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.