who was found, or rather not found—having
evaporated of spontaneous combustion, before he could get to the civic
chair,—leaving all his money to Price; who has retired, with his
fat and the gout, to Bayswater. Miss Price is a lovely dancer, appearing
hollow (a thing Miss Gay did not doubt), like an India rubber ball
in flounces; she is said to have a beautiful hand, so small as to
require only No. 6. gloves—as if a pigmy hand could not be a
deformity. She is invited, in a hope that young Brown may make her a
partner, for the dance of life; and is said to be worth
£150,000—not by the pound weight, as the envious Miss Gay
hinted.—No! No! naughty Miss Gay, be satisfied with Nature’s
gifts, and do not covet lucre.</p>
<p>Here comes young Brown, who has not danced before, to make
arrangements with Miss Gay, who has—and proved herself the
<i>belle</i>
<span class = "pagenum">60</span>
<!-- png 085 -->
of the room;—but, as gentlemen are now in the minority, she does
not hint at being “engaged for the next,” or propose “the one
after.”</p>
<p>There is a temporary lull, after the dance:—and in comes
Captain de Camp, looking like a macaw in a dress-coat, leading Lady
Lucretia de Camp, who resembles an apoplectic canary—so glittering
is the amber satin,—followed by the sons, who meander amongst the
beaux and bare shoulders, in search of the Miss Browns—dancing
with no one else all the evening,—causing the gentlemen to think
very little of the De Camps, and the ladies less of the Miss Browns.
Now, then, for a polka!—the rattling “Post knock
Polka!”—Off! away they go, after a great deal of reluctance and
playful diffidence as to who should lead off—Miss Charmer with
Arthur Beau, twirling round and round, in and out (like an eel among
skittles); followed by Mr. Latimer and Miss Jemima, who evidently
intended to do great things, but only cause confusions and contusions,
until they get knocked into the open space, in the centre of the human
vortex—the Charmer spinning, as a top that could not stop, while
the music continued, like the automata in front of a street organ.
There, there they go!—that is Lord Towney—he who came with
Mr. Serjeant Wideawake, the Honourable Member for Bloomsbury—the
fellow who got acquainted with Brown, as brother-director of the “Dodo
Assurance,” that didn’t do, and was done up. His Lordship is son of the
Marquis of Mary-le-bone—he that is flying with the pink
flounces,—the buoyant, hollow, Miss Price, whose pretty button of
a nose we do
<span class = "pagenum">61</span>
<!-- png 086 -->
believe was
<span class = "floatright">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic086.gif" width = "188" height = "378" alt = "picture">
</span>
impressed with the basket-work on her partner’s fourth shirt-stud. Round
and round they twist—backwards, forwards, and
sideways,—between parties parted, and openings that close
again,—faster and faster,—smiling, frowning, and
apologizing,—growing swifter and swifter,—until the floor
snapped, and rebounded with an awful crash.</p>
<p class = "asterisk">****</p>
<p>The visitors are in the room below—a scene of ruin and
rueful faces;—the supper that was displayed there, in all its
state, is done for. Alas!—the chandelier has been polked off the
hook—a mishap in which few sympathise, for the floor is said
to be safe; Mr. Lark being the first to propose their going above, as he
jokingly observed—to crack the <i>party</i>-wall. Now, for that
vastly-relished valse, the “Teetotum”—liked none the less for the
late excitement!—<i>deux temps</i> against <i>trois</i>
<span class = "pagenum">62</span>
<!-- png 087 -->
<i>temps</i>—the latter getting worsted; and the Brown girls, who
danced every dance, with certain gentlemen, only, more and more
unpopular.</p>
<p>As the evening progresses, the Wall-flowers become bolder;—some
finding partners for quadrilles; others edging up to the vacant
recesses, rendering it now possible to get out at the door, and obtain
air on the landing—where several young fellows are
congregated:—there young Lark was laughing, we knew, at the Rev.
Jewel St. Jones, the clerk in orders at St. Stiffs, doing the
<i>cavalier seul</i>—for we heard him say something about early
missal, or primitive Christian style,—joking the reverend
gentleman’s partner, Miss what’s-her-name, the “lamp-post,” from
No. 4, Bury Court, St. Mary Axe—that washed-out, faint, fair
creature,—she, that looks as if you could see the back buttons of
her dress through from the front—that lady—well, do you see
her?—It is said her mother keeps her in a dark closet, that she
may look like a consumptive geranium:—however, Mr. Lark said
<i>he</i> did not believe it; and, as no one said they did, the matter
ended. The stairs soon become a popular observatory—several
Wall-flowers joining the knot; one of whom mildly remarks something
about three silver-grey silks, in the fore-ground, and their being “much
worn;” which Mr. Lark fully agreed in, as, he said, they appeared to
have been <i>turned</i> several times—a joke, at which the
Wall-flower faintly smiles, for the three silver-greys are his
sisters:—however, nothing daunted, he is at it again, remarking
upon marriage, and people that look married; illustrating his theory by
pointing out the juvenility of an aunt, who he says is a
<span class = "pagenum">63</span>
<!-- png 090 -->
virgin:—Lark retorting—“<i>virging</i> on
fifty!”—a notification that begets much laughter, making the
Wall-flower feel at a discount, and more than ever desire to say
something smart; so, he pitches upon a gentleman with parenthetical
(bowed) legs, observing that Brown has invited his tailor; moreover,
wagering two to one, that if the gentleman, so libelled, were asked to
look at the splashes on the calf of his leg, he would take it up in
front, and examine it in his hand, like a nabob or tailor, used to sit
upon the floor; were he a Christian, he would look at it over his
shoulder:—here the Wall-flower turned for applause, looking over
his own shoulder to illustrate the anecdote—there to discover,
Captain de Camp, the gentleman who introduced “Parenthesis,”
a staff doctor, from Woolwich (at least so the Captain said). But
here we will leave them to proceed below, and see how matters progress
in the supper-room:—</p>
<!-- png 088 -->
<!-- png 089 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig63" id = "fig63"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic089.gif" width = "424" height = "399" alt = "The Stair-case—Captain de Camp and the Wall-flower" title = "The Stair-case—Captain de Camp and the Wall-flower"></p>
<p>The chandelier, the treacherous culprit, that would not swing or hang
in chains, is being borne away, clanking along the lower hall; the
broken glass has been picked out of the pastry, and the oily odour
overcome with <i>esprit de bouquet</i>—presenting, withal,
a very effective <i>coup-d’œil</i>:—though, we could fancy
the tipsy-cake, in the form of a leaning-tower, if anything,
a little more groggy; and that the composite Corinthian temple
looked as if it had suffered from an earthquake—but there it was,
for all the intense remorse of the cook, who thought the exhibition of
so mutilated a work of art would injure his reputation for
ever—but it did not!—Neither did any one notice the loss of
the frail
<span class = "pagenum">64</span>
<!-- png 091 -->
effeminate brigand, that formerly tenanted the rotunda of barley-sugar;
nor was it known that a treadmill had given place to a locomotive and
tender—in sweets.</p>
<p>The first portion of this banquet disappears merrily; there being no
lack of the usual conserves, pasties, and geometrical
bread-envelopes—supposed to contain something, but consumed
without the slightest knowledge of their contents.</p>
<p>After the ladies have supped and withdrawn, the gentlemen lay to,
with immense energy, as if to make up for the time they have been kept
in suspense, creating great havoc amongst ruined fowls, or anything they
can lay hands upon—in the excitement, particularity having given
place to mirth. One gentleman has planted a spoon in his button-hole,
after the fashion of a flower; and, of course, for his pains, got called
a “Spooney,” by an unknown voice behind Mr. Potts, the tame apothecary,
who is pouring, or rather measuring out, some champagne, <i>himself</i>,
catching the final drop on the edge of the glass, as if it were
castor-oil:—the “Spooney,” thinking it Potts’ voice, must make a
joke in return; so begins with the rather hackney’d, but, as he thought,
appropriate one, of <i>cham</i>pagne being better than <i>real</i> pain
or quinine wine; and, upon Mr. P.’s essaying to answer, our “Spoon”
diverted to some tongue he was consuming, saying he liked it better than
<i>Pott</i>ed <i>tongue</i>—an observation that made the
apothecary’s face flush, and the “Spoon” liken it to an article before
them, a <i>claret-mug</i>. At this last allusion the “Pott” got
red-hot, and there is no knowing
<span class = "pagenum">65</span>
<!-- png 092 -->
what would have been the consequences, had not the “Spoon” terrified the
“Pott” by proclaiming “silence!”—in a stentorian voice;—and
a gentleman risen, Dr. Portbin, the author of that elaborate essay on
“Dribbling Babies,” in one thick volume, royal octavo—a work
that nobody read, but everybody thought a great deal of, for it gained
its author a vast infantine practice:—so, when the M.D. rose, the
“Pott” trembled—feeling greatly relieved to find the doctor only
did so to propose the “ladies”—“health and long life to Mrs. Brown
and the ladies!”—a toast that was drunk with great
enthusiasm, Mr. Lark vociferously applauding; at the same time stating,
in an under tone—“the doctor meant a long life of ills and bills.”
