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 playbill, 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: 

     We will not speak of years to-night;
     For what have years to bring,
     But larger floods of love and light
     And sweeter songs to sing?

     We will not drown in wordy praise
     The kindly thoughts that rise;
     If friendship owns one tender phrase,
     He reads it in our eyes.

     We need not waste our schoolboy art
     To gild this notch of time;
     Forgive me, if my wayward heart
     Has throbbed in artless rhyme.

     Enough for him the silent grasp
     That knits us hand in hand,
     And he the bracelet’s radiant clasp
     That locks our circling band.