Chapter II: Part 2

The post-master smiled, and observed, that the appearance of my uncle always spread such a contagion of emulative cleanliness through the village, that in two minutes after the first little pair of eyes espied him, every pump was in requisition; and so it proved; for we soon after met above twenty just returned from school, at all of whom my uncle scowled his eye-brows with a half-suppressed smile, as he dropped the expected halfpenny to each, one boy excepted, whom my uncle pinched by the ear, exclaiming, “you’re a slovenly rogue; you’ve not got a copper face.”

The boy stared, and mechanically stroking his chin, as if to feel its composition; “I’m sure I’se got a feace,” said he.

“Yes,” returned my uncle, “you have got a rare _dirty face_,” then shaking his cane at him, “go along home, you nasty fellow; there’s no halfpenny for you.”

The disappointed boy sneaked off with slow and sullen pace, hoping, as he leered over his shoulder, to be called back; but he was mistaken. My uncle never broke his word, by which means his advice or punishments were both effective.

CHAP. VI.

We had not proceeded far before we met the carriage of Lady Lustre, who would take no denial to our getting in and returning home with her, which politeness compelled us to do, and in a few minutes we found ourselves seated in her hospitable mansion, where a salver of fruit, sandwiches, and negus was placed before us.

The urbanity of her manners, the sensibility of her conversation, the engaging gentility of her address, all bespoke Lady Lustre the woman of education; and though now in her grand climacterick, her company was as fascinating as in the days of her youth; no uncouth county dialect, no garrulity marked her conversation; she had been bred in the school of gentility, of which she was still head pupil, and never was a more agreeable hour than we passed in her society; she had selected a little museum of natural and Asiatic curiosities, in which her taste was eminently displayed, and afforded to a lover of antiquity great amusement; we were also treated with the inspection of a pearl cabinet, richly ornamented with superb oriental china, which, with a pair of magnificent globes, a choice library of the most valuable authors, and collection of pictures from the most celebrated pencils, with a portfolio of proof engravings, constituted the amusement of the visitor, and displayed the genuine taste of the owner.

My uncle observed her Ladyship had made a very short ride.

“I have,” replied she, “but I shall extend it bye and bye, for to say the truth, I went to call on one of my cottage pensioners, whom I found in the straw, something downcast at the arrival of two little strangers instead of one, as she is already the mother of five; and it is to order some caudle, a few requisites, and some broth for the children, that I have hastened back; but I shall call again in the evening, and I hope to find her in better spirits.”

I saw a tear of feeling start in my uncle’s eye, and slipping a guinea into the hand of Lady Lustre, he entreated she would give it to the cottager. Her Ladyship seemed highly pleased, and wishing her good morning, we returned home, as my uncle seemed to feel himself rather fatigued.

The ceremony of dinner passed over happily for me, without any more blunders on my part; the conversation of my uncle (whose peevish humour seemed to relax,) grew more pleasant; and he would I believe have given me the promised detail of his sorrows, if another visit from Doctor Tonic had not interrupted him.

“D’ye want a hand at a game of crib?” asked the Doctor popping in his head, with one eye directed _east_ and the other _west_.

“If you are come to take your crown revenge,” said my uncle, “sit down, and well accept your challenge.”

“Hem! hem! I’m in a lazy humour to-night, fit for nothing; just called in at the manor, and egad! nothing would serve the squire but a fresh bottle of port, which was so prime that somehow the butler had drawn a second cork before I was aware of it. Sad dog that young squire! had a design upon me, I do believe. Ecod, Sir, I had great difficulty to find the park gate, but I’ve been home, taken a few antidotal drops, and had a sound nap in my elbow chair; and now I’m just the thing for a chat or a rubber.”

“And if any body meets with an accident, and requires your assistance?” said my uncle.

“Why then I’m engaged with a _patient_, and my son Bob must officiate. Hem! hem! Why, if I was to gallop after every patient’s whims, I might ride twenty miles after a cut finger or a chilblain. No, no, always send Bob to the fanciful squad. How d’ye think now I was served the night before last? A servant rapped at the door about eleven o’clock, just as we had retired to rest, and requested my immediate attendance on his mistress Lady Flam, up at the Grove, about a mile and half off.

“Much vexed at being disturbed, and my son Bob having had a hard day’s fatigue, I enquired what was her Ladyship’s complaint. He replied, “he did not know; but I must follow him immediately, and if I pleased, take his horse instead of waiting for my own.”

Thinking the exigence was great, and Lady Flam being one of my best patients, (though by the bye a d--d whimsical one,) I hastily huddled on my clothes, and jumping on the servant’s horse, left him to walk back, and gallopped off at full speed. Well, Sir, the door flew open, and Lady Flam met me in the hall, dissolved in tears.

“My good lady,” cried I, “what’s the matter?”

“Oh, Doctor, I’m sorry to give you so much trouble, but knowing your skill and humanity, do look at my poor dear little Sylvio, (the pug dog) who has been in fits these two hours, and prescribe something to restore him.”

“And is _that all_ your grievance, Madam?” replied I, bursting with passion; “God bless my heart, I’m no dog doctor; throw a bason of water over him, by all means.”

“Not for the world!” says her ladyship; “it would give the dear creature his death with cold.”

“Not more so, Madam, than calling a Christian from a warm bed into the damp midnight air; but really, Madam, as I never studied canine maladies, it is out of my power to prescribe; my rest is very essential to me, and if you will leave the dog to nature, you’ll find her an abler physician than I am. I wish your ladyship good night, and request you’ll let your servant fetch back the horse in the morning.”

“Good God! how cruel! how inhuman! I could not have believed it;” exclaimed her ladyship, as I closed the door; and when the servant came to fetch the horse back, he informed me the dog was dead, and his Lady desired I would make out my account, and send it in. There’s a pretty job; I must have a consultation with her to-morrow morning; it won’t do to lose a patient through the casualties of a d--d pug dog.

“I wonder you hadn’t contrived to make a _customer_ of the animal,” replied my uncle laughingly.

