“I thought so, I declare,” continued the voluble lady; “and, I
dare say, you are a frequenter of that fashionable lounge, the
“_Odechorologean_,” the “_Musederian_,” &c.”
“I am, Madam, an occasional visitor.”
“Oh, oh!” said Mrs. Fungus, “I find you’re a very dashing young man:
I shall send you a card for my fête, addressed to Apollo Victor St.
Alban, Esq.--hey!”
“Omit the first and last title, Madam,” said I; “and I’ll answer to
the rest, according to the wishes of my uncle, and the record of the
parish register.”
“You see what we Londoners can do, Doctor,” cried my uncle. “Ah!
London’s the mart of science, the school of manners; it’s the only
place worth living in.”
“There I beg leave to differ,” said Widow Quiz: “I think London’s the
school of vice--a nasty, dirty, smoky place--full of bad people--all
extravagance and extortion.”
“Then you don’t allow there are any bad people in the country,”
replied my uncle; “or that, while a great hulking clodpole is
swinging on a gate, and chewing fat bacon, he can possibly be
brooding mischief, on the score of a _blight monopoly_ in his corn,
and a _dearth monopoly_ of his cattle! No, no; let a countryman
alone for that: though a fool in form and manners, he’s a knave in
principle. And what else can you expect from an uncivilized being,
bred up amongst sticks, stones, and the beasts of the field--a mere
living composition of pork and cabbage--just human, and that’s all?”
“And, pray, what’s better than good wholesome pork and cabbage,
Sir?” resumed the Widow. “If you lived with me, you’d have pork and
cabbage, _cold_, for breakfast; cabbage and pork, _hot_, for dinner,
by way of change; and cold pork and cabbage for supper, all the year
round; with the exception of stone dumplings and harvest puddings.”
“I thank you, Madam, for your bill of fare,” said my uncle; “but it
would not suit my appetite.”
“No, I believe not,” replied the Doctor. “However, we thank you for
your portrait of a country man. You’re a very severe genius, upon my
word. We must mind what we’re about.”
“Oh! I don’t mind being quizzed for a satirical crab, I assure you:
I speak the plain, honest, home truth: I can nip as sharp as your
blisters; aye, make as sore a place, occasionally,” retorted my uncle.
At this moment Mrs. Fungus’s little lacquey-boy was announced, with
his mistress’s clogs and lantern; and Mrs. Prolix’s girl-maid brought
her mistress’s umbrella. This intelligence dissolved the party. The
Widow Quiz retired to the Doctor’s best _check_ bed; and my uncle,
self, and Parson Faddle, found our way home in the dark; while the
fantastic Mrs. Deposit condescended to follow her dear neighbour
Fungus’s “_glow-worm_,” she styled it; her family _scout_ being left
in London to sweep out the auction-room. And thus finished our visit.