mental attractions independently of the white-bait.
On that memorable day when Mr. Partridge and I had contrived our little project in promotion of the happiness of Mr. Septimus Cox and Miss Fanny Almond, and just before we sat down to our own dinner, I was advised by a slight wink from my fellow conspirator that the ladies were safely housed in a room up-stairs, in which they were to be indoctrinated in the rudiments of white-bait. So far, so good. We were but three in party—friends of the Almonds, and fast allies of Septimus Cox. We had a duty before us, and we resolved to do it. At first our patient’s melancholy was allowed to have its way: he was left, according to my old and well-tried plan, to the flounders and whiting-puddings in comparative peace. Still, it was but right to show him the courtesy of taking wine with him, for this old-fashioned custom still prevails to a certain extent amongst men at these fish dinners. From pure abstraction Septimus emptied his glass upon each of these occasions, so that I really began to fear that matters might progress rather too quickly for the objects in view. Four courses of fish, each containing four varieties of these fluviatile and marine dainties, succeeded each other as usual upon such occasions, and the spirits of the melancholy man rose as the banquet advanced. The exhilarating effects of a fish diet are remarkable in the extreme. With the white-bait and the cold punch it was a fait accompli—our long-lost Septimus was restored to the affections of his loving friends.
“Oh, flesh, how art thou fishified!” was the old reproach directed against the tribe of lovers—I say, henceforth let it stand, “Oh, fish, how art thou fleshified!” Who would have recognised the despairing lover of 2.30 p.m.—I will be bound to say he had had a chop—in the light, buoyant, airy creature of 7.49 p.m.? Could F. A. see him now, I have no hesitation in saying that that young lady would surrender at discretion. It was just the white-bait had made the difference.
I cannot within the slender limits assigned me enter at length into the subject of the spring chicken and the ducklings. Ours was not a noisy party—although I will not venture to deny that occasionally at these Greenwich dinners the fun does run somewhat fast and furious. I have seen instances at the conclusion of these fishy festivals when elderly gentlemen who, in their own houses, are as grave and discreet in their cups as church-wardens, have stood out in the balcony in front of the room which had been the scene of their revelry, and vowed eternal friendship with their pocket-handkerchiefs over their heads, and the fag-ends of cigars in their aged lips, in a manner which, if not sublime, was certainly next door to it. I have seen omnibuses depart from the precincts of the sanctuary, at a somewhat late hour, freighted with “personages” occupying very prominent posts in public estimation, and not a little elevated by the exhilarating influences of the place; but such was not the case with us. We had dined comfortably, and were in a condition of bland serene happiness befitting the dignity of human nature. Under these circumstances we ventured to rally our friend Septimus a little upon the melancholy turn which his passion had taken, and entreated him for our sakes to entertain a little higher estimation of his own merits and qualifications. Septimus was good enough to say that he would never be able to repay the debt of gratitude which he owed to J. P. and myself for putting the case before him in its proper bearings. Yes, he was sure at that moment, could he obtain the privilege of an interview with Miss Almond, he felt that, unworthy as he was, he would endeavour to get over that unworthiness, and to convince her of the purity and fervour of his passion; or as it used to be termed in old works, treating of this subject,—his “flame.” J. P. quitted the room, and returned after a momentary absence. We pursued the glowing theme, and to the best of our poor ability tried to impress upon our young friend’s mind the idea that the day was gone by when a Sir Charles Grandison, who, after a year or two of courtship and devotion, had got no further than to kiss Miss Byron’s hand “with tender awe,” was likely to prove successful in the object of his pursuit. Septimus, in a very emphatic manner indeed, expressed his contempt for that tedious Baronet, and stated it on his own conviction, after the maturest deliberation, that—
Happy’s the wooing
That’s not long a-doing.
Indeed, since we had shown so kind, so generous an interest in his fortunes, he would venture to introduce a toast to our notice. Unaccustomed as he was to address public assemblies (only J. P. and I were present), he certainly did feel himself imperatively called upon on the present occasion to propose to our acceptance a toast which he was well convinced required no great effort of oratory on his part to be instantly adopted by the illustrious assemblage which he had the honour of addressing on that occasion. “The Ladies,” with three times three; and he begged to couple that toast with the name of one who, as he hoped, and as he was sure, we should all be rejoiced to hear, would soon be united to him by the most enduring and the most sacred, &c., &c.—in point of fact, with the name of one, of whom he would venture to say, in the words of the Poet—
She’s a jolly good fellow,
Which nobody can deny.
She’s a jolly good
At this moment Mrs. Almond and Aunt Sophy, and Miss Fanny Almond, emerged from behind the screen. Mrs. A. had casually heard that her nephew, with two intimate friends, was in the house: and as they were passing the door of the room in which we were sitting, the ladies had been good enough to look in upon our party to see if we would escort them for a little turn upon the terrace at the edge of the river—perhaps we would first like a cup of tea?
I could not help suspecting, from a malicious twinkle in Miss Fanny’s eye, that she was not altogether unaware of the oratorical efforts recently made by our friend Septimus. She so earnestly hoped they were not intruding upon us—she should be so truly vexed if she could suppose for