Dr. Portbin’s sentiment is echoed by Mr. Brown, who returns thanks in a
stereotype-speech, almost as original as a royal one; to which, in some
points, it bore slight resemblance, the ideas being very much
generalized—there was an “alliance with foreign powers,”
“acquisition of territory,” and “friendly relations:”—altogether a
prosperous allegory, which causes Captain de Camp to be “called upon;”
and, in that style of speech usually denominated “neat,” give very
visible vent to his inexpressible feelings—sketching several
scenes, commencing at Victoria Villa and ending at St.
Stephen’s,—with a verse, intended to look as if composed for the
nonce; but, in reality, a work of much study:—it was
delivered with great emphasis—a composition for which we had
to blush, though, as faithful chroniclers, feel bound to insert—it
ran as follows:—</p>
<span class = "pagenum">66</span>
<!-- png 093 -->
<p class = "verse">
“Victoria and Albert’s big</p>
<p class = "verse second">
With city’s wealth and soldier’s glory:</p>
<p class = "verse">
To Army, Queen, and Country swig:</p>
<p class = "verse second">
Improve, my friends, and prove the Tory!”</p>
<p>We do not think the Captain quite liked the word “swig,” but he could
find no better in “Walker’s Rhyming Dictionary;” or the last
expression—but <i>Conservative</i> could not be lugged in any
how:—however, we must say, this ostensible improvisatorial effort
produced a grand effect, and a greater noise; which had scarcely
subsided, when Mr. Serjeant Wideawake, the Honourable Member for
Bloomsbury, and author of “Lays of a Liberal,” rose to retort,
saying,—</p>
<p class = "verse">
“We beg to doubt your precious rig,</p>
<p class = "verse second">
And I’ll tell you another story:</p>
<p class = "verse">
To <i>improve</i> is to be a <i>whig</i>;</p>
<p class = "verse second">
But not to <i>improve-is-a-tory</i>!”</p>
<p>The effect of this latter burst of poetic fire was truly electric; it
completely extinguished the Captain’s impromptu glimmer, lighting up
that gallant bosom with a passion of another kind—he feels
miserably “put out;”—and, like a dying rush-light in its last
moments, seemed determined to end with a spark of unusual brightness.
The Captain stood erect, awaiting his opportunity; but, alas!—it
was one that never came; for the ventriloquist, that caused the rupture
between Mr. Potts and the “Spooney,” made the “Lion” wince, by
observing, “he hoped there would be no cruelty to
animals”—a remark that
<span class = "pagenum">67</span>
<!-- png 094 -->
made our “Lion” roar contemptuously,
<span class = "floatleft">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic094top.gif" width = "274" height = "183" alt = "picture">
</span>
<span class = "floatleft">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic094bottom.gif" width = "211" height = "90" alt = "picture">
</span>
and call the company “bears and monkeys”—he growling, with
blood-thirsty pugnacity, about “satisfaction” and “Chalk
Farm,”—the declamatory mania causing the irascible monster to
mount a projection in the recess, covered with a curtain, bringing down
an avalanche of fenders, fire-irons, and other stowage, with a fearful
crash—crowning the “king of beasts” with a
helmet-scuttle,—thus permitting the meaner animals to escape;
leaving, as Mr. Lark (who came out last) said, between frightful gusts
of laughter oozing from his handkerchief, Jackall Brown, the lion’s
provider, pacifying the enraged brute with claret or soda water; and
John in such an extreme fit of awe, that he has taken the state jug,
with the hole in the bottom stopped with sealing-wax—only intended
to hold cold water, into use, for hot; and, being unable to stop the
orifice with his finger, drops the article—to the scalding of the
already enfuriated “Lion.”</p>
<span class = "pagenum">68</span>
<!-- png 095 -->
<p class = "asterisk">******</p>
<p>Feet were pattering above as we left this scene of strife—no
time seeming to have been lost during the consumption of the supper; for
the hands of the clock, in the hall, pointed to an earlier hour than
they did when we descended:—the truth being, Lark, though rather
fast himself, thought Time too much so, and put him back a little. The
Wall-flower is comparing the clock with his repeater. Lark is
reprimanding him, saying—it is not <i>etiquette</i> to do so; and
that really some one ought to tell the vulgar thing, in green satin, who
wore her button of a watch-face outward (fearing lest it should be taken
for a locket), to turn the bauble round, for it is time she was in
bed.</p>
<p>Having been absent for a short period, we were informed by the Lark
that we had <i>not</i> lost a treat—for Jemima had been singing,
“Memory, be thou ever true!”—whilst Lark (perpetrating a dreary
pun) said, he every moment wished the music-stool would prove a <i>fall
setto</i>, and precipitate the lady to the ground; for it was a sad pity
to hear poor Spohf’s songs so murdered.</p>
<p>They are now at a waltz—“the Olga,”—which is carried on
with spirit, lasting a very long while—young Lark saying he does
not waltz, for it makes his head swim; and that he has an objection to
stand holding by the shelf, experiencing a sensation delightful as
standing
<span class = "pagenum">69</span>
<!-- png 096 -->
upon one’s head in a swing, before a lady that ought to have your best
attention;—however, for all Lark’s protestations, we saw some
one-sided smiles, as much as to say, <i>his</i> vulnerable part, like
that of Achilles, lay in the heels—an insinuation Lark could well
afford to allow, for he does not live to <i>dance</i>, alone, like some
sage, perfect, performers.</p>
<p>After the “Caledonians” and another polk (which, for diversion, young
Brown has danced to the tune of the
“College-hornpipe”—a pleasing eccentricity), followed a
quadrille, <i>à la Française</i>, danced without sides, in two very long
lines—a style reported to have been imported from a Casino,
and not held to be proper by sober people. So, Potts got a disgust for
the polka, and thought <i>it</i> improper—a dance he never
patronised or wished to—it being too <i>fast</i> for the dull
apothecary!—he hated it, because once an inveterate polkist nearly
knocked his <i>patella</i>, or knee-pan, off, with some hard substance
in the flying tails of the dancer’s dress-coat—a huge
street-door key, that ought to have been left in the <i>paletôt</i>.</p>
<p>Our evening is drawing to a close:—the mouths in the boudoir
are assuming the shape of elongated <span class =
"long">O</span>’s—an epidemic that has extended to the
Wall-flowers; the “harp” has accompanied his instrument with fitful
snores; the “violin” scarcely knows the back from the front of his
fiddle, or the “cornet” which end to blow into;—yet, upon being
asked for “Roger de Coverley,” they make a desperate effort to awake,
for they know it to be the last dance—which is supported by
<span class = "pagenum">70</span>
<!-- png 097 -->
the whole strength of the company,—Captain de Camp leading off
with Mrs. Brown, and Mr. Brown with Lady Lucretia. Thus ends the
Christmas Ball!</p>
<p>The still-room is being besieged for coffee; and there is a great
difficulty in obtaining hats and coats—unfortunately few of the
tickets corresponding,—for Alphonso’s ward was precipitated down
the kitchen stairs, it having been too heavily laden. Lady and Miss
Highbury are seen to their carriage by Mr. Lark, who departs in Lord
Towney’s cab, with a “<i>Gibus</i>” hat, mechanically deranged—all
wrinkles, like a jockey’s boot. Upon being asked, by a lanthorn-bearer,
“if his Honor has such a thing as a pint o’ beer in his pocket?” Mr.
