We now returned to the saloon, partook our evening sandwich, expatiated on the qualities of Lady Lustre’s tokay, proposed visiting her next morning, and then retired very early to rest; but, e’er the village clock told seven, I left my sleepless pillow, and strolled the grounds for two hours in converse with old Geoffry, who was arranging the hothouse, and furnished me full exercise and employment, which being quite novel to me, afforded a pleasant amusement, till my uncle’s velvet night-cap made its appearance at the hall door, and his jocular whew! hollo! summoned me to breakfast.
“Recollect we dine at Mrs. Henpeck’s to-day, Victor,” said he, “and there again we shall meet a fresh squad of comicals, to whom you have not been in introduced; but we shall find no Lady Lustres, or Fitzclarences there; yet we shall meet with diversion and good cheer, to pass the hour.”
“To-morrow, Sir,” said I, “I presume we shall attend church.”
“To be sure we shall; aye, and walk home with Rosa to the Rectory afterwards,” replied my uncle smilingly.
“Ye Gods!” exclaimed I, leaping from my chair in a rhapsody of thought most enchanting, “who would not go to church!”
“Not you, I fear, without the stimulus of Rosa’s presence—hey, Victor,” cried my uncle.
I felt the truth flash my convictive cheek, but I made no reply, and after our repast was finished, we set off for a gentle saunter through the village to Lady Lustre’s; here, trotting along, smothered in dust, we met the Doctor upon his old docked mare, returning from a distant visit, puffing and foaming like a lime-kiln, enquiring where we took our mutton, because, if at home, he’d help to play a knife and fork with us, but my uncle assuring him we were engaged at Mrs. Henpeck’s, silenced his self-in-vitation.
“Ho! ho!” cried he, “what, you dine at Henpeck’s, do you? very odd! very odd! they should not have invited me and my family—drank tea there last night—never heard a syllable mentioned—d—d sly—can’t make it out. Well, I wish you merry—it’s much if I don’t drop in in the evening.”
“Like enough,” replied my uncle, nodding his head, “you can play Harlequin, and introduce yourself any and every where; you’ve the happy knack.”
“My profession authorizes me, in a great measure,” replied the Doctor.
“You mean to say, you are a sort of being one must be cautious how one quarrels with,” answered my uncle, “because it’s as much as one’s life’s worth to bear enmity with a Doctor—for we all know you are the necessary village evil.”
“Evil! evil!” muttered the Doctor, “I don’t comprehend you.”
“Well, well, we’ll explain it over a game at cribbage next time we meet; good morning—I can’t stand broiling in the heat and dust any longer,” said my uncle, and off we walked till we came in sight of a small dwelling in the shape of a baker’s shop, into which my uncle mechanically walked, to order some corn; and, as I stood tat-tooing my cane upon the threshold, I espied the name of Sponge on the door-post; oh! thought I, as the little bell tingled behind the shop-door to announce us, as sure as I live this is the identical house my uncle promised to shew me the master of, and e’er I had formed the idea, out popped one of the fat girls I had met in the chaise, not a baker’s daughter as I expected to have seen, but a half-naked girl, whose brawny limbs protruded through a dress something similar to a miller’s bolting-bag, her hair was twisted and plaited after the similitude of her father’s twopenny loaves that lay scattered on the counter, and her tout-en-ensemble gave her the appearance of a puppit-shew columbine.
She requested I would walk into the parlour while she went in search of her father, whom, I presumed was, as my uncle observed, most probably to be found in his drawing-room, but we were mistaken; for, at the instant of our conjecture, in he came from the piggery, where he had been butchering a porker: a red worsted night-cap adorned his bald head, while the sleeves of a dirty greasy shirt were tucked up under his shoulder, exhibiting to the eye of horror, a pair of sinewy arms covered in smeary gore, and round his waist was tied a flour sack, drenched in blood, which, with the addition of an old blue pocket handkerchief, bound round the grizzled chin of a week’s beard, and a mouth crammed with tobacco, the essence of which distilled from each corner, completed Mister Sponge’s portrait, father to the young lady aforesaid, who came flying into the room with a clean white apron, which she insisted her par should tie on, “for he was quite a fright.”
“What’s the use on’t,” said he.—“The pig beant cut up yet; mayhap Mister Tweazy may like a joint,” and up he twitched his greasy leather breeches with a carpenter’s shrug.
“Oh, by no means,” replied my uncle, “if I had not seen you in this dreadful condition, I might have been tempted; but, to tell you the truth, my appetite is mighty delicate, and I could not touch it now.”
“Eh, you’re mighty nice indeed,” replied the gruffy boor, whose innate manners never exceeded the bounds of his piggery, nor was it possible ever to rub off the incrustation even with his own rasp.
“I thought you had given up pig-killing,” said my uncle, “since you got your unexpected fortune.”
