“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.