and Grumble, the eminent organ-builders, making a fortune by his “new movement;” having purchased and patented it: he has found a publisher for his church music, and sold his old opera. Captain de Camp has vanished in smoke—he has exploded of spontaneous combustion,—they find him all deceit, leaving a glass eye and a cork leg. Mr. Latimer gets the Colonial Bishopric of Bushantee, in New Zealand, and cuts Miss Jemima. Mr. Wellesley having gone to India for glory, returns with it,—a hook, and a patch over his eye. Miss Angelina vows to die a virgin. Mr. Brown says to Mr. Spohf, “my son!”—Mr. Spohf says to Mr. Brown, “my father!” Mr. Strap is standing in triumph upon a pyramid of “carpets to beat,” viewing a lesser one of “boots to brush;” having been entrusted with more “messages” than mortal ever could “deliver;” whilst innumerable vans, bearing the name of Strap, traverse innumerable roads in “Town and Country.” Mrs. Strap, dressed in a plain plum silk, turns a mahogany mangle, and gets up nothing but “fine things.” Ichabod has cut the choir, and made his début in an opera as Herr Strapii, a perfect triumph.
But here we will leave Mr. Spohf’s reverie—for Victoria and reality; where the company is arriving to the annual dinner, and sitting about the drawing-room, looking as happy as patients at a dentist’s; or festive, as disappointed toadeaters at the funeral of an opulent relative, who had left all his property to found an asylum for decayed postboys—after leading everybody to expect the lion’s share of it:—the guests, for want of more exciting topics, admiring the
gimcracks they admired a year ago; thinking the portrait of Mr. Brown—“done,” twenty years since, at a portrait club,—a splendid likeness, and that the original grows younger (query, richer?); stating truths and untruths about the weather; inquiring energetically after each other’s health—not caring for the answers; with other homely pleasantries, too numerous to mention; until some of the juveniles—the only ones who really seem at home—espy from the window a loaded parcel-cart; this they observe as funny on a Sunday (little thinking, at that moment, it was Tuesday). Here Mr. Brown descends, to hold an altercation with the guard of that cart, who makes light of a huge hamper of game; whilst the guests at the windows above, speculate upon having to eat an uncooked turkey, or fancy their ravenous appetites waiting while it is cooked—the youngsters calculating upon a dinner all pudding. Mr. Brown returns, and tenders his arm to Lady Lucretia de Camp—in the excitement, leading her down the side where the stairs taper to nothing,—causing that lady to lose both equilibrium and temper.
In the hall they are introduced to the viands, all thought to partake of;—which have arrived too late, and are now displayed in their primitive state—a picture of still life; whilst the guests—a picture of disappointment—have to put up with odds and ends, concocted to meet the emergency, ending with a series of plum-dumplings, in place of the legitimate large pudding. However, the indigent relatives, who prefer the cold corners, and take “any part,” declare
themselves well satisfied:—all partaking of everything, and brandy afterwards, as if the viands were rich. Master Brown does justice to everything, of course—that sweet child is now pulling the merry thought with his maiden aunt; he is victor, and, as no one wishes to
know his thoughts, seems determined to tell them,—wishing “Jemy. and Mr. Latimer would look sharp, and knock up the match Mamma spoke of; as then he should be breeched, have pockets, and money:” here the little dear turned to the Captain, saying, “You’ll give me a crown, won’t you?”—a question at which the maiden aunt blushed intensely, as did Mrs. Brown, who attempted to hide her emotion by saying, “What strange things children do think of!”—at the same time helping a gentleman who had had enough—the bashful gentleman, who sat at the junction of the tables, and appeared so incommoded by the table-land of one being higher than the table-land of the other—causing his plate to oscillate in a very remarkable manner, and discharge its contents in his lap,—the conjoined legs compelling him either to sit at a fearful distance, and spill the gravy, or to split his kerseymeres, by extending them too much for their frail make:—however, he has at last succeeded in thrusting one knee between them, and the shorter leg of the two off Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress”—used to stilt it;—letting the unfortunate gentleman’s pudding down, and his plate travel, until at last it stops, performing a gyration, all to itself, under the sideboard.
During this clatter, the ladies rise and depart, leaving the gentlemen to drown all disappointments in the wine. Mr. Brown, “feeling called upon,” rises, apologizing for certain misfortunes, herein described—at the same time trusting that such events might never happen again; and, in the end, eulogizing Mrs. B., who is painted