Our evening is drawing to a close:—the mouths in the boudoir are assuming the shape of elongated O’s—an epidemic that has extended to the Wall-flowers; the “harp” has accompanied his instrument with fitful snores; the “violin” scarcely knows the back from the front of his fiddle, or the “cornet” which end to blow into;—yet, upon being asked for “Roger de Coverley,” they make a desperate effort to awake, for they know it to be the last dance—which is supported by
the whole strength of the company,—Captain de Camp leading off with Mrs. Brown, and Mr. Brown with Lady Lucretia. Thus ends the Christmas Ball!
The still-room is being besieged for coffee; and there is a great difficulty in obtaining hats and coats—unfortunately few of the tickets corresponding,—for Alphonso’s ward was precipitated down the kitchen stairs, it having been too heavily laden. Lady and Miss Highbury are seen to their carriage by Mr. Lark, who departs in Lord Towney’s cab, with a “Gibus” hat, mechanically deranged—all wrinkles, like a jockey’s boot. Upon being asked, by a lanthorn-bearer, “if his Honor has such a thing as a pint o’ beer in his pocket?” Mr. Lark, with playful irony, informs the supernumerary that malt liquor is not a solid, neither is it to be obtained at evening parties.
To and fro, flit the Jack-o’-lanthorns, respectfully touching the binding of their battered hats, covering the tiers of muddy wheels with their coat-tails, that the tulle and tartelaine may not be spoiled—hoping your Honour will “remember” them!—as they cast uncertain shadows upon the icy pavement—ice that has been rendered none the less slippery by their cutting out a slide upon it, with the assistance of the police, during the evening:—such a banging of doors, clashing of steps, and stopping up the way, under the little awning, over the carriage-sweep—a pretty pass, so narrow that, we are sorry to say, the hackney-drivers instituted a private road amongst the hardy shrubs, choking up the gates, to the great distress of pedestrians, who are looked upon by
the “lanthorns” as “shabby gents,”—paying nothing for the privilege of walking;—they (the “lanthorns”) viewing the immunity, in the light of parsimony. However, we think walking home, after a party, under the influence of champagne, a dangerous experiment:—the clear free streets seeming to court a “lark,” and the very bells to invite pulling—“Visitors’,” and “Night,” “Knock and Ring,” (and run) also.
We have since heard the fate of a rash expedition undertaken at this season, the band of adventurers consisting mostly of those gentlemen who had passed the last half-hour dying for a cigar; and yet, by some unknown attractive power, felt bound to stay the entertainment out—probably it was that such kindred souls might depart en masse; however, be it what it might, their first care was to obtain a light—at some sacrifice, for the lamp-post had been newly painted; and, secondly, happening to pass Mr. Spohf’s, they must serenade that gentleman with pathetic negro-melodies—about the loss of one “Mary Blane,” and an injunction to “Susannah” not to sob,—until driven by the police into another beat, there to lose one of their band, who fell a victim to an inquiring spirit;—for, seeing an inscription on a door, to intimate that its owner, a surgeon, gave “advice, gratis, between the hours of four and five, every Saturday,” he rang to demand the same (having the head-ache), as it was just that time by St. Stiff’s; but, unfortunately falling into the clutches of No. 8, of the A division, he had to receive the advice, from a magistrate, between eleven and twelve, at a fee of five shillings.
We left Mr. Lark in Lord Towney’s cab—again to take up with him, being put down at the end of Bloomsbury Buildings, fearing the rattle of wheels in that quiet cul-de-sac would disturb the old Larks. Having found the door, and spent five minutes by the hinges—searching for the key-hole, he gets within; and spends five more—trying to ignite an extinguisher;—cautiously stealing to bed, throwing his paletôt over the top banister, and the contents of its pockets down the well-staircase, to the awakening of the whole house.
At Victoria Villa the last guest has gone:—the De Camps have gone—departed with cordiality and love for all that is Brown, at the same time sadly mortified with the impression made on that worthy gentleman’s friends. Mrs. Brown, worn out and exhausted, has given a parting glance round, with her night-lamp, and panted up to-bed; the Misses Brown have retired to their chambers; John feels very much inclined to proclaim his opinion of the Captain, but is fearful of the consequences; and Mr. Strap, who has fallen a victim to his weak point—strong drink, is rendered thereby quite incapable of making either a base to his person, or a fluent
speech, as it seems he wished; for, upon meeting Mr. Brown by the stairs, he made a rush at the esteemed proprietor of that name, prophetically bidding him to “B-B-Beware of Captings in w-w-w-wolf’s clo-o-othing, fur all isn’t gug-gug-gold as gl-l-l-litters, as the Rev-rind Miss-s-s-ster B-B-Bucket observes, in the Proverbs of Sol’mon’s songs.” Mr. Strap, after having delivered these sentiments, in what might have been called a sotto voice, to an imaginary Mr. Brown (for the reality had withdrawn to bed), performs an unsuccessful backward movement upon his heels—as if to survey his victim,—coming to the ground; where he lay until borne off by John, who thinks him a valiant fool.