“Oh, curse the dog! I saw he was dying, or else I would have sent in a few bottles to repay my trouble. Egad, if she cuts with me, I shall repeat the story to everybody, to exonerate my credit; and, depend upon it, I’ll christen her Lady _Fitz-Pug_! Ha, ha, ha! that’s no bad one! Is it, Mr. Victor? Yes, I will, I will, by G--d!”

“Have a care, Doctor,” said my uncle; “the women a’n’t to be duped at all times; it is not every one that submits to calumny and insult with impunity; a fair reputation and a clear conscience is a fortune to any man, and the most essential passport of life.”

“Hem, hem!” cried the Doctor, who did not seem to relish my uncle’s bolus so well as his own _Album Græcums_; “we have all our faults, to be sure.”

“True,” replied my uncle; “but how often do we acknowledge or amend them? The beam and the mote, Doctor, hey!”

“Have you heard,” continued the Doctor, “of the new inmate Dr. Markwell expects to-morrow? Why, I understand she’s the most beautiful, accomplished girl, that ever was seen; and as for weight, there’s no want of metal, I’m told: should not care if I’d got a few more sons to strike up to such a prize: sense, beauty, and money; three phœnixes, by God! What say you, Mr. Victor?”

I replied, I could not possibly judge till I had seen the young lady.

“Aye, but I shall see her the first of any man in the village, I’ll bet a bottle.”

“May-be you’ll wait at the rectory door till her arrival,” observed my uncle. “I’ll tell you what, Tonic; you ought to have a pension voted you by the parish, for you are the village chronicle; you know everybody’s concerns, but few know yours, unless they speak for _themselves_.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” said the Doctor, screwing up his funny eye. “Hear, see, and say nothing.”

“Say nothing of your _own_ affairs,” rejoined my uncle; “for I’m sure you hear and say enough of other people’s; so you break the adage, and yet pretend you abide by it. And, pray now, don’t you know who this said Miss Phœnix is? her birth, parentage, and education--life, character, and behaviour--eh! Doctor?”

“No; I can’t find out the particulars yet; but I know she’s an orphan.”

“Poor girl!” ejaculated my uncle; “then it’s well for her she has property, otherwise she’d meet little respect in _this_ village; and as to getting a husband, our young men are _proverbial_ for marrying girls of fortune, with as little pretension either from _merit_, _person_, or _equality_, as a beggar has to a coronet. No disparagement to _your sons_, Doctor; but, upon my soul, what with their _interested_ motives of union, and their _unconquerable_ attachment to drinking, they may literally be styled ‘_The lads of the bag and bottle._’”

“Ha, ha, ha!” cried the Doctor; “it’s a good joke, a good joke! the best I’ve heard a long time! Hem, hem!”

“It’s a truism, however,” cried my uncle, “which you have my permission to repeat: I never say any thing I am ashamed of; so that every garrulous old woman in the vicinity may repeat it with as many embellishments as she pleases. A fig for scandal; I hate all tale-bearers.”

“So do I,” said the Doctor, pulling up his frill, and rubbing his brown _spuds_ together: “they are a dangerous set of people; very much so, indeed. No man alive loves a bit of news better than _I_ do; but I detest you _fudgers_. Truth, sir, the naked truth, for Timothy Tonic. A-propos! pray, have you heard of a certain great man being gone to London this morning, upon an _unpleasant embarrassment_: in fact, I saw him get into the coach myself: I wished him a pleasant journey; and, with a very grave face, he answered me, “he much _doubted_ it would prove so.” Of course, I immediately _guessed_ how matters stood.”

“Then you’ve only _guessed_ at it,” replied my uncle; “you _suppose_--you _imagine_--you _think_--you have an _idea_, on which collective fabric of visions you build your assertion, without the slightest foundation.”

“Aye, but I have my _suspicions_,” answered the Doctor.

“Pshaw,” retorted my uncle; “suspicion is the vilest imp of hell, worse than all the hellebore, aquafortis, and hemloch, in your shop: it’s the strongest poison upon earth. What! you a Doctor, and not know how to eradicate such a complaint; unless, indeed, it’s _constitutional_.”

“Let’s have a rub,” exclaimed the Doctor; and thus the controversy ended; though, in my opinion, the man of medicine had received a very good _rub_, from my uncle’s incontrovertible truisms: and down to cribbage we sat; where, in about two hours, the Doctor lost fourteen six-penny games, and betted as many shillings with me on his own _superior_ play, for he was reckoned the _best cribbage-player_ in the village; but Fortune, being in a fickle mood, gave us the advantage of her favours, and sent the poor Doctor home, a second time, the picture of ill luck and vexation.

CHAP. VII.

The next morning a new visitor made his appearance, to give my uncle and self a very polite invitation to tea and supper the next evening. He was a comely, good-looking man; well-meaning, but no pupil of Chesterfield. Honest and hospitable, he had risen in the world from very low extraction; but, by diligent industry, had collected a comfortable competence, in a line of business in which he styled himself a _hair-contractor_; that is to say, in the more vulgar acceptation of the word, his profession was that of a _hair-dresser_; and he _contracted only_ with hot curling-irons, frizzing-combs, and scissors. But, as he had now retired from business, it mattered not what he _had_ been; and my uncle, who esteemed him as a good kind of harmless being, indulged him generally with a visit every Christmas: but having heard of my arrival, he had paid his earliest respects, to request the _honour_ of my company, and introduction to his family.

My uncle accepted the invitation; and after a few “So says he” and “So says I,” observations on the weather, the price of provision, and various other topics, too insignificant to detail, Mr. Macfriz took his departure.

“I want to shew you men and manners, Victor,” said my uncle, as he closed the door; “for which reason, I shall accept all the invitations I receive. We’ve a variety of curious characters in our village, I promise you; and I don’t doubt but we shall meet a rare party at the Doctor’s. Arm yourself at all points, both for conquest, or resistance.”

I assured him I entertained no fears of captivation, as I had not yet seen the woman to whom I could devote my heart.

“Aye, boy,” exclaimed my uncle, shaking his head, and sighing deeply, “you never saw Cecilia Delmond. But why does memory revert to past affliction? Amuse yourself, my dear boy, for half an hour, while I retire to my study.”

I assured him I should employ the passing interval in writing to London. The word London vibrated on his ear, and he re-opened the door. “Add my kind love to my sister, and thanks to your father for his present; and, d’ye mind me, Victor, tell them not to expect you home till I’m _tired_ of your company.”

Oh, oh! thought I, these are hopeful symptoms of my becoming a favourite, if my uncle’s humour does not change.

It may now be necessary to inform the reader, that my name is not Victor Tweazy, as many people might imagine, but “Victor St. Alban,” my mother being own sister to my uncle, who never cordially approved of her alliance with my father, because they differed in political opinions; though my mother so far prevailed over my uncle’s animosity, as to persuade him to stand godfather to me, having lost three successive sons, and I, of course, being the rarity of the family; in consequence of which, he chose to give me the name of Victor, though he never would assign any reason for so doing: and whether my infantile prattle pleased him, or what attractive charm I possessed, I know not; but I always obtained from him some token of encouragement as a schoolboy; and the emulative pleasure of being styled “a bright lad,” “a sharp little dog,” and such-like epithets (all which served as a stimulus to my learning), always rendered me more attentive to my uncle than the rest of my family: but having gone from school almost immediately to college, where I remained till I came of age, I had not been in the habit of seeing him for several years; and my father always stigmatising him by the character of “a _crusty old churl_,” “an _eccentric misanthropical being_,” I had never before troubled myself upon the subject of seeking his favours, or courting his company; till at length, by some _instinctive impulse_ of _fate_ or _fortune_, I determined venturing the trial of a visit; and unfortunately finding him in a most peevish humour, and my star of perplexity happening to reign pre-eminent at that moment, our meeting seemed destined to be viewed through the jaundiced eye of reciprocal prejudice; though, in the ultimate, it proved only a junction of mere common occurrences, which my uncle seemed totally to have forgotten, and we were the best friends imaginable; the only difficulty remaining was to keep so; a point I flattered myself I could easily accomplish, by a little attention to his pleasures, and subordination to his wishes; the attainment of which would cost me nothing but the government of my own temper, by which I should receive, in fact, essential benefit.

I was just folding my letter when my uncle entered the room, exclaiming, “Well, boy, how d’ye come on?”

“I have finished, Sir,” replied I.

“Indeed!” answered my uncle. “Why, surely, yours must be the pen of a ready writer, or you have popped them off with a bob-short.”

“I, in general, write very expeditious,” said I.

“There’s no merit in that, except you were bred a short-hand writer,” replied my uncle; “though it is not exactly writing that captivates me; I attend only to the orthography; I can readily excuse a rough hand but to read a letter from the pen of a fool is agony.”

“Very true,” replied I; “but surely orthography, like oratory, is a peculiar gift.”

“It may, in some sense,” rejoined my uncle; “but a proper attention to the system of education, subjoined to natural ability, is surely very essential. I know, for instance, a young lady, whose vanity flattered her she possessed abilities equal to the instruction of private pupils, in which capacity she had been engaged several years; when one day I accidentally pointed out to her notice a most beautifully expressive passage in a play of Shakespear, she negligently, in her flirting way, threw the book aside, declaring, “she detested blank verse, for, to say the truth, she could neither _read_ it properly, nor _comprehend_ it at all.” “And thou art a _governess_,” said I to myself, as in disgust I snatched it from the table; while, fantastically drawing a comb from her pocket, she placed herself before the glass, and flirted it through her hair, which, with all imaginable vanity, she braided and twisted into due form, then, drawing her chair to an inch in full view of her imagined charms, threw her listless form into a fashionable sprawl before the mirror, where the constant direction of her eye was always fixed, denoting the weakness of her untutored mind. Such was the _instructress_ of _arrogance_ and _folly_, the only science she had ever studied, or required perfection in, as her abilities never empowered her, with the art of instruction, superior to the common _abecedarian_; but while she could hold up her head, read a _little_, write a _little_, and dance a little, she _fancied_ herself a _governess_ equal to any establishment; though, as to any or all of the fine arts, she was a most perfect stranger, except that of _vanity_, in which she was an eminent proficient; and happy the pupil who escaped such instruction.”

CHAP. VIII.

At this moment a whiskey stopped at the gate, and a servant presented a card of polite inquiry from Mr. and Mrs. Henpeck, the latter of whom had taken the reins from a little snuffy ruby nosed man, of crimson countenance; and my uncle, putting on his gold-laced nondescript hat, went out to speak to them, requesting me to follow him.

After a score of “how-d’ye-does,” and shaking hands so violently, I thought they’d have either pulled my uncle into the chaise, or he pulled the little man out, “Is _that there_ gentleman your _nevee_, Mr. Tweazy?” said the lady, screwing up her eyes, and confidently peering in my face.

“Yes, that’s Victor St. Alban, sure enough,” replied my uncle.

“Sir,” continued the lady, dragging up her yellow colloppy throat with an extra stretch, “I shall be proud to see you at my house. Mr. Henpeck, my love, why don’t you tell the gentleman so: any friend of Mr. Tweazy _must_ be agreeable to _you_, while they are so to _me_.”

“I was just going to ask the gentleman’s company,” answered the man, whom necessity compelled to like every thing his wife did: “I’m sure I shall be very happy to entertain him the best in my power.”

“_Our_ power, my lovey, you mean: recollect, you’re not a _bachelor_ now; and therefore, Mr. Henpeck, my dear, you should say _we_,”--replied Madam Xantippe.

“I stand corrected, my dear,” answered her supple slave.

“No, you don’t,” cried my uncle; “you _sit_ corrected: so, take my advice; alight a few minutes, and take a walk round my garden; I want to shew you my melon bed, and give you a little fruit.”

