Chapter I: Part 1

UNCLE TWEAZY

AND HIS

QUIZZICAL NEIGHBOURS.

Plummer and Brewis, Printers, Love-lane, Eastcheap.

UNCLE TWEAZY

AND HIS

QUIZZICAL NEIGHBOURS:

_A COMI-SATIRIC NOVEL_.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

BY

_The Author of the_ “_OBSERVANT PEDESTRIAN_,”
&c. &c. &c.

“Holds to the world a picture of itself,
“And raises sly the fair impartial laugh.”

_Thomson’s Winter._

VOL. II.

_LONDON_:
PRINTED FOR W. SIMPKIN AND R. MARSHALL,
STATIONERS’-COURT, LUDGATE-STREET.

1816.

UNCLE TWEAZY

CHAP. I.

The next morning, as soon as we had finished breakfast, my uncle proposed a visit to the Rectory, to take a peep at the paragon Doctor Tonic was so lavish in praise of, and to pass our respective judgment on his perspicuity.

It was a delightful walk to the Rectory, which stood most romantically at the end of a beautiful shrubbery, shaded by the light foilage of a double row of limes; the mansion was a low white building, luxuriantly encircled by honeysuckles and roses, subjoined to a highly cultivated vine, whose abundant clusters hung in rich purple fringe against the Gothic windows, whose octagon panes gave it the appearance of some venerable structure, while the beautiful surrounding prospect of richly fertilized and diversified wood and water rendered it a little Elysian.

As we approached, we distinctly perceived the sylph-like form of a female figure, who, with a basket of roses in one hand, was reclining on the arm of the venerable pastor, exactly bringing to my remembrance the _entree_ of Sterne and Maria to Moulines.

Dr. Markwell perceiving our approach, politely advanced to open the gate and welcomed us in.

“Miss Fitzclarence,” said he, introducing the lady, who gracefully curtsied, but the obtruding shade of a straw hat totally precluded my curiosity, and compelled me to pass on the other side and offer my services to carry the basket--but _such roses_ as struck my view _out_ of the basket, might have dazzled the eye of a basilisk; for in the countenance of the lovely object who stood by my side, I beheld not only the beautiful girl described by Dr. Tonic, but the chef-d’ouvre of nature.

My uncle, who had merely stolen a sidelong glance, preceded us into the house, whither we immediately followed; but never shall I forget his expressive countenance as Miss Fitzclarence took her seat on an opposite chair, his eyes were rivetted on her features, and he seemed lost in astonishment, till roused by Dr. Markwell’s observing what a charming proficient Miss Fitzclarence was on the harp.

“Rosa, if you please, my dear Sir,” replied the blooming angel; “by that familiar title I shall feel myself completely at home.”

“Well, then, my charming, my amiable Rosa,” continued the Rector (charmed with her affability) “will you treat my friends with the dulcet sonnet you played this morning?”

Rosa caught up her harp, and, like a second Cecilia, all was silent rapture; but, when her heavenly voice subjoined, my uncle melted into tears, exclaiming, “I can’t bear it, sweet young lady: in compassion to an old man’s feelings, pause one moment.”

The beauteous minstrel ceased, and the Rector, unperceived by my uncle, gave her a significant wink not to continue the song; whilst I, lost in amazement at my uncle’s conduct, replaced the harp in silence, and various topics of conversation ensued; yet still his scrutinizing eye was fixed on Rosa till the moment of our departure, when pressing her beautiful hand respectfully to his lip, “young lady,” said he, “this is a liberty I have not assumed these thirty years--accept it as the sacred incense due _only_ to yourself.”

“Sir, sir,” said I. “am I unpriviledged to follow your example? surely your gallantry ought not to eclipse mine, and, with Miss Fitzclarence’s leave, thus I avail myself.”

One fervent kiss I pressed upon that hand, which, in the purest marble, chisselled by a Tumerelli, never in symmetry was equalled; ask not, then, gentle reader, when St. Albans left the Rectory, if he was _victor_--No! he was the _captive_ of love, indissolubly bound in the chains of Rosa Fitzclarence.

She escorted us to the gate, over which she reclined till we were out of sight; but how many times my head mechanically turned to catch a last glimpse, I won’t say.

“Victor!” cried my uncle, “where is your heart? the moment of trial is arrived: be candid, be noble, where is your heart?”

“Gone!” exclaimed I, “irrecoverably, for ever; I adore Miss Fitzclarence; and, if there is perfection in woman, ’tis combined in her, for I never saw her equal.”

My uncle’s eye glanced fire, and he quickly replied, “But I have seen her _model_, her most _perfect image_, her every _feature_, and her _voice_--Oh, Victor, ’twas daggers to my soul.”

“As how, dear Sir?” I asked with much impatience.

“You shall know that to-night; at present I must drop a subject I feel myself incapable to enlarge upon.”

We now strolled home, arm-in-arm. “You have done for me, Sir,” said I, “completely.”

“And, indeed, Victor, I’ve done for myself,” replied he, as we ascended the hall steps, when my uncle retired to his study, as was his constant custom when his mind was ruffled or oppressed, and I threw my listless form upon the sofa in all the tortures of love, hope, and despair, and in this commixed rumination I lay, till roused by Geoffry coming in to lay the cloth.

“Lack-a-daisey, Sir,” cried the garulous old fellow, “have you and master called at the Rectory this morning? and did you see Miss Fitzclarence? of all God’s creatures she’s the _beautifulest_. I’ve seen a many fine girls in my days, but nobody never see nothing like she I’ll swear; I happened this morning to go up with a drop of cream, one of their _keows_ being dry, and who should I pop upon but an angel, as I thought, for I declare I stood _putrified_ and _stagnated_ at her uncommon beauty: I dare say she’s got a _thousand sweethearts_.”

Had Geoffry stuck the carving knife he was so dexterously handling into the centre of my heart, I could not have leaped more precipitately from my recumbent posture.

“Laws, Sir, how you made I jump,” exclaimed he; “I hope you beant affronted at my boldness in axing you such a question?”

“Not at all, good fellow,” said I, recovering myself from that lacerating word _sweetheart_.

