"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, 'The vile are only vain, the great are proud.'" "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 horrible mistake, by drinking out of his finger-glass instead of his tumbler. Peter Cannon used his damask napkin instead of a pocket-handkerchief; and Oliver Cannon, who had been lolling and rocking his chair, rolled off his centre of gravity. A dead silence followed the important question. The ghost of Chesterfield ought in mercy to have burst from his cerements to have answered it. Mr. Cannon first ventured to give an opinion--a judicious opinion. "Why, as to the matter of that," he said, scratching his brown wig,--which was, by-the-bye, an action which might have been called manual tautology, since it was a scratch already,--"as to the matter of that, it is clear that, if we are to be acquainted with his lordship, they must call upon us, or we must call upon them."