in glowing colours, by a painter who said he should not have painted it; or, as any one else might have observed, introduced two virtuously amiable daughters, so prominently in the foreground. After a noble reply by Captain de Camp, of the Hon. East India Company’s service, from Madras, and much applause from the diners, they ascend, to join the ladies; forming, round the drawing-room-fire, a vast amphitheatre, in the centre of which, gladiatorial children contend for nuts and oranges—Captain de Camp filling the post of honour,—making himself at home in Mr. Brown’s easy chair and slippers. Mr. Wellesley drags in the yule-log, much to the detriment of the Brussels, and the annoyance of the guests; for, upon placing it in the grate, it causes everything to be covered with black tadpoles, nearly extinguishing the fire—until it ignites, roasting the company, and making the pot a white-heat.
The Captain has repeated last evening’s brew, upon a larger scale, in the “little bason,” or wassail-bowl. Master Wellesley has kissed Angelina under the misletoe, suspended from the chandelier, and placed in the centre of the amphitheatre, for that purpose. Mr. Latimer has “taken the opportunity,” as Jemima turned up a refractory burner; and everybody kissed everybody else they liked, or could catch there. The entertaining Captain has narrated an effective anecdote of an enraged elephant, and a precious big boar speared in a savage jungle—to which he might have added, with no more personal risk than Mrs. Brown may experience when hunting
for a boa in her wardrobe. And, Mr. Mouldy, the city merchant, who dealt in rags, sang about a little excitable pig, and “Mac Mullin’s Lament;” whilst Mr. Snobbins—who it was hoped would sit and be silent,—has broken the spell, dared to remember old times, sleeping under a counter, and the pugnacity of Brown, when they were in a mess at the blues—making Captain de Camp think more of a military repast than Christ’s Hospital;—until the “blues” were dispelled by Mr. Snobbins singing “The gallant ’prentice boy:”—not that the company would have lacked a military man, had the Captain been absent, for there was Cowed, the meek Bermondsey tanner, by livery a hatter, and withal a soldier—a member of the Hon. Artillery Company,—he who sang about God blessing the old cow’s hide, and a
"Wish that his soul in heaven might dwell,
Who first invented the leather bottel;"
—and, Mrs. Brown’s brother, Mr. Barthe Brick, familiarly known as the “Brick,” who had just commenced a song, a parody upon Fra Diavolo,—a something very, very low, supposed to be sung by a dealer in hearth-stones; who, at the end of each verse, vociferates “who’ll buy,” heightening the illusion by trundling a chair, on its back, round the family circle, to represent a barrow.
No one knows where the barbarous atrocities would have ended, and all before the refined strangers, too, had not the olive-branches—disposed for rest by their several mammas in the room above—all awoke
at once, tumbled out of bed, and joined in a combined cry; this breaks the family circle—mothers fly to pack their turbulent innocents for travel; the candles flare, and carriages clatter, grinding the flints in the lane. John, the footman, finds he has a dozen half-crowns, and Mary seven. The last fly has departed with the little Bricks; lights appear and disappear in the bed-chambers; and the Christmas-day—that comes but once a year—has vanished, like a dream!