“But don’t you think her handsome, Sir?” enquired Geoffry.

“Yes, very handsome,” replied I cautiously.

“She _clipses_ all the ladies in the _willage_, however,” said Geoffry, “and if I was a rich handsome young gentleman, I know I should go mad after her.”

At this moment my uncle opened the door, and his presence always being the signal of taciturnity to Geoffry, he withdrew to serve up dinner; doing which, little passed on either side; and, when the wine was placed on the table by the side of a plate of beautiful peaches, my uncle, examining them severally, declared there was not one with the cheek of a Rosa; he then drew his chair close to mine, and, laying his hand on my arm, to enforce attention, thus addressed me:--

“Victor, my dear, boy, I am in few words going to explain the mystery of my conduct this morning at the Rectory, which was to you, of course, enigmatical; but the moment my eye fixed on Rosa Fitzclarence, I beheld the _polygraph_ of Cecilia Delmond----”

I started.

“Nay, start not,” continued my uncle, “my assertion is fact; for were it even possible she was her _own child_, so strong a resemblance could scarcely exist; I surely, then, need not repeat what sort of woman she was whom I so fervently adored, for you have already her portrait subjoined to every quality the human heart was capable of possessing; we met by accident at an assembly, and one hour’s pleasure rendered us reciprocally dear to each other. But, alas! the disparity of fortunes precluded all hopes of our union, till time or circumstances should ameliorate the rigid temper of her father; for she was an only child, most duteous and obedient to his stern command; thus situated, our only resource of correspondence or intercourse rested entirely on the basis of juvenile duplicity, as occasion presented itself; but both young and unpractised in the wiles of dissimulation, our bosoms were the mansions of love, honour, and fidelity.”

CHAP. II.

At this important moment, in popped our perpetual interrupter, Dr. Tonic.

“Psha, d--n it,” said my uncle, as he opened the door.

“How d’ye do, Sir, have you heard of the female levee at the Rectory this morning?”

“Not I,” answered my uncle, peevishly, “nor do I want to know any thing about it.”

“Oh, but I must tell you,” continued the doctor, “Mrs. Tonic, my daughters, the widow Quiz, Mrs. Prolix, Mrs. Fungus, and Mrs. Deposit, have all been up in a possee to pay their compliments.”

“And I dare say they passed a great many,” replied my uncle, snappingly, the thread of his interesting theme having been so unexpectedly broke.

“Why, Mrs. Tonic, and the girls, and Mrs. Prolix, think her very handsome.”

“And pray who says otherwise?” interrupted my uncle.

“Why, Mrs. Fungus, and Mrs. Deposit, oppose the pretension.”

“I thought so,” rejoined my uncle; “I wish either of them would tell _me_ so, that’s all; I’ll bet her little finger against the sense of the whole parish; and, pray, what may their scandalous audacious tongues take the liberty of saying.”

“Why, Mrs. Deposit calls her a little milk and water wax doll, who strums the harp with just taste enough to please the old Rector.”

“S’death,” exclaimed my uncle, “she’s the female Weippart of the age; her skill and taste are exquisite.”

“Well, I don’t know how it was,” continued the Doctor, “but Mrs. Fungus could not allow her a single perfection, and declared she was never more disappointed; she thought her just fit for the celebrated _heroine of a romance_; a little insipid soul, a wild flower of nature, that required the hand of _tonish cultivation_ to bring into perfection.”

“And if it flourishes in proportion to the _weeds_ of their own _notoriety_, sprung from dunghill consequence, it will soon overspread the village, and you may go back and tell them _I_ say so,” said my uncle.

“Hey dey,” exclaimed the Doctor, “you’re warm--you’ve seen this little paragon, then?”

“Yes, Sir, I am warm, and I have seen more than a paragon,” replied my uncle.

“Why, why, you hav’nt fell in love; sure she ee’nt to be Mrs. Tweazy, is she?” asked the Doctor, blinking his squiney eye, and bursting into a laugh.

“What an old fool you must be,” cried my irritated uncle, “to talk such idle jargon; are you going to carry that pretty idea over the village? egad you’d better set the cryer to work; do step to Ladies Deposit and Fungus, and give them the nut to crack, and I’ll take care of the shell, I warrant me.”

The Doctor now began to draw in his horns, observing, he had merely repeated what he had heard.

“Then don’t believe it,” continued my uncle, “it’s all lies and envy; what the d--l, can’t you analyze woman?”

“No,” said the Doctor, “it is not possible in some cases.”

“I’ll bet a guinea, though I’m no physician,” replied my uncle, “that I analyze both Mrs. Fungus and Mrs. Deposit, from the crowns of their head to the soles of their feet.”

“You’re a clever man, we all know,” answered the Doctor, “I dare say you could analyze the brain, now I should only attempt the corporeal system, according to my own _discretional_ powers.”

“You’ll pardon me, Doctor,” resumed my uncle, “when I say that my opinion of your _discretion_ does not extend beyond a _dose of physic_, and a _game at cribbage_.”

“Hey! what,” cried the Doctor, “you’ve a high opinion of my abilities at that rate, Squire; why, now, my son Bob entertains a very great opinion of Mrs. Deposit.”

“Like enough,” resumed my uncle, “she may be one of his sort of favourites; and I’ll be sworn there is not a man in the parish would contend rivalship with him; God help his fancy: his own little wife’s worth a hundred such.”

“There are more tempting trees than _one_ in an _orchard_,” said the Doctor.

“There are,” reiterated my uncle, “and the finest tree in the Rectory orchard is the _new planted nonpariel_.”

“There you go again,” cried the Doctor; “pray, Mr. Victor, what say you of the charms of Miss Fitzclarence?”

I replied, “from what little I had seen of the young lady, she appeared extremely sensible and agreeable; but, in regard to her musical talents, I considered myself quite sufficient judge of the science to know that there were few, very few, (if any) private performers, could excel her abilities.”

“Indeed!” cried the doctor, “egad, if that’s the case, I must make my girls scrape acquaintance, and try what they can do; my Elizetta is reckoned a tight hand at the piano, I assure you: there are few girls in the village _rattle_ the keys like her: she’s got the knack of it; don’t you think so?”

