that they were the magnates, the top-sawyers, the leaders of fashion of the village of Muckford. They patronised the Rev. Mr. Muzzle, the curate, whose meek back was suited to the burthen of a wife and eight little ones on fifty pounds a year; Mr. Hiccup, M.R.C.S., who, to the duties of his profession in the attendance of man and beast, added the pursuits of rat and mole-catcher, perfumer, stationer, and tobacconist; and Mr. Sniffnettle, the attorney, solicitor, conveyancer, proctor, appraiser, auctioneer, poet-laureat and parish-clerk. A hop at Wick-Hall was anticipated with as much delight by all the young and old ladies as the opening of Almacks; a game at loo or twopenny long-whist offered all the attractions of Crockford's; and the Sunday visits after church were as distinguished for figure and fashion as a St. James's drawing-room on a birth-day.
This high patrician stand in society unfortunately made the Cannons proud, – some say haughty, supercilious, and arrogant. It might have been so; such is the nature of frail mortality, for, alas!
"Pride has no other glass
To show itself but pride; for supple knees
Feed arrogance!"
and Mr. Muzzle, and Dr. Hiccup, and Mr. Sniffnettle, had their vertebræ and their articulations so greased, and oiled, and anti-attritioned, that they would bob, and bend, and curl, and coil like a tom-cat's tail, whenever they visited the mansion.
And strange dreams, and visions, and fantasies would be brewing in the brains of Mr. Cannon, both when sleeping and awake. He was wealthy; the Cannons had a dragon rampant for their crest, and Crepo for their motto, – a motto that was traced to the discovery of a bronze figure of the Egyptian god Crepitus in the tomb of one of his noble ancestors. To this proud circumstance the family also owed the Christian-name of "Commodus," which the elder Cannon always bore, – Commodus being of Gallic origin. Sometimes Mr. Commodus Cannon thought that he might purchase a peerage by paying some damages incurred by indiscreet influential personages; sometimes he fancied that he might be created a baronet upon a mortgage, or a marriage of one of the Miss Cannons to some broken-down nobleman.
But, alas! how transient are the visions of glory! of worldly greatness! Greatness – that gaudy torment of our soul!
Lord Wittington arrived, and the Countess of Wittington, and the Ladies Desdemona Catson, and Arabella Catson, and Celestina Catson, and Euripida Catson, and the Hon. Tom Catson, and the Hon. Brindle Catson, with their aunt, Lady Tabby Catson; and all Muckford was in a state of commotion, of effervescence, of ebullition, boiling over with hope and fear. A comet wagging its tail over their steeple, – an eclipse, which would have set all the Muckfordians smoking bits of glass, and picking up fragments of broken bottles for astronomical observations, – could not have occasioned such a stir as the arrival of four travelling carriages, with dickeys and rumbles crowded with ladies' women, and gentlemen's gentlemen, rattling away with four post-horses to Myrtle-Grove.
And now were speculations busily at work. The minds of Mahomet and Confucius, of Galileo and Copernicus, of Locke and Bacon, were idle when compared to the brains of the Muckfordians. What was the point in question? Was it the increase of business and of profit that would accrue from the consumption of these wealthy visitors? – No. Was it the advantages that might be derived from their parliamentary connexions and ministerial interest? – No. Was it the hopes that their residence might induce other rich families to inhabit the neighbourhood? – No – no – no! If the reader cannot guess, he must have lived at the antipodes, or in a desert, or never lived in life. The question was, "I wonder if his lordship and her ladyship will visit Wick-Hall?" No treaty of alliance, of commerce, of peace – no protocol that ever issued from the most perfect cerebral organ in Downing-street – was ever weighed with more momentous disquietude than this question, "I wonder if his lordship and her ladyship will visit Wick-Hall?"
"I should think not," observed Mrs. Curate Muzzle; "the Wittingtons are great folks, and the Cannons were chandlers!"
"Tallow-chandlers, my dear madam," remarked Mrs. Doctor Hiccup.
"Had they even been wax-chandlers," added Mrs. Sniffnettle.
"Or corn-chandlers," replied Mrs. Hiccup.
"But a tallow-chandler," exclaimed Mr. Sniffnettle, who, as we have seen, was the laureat of Muckford, "as Gay says,
'Whether black, or lighter dies are worn,
The chandler's basket, on his shoulders borne,
With tallow spots thy coat.'"
This appropriate quotation not only drew forth a loud laugh of approbation, but illumined the minds of the party as brightly as two pounds of fours might have enlightened Mr. Hiccup's back-shop parlour on a long-whist and welsh-rabbit night.
"I'm sure I wish them no harm," remarked Mrs. Muzzle, with a benevolent smile; "but pride is a sad failing, which deserves to be brought down."
"Oh, the deuce mend them!" rejoined Mrs. Sniffnettle; "if they're brought to their proper bearings a peg or two."
"Because they had a little dirty cash – the Lord knows how they made it! – they were as pert as a pear-monger's horse!" exclaimed Mr. Hiccup.
"Pride comes first, shame comes after," added Mr. Sniffnettle.
"The priest forgets that he was a clerk," professionally observed Mrs. Muzzle.
"I could put up with pride, now," said Mr. Hiccup, "from the Wittingtons."
"Ay!" replied the poet, quoting Byron,
"Exactly!" observed Mrs. Hiccup, who, like most persons doting upon poesy, did not understand what she most admired.
Is it not strange that none of these ladies or gentlemen ever said "I wonder if we shall be invited to Myrtle-Grove?"
Whoever expected or fancied that on such an occasion such a thought could have entered any well-disposed and educated mind must be an ass. Who cares, if they are at the foot of the ladder, if those who are climbing up are properly rolled down? There is no need of crying "Heads below!" the grovellers will all get out of the way, and let the tumblers roll in the mire to their hearts' content. I mean the hearts' content of the lookers-on.
Now, while this most important point was discussed by the chief authorities of Muckford, a question of still greater importance was agitated at Wick-Hall.
"I wonder if we ought to call first upon the Wittingtons, or wait until they call upon us?" said Mrs. Cannon, after dinner.
Mr. Commodus Cannon halted a glassful of port that was marching towards his mouth, and kept it suspended in air like Mahomet's tomb.
Miss Molly Cannon delayed the cracking of a nut she had just introduced between two ivory grinders.
Miss Biddy Cannon kept her hand under a roasted chestnut napkin, unconscious of its temperature, without withdrawing it.
Miss Lucy Cannon cut into an orange she was carefully peeling with a steel knife; a circumstance that would have produced a galvanic thrill under other circumstances.
Miss Kitty Cannon filled a bumper of cherry brandy instead of "just the least drop in the world."
Mr. Cannon, junior, drove a toothpick in his gums instead of his teeth.
George Cannon started, and trod on the cat's tail.
Cornelius Cannon (commonly called Colcannon, having had an Irish godfather,) made a