“Nah!” exclaimed he, (smearing a nasal chrystal on the back of his gory paw, for it bore at the best of times very little similitude to a hand; in fact it was merely a grasping hook, with five claws at the end, moulded into a sort of clutch, wherewith to handle the loaves of his own family, and the fishes of others). “Nah,” repeated he, “I likes the job and the profit too well.”
“I don’t doubt that,” replied my uncle.
“My pigs ain’t like most other people’s,” cried the baker.
“True,” said my uncle, “your’s are pye-house pigs, that’s the reason.”
Master Sponge not understanding the exact inuendo of my uncle, snappishly replied, “As to their being pious pigs, he did not understand that there sort of language: it mought be high church manners, but he recollected it was not the first time as Mister Tweazy had called his’n presbyterian pigs, but that made no odds to a religious man like hisself.”
“Aye! aye! practice what you preach, Master Sponge, there’s nothing like honor and honesty—we all know your kind of people talk enough about both, but I’m for actions,” said my uncle, “actions want no trumpeter whether they are good or bad.”
The angry man of slaughter turned upon his heel, his fat fantastic daughter tossed up her head, and we marched out of the shop, pursuing our way to Lady Lustre’s.
“Did you ever see such a disgusting object?” cried my uncle.
“Never in my life,” said I.
“Then what would you think to see such a man making love to a genteel well-educated woman, with a peel full of ‘toad’s-in-a-hole,’ and ‘veal triangles,’ smoking hot, balancing over his night-cap in the consonant trim, (the bloody sack excepted) which we have beheld him this day, and yet he had charms.”
“They must be hidden charms of the mind, or heart, I presume,” replied I.
“Oh, you must ask his wife that question,” answered my uncle, “or enquire at the Golden Lion tap, where old smoakey, as they call him, lights the first pipe every evening since he pocketted his wife’s bundle of soft rags, and there he harangues and boasts his mushroom consequence to the diversion of his neighbours; drinks his best sarvices to the miller, who swallows them in a cup of credulity, and after traducing the characters of his best friends, who snatched him from the fangs of poverty, and the horrors of a jail, out of compassion to his family, he struts to meetings where, under the impervious cloak of fell hypocrisy, no dying magpie turns his eyes up more completely sanctified, as the tip of his snub grinds in close contact with the sacred white wall, against which he grunts out his self-made ejaculations.”
“Don’t say another word about him, Sir,” replied I, “the portrait in propria personæ, and its attached explanation, have been sufficient for me.”
My uncle smiled—I shrugged my shoulders, and we now found ourselves in view of Lady Lustre’s park gate, which soon after gave us admission to her presence.
“I have obeyed your ladyship’s injunction,” said my uncle, as he took his seat, “and am come to tell you there is nothing in the village to compare with your tokay.”
“I must beg leave to differ,” replied her ladyship, smiling.
“Indeed!” cried my uncle musing on his cane, “then I’m no judge, I suppose.”
“Yes, yes, you are,” answered her ladyship, “what think you of our Rectory nonpareil?”
“Ah, hah!” said my uncle, “there I yield the palm of decision.”
“Oh, Mr. Tweazy,” continued Lady Lustre, “what a charming angelic young creature is that Miss Fitzclarence; oh, how I envy Dr. Markwell such a treasure as her society; they both called on me last night, and had you seen her bewitching form, and heard her edifying scientific language on every subject, you would have been in raptures; for, though I’m an old woman, I must confess she has made a complete conquest of my heart: I am no novice in the school of science, but I feel I am only a mere pupil in the hands of an inimitable tutor; she possesses the abilities of the sage philosopher, and the juvenile Terpsichore; in short, she is human perfection, and Dr. Markwell whispers me, her principles of religion are no less eminent and admirable, and would do honour to the head and heart of an arch-bishop.”
“I have seen her but once,” said my uncle.
“Then, Sir,” resumed her ladyship, “will you and Mr. St. Alban meet her here on Monday, to tea, with a small select party?”
“With much pleasure,” answered my uncle, and the topic dropped, to make way for others, amongst which her ladyship proposed accompanying us over her grounds, to inspect some improvement lately arranged: and here we found ourselves in Elysium; the grotto was beautiful, the music rotunda superbly decorated with busts, bronzes, and stained glass: the cascade was an enchanting production of art and nature, that appeared a combination of magic, while various Gothic arches, of exquisite sculpture, subjoined to Chinese bridges thrown geometrically across the various canals, heightened the beauties of the surrounding scenery, and beguiled our footsteps almost beyond the limited hour of our return to dress for Mrs. Henpeck’s dinner, which was to be set on table precisely at four o’clock, with the exactitude of the polar needle, as Mrs. Henpeck never delayed her grace one moment to please any body—punctuality was her table motto—and her rule was law.