Disgusted with his odious comparison, I merely observed, “the instruments were so different, as well as the performance, that I could not pass my judgment at present.”

“Well, well,” said my uncle, (willing to abolish the subject, lest the crafty old fox should extract my sentiments, as he did his chemicals) “now, pray let this parley cease, for as we don’t agree, we’ll adjourn the subject, because I have some agricultural business demands attention this morning; and, therefore, my moments are too precious to waste in nonsense, and I’m sure many of your patients, Doctor, must be anxiously waiting for your visits, and so for the present you’ll excuse me.”

“Certainly, certainly,” hemm’d the Doctor, who, having no alternative but to take his departure, brushed off, half grumpy, leaving my uncle to laugh in his sleeve at his _agricultural fudge_, by which means he had completely got rid of the Doctor; and thus again re-seating ourselves, he continued the sequel of his story.

CHAP. III.

“Three months had flown on airy wing, and neither our interviews, or correspondence, had been discovered, which, through the medium of a bosom friend, we had mutually enjoyed; when, one morning, by mere chance, in conversation with the father of Cecilia, he learnt, that he meant to take immediately his passage in the first ship that sailed for ----, in Italy, where, having an extensive magazine that required his inspection, he had apprised his partner of his intention, and also that he meant to bring over his daughter with him as a companion to himself, and to improve her for one twelve-months in the language and musical science of that inimitable country.

“This intelligence, as my friend well knew, was instant annihilation to our hopes and happiness, to lose her beloved society for so tedious a period was distraction; and, when I reflected on the probability of an Italian lover superceding my humble pretension, the world had no longer any charms for me; this, Victor, I mused to madness, for I, like you, was _young_, was _gay_, was _happy_; the impregnate cloud of sorrow had never veiled the sunshine of my heart, and I dreamed but of bliss, nor knew it was a vision, till I grasped the airy shade that flitted from my touch.

“I sought Cecilia--we met: her beauteous eyes, suffused in sparkling tears, proclaimed the fact; mutual we wept: we swore eternal constancy. Alas! poor idle children of delusion, we little knew how inefficient were our weak resolves opposed to wealth and power; to have declared my sentiments to her inexorable father, would have made her a perpetual exile; again, I suggested assuming the habit of a domestic, sailing in the same vessel, and obtaining, on my arrival, a capacity in her father’s household; but there, again, the negative predominated; and, to be as brief possible in my relation, within ten days from the first intelligence of the voyage, I saw the vessel recede from shore, which contained my soul’s best treasure--yes, Victor, I kissed, I blessed her; and, on my bended knee, invoked the blessings of heaven for her safety and protection. She promised a regular correspondence by every post; and, compelled to be satisfied with this mutual alleviation of our sorrows, involved in all the agonies of love, we parted--_never to meet again_. I saw her faint upon the deck--I saw her borne in the rude arms of sailors to the cabin--but I saw no more: a temporary stupor seized my brain, and I found myself waked from a lethargic dream, and surrounded by officious strangers, one of whom calling a coach, conveyed me to my father’s house, where a violent illness ensued, which lasted many weeks, and caused me to explain to my parents the cause of my disorder. My mother, all meekness and gentleness, soothed my perturbed mind with the angelic balm of every comfort she could invent; but my father ridiculed my boyish folly, laughed me to scorn, and reprobated my daring presumption in fixing my ideas on an object so eminently my superior.”

I sighed from the bottom of my soul--my uncle paused--looked stedfastly in my face to perceive the effect of his narrative--shook his head--wiped an intruding tear of recollection, and thus continued:

“The lingering day rolled on in solemn sadness, and the only consolation I possessed, was in the valuable society and endearing communion of heart, that reciprocally passed between me and my ever lamented friend Victor Montalbert: ’twas to _him_, my noble boy, I consecrated _your_ name, and may you ever be like him in benevolence, friendship, and virtue; for his soul was the mansion of honour, and his heart the realm of fidelity; but fate snatched him, like every other blessing, from my embrace; and in his loss I never risked a substitute: one sincere friend is all a man can ever dare expect; his loss was another dagger to my soul, but I had yet an embryo grief in store.

“I had received only four faithful and affectionate letters from my lovely exile, when, lo! the next packet from Italy brought me a letter from the pen, the direful pen, of her exasperated father, informing me he had discovered my audacious correspondence with his daughter, by means of an Italian servant, on whose probity Cecilia had confided, and dared me ever to address another to his daughter on peril of immediate punishment to both parties; and concluded by asserting, he had engaged her hand, not to a _pitiful pennyless puppy_, but a man of honour and _fortune suitable_ to her own rank in life, which nuptials he should instantly _enforce_ her _obedience_ to celebrate.

“Distracted by this unexpected stroke of misfortune, I again relapsed into a paroxysm of despair. No letter arrived from Cecilia, by which I concluded she was deprived of every resource of future correspondence, well knowing the austere tyrant she had to deal with.

“Six months elapsed in the torments of cruel suspense, when one day I met, by chance, the identical captain of the vessel in which Cecilia left England; of him I enquired intelligence of the Delmond family--but what words can express my horror and astonishment, when I learned that my beloved Cecilia had been inhumanly sacrificed by her barbarian parent, in a compulsatory marriage with an opulent merchant residing at Florence, whose name was Lausanne. Thus ended my hopes and happiness; for in vain my friends diverted my mind--in vain their helpless pity soothed my grief, or roused my energies: all, all, were dormant; and, though I was lead in the unceasing round of common-place amusements, though I was introduced to the most accomplished and lovely women, not one had power to extract a smile, or warm this icy heart, for I had sworn I had abjured all women; and from that hour my character and manner grew so misanthropical, that even _time_, that leveller of good and evil, will ne’er irradicate the poisonous root that still entwines the fibres of my heart; and so perfectly have I cherished her image in my remembrance, that every feature of Cecilia Delmond burst like a beam of sunshine on my soul, when first that angelic girl, that Rosa Fitzclarence, met my eye. Do you now _wonder_, Victor, at my agitation? can you pity an old man’s sorrows, and not indicate feelings that ought perhaps to be extinct, after being a pupil in the school of experience to the present age.”