Lark, with playful irony, informs the supernumerary that malt liquor is
not a solid, neither is it to be obtained at evening parties.</p>
<p>To and fro, flit the Jack-o’-lanthorns, respectfully touching the
binding of their battered hats, covering the tiers of muddy wheels with
their coat-tails, that the <i>tulle</i> and <i>tartelaine</i> may not be
spoiled—hoping your Honour will “remember” them!—as they
cast uncertain shadows upon the icy pavement—ice that has been
rendered none the less slippery by their cutting out a slide upon it,
with the assistance of the police, during the evening:—such a
banging of doors, clashing of steps, and stopping up the way, under the
little awning, over the carriage-sweep—a pretty pass, so
narrow that, we are sorry to say, the hackney-drivers instituted a
private road amongst the hardy shrubs, choking up the gates, to the
great distress of pedestrians, who are looked upon by
<span class = "pagenum">71</span>
<!-- png 098 -->
the “lanthorns” as “shabby gents,”—paying nothing for the
privilege of walking;—they (the “lanthorns”) viewing the immunity,
in the light of parsimony. However, we think walking home, after a
party, under the influence of champagne, a dangerous
experiment:—the clear free streets seeming to court a “lark,” and
the very bells to invite pulling—“Visitors’,” and “Night,” “Knock
and Ring,” (and run) also.</p>
<p>We have since heard the fate of a rash expedition undertaken at this
season, the band of adventurers consisting mostly of those gentlemen who
had passed the last half-hour dying for a cigar; and yet, by some
unknown attractive power, felt bound to stay the entertainment
out—probably it was that such kindred souls might depart <i>en
masse</i>; however, be it what it might, their first care was to obtain
a light—at some sacrifice, for the lamp-post had been newly
painted; and, secondly, happening to pass Mr. Spohf’s, they must
serenade that gentleman with pathetic negro-melodies—about the
loss of one “Mary Blane,” and an injunction to “Susannah” not to
sob,—until driven by the police into another beat, there to lose
one of their band, who fell a victim to an inquiring spirit;—for,
seeing an inscription on a door, to intimate that its owner,
a surgeon, gave “advice, gratis, between the hours of four and
five, every Saturday,” he rang to demand the same (having the
head-ache), as it was just that time by St. Stiff’s; but, unfortunately
falling into the clutches of No. 8, of the A division, he had
to receive the advice, from a magistrate, between eleven and twelve, at
a fee of five shillings.</p>
<span class = "pagenum">72</span>
<!-- png 099 -->
<span class = "floatleft">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic099.gif" width = "111" height = "428" alt = "picture">
</span>
<p>We left Mr. Lark in Lord Towney’s cab—again to take up with
him, being put down at the end of Bloomsbury Buildings, fearing the
rattle of wheels in that quiet <i>cul-de-sac</i> would disturb the old
Larks. Having found the door, and spent five minutes by the
hinges—searching for the key-hole, he gets within; and spends five
more—trying to ignite an extinguisher;—cautiously stealing
to bed, throwing his <i>paletôt</i> over the top banister, and the
contents of its pockets down the well-staircase, to the awakening of the
whole house.</p>
<p>At Victoria Villa the last guest has gone:—the De Camps have
gone—departed with cordiality and love for all that is Brown, at
the same time sadly mortified with the impression made on that worthy
gentleman’s friends. Mrs. Brown, worn out and exhausted, has given a
parting glance round, with her night-lamp, and panted up to-bed; the
Misses Brown have retired to their chambers; John feels very much
inclined to proclaim his opinion of the Captain, but is fearful of the
consequences; and Mr. Strap, who has fallen a victim to his weak
point—strong drink, is rendered thereby quite incapable of making
either a base to his person, or a fluent
<span class = "pagenum">73</span>
<!-- png 100 -->
speech, as it seems he wished; for, upon meeting Mr. Brown by the
stairs, he made a rush at the esteemed proprietor of that name,
prophetically bidding him to “B-B-Beware of Captings in w-w-w-wolf’s
clo-o-othing, fur all isn’t gug-gug-gold as gl-l-l-litters, as the
Rev-rind Miss-s-s-ster B-B-Bucket observes, in the Proverbs of Sol’mon’s
songs.” Mr. Strap, after having delivered these sentiments, in what
might have been called a <i>sotto</i> voice, to an imaginary Mr. Brown
(for the reality had withdrawn to bed), performs an unsuccessful
backward movement upon his heels—as if to survey his
victim,—coming to the ground; where he lay until borne off by
John, who thinks him a valiant fool.</p>
<p>The persevering Brown, though much fatigued, does not postpone the
Diary:—“<span class = "smallcaps">January</span> 4<i>th</i>,
<i>Friday</i>—<i>Execrable</i> Friday!—We this day gave our
Annual Ball—<i>we</i>, indeed!—why I knew nothing about it
until all the cards had been despatched. Mrs. Brown asks—just as
Tom does, if he may have the sugar, when it is half
consumed:—<i>It was Mrs. Brown’s ball</i> in every sense.
I did hope to have experienced more enjoyment for the money.
