It is a conventional, but by no means a correct, notion, that at the time of a social separation those who are left behind have so very much the worst of it. People imagine that those who remain must necessarily be so dull after the departure of their friends; though very frequently those departing are the very persons who have imported gloom and misery into the household, who have sat like social old men and women of the sea on the necks of the jovial Sindbads, who have been skeletons at the feast, and wet blankets, and bottle-stoppers, and kill-joys, and mirth-quenchers, and story-balkers. It is by no means an uncommon occurrence, that there has been no such pleasant music for weeks, in the ears of those remaining in the house, as the noise of the wheels of the carriage speeding the parting guest.

The people of Helmingham village, when they saw the carriage containing Mr. Creswell and his bride spinning away to the station, after indulging in a fresh theme of talk expressive of their surprise at all that had happened, and their delight at the cleverness of the schoolmaster's daughter, who had, as they politely expressed it, "carried her pigs to such a good market," began to discuss the situation at Woolgreaves; and as it had been universally agreed that the day should be made a general holiday, the new-married folk, and their kith and kin, their past and future, were served up as topics of conversation, not merely at the various village tea-tables, but in the commercial room of the Lion at Brocksopp, which, there being no commercial gentlemen staying in the house, had been yielded up to the tenantry on the estate, who were given to understand that Mr. Teesdale, Mr. Creswell's agent, would attend to the bill. It was long since the Lion had done such a roaring trade, for the commercial gents, by whom the house was chiefly frequented, though convivial souls, were apt to be convivial on small orders, "fours" of rum and "sixes" of brandy; and it was only on exceptional occasions that old Mr. Mulock, who "travelled in hardware," would suffer himself to be fined a crown bowl of punch for having committed the uncommercial atrocity of smoking in the commercial room before seven o'clock, or young Mr. Cunynghame, who represented his own firm in Scotch goods--a very pushing young gentleman, and a wonderful fellow to get on--would "stand champagne round" when he had received a specially remunerative order. But now Miss Parkhurst, in the bar, had not a second to herself, the demand for her strong mahogany-coloured brandy-and-water was so great; steaming jorums of "hot with" here, huge goblets of "cold without" there; the fascinating Hebe of the Lion had not dispensed so much drink at one time since the day when old Major Barth was returned in the Conservative interest for Brocksopp--and the major, it is allowed, was not merely a hard drinker himself, but the cause of hard drinking in others; while as for old Tilley, the jolly landlord, he was so overwhelmed with the exertion of punch-compounding, that he took off the short-tailed snuff-coloured coat which he usually wore, and went to work in his shirt-sleeves, slicing lemons, mixing, strengthening, sweetening--ay, and tasting too--until his pleasant face, always round and red, assumed a greater rotundity and an extra glow, and his little, short, fat body ached again with fatigue.

But, as is very often the case in better society than that with which we are now engaged, the amount of conversation indulged in had not been in equal ratio with the amount of liquor consumed. They were very quiet drinkers in those parts, and on great occasions sat round the council fire as silently and gravely as a set of aboriginal Indians. They had touched lightly on the subject of the wedding, but only as men who knew that they had an interminable subject at hand, ready to fall back upon whenever they felt disposed, and from that they had jumped at a tangent to discussing the chances of the lambing season, where they were far more at home, and much more practical in what they had to say. The fertility of Farmer Gardner's ewes, or the carelessness of Tom Howson, Farmer Jeffrey's shepherd, were topics which went home to every man present; on which each had a distinct opinion, which he delivered with far greater force and emphasis than when called upon to pronounce upon an analysis of the guiding motives of the human heart in connection with the choice of a husband. Indeed, so much had to be said upon the subject of these "yows," that the conversation began to become rather tiresome to some members of the company, who were also tenants of the bridegroom's, but whose business connections were rather with commerce than agriculture or stock-purchase. These gentry, who would have sat interested for that indefinite period known as "a blue moon," had the talk been of markets, and prices, and "quotations," at length thought it time to vary the intellectual repast, and one of them suggested that somebody should sing a song. In itself not a bad proposition, but one always hard to be properly carried out. A dead silence fell upon the company at once, broken by Farmer Whicher, who declared he had often heard neighbour Croke "wobble like a lavrock," and moved that neighbour Croke be at once called upon. Called upon Mr. Croke was unanimously, but being a man of uncertain temper he nearly spoiled the harmony of the evening by declaring flatly that he would be "darnged" if he would. A bookkeeper in one of the Brocksopp mills, a young man of literary tendencies, who had erected several in memoriam tombstones to his own genius in the Brocksopp Banner and County Chronicle,then proposed that Mr. M'Shaw, who, as the speaker remarked, "came from the land which produced the inspired exciseman," would favour them with a Scotch ballad. But Mr. M'Shaw declined the compliment. A thrifty man, with a large family, Alick M'Shaw always kept himself in check in every way where expense was concerned, and now for the first time for years he found himself in the position of being able to consume a large quantity of whisky, without being called upon to pay for it. He knew that the time taken up in singing the ballad would be so much time wasted, during which he must perforce leave off drinking; and so, though he had a pretty tenor voice, and sang very fairly, he pleaded a cold and made his excuse. Finally, everybody having been tried, and everybody having in more or less cantankerous manner refused, it fell upon Farmer Whicher to sing that ditty for which he was well known for a score of miles round, which he had sung for nearly a third of a century at various harvest-homes, shearing-feasts, and other country merry-makings, and which never failed--it being a supposed joyous and bacchanalian chant--in crushing the spirits and subduing the souls of those who listened to it. It was a performance which never varied the smallest iota in its details. The intending singer first laid down his pipe, carefully knocking out the ashes, and placing it by his right hand to act on emergency as a conductor's bâton; then, assuming a most dismal expression of countenance, he glared round into the faces of those surrounding him to sue for pity, or to see if there were any chance of a reprieve, and finding neither, he would clear his throat, which was in itself an operation of some magnitude, and commence the song as a solemn recitation; but the chorus, which was duly sung by all present, each man using the most doleful tune with which he was best acquainted, ran thus:

