The Christmas Books of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh | Page 9

for laughing; while, on the contrary, Miss Joy was quite in
pain for poor Sophy Little. As Canaillard and the Poetess came up, The
Mulligan, in the height of his enthusiasm, lunged out a kick which sent
Miss Bunion howling; and concluded with a tremendous Hurroo!--a
war-cry which caused every Saxon heart to shudder and quail.
"Oh that the earth would open and kindly take me in!" I exclaimed
mentally; and slunk off into the lower regions, where by this time half
the company were at supper.
THE SUPPER.
The supper is going on behind the screen. There is no need to draw the
supper. We all know that sort of transaction: the squabbling, and
gobbling, and popping of champagne; the smell of musk and
lobster-salad; the dowagers chumping away at plates of raised pie; the
young lassies nibbling at little titbits, which the dexterous young
gentlemen procure. Three large men, like doctors of divinity, wait
behind the table, and furnish everything that appetite can ask for. I
never, for my part, can eat any supper for wondering at those men. I

believe if you were to ask them for mashed turnips, or a slice of
crocodile, those astonishing people would serve you. What a contempt
they must have for the guttling crowd to whom they minister--those
solemn pastry-cook's men! How they must hate jellies, and game-pies,
and champagne, in their hearts! How they must scorn my poor friend
Grundsell behind the screen, who is sucking at a bottle!
This disguised green-grocer is a very well-known character in the
neighborhood of Pocklington Square. He waits at the parties of the
gentry in the neighborhood, and though, of course, despised in families
where a footman is kept, is a person of much importance in female
establishments.
Miss Jonas always employs him at her parties, and says to her page,
"Vincent, send the butler, or send Desborough to me;" by which name
she chooses to designate G. G.
When the Miss Frumps have post-horses to their carriage, and pay
visits, Grundsell always goes behind. Those ladies have the greatest
confidence in him, have been godmothers to fourteen of his children,
and leave their house in his charge when they go to Bognor for the
summer. He attended those ladies when they were presented at the last
drawing-room of her Majesty Queen Charlotte.
GEORGE GRUNDSELL,
GREEN-GROCER AND SALESMAN,
9, LITTLE POCKLINGTON BUILDINGS,
LATE CONFIDENTIAL SERVANT IN THE FAMILY OF
THE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON.
Carpets Beat.--Knives and Boots cleaned per contract.--Errands
faithfully performed--G. G. attends Ball and Dinner parties, and from
his knowledge of the most distinguished Families in London,
confidently recommends his services to the distinguished

neighbourhood of Pocklington Square.
Mr. Grundsell's state costume is a blue coat and copper buttons, a white
waistcoat, and an immense frill and shirt-collar. He was for many years
a private watchman, and once canvassed for the office of parish clerk of
St. Peter's Pocklington. He can be intrusted with untold spoons; with
anything, in fact, but liquor; and it was he who brought round the cards
for MRS. PERKINS'S BALL.
AFTER SUPPER.
I do not intend to say any more about it. After the people had supped,
they went back and danced. Some supped again. I gave Miss Bunion,
with my own hands, four bumpers of champagne: and such a quantity
of goose-liver and truffles, that I don't wonder she took a glass of
cherry-brandy afterwards. The gray morning was in Pocklington Square
as she drove away in her fly. So did the other people go away. How
green and sallow some of the girls looked, and how awfully clear Mrs.
Colonel Bludyer's rouge was! Lady Jane Ranville's great coach had
roared away down the streets long before. Fred Minchin pattered off in
his clogs: it was I who covered up Miss Meggot, and conducted her,
with her two old sisters, to the carriage. Good old souls! They have
shown their gratitude by asking me to tea next Tuesday. Methuselah is
gone to finish the night at the club. "Mind to-morrow," Miss Trotter
says, kissing her hand out of the carriage. Canaillard departs, asking the
way to "Lesterre Squar." They all go away--life goes away.
Look at Miss Martin and young Ward! How tenderly the rogue is
wrapping her up! how kindly she looks at him! The old folks are
whispering behind as they wait for their carriage. What is their talk,
think you? and when shall that pair make a match? When you see those
pretty little creatures with their smiles and their blushes, and their
pretty ways, would you like to be the Grand Bashaw?
"Mind and send me a large piece of cake," I go up and whisper archly
to old Mr. Ward: and we look on rather sentimentally at the couple,
almost the