I have many a time been happier at half the price;—ay,
happier when I was clerk at Chizzle and Filch’s, in Aldermanbury; but,
somehow, I suppose a man must make sacrifices for his friends, as
penurious old Chizzle did, when he paid the debt of nature, and left to
me <i>that</i> he could not take away! Not that I ever made any
sacrifices for Spohf—no, <i>he</i> never asked it;—cheap
trusty friendship is <i>something</i>!—I must own to feeling,
all the evening, as if my collar had too much starch therein; and more
out of place in my own house than
<span class = "pagenum">74</span>
<!-- png 101 -->
the ‘white neckerchiefs’ that waited at supper. I am like a fish
out of water, and that fish, a flat-fish—caught with a bit of
red rag; however, there must be a great deal in use—another
element may be delightful, when used to it. There is no doubt my old
friend Wideawake’s attack upon the Captain was mere envy; and as to his
insinuating that I should never eat a peck of salt with <i>that</i>
man—to say I shall never know <i>that</i> man, is
preposterous!—as to eating the literal peck, no man, probably,
will do that; for the Captain has an aversion to saline food, saying it
makes the bones soft. I wonder if it has the same effect upon
brains!—We shall see, Wideawake—we <i>shall</i>
see:—let this page bear testimony! I hope the briny ocean may
not swallow up the Captain’s luggage.”</p>
<p>Victoria and Albert slumber late on the morning of the
5th:—Alphonso is the first up—or rather down, having rolled
off his uncomfortable bed, constructed upon four chairs, in the
drawing-room. Mrs. Brown, too, must have risen on the wrong side of her
teaster, so testy is she this morning—thanking her stars that
Twelfth-day has arrived, to put an end to the Christmas
miseries!—Soon, now, will that little pest, Tom, be packed back to
“Tortwhack House;” and the juvenile party, of to-day, it is hoped may
appease some rampant mammas uninvited to the grand
<i>réunion</i>—rendering any petty excuses that may be given the
more feasible.</p>
<p>The day rolls rapidly away, though not with half the speed Master
Brown could desire—the hands of the hall-clock appearing to creep
so,
<span class = "pagenum">75</span>
<!-- png 102 -->
that every time Tom passed it (and that was not seldom), he stopped to
see if it was going, the day seeming most unusually long, and night as
if it never would come; but it did!—firstly, bringing the little
“Merrys,” from Hope Cottage, the Tudor lodge,
next-door-but-one—Master Walter Merry being the first to answer
Tommy’s nubbly note of invitation, in intoxicated text capitals, that
appeared to be making a desperate effort to run off the paper, at the
right-hand corner, leaving no room to “remain,” and scarcely any to
“please turn over;” so folded was it, to give the desired angular form,
that the paper looked as if it had been used to make five hundred
geometrical cocks and boats.</p>
<p>Tom met the Merrys with such fervent joy, that he never thought they
had healths, or anything else to ask after; his only object, seeming to
be the finding of his friend, who is rolled, like a mummy, in numberless
boas and shawls:—during the process of unswathing, which was no
easy job to one in a hurry, so artfully were the pins introduced, Master
Tommy treats his friend Walter to a railroad retrospective review of the
good things in store—recounting all the “lummy” things left
yesterday;—telling about the “nobby” Christmas tree Captain de
Camp gave them—though his ma’ did say it was “a pretty
give!”—it was stolen out of <i>his</i> father’s garden.—My
father’s a jolly sight richer than your’s—he has more trees in his
garden—ain’t we got a “swag” of nuts, and a “plummy”
twelfth-cake—my father won it at an <i>art-union</i>, in the city!
I am to draw King—if I don’t, just see how I’ll
cry!—Mercy Merry shall be Queen. You shall have Punch off the
<span class = "pagenum">76</span>
<!-- png 103 -->
cake; and <ins class = "correction" title = "spacing unchanged">ma’says</ins>
I shall have “Rule Britannia,” as soon as the
waves and ice have melted away.</p>
<span class = "floatleft">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic103.gif" width = "226" height = "230" alt = "picture">
</span>
<p>Now a knock brings more visitors, the Masters Young, in all the
ungainliness of hobbledyhoyhood—that transmigratory period when
coat-tails are first developed:—they have come with their sister
Flora, a lovely bud, expected “out” next season. Here are the
Bells, the Petits, and the little Larks, with their big brother, the
“jolly Lark,” who made his <i>début</i> over the top of the
drawing-room-door, standing upon the shoulders of your humble servant;
who felt the “jolly Lark” anything but light, and no joke—though
the juveniles must have thought it so, for we could hear their merry
peals of laughter ringing joyously, dispelling the silence that had
hitherto prevailed, overturning the sage injunctions of <i>proper</i>
mammas, who teach their children to behave “pretty”—thinking
<i>good</i> and <i>quiet</i> synonymous. Somehow, the little fellows,
unfortunately, take the Lark for Mr. Spohf, who has hitherto done the
funny in a refined style, scarcely to be imagined—an
<span class = "pagenum">77</span>
<!-- png 104 -->
elegant, amiable, fun,—a mixture of the buffoon and
gentleman, the sublime and the ridiculous, quite marvellous to
behold,—making our little friend (who you are aware was moulded in
one of Nature’s odd freaks) appear, to tender imaginations, almost
supernatural. The mistake and misplaced approbation is very galling to
Mrs. Brown; so much so that she becomes angry with the tea-urn, and, in
turn, burns her fingers—venting her ire in the shape of a box on
the ears of Master Bold, who ventured to hint Mr. Spohf’s absence a
“jolly shame;” and, now vows to tell his mamma—a thing it is
very evident Mrs. Brown does not wish, for she has shown a great deal of
favour and contrition towards the young gentleman since.</p>
<p>The tea-tray having been removed, the burners of the chandelier
heightened, and the Snuffle family had their row of little noses
polished by the eldest sister, preparations begin:—Miss Jemima
playing the pretty little “Hop <ins class = "correction" title =
"spacing unchanged">o’my</ins> Thumb Polka,” and Tom, who has been
sitting very quietly beside Mercy Merry (vowing to marry her at
fourteen, for “his father is so rich that he would give him five pounds
a year to live upon”), leads off, much to the mortification of those
boys who will not be “young gentlemen”—the many who won’t, can’t,
and shan’t dance! but, being bent upon mischief, dispose explosive
spiders and chair-crackers about the carpet;—one little
mischievous fellow wishing he had brought some pepper to strew on the
floor, and make ’em sneeze; however, they get up a little excitement
another way with the sofa-pillows, a sham fight, in which a parian
Amazon falls beside Marian Bell, who
<span class = "pagenum">78</span>
<!-- png 105 -->
“didn’t go to do it;” so dancing is relinquished for games to suit all
parties:—Hunt the Slipper, a sport carried on with great
spirit, until it is found there are slippers enough for
three—a thing everybody holds to be cheatery:—so that
game is abandoned for Blind-man’s-buff, the mere mention of which,
carries us back to childhood; and, as authors often lug in their
thoughts (bits of nature) very unceremoniously, and at odd times, we
may, possibly, be pardoned or praised for so doing. Well, we never hear
mention of this game but we think of a bump we once received during the
sport, our blind ardour causing us to flounder in a fender, and bruise
our head, the remains of which will be taken to the “long home.” Well do
we remember the spotted turban worn on that occasion—for we
recollect, at the time, thinking “Belcher” a new term, just
coined;—having our crown rubbed with brandy and taking a little
internally, which appeared attracted by that externally, for it got in
our head and made us very merry, causing the hiccups to such an extent,
that we were called <i>Sir Toby Belch</i> of “Twelfth Night; or, What
you Will” notoriety (having drawn that character). Thus, brandy,
Belchers, and Blind-man’s-buff, hold an indissoluble partnership in our
memory—a remnant of those days when we imagined a Jew
incapable of dealing in other merchandise than old clothes; or of
shaving like a Christian, or, if he did, would do other than expose a
pendant chin, resembling the <i>vertebræ</i> of a horse’s tail. Oh!
