results in the matter of colour, the pictures are usually from that
fatherland. Ruined temples on the Nile are a favourite subject; only the
temples should resemble dilapidated barns, and the Nile bear a distinct
likeness to a duck pond. Upon the mantel must stand a clock which has
not gone within living memory, and some assorted crockery which if
viewed continuously in a strong light will bring on neuralgia. A copy of
a penny novelette, and a sheet of music-hall songs lying about, denote
literary and musical tastes; but these are unusual. There is generally a
family Bible, used to support a large shell, or a framed photograph of
the master in his prime of life; and this is opened from time to time to
record a birth, marriage, or death. The pattern of the wall-paper must
be decided and easily discernible; scarlet flowers on a yellow
background are always satisfactory.
The ceremony of entering the parlour takes place usually on Sunday.
There is a Greater Entry and a Lesser Entry. The lesser takes place
after tea. The master in his best clothes, his face and hands washed,
although that point is not always insisted upon, carefully shaven, or
with well-groomed beard, as the case may be, his boots removed after the
manner of a Mussulman, enters the holy place, sits stiffly upon a chair
without daring to lean back lest he should disturb the antimacassar,
lights his pipe, and revels in the odour of respectability. He does not
really enjoy himself, but after a time he grows more confident and
ventures to cross his legs. From time to time he rises, goes out, walks
along the passage, and spits out of the front door. The greater entry
takes place after chapel. The entire family assemble by the light of the
kitchen lamp and say wicked things about their neighbours. Sometimes
guests are introduced, and these display independence in various ways,
chiefly by leaning back in their chairs and shuffling their boots on the
carpet. The ceremonies come to a close at an early hour; the members of
the family file out; father, leaving last, locks the door. The parlour
is closed for another week.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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