Poor John, now fully assured of the Captain’s intention, is very uncomfortable, indeed; experiencing the combined sensations of goose-skin, fever, pins-and-needles, live-blood, and intoxication—sensations that might have been relieved could they have vanished at the extremities of his hair; but, unfortunately, that would not stand erect, so plastered and powdered had it been since the Captain’s arrival. John ruminates upon what has been said, intending to mention the “unmentionables,” and break the awful mystery to Mr. Brown, that very night. Now, you must know, Mr. Brown and his friend, the Captain, condescended to grace the juvenile party:—they sat at an occasional table, in the recess, drinking wine, as if for a wager—trying to dispose of all the surplus decanted yesterday; so, you may suppose, when John appeared with a melancholy face, to impart melancholy news, Mr. Brown was too far gone to comprehend it—that night he could not stand, much more understand; though, somehow, under the inspiration of a draught of water and a damp towel, the Diary was made up, as if by instinct:—
“January 5th, Saturday.—Christmas is dead!—Expired with the Juvenile party—we have economically disposed of the scraps. ‘A Merry Christmas!’—All the ill luck came upon Fridays—we can have no
more this season—altogether, a jolly Christmas, with a jolly friend, who is to prove himself a capital one to-morrow—owes me £350—bill due Monday,—says he will clear off all by then! If ‘money’ is said to be a ‘friend,’ what must a friend with money be?—A golden treasure, doubly dear—a companion that can never be a drag, because too well off.”
Thus closes the Christmas portion of the Brown Diary:—its author, as customary on Saturday, dyeing his hair, before retiring to rest. But, somehow, that eventful evening, Brown could not repose in peace; he abused his best friends in sleep—dreaming the De Camps capable of decamping, after the bridal breakfast, with the dowry, across the sea—leaving Jemima and Angelina married vestals,—to make more money and fresh conquests in Virginia or Marryland:—whither old Brown feels bound to follow, in his night shirt, but is incapacitated, being tied to the earth by a pigtail springing from the organs of amativeness, philoprogenitiveness, inhabitiveness, and adhesiveness! So exciting is Brown’s dream, that he fancies the De Camps escaping—now, the banging door of the Albert fairly awakening the sleeper; who, on attempting to rise, finds the pillow really a fixture to the back of his head; which he tears away, in a rage, causing all the pleasing sensations that might be experienced on the removal of a tail by the roots. Brown rushes wildly to the window, opening the casement; and, upon looking into the pitch-dark night, he receives a blow from without, that causes him to stagger and reel backwards, falling to the floor, with a noise that makes
Mrs. Brown rise in a fright, obtain a light, and severely reprimand her lord as a drunken fool—capable of any wild fancy!
The naked truth stands thus:—Poor Brown has mistaken a bottle of gum for hair-dye, and a closet for the casement—bruising his forehead against the shelf; so, he creeps back to bed—there to lie, moralizing upon cause and effect!—Thinking, how trifling things, in themselves, may lead to disastrous consequences—reflecting upon the rival bottles:—one black—all deceit, the other white and trusty! “Be not precipitate, nor trust to appearances only, lest you be deceived!”—a maxim, Brown fears, he cannot apply to the Captain; for, never did he know less of a man, of whom he ought to have known more.
The 5th of January seemed to Brown as if it would never dawn!—The bump that took away and restored his senses, or, rather, sobered that gentleman, feels like an egg placed in the centre of his forehead—he longs for daylight, to examine it:—daylight, that comes, and reduces the egg to a walnut-shell!—Poor Brown’s hat will not go on, for the excrescence, so he cannot go to church. At breakfast he recounts his dream—which is voted fudge by Mamma, stuff by Angelina, and rubbish by Jemima; for they are in no very good humour after the excitement of last week. Little Tom is in bed, having broken his fast upon jalap, administered to counteract the baneful effects of the sweets consumed yesterday—the youth being full as a sack of sand; and, we think, could an anatomist have given a section of the different strata of food that body contained, in the spirit of a geologist, he would have presented a
remarkable series of deposits. But, away with scientific speculations, to the Browns, who are at breakfast—a meal that has been intruded upon by John; who has recounted enough of a certain story to put Jemima in hysterics, and Angelina in a fainting fit—bringing down a hurricane of abuse upon him—John, the impertinent menial—John, the venomous viper, that has recoiled upon its benefactor—John, the dark villain, that has plotted with the unworthy man, Spohf, who, of course, out of mere envy, mere spite, mere jealousy, would try to overturn that harmony that is not to be broken so easily—that unity that is not to be severed, no, not for a hundred Spohfs! “Go—go, sir, to your fiddling garret-friend—go and blow his hurdigurdy!—Go, sir!—Tell him the affections of innocent females are not to be played upon like a base vile!—Tell him there are ears to pull, horsewhips to be had, ay, and noble gentlemen ever ready to lay on in defence of those scandalously reviled! You may tremble, sir, for menials can be discharged, and have characters to lose! Sir, I give you warning!—Sir, you may go!—Go, sir!”
Now, this is the very thing John much wished to do:—he had been imperceptibly backing, for the last five minutes, towards the door, fearing to turn tail upon the enemy—the choleric Mr. and Mrs. Brown;