those days have flown—days when we imagined peas split by hand,
and thought humanity fools for not making soup with whole ones—but
we are sadly digressing!—“It’s
<span class = "pagenum">79</span>
<!-- png 106 -->
not fair!” cry twenty voices—“the blind man can see;” and so he
could, for he always caught Miss Brown, who, afraid of the piano or
pier-glass, would stand in the way:—so that sport is relinquished
for cake and Characters; the former seeming to afford great
gratification, and the latter little, save to the King and
Queen—all other characters being, like the riddles,
<span class = "floatright">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic106.gif" width = "175" height = "225" alt = "picture">
</span>
“given up,”—no one caring to know when a sailor is not a
sailor?—when he’s a-<i>board</i>: or to be bored with a door’s
being a-<i>jar</i>, and a man a-<i>shaving</i>.</p>
<p>The rich cake is soon a ruin; so much is every part of it relished,
that one young gentleman has consumed the head and shoulders of Madame
Alboni, under a delusion of her being sugar, and not “plaster of
parish,” as Mrs. Brown afterwards said it was. The little fellows soon
get very mirthful on the ginger-wine; keeping up a continual buzz, like
a colony of bees, sadly itching to be at something—a wish
that is not to be realized at once, for little Miss Newsoince is going
to do that eternal tattoo, the “<i>Rataplan</i>:”—yes, there she
is, in Tom’s felt-hat and polonaise, as “<i>La Vivandière</i>,” thumping
upon an empty band-box with two knitting-pins, singing, as some of the
mammas say, very prettily; but as the boys, who have heard it many
<span class = "pagenum">80</span>
<!-- png 107 -->
times before, designate it “a jolly bother!”—“a great big
shame!”—“a precious dummy set out!”—and so
on,—there being no <i>fun</i> in it.</p>
<p>This hum-drum over, a great cry is raised for
<i>Forfeits</i>!—and a desire that <i>a lady</i> should <i>go out
in a very great hurry</i>, as it would appear, almost in a state of
destitution; for every young lady and gentleman proffers to stand for
some article of dress. Having settled what they will give, all sit round
upon chairs, ready to hear the <i>lady’s</i> demands:—spin goes
the trencher, and she wants her <i>Stockings</i>!—forward fly the
hose, personated by a little fellow, with mottled legs, who had never
stood in other than socks, but for all that can catch the revolving
waiter, look slyly at <i>Bonnet</i>, make him think it his turn, and
impudently call out “<i>Cap!</i>!”—so <i>Bonnet</i> and <i>Cap</i>
knock head to head, tumble on the trencher, and get fined. <i>Bonnet</i>
shouts “<i>Boots!</i>”—<i>Boots</i> begets
“<i>Bustle!</i>”—and <i>Bustle</i> begets a grand stir, by calling
“<i>Double Toilet!</i>”—causing the whole wardrobe to leap from
every chair, in every direction, a general confusion,—in
which the <i>Boa</i> slips off his seat, and forfeits a twenty-bladed
knife. The <i>Boa</i>, spinning the tray again, calls
“<i>Muff!</i>”—who, not being on the alert, arrives when the
waiter has wabbled its last, so the <i>Muff</i> has to pay a forfeit;
but having nothing eligible upon his person, is found a substitute, in a
very ugly China pug-dog, afterwards called “<i>a very pretty thing</i>”
by Miss Angelina to Miss Jemima, who awarded the penalties, like a blind
Justice saying her prayers, passing sentence, in the lap of the judge,
who demands—“<i>Here’s a pretty thing, a very pretty thing;
and what is the owner of this very pretty thing to be
done to?</i>”</p>
<!-- png 108 -->
<!-- png 109 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig80" id = "fig80"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic108.gif" width = "430" height = "500" alt = "Here’s a Lady Going Out, in a Very Great Hurry, and She Wants—A Double Toilet!" title = "Here’s a Lady Going Out, in a Very Great Hurry, and She Wants—A Double Toilet!"></p>
<p><span class = "pagenum">81</span>
<!-- png 110 -->
Angelina sentencing the owner of the pretty pug to take a very pretty
young lady into the corner, and spell
“<i>op-por-tu-ni-ty</i>”—a spell the <i>Muff</i> does not
seem to know lies in taking the <i>opportunity</i> to kiss the fair one,
though he has all the evening been admiring her vastly, and would have
given anything for such a chance; but next, having to “<i>lie the length
of a looby, the breadth of a booby</i>,” <i>&c.</i>, he is eminently
successful—yet, who shall say the ungainly cub may not one day be
an ornament to society! Poor <i>Muff</i>! he has no mother or
sisters—the only specimens of girlhood known to him are the maids
at home, and the school-master’s daughter, that dines with the
parlour-boarders at Addle House:—brave boy, thou art clever, but
semi-civilized! More “<i>pretty things</i>” are being
redeemed—fans, gloves, lockets, handkerchiefs, and
chatelaines,—all their owners being appropriately “done
to:”—the <i>Boa</i> condemned to “bite a yard off the poker;” and
the <i>Visite</i> to “salute the one he likes best”—which
<i>Garters</i> fancies will be her; so, she embraces the table-pillar,
and he the <i>Berthe</i>, instead—kissing her, sadly to the
mortification of <i>Garters</i>, who did think the honour worth some
trouble. Jemima and Angelina, having disposed of the judicial
pawn-brokering establishment, stroke down their skirts, and send round
the currant-wine; whilst Master Tom and a few other daring youths
consume lighted candle-ends, made of turnip, with almond wicks; and the
merry little man, Lark, who can no more be quiet than a robin in a
rat-trap, is now hopping with a paper tail, composed of this evening’s
“<i>Sun</i>”—a sun that seems to be incombustible, for the
boys are trying
<span class = "pagenum">82</span>
<!-- png 111 -->
to ignite it, but cannot,—only waxing Mr. Lark’s pantaloons very
much in the rear, and putting the candles out—a trick that
caused no end of diversion, not only to the performers, but to every
one; who laughed immoderately, more particularly when Mr. Lark led down
Mrs. Brown to supper, the antimacassar adhering to his
trowsers—the wax, upon sitting down, causing it to stick
there.</p>
<p class = "illustration">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic111.gif" width = "440" height = "313" alt = "picture"></p>
<p><span class = "pagenum">83</span>
<!-- png 114 -->
This brings us to the supper-table, and the Christmas tree, with its
blossoms of light—a very peculiar species of shrub:—we
have heard of box-trees, plane-trees, lady’s slippers, and sun-flowers,
but never remember to have seen or heard of a toy and candle-tree,
figured in any work on botany; nor should we have thought our little
friends had ever beheld one before, for the brilliant supper seemed but
small attraction compared with the illuminated fir—all eyes
appeared attracted to the quarter in which it stood; and when the
youthful company were introduced to it, after the banquet, we felt glad
the lower boughs were out of the reach of the younger branches, or they
might, in their eagerness, have pulled it out of the disguised tub. As
it was, some of the recipients took the fruit intended for
others:—for instance, Stephen Sharp ate all Miss Standby’s basket
of sweets, and then demanded the story-book that had his name attached
to it. All the fruit was not edible, for we saw an apple that tasted
very much of the wood, being full of pips resembling doll’s tea-things;
whilst, upon suction, the pears emitted musical sounds; and a biffin,
like a pincushion, had the flavour of bran—probably it was
bran-new.</p>
<!-- png 112 -->
<!-- png 113 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig83" id = "fig83"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic113.gif" width = "428" height = "488" alt = "The Christmas Tree." title = "The Christmas Tree."></p>
<p>The tree, now stript, is quite devoid of interest; for, upon Mr.
