At Length, it became practicable to remove my Father down Stairs. But before this was accomplished, he beckoned to my Mother and said, "Delia, I prithee cover up or hide away all the China Figures down Stairs before I come into the Chinese Parlour, or they will bring my Dream to Mind, and set me fancying I see 'em all dancing. Anything but that! I loathe the very Thought of them!—You may sell them if you will—send them to Dick Harper with my Card, and they'll fetch a pretty Figure at the next Auction, especially if you throw in the Five Senses. Idle Baggages! they led me astray, as they've led many a better Man before me. Happy he who can disembarrass himself from their Extravagancies thus easily!"
My Mother did, in Fact, get a pretty little Sum for them; and my Father never bought another Piece of China nor attended another Auction from that Day to this. But this by the Way.
We were sitting very comfortably about the Fire, congratulating ourselves upon being thus re-united,—and my Father was enjoying a Basin of strong Gravy Soup, (for it was a little before Noon,) and wishing my Mother would have a little of it, when all at once down fell a Smelling-Bottle from the Chimney-Piece; a Water-Caraffe on the Table upset; Doors banged, Bells rang without being pulled, the Walls shook, and the Ground sank and rose under us like a Ship at Sea. We shrieked out, and clung to one another; and I, in addition to my Terror, experienced great Nausea, as if I were on Shipboard. My Father immediately exclaimed, "Heyday! there's a Powder-Mill blown up at Hounslow!"
"God pity the poor Creatures in and about it," cries my Mother. The next Moment, in rushes Peter, as white as a Sheet.
"An Earthquake! an Earthquake!" cries he, "Did you feel the Earthquake?"
"Earthquake? you Dolt," says my Father; "'tis a Powder-Mill blown up at Hounslow, I tell ye; and so you'll find before To-morrow."
"Well, Sir," says Peter, "all the Neighbours say as I do, and are scared out of their Wits, expecting another Shock presently, which, for Aught we know, may swallow us up alive."
"Peter, you're an Oaf—a Lubber!" says my Father contemptuously; on which Peter retired; but Prue, who was much frightened, began to cry.
"What's the use of crying, Chit?" says my Father, "is that a Cure for an Earthquake?"