all; the broken
glass has been picked out of the pastry, and the oily odour overcome
with _esprit de bouquet_--presenting, withal, a very effective
_coup-d'oeil_:--though, we could fancy the tipsy-cake, in the form
of a leaning-tower, if anything, a little more groggy; and that the
composite Corinthian temple looked as if it had suffered from an
earthquake--but there it was, for all the intense remorse of the cook,
who thought the exhibition of so mutilated a work of art would injure
his reputation for ever--but it did not!--Neither did any one notice the
loss of the frail effeminate brigand, that formerly tenanted the rotunda
of barley-sugar; nor was it known that a treadmill had given place to a
locomotive and tender--in sweets.

The first portion of this banquet disappears merrily; there
being no lack of the usual conserves, pasties, and geometrical
bread-envelopes--supposed to contain something, but consumed without the
slightest knowledge of their contents.

After the ladies have supped and withdrawn, the gentlemen lay to, with
immense energy, as if to make up for the time they have been kept in
suspense, creating great havoc amongst ruined fowls, or anything they
can lay hands upon--in the excitement, particularity having given place
to mirth. One gentleman has planted a spoon in his button-hole, after
the fashion of a flower; and, of course, for his pains, got called a
"Spooney," by an unknown voice behind Mr. Potts, the tame apothecary,
who is pouring, or rather measuring out, some champagne, _himself_,
catching the final drop on the edge of the glass, as if it were
castor-oil:--the "Spooney," thinking it Potts' voice, must make a joke
in return; so begins with the rather hackney'd, but, as he thought,
appropriate one, of _cham_pagne being better than _real_ pain or quinine
wine; and, upon Mr. P.'s essaying to answer, our "Spoon" diverted to
some tongue he was consuming, saying he liked it better than _Pott_ed
_tongue_--an observation that made the apothecary's face flush, and the
"Spoon" liken it to an article before them, a _claret-mug_. At this last
allusion the "Pott" got red-hot, and there is no knowing what would have
been the consequences, had not the "Spoon" terrified the "Pott" by
proclaiming "silence!"--in a stentorian voice;--and a gentleman risen,
Dr. Portbin, the author of that elaborate essay on "Dribbling Babies,"
in one thick volume, royal octavo--a work that nobody read, but
everybody thought