Part 3

Drone's fly is homeward bound, heavily laden. The young men of the party have dived into "The Welsh Rarebit Warren," there to spend the early hours of the morning, listening to sentimental songs chanted amid fumes of tobacco and spirits, to hear sorry wit, and make vapid remarks. The great feature of the evening being a melodramatic dirge, supposed to be sung by a condemned felon--a triumphant lamentation and delineation of brutal character,--so eloquent and thrilling, in its monosyllabic groans of anguish, that it is a wonder the kidneys, consumed in such numbers, are ever digested. But, alas!--such is life--those most swayed by animal propensities see the least warning therein:--as, the thief combines business and pleasure at the gallow's foot; so, with the frequenters of the "Warren"--they imbue their sentiment and supper,--only digesting the latter. Wellesley has devoured several "rabbits," and Latimer disposed of numberless kidneys, whilst young Brown has had to wait the usual forty minutes for a steak; and, in the interim, had five "stouts," four "goes," and several cigars, _i.e._, with assistance from the De Camps; who have made free, ay, to order goblets of champagne, and, in the end, not having change to repair the "damage" (a mean, but true, term, as often applied), they get young Brown to pay the complicated sum added up by the waiter, upon a mahogany ditto, in lieu of a slate, with stale stout spilled in the corner, receipted with a wipe of the towel:--and so, home in the "safety" cab, with large wheels and a spanking grey,--lettered along the side "_Nil desperandum_," thinking "handsome is as _Hansom_ does;" tumbling into bed just before the peep o' day, and five hours after Mr. Brown had made up his Diary--writing against December the 27th., Thursday, that he had taken Tom and the girls to a pantomime; been agreeably surprised to find the De Camps there, especially the sons, who did sit in front, with Jemy. and Angel., looking made as much for one another as he could desire:--Tom behaving very sadly; and, were it not for his mother, the boy should spend the vacations at a Yorkshire school;--twice every year--in the Dog-days and December--is the house turned topsy-turvy,--it may be sport to you, Master Tom, but 'tis death to us.

Thus older grew the year, and fuller got the Diary--Mr. Brown graphically recounting the doings and disasters of "December 28_th_, _Friday_.--Unpropitious, fatal, Friday! I never knew it lucky save once, and then it _was_--I let the Albert. 'Christmas comes but once a year,' with a train of nasty bills, not to be bilk'd; and sorry consolation is it thinking you 'paid at the time,' when the receipt is not to be found. Miss-Fortune, that never came single, now visits with a large family of little pests--out of season and uninvited!--Here is Needy, the pianist, who, one would think, had married her; for he has children enough to fill a charity school. Needy, of No. 9, Brown Terrace, has absconded without paying the rent--sending the key, and £12. 10_s._, instead of £14., with a shabby excuse about hoping to be able to make up the difference some day:--this is the return for showing compassion to a poor devil!--I ought to have known, when I took the cottage-piano for last quarter, though Spohf did say it was a six-and-three-quarters, worth three times the money!--I am a good-natured fool, and ought, in justice to my family, to be a little more selfish--these mean professionals estimating their rubbish far beyond all reason!--My spirits are damped--and so are we all, for the water-pipes that that rascal Plummer fixed, at the low contract, have burst with this evening's thaw, and were discovered just as the water was coming in; having played, I know not how long, a fountain in the bathroom, tumbling down the stairs like the falls of the Niagara, obliging us to insert tobacco-pipes all over the drawing-room ceiling, to drain the inundation:--it has spoilt the watered paper, stained the aquatint of the Aqueduct, and 'Wellington at Waterloo,' done for the water-gilding, and saturated the 'Momentous Question;' the 'Heart's Misgivings' is a sop; and the water-colour of the 'Flood' is washed away. Alphonso is sitting up in goloshes to empty the pots, and I doubt much if I shall sleep over the dropping-well."

How Mr. Brown slept we do not know, but can imagine, for here is the Diurnal Record, made up in bed:--"December 29_th_, _Saturday_.--Dreamed Victoria Villa turned into a hydropathic establishment--that I was being frozen, thawed, and suffocated; did wake, this day, with an enlarged cheek--the influenza compelling me to keep my bed, bathe my chilblains, and anoint my nose; I take slops internally, and wear a heart upon the outside of my chest. The kind, considerate Captain called, smoking a cigar, that made me cough, and think his visit a visitation."

