The Real Ethiopian Serenaders or the first that extracted Notes (Bank) from Bones.
THE HONOUR OF THE READER'S COMPANY IS REQUESTED TO
A DINNER PARTY.
The Dining Room's quite a sight! The Chairs have had their pinafores taken off for the occasion, and now stand out in all the glory of Morocco. The table, which in the morning was only a modest square, has by means of its telescope been stretched into an oblong. You can count the number of guests by the number of chairs, and before each seat stands a small cluster of wine glasses, of different shapes and colours, two plates, and a napkin folded into the form of a triangle, with a small sandball-looking French roll secreted within it. The salt has changed its colour—is pink, and looks flushed with excitement. The supernumerary silver has been taken from its catacomb of the plate chest, where it has been kept since the last grand dinner, shrouded in wash leather, and like an old Dowager has now been rouged into brightness.
At the Sideboard stands Kitson, the host, with a shiny soapy face, decanting the wine, and consequently in a bad humour. And the honest Coal and Potato Warehouseman, who "beats carpets and attends evening parties," is fortifying himself in the passage by swallowing all that is left at the bottom of the bottles, with a look of extreme disgust for all spirituous liquors; and Master Kitson is helping his Father with the Wine, and himself to the Almonds and Raisins, when the Governor is not looking. On one side stand half a dozen of generous Port, in rich coats of Cobweb, with their chalk fronts; and on the other, two or three bottles of that tall, stately-looking, silver-headed, dinner-party-drinking Champagne.
In the Drawing-room is Mrs. Kitson, in a dreadful state of mind, standing on a chair—on which she has spread her handkerchief, from the fear of soiling the damask of the cushion—groaning over the Ormolu Lamp, and trying to discover why it has been dripping on the yellow satin Ottoman beneath.
In the midst of this a hungry double knock comes at the door, and the hostess has just got time enough to snatch one of the showily-bound books, which are placed at regular distances round the drawing-room table, and arrange herself and her dress on the Sofa, with a look of deep interest, when the Coal and Potato Warehouseman announces the first small appetite in a voice that savours strongly of "Below." And in the said small appetite walks in a love of a dress that talks French as fast as it can rustle. The conversation takes a lively turn, first, as to the weather, and then as to the children of the two establishments, each fond mother trying to make out that "her dear Herbert" or "her dear Kitty" was more delicate than the other fond Mother's sweet offspring.
Now the hungry double knocks come quicker and stronger, and the plates and the glasses jingle a kind of chorus. The next-door neighbours keep running to the windows, and are quite sure there is something going on at the Kitson's, and feel highly indignant at people not treating their neighbours as themselves, and vow revenge at their next evening party. There is a small crowd of half a dozen errand-boys and nursery-maids in front of the house, who closely criticise the dress of each small appetite as it arrives.
The company now are only waiting for the family Doctor; and Mrs. K. begins to have dreadful visions of the haunch of Venison done to a cinder, and the Turbot about the consistency of curds and whey. Every now and then young Kitson comes into the room and whispers into his mother's ears, and receives a mysterious something, that sounds like keys. Kitson has got three or four of his old Cronies together, and is letting them into the secret of some miraculous quack pill, and how it has done him a world of good.
At length in walks the dilatory family Doctor, with a volume of splendid excuses, and, being a jocular man of the world, he easily obtains a pardon. Then comes a general move for the dinner-table, where Mrs. Kitson looks over a kind of Index of the Chairs, which she has on a card, and tells each party where he or she is to eat his or her dinner; by which contrivance she cleverly manages to place bashful gentlemen next to talkative ladies, and bashful ladies next to talkative gentlemen.