Take 8lbs. of the best white linen rags, 4lbs. of broken flint glass,
and 12 ditto of old bones; throw in a handful of old nails, with a few
horses' shoes, and flat irons at discretion. Put these into a bag, and
bring them to No. 12, &c., and you will find that it will make you a
good family plum pudding; but if you wish to give it additional
richness, you should add a few pounds of kitchen-stuff, and put a pound
or two of candles into the grease pot.
[Illustration:
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.
Then the family Doctor insists on Mrs. Kitson letting him help the
Turbot, whereupon Kitson informs the whole table that he shall be
jealous if the Doctor "goes on in that way," which being, of course, a
good joke, causes the guests to giggle unanimously. Every now and then
the Doctor does a witticism, whereat the Coal and Potato Warehouseman,
who is of a facetious turn of mind, chuckles inwardly, and manages to
lodge a slice of Venison or a cutlet in some lady's back hair. Now
Kitson gives a mysterious nod, and immediately Champagne is handed
round, and Master K. ventures on a glassful; on which his Father looks
as black as gentility will allow him, and determines within himself not
to allow Augustus to dine at table again until he knows how to behave
himself.
On the removal of the cloth Mrs. Kitson's proud moment arrives. She has
thrown the whole strength of the footman into the French polish, and her
domestic reputation stands upon her tables. At the sight of them all her
female friends fall into violent admiration, and, "How _do_ you do it; I
can never get ours half as bright," &c., &c., bursts from every
housewife. With the Dessert come the dear little Master and Miss K.'s,
beautifully got up with bear's grease and pink sarsenet for the
occasion, but looking rather pale from the effects of having dipped
their tiny fingers into each dish as it left the Parlour (the Doctor is
in doubt whether it arises from Bile, or a nasty Influenza that is
flying about); and each of the ladies begs to have "the little pets"
next to her.
Now the gentlemen begin tempting the ladies, by cutting oranges into the
shapes of lilies and baskets, or cracking nuts for them. And so matters
proceed, until Mrs. Kitson looks inquiringly at each lady, and each lady
having smiled in answer, they all rise and make for the door, which two
or three of the younger gentlemen rush to open. As soon as they have
departed, the gentlemen draw near to the fire, and Kitson says, "Let us
be comfortable," and puts on the table such wines as weak woman is
unable to appreciate.
Then come Claret, Old Port, and Politics, and with the sixth bottle they
begin discussing Moral Philosophy. Mrs. Kitson's health is at length
proposed by the family Doctor, who speaks of her as "the exemplary wife—
the tender mother—and the woman whom to know is to admire, ay! and he
_would_ say—to love." And then Kitson wants words to express his
feelings for the honour they have done him, and winds up his catalogue
of Mrs. K.'s virtues with a tear. Now "the exemplary wife" upstairs gets
nervous about her husband and the wine below, and sends the footman in
every ten minutes to say that "Tea is ready." Suddenly the ladies
commence singing, and the family Doctor, who lives but to please,
proposes to join them.
As soon as the gentlemen have retired upstairs, Kitson, who remains
below, carefully locks up the remnants of the fruit and wine, and
reminds Master K. of that little affair of the Champagne, and trusts he
may never have to speak to him on that subject again. Then the gentlemen
upstairs ask each lady in turn to oblige them with a song, and after
considerable difficulty, prevail upon Mrs. Kitson's unmarried sister to
favour them with "Did you ne'er hear of Kate Kearney;" but unfortunately
the nuts spoil the runs. And then the gentlemen begin to have a strong
inclination for Sofas and forty winks, and will put their "nasty greasy
heads" on the bright yellow satin damask cushions. And then the company
grows very silent; so that Kitson, who can't get up his rubber, is not
sorry when he hears the Coal and Potato Warehouseman announce the first
carriage. Then comes the hunting for Cloaks, and the running for Cabs,
and the giving generous shillings and very generous half-crowns to the
Coal and Potato Warehouseman, who is very careful to be at the door as
each party is leaving. At length they have all gone, and Kitson tells
his better half to see the plate right, and retires to bed.
Next morning he is very surly all breakfast, and very late for business,
and Mrs. K. speaks out about the quantity of wine that was drunk; and
the family, much to the delight of the little K.'s, have the remainder
of the jellies, and other good things, for dinner all the next week.