England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century; Young men -- England
We were all seated round a blazing fire which crackled pleasantly as the
guests talked merrily and the urn steamed cheerily—for, being an
old-fashioned party, there _was_ an urn, and a teapot besides—when there
came a postman’s knock at the door, so violent and sudden, that it
startled the whole circle, and actually caused two or three very
interesting and most unaffected young ladies to scream aloud and to
exhibit many afflicting symptoms of terror and distress, until they had
been several times assured by their respective adorers, that they were in
no danger. We were about to remark that it was surely beyond post-time,
and must have been a runaway knock, when our host, who had hitherto been
paralysed with wonder, sank into a chair in a perfect ecstasy of
laughter, and offered to lay twenty pounds that it was that droll dog
Griggins. He had no sooner said this, than the majority of the company
and all the children of the house burst into a roar of laughter too, as
if some inimitable joke flashed upon them simultaneously, and gave vent
to various exclamations of—To be sure it must be Griggins, and How like
him that was, and What spirits he was always in! with many other
commendatory remarks of the like nature.
Not having the happiness to know Griggins, we became extremely desirous
to see so pleasant a fellow, the more especially as a stout gentleman
with a powdered head, who was sitting with his breeches buckles almost
touching the hob, whispered us he was a wit of the first water, when the
door opened, and Mr. Griggins being announced, presented himself, amidst
another shout of laughter and a loud clapping of hands from the younger
branches. This welcome he acknowledged by sundry contortions of
countenance, imitative of the clown in one of the new pantomimes, which
were so extremely successful, that one stout gentleman rolled upon an
ottoman in a paroxysm of delight, protesting, with many gasps, that if
somebody didn’t make that fellow Griggins leave off, he would be the
death of him, he knew. At this the company only laughed more
boisterously than before, and as we always like to accommodate our tone
and spirit if possible to the humour of any society in which we find
ourself, we laughed with the rest, and exclaimed, ‘Oh! capital, capital!’
as loud as any of them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account