I should have told you, that cards of invitation had been issued.  The carriers were the Hours; twelve little, merry, whirligig foot-pages, as you should desire to see, that went all round, and found out the persons invited well enough, with the exception of Easter Day, Shrove Tuesday, and a few such Moveables, who had lately shifted their quarters.

Well, they all met at last, foul Days, fine Days, all sorts of Days, and a rare din they made of it.  There was nothing but, Hail! fellow Day,—­well met—­brother Day—­sister Day,—­only Lady Day kept a little on the aloof, and seemed somewhat scornful.  Yet some said, Twelfth Day cut her out and out, for she came in a tiffany suit, white and gold, like a queen on a frost-cake, all royal, glittering, and Epiphanous.  The rest came, some in green, some in white—­but old Lent and his family were not yet out of mourning.  Rainy Days came in, dripping; and sun-shiny Days helped them to change their stockings. Wedding Day was there in his marriage finery, a little the worse for wear. Pay Day came late, as he always does; and Doomsday sent word—­he might be expected.

April Fool (as my young lord’s jester) took upon himself to marshal the guests, and wild work he made with it.  It would have posed old Erra Pater to have found out any given Day in the year, to erect a scheme upon—­good Days, bad Days, were so shuffled together, to the confounding of all sober horoscopy.

He had stuck the Twenty First of June next to the Twenty Second of December, and the former looked like a Maypole siding a marrow-bone. Ash Wednesday got wedged in (as was concerted) betwixt Christmas and Lord Mayor’s Days.  Lord! how he laid about him!  Nothing but barons of beef and turkeys would go down with him—­to the great greasing and detriment of his new sackcloth bib and tucker.  And still Christmas Day was at his elbow, plying him the wassail-bowl, till he roared, and hiccup’d, and protested there was no faith in dried ling, but commended it to the devil for a sour, windy, acrimonious, censorious, hy-po-crit-crit-cri-tical mess, and no dish for a gentleman.  Then he dipt his fist into the middle of the great custard that stood before his left-hand neighbour, and daubed his hungry beard all over with it, till you would have taken him for the Last Day in December, it so hung in icicles.

At another part of the table, Shrove Tuesday was helping the Second of September to some cock broth,—­which courtesy the latter returned with the delicate thigh of a hen pheasant—­so there was no love lost for that matter.  The Last of Lent was spunging upon Shrovetide’s pancakes; which April Fool perceiving, told him he did well, for pancakes were proper to a good fry-day.