Miss Kitty Cannon filled a bumper of cherry brandy instead of "just the least drop in the world."
Mr. Cannon, junior, drove a toothpick in his gums instead of his teeth.
George Cannon started, and trod on the cat's tail.
Cornelius Cannon (commonly called Colcannon, having had an Irish godfather,) made a horrible mistake, by drinking out of his finger-glass instead of his tumbler.
Peter Cannon used his damask napkin instead of a pocket-handkerchief; and Oliver Cannon, who had been lolling and rocking his chair, rolled off his centre of gravity.
A dead silence followed the important question. The ghost of Chesterfield ought in mercy to have burst from his cerements to have answered it. Mr. Cannon first ventured to give an opinion—a judicious opinion.
"Why, as to the matter of that," he said, scratching his brown wig,—which was, by-the-bye, an action which might have been called manual tautology, since it was a scratch already,—"as to the matter of that, it is clear that, if we are to be acquainted with his lordship, they must call upon us, or we must call upon them."
Now, it is a matter worthy of consideration, that, in difficult and knotty points, perspicuity of language seldom or ever elucidates the business. Nothing could be more clear, more lucid, nay, more pellucid, than Mr. Commodus Cannon's remark,—more self-evident, more conclusive,—yet it only tended to make darkness visible. Mrs. Cannon, who possessed greater powers of eloquence, was therefore imperiously called upon for a rejoinder.
"If you could think, Mr. Cannon, of waiting until my Lord What-do-you-call-him thinks proper to honour us with a call, you are a mean-spirited, petty-minded fellow. I'd have you to know we are every inch as good as they are."
"To be sure we are!" replied all the Cannons in one simultaneous and spontaneous roar, one well-fired volley of approbation without a straggling shot,—all but Mr. Cannon senior, who remained as still as a target.