himself opposite a yellow brick house with a green door, brass knocker, and door-plate, green window-frames and ditto railings, with “a garden” in front, that is to say, a small loose bit of gravelled ground, with one round and two scalene triangular beds, containing a fir-tree, twenty or thirty bulbs, and an unlimited number of marigolds. The taste of Mr. and Mrs. Budden was further displayed by the appearance of a Cupid on each side of the door, perched upon a heap of large chalk flints, variegated with pink conch-shells. His knock at the door was answered by a stumpy boy, in drab livery, cotton stockings and high-lows, who, after hanging his hat on one of the dozen brass pegs which ornamented the passage, denominated by courtesy “The Hall,” ushered him into a front drawing-room commanding a very extensive view of the backs of the neighbouring houses. The usual ceremony of introduction, and so forth, over, Mr. Minns took his seat: not a little agitated at finding that he was the last comer, and, somehow or other, the Lion of about a dozen people, sitting together in a small drawing-room, getting rid of that most tedious of all time, the time preceding dinner.
“Well, Brogson,” said Budden, addressing an elderly gentleman in a black coat, drab knee-breeches, and long gaiters, who, under pretence of inspecting the prints in an Annual, had been engaged in satisfying himself on the subject of Mr. Minns's general appearance, by looking at him over the tops of the leaves—“Well, Brogson, what do ministers mean to do? Will they go out, or what?”
“Oh—why—really, you know, I'm the last person in the world to ask for news. Your cousin, from his situation, is the most likely person to answer the question.”
Mr. Minns assured the last speaker, that although he was in Somerset-house, he possessed no official communication relative to the projects of his Majesty's Ministers. But his remark was evidently received incredulously; and no further conjectures being hazarded on the subject, a long pause ensued, during which the company occupied themselves in coughing and blowing their noses, until the entrance of Mrs. Budden caused a general rise.
The ceremony of introduction being over, dinner was announced, and down-stairs the party proceeded accordingly—Mr. Minns escorting Mrs. Budden as far as the drawing-room door, but being prevented, by the narrowness of the staircase, from extending his gallantry any farther. The dinner passed off as such dinners usually do. Ever and anon, amidst the clatter of knives and forks, and the hum of conversation, Mr. B. “s voice might be heard, asking a friend to take wine, and assuring him he was glad to see him; and a great deal of by-play took place between Mrs. B. and the servants, respecting the removal of the dishes, during which her countenance assumed all the variations of a weather-glass, from “stormy” to “set fair.”
Upon the dessert and wine being placed on the table, the servant, in compliance with a significant look from Mrs. B., brought down “Master Alexander,” habited in a sky-blue suit with silver buttons; and possessing hair of nearly the same colour as the metal. After sundry praises from his mother, and various admonitions as to his behaviour from his father, he was introduced to his godfather.
“Well, my little fellow—you are a fine boy, ain't you?” said Mr. Minns, as happy as a tomtit on birdlime.
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Eight, next We'nsday. How old are YOU?”
“Alexander,” interrupted his mother, “how dare you ask Mr. Minns how old he is!”
“He asked me how old I was,” said the precocious child, to whom Minns had from that moment internally resolved that he never would bequeath one shilling. As soon as the titter occasioned by the observation had subsided, a little smirking man with red whiskers, sitting at the bottom of the table, who during the whole of dinner had been endeavouring to obtain a listener to some stories about Sheridan, called, out, with a very patronising air, “Alick, what part of speech is BE.”
“A verb.”
“That's a good boy,” said Mrs. Budden, with all a mother's pride.
“Now, you know what a verb is?”
“A verb is a word which signifies to be, to do, or to suffer; as, I am—I rule—I am ruled. Give me an apple, Ma.”
“I'll give you an apple,” replied the man with the red whiskers, who was an established friend of the family, or in other words was always invited by Mrs. Budden, whether Mr. Budden liked it or not, “if you'll tell me what is the meaning of BE.”
“Be?” said the prodigy, after a little hesitation—“an insect that gathers honey.”
“No, dear,” frowned Mrs. Budden; “B double E is the substantive.”
“I don't think he knows much yet about COMMON substantives,” said the smirking gentleman, who thought this an admirable opportunity for letting off a joke. “It's clear he's not very well acquainted with PROPER NAMES. He! he! he!”
“Gentlemen,” called out Mr. Budden, from the end of the table, in a stentorian voice, and with a very important air, “will you have the goodness to charge your glasses? I have a toast to propose.”
“Hear! hear!” cried the gentlemen, passing the decanters. After they had made the round of the table, Mr. Budden proceeded—“Gentlemen; there is an individual present—”
“Hear! hear!” said the little man with red whiskers.
“PRAY be quiet, Jones,” remonstrated Budden.
“I say, gentlemen, there is an individual present,” resumed the host, “in whose society, I am sure we must take great delight—and—and—the conversation of that individual must have afforded to every one present, the utmost pleasure.” ['Thank Heaven, he does not mean me!” thought Minns, conscious that his diffidence and exclusiveness had prevented his saying above a dozen words since he entered the house.] “Gentlemen, I am but a humble individual myself, and I perhaps ought to apologise for allowing any individual feeling of friendship and affection for the person I allude to, to induce me to venture to rise, to propose the health of that person—a person that, I am sure—that is to say, a person whose virtues must endear him to those who know him—and those who have not the pleasure of knowing him, cannot dislike him.”
“Hear! hear!” said the company, in a tone of encouragement and approval.
“Gentlemen,” continued Budden, “my cousin is a man who—who is a relation of my own.” (Hear! hear!) Minns groaned audibly. “Who I am most happy to see here, and who, if he were not here, would certainly have deprived us of the great pleasure we all feel in seeing him. (Loud cries of hear!) Gentlemen, I feel that I have already trespassed on your attention for too long a time. With every feeling—of—with every sentiment of—of —”
“Gratification”—suggested the friend of the family.
“Of gratification, I beg to propose the health of Mr. Minns.”
“Standing, gentlemen!” shouted the indefatigable little man with the whiskers—“and with the honours. Take your time from me, if you please. Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip hip!—Za-a-a!”
All eyes were now fixed on the subject of the toast, who by gulping down port wine at the imminent hazard of suffocation, endeavoured to conceal his confusion. After as long a pause as decency would admit, he rose, but, as the newspapers sometimes say in their reports, “we regret that we are quite unable to give even the substance of the honourable gentleman's observations.” The words “present company—honour—present occasion,” and “great happiness”—heard occasionally, and repeated at intervals, with a countenance expressive of the utmost confusion and misery, convinced the company that he was making an excellent speech; and, accordingly, on his resuming his seat, they cried “Bravo!” and manifested tumultuous applause. Jones, who had been long watching his opportunity, then darted up.
“Budden,” said he, “will you allow ME to propose a toast?”
“Certainly,” replied Budden, adding in an under-tone to Minns right across the table, “Devilish sharp fellow that: you'll be very much pleased with his speech. He talks equally well on any subject.” Minns bowed, and Mr. Jones proceeded:
“It has on several occasions, in various instances, under many circumstances, and in different companies, fallen to my lot to propose a toast to those by whom, at the time, I have had the honour to be surrounded, I have sometimes, I will cheerfully own—for why should I deny it?—felt the overwhelming nature of the task I have undertaken, and my own utter incapability to do justice to the subject. If such have been my feelings, however, on former occasions, what must they be now—now—under the extraordinary circumstances in which I am placed. (Hear! hear!) To describe my feelings accurately, would be impossible; but I cannot give you a better idea of them, gentlemen, than by referring to a circumstance which happens, oddly enough, to occur to my mind at the moment.
