作者：Luke Limner
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Christmas Comes but Once A Year试读：
MR. BROWN DID, THOUGHT, AND INTENDED TO DO,DURING THAT FESTIVE SEASON.
NOW FIRST EDITED FROM THE ORIGINAL MSS. (MESS).
With Notes and IllustrationsBy LUKE LIMNER, Esq.LONDON:
WILLIAM TEGG AND CO., 85, QUEEN STREET, CHEAPSIDE.M.DCCC.L.
Prime Movers.
John Brown, Esq.—Citizen of London and Suburban Snob.
John Brown, Jun., Esq.—“Fast Gent;” Son and Heir to the above “Brick!”—I believe you, my boys, rather!
Master Thomas Brown.—Apple of his Mother’s eye—“her Tommy-wommy”—“her dear boy”—“her jewel of a pet.”
Captain Bonaventure de Camp.—Officer, late of the Hon. E. I. Co’s. Service, but now at the service of any one.
Latimer de Camp.—Master of (He) Arts; Elder Son of the above, of Nobodynose College, Oxford.
Wellesley de Camp.—Cadet of Sandboys Military College.
Soavo Spohf.—Composer; Organist at St. Stiff’s the Martyr; Mr. Brown’s ex-friend.
John (Brown).—Footman to John Brown, Esq.; late Private in the 44th foot.
Tobias Strap.—Grocer in Greens, Landlord to Mr. Spohf, and Supernumerary help to any body.
Ichabod Strap.—(Son of his sire) commonly called “Alphonso,” but sometimes “Buttons.”
Mrs. Benigma Brown.—Rib of John Brown, Esq.—Ruler of his roast and boiled.Miss Eligible Young LadiesJemim—very so—to any one a inclined to a matter-o’-Brownmoney-all alliance..Miss Angelina Brown.
Lady Lucretia de Camp.—Spouse of “the Captain;” Lady in her own right (and wrong).
Deborah Strap.—(Consort of T. S. above) Pue-packer at St. Stiff’s the Martyr.Guests, Cooks, Maids, Lanthorn-bearers, extra Flunkeys, Police, &c., &c., &c., &c.
This paragraph opens with the last day of the old year.—The cold that stiffened Mr. Brown’s neck, and choked up his throat has thawed; his nose has resumed its accustomed hue; his temper is unusually good in the prospect of vacating his room, and beginning the year with redoubled energy. Mrs. Brown is preparing for something important; and, from the delicate scented note you observed inserted in our chimney-glass-frame—the one with the Brown crest, a rampant locomotive proper, and motto of “Go-a-head” (which, between ourselves, was found by a very subtle seal-engraver in Change Alley);—from that, and the remarks of Master Brown, when we called this morning, you may pretty well judge:—he said Jemy. wrote such a lot o’ letters the other day; that they have a pillow-case filled with oranges—quite a sack-full; and, moreover, his Ma’. just was clever—for she said she could kill two parties with one chandelier, and make rout-seats hold double! The fact is, Mrs. Brown intends to give a ball on the 4th of January, and a juvenile party on the 5th—the former to be extra-superb, on account of the De Camps; who, of course, are expected—having received an invitation by post. We wonder the Browns did not write to invite themselves; for John passed the Albert door in taking the Captain’s letter to the post, and the preparations were as much under the guidance of those worthies as of the Browns themselves. The boudoir is in a litter—all cuttings of satin and book muslin,—in the midst of which may be seen pretty Miss Bib and little Madame Tucker, very busily employed—Lady Lucretia de Camp proffering advice; and superintending the construction of an amber satin, covered with black lace—a dress that Mrs. Brown thought to wear, but felt obliged to resign, so much did her kind patron, Lady de Camp, dote upon it.
Above this last-named apartment is Brown’s bedchamber, where he and the Captain are spending a quiet evening, reviewing their prospects and relating their experiences:—the Captain stating his intention of living retired upon his property, for all his friend Major Cant’s trying to persuade him to take an adjoining house in Belgravia. No! he was content to stay where he was—Albert was snug; but if Mr. Brown thought of removing to Mayfair or Tyburnia, why then, a house next such a capital individual might be a desideratum:—he said it—an Army Captain that should not say it, but did not care,—stock-brokers and merchants were men of bottom; though probably his friend Major Cant would say that bottom meant the baser stuff they were composed of—the joke was better than the simile, and neither bad. After this opinion the Captain paused to think, drink, and—with a blow that made the table quiver,—demand, to know what a man without money was worth?—answering the question, in the same breath, with an emphatic nothing!—a man of wealth was a man of worth! We know not if Mr. Brown thought this logic or no;—but he, Captain de Camp, knew it, and intended to let his friends know it also; for next season he would give a grand entertainment, get Spread and Co. to throw a marquee over the lawn, and see if Major Cant would come—the Captain rather thought he would; or the Hon. Sam. Dummy—the coxcomb, who, when asked to dine with Alderman Fig, in Bloomsbury Square, said his horses never crossed Tottenham Court Road—Stinkomalee and the Brutish Museum savouring too much of the “people” for the exquisite;—but the Captain winked, and said he knew how the Dummy would get out of the fix—he would come along the New Road, as the Captain said he once knew him do, when in search of an asthmatic poodle that had been stolen, and was at a dog-fancier’s on Pentonville Hill. Then should we have the lane filled with carriages, like at a Chiswick fête; I would introduce my friend to the world, and be at rest;—for we are a couple of old boys, willing to make sacrifices for our dear children.