Mr. Henpeck cast a wistful look at his rib for her _kind permission_; who instantly answered, “He must not touch fruit for the world, nor walk upon the grass for fear of cold; for Doctor Tonic had ordered him a peculiar _regiment_; and therefore, as _his wife_ and _nurse_, she could not _suffer_ him to get out of the chaise.”

“Well, well! my love, I’ll do just as you _please_, deary.”

“Aye, to be sure,” said Mrs. Henpeck: then drawing up her reins, she wished us good-morning; observing, she should send us a card in the evening; and flogging up the old horse, who seemed as compliant to her lash as his master, they were soon out of sight.

“Heavens protect me,” exclaimed my uncle. “See what you’re to come to; prepare for Master Hymen’s trammels. Poor Henpeck! I wish to God I could inspire him with a proper portion of spirit to counteract the tyranny of his despotic wife: he’s a man of very genteel property, and very clever in his business; and might have died, as he lived, a happy bachelor, hadn’t the _charms_ (personal or mental, I cannot define which) of the fascinating Widow _Would-a-more_ captivated his invulnerable heart, and vanquished all his neutral determination of leading a life of celibacy; and therefore, by the widow’s persuasions, he metamorphosed himself into that happy being he calls a husband; for, blessed with so _sweet_, so _engaging_ a wife as Xantippe Henpeck, how can he be otherwise! But, however, I’ll treat you with a specimen of their ways and manners, by accepting their invitation; where you will find a hospitable board, and every thing in precise style; for Mrs. Henpeck rules over every concern, from the attic to the basement; in which department her loving husband never interferes, and knows no more of his household concerns, and the _necessaries_ or _unnecessaries_ of his family, than he does how many feathers compose his pillow: all he has to do is to supply his wife with plenty of the _threadneedle rags_, of which she well knew there was no _want_ when she condescended to bestow her hand where her _interest_ best directed such a _sacrifice_, and thereby dubbed Mr. Henpeck the _happiest of men_. But you shall judge, Victor, for yourself.”

My uncle’s watch now reminded us it was time to retire, and dress for Dr. Tonic’s dinner party, who, dining, as he observed, at the unfashionable hour of three, did not allow us much time to adorn for conquest, as my uncle styled it; who, jocosely touching my elbow as we walked side by side up the spacious staircase to our respective dressing-rooms, observed, if I had but the happy invention of tying my neckcloth in some peculiar mode, totally different to the rest of the world, I should be as immortalized as Shakespeare’s mulberry-tree, and set the village fashion for the remainder of the year. “I’ll allow you also,” continued he, “to _bounce_ and _stretch_ a little in every point where your discretion may point out a retributive attack: you must therefore consider yourself at a masquerade, and make your consonant repartees accordingly; for, I assure you, you will find a most motley group of the “_Would-be-greats_” and the “_What-we-ares_,” but not many of the “_What-we-have-beens_;” because it’s not the fashion to _analyze genealogy_ in the present day. Exert your energies, and let the whole squad see you’re my own boy Victor, and not a mushroom raised from a dunghill by the powerful sunshine of fortune. You comprehend me, I’m sure.”

We now separated, and, in about half an hour, met again, each equipped, and ready to start for our engagement.

My uncle now surveyed me from head to foot; for, having paid some attention to his wishes, I had arranged my hair in a few peculiar turns, and tied my neckcloth in a very smart full rose, which I had taken no little pains to crimp up into due form, twisting the ends, in the similitude of a plat, round my neck: this, with the eccentricity of my quizzing-glass hung round my neck with a purple ribbon, and immense broad ribbons in my shoes, I stood before him, in my _own idea_, a perfect Bond-street _puppy_!

“Have I properly obeyed your orders, Sir?” asked I.

“Exactly,” replied he; “you have conjured that tippy bow under your chin in curious style.”

I could not forbear smiling, for my soul, at the contrast we made, as I regarded _his_ neckcloth, which, in the perversity of the antique style, hung, in two dangling ends, to the bottom of his waistcoat, which, with the addition of his gold-laced hat and ancestorial cane, equipped him in his style, which none presumed to imitate, nor did I dare reprove, wisely considering the adage of “Prithee, Tom-fool,” &c.

CHAP. IX.

My uncle now led the way, and we found ourselves very shortly close under the well-known pestle and mortar at the Doctor’s shop door; where he most graciously receiving, conducted us to the dining-room; the door of which throwing wide open as the hinges would stretch, he, with a tremendous hem, hem, hem! thus announced us to a room full of company:--

“Ladies and gentlemen, my respected friend Mr. Tweazy, and his nephew, Mr. Victor St. Alban.” Then advancing to a lady, who filled the pre-eminent chair, he thus successively introduced us to the whole group:--Mr. and Mrs. Fungus, Mr. and Mrs. Prolix, Mr. and Mrs. Deposit, Mr. Faddle and the Widow Quiz, Mrs. Tonic, Miss Elizetta Tonic, Miss Georgina Tonic, and, stuck behind the door on a high stool, was perched, “My son, Bob Tonic;” who, distending his nostrils as wide as nature would permit the extent, seemed like a sagacious pointer _smelling_ at fresh game, as he fixed his large black _bolus_ eyes full on my face.

