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.”