Part 2

“I learnt,” replied my uncle, “that she sunk into a state of apathy almost immediately after her marriage, in which she ever expressed herself extremely unhappy, and great doubts were entertained of her life, for several years after, from the delicacy and impaired state of her constitution, subjoined to the morose behaviour of her husband, villain as he was; but thank heaven she was relieved from her persecution five years after her marriage by the death of her hymenial tyrant, soon after she had given birth to a daughter, a circumstance wholly unexpected, after so long a series of indisposition acting on a frame of such delicate texture, and I have been informed she quitted Florence immediately, retired to the recluse shades of Italy, where she soon after died a martyr to a broken heart, but whether her _child_ is yet _living_, I know not.”

CHAP. IV.

Geoffry now entered, informing us Lady Lustre’s butler had just left a basket of grapes, and a bottle of tokay, of which she requested my uncle’s opinion next morning, being a present from London lately received from a connoisseur in that article, who had imported it in its native bag, considering it a choice present.

“And here, sir,” continued Geoffry, producing a most flourishing envelope, emblazoned with a seal _three inches sexagon_, “here’s a large sort of a letter Mrs. Fungus’s boy brought, but I thought you and Mr. Victor seemed busy in conversation, and so I would not disturb you to bring it in.”

Geoffry now laid his commissions on the table, and was leaving the room, when my uncle re-called him to draw the tokay cork, whilst I sat contemplating the enormous cachet, on which was inscribed, “_for particulars enquire within_,” a motto much exciting my curiosity, as I handed it to my uncle, who, pouting his under lip, observed, it was no bad inscription for a lodging-house window, and supposed it a pawnbroker’s relic that had escaped redemption.

“Sir,” said I, “are you not playing the severity a little too sharp?”

“Not at all,” replied my uncle, “it may be an instrument hired for the purpose of consummate notoriety, a sort of _stop_ trinket belonging to neighbour Deposit’s sanctorum.”

Geoffry had by this time bounced the tokay cork, declaring, “never nothing smelt so fine, and it sparkled like Miss Fitzclarence’s eyes, God bless her pretty beads.”

“Heyday!” exclaimed my uncle, “who made you a judge? who asked your opinion?”

“I have been asked it all over the _willage_,” replied the honest menial, “and nobody dares contradict me, big or little: I would not give up my opinion to a king.”

“Do you understand the qualities of that wine?” said my uncle.

Geoffry shook his bald pate, poured out two glasses, and withdrew, without daring to offer any further comment.

My uncle now broke the seal of Mrs. Fungus’s envelope, which contained, what appeared to him, a painted and gold emblazoned valentine, so strongly impregnated with musk, that extending it at arm’s length, while he pinched his nostrils with the other finger and thumb, he requested me to peruse the contents, which ran as follows:

“Mrs. Fungus at _home_, at a fete champetre, given next Thursday in celebration of Miss Fungus’s birth-day to a select party of _masked_ friends.”

“And how many does the foolish women expect to find _unmasked_?” exclaimed my uncle; “to be sure, when she expresses, “Mrs. Fungus _at home_,” she is exactly telling us where she _ought_ to be, but is seldom found; however, we’ll go, Victor--and, availing ourselves of the proposed disguise, I’ll adopt a magician’s dress, and you may do as you like.”

To this proposal I readily assented, and we sipped Lady Lustre’s liquor, the flavour of which we found peculiarly fine.

“It’s like herself: it can’t be better,” said my uncle, “and it’s as bright and sparkling as Rosa’s pretty beads, as master Geoffry familiarly styled them just now: it’s well I was not in one of my crabbish moods, or he’d have said less upon that subject, I assure him.”

“I believe the honest creature would die to serve her,” replied I, “he thinks her the perfection of nature.”

“And so do I,” rejoined my uncle: “but we’ll quit the subject, and advert to one less painful.”

We now strolled through the grounds, to enjoy the delightful breezes of evening, and had just passed through a small private gate which led into a green lane, when the mill cart of Cloddy Strut came rattling along the road, drove by a plain masculine woman, of truly vulgar appearance, supported in character by a birch broom on one side, with a mop, pail, door-mat, and sundry turnery utensils, subjoined to a leg of mutton, and a basket of fish, just landed from the London coach.

“Your most hum_ble_, sir,” said the female Jehu, with the gruff voice of a boatswain, “I suppose you did’nt know me, clodhopping along in this pretty trim: but I’ve been to market, you see, I don’t mind trifles, I’m none of your fine London ladies, I’m Joan Blunt, I care for nobody’s sneers.”

“Very true,” replied my uncle, “you’re the _plain_ domestic miller’s wife, in every sense of the word, there’s nothing like buckling to one’s station in life.”

“Aye; Lord, well, I did not always ride in a cart: I’ve been the gayest of the gay in my time, till my _Cymon_ made a convert of me, somehow, and metamorphosed me from the fine lady to poor humble _Nell_; well, it can’t be helped: I’m contented while my _lump_ uses me kindly; the brats are my greatest plague; I never loved children.”

“Why, then, did you marry?” asked my uncle.

Mrs. Strut attempted to blush, but it was only a sham tinge, the practice or theory of which she had never practised, nor had she any incitement in the obscure retreat of a water mill to call that power into action.

My uncle, who only viewed women of that description in the most odious light, had passed her with a silent inclination of the head, if her loquacious tongue had not arrested his footstep, wished her good evening, and closing the gate, left her to bump along, in full riggle, with her cottage equipage of mops, brooms, and brushes.

Our walk was delightful; we marked the evening primrose close its sombre leaf; the rose was weighed with diamond dew-drops--anon we listened to the high poised sky-lark’s evening carrol; and again, a secreted nightingale, in a hawthorn hedge, delighted us with the exquisite melody of her vesper hymn; and, as the refulgent moon stole through the branches of the elegant acacia, all nature seemed to say, good night, the pillow of repose is sweet.

CHAP. V.

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_.

CHAP. VI.

At ten minutes, therefore, before the appointed time, my uncle and I found ourselves ushered into Mrs. Henpeck’s drawing-room, where all was gaudy and profuse, while the ruddy mistress of the feast introduced us to her guests already arrived; but to give you her portrait as she met our view, I must describe her dress, which consisted of a cambric _bolster-case_ bedizened with lