repeat; suffice it to say, the aphorisms on the demise of the year ran foul of the “occasional memoranda,” and were brought to a dead stop by the “general accounts;” not that his ideas stopped on paper, for he continued them in bed. Brown dreamed “his ship had come home;”—that he dwelt in a Belgravian palace; that he was an M.P.;—that he was known as Brown, the “King of ’Change”—that he ruled with an iron ruler—that he was enthroned upon a cash-box—that he wore a crown of dollars—that the four quarters of the globe adored him—that Great and Little Britain worshipped him;—that the world told his wife, Brown was a great man:—but, alas!—trains of wild ideas, like locomotives that go too fast, may run off the rail when least expected, or explode as a train of gunpowder, without notice; so, in Mr. Brown’s imagination, he feels as if shot into the air, after being dreadfully scalded—Mrs. Brown, kind soul, having applied a bottle of boiling water (forgetting the flannel) to the feet of her spouse, before retiring, herself—that good lady little thinking it was so warm. But there were other things Mrs. Brown did not know of; for she little thought the servants were round the kitchen-fire, quiet as mice, all deep in the “Mysteries of the Courts and Sewers of London”—a work affording the greatest amount of horrible excitement at the lowest rate,—a book in which Alphonso has discovered a Captain de Camp; and cook, a Lady Thingamy, whom, she says, “ain’t no better than she should be”—a rather vague but significant truth, that might as appropriately have been applied to a saint as to a sinner, though cook intended it for the latter:—as to the Capting,
the only think she had agin him was a wish he wouldn’t spile everythink with soy and cayenne, for it got into the wash, and made the pigs sneeze. Mary, too, must have her opinion—saying Wellesley wasn’t no gentleman, for he wiped his dirty boots on the towels, and would pull the plug out of the wash-bason when there was nothing under to catch the soapy water. During this scandal, John, whom all thought knew something, only said the Captain was an umbug—as he noiselessly disappeared, bearing his shoes in his hand; for it was considerably past midnight.
Young Brown and his two friends are at the “Planets” harmonic meeting, stating their intention not to return till morning—an useless proclamation, for it is impossible to do otherwise, now—they having been at the Casino, “getting their feet in,” for the hop on Friday, as young Brown termed the practice of dancing.
Mr. Spohf is in bed, but cannot sleep—so great is his pleasure,—Messrs. Blow and Grumble having patented “Spohf’s new organ-movement.”
“A Happy New Year—and may you live to see many of them!”—The New Year is born with every characteristic of its defunct sire—seeming no better behaved (as some people would have little boys after a birthday or a breeching):—the old year died with a drizzle; and the young one, that everybody hoped promising, is born with the same attributes.
Mr. Brown is at his post again—the parish lamp-post at the corner
of the lane—awaiting the “Favourite” omnibus, that is to bear him to the City. He is trying to arrange the thousand and one little commissions he has to execute for Mrs. Brown. How many he remembered or forgot we know not; but that day he purchased a fair blank Diary—the stationer who sold it not only wishing him “a Happy New Year,” but that he might “live to fill fifty such:”—a wish that made Mr. Brown very contemplative—thinking 18,250 entries no joke;—of many bright, bright days of pleasure; two score and ten of birthdays; half a century of weddings, anniversaries, and deaths—let us hope of peaceful, happy deaths,—for clouds will sometimes gather, darkening the brightest sky; but, thank Heaven, there is plenty of sunshine for those who seek it—ay, to find it, too, though it be midnight and beside a kitchen-fire. Of this new Diary the first page is penned with more care than usual—as all first pages are:—there the De Camp dynasty reign in confidence; and it is evident that Mr. Brown anticipates a glorious future.
Young Time, we have often imagined, must be born fledged; for he can fly quickly as his sire!—It is the 3rd of January—the day prior to Mrs. Brown’s ball.—Thus thought we, wending our way to Victoria Villa; having promised the Miss Browns to step in and practise the “deux-temps” with them; but, as we have since heard, it is another new double-shuffle that is turning the brains of the dancing world just now;—however, we went, and found Victoria in a pretty pickle—a perfect mixed pickle, we may say,—our dear young friends being
much too busy to remember the appointment:—for there was the “Broadwood” standing upon the landing; and Master Tom cutting out slides upon the bare boards in the drawing-room, the carpet being taken to St. Stiff’s Union, that it might be beaten—a thing we exceedingly rejoiced in; for last year the guests were obliged to beat it with their feet, and afterwards to carry the dust home upon their shoulders—the first polka being performed as if in the Great Desert, during a sand-storm. There was the chandelier (that looked all the year like a giant pear enveloped in holland) being removed to the parlour, and a much more splendid one suspended in its stead. We peeped into the drawing-room, and had our dignity compromised by a man on some steps; who directed us to “look alive and bring that hammer.” So, it being very evident we were in the way, we withdrew, tumbling over a barricade of fenders and other furniture in the hall, raised during our absence by the insurgent housemaids; who, we are sorry to say, seemed rather diverted at the mishap, for we heard them giggle, though of course we appeared not to notice, and tried to walk away with a joyous air; at the same time vowing never to visit, even our best friends, on the day prior to a party.
So we took care to keep away until the memorable evening arrived; but being particularly requested to come early, and bring our amiable sisters, we wished to do so. The Brougham was waiting, as were we—thinking to do so for some time:—having made up our mind and the study-fire—diving deep into the first book handy—an "Essay upon Light