He ceased; and, as he reclined back in his chair, I caught his hand. “My dear, my revered uncle,” exclaimed I, “I never till this moment knew the virtues of your heart--Why, ah! why have you concealed from the world those principles which so justly ennoble the human heart; was love a crime on your part! No, ’twas the voluntary effusions of a soul replete with virtue, and crowned with honour, that bowed in silent submission to the decree of fate.--Alas! good sir, while contemplating your sorrows of the heart, how much may I one day experience of my own; ah! should my destiny be consonant with your’s, where shall I find an antidote?”

“Victor,” resumed my uncle, “heaven avert it--why look so serious? why speak with so much energy, my boy?”

“Oh, sir,” replied I, “I cannot explain; make but Rosa Fitzclarence, Cecilia Delmond, and search no farther the lacerated heart of St. Alban: your own feelings must tell you what mine are at this moment, equally, alas! hopeless as sincere.”

“My uncle started forward on his seat, “_hopeless_,” ejaculated he,“Oh! heaven forbid; if my most sanguine wishes and endeavours can constitute your felicity: but crush, I conjure crush, the impetuous flame, nor let false hope, in cob-web guise, flit her visionary form before your love-filmed eye to lead you to destruction. Rosa Fitzclarence is an orphan heiress, in which case she is left in the power of her guardians till she becomes of age, which I understand a few months will complete; should the sentiments of those guardians be rigidly enforced, contrary to the inclination and future happiness of their ward, it’s more than probable she will adopt the system her own good judgment impels, and give her hand where love and prudence best direct it, for she has no stern father to oppose her happiness like her dear hapless polygraph: but be very cautious how you proceed--you have won my heart by your candour, and it shall not go unrewarded.”

He wept like an infant; I forced a glass of Madeira through his trembling lips--nature wanted its revival.

“One word more,” continued he, “do not, I conjure you, drop the slightest hint of your prepossession to Dr. Tonic; the mischief-making imp would be a living chronicle of vexation: and, if a _shade_ could cross your interest, in his _own behalf_, depend upon it you would rue the result of such communication.”

I promised peculiar attention to his desire. “But, sir,” observed I, “e’er the subject drops, did you never receive any further intelligence of the fate, fortune, or family, of Madame Lausanne?”

“I learnt,” replied my uncle, “that she sunk into a state of apathy almost immediately after her marriage, in which she ever expressed herself extremely unhappy, and great doubts were entertained of her life, for several years after, from the delicacy and impaired state of her constitution, subjoined to the morose behaviour of her husband, villain as he was; but thank heaven she was relieved from her persecution five years after her marriage by the death of her hymenial tyrant, soon after she had given birth to a daughter, a circumstance wholly unexpected, after so long a series of indisposition acting on a frame of such delicate texture, and I have been informed she quitted Florence immediately, retired to the recluse shades of Italy, where she soon after died a martyr to a broken heart, but whether her _child_ is yet _living_, I know not.”

CHAP. IV.

Geoffry now entered, informing us Lady Lustre’s butler had just left a basket of grapes, and a bottle of tokay, of which she requested my uncle’s opinion next morning, being a present from London lately received from a connoisseur in that article, who had imported it in its native bag, considering it a choice present.

“And here, sir,” continued Geoffry, producing a most flourishing envelope, emblazoned with a seal _three inches sexagon_, “here’s a large sort of a letter Mrs. Fungus’s boy brought, but I thought you and Mr. Victor seemed busy in conversation, and so I would not disturb you to bring it in.”

Geoffry now laid his commissions on the table, and was leaving the room, when my uncle re-called him to draw the tokay cork, whilst I sat contemplating the enormous cachet, on which was inscribed, “_for particulars enquire within_,” a motto much exciting my curiosity, as I handed it to my uncle, who, pouting his under lip, observed, it was no bad inscription for a lodging-house window, and supposed it a pawnbroker’s relic that had escaped redemption.

“Sir,” said I, “are you not playing the severity a little too sharp?”

“Not at all,” replied my uncle, “it may be an instrument hired for the purpose of consummate notoriety, a sort of _stop_ trinket belonging to neighbour Deposit’s sanctorum.”

Geoffry had by this time bounced the tokay cork, declaring, “never nothing smelt so fine, and it sparkled like Miss Fitzclarence’s eyes, God bless her pretty beads.”

“Heyday!” exclaimed my uncle, “who made you a judge? who asked your opinion?”

“I have been asked it all over the _willage_,” replied the honest menial, “and nobody dares contradict me, big or little: I would not give up my opinion to a king.”

“Do you understand the qualities of that wine?” said my uncle.

Geoffry shook his bald pate, poured out two glasses, and withdrew, without daring to offer any further comment.

My uncle now broke the seal of Mrs. Fungus’s envelope, which contained, what appeared to him, a painted and gold emblazoned valentine, so strongly impregnated with musk, that extending it at arm’s length, while he pinched his nostrils with the other finger and thumb, he requested me to peruse the contents, which ran as follows:

“Mrs. Fungus at _home_, at a fete champetre, given next Thursday in celebration of Miss Fungus’s birth-day to a select party of _masked_ friends.”

“And how many does the foolish women expect to find _unmasked_?” exclaimed my uncle; “to be sure, when she expresses, “Mrs. Fungus _at home_,” she is exactly telling us where she _ought_ to be, but is seldom found; however, we’ll go, Victor--and, availing ourselves of the proposed disguise, I’ll adopt a magician’s dress, and you may do as you like.”

To this proposal I readily assented, and we sipped Lady Lustre’s liquor, the flavour of which we found peculiarly fine.

“It’s like herself: it can’t be better,” said my uncle, “and it’s as bright and sparkling as Rosa’s pretty beads, as master Geoffry familiarly styled them just now: it’s well I was not in one of my crabbish moods, or he’d have said less upon that subject, I assure him.”

“I believe the honest creature would die to serve her,” replied I, “he thinks her the perfection of nature.”

