“Victoria and Albert’s big
With city’s wealth and soldier’s glory:
To Army, Queen, and Country swig:
Improve, my friends, and prove the Tory!”
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—butConservativecould 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,—
“We beg to doubt your precious rig,
And I’ll tell you another story:
Toimproveis to be awhig;
But not toimprove-is-a-tory!”
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 thatmade our “Lion” roar contemptuously,picturepictureand 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.”
******
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 notetiquetteto 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.
Having been absent for a short period, we were informed by the Lark that we hadnotlost 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 afall setto, and precipitate the lady to the ground; for it was a sad pity to hear poor Spohf’s songs so murdered.
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 standingupon 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,hisvulnerable part, like that of Achilles, lay in the heels—an insinuation Lark could well afford to allow, for he does not live todance, alone, like some sage, perfect, performers.
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,à la Française, 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 thoughtitimproper—a dance he never patronised or wished to—it being toofastfor the dull apothecary!—he hated it, because once an inveterate polkist nearly knocked hispatella, 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 thepaletôt.
Our evening is drawing to a close:—the mouths in the boudoir are assuming the shape of elongatedO’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 bythe whole strength of the company,—Captain de Camp leading off with Mrs. Brown, and Mr. Brown with Lady Lucretia. Thus ends the Christmas Ball!
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 “Gibus” 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.
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 thetulleandtartelainemay 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 bythe “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.
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 departen masse; 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.
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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 quietcul-de-sacwould 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 hispaletôtover the top banister, and the contents of its pockets down the well-staircase, to the awakening of the whole house.
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 fluentspeech, 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 asottovoice, 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.
The persevering Brown, though much fatigued, does not postpone the Diary:—“January4th,Friday—ExecrableFriday!—We this day gave our Annual Ball—we, 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:—It was Mrs. Brown’s ballin 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 methathe could not take away! Not that I ever made any sacrifices for Spohf—no,henever asked it;—cheap trusty friendship issomething!—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 thanthe ‘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 withthatman—to say I shall never knowthatman, 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—weshallsee:—let this page bear testimony! I hope the briny ocean may not swallow up the Captain’s luggage.”
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 grandréunion—rendering any petty excuses that may be given the more feasible.
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,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.
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 ofhisfather’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 anart-union, 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 thecake; andma’saysI shall have “Rule Britannia,” as soon as the waves and ice have melted away.
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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 hisdébutover 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 ofpropermammas, who teach their children to behave “pretty”—thinkinggoodandquietsynonymous. 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—anelegant, 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.
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 “Hopo’myThumb 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“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 calledSir Toby Belchof “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 thevertebræof 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’snot 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,picture“given up,”—no one caring to know when a sailor is not a sailor?—when he’s a-board: or to be bored with a door’s being a-jar, and a man a-shaving.
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 “Rataplan:”—yes, there she is, in Tom’s felt-hat and polonaise, as “La Vivandière,” 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 manytimes before, designate it “a jolly bother!”—“a great big shame!”—“a precious dummy set out!”—and so on,—there being nofunin it.
This hum-drum over, a great cry is raised forForfeits!—and a desire thata ladyshouldgo out in a very great hurry, 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 thelady’sdemands:—spin goes the trencher, and she wants herStockings!—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 atBonnet, make him think it his turn, and impudently call out “Cap!!”—soBonnetandCapknock head to head, tumble on the trencher, and get fined.Bonnetshouts “Boots!”—Bootsbegets “Bustle!”—andBustlebegets a grand stir, by calling “Double Toilet!”—causing the whole wardrobe to leap from every chair, in every direction, a general confusion,—in which theBoaslips off his seat, and forfeits a twenty-bladed knife. TheBoa, spinning the tray again, calls “Muff!”—who, not being on the alert, arrives when the waiter has wabbled its last, so theMuffhas to pay a forfeit; but having nothing eligible upon his person, is found a substitute, in a very ugly China pug-dog, afterwards called “a very pretty thing” 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—“Here’s a pretty thing, a very pretty thing; and what is the owner of this very pretty thing to be done to?”
Here’s a Lady Going Out, in a Very Great Hurry, and She Wants—A Double Toilet!
Angelina sentencing the owner of the pretty pug to take a very pretty young lady into the corner, and spell “op-por-tu-ni-ty”—a spell theMuffdoes not seem to know lies in taking theopportunityto 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 “lie the length of a looby, the breadth of a booby,”&c., he is eminently successful—yet, who shall say the ungainly cub may not one day be an ornament to society! PoorMuff! 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 “pretty things” are being redeemed—fans, gloves, lockets, handkerchiefs, and chatelaines,—all their owners being appropriately “done to:”—theBoacondemned to “bite a yard off the poker;” and theVisiteto “salute the one he likes best”—whichGartersfancies will be her; so, she embraces the table-pillar, and he theBerthe, instead—kissing her, sadly to the mortification ofGarters, 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 “Sun”—a sun that seems to be incombustible, for the boys are tryingto 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.
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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.
The Christmas Tree.
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 abstractedfrom 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,picturebeseeching 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 fromthe sky; so, after having danced a hornpipe; deplored the loss of her carriage (broom); 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!—par parenthèse—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:—
Mummery—Trick of the Old Dame
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 giventhe 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,because really alive, and capable of reason!—Though,wehad 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!
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!
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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 anxiousmammasMaster Merry as he Appeared when he was “Fetched”!!!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 departwiththem; 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-firetableaux. The room resembles the Black Hole of Calcutta!—Hundreds of little itching fingers arelonging 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.
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End of Juvenile Party. Master Brown Feels as if he had had a Good Many Good Things.
During the last hour Cook and John have held asoiréebelow, 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 fustletters, ag’in our door-post—making the direction, at the corner of the lane, “Placid Vale,” read “acid ale” 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!—officers, 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,—metBoultoffat 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 tobe 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.
“The Hypocripple! you do’nt [sic] say so.” “Yes, [quote missing] I predigate him to be an Humbug.”
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:—
“January5th,Saturday.—Christmas is dead!—Expired with the Juvenile party—we have economically disposed of the scraps. ‘A Merry Christmas!’—All theill luckcame upon Fridays—we can have nomore this season—altogether, a jolly Christmas, with a jolly friend, who is to prove himself acapitalone to-morrow—owes me £350—bill due Monday,—says he willclear off all by then!If ‘money’ is said to be a ‘friend,’ what must afriendwithmoneybe?—A golden treasure, doubly dear—a companion that can never be a drag, because too well off.”
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 inVirginiaorMarryland:—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 makesMrs. Brown rise in a fright, obtain a light, and severely reprimand her lord as a drunken fool—capable of any wild fancy!
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.
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 aremarkable 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 abase vile!—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!”
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;picturewho 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 hisantagonists, 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.
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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 allbelief—news, that he will not, can not, put faith in!—Allegations, so preposterous, that they may be disproved in a moment—“Captain de Camp,aliasBoultoff, &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.
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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 thatplace 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 losthis, under the cruel shears, in Dover Jail!
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