Lark’s starting some fun in the corner, none lingered by, not even to
listen to the bird-organ, that appeared to play under the table. Yes!
there was Lark, at it again—doing anything to
please!—Generous Lark!—his face covered with a white
handkerchief, a portion tucked in his mouth, over all wearing a
pair of spectacles, with pupils (currants abstracted
<span class = "pagenum">84</span>
<!-- png 115 -->
from a mince-pie) stuck thereon, causing the Lark to look very curious
and odd—the children wondering what he will be at next!—for
now, you must know, he has gone to prepare another excitement; being in
the drawing-room, whilst the visitors are in the parlour—curious
beyond all description,
<span class = "floatright">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic115.gif" width = "156" height = "155" alt = "picture">
</span>
beseeching the junior Mr. Brown, who is standing with his back against
the door, to prevent egress, just to permit them to depart; which, after
a slight contest, he does—they rushing, pell-mell, to the
drawing-room, there to find an old birch-broom blazing in the grate, and
the recess covered with two sheets suspended by forks. In front of the
sheets is a table; whilst in front of that table, stand the wondering
little crowd, speculating as to what the burning broom can have to do
with it, when a dwarf old dame appears, through a slit in the
drapery—as perfect a dwarf as ever breathed,—but three feet
high, and so really true that no one for a moment doubts her identity or
vitality. “She is a Witch!” cry all, that has come down the chimney. The
dame bows acquiescence, with numberless courtseys, telling the little
company of her immense age and adventures—recounting her
history:—about the large family she kept in the shoe; about the
refractory pig, that would not get over the stile; and her wonderful
travels, to sweep cobwebs from
<span class = "pagenum">85</span>
<!-- png 118 -->
the sky; so, after having danced a hornpipe; deplored the loss of her
carriage (<i>broom</i>); demanded the grunting pig, behind the curtain,
to be quiet; and scraped an infinity of courtseys, she
vanishes:—the sharpest boy in the room, Master Bold, rushing down
stairs to catch a glimpse of her, but only seeing us, in our shirt
sleeves, wonders the more!—<i>par parenthèse</i>—we were one
of the performers, escaping, to make room for the Galanti show. So,
whilst we leave the company to be amused thereby, we will, with the kind
permission of Mr. Lark, instruct you how to construct an old dame; and
afterwards tell the effect it had upon our audience:—</p>
<!-- png 116 -->
<!-- png 117 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig84" id = "fig84"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic116.gif" width = "497" height = "478" alt = "Mummery—Trick of the Old Dame" title = "Mummery—Trick of the Old Dame"></p>
<p>Firstly, procure a pair of small shoes and stockings—these
place upon your hands (which are to represent feet); next, tie round
your neck a short coloured pinafore, reaching down to your hands (or
rather the old dame’s feet)—this will represent a gown; now, place
your shoed hands upon a table, to see effect; gird the gown with a
proportionate apron, the strings of which will bind your arms and body
together at the chest; put on a false nose, a pair of spectacles,
a lady’s frilled night-cap, and a comical conical hat; add a little
red cloak, and draw the table up to a window or recess, the curtains of
which pin at the back of your shoulders; and standing thus, with your
hands (the old dame’s feet) upon the table, you will represent the most
perfect little dwarf (without arms) you can imagine; the hands are to be
supplied by an accomplice, behind the curtain, who is to suit the action
of those hands to the pleasantries you may invent. Thus, having given
<span class = "pagenum">86</span>
<!-- png 119 -->
the necessary instructions, we leave the rest to be supplied by the
actor; who may, if he pleases, render the old dame a medium of much
merry conceit and pleasant mirth. Well do we remember the impression
made at this party; for, as before stated, we performed the arms from
behind the curtain, through which we occasionally peeped, getting a good
view over the shoulders of Mr. Lark (the old dame), witnessing the
astonished gaping gaze of the servant, who happened to enter the
apartment at the moment, and stood transfixed to the spot, until the
effigy had escaped. One little boy was so impressed with the illusion,
that he actually went below, with some venturesome companions, in search
of her; but soon returned, rushing up stairs in a state of extreme
terror, declaring to us (as he kept his eyes towards the door, fearing
every moment she would appear), that he had seen the old dame, and heard
her pig; the truth being, one of the party had grunted in a dark corner
of the lobby, and frightened the youth, who eventually became a prey to
intense mental anxiety—a trembling fear we attempted to
dispel, without success, until we bore the little fellow below, he
clinging tightly to us. In the lobby Mr. Lark showed the scared youth
our trick, piece-meal—in the end, pacifying the young gentleman,
though much do we think the old dame and her pig will never be forgotten
by him:—he may grow to manhood, have children, loves and cares
innumerable, traverse the seas, know war and famine, yet do we think the
old dame will stand boldly out, like a giant image in the desert of the
past—far more so than the Galanti show, exhibited afterwards,
<span class = "pagenum">87</span>
<!-- png 120 -->
because really alive, and capable of reason!—Though, <i>we</i> had
more reason to remember the show; for, the men who performed it hung
their hats and coats beside Mr. Lark’s, and our own; which, upon
leaving, they did not identify:—though, we think they ought; as
ours were considerably newer—one of their hats being a cap, and
the other of dirty white felt!</p>
<p>After the departure of the show, we got up some sport with the sheets
upon which it had been performed, exhibiting our eyes through a hole,
therein; those on the obverse trying to guess the proprietor of others
on the reverse—all the owners of bright eyes much enjoying the
sport. But to recount the many pranks played by youthful blood that
evening, would require a volume—everybody proposing everything;
and everybody else, disliking the thing proposed, suggests some
other:—one wanting Hunt the Whistle; a second, to act
Charades; and a third, some practical joke of the old school, such as
the game we played with Mr. Lark, called Porcelain Mesmerism, deceiving
the little innocents into a belief that men are simple—much more
so than they will find them, upon arriving at maturity!—There we
sat (two full-grown fools) staring at each other, with plates of water
in our hands, the bottom of one sooty, the other clean!—There we
sat, face to face, alternately rubbing the bottoms of the plates, and
stroking our physiognomies, in mockery of each other—Mr. Lark
getting his face blacked like a sweep,—the youngsters laughing at
his silliness!—Oh, that a little smut should produce such ecstatic
mirth!</p>
<span class = "pagenum">88</span>
<!-- png 121 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic121.gif" width = "324" height = "271" alt = "picture"></p>
<p>There is Walter Merry, looking like an eel in
convulsions—imagining he has been here about an hour:—you
should have seen the expression of the little fellow, when Mrs. Brown
gently tapped him on the shoulder, saying, “Master Merry, you’re
fetched!” Time was annihilated, and memory dumbfounded!—The
entertainment that had been looked forward to for days, counted by the
hours, and put so many mammas in a pother, is gone!—The hands of
the hall-clock are almost perpendicular—it wants but half-an-hour
of midnight!—Several anxious
<span class = "pagenum">89</span>
<!-- png 122 -->
mammas
<span class = "floatright">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic122.gif" width = "167" height = "269" alt = "Master Merry as he Appeared when he was “Fetched”!!!" title = "Master Merry as he Appeared when he was “Fetched”!!!">
</span>
have sent several times for their several little ones; and the several
servants have been sent away with several evasive answers—for “the
little dears are enjoying themselves so much!”—“Mrs. Brown’s
compliments to Mrs. Fidgets, and would she permit the little Fidgets to
stay just ten minutes longer?” No!—the Fidgety footman is only to
depart <i>with</i> them; so he is sent to the servants’ hall, there to
wait, whilst snap-dragon is being prepared in the library—that the
evening may end with a grand blue-fire <i>tableaux</i>. The room
resembles the Black Hole of Calcutta!—Hundreds of little itching
fingers are
<span class = "pagenum">90</span>
<!-- png 123 -->
longing to be amongst that pound of raisins, in spirits—all eager,
as imps, for the fiendish sport; the darkness and suspense rendering it
very exciting—causing Master Jewel (a model boy), who is
“wanted directly,” to make no answer from the sable mass; until, the
summons being repeated, he says something that sounds very like “shan’t
come!”—and, Master Jewel does not come, until he has had his
portion of the fiery food that is flying about in every direction.</p>
<p class = "illustration">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic123.gif" width = "349" height = "281" alt = "picture"></p>
<span class = "pagenum">91</span>
<!-- png 124 -->
<span class = "floatleft">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic124.gif" width = "185" height = "273" alt = "End of Juvenile Party. Master Brown Feels as if he had had a Good Many Good Things." title = "End of Juvenile Party. Master Brown Feels as if he had had a Good Many Good Things.">
</span>
<p>During the last hour Cook and John have held a <i>soirée</i> below,
to all the neighbouring domestics, who are awaiting to escort home their
little masters and mistresses—they are regaling upon ale and
sandwiches, in the servants’ hall; whilst that most interesting topic,
“every body’s business,” is being discussed:—Mrs. Pest’s maid
assuring all, upon her sacred word and honour, that Mrs. Pest is not a
angel, or the “Pest-house” a paradise, though it may look pretty over
the garden-wall; and, moreover, Mrs. P.’s maid said she were of
opinion the public knowed it, too; for t’other night some one painted
out the fust
<span class = "pagenum">92</span>
<!-- png 125 -->
letters, ag’in our door-post—making the direction, at the corner
of the lane, “Placid Vale,” read “<i>acid ale</i>” instead,—no
compliment, as the maid said, to Mr. “Pest, Pewter, and Co.’s
Entire;”—at the same time observing, that it sarved ’em right!
