CHAP. IX.

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.