Having delivered himself of these lofty sentiments as the bells were ringing out the old year—stopping to strike its knell;—the Captain also stopped, to seize a glass and the hand of Brown—wishing him the merriest, maniest, and happiest of New Years;—drinking eternal unity to the B.’s and De C.’s—at the same time shedding a very visible tear, that dropped into his brandy and water, like the pearl of Cleopatra, to be sacrificed to self—to a very affectionate man—so very affectionate, that he loved himself, we do believe.
The spirits and sentiment so overcame Brown, that he buried his emotion in the bolster—a state of mind the Captain did not fail to observe, and take advantage of; for—“he supposed Mr. Brown could not spare £8, until Saturday?”—An affirmation that gentleman repudiated; for he granted the small favour with pleasure—presenting the leaf of an oblong book, and his autograph, to the Captain; who retired with the same—by an ingenious plan to render it of ten times the value—adding to the eight a letter y, making it eighty, and the figure to keep company with a naught—£80.
The events of this day are chronicled in the Diary of Brown—all couleur de rose,—the literal purport of which it would be tedious to repeat; suffice it to say, the aphorisms on the demise of the year ran foul of the “occasional memoranda,” and were brought to a dead stop by the “general accounts;” not that his ideas stopped on paper, for he continued them in bed. Brown dreamed “his ship had come home;”—that he dwelt in a Belgravian palace; that he was an M.P.;—that he was known as Brown, the “King of ’Change”—that he ruled with an iron ruler—that he was enthroned upon a cash-box—that he wore a crown of dollars—that the four quarters of the globe adored him—that Great and Little Britain worshipped him;—that the world told his wife, Brown was a great man:—but, alas!—trains of wild ideas, like locomotives that go too fast, may run off the rail when least expected, or explode as a train of gunpowder, without notice; so, in Mr. Brown’s imagination, he feels as if shot into the air, after being dreadfully scalded—Mrs. Brown, kind soul, having applied a bottle of boiling water (forgetting the flannel) to the feet of her spouse, before retiring, herself—that good lady little thinking it was so warm. But there were other things Mrs. Brown did not know of; for she little thought the servants were round the kitchen-fire, quiet as mice, all deep in the “Mysteries of the Courts and Sewers of London”—a work affording the greatest amount of horrible excitement at the lowest rate,—a book in which Alphonso has discovered a Captain de Camp; and cook, a Lady Thingamy, whom, she says, “ain’t no better than she should be”—a rather vague but significant truth, that might as appropriately have been applied to a saint as to a sinner, though cook intended it for the latter:—as to the Capting, the only think she had agin him was a wish he wouldn’t spile everythink with soy and cayenne, for it got into the wash, and made the pigs sneeze. Mary, too, must have her opinion—saying Wellesley wasn’t no gentleman, for he wiped his dirty boots on the towels, and would pull the plug out of the wash-bason when there was nothing under to catch the soapy water. During this scandal, John, whom all thought knew something, only said the Captain was an umbug—as he noiselessly disappeared, bearing his shoes in his hand; for it was considerably past midnight.
Young Brown and his two friends are at the “Planets” harmonic meeting, stating their intention not to return till morning—an useless proclamation, for it is impossible to do otherwise, now—they having been at the Casino, “getting their feet in,” for the hop on Friday, as young Brown termed the practice of dancing.
Mr. Spohf is in bed, but cannot sleep—so great is his pleasure,—Messrs. Blow and Grumble having patented “Spohf’s new organ-movement.”
“A Happy New Year—and may you live to see many of them!”—The New Year is born with every characteristic of its defunct sire—seeming no better behaved (as some people would have little boys after a birthday or a breeching):—the old year died with a drizzle; and the young one, that everybody hoped promising, is born with the same attributes.