Reciprocal compliments having subsided, two more chairs were wedged against the wainscot, and down upon them we squeezed ourselves, like fourteen larks stuck upon a skewer for a dog-day roast, in a low ceilinged room, divided only from the effluvia of jalap and assafœtida by a thin partition, against whose antique wainscot hung specimens of the Miss Tonics’ abilities in embroidered dogs, cats, pheasants, and fruit; while the black hearth was adorned with an immense bow-pot, containing all the flowers in the parish, stuck into a large _electuary jar_; the perfume of which redundant nosegay, or the _brown jar_, I know not _which_, so horrified Mrs. Deposit, she was obliged to leave the room, conducted by Bob Tonic to the revival of the hartshorn bottle; but an old woman coming in, almost at the moment, to have a tooth drawn, Mrs. Deposit, terrified at the idea of the operation, was obliged to return to the dining-room, from whence, at her request, the blooming composition of fragrance was instantly removed; but, unfortunately, before the servant could close the door, a large tabby-cat made his _entrée_ with family familiarity, which so alarmed the delicate nerves of Mrs. Fungus, that she uttered a loud shriek, which was responsively echoed by the old woman in the shop, in the agonizing wrench of extracting her decayed stump, much to the anger of the Doctor, who had deputed _Bob_ to perform the business, and brushed into the shop, reprobating the patient in terms so stentorial, that they were distinctly heard through the wainscot, to the following effect:--

“What are you making such a d--d racket about--eh? Don’t you know I’ve got a house full of company, and every window open? If I’d known you’d have been such a weak old fool as to squall out in that manner, you should have borne the pain till to-morrow, I promise you.”

“How could I help it, Sir?” replied the patient: “I thought as how Mister Bob had _scrunshed_ my jaw-bone.”

“’Drot your jaw-bone!” answered the furious Doctor. “How dare you say such a thing? My son Bob’s the best tooth-drawer in England; and I think, after walking the hospitals for _two_ years, and extracting a _dozen_ teeth from _dead bodies_, he ought to know something about it.”

“To be sure, Sir,” said the woman: “but then, Sir, you know as how as dead bodies could not _feel_, by reason of which they could not _scream_!”

The Doctor was silent; for the woman’s argument was not to be refuted. “Pay your shilling, and go about your business: my son Bob’s got something better to do than stand bothering here all day.”--The woman obeyed the command; the shop door slammed to; and the Doctor returned to the company, who jocosely rallied him about scolding his patient so inconsistently.

“She’d no business to scream,” said the Doctor.

“She’d a _right_ to scream,” replied my uncle: “she felt excruciating pain, if you didn’t; and, therefore, how could she help it?”

“Bob drew it as easy as an old shoe,” continued the Doctor.

“So he might,” said my uncle; “but he did not _feel_ the agony.”

“No, to be sure,” cried Mr. Prolix. “My poor girl, Lavinia, had a tooth extracted not a week ago; and, egad! Sirs, she screamed, that you might have heard her at the extremity of the village.”

“Oh! I don’t wonder at that,” said my uncle: “your children are famous screamers: they never do any thing else, I think--at least, when I’m in your house.”

Mr. Prolix was dumb; his cherubic wainscot cheeks mantled brickdust; while resentment for the stigma passed on his squalling children glanced from his eye. His wife was a pleasant, well-behaved, quiet soul; of the automaton breed; and as much the reverse, in her principles, of Mrs. Henpeck, as it was possible for a human creature to be; for she was a composition of humility, and obedience to the commands of her husband.--Not so was Mrs. Deposit: she was the most fantastic woman upon earth, except her neighbour, Mrs. Fungus; who, for family arrogance, could match the proudest of the proud. She assured the Miss Tonics, in lisping accents, most dulcet and affected, she intended giving a little sort of fête champêtre in the course of a fortnight, for which she should issue her cards in time. “And you, my dear Mrs. Deposit, will join our festive group;” and she patted her fan most lovingly on Mrs. Deposit’s _naked_ fat shoulder, exposed à la Venus.

“Oh! my dear creature, I shall certainly attend you, with rapture,” replied the stylish compeer: “you know a dance or a rubber is my delight. How much, now, d’ye think I made by my card purse last season?”

“Can’t guess, poz,” said Mrs. Fungus: “a rolio of fifty guineas, perhaps.”

“Fifty!” reiterated Mrs. Deposit: “why, my dear soul, fifty guineas would scarce buy me a purse:” then, in an audible whisper, half a yard from Mrs. Fungus’s naked ear, “I netted _two hundred_ clear, ’pon honour.”

“Oh! you lucky soul,” exclaimed Mrs. Fungus. “But does not your lord sometimes reprove?”

“Oh! he knows nothing of the matter,” replied Mrs. Deposit. “We are a very fashionable couple: we each pursue the mode most agreeable to our wishes; restriction would not suit me, I promise you. Deposit’s a good fellow: he never reproves me; and, in fact, if he _did_, it would little _avail_.”

During this confab, my uncle (whose chair joined Mrs. Deposit’s) had fixed his chin upon his cane, and puffed out his cheeks, with his eyes fixed on the carpet, in deep attention, and panic-struck at the lady’s conversation, till, from the cast of his countenance, I dreaded every moment would produce one of his sharp opinions, not couched in the politest terms; but the servant announcing “dinner on table,” created the general bustle of a removal to the smoaking board, where a profuse spreadation of substantials, in the old English style, formed a copious fumigation from fish, flesh, fowl, and pudding; over which, at the bottom of the table, stood the Doctor, bolt upright, flourishing a tremendous carving-knife with as much dexterity as he would a lancet; and the ceremony of grace having been audibly repeated by _son Bob_, who took the Doctor’s right hand as extra officiating carver, we all took our allotted seats.

An immense cod’s tail at the _top_ of the table, and a much larger _head and shoulders_ at the _bottom_, almost suffocated poor Mrs. Deposit, who declined partaking any portion of it, protesting, “the last _cod’s scull_ and smelts she purchased at Phillip’s, in Bond-street, cost her two guineas, and though the price was, to be sure, very exorbitant, it did not prove good.

“Two guineas for a cod’s scull,” exclaimed my incredulous uncle: “in my opinion, there was not a scull in Bond-street worth a quarter part the money. Eh! Doctor, what say you? you understand sculls.”

“Oh heavens!” ejaculated Mrs. Fungus; “what a horrid subject to start at a medical table. My dear Mr. Tweazy, pray, forbear. Do you know, I was extravagant enough to give a _guinea_ for a _lobster_ to a celebrated fishmonger in my neighbourhood, last March, for turbot sauce, at one of my city dinner parties?”