And, “as I hope, afore next Heaster, to lose my blessed Virgin Mary
name, I’d go—if it wer’n’t for the pale-ale-tory circumstances,
I’d warn Missus! It was only yesterday, jist arter Mr. Pest had gone to
Brewhus, in Liquorish St., that we had a scrimmage about flounces; and
jist as I was a-going to fling my resignation at her—‘tending to
go out every evenin’, till the month was up, in a gound zactly like
Missus’ own (lilock, with seven flounces)—well, jist when I was on
the pint o’ naming the word, I think’d o’ little Ned Pest; and, as
I loved the dear little fellow more than a paltry frock,
I con’scended to stay!” Here the gardening-groom at the “Snuggery,”
opposite, grinned and winked horribly, observing something about little
Ned’s being a “surfeit of finery”—finery that had to be shown and
aired,—airing begetting the society of aubun viskers and hofficer
X, 50!—<i>officers</i>, making Mr. “Snuggery” chuckle amazingly,
and grin more—observing hofficers to be all the “kick”
now!—At the same time, jerking his thumb in the direction of the
party-wall and the Albert, saying, he knew the Captain,—met
<i>Boultoff</i> at Bath, where he stayed last season, until the waters
were too hot, when he “dried up” (we suppose by drying up, the
“Snuggery” meant departed). No one appeared to notice the different name
applied to the Captain—or, if they did, said nothing,—except
Cook, who observed—her master and the Capting to
<span class = "pagenum">93</span>
<!-- png 128 -->
be as thick as soup!—That she thought the former green and soft,
as over-done spinach, for the Capting cut it very fat at master’s
’spense;—the guvenor ought to save his bacon afore he be done to
rags;—if missus ud come in for all the grizzle, she (cook) said
she would not stew and fry herself about it.</p>
<!-- png 126 -->
<!-- png 127 -->
<p class = "illustration">
<SPAN name="fig92" id = "fig92"> </SPAN>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic126.gif" width = "417" height = "429" alt = "“The Hypocripple! you do’nt [sic] say so.” “Yes, [quote missing] I predigate him to be an Humbug.”" title = "“The Hypocripple! you do’nt [sic] say so.” “Yes, [quote missing] I predigate him to be an Humbug.”"></p>
<p>Poor John, now fully assured of the Captain’s intention, is very
uncomfortable, indeed; experiencing the combined sensations of
goose-skin, fever, pins-and-needles, live-blood, and
intoxication—sensations that might have been relieved could they
have vanished at the extremities of his hair; but, unfortunately, that
would not stand erect, so plastered and powdered had it been since the
Captain’s arrival. John ruminates upon what has been said, intending to
mention the “unmentionables,” and break the awful mystery to Mr. Brown,
that very night. Now, you must know, Mr. Brown and his friend, the
Captain, condescended to grace the juvenile party:—they sat at an
occasional table, in the recess, drinking wine, as if for a
wager—trying to dispose of all the surplus decanted yesterday; so,
you may suppose, when John appeared with a melancholy face, to impart
melancholy news, Mr. Brown was too far gone to comprehend it—that
night he could not stand, much more understand; though, somehow, under
the inspiration of a draught of water and a damp towel, the Diary was
made up, as if by instinct:—</p>
<p>“<span class = "smallcaps">January</span> 5th,
<i>Saturday</i>.—Christmas is dead!—Expired with the
Juvenile party—we have economically disposed of the scraps.
‘A Merry Christmas!’—All the <i>ill luck</i> came upon
Fridays—we can have no
<span class = "pagenum">94</span>
<!-- png 129 -->
more this season—altogether, a jolly Christmas, with a jolly
friend, who is to prove himself a <i>capital</i> one
to-morrow—owes me £350—bill due Monday,—says he will
<i>clear off all by then!</i> If ‘money’ is said to be a ‘friend,’ what
must a <i>friend</i> with <i>money</i> be?—A golden treasure,
doubly dear—a companion that can never be a drag, because too
well off.”</p>
<p>Thus closes the Christmas portion of the Brown Diary:—its
author, as customary on Saturday, dyeing his hair, before retiring to
rest. But, somehow, that eventful evening, Brown could not repose in
peace; he abused his best friends in sleep—dreaming the De Camps
capable of decamping, after the bridal breakfast, with the dowry, across
the sea—leaving Jemima and Angelina married vestals,—to make
more money and fresh conquests in <i>Virginia</i> or
<i>Marryland</i>:—whither old Brown feels bound to follow, in his
night shirt, but is incapacitated, being tied to the earth by a pigtail
springing from the organs of amativeness, philoprogenitiveness,
inhabitiveness, and adhesiveness! So exciting is Brown’s dream, that he
fancies the De Camps escaping—now, the banging door of the Albert
fairly awakening the sleeper; who, on attempting to rise, finds the
pillow really a fixture to the back of his head; which he tears away, in
a rage, causing all the pleasing sensations that might be experienced on
the removal of a tail by the roots. Brown rushes wildly to the window,
opening the casement; and, upon looking into the pitch-dark night, he
receives a blow from without, that causes him to stagger and reel
backwards, falling to the floor, with a noise that makes
<span class = "pagenum">95</span>
<!-- png 130 -->
Mrs. Brown rise in a fright, obtain a light, and severely reprimand her
lord as a drunken fool—capable of any wild fancy!</p>
<p>The naked truth stands thus:—Poor Brown has mistaken a bottle
of gum for hair-dye, and a closet for the casement—bruising his
forehead against the shelf; so, he creeps back to bed—there to
lie, moralizing upon cause and effect!—Thinking, how trifling
things, in themselves, may lead to disastrous
consequences—reflecting upon the rival bottles:—one
black—all deceit, the other white and trusty! “Be not precipitate,
nor trust to appearances only, lest you be
deceived!”—a maxim, Brown fears, he cannot apply to the
Captain; for, never did he know less of a man, of whom he ought to have
known more.</p>
<p>The 5th of January seemed to Brown as if it would never
dawn!—The bump that took away and restored his senses, or, rather,
sobered that gentleman, feels like an egg placed in the centre of his
forehead—he longs for daylight, to examine it:—daylight,
that comes, and reduces the egg to a walnut-shell!—Poor Brown’s
hat will not go on, for the excrescence, so he cannot go to church. At
breakfast he recounts his dream—which is voted fudge by Mamma,
stuff by Angelina, and rubbish by Jemima; for they are in no very good
humour after the excitement of last week. Little Tom is in bed, having
broken his fast upon jalap, administered to counteract the baneful
effects of the sweets consumed yesterday—the youth being full as a
sack of sand; and, we think, could an anatomist have given a section of
the different strata of food that body contained, in the spirit of a
geologist, he would have presented a
<span class = "pagenum">96</span>
<!-- png 131 -->
remarkable series of deposits. But, away with scientific speculations,
to the Browns, who are at breakfast—a meal that has been
intruded upon by John; who has recounted enough of a certain story to
put Jemima in hysterics, and Angelina in a fainting fit—bringing
down a hurricane of abuse upon him—John, the impertinent
menial—John, the venomous viper, that has recoiled upon its
benefactor—John, the dark villain, that has plotted with the
unworthy man, Spohf, who, of course, out of mere envy, mere spite, mere
jealousy, would try to overturn that harmony that is not to be broken so
easily—that unity that is not to be severed, no, not for a hundred
Spohfs! “Go—go, sir, to your fiddling garret-friend—go and
blow his hurdigurdy!—Go, sir!—Tell him the affections of
innocent females are not to be played upon like a <i>base
vile</i>!—Tell him there are ears to pull, horsewhips to be had,
ay, and noble gentlemen ever ready to lay on in defence of those
scandalously reviled! You may tremble, sir, for menials can be
discharged, and have characters to lose! Sir, I give you
warning!—Sir, you may go!—Go, sir!”</p>
<p>Now, this is the very thing John much wished to do:—he had been
imperceptibly backing, for the last five minutes, towards the door,
fearing to turn tail upon the enemy—the choleric Mr. and Mrs.