The first Sunday after Christmas is here:--Brown is in bed; the little bell of St. Stiff's has stopped, and many another vibratory sound is dying in the distance; flakes of snow are moodily descending--causing the fire to spit angrily, and the face of heaven to look black--all light appearing to come from the earth; sound is deadened, the carpet is darker than usual, and the ceiling lighter; Mr. Brown's eyes are up there, for he is lying, tracing amid the cracks and stains, vast palaces like pictures by Martin, or aërial phantasmagorias by Turner. Brown is lying, nursing his influenza according to the approved adage; though some read the maxim thus, "Stuff a cold, and (have to) starve a fever." Let us hope Brown has the right version. Captain de Camp has come to read to the invalid, and drink his brandy and water--he has begun "Blair's Sermons," or rather the life of Blair, prefixed to the volume, in a full conviction of its religious tendency; whilst in the room above is John, the footman, standing upon his bed, breathing on the single pane of glass, inserted in the sloped roof, that he may melt the snow, and see to read a mysterious document--a tumbled note,--not on the Bank of England, but an epistolatory one, found in the trowsers pockets of Mr. Latimer de Camp--the same cast off by that gentleman on Christmas-day, when he stumbled over the strange dinner, in coming from church, and so much deteriorated their appearance as to give them to John;--who now, thinking he has found evidence,--thinks he always thought he thought the De Camps scamps. John is perplexed at the purport of the letter; and feeling a cold thrill run through him, he turns into bed, there to reflect for ten minutes upon the downy pillow, pondering with intensely closed eyes, considering before he puts himself in the power of an enemy--for John had been a soldier once, and would have been one now, had not his poor old mother starved and mangled together enough to buy him off; he bore the stamp of military drill, took in "Tales of the Wars," in penny numbers, and had a cheap print of the "Battle of Waterloo" pasted to the sloping roof, above the bed, in which we left him pondering. Having considered enough, he takes once more to the document, folding and unfolding it, examining the thimble impress on the seal, tasting a corner of it in his excitement, and reading it with intense energy for the last time: it is directed to "Latimer de Camp, Esq., M.A., Albert Villa, Mizzlington;" and was posted in the New Cut:--

No. 2, Grubb's Rents.

"DEAR EDWARD,

"I am anxiously awaiting the '_Conspiracy_,'--do not keep me in suspense!--_do_ DO it, for my _benefit_.--I sadly want _money_. Is the _plot_ too _horrible_ for you!--you know how to do for a '_Victoria_' company!--make a _domestic tragedy_ of it--_shoot_ the _father_ and _son_!--you know the rest. Pray communicate, or I shall think you in trouble.

"Your forlorn--EMMA."

For this last perusal John appears none the wiser, being unable to divine more than at first--murder and treachery seem the plot. John thinks the Captain just like Gory, the murderer, in the Chamber of Horrors, at the wax-works; and that Victoria Villa resembles "Greenacre Hall," depicted in the pictorial newspaper. John is sadly perplexed as to where he shall seek counsel--of course, thinking of every one foreign to the case; until, happily, he remembers one that ought to have been thought of first--to Mr. Spohf will he send the mysterious note, ask his advice, and act upon it:--but, unfortunately, John sealed the envelope with Mr. Brown's crest--a circumstance that made Mr. Spohf think the letter from his old friend Brown; so he answers it as such--feeling much pleasure that _his_ advice should be sought;--saying, the enclosed note appeared to be about some drama some one had to write--a document of no serious import. As to _strangers_, he should advise caution; for it is the aim of a rogue to look as much like a trusty friend as possible; quiet watchfulness is well, for that can harm no one. This answer from Mr. Spohf was promptly delivered by the little tailor's daughter to the expectant John; who naturally thought it for him. Curiously, John and his master both owned the name of Brown--John Brown:--now John, the servant, was conscientious; and would not, on any account, have opened his master's letters--he drew the line of propriety much further off,--it stopped at reading in at the ends. John felt sure _this_ letter was for him--not that he liked being called an esquire; yet, for all that, he felt safe, for there, extra-large and important, was the word "_Private_"--a military distinction that made him doubly certain; so, he bore away the letter, in great trepidation, to his quarters in the tiles, there to be much relieved by its contents; vowing, as he lay on his bed, to be watchful as the Duke on the look-out in his "Battle of Waterloo," and dumb as a dead drummer in the foreground.

Happily Victoria and Albert were ignorant of these despatches, or John might have lost his commission and uniform. Confidence is unshaken;--for, on December 30_th_, _Sunday_, Captain de Camp is reported a "glorious oriental brick,"--he having kindly prescribed all sorts of good things for his invalid friend, without the slightest regard to expense; and, moreover, broken Brown's quinsy by administering an extraordinary anecdote, or "crammer," that scarcely any one could _swallow_; but Brown did, and laughed so much afterwards, that the quinsy was gone; for the Captain had anecdotes suited to all times and seasons--he only wanted listeners, and off he went like an alarum. Sunday put him in mind of that day twelvemonths; and that day put him in mind of Richard Spark, of the Native Infantry; Rich. Spark put him in mind of how they got that Hindoo millionaire, Makemuchjee Catch-muchjee, into a Christian church, by walking him between them, in a state of ether; how he (the Hindoo) was mollified by the sermon, and went home--melted the Idol, Boobobum, that had golden hair, diamond eyes, pearly teeth, coral lips, a silver tongue, and a copper bottom; how he handed her over in lumps to the church; and yet, with all these poetical attributes she was the ugliest and most precious god he ever set eyes on. She was the subscription of the district--the poor put the copper and the rich the gold;--the Captain telling of how he made a posthumous portrait of her, which is quite correct; only he forgot five bosoms in the bust, and left out a right arm:--it is engraved in No. 365 of the "Missionary Record."

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 eight_y_, 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!