“The more’s the pity, Ma’am,” said my uncle: “I’m very sorry you female caterers should encourage extortion to such a pitch: the guinea would have done more good to some distressed family.”

“Pugh!” cried Mrs. Fungus. “Was _my_ turbot to be served without sauce, for such a _paltry_ consideration? No, indeed, by no means!”

“But time has been, Madam,” rejoined my uncle, “when _you_ and _I_ have bought many a lobster for a _groat_; aye, and when the humble bread and cheese we could set before our guests wanted no other sauce than a cordial welcome to the board of frugality.”

“Bread and cheese!” reiterated Mrs. Deposit. “Dear Mr. Tweazy, what a _carpenter’s supper_ you have selected: I declare you quite horrify my delicacy. Stilton or Parmesan sandwiches are extreme bores to introduce, even on the sideboard of a fashionable table, merely for the purpose of flavouring the spruce and soda; but _common bread_ and _cheese_--oh! shocking! too terrible to think about!”

Mrs. Tonic now interrupted this interesting dissertation, by holding out, at arm’s length, a plated fish-slice full of the _woolly_ flakes of the aforementioned dish, which everybody who knew where the prime part was stationed declined accepting, and she was therefore compelled to munch it herself; while her helpmate was plentifully distributing the jowl and jelly pieces to the epicures; amongst whom the Widow Quiz’s plate was first handed, with _profound homage_, by Mr. Prolix, who had made her _will_ only the day before, and well knew all the preliminaries it contained, both in his favour and the Doctor’s.

The plate was now presented; and willing to gratify the high epicurean palate of the rich widow, he poked his wrinkled eyelids close over the dish, to select a boubouche, exclaiming, “Cod sounds, Madam! here’s a nice piece in reserve for you.”

“My dear, my dear,” cried Mrs. Tonic (not comprehending what he said), “how you do swear!”

“I swear!” replied the Doctor (as son Bob set up a horse-laugh at his mother’s mistake and expense). “Why, my dear Mrs. Tonic, you must be out of your mind: I was only helping Mrs. Quiz to part of the sound.”

Poor Mrs. Tonic’s cheek flushed with confusion, and, being a placid woman of the _old school_, she made no reply; and the dinner went quietly down, as most dinners do, that are composed _only_ of eatables, not set out on the nicknack scale of notoriety.

“Come, take a triffle with my daughter Elizetta,” said the doctor, slapping me on the shoulder: “don’t be afraid of her; she’s a Tonic, depend upon it.”

I now, for the first time, discovered who this young lady was, and concluded I was to be indebted to her abilities for the harmonic strains I had been taught to expect, though, from her personal charms, I could draw no comparative idea.

She was very short in stature, extremely scraggy, with a complexion à la _Bantam egg_, viz. similar to a composition of _bark_ and _bole ammoniac_, like my grandmother’s toothpowder; her eyes, like brother Bobby’s, were black and goggling; and if they were the telegraphs of her heart, it was a very inanimate one, insipid as a chalk draught, or gruel without salt. Her sister was the polygraph of herself; therefore no farther personal comment is requisite. They were both attentive and assiduous to the company, and, no doubt, might be two good sort of girls, fit to make industrious farmers’ wives; but neither of them were destined to captivate Victor St. Alban.

“What a charming name yours is!” said Mrs. Deposit, looking most languishingly in my face. I bowed.

“Aye, that was my choice,” replied my uncle.

“Then much merit is due to your choice, Sir,” lisped Mrs. Fungus. “What a divine name it would be for a _novel_. If you do but subjoin it with one equally as elegant, how beautifully romantic it will sound: _Palmira_, for instance, crowning her _Victor_ with a wreath of never-fading happiness.”

Here Mrs. Fungus set up a loud titter, which was succeeded by a universal simper, from a smile to a horse-laugh, from everybody but my uncle, who, aware of these quizzing impertinents, replied very gravely, “He believed there were many hearts that would yield to such a Victor, without much contention, from _bold fifteen_ to _bolder fifty_!”

“Heavens! what an opinion you must have of women,” exclaimed Mrs. Deposit, who loved to hear herself talk as much as her husband, when he delivers elaborate encomiums from his knock-me-down pulpit of public extortion.

“I entertain the best opinion in the world of all women,” rejoined my uncle; “for I estimate every one according to their principles and actions: my opinion, therefore, never swerving from _truth_, cannot possibly be a _bad one_.”

“But _bold fifteen_ to _bolder fifty_!” cried Mrs. Fungus (who snatched the shuttlecock of argument from her voluble friend, Mrs. Deposit, to aim it at my uncle). “What do you mean to _infer_ by that, Mr. Tweazy?”

“Precisely what I have said, Madam; for, with all due deference to the present circle of exemptions, I am sorry to say, in the present day, the levity of the girl of fifteen is, if possible, exceeded by the matron of fifty, _married_ or _single_.”

Mrs. Fungus bit her lip; Mrs. Deposit sat upon a thorn; while the mild Mrs. Prolix ventured to give her humble opinion, “that certainly the principles of the _rising_ generation were very notorious: subordination had been her cradle motto; but the word, and its practical properties, were now both expelled.”

“My dear, you talk like an old woman preaching morality over her knitting-pins,” said Mr. Prolix. “If you are all perfection yourself, depend upon it your system of propriety won’t reform the stylish _ungovernables_ of the day. You forget you have got a parson at your elbow. Eh! Mr. Faddle, now my wife has furnished the text, you can treat us with the sermon, I’m sure.”

“No sermon! no sermon!” cried the Doctor: “let’s swallow the subject in a mouthful of plum-pudding.”

“No bad idea,” replied my uncle: “I’ve heard many a sermon styled a ‘_plum-pudding discourse_.’”

“What profanity!” exclaimed the Widow Quiz (who was wiping her wine-glass with her cambric pocket-handkerchief, for fear a grain of dust should contaminate her puckered lip). “Pray, can I be indulged with a glass of _clean_ water?”

“I should hope so,” replied the Doctor, “if some witch has not muddled the pump.”

