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.