“Ony fiddlestick! I wonder you repeat such vulgarisms. But if I must say what I should like, I should like to travel.” “Well, let us go and make a tour as far as Jamaica, or Hackensack, or Spiking Devil. There is excellent fishing for striped bass there.” “Spiking Devil!” screamed Mrs. Shuttle; “aren’t you ashamed to swear so, you wicked mortal! I won’t go to Jamaica, nor Hackensack among the Dutch Hottentots, nor to Spiking Devil to catch striped bass; I’ll go to Europe!” If Amos had possessed a soul it would have jumped out of its skin at the idea of going beyond seas. He had once been on the sea-bass banks, and gone seasoning there, the very thought of which made him sick. But as he had no soul, there was no great harm done. When Mrs. Shuttle said a thing, it was settled. They went to Europe. Taking their only son with them, the lady ransacked all the milliners’ shops in Paris, and the gentleman visited all the restaurateurs. He became such a desperate connoisseur and gourmand, that he could almost tell an _omelette au jambon_ from a gammon of bacon. After consummating the polish, they came home, the lady with the newest old fashions, and the weaver with a confirmed preference of _potage à la turque_ over pepper-pot. It is said the city trembled, as with an earthquake, when they landed, but the notion was probably superstitious. They arrived near the close of the year, the memorable year, the _annus mirabilis_ one thousand seven hundred and sixty. Everybody that had ever known the Shuttles flocked to see them, or rather to see what they had brought with them; and such was the magic of a voyage to Europe, that Mr. and Mrs. Amos Shuttle, who had been nobodies when they departed, became somebodies when they returned, and mounted at once to the summit of _ton_. “You have come in good time to enjoy the festivities of the holydays,” said Mrs. Hubblebubble, an old friend of Amos the weaver and his wife. “We shall have a merry Christmas and a happy New Year,” exclaimed Mrs. Doubletrouble, another old acquaintance of old times. “The holydays,” drawled Mrs. Shuttle; “the holydays? Christmas and New Year? Pray what are they?” It is astonishing to see how people lose their memories abroad sometimes. They often forget their old friends, old customs, and occasionally themselves. “Why, la! now, who’d have thought it?” cried Mrs. Doubletrouble; “why, sure you haven’t forgot the oily cooks and the mince-pies, the merry meetings of friends, the sleigh-rides, the Kissing Bridge, and the family parties?” “Family parties!” shrieked Mrs. Shuttle, and held her salts to her nose; “family parties! I never heard of anything so Gothic in Paris or Rome; and oily cooks—oh, shocking! and mince-pies—detestable! and throwing open one’s doors to all one’s old friends, whom one wishes to forget as soon as possible—oh! the idea is insupportable!” And again she held the salts to her nose.