“And so do I,” rejoined my uncle: “but we’ll quit the subject, and advert to one less painful.”

We now strolled through the grounds, to enjoy the delightful breezes of evening, and had just passed through a small private gate which led into a green lane, when the mill cart of Cloddy Strut came rattling along the road, drove by a plain masculine woman, of truly vulgar appearance, supported in character by a birch broom on one side, with a mop, pail, door-mat, and sundry turnery utensils, subjoined to a leg of mutton, and a basket of fish, just landed from the London coach.

“Your most hum_ble_, sir,” said the female Jehu, with the gruff voice of a boatswain, “I suppose you did’nt know me, clodhopping along in this pretty trim: but I’ve been to market, you see, I don’t mind trifles, I’m none of your fine London ladies, I’m Joan Blunt, I care for nobody’s sneers.”

“Very true,” replied my uncle, “you’re the _plain_ domestic miller’s wife, in every sense of the word, there’s nothing like buckling to one’s station in life.”

“Aye; Lord, well, I did not always ride in a cart: I’ve been the gayest of the gay in my time, till my _Cymon_ made a convert of me, somehow, and metamorphosed me from the fine lady to poor humble _Nell_; well, it can’t be helped: I’m contented while my _lump_ uses me kindly; the brats are my greatest plague; I never loved children.”

“Why, then, did you marry?” asked my uncle.

Mrs. Strut attempted to blush, but it was only a sham tinge, the practice or theory of which she had never practised, nor had she any incitement in the obscure retreat of a water mill to call that power into action.

My uncle, who only viewed women of that description in the most odious light, had passed her with a silent inclination of the head, if her loquacious tongue had not arrested his footstep, wished her good evening, and closing the gate, left her to bump along, in full riggle, with her cottage equipage of mops, brooms, and brushes.

Our walk was delightful; we marked the evening primrose close its sombre leaf; the rose was weighed with diamond dew-drops--anon we listened to the high poised sky-lark’s evening carrol; and again, a secreted nightingale, in a hawthorn hedge, delighted us with the exquisite melody of her vesper hymn; and, as the refulgent moon stole through the branches of the elegant acacia, all nature seemed to say, good night, the pillow of repose is sweet.

CHAP. V.

We now returned to the saloon, partook our evening sandwich, expatiated on the qualities of Lady Lustre’s tokay, proposed visiting her next morning, and then retired very early to rest; but, e’er the village clock told seven, I left my sleepless pillow, and strolled the grounds for two hours in converse with old Geoffry, who was arranging the hothouse, and furnished me full exercise and employment, which being quite novel to me, afforded a pleasant amusement, till my uncle’s velvet night-cap made its appearance at the hall door, and his jocular whew! hollo! summoned me to breakfast.

“Recollect we dine at Mrs. Henpeck’s to-day, Victor,” said he, “and there again we shall meet a fresh squad of comicals, to whom you have not been in introduced; but we shall find no Lady Lustres, or Fitzclarences there; yet we shall meet with diversion and good cheer, to pass the hour.”

“To-morrow, Sir,” said I, “I presume we shall attend church.”

“To be sure we shall; aye, and walk home with Rosa to the Rectory afterwards,” replied my uncle smilingly.

“Ye Gods!” exclaimed I, leaping from my chair in a rhapsody of thought most enchanting, “who would not go to church!”

“Not you, I fear, without the stimulus of Rosa’s presence--hey, Victor,” cried my uncle.

I felt the truth flash my convictive cheek, but I made no reply, and after our repast was finished, we set off for a gentle saunter through the village to Lady Lustre’s; here, trotting along, smothered in dust, we met the Doctor upon his old docked mare, returning from a distant visit, puffing and foaming like a lime-kiln, enquiring where we took our mutton, because, if at home, he’d help to play a knife and fork with us, but my uncle assuring him we were engaged at Mrs. Henpeck’s, silenced his self-in-vitation.

“Ho! ho!” cried he, “what, you dine at Henpeck’s, do you? very odd! very odd! they should not have invited _me_ and my _family_--drank tea there last night--never heard a syllable mentioned--d--d sly--can’t make it out. Well, I wish you merry--it’s much if I don’t drop in in the evening.”

“_Like enough_,” replied my uncle, nodding his head, “you can play Harlequin, and introduce yourself any and every where; you’ve the happy knack.”

“My profession authorizes me, in a great measure,” replied the Doctor.

“You mean to say, you are a sort of being one must be cautious how one quarrels with,” answered my uncle, “because it’s as much as one’s _life’s worth_ to bear enmity with a Doctor--for we all know you are the necessary village evil.”

“Evil! evil!” muttered the Doctor, “I don’t comprehend you.”

“Well, well, we’ll explain it over a game at cribbage next time we meet; good morning--I can’t stand broiling in the heat and dust any longer,” said my uncle, and off we walked till we came in sight of a small dwelling in the shape of a _baker’s shop_, into which my uncle mechanically walked, to order some corn; and, as I stood tat-tooing my cane upon the threshold, I espied the name of Sponge on the door-post; oh! thought I, as the little bell tingled behind the shop-door to announce us, as sure as I live this is the identical house my uncle promised to shew me the master of, and e’er I had formed the idea, out popped one of the _fat girls_ I had met in the chaise, not a baker’s daughter as I expected to have seen, but a _half-naked_ girl, whose _brawny_ limbs protruded through a dress something similar to a miller’s _bolting-bag_, her hair was twisted and plaited after the similitude of her father’s _twopenny loaves_ that lay scattered on the counter, and her _tout-en-ensemble_ gave her the appearance of a puppit-shew columbine.

She requested I would walk into the parlour while she went in search of her father, whom, I presumed was, as my uncle observed, most probably to be found in his _drawing-room_, but we were mistaken; for, at the instant of our conjecture, in he came from the piggery, where he had been _butchering_ a porker: a red worsted night-cap adorned his bald head, while the sleeves of a dirty greasy shirt were tucked up under his shoulder, exhibiting to the eye of horror, a pair of sinewy arms covered in smeary gore, and round his waist was tied a flour sack, drenched in blood, which, with the addition of an old blue pocket handkerchief, bound round the grizzled chin of a week’s beard, and a mouth crammed with tobacco, the essence of which _distilled_ from each _corner_, completed Mister Sponge’s portrait, father to the young _lady_ aforesaid, who came flying into the room with a clean white apron, which she insisted her _par_ should tie on, “for he was quite a fright.”