“Oh! the Doctor takes care of the _aqua-fontani_,” observed Mr. Faddle, offering his snuff-box to the widow, who smirked very cordially at the young man’s civility, dearly loving all possible _homage_ and respect, as due to her supposed consequence, having consigned her virgin hand, in her _fortieth_ year, to a husband, over whose ashes she now rattled the wheels of her chariot in sovereign independence; which vehicle, when travelling, she converted to a _chandler’s shop_, by furnishing it even with a _cag_ of _water_, that she might not be poisoned by stagnant pools: she carried, also, every article of provision; nor did she even omit her sheets and rush-lights, none possibly being so good as her _own_. To this eccentric woman the Tonic family paid high respect; and whenever she honoured them with a visit, the head seat and best pieces were at her command.

CHAP. X.

A plate of pudding was now handed to Mr. Faddle, who audibly assured the company, “he could furnish a most excellent _receipt_ for one, upon a very economic plan.”

“I never heard of a parson making a plum-pudding before,” said my uncle: “they should never cook any thing but sermons. Why, your Reverence, I’m shocked; you would not convert a pulpit-cloth into a pudding-bag, I hope.”

This speech, though uttered with much gravity, caused a hearty laugh at the coddling parson’s expense, which seemed to nettle him, though he did not retort. The cloth was soon after removed, and the desert made its appearance; but as it was not in the Bond-street style, Mrs. Deposit could touch nothing but a _prime_ nectarine; observing, the whole time she was in London last summer, “she lived upon _ice_ and _peaches_!”

“And, pray, Madam,” said my uncle, very gravely, “what may you live upon in the winter?”

“_Turtle_ and _chantillies_!” returned the lady.

“And, pray, what may a chantilly be?” asked my uncle.

“La! my dear Sir, don’t you know what it is? ’Pon honour, you country folks--excuse me--vegetate like cabbages! He, he, he!”

“Cabbages! Madam,” retorted my enraged uncle. “I beg an explanation of that opprobrious sarcasm. I believe your town residence is not far from the _cabbage repository_; therefore, please to explain, Madam: I shall thank you for the intelligence.”

“Why, then, Sir,” answered Mrs. Deposit (much piqued at the retort of the _cabbage repository_), “do you not vegetate, more and more like a cabbage, every day of your life? Do you not grow “_white-headed_ and _hard-hearted_!”--eh! Mr. Tweazy?”

Ha, ha, ha! resounded from the bottom of the table in one united peal of rough merriment, till interrupted by the Divine, Mr. Faddle, who requested an explanation of the chantilly.

“Why, Sir,” replied Mrs. Deposit, suppressing a smile, “I really cannot give you the express _receipt_;” and she winked sarcastically at the Doctor: “but a chantilly is a kind of a sort of a delicious olio, the centre ornament of every stylish table, composed of cakes, whipt cream, sweetmeats, and so forth, served in a ratifia basket, with barley-sugar ormoulu, lion’s claws supporting its elegant fabric. It’s a very pretty French kickshaw invention, if _we_ could but keep it _ourselves_; but, really, it is becoming so _common_ a dish at your _city gorges_, that it is now nearly expelled from the western galas, I do assure you.”

The Widow Quiz observed, “it must be a very extravagant dish.”

“La! that’s nothing!” replied Mrs. Deposit. “I would not give a rush to sit down to a dinner without the table-decker’s tablet of information, to instruct me, that a dolphin was a disguised tongue, or a beautiful tortoise was nothing more than a ragoued pigeon; a dish of blamonge converted into a pack of cards; with a fierce-looking hedgehog, composed of cake and custard! Oh! there’s nothing like _dashing_ and _flashing_!”

“Yes, yes!” cried my uncle; “you’re right, Madam. _Dash_ into Hyde Park one day, and _dash_ into the _Gazette_ the next! that’s high ton with the new _flash-in-pan_ societies, I understand.”

“True,” replied Mrs. Deposit, very composedly; “such are the _casualties_ of _fashion_: but I don’t comprehend what you call the ‘flash-in-pan societies.’”

“I mean,” replied my uncle, “the nightly card parties, formed of _young tradesmen_, who, neglecting all duties, moral and divine, leave an innocent, wretched young _wife_ of _eighteen_, to weep, alone, a husband’s destructive follies over the cradle of her hapless progeny, till day-light dawns upon her tearful eye, and sends the ruined gamester to his thorny pillow, where love and fond fidelity have lost their charms, and every place, save _home_, affords him pleasure. Such is the _minor_ husband, the mere married _boy_, rushing, with incautious step, to ruin’s brink, and cruelly involving in his fate the innocent and virtuous victim of his _fancied_ happiness.”

“Oh! but that’s nothing extraordinary, Sir,” cried Mrs. Deposit. “Man and wife, now-a-days, a’n’t like lock and key, that the one can’t move without the other. Why, Deposit and I are the most fashionable couple imaginable: we never intrude on each other’s pleasures: he has his card parties, I mine: he mounts his hunter, and dashes in the Ride; I pop into Lady Lounge’s barouche, and sport myself in the Drive every Sunday; I don’t put on my cottage clumps, and, _glueing_ myself upon _hubby’s_ arm, content myself with _fagging_ through the plebeian pedestrian throng. La! we should both be the most wretched creatures living. Shouldn’t we, George?”

“Precisely so, my love,” replied the non-chalante _husband of fashion_. “The system we married on was a total independence of principle; for, as we had both arrived at the years of discretion, we each resolved to pursue the plan most consonant to our wishes; and, I flatter myself, we are as _fond_ and happy a couple----”

“As any _fashionable_ couple possibly can be,” interrupted my uncle, whose irritated temper would not permit Mr. Deposit the privilege of finishing his flourishing sentence.

“Why, my dear Mrs. Tonic,” hemm’d the Doctor, “I’m afraid you and I must go to school again; for these are lessons we have never learnt or practised.”