Brown;
<span class = "floatleft">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic132.gif" width = "158" height = "217" alt = "picture">
</span>
who appeared, in their very fierceness, to counteract each other’s
fire—each pulling the other back, seeming to get more and more
ferocious the nearer their victim gained the door,—for, when the
baited John reached it, he turned the handle of the lock behind him,
still facing his
<span class = "pagenum">97</span>
<!-- png 132 -->
antagonists, intending to escape by a side lurch; but, just at that
critical point, there came a knock of great importance at the outer
door, as if the chimney were on fire, or a baby half out of
window:—the enemy fell back—John opened the door, and,
lo!—There discovered an officer of the Police Force, who wanted a
word with John Brown!—John, feeling himself the Brown wanted,
retreats into the kitchen, where he faints away, in a plate-basket, and
stops the Dutch clock.</p>
<p class = "asterisk">******</p>
<p>The Police Officer has had his word, or rather, word of words, with
Mr. Brown:—news, said to be important, but of the wildest and most
improbable character—news, appearing to that gentleman beyond all
<span class = "pagenum">98</span>
<!-- png 133 -->
belief—news, that he will not, can not, put faith
in!—Allegations, so preposterous, that they may be disproved in a
moment—“Captain de Camp, <i>alias</i> Boultoff, &c., &c.,
and three other persons, names unknown, now incarcerated in Dover Jail,
for the robbery of John Brown, of
Mizzlington”—a mistake—a foul
plot—a base fiction!—At least, so thought the worthy
gentleman, who was as ignorant of any wrong done him as the lunatic that
resides in the moon. Had the sea-serpent been discovered in the back
pond, a gold-mine been found in the dust-bin, or a Sphinx and
Centaur been captured in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Mr. Brown could not have
been more astounded!—He knows it to be an imputation that can be
disproved in a twinkling, if Mr. Police Inspector will just step next
door with him; but, alas!—There the fox’s tail is left in the
trap—the skirt of the very coat, borrowed of Mr. Brown,
a fortnight since, hangs in the door,—the very door that
slammed, when the affrighted gentleman awoke in a dream, last night.</p>
<p class = "asterisk">******</p>
<p>The concluding facts of these eventful sixteen days are simply as
follows:—to Mr. Spohf is the issue due—he was bound to spend
the sabbath at Canterbury, with the cathedral and organ; upon the
journey thither, he happened to recognise some fellow-travellers, better
known to him than he was to them. From a slight conversation that
transpired, he learned their destination to be Boulogne, or rather,
Dover; so he stopped at Ashford, telegraphing their persons to Dover,
where, upon arrival, they were provided with lodging free of expense;
from that
<span class = "pagenum">99</span>
<!-- png 134 -->
place news was instantly sent to Mizzlington. Little did Mr. Brown
think, that morning, as he combed out his matted, gummy, locks, that his
friend Captain de Camp had lost <i>his</i>, under the cruel shears, in
Dover Jail!</p>
<p class = "illustration">
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic134.gif" width = "380" height = "283" alt = "picture"></p>
<p class = "asterisk">******</p>
<p class = "asterisk">******</p>
<span class = "pagenum">100</span>
<!-- png 135 -->
<p class = "asterisk">******</p>
<p>Captain de Camp, as you may suppose, after these lucky <i>stars</i>,
again entered upon foreign service; being ordered to New South Wales,
for fourteen years—he sailed in the same transport with his two
sons. Lady Lucretia stayed at home, leading a very retired
life—she resided in a vast mansion at the “West-end,”
a castle at Millbank.</p>
<p>Mr. Spohf, of course, taking advantage of his rival’s absence, wins
upon Miss Jemima Brown—in the end, marrying her, to live happy
ever afterwards?—No, such was not the case! Mr. Spohf espoused
Miss Cecilia Lark, who blessed him with a large family and everything
else that woman can. Spohf’s means have increased, annually, with his
family:—all are musical, and the eldest girl is to be an “English
Lark,” that will surpass the “Swedish Nightingale,” or any other foreign
bird—the continentalists attribute it to the southern origin of
her papa; and, accordingly, claim Cecilia Spohf as their own.</p>
<p>The Misses Brown still remain open to offers, and are reported to be
well <i>worth</i> having. Mr. John Brown, Junr., is married to Miss Gay;
a better <i>match</i> there could not be—they both pull one
way; but, unfortunately the wrong one—rumour says they are
extravagant. Tom is at Westminster School; he has not distinguished
himself in any particular study, unless it be boating:—they say he
would have won in the last race had he not broken his
scull—a mishap that sadly terrified Mrs. Brown; for the note,
intimating the catastrophe, said nothing
<span class = "pagenum">101</span>
<!-- png 136 -->
about the <i>sculls</i> being more wooden than her son’s. Mr. and Mrs.
Brown are really very happy!—Victoria and Albert are now
united—the party-wall is removed. Mr. B. has retired from
business, not even discounting bills:—he does not go to the city
now; or at least if he does, it is behind Mr. Strap, who makes an
important coachman, having filled out amazingly—may be, thinking,
“he who drives fat cattle should himself be fat;” for the bays are too
corpulent to kick, and take the journeys at their own pace.
John—John Brown, “<i>private</i>,” now keeps a public
house—“the Brown Arms,” “the Rampant Locomotive,” “Noted Brown
Stout House,” at the corner of Brown Terrace:—it was a beer-shop
when John first took it, but he has since obtained a <i>licence</i>, and
married Mary, the house-maid.</p>
<p>Mr. Brown is notorious for keeping up the festive Christmas
season!—He now makes it a rule to invite only those he loves or
respects—not because they are well-to-do in this world, but
because he likes or admires them;—seeming fully assured of Time’s
progress, and that—</p>
<p> </p>
<h6>CHRISTMAS COMES BUT ONCE A YEAR!</h6>
<p> </p>
<h4><b>The End.</b></h4>
<hr class = "mid">
<p> <br/> </p>
<!-- png 137 -->
<p align = "center">
The Cuts, inserted in the text,
are<br/>
engraved by the Brothers <span class = "smallcaps">Dalziel</span>;<br/>
the Plates (from zinc) printed<br/>
by <span class = "smallcaps">Leightons & Taylor</span>;<br/>
and the Letter-press by<br/>
<span class = "smallcaps">Bentleys & Fley,<br/>
Bangor House</span>,</p>
<h6 class = "nospace smallcaps">Shoe Lane.<br/>
<ANTIMG src = "images/pic137.gif" width = "27" height = "47" alt = "†" title = "†">
</h6>
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