“What’s the use on’t,” said he.--“The pig beant cut up yet; mayhap Mister Tweazy may like a joint,” and up he twitched his greasy leather breeches with a _carpenter’s shrug_.

“Oh, by no means,” replied my uncle, “if I had not seen you in this dreadful condition, I might have been tempted; but, to tell you the truth, my appetite is mighty delicate, and I could not touch it now.”

“Eh, you’re mighty nice indeed,” replied the gruffy boor, whose innate manners never exceeded the _bounds_ of his _piggery_, nor was it possible ever to rub off the incrustation even with his own _rasp_.

“I thought you had given up pig-killing,” said my uncle, “since you got your _unexpected fortune_.”

“Nah!” exclaimed he, (smearing a nasal chrystal on the back of his gory _paw_, for it bore at the best of times very little similitude to a hand; in fact it was merely a _grasping hook_, with five _claws_ at the end, moulded into a sort of _clutch_, wherewith to handle the _loaves_ of his own family, and the _fishes_ of others). “Nah,” repeated he, “I likes the _job_ and the _profit_ too well.”

“I don’t doubt that,” replied my uncle.

“My pigs ain’t like most other people’s,” cried the baker.

“True,” said my uncle, “your’s are _pye-house_ pigs, that’s the reason.”

Master Sponge not understanding the exact inuendo of my uncle, snappishly replied, “As to their being _pious_ pigs, he did not understand _that there_ sort of language: it _mought_ be _high church_ manners, but he recollected it was not the first time as Mister Tweazy had called _his’n presbyterian pigs_, but that made no odds to a _religious_ man like _hisself_.”

“Aye! aye! _practice_ what you _preach_, Master Sponge, there’s nothing like _honor_ and _honesty_--we all know your _kind_ of _people talk_ enough about _both_, but I’m for _actions_,” said my uncle, “actions want no trumpeter whether they are good or bad.”

The angry man of slaughter turned upon his heel, his fat fantastic daughter tossed up her head, and we marched out of the shop, pursuing our way to Lady Lustre’s.

“Did you ever see such a disgusting object?” cried my uncle.

“Never in my life,” said I.

“Then what would you think to see _such_ a man _making love_ to a genteel well-educated woman, with a peel full of ‘_toad’s-in-a-hole_,’ and ‘_veal triangles_,’ smoking hot, balancing over his night-cap in the consonant trim, (the bloody sack excepted) which we have beheld him this day, and yet he had _charms_.”

“They must be hidden charms of the mind, or heart, I presume,” replied I.

“Oh, you must ask his wife that question,” answered my uncle, “or enquire at the Golden Lion tap, where _old smoakey_, as they call him, lights the first pipe every evening since he pocketted his wife’s bundle of _soft rags_, and there he harangues and boasts his _mushroom_ consequence to the diversion of his neighbours; drinks his best _sarvices_ to the _miller_, who swallows them in a cup of _credulity_, and after traducing the characters of his _best friends_, who snatched him from the fangs of poverty, and the horrors of a _jail_, out of _compassion_ to his _family_, he struts to _meetings_ where, under the impervious cloak of fell hypocrisy, no dying magpie turns his eyes up more completely sanctified, as the tip of his _snub_ grinds in close contact with the sacred white wall, against which he _grunts_ out his _self-made_ ejaculations.”

“Don’t say another word about him, Sir,” replied I, “the portrait _in propria personæ_, and its attached explanation, have been sufficient for me.”

My uncle smiled--I shrugged my shoulders, and we now found ourselves in view of Lady Lustre’s park gate, which soon after gave us admission to her presence.

“I have obeyed your ladyship’s injunction,” said my uncle, as he took his seat, “and am come to tell you there is nothing in the village to compare with your tokay.”

“I must beg leave to differ,” replied her ladyship, smiling.

“Indeed!” cried my uncle musing on his cane, “then I’m no judge, I suppose.”

“Yes, yes, you are,” answered her ladyship, “what think you of our Rectory nonpareil?”

“Ah, hah!” said my uncle, “there I yield the palm of decision.”

“Oh, Mr. Tweazy,” continued Lady Lustre, “what a charming angelic young creature is that Miss Fitzclarence; oh, how I envy Dr. Markwell such a treasure as her society; they both called on me last night, and had you seen her bewitching form, and heard her edifying scientific language on every subject, you would have been in raptures; for, though I’m an old woman, I must confess she has made a complete conquest of my heart: I am no novice in the school of science, but I feel I am only a mere pupil in the hands of an inimitable tutor; she possesses the abilities of the sage philosopher, and the juvenile Terpsichore; in short, she is human perfection, and Dr. Markwell whispers me, her principles of religion are no less eminent and admirable, and would do honour to the head and heart of an arch-bishop.”

“I have seen her but once,” said my uncle.

“Then, Sir,” resumed her ladyship, “will you and Mr. St. Alban meet her here on Monday, to tea, with a small select party?”

“With much pleasure,” answered my uncle, and the topic dropped, to make way for others, amongst which her ladyship proposed accompanying us over her grounds, to inspect some improvement lately arranged: and here we found ourselves in Elysium; the grotto was beautiful, the music rotunda superbly decorated with busts, bronzes, and stained glass: the cascade was an enchanting production of art and nature, that appeared a combination of magic, while various Gothic arches, of exquisite sculpture, subjoined to Chinese bridges thrown geometrically across the various canals, heightened the beauties of the surrounding scenery, and beguiled our footsteps almost beyond the limited hour of our return to dress for Mrs. Henpeck’s dinner, which was to be set on table precisely at four o’clock, with the exactitude of the polar needle, as Mrs. Henpeck never delayed her grace one moment to please any body--punctuality was her table motto--and her _rule_ was _law_.

CHAP. VI.

