We don’t have “scenes,” I warrant you, on these occasions.  No “surprise” parties!  You understand these, of course.  In the rural districts, where scenic tragedy and melodrama cannot be had, as in the city, at the expense of a quarter and a white pocket-handkerchief, emotional excitement has to be sought in the dramas of real life.  Christenings, weddings, and funerals, especially the latter, are the main dependence; but babies, brides, and deceased citizens cannot be had at a day’s notice.  Now, then, for a surprise-party!

A bag of flour, a barrel of potatoes, some strings of onions, a basket of apples, a big cake and many little cakes, a jug of lemonade, a purse stuffed with bills of the more modest denominations, may, perhaps, do well enough for the properties in one of these private theatrical exhibitions.  The minister of the parish, a tender-hearted, quiet, hard-working man, living on a small salary, with many children, sometimes pinched to feed and clothe them, praying fervently every day to be blest in his “basket and store,” but sometimes fearing he asks amiss, to judge by the small returns, has the first role,—­not, however, by his own choice, but forced upon him.  The minister’s wife, a sharp-eyed, unsentimental body, is first lady; the remaining parts by the rest of the family.  If they only had a play-bill, it would run thus:—­

ON TUESDAY NEXT

WILL BE PRESENTED

THE AFFECTING SCENE

CALLED

THE SURPRISE-PARTY,

OR

THE OVERCOME FAMILY;

WITH THE FOLLOWING STRONG CAST OF CHARACTERS: 

The Rev. Mr. Overcome, by the Clergyman of this Parish.

Mrs. Overcome, by his estimable lady.

Masters Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John Overcome.

Misses Dorcas, Tabitha, Rachel, and Hannah Overcome, by their interesting children.

Peggy, by the female help.

The poor man is really grateful;—­it is a most welcome and unexpected relief.  He tries to express his thanks,—­his voice falters,—­he chokes,—­and bursts into tears. That is the great effect of the evening.  The sharp-sighted lady cries a little with one eye, and counts the strings of onions, and the rest of the things, with the other.  The children stand ready for a spring at the apples.  The female help weeps after the noisy fashion of untutored handmaids.

Now this is all very well as charity, but do let the kind visitors remember they get their money’s worth.  If you pay a quarter for dry crying, done by a second-rate actor, how much ought you to pay for real hot, wet tears, out of the honest eyes of a gentleman who is not acting, but sobbing in earnest?

All I meant to say, when I began, was, that this was not a surprise-party where I read these few lines that follow:—­