CHAP. VII.

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.”