“Well, then, who can say this is not a pleasant day to both parties? The old gentlemen have their nice snug business chat, and the old ladies have their nice snug gossip chat, and the third estate (as the head of the firm calls it, who was lately elected member for Grumble Town, and begins to talk parliamentary), the third estate, the young folks, the people of progression, who are not behind but rather ahead of the age they live in, don’t they enjoy themselves? It is very hard if youth, beauty, health, good spirits, and a desire to please (because if people havn’t that they had better stay to home), can’t or won’t make people happy. I don’t mean for to go for to say that will insure it, because nothin’ is certain, and I have known many a gall that resembled a bottle of beautiful wine. You will find one sometimes as enticin’ to appearance as ever was, but hold it up and there is grounds there for all that, settled, but still there, and enough too to spile all, so you can’t put it to your lips any how you can fix it. What a pity it is sweet things turn sour, ain’t it?
“But in a general way these things will make folks happy. There are some sword-knots there, and they do look very like woodsmen, that’s a fact. If you never saw a forrester, you would swear to them as perfect. A wide-awake hat, with a little short pipe stuck in it, a pair of whiskers that will be grand when they are a few years older—a coarse check or red flannel shirt, a loose neck-handkerchief, tied with a sailor’s knot—a cut-away jacket, with lots of pockets—a belt, but little or no waistcoat—homespun trowsers and thick buskins—a rough glove and a delicate white hand, the real, easy, and natural gait of the woodman (only it’s apt to be a little, just a little too stiff, on account of the ramrod they have to keep in their throats while on parade), when combined, actilly beat natur, for they are too nateral. Oh, these amateur woodsmen enact their part so well, you think you almost see the identical thing itself. And then they have had the advantage of Woolwich or Sandhurst, or Chobham, and are dabs at a bivouac, grand hands with an axe—cut a hop-pole down in half a day amost, and in the other half stick it into the ground. I don’t make no doubt in three or four days they could build a wigwam to sleep in, and one night out of four under cover is a great deal for an amateur hunter, though it ain’t the smallest part of a circumstance to the Crimea. As, it is, if a stick ain’t too big for a fire, say not larger than your finger, they can break it over their knee, sooner than you could cut it with a hatchet for your life, and see how soon it’s in a blaze. Take them altogether, they are a killing party of coons them, never miss a moose if they shoot out of an Indian’s gun, and use a silver bullet.
“Well, then, the young ladies are equipped so nicely—they have uglies to their bonnets, the only thing ugly about them, for at a distance they look like huge green spectacles. They are very useful in the forest, for there is a great glare of the sun generally under trees; or else they have green bonnets, that look like eagle’s skins; thin dresses, strong ones are too heavy, and they don’t display the beauty of nature enough, they are so high, and the whole object of the party is to admire that. Their walking shoes are light and thin, they don’t fatigue you like coarse ones, and India-rubbers are hideous, they make your feet look as if they had the gout; and they have such pretty, dear little aprons, how rural it looks altogether—they act a day in the woods to admiration. Three of the officers have nicknames, a very nice thing to induce good fellowship, especially as it has no tendency whatever to promote quarrels. There is Lauder, of the Rifles, he is so short, they call him Pistol; he has a year to grow yet, and may become a great gun some of these days. Russel takes a joke good-humouredly, and therefore is so fortunate as to get more than his share of them, accordingly he goes by the name of Target, as every one takes a shot at him. Duke is so bad a shot, he has twice nearly pinked the marksman, so he is called Trigger. He always lays the blame of his want of skill on that unfortunate appendage of the gun, as it is either too hard or too quick on the finger. Then there is young Bulger, and as everybody pronounces it as if it had two ‘g’s’ in it, he corrects them and says, ‘g’ soft, my dear fellow, if you please; so he goes by the name of ‘G’ soft. Oh, the conversation of the third estate is so pretty, I could listen to it for ever.
“‘Aunt,’ sais Miss Diantha, ‘do you know what gyp—gypsy—gypsymum—gypsymuming is? Did you ever hear how I stutter to-day? I can’t get a word out hardly. Ain’t it provoking?’
“Well, stammering is provoking; but a pretty little accidental impediment of speech like that, accompanied with a little graceful bob of the head, is very taking, ain’t it?
“‘Gypsuming,’ sais the wise matron, ‘is the plaster of Paris trade, dear. They carry it on at Windsor, your father says.’
“Pistol gives Target a wink, for they are honouring the party by their company, though the mother of one keeps a lodging-house at Bath, and the father of the other makes real genuine East India curry in London. They look down on the whole of the townspeople. It is natural; pot always calls kettle an ugly name.
“‘No, Ma,’ sais Di—all the girls address her as Di; ain’t it a pretty abbreviation for a die-away young lady? But she is not a die-away lass; she is more of a Di Vernon. ‘No, Ma,’ sais Di, ‘gipsey—ing, what a hard word it is! Mr Russel says it’s what they call these parties in England. It is so like the gipsy life.’
“‘There is one point,’ sais Pistol, ‘in which they differ.’
“‘What’s that?’ sais Di.