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of punch, and led him to the lemons. His recent despon-
dency, not to say despair, was gone in a moment. I never
saw a man so thoroughly enjoy himself amid the fragrance
of lemon-peel and sugar, the odour of burning rum, and the
steam of boiling water, as Mr. Micawber did that afternoon.
It was wonderful to see his face shining at us out of a thin
cloud of these delicate fumes, as he stirred, and mixed, and
tasted, and looked as if he were making, instead of punch,
a fortune for his family down to the latest posterity. As to
Mrs. Micawber, I don’t know whether it was the effect of
the cap, or the lavender-water, or the pins, or the fire, or the
wax-candles, but she came out of my room, comparatively
speaking, lovely. And the lark was never gayer than that ex-
cellent woman.
I suppose - I never ventured to inquire, but I suppose
- that Mrs. Crupp, after frying the soles, was taken ill. Be-
cause we broke down at that point. The leg of mutton came
up very red within, and very pale without: besides having a
foreign substance of a gritty nature sprinkled over it, as if
if had had a fall into the ashes of that remarkable kitchen
fireplace. But we were not in condition to judge of this fact
from the appearance of the gravy, forasmuch as the ‘young
gal’ had dropped it all upon the stairs - where it remained,
by the by, in a long train, until it was worn out. The pigeon-
pie was not bad, but it was a delusive pie: the crust being
like a disappointing head, phrenologically speaking: full
of lumps and bumps, with nothing particular underneath.
In short, the banquet was such a failure that I should have
been quite unhappy - about the failure, I mean, for I was al-

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