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.