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 speculation—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 story of a tiger captured in a jungle, after a chase of ten hours—he should have said minutes, in a penny magazine!
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
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 caligraphy, 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.
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 talents 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
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,
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 compose him to sleep.
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
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.
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.