At ten minutes, therefore, before the appointed time, my uncle and I found ourselves ushered into Mrs. Henpeck’s drawing-room, where all was gaudy and profuse, while the ruddy mistress of the feast introduced us to her guests already arrived; but to give you her portrait as she met our view, I must describe her dress, which consisted of a cambric _bolster-case_ bedizened with lace, into which she had crammed her uncouth, ill-shaped figure, _a la swab_; her copper-coloured neck was adorned with an enormous necklace of _barley-sugar_ appearance; and her trout skin, morphew-wrinkled unprepossessing visage, was encircled by the straggling ringlets of a black wig, which ever and anon tormented her gooseberry-coloured crowfooted blinkers.

Mr. Henpeck was as clean scraped up and powdered as lovey could make him appear: she had plaited his frill and tied his neckcloth as nice as a new pin, and no doubt deputed his seat behind the door, where he seemed fixed like one of Punch’s puppets, till the word of command from his wife twitched the wire of liberty, and set the poor automaton in motion.

“Mr. Henpeck!” shrieked his lady, “how you sit _glued_ to your chair, _my love_: why don’t you introduce the company: pray, who so proper as the master of the house.”

The placid man obeyed the mandate, and thus announced the group: “Mr. and Mrs. Coniac; Major Pea-Chick; Mr. Munchausen; Mrs. Wau-Wau; Miss Bleary Wau-Wau; Lady Flam;” he then continued--“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Mr. Tweazy, this Mr. Victor St. Alban: now, my love, I’ve done my duty,” and down he sat.

“Lord! Mr. Henpeck,” exclaimed his wife, “you’ll never be _Sir Clement_ the _Second_--but what, in the name of wonder, my dear, have you resumed your seat for? why don’t you ring the bell for dinner?”

Mr. Henpeck obeyed: but somehow stumbled, and his glossy shoe, of Fawcett brilliance, coming in contact with the ancle of his clean silk stocking, left an indelible mark, and highly provoked the lady of the house.

“My God, Mr. Henpeck, you’re worse than a child: see what a condition your stocking is in, and you know I always _wash_ them myself--I’m the most particular _nice_ woman living--you know I am.”

“Well, well, my love, never mind,” said the timid man.

“But I do mind,” rejoined Mrs. Henpeck, “I hate to be put out of temper when I’ve my friends about me, I love _peace_ and _mildness_;” then elevating her voice to a pitch of _violence_, “ring the bell again, Mr. Henpeck: if the servants don’t answer, ring it _down_, and don’t sit like a statue.”

Again Mr. Henpeck agitated the wire, and the servant appeared.

“Is dinner served?” asked Mrs. Henpeck with visible impatience.

“No, Ma’am,” said the foot-boy, “cook’s had an _accidency_ with the fish _sarse_, and it’s like to have set the chimbly on fire.”

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Henpeck, “all my rich lobster sauce wasted--a nasty careless hussy!” and up she jumped, like an enraged tygress, to bolt off to the scene of action.

“You can’t get into the kitchen, ma’am,” continued the boy, “it’s all of a swim of water in trying to put the fire out, and cook’s washing the soot off the ducks.”

“Gracious heaven! I shall run mad,” cried Mrs. Henpeck, darting out of the room, without any interruption from her quiet husband, who knew he did not dare interfere in kitchen fracas, till his wife’s sonorous squall from the bottom of the stairs roused his obedience in the following words:

“Mr. Henpeck! Mr. Henpeck! _put on my pattens_, and come down into the floating kitchen, this moment.”

“Dear me,” said Lady Flam, “I hope the chimney is not on fire: the very idea makes me tremble.”

“Never fear, madam,” replied Mr. Munchausen, “there’s plenty of us to put it out; now I entertain no fears of conflagration, for I have very often a fire in every room in the house at my Staffordshire villa, and I think we compute _fifteen rooms, en suite, three stories high_--for it’s a d--d cold place, I do assure you, in the hunting season; why, would your ladyship believe it, that the poultry and spring chickens in my hennery, to the tune of about 750 of them, were actually so cramped with cold, that I was compelled to erect a Buzaglo stove in the centre, guarded with gold wire work to prevent accident, and have a large _turkey carpet_ to cover the floor, so that you’ll observe, they could use exercise over their woollen parterre, or huddle round the fire at pleasure; and then as to my pigs, no man so particular! Why it cost me 75 _guineas_ in _chestnuts_ for them last winter, beside a hundred weight of _Pistachio nuts_! I assure you my expences are not trifling.”

“Bless me,” said Lady Flam, “I’m astonished--I really never heard of such things as _carpets_ in a _hennery_, and _pigs_ fed on a _Pistachio nuts_.”

“My dear lady,” resumed Mr. Munchausen, “perhaps you have never visited Italy?”

“Never,” replied her ladyship.

“Ah! then I don’t wonder at your surprise; because it’s a very common thing with people of distinction in Italy to give their choice pigs Pistachio’s,” replied the bombastic narrator; “my sow, for instance, was a present to me from the emperor of China, for some trivial services I had rendered myself conspicuous in at his court, and a most valuable beautiful creature she is--she was one of _five and thirty at a litter_! and, therefore, as I before said, no man in England possessing such a sow as myself, I don’t mind what expence I incur to maintain her.”

“What a shame, Mr. Munchausen,” cried Miss Bleary Wau Wau, (hanging her head on one shoulder, and leering her non-descript eye in every direction of vacancy towards the object addressed) “what an extravagant creature to feed pigs with such delicious rarities--’pon honour, I don’t believe it.”

“’Pon honor, Miss Bleary,” replied he, turning his eye in the exact direction of her’s, “you really, my dear young lady, expose your want of knowledge very much; _I_, who have visited the Continent, and been in most parts of the known world, must know what I’m talking about; as well you might deny, that when I was in France, the dog that was made me a present at the Palais Royale, did’nt have a dish of Ortolans every day provided for his dinner.”

“Oh, monstrous!” exclaimed the ladies.