“Then, I’m sure, my dear, we are too old to learn now; and, therefore, I beg to remain in my happy ignorance,” said Mrs. Tonic.

“Well, well! hem, hem! agreed, old woman, agreed!”

The conversation now became vapid; and the ladies soon after withdrew into the garden, for a walk and a gossip; Mrs. Tonic not being blessed with a drawing-room, and the sun having darted its most fervent ray of excessive power on the parlour they were first received in. Mrs. Deposit and Mrs. Fungus both declared the heat would annihilate them; and they, in consequence, made what they termed a gipsey party, under a cherry-tree; where, seated on the grass, they retailed envy, hatred, and malice, from the grain to the pound, without the assistance of the shop scales, as most other female country parties do, who have little else to employ them; for, be it known to my readers, Mrs. Deposit and Mrs. Fungus were mere temporary inhabitants of the village, who condescended to rusticate themselves for three months in a cottage ornée, to recruit the excesses of winter balls and galas, “by gleaning,” as Mrs. Fungus elegantly styled it, “the roses of health, to adorn the vulgar day-light complexion that the summer’s glaring sun exposed to the eye of scrutiny, till the less glaring beam of pink wax scented lights suffered the fascinating convenient Christmas bloom to be substituted, undetected.”

This cogent reason, subjoined to a few provoking pimples, induced these ladies to seclude themselves in durance vile, living upon physic and water-gruel, of which self-vanity induced them to swallow many potions; while their respective husbands honoured the rural residence with their company as often as business or _inclination_ permitted; Mr. Fungus being in the speculative line, and Mr. Deposit constantly engaged in his pulpit, _hammering_ his elaborate discourse into the ears of his auditors, congregated round him to buy bargains at his tonish repository.

CHAP. XI.

Various were the topics in the drinking parlour, and many the bets made between the Doctor and his convivial companions; for no man loved an argument better; till the “briskly-circling glass” had elated them in full flow of spirits; when the coffee mandate from the ladies, reassembled in the dining-room, summoned them to adjourn to the whist table, where Mrs. Deposit had already placed herself, and was impatiently shuffling the cards in most dextrous style, and displaying a splendid purse of guineas, four of which lay at her elbow, as scorers, with as much indifference, on her part, as if they had been four dumps; while the Widow Quiz, who was classed as her compeer, picked four silver _twopences_ out of her old family crimson silk purse, and, drawing up her head, she sat leering about her in full state; till the Doctor and Mr. Prolix took the opponent seats, the latter of whom drew Mrs. Deposit, and the former the Widow Quiz.

Now the Widow played a very _sharp_ game, and the Doctor a _deep_ one; but, with all their ingenuity, they could neither vanquish the lawyer nor the gamestress, in whose favour the run of luck was perfectly magical.

The Doctor swore, crossed his legs, uncrossed them, swung his chair, but all to no purpose; the Widow turned her little conjuring coins, shuffled the cards in every direction, and execrated the whole pack; while the successful lawyer, and his fortunate partner, netted all the shillings and half-crowns that came in their way; while Mrs. Fungus and Mr. Deposit, _versus_ Parson Faddle and Mrs. Tonic, experienced the same provoking fate, much to the dismay of Mrs. Fungus, who could never keep her temper in due subordination on those _trying_ occasions.

Matters being thus arranged, the rest of the company wished to play a round game; which my uncle proposed should be Loo, and accordingly took his seat by the side of the placid Mrs. Prolix, the Misses Tonic, myself, and Mr. Bob Tonic, who had scarce dealt the cards, when the door opened, and a lady made her entrée, whom Bob thus addressed:--

“What! you’re come at last, Maria; we expected you to tea.”

The Doctor, hearing the name of Maria, jumped up, while his opponents were dealing; and advancing to our table, “Mr. St. Alban,” said he, “I must introduce my son’s wife. This, Sir, is Mrs. Bob Tonic; as good a little woman as ever lived. Nay, don’t blush, child. How’s the boy to-night?”

“Very poorly, Sir; which has been the reason of my delay,” answered Mrs. Bob.

“Well, well, child! never mind; you would marry, and so you must take a mother’s care.” He then gave her a loving nip of the cheek, and returned to his game.

“Come, sit down, sit down!” cried her boorish husband; “don’t make a fuss; I expected you two hours ago!”

“I dare say, you did, my love; but I could not leave the child.”

“Pshaw! why the d--l didn’t you give him the poppy syrup, and set him to sleep?”

“So I did, my dear; but it took the contrary effect,” cried the subordinate wife.

“Poh d--n it! it’s all want of management, because _I_ wasn’t at home.”

The crimson of reprehension so unmerited flushed Mrs. Tonic’s cheek; and a tear of vexation started in her eye, which added expression to its natural lustre.

“Never mind, Madam,” exclaimed my uncle; “you are all in good time, and we are all happy to see you, early or late: you have been performing that duty which so eminently distinguishes the character of a mother, and adorns it with that lustre no ostrich parent can tarnish.”

The little smiling woman, whose countenance was the express image of good-nature, thanked him for his polite compliment.

“Halloo! there, Squire!” cried Doctor Tonic: “why, you’ll make my son Bob jealous. We shall have a duel, or a crim. con. Ha, ha, ha!”

“What pretty speech were you making about _ostrich parents_, Mr. Tweazy?” said Mrs. Fungus. “It’s an idea many an embarrassed author would thank you for.”

“I want neither authors nor critics to pass judgment on my sentiments, Madam,” replied my uncle. “I dare say, Madam, you, who live in the region of literary information, can be at no loss to know, that an ostrich leaves the protection of its young to Providence; that the egg is hatched by the sun on the seashore, where the parent bird abandons it to its fate. Just so, the mother, who, resigning her infant offspring to the care of nurses, dandles it on the lap of starvation and extortion; till, falling a prey to neglect and cruelty, the hapless blossom withers in the shade of oblivion, because its _ostrich mother_ is too fantastic to trouble herself about it.”

“A very stylish description, upon my word,” answered Mrs. Tonic.