Raspberry cream--the remainder of two dishes.
Seven macaroons, lying in the puddle of a demolished trifle.
Half a drum of best Turkey figs.
Some bits of broken bread; two Dutch cheeses (whole); the crust
of an old Stilton; and about an ounce of almonds and raisins.
Three ham-sandwiches, and a pot of currant-jelly, and 197 bottles
of brandy, rum, madeira, pale ale (my private stock); a couple
of hard eggs for a salad, and a flask of Florence oil.
This was the provision for the whole garrison! The men after supper had
seized upon the relics of the repast, as they were carried off from the
table; and these were the miserable remnants I found and counted on
my return, taking good care to lock the door of the supper-room, and
treasure what little sustenance still remained in it.
When I appeared in the saloon, now lighted up by the morning sun, I not
only caused a sensation myself, but felt one in my own bosom, which was
of the most painful description. Oh, my reader! may you never behold
such a sight as that which presented itself: eighty-three men and women
in ball-dresses; the former with their lank powdered locks streaming
over their faces; the latter with faded flowers, uncurled wigs, smudged
rouge, blear eyes, draggling feathers, rumpled satins--each more
desperately melancholy and hideous than the other--each, except my
beloved Belinda Bulcher, whose raven ringlets never having been in curl,
could of course never go OUT of curl; whose cheek, pale as the lily,
could, as it may naturally be supposed, grow no paler; whose neck and
beauteous arms, dazzling as alabaster, needed no pearl-powder, and
therefore, as I need not state, did not suffer because the pearl-powder
had come off.
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