“Pray, Sir,” said Major Pea-Chick (with his _white pig-tail_, and his _scarlet rimmed_ eyes, who wished to play off a little of his witty artillery), “pray, Sir, where may this famous sow of yours be? I should like mightily to see her munch the Pistachio’s: I suppose she has a peculiar method of cracking them--or do you _crack_ for _her_?”

Mr. Munchausen aware of the little military punster’s sarcasm, replied, “he occasionally employed an _old disabled soldier_ to crack them.”--This silenced the witticism which no one could parry more adroitly than Munchausen, the pupil of effrontery, who secretly determined to retaliate on the Major the first opportunity.

“What colour is your famous sow, Mr. Munchausen?” drawled Mrs. Wau Wau, through her nose.

“It’s brindle, ma’am,” replied he, “with a short curly white tail, about the length of _Major Pea-Chick’s queue_.”

“I should rather have expected to hear it was _nine yards long_, like the Bengal tyger’s that attacked a friend of mine, who positively swore to the dimension,” cried the Major, bursting into a teh he!

“I presume,” said my uncle, very gravely, “your friend _stretched_ it to that length in his way home--it was an elastic tail, I imagine.”

“Exactly so,” replied the Major, “for after we had _roasted_ it well, it shrunk to a common size.”

“Do you keep pigeons, Sir?” resumed Miss Bleary.

“No, ma’am, not always--I occasionally make them _keep me_.”

“What, you make them into pies,” I suppose, snuffled Mrs. Wau-Wau; “we are very fond of _pigeons_ at _our_ house.”

“So am I, ma’am,” replied Mr. Munchausen, with a very serious face, “I generally _pot_ all pigeons--its an excellent way, I assure you.”

“You’ve a peculiar receipt, perhaps, for the article,” cried Major Pea-Chick, “though potted pigeons are no great rarity now, as they used to be.”

“When you was in the _Turkey-line_, you mean,” replied Munchausen; “d--me how you cropped and scragged them; I remember it well, though I was but a lad--aye! aye! you’ve been the sort, Major, you tamed your pigeons into goldfinches, netted them snug, and then turned over a new _leaf_.”

“Where, I believe, you’ll find few blots,” interrupted the little Major, reddening with passion, till his ears looked like the scarlet wattles of a dunghill cock; at which moment of snip-snap, Mr. Henpeck re-entered the room, announcing dinner on the table, which quietly ended the controversy.

Here we found Mrs. Henpeck seated, with a face like scarlet, with passion and culinary exertions, apologizing to her company for the carelessness of her cook in destroying the fish sauce, and spoiling the delicious ducks--add to which, the baker had broke her a fine pigeon pye, which from its mutilated state could not make its appearance, and the fruit tarts were scorched to a cinder; “but here does not end my perplexity,” continued the auditress (who looked the picture of Medusa, with black snakes hanging over her fiery cheek) “for my beautiful blamange swan has entirely melted into a mass of cream owing to the heat of the weather.”

“Never mind, madam, here’s a very good dinner still left to gratify our appetites,” said Munchausen.

“I think so, too,” cried little Mr. Coniac, leering his _sneaking eyes_ all round the table, and biting his _spite-puckered_ lips, “we’d a pig of the same sow at _our_ house the other day.”

“No such a thing, Mr. Coniac,” replied his contradicting wife, “you know nothing of the matter; I beg you’ll never trouble your head with my domestic concerns for the pleasure of retailing them in company; I want no mol-codling husband at my heels--I always chose to be directress of my own house, from the garret to the cellar.”

“No, my dear, no;” replied Mr. Coniac, “not directress of the _cellar_ neither, that is _my_ department, Mrs. Coniac, women have no business in cellars for fear of ----” and he winked his eye at Mr. Henpeck.

“Aye, for fear of the _rats_,” interrupted Mr. Munchausen, “d--n the rats--I had one in my cellar the other day as big as a rabbit, gnawed me a dozen of Madeira corks; but, as luck would have it, never touched those of a _pipe_ of _port_ I had just bottled and laid down.”

“Aye, well,” continued Mr. Coniac, “I don’t know how it is, but I’d rather have four-legged rats than two-legged ones; there’s no vermin in our cellars, but a devilish lot of spirits, that vanish whenever the door opens; it matters not who turns the key, for when you come to look, egad they are all off.”

“Lord! Mr. Coniac,” exclaimed his wife, foaming at the mouth with _anchovy froth_, “your disagreeable conversation is quite brutal and disgusting.”

“Don’t quarrel with fish-bones in your mouth, Mrs. Coniac,” replied her aggravating husband, “take a little drop of brandy, my dear, or you’ll be sick presently.”

“Not I, indeed,” replied Mrs. Coniac, tossing her head in a terrible rage.

“Aye, do, madam,” cried Mr. Henpeck, “and I’ll pledge you--fish is very apt to _rise_ in my stomach.”

“Then I’m sure fish is likely to _fall_ in your stomach,” replied Mrs. Henpeck--“Good God, Mr. Henpeck, touch a drop of brandy if you dare--what would Dr. Tonic say? hemph, brandy indeed! _I’ll_ take some with Mrs. Coniac, with _pleasure_; but as to you, it’s out of the question.”

She then ordered the servant to fill out four _thimbles_ full, one of which was handed to Lady Flam, another to Mrs. Wau Wau (who always sat with her mouth _open_ for the ready convenience of any consequences that might arise from a _surcharge_) a third to Mrs. Coniac, (who never used such _small_ glasses at _home_), and the remaining one she tossed off herself.

“What a pretty dance, ‘Drops of Brandy’ is,” said Miss Bleary Wau Wau.

“Yes,” replied the Baron’s great-grandson, _alias_ Mr. Munchausen, “I have seen many capital _reels_ danced to that _tune_.”

“Ma’r and I are very fond of reels,” continued Miss Bleary.

“Not _brandy reels_, I hope,” whispered Munchausen.

“O you brute! no, to be sure;” answered she, “I mean Scotch reels, danced with skipping-ropes; you should see my _Ma’r_ skip: Commodore _Grapple_, Captain _Flash pan_, and Lieutenant _Powder-proof_, all India folks of our acquaintance, declared she skipped scientifically, about two or three years ago, when it was such a fashionable amusement.”