CHAP. XVI.

Three hours had glided away amongst the contents and non-contents, when Mrs. Macfriz requested the game might be broke up to make room for the servant to lay the cloth, which was, of course, immediately complied with; and the table was spread with an inundation of spoons, glasses, silver goblets, and numerous etceteras; till the entrance of three immense capons, a leg of pork, a smoaking tongue, with sallad, vegetation, pies, and custards, wholesale, completed the set-out; Mr. Macfriz presiding at the head of the table, Mrs. Macfriz took the bottom, and the guests were promiscuously seated.

Now it happened to be the fate of Simon Undermine to sit next Mrs. Downright, who modestly requested the leg of a chicken; and wishing to hand her plate for that purpose, and enforce his attention, she gave him a violent slap on the shoulder, and exclaimed, “Come, cockey, hand up my plate—will you?”

Simon, bursting with indignation at her vulgar and familiar address, snatched it rudely from her, and called the servant to relieve his lily-white do-nothing of its incumbrance.

“I could have done that myself,” said Mrs. Downright. “La! la! what a tom bore of a young man you be, Mister; you should always serve the ladies!”

Simon curled up his nose in derision, and turned his back upon her.

“You sha’n’t be my son-in-law; you’d never do for my Jenny,” continued Mrs. Downright, giving him a second slap, which acted like an electric shock on his nervous system. “Be so good to give me a slice of that there tongue.”

“I thought you had got some,” replied sulky Simon.

“That’s well said,” answered his father: “few ladies are in want of that article! Ha, ha, ha! Well said, Simon.”

Mrs. Downright, nothing daunted by the retort of any puppy whatever, jumped up, and fetched herself a piece of bread; observing, those who were too indolent to get their bread ought to go without it.

“Then I should soon starve,” replied Mrs. Dashwell, “for I could not earn mine now.”

“Oh, there’s more ways than one of yearning one’s livelihood,” replied Mrs. Downright: “if you could not do it one way, you mought another.”

“But Mrs. Dashwell has no occasion to do it,” replied her lord and master, piqued at his gross companion’s inuendo.

“That makes no odds,” replied Mrs. Downright: “what she is, and what she may be, are two very different things.”

“Well, I’m a very happy man,” cried Mr. Earwig: “I’m like a gardener; I can raise my salary quicker than any man, and dispose of my time as I think proper.” Then grinning at his own wit, and displaying his amber dechements, he actually hummed the O. P. dance, while his plate was refreighting with bonbons.

“And I’ll tell you what you can do beside,” said Mr. Consequence, in an audible whisper—“you can get the blind side of one great man, and the deaf side of another great man—eh, Earwig! you can do any thing but what you’re wanted, we all know.”

This caused a general laugh; but Mr. Earwig swallowed it in custard; and it died away.

At length the diligent Mr. Macfriz, wiping the pearls of notability from his face, ordered the fragments to be removed, and the wine set on the table.

Various patriotic toasts having briskly circulated, the ladies were called on for their favourites.

“Lord have ye! I’ve no favourites upon earth, but my chuck: however, I’ll give you a toast,” cried Mrs. Downright: “so here’s a health to the poor sick gentleman, and may he live to see those turn’d out who turn’d him out! I loves a bit of tit for tat; but some folks is like the hedgehog—love to worm themselves in, and worm others out.”

The glasses of Mr. Undermine and Mr. Consequence were very sparingly replenished, which being perceived by the Argus eye of Mrs. Downright, she insisted on bumpers, which was very reluctantly complied with.

My uncle proposed the addition of three cheers, in the energy of which applause he knocked off the foot of his wine-glass.

“Never mind!” exclaimed Mrs. Downright: “I’d sooner make Mr. Macfriz a present of a dozen to-morrow, than lose the honour of my toast.”

“Come, come! as we a’n’t in the House of Commons, gentlemen, I begs we may be all unonymous, and not reap up old grievances. Who will give us a song? None of my family were born skylarks; but I’ve some notion Mr. Simon Undermine can tip us a stave,” cried Mr. Macfriz.

Mr. Simon, who was sitting at full stretch on his chair, with his hands, as usual, tucked into his breeches pockets up to his elbows, assured the company, in his silly way, he never could sing in all his life, though he had had the advantage of plenty of singing-masters.

“How d’ye mean? how d’ye mean?” asked his father.

“Why, haven’t I kept an aviary of Canary birds this ever so long?” replied Simon.

“Pish!” said his scarlet-faced papa, shocked at his son’s nonsensical pun.

“Oh-ho, Monsieur Canarie!” exclaimed the pedantic Mr. Earwig (who loved to let the world know he had attained a smattering of French, as well as a few Irish bulls); “vous êtes wit-ty.”

Simon, abashed, sat silent; and, as I much suspected, my uncle pitched on me, requesting I would sing “Old Towler,” with which I unhesitatingly complied, and for which I received some very high encomiums from everybody but Mr. Consequence and Messrs. Undermine.

Mrs. Downright soon afterwards found out she began to feel sleepy, and it was time for all honest tradesfolks to go home to bed; she therefore began pinning up her pearl sattin, which gave the signal of departure, and broke up the company.

“I think old Mother Downright cut up the ousters with a vengeance,” said my uncle, as we walked home. “To be sure, she’s a woman of very low extraction and rough manners; but she possesses an excellent heart of honesty and benevolence, and that’s an equivalent.” Few more comments passed, as the hour was late; and we therefore retired to rest.

END OF VOL. I.

Plummer and Brewis, Printers, Love-lane, Eastcheap.