At Length, it became practicable to remove my _Father_ down Stairs. But before this was accomplished, he beckoned to my _Mother_ and said, "_Delia_, I prithee cover up or hide away all the China Figures down Stairs before I come into the _Chinese_ Parlour, or they will bring my Dream to Mind, and set me fancying I see 'em all dancing. Anything but that! I loathe the very Thought of them!--You may sell them if you will--send them to _Dick Harper_ with my Card, and they'll fetch a pretty Figure at the next Auction, especially if you throw in the Five Senses. Idle Baggages! they led me astray, as they've led many a better Man before me. Happy he who can disembarrass himself from their Extravagancies thus easily!" My _Mother_ did, in Fact, get a pretty little Sum for them; and my _Father_ never bought another Piece of China nor attended another Auction from that Day to this. But this by the Way. We were sitting very comfortably about the Fire, congratulating ourselves upon being thus re-united,--and my _Father_ was enjoying a Basin of strong Gravy Soup, (for it was a little before Noon,) and wishing my _Mother_ would have a little of it, when all at once down fell a Smelling-Bottle from the Chimney-Piece; a Water-Caraffe on the Table upset; Doors banged, Bells rang without being pulled, the Walls shook, and the Ground sank and rose under us like a Ship at Sea. We shrieked out, and clung to one another; and I, in addition to my Terror, experienced great Nausea, as if I were on Shipboard. My _Father_ immediately exclaimed, "Heyday! there's a Powder-Mill blown up at _Hounslow_!" "God pity the poor Creatures in and about it," cries my _Mother_. The next Moment, in rushes _Peter_, as white as a Sheet. "An Earthquake! an Earthquake!" cries he, "Did you feel the Earthquake?" "Earthquake? you Dolt," says my _Father_; "'tis a Powder-Mill blown up at _Hounslow_, I tell ye; and so you'll find before To-morrow." "Well, Sir," says _Peter_, "all the Neighbours say as I do, and are scared out of their Wits, expecting another Shock presently, which, for Aught we know, may swallow us up alive." "_Peter_, you're an Oaf--a Lubber!" says my _Father_ contemptuously; on which _Peter_ retired; but _Prue_, who was much frightened, began to cry. "What's the use of crying, Chit?" says my _Father_, "is that a Cure for an Earthquake?" "No, _Father_, but it's so very awful--" "Very awful," said my _Mother_, seriously. "Very awful indeed," said I. "Well, of course it would be, if it _were_ an Earthquake," says my _Father_; "but I say 'twas only a Powder-Mill blowing up somewhere, and so you'll see."