"Then push, push, push the bowl about, And push the bowl to me-ee-- The longer we sits here, and drinks, The merr-i-er we shall be!"

It is doubtful to what extent this doleful dirge might have been protracted, for the number of verses is beyond human reckoning, and the more frequently the choruses were repeated the more they are prolonged; but Mr. Teesdale, the agent, a shrewd man of business, saw his opportunity for making a cast, and accordingly, at the end of the ninth stanza, he banged the table with such energy that his cue was taken by the more knowing ones, and the harmony was abandoned as Mr. Teesdale went on to say----

"Capital, bravo, excellent! Always look to you, Whicher, to sing us a good song! First time I heard you sing that was years ago, when our old friend Hardy gave us a supper on the occasion of opening his dancing-school! Poor Hardy, not well, eh? or he'd have been here among us. Push the bowl about, eh? Ah, we're likely to have plenty of that sort of fun soon, if I'm correctly informed!"

"What's that, Muster Teesdale?" asked Farmer Adams. "Somebody going to be married, eh?"

"No, no, one at a time, Adams, one at a time!"

"What's comin' off then, Muster Teesdale?"

"Well, it's expected that in about a couple of months' time there'll be a general election, Mr. Adams, and you know what that means! I wasn't far out when I said that the bowl would be pushed about at such a time as that, was I?"

"That 'ee warn't, Muster Teesdale, that 'ee warn't! Not that we hold much wi' 'lections about here!"

"That's 'cos there's no proper spirit of opp'sition," said Mr. Croke, who was accustomed to speak very loudly and freely on political matters, and who was delighted at seeing the conversation taking this turn; "that's 'cos there's no proper spirit of opp'sition," he repeated, looking round him, partly in triumph, partly to see if any antagonist were making ready net and spear. "They Tories is 'lowed to walk over the course and du just as pleases 'em!"

"What sort of opp'sition could you expect, Muster Croke?" said Farmer Spalding, puffing at his long churchwarden. "What good could Lib'rals do in a borough like this here Brocksopp, for instance, where its factories, and works, and mills, and suchlike, are held by rich folk as ought to be Lib'rals and is Tories?"

"Why ought they?" asked Mr. Croke; and while his interlocutor was gathering up his answer, old Croke added, "I'm all for argeyment! I'm a Tory mysel', as all my house have been, but I like to see a opp'sition in everything, and a proper fight, not one-sided 'lections, such as we have seen! Well, Muster Spalding, and why should our rich party folk be Lib'rals and not Tories?"

"Because," said Mr. Spalding, fanning away the smoke from before him, and speaking with great deliberation--"because they sprung from the people, and therefore their symp'ties should be wi' those of whom they were afore they became rich."

"Like enough, like enough, neighbour Spalding. That's what's called mo-rality, that is; but it's not common sense! Common sense is, that it's lucky they grew rich; they becam' Tories, which is the same thing as meaning they wanted their money taken care of."

"Ay, ay, that's it, Croke!" said Farmer Adams. "You've just hit the way to put un! Lib'rals when they've got nothing and want everything, Tories when they've got something and want to take care of it."

"Well, but what's Tories goin' to do this time?" asked Mr. Moule, a maltster in the town. "Our presen' member, Sir George Neal, won't stand again! Told me so his own self last time he was in town for quarter sessions--says he's too old. My 'pinion is his wife won't let un. He's a rum un, is Sir George, and when he gets up to London by himself, he goes it, they du say!"

"Nansense, Moule! I wunner at a man o' your sense talkin' such stuff," said Farmer Croke. "That's playin' the Lib'ral game, that is!--though I hey understood that Sir George won't come forrerd again."

"And the Lib'rals is going to mek a tre-menjous struggle this time, I've heerd,&............