up the hostess, and they entered a dismal-looking parlour, whose brick-red walls and ditto curtains were scantily lighted by a single lamp, though it was of the last new patent—to which a dim fire, in its first stage of infant weakness, gave small assistance.
Mr. Smithson, who, as member of a public office, thought that church and state ought to be supported—which support he conceived to consist in strict adherence to certain forms—muttered something which sounded much more like a growl than a grace, and dinner commenced.
At the top was a cod's shoulders and head, whose intellectual faculties were rather over much developed; and at the bottom was soup called mulligatawny—some indefinite mixture of curry-powder and ducks' feet, the first spoonful of which called from its master a look of thunder and lightning up the table. To this succeeded a couple of most cadaverous fowls, a huge haunch of mutton, raw and red enough even for an Abyssinian, flanked by rissoles and oyster patties, which had evidently, like Tom Tough, seen "a deal of service:" these were followed by some sort of nameless pudding—and so much for the luxury of a family dinner,