Mr. Brown is at his post again—the parish lamp-post at the corner of the lane—awaiting the “Favourite” omnibus, that is to bear him to the City. He is trying to arrange the thousand and one little commissions he has to execute for Mrs. Brown. How many he remembered or forgot we know not; but that day he purchased a fair blank Diary—the stationer who sold it not only wishing him “a Happy New Year,” but that he might “live to fill fifty such:”—a wish that made Mr. Brown very contemplative—thinking 18,250 entries no joke;—of many bright, bright days of pleasure; two score and ten of birthdays; half a century of weddings, anniversaries, and deaths—let us hope of peaceful, happy deaths,—for clouds will sometimes gather, darkening the brightest sky; but, thank Heaven, there is plenty of sunshine for those who seek it—ay, to find it, too, though it be midnight and beside a kitchen-fire. Of this new Diary the first page is penned with more care than usual—as all first pages are:—there the De Camp dynasty reign in confidence; and it is evident that Mr. Brown anticipates a glorious future.
Young Time, we have often imagined, must be born fledged; for he can fly quickly as his sire!—It is the 3rd of January—the day prior to Mrs. Brown’s ball.—Thus thought we, wending our way to Victoria Villa; having promised the Miss Browns to step in and practise the “deux-temps” with them; but, as we have since heard, it is another new double-shuffle that is turning the brains of the dancing world just now;—however, we went, and found Victoria in a pretty pickle—a perfect mixed pickle, we may say,—our dear young friends being much too busy to remember the appointment:—for there was the “Broadwood” standing upon the landing; and Master Tom cutting out slides upon the bare boards in the drawing-room, the carpet being taken to St. Stiff’s Union, that it might be beaten—a thing we exceedingly rejoiced in; for last year the guests were obliged to beat it with their feet, and afterwards to carry the dust home upon their shoulders—the first polka being performed as if in the Great Desert, during a sand-storm. There was the chandelier (that looked all the year like a giant pear enveloped in holland) being removed to the parlour, and a much more splendid one suspended in its stead. We peeped into the drawing-room, and had our dignity compromised by a man on some steps; who directed us to “look alive and bring that hammer.” So, it being very evident we were in the way, we withdrew, tumbling over a barricade of fenders and other furniture in the hall, raised during our absence by the insurgent housemaids; who, we are sorry to say, seemed rather diverted at the mishap, for we heard them giggle, though of course we appeared not to notice, and tried to walk away with a joyous air; at the same time vowing never to visit, even our best friends, on the day prior to a party.
So we took care to keep away until the memorable evening arrived; but being particularly requested to come early, and bring our amiable sisters, we wished to do so. The Brougham was waiting, as were we—thinking to do so for some time:—having made up our mind and the study-fire—diving deep into the first book handy—an "Essay upon Light and Shade in Painting." Well, we were in the dark—with Rembrandt;—when the room appeared to fill with odoriferous vapour, and a blonde fairy stealthily touched our shoulder, making a mock salutation, that startled us very much:—it was our playful sister, whom we complimented upon appearance and expedition; well knowing ladies to be unable to dress in a given time for a ball, whatever they may do for an opera!
However, we had no cause for umbrage on this occasion; for the carriage rumbled over the hard, dry, ground, just as St. Stiff’s was striking nine—the stars above, twinkling, as they only can, upon a clear, frosty night. Having knocked mildly, for fear of frightening Mrs. Brown thus early, and been kept waiting some time, we were admitted; after being taken for Mr. Strap, the help, by John, whom we surprised in his fustian jacket and the middle of a fugitive tea. The ladies soon disappeared into an upper region, not soon to return, leaving us to find amusement as we best could:—to examine the tiger-skin, ingeniously sewn upon a form to resemble a living animal (which, by the bye, it did not); to peep into the parlour, and discover the supper, looking mysteriously vast, by the light of one burner, very much turned down; to pace the hall; warm our kids at the Arnott; and, standing upon the mat, listen to the unsophisticated talk without—speculating as to what a foreign traveller could divine the conversation to mean, or the diurnal occupation of the lanthorn-men to be:—
1st voice. “Droves, did yer say, in Mad-ox Street?”
2nd do. “Yes, herds; I got eight bulls and a hog out of Bullstrode Street.”
1st do. “See to that bull’s-eye, calf; and, as there ain’t no kids a-coming, I’ll toss yer for a tanner.”
Here “the noblest study of mankind” was broken off—Alphonso appearing. We left our men, to pace the hall—abandoning character for a slow march,—whilst the page constructed a scaffold of clothes-horses and table-covers, forming a repository for hats, over the back kitchen-stairs; the lobby beyond which, we discovered had been metamorphosed into a still-room, and was now presided over by two pretty, plump damsels, in the finest cobweb caps—mere blond buttons, of no earthly use, but, withal, very becoming:—one of these maids being in converse with a young “gent.,” who, it appears, has been forgotten in the excitement, and discovered here—his face very sticky with candy and cream. Master Thomas Brown, fearing that such search might be instituted for him, has taken a great affection to the leg of the still-room table; from which he is coaxed by more attractive substances, seized, and borne up to bed—his yells becoming “small by degrees and beautifully less,” until lost altogether.
