DE BLACK DOLLIBUS.
The Black Dolls of England are a highly comic race. They were the first to mingle the unctuous joke with the dry details of business, and to give a lightness to puffs before unknown to the paste of the Billsticker. They are the Smolletts of Posters, and the Fieldings of the Broad Sheet. Clare Market appears to be the grand centre of these right merrie marine store shops. Here a magazine of linen rags and witty conceits displays a thoroughly Gran-tian work of art, in which one cook is inquiring of another, who wears a chapeau in tremendously full flower, "My dear, where did you get that splendid new bonnet from?" to which the other replies, "Why, by carrying my bones and fat to the real original Black Doll, No. 12," &c. Another racy repository exhibits a grand transparency, representing a tête-à-tête between the Black Doll and one of her fellow-countrymen, in which the dark gentleman, in a most unniggerly dialect, is made to ask, "Why, Dinah, do all the people come to Massa's shop?" and Dinah to reply, "Because Sambo, Massa gives the best price for all old-iron, linen rags, and kitchen stuff." Then there is the highly popular bellman, who is eternally crying, "Oh yes! Oh yes! WE (!) are now giving two-pence for three pounds of old bones," &c. And last of all, the exceedingly tempting inquiry, "Do you want a plum pudding?" of which dainty there is prefixed a splendidly coloured caricature, and for which one spirited rag merchant subjoins the following curious recipe:—
The Black Doll's Receipt for a Good Plum Pudding.
Take 8lbs. of the best white linen rags, 4lbs. of broken flint glass, and 12 ditto of old bones; throw in a handful of old nails, with a few horses' shoes, and flat irons at discretion. Put these into a bag, and bring them to No. 12, &c., and you will find that it will make you a good family plum pudding; but if you wish to give it additional richness, you should add a few pounds of kitchen-stuff, and put a pound or two of candles into the grease pot.
The Real Ethiopian Serenaders or the first that extracted Notes (Bank) from Bones.
THE HONOUR OF THE READER'S COMPANY IS REQUESTED TO
A DINNER PARTY.
The Dining Room's quite a sight! The Chairs have had their pinafores taken off for the occasion, and now stand out in all the glory of Morocco. The table, which in the morning was only a modest square, has by means of its telescope been stretched into an oblong. You can count the number of guests by the number of chairs, and before each seat stands a small cluster of wine glasses, of different shapes and colours, two plates, and a napkin folded into the form of a triangle, with a small sandball-looking French roll secreted within it. The salt has changed its colour—is pink, and looks flushed with excitement. The supernumerary silver has been taken from its catacomb of the plate chest, where it has been kept since the last grand dinner, shrouded in wash leather, and like an old Dowager has now been rouged into brightness.
At the Sideboard stands Kitson, the host, with a shiny soapy face, decanting the wine, and consequently in a bad humour. And the honest Coal and Potato Warehouseman, who "beats carpets and attends evening parties," is fortifying himself in the passage by swallowing all that is left at the bottom of the bottles, with a look of extreme disgust for all spirituous liquors; and Master Kitson is helping his Father with the Wine, and himself to the Almonds and Raisins, when the Governor is not looking. On one side stand half a dozen of generous Port, in rich coats of Cobweb, with their chalk fronts; and on the other, two or three bottles of that tall, stately-looking, silver-headed, dinner-party-drinking Champagne.
In the Drawing-room is Mrs. Kitson, in a dreadful state of mind, standing on a chair—on which she has spread her handkerchief, from the fear of soiling the damask of the cushion—groaning over the Ormolu Lamp, and trying to discover why it has been dripping on the yellow satin Ottoman beneath.
In the midst of this a hungry double knock comes at the door, and the hostess has just got time enough to snatch one of the showily-bound books, which are placed at regular distances round the drawing-room table, and arrange herself and her dress on the Sofa, with a look of deep interest, when the Coal and Potato Warehouseman announces the first small appetite in a voice that savours strongly of "Below." And in the said small appetite walks in a love of a dress that talks French as fast as it can rustle. The conversation takes a lively turn, first, as to the weather, and then as to the children of the two establishments, each fond mother trying to make out that "her dear Herbert" or "her dear Kitty" was more delicate than the other fond Mother's sweet offspring.
Now the hungry double knocks come quicker and stronger, and the plates and the glasses jingle a kind of chorus. The next-door neighbours keep running to the windows, and are quite sure there is something going on at the Kitson's, and feel highly indignant at people not treating their neighbours as themselves, and vow revenge at their next evening party. There is a small crowd of half a dozen errand-boys and nursery-maids in front of the house, who closely criticise the dress of each small appetite as it arrives.
The company now are only waiting for the family Doctor; and Mrs. K. begins to have dreadful visions of the haunch of Venison done to a cinder, and the Turbot about the consistency of curds and whey. Every now and then young Kitson comes into the room and whispers into his mother's ears, and receives a mysterious something, that sounds like keys. Kitson has got three or four of his old Cronies together, and is letting them into the secret of some miraculous quack pill, and how it has done him a world of good.
At length in walks the dilatory family Doctor, with a volume of splendid excuses, and, being a jocular man of the world, he easily obtains a pardon. Then comes a general move for the dinner-table, where Mrs. Kitson looks over a kind of Index of the Chairs, which she has on a card, and tells each party where he or she is to eat his or her dinner; by which contrivance she cleverly manages to place bashful gentlemen next to talkative ladies, and bashful ladies next to talkative gentlemen.
Then the family Doctor insists on Mrs. Kitson letting him help the Turbot, whereupon Kitson informs the whole table that he shall be jealous if the Doctor "goes on in that way," which being, of course, a good joke, causes the guests to giggle unanimously. Every now and then the Doctor does a witticism, whereat the Coal and Potato Warehouseman, who is of a facetious turn of mind, chuckles inwardly, and manages to lodge a slice of Venison or a cutlet in some lady's back hair. Now Kitson gives a mysterious nod, and immediately Champagne is handed round, and Master K. ventures on a glassful; on which his Father looks as black as gentility will allow him, and determines within himself not to allow Augustus to dine at table again until he knows how to behave himself.
On the removal of the cloth Mrs. Kitson's proud moment arrives. She has thrown the whole strength of the footman into the French polish, and her domestic reputation stands upon her tables. At the sight of them all her female friends fall into violent admiration, and, "How do you do it; I can never get ours half as bright," &c., &c., bursts from every housewife. With the Dessert come the dear little Master and Miss K.'s, beautifully got up with bear's grease and pink sarsenet for the occasion, but looking rather pale from the effects of having dipped their tiny fingers into each dish as it left the Parlour (the Doctor is in doubt whether it arises from Bile, or a nasty Influenza that is flying about); and each of the ladies begs to have "the little pets" next to her.
Now the gentlemen begin tempting the ladies, by cutting oranges into the shapes of lilies and baskets, or cracking nuts for them. And so matters proceed, until Mrs. Kitson looks inquiringly at each lady, and each lady having smiled in answer, they all rise and make for the door, which two or three of the younger gentlemen rush to open. As soon as they have departed, the gentlemen draw near to the fire, and Kitson says, "Let us be comfortable," and puts on the table such wines as weak woman is unable to appreciate.
Then come Claret, Old Port, and Politics, and with the sixth bottle they begin discussing Moral Philosophy. Mrs. Kitson's health is at length proposed by the family Doctor, who speaks of her as "the exemplary wife—the tender mother—and the woman whom to know is to admire, ay! and he would say—to love." And then Kitson wants words to express his feelings for the honour they have done him, and winds up his catalogue of Mrs. K.'s virtues with a tear. Now "the exemplary wife" upstairs gets nervous about her husband and the wine below, and sends the footman in every ten minutes to say that "Tea is ready." Suddenly the ladies commence singing, and the family Doctor, who lives but to please, proposes to join them.
As soon as the gentlemen have retired upstairs, Kitson, who remains below, carefully locks up the remnants of the fruit and wine, and reminds Master K. of that little affair of the Champagne, and trusts he may never have to speak to him on that subject again. Then the gentlemen upstairs ask each lady in turn to oblige them with a song, and after considerable difficulty, prevail upon Mrs. Kitson's unmarried sister to favour them with "Did you ne'er hear of Kate Kearney;" but unfortunately the nuts spoil the runs. And then the gentlemen begin to have a strong inclination for Sofas and forty winks, and will put their "nasty greasy heads" on the bright yellow satin damask cushions. And then the company grows very silent; so that Kitson, who can't get up his rubber, is not sorry when he hears the Coal and Potato Warehouseman announce the first carriage. Then comes the hunting for Cloaks, and the running for Cabs, and the giving generous shillings and very generous half-crowns to the Coal and Potato Warehouseman, who is very careful to be at the door as each party is leaving. At length they have all gone, and Kitson tells his better half to see the plate right, and retires to bed.
Next morning he is very surly all breakfast, and very late for business, and Mrs. K. speaks out about the quantity of wine that was drunk; and the family, much to the delight of the little K.'s, have the remainder of the jellies, and other good things, for dinner all the next week.