Handy, jun. Green peas—That lady was the most enchanting, who could bring the greatest quantity of green peas to her table at Christmas! the struggle was tremendous! Mrs. Rowley Powley had the best of it by five pecks and a half, but it having been unfortunately proved, that at her ball there was room to dance and eat conveniently—that no lady received a black eye, and no coachman was killed, the thing was voted decent and comfortable, and scouted accordingly.
Miss B. Is comfort then incompatible with fashion?
Handy, jun. Certainly!—Comfort in high life would be as preposterous as a lawyer's bag crammed with truth, or his wig decorated with coquelicot ribbons! No—it is not comfort and selection that is sought, but numbers and confusion! So that a fashionable party resembles Smithfield market,—only a good one when plentifully stocked—and ladies are reckoned by the score, like sheep, and their husbands by droves, like horned cattle!
Miss B. Ha, ha! and the conversation—
Handy, jun. Oh! like the assembly—confused, vapid, and abundant; as "How do, ma'am!—no accident at the door?—he, he!"—"Only my carriage broke to pieces!"—"I hope you had not your pocket picked!"—"Won't you sit down to faro?"—"Have you many to-night?"—"A few, about six hundred!"—"Were you at Lady Overall's?"—"Oh yes; a delicious crowd, and plenty of peas, he, he!"—and thus runs the fashionable race.
Sir Abel. Yes; and a precious run it is—full gallop all the way: first they run on—then their fortune is run through—then bills are run up—then they are run hard—then they've a run of luck—then they run out, and then they run away!—But I'll forgive fashion all its follies in consideration of one of its blessed laws.
Handy, jun. What may that be!
Sir Abel. That husband and wife must never be seen together.
Enter Servant.
Serv. Miss Blandford, your father expects you.