Then there was a jovial old surgeon from the north of the Tweed, who took snuff out of a mull, and cracked the driest of jokes in the crabbedest of tongues; and two or three distingué-looking civilians, temporary visitants to Barrackpore, exhibiting, in the studied simplicity of their attire and well-tied cravats, a striking contrast to the gay uniforms of the military—who, poor fellows, too often illustrate the proverb, that “all is not gold that glitters;” and hence, indeed, the civilian consoles himself for wanting it on his coat, by the comfortable consideration that he has quantum suff. of it in his pocket.
Particularly conspicuous amongst the company assembled at Mrs. Brownstout’s, was a jocose old collector, the life and soul of the party, who, being remarkably ill-favoured, and very good-natured, seemed to feel himself privileged, without danger of misconstruction, to be wondrously facetious with the young ladies, whom he roundly declared were all in love with him, and gave him no rest or peace with their incessant attentions.
“There now you see, there it is,” said he, starting pettishly away, and looking piteously and appealingly to the company, as Miss Maria touched his elbow, and asked him to take some tea; “there it is again; you see she won’t let me alone.”
I learnt afterwards that he had been an old friend of the deceased major, with whom he had hunted and shot, and drank pale ale, on and off, for five-and-twenty years; that he was, moreover, Maria’s godfather, and the true friend of the family, by whom he was consulted on all weighty and important matters. Though a systematic drole or humourist, he was at bottom a man of sound judgment and extensive knowledge, and the most benevolent of human kind.
Shortly after we had entered, Mrs. Brownstout met us with a greeting which amply made up in cordiality for whatever it might want in refinement, and from Maria and Lucinda we received kind nods of recognition, though too busy to do more. There they were in all their bravery, doing the honours of the tea-table, exhibiting the albums and the caricatures, and endeavouring to make every one at home and happy—cheerful within the limits of propriety and good sense, attentive to all, with kindness and the most obliging tact.
“You’re right, Tom,” said I, “in your estimate of this family; the mother is, though a little blunt, a worthy woman, and the girls are dear, sweet creatures; I declare I’ve a good mind to marry them both.”
“Both! Are you quite sure that either of them would have you?”
“But Tom, by the way,” I continued, “to change the subject from my loves to yours, is not that Miss Julia Heartwell?” directing, at the same time, his attention towards that young lady, who hitherto, from her position, had escaped our observation: “how lovely she looks this evening, with her tiara of white roses!”
Tom coloured: “So it is,” he replied; “I did not expect to meet her here.”
So saying, and after a pause to muster courage, Ensign Rattleton moved across the room; a fine, well-made, broad-shouldered young fellow he was too, and in his tight, well-fitting raggie, or Swiss jacket (one of the neatest turnouts of Messrs. Gibson and Pawling), his small and gracefully-tied sash, his white Cossack trousers, and grenadier wings (of which he was especially proud), it would have been difficult to conceive a more elegant figure, or one in which youth, strength, and symmetry were more happily blended.