Now comes Mr. Strap, to help and wait at table—in his huge white cravat, yellow vest, and new pair of second-hand plush smalls, disappearing below to develope his calves, which are enveloped in gaiters,—gingerly beckoning the man with the bad hat, who had been tuning the piano, and Mr. Palaver, the Mizzlington Artist in hair, to follow, that they may escape by the back door.
We had been promenading the hall for some time, having become pretty well acquainted with the pattern of the encaustic tiles with which it was paved; and were going towards the entrance for the last time, pluming ourself that we might appear to the greatest advantage—for we felt assured the ladies were descending, having heard a rustling and tittering;—when, just turning by the door, we were electrified by three distinct bangs, that subsided into a sharp rat, with an infinity of tail, causing the lid of the letter-box to look as if it had the palsy, and ourself to retreat like a shot—feeling alternately hot and cold; whilst Strap, who, upon hearing Mrs. Brown’s footsteps, began to be very busy, performing a feat of strength with seven waiters, a copper scuttle and an ice-pail, is put in such trepidation that he loses his grip—all coming to the flags; causing the greatest amount of clamour at the smallest amount of sacrifice—Mrs. Brown saying she is happy it is not glass, and hoping Strap hasn’t been drinking. The effect having annihilated the cause, the door is not opened; so the dose gets repeated, with similar gusto, by Fred. Lark—for it was he that gave the “stunner,” and witnessed the commotion through the attenuated windows at either side the door,—a piece of pleasantry for which he got stigmatised by Mrs. B. as a naughty, noisome, noisy man; and for which he himself proposed the still-room, as an antidote. Now, Mr. Lark is one of those funny little men, rather liked, because not over given to sarcasm, and quite capable of laughing at his own jokes; or rather the jokes he has picked up and disseminates—such whimsies in their place being very well, but out of it intolerable nuisances. Mr. Lark commenced his vagaries in the still-room, when we were taking coffee, placing the toast on the table, and the buttered bread to the fire; proffering the sugar to Miss Angelina; inquiring of that lady if she liked her tea—because, if not, she might lump it; and upon our observing some cracknels, as hard, the Lark said—it was harder where there were none; and that evening he completely confounded Mr. Brown, by informing the worthy gentleman—he had not seen him this year!—nothing very remarkable, considering it only three days’ old; but enough, withal, to make Mr. Brown think of three hundred and sixty-five—doubting the statement.
Now arrive the musicians, with a gentle knock:—up goes the harp (like a huge blade-bone in baize), followed by the cornet, violin, and pianist. We ascend:—Mrs. Brown popping and firing her parting injunctions in every direction—at Alphonso, in the (library) coffee-room; at Mr. Strap, by the door; at John, by the foot of the stairs;—and, I was going to say, at the listless supernumerary footman, lolling over the banisters; who appeared in, or rather out of, character, by especial desire, for this night only, being lent with the rout-seats at a sure salary. As Mrs. Brown passed this latter gentleman in silence, we could not help smiling—hoping she might have to think as well of his powers as he did himself, and that all titles entrusted to his care might be safely delivered; for we knew Mrs. Bramston would not be called Brimstone, without turning fiery; or Mr. Reynard Sly put up with anything but Slée, though he may write it Sly, himself.
Having gained the drawing-room, and got fairly through the muslin-barrier in the doorway, which made the staircase look as if in a fog, we found the appearance within very gratifying—everything well out of the way, and no stinting of wax-lights:—altogether exhibiting a clearer stage than is often to be met with—some antique people inviting you to polk in an old curiosity shop;—as, the other evening, at the Dowager Lady Oldbuck’s, young Whisk, of the Heavies, brought down a buhl table, covered with porcelain gimcracks; a thing that Lark observed—ought to cure itself, if people wished to save their Sèvres. Evening parties are not the slow things they used to be:—here the back balcony is all evergreens and tissue-paper blossoms, lit up with a Chinese lanthorn—looking like a fairy bower, tenanted by four gaping gold-fish and a dissipated canary; the little boudoir, beyond, so snug in sage and silver, seeming but small accommodation for card-players. We thought of Lady Oldbuck’s—the valuable space occupied by chaperones and corpulent cronies,—blessing the new mode;—dances now being given to dancers, not to dowagers and matrimonial slave-dealers, as heretofore. Mrs. Brown calculates her company; and thinking there is enough for a quadrille in either room, she commences to form them—pouncing, from time to time, upon timid young men by the door, who are led forward, like lambs from a flock, to sacrifice,—until the sets are completed—all but one couple—Mrs. Brown stating herself “distressed for ladies;”—a combination of suffering by no means acute, for she stood up herself, having engaged the amiable young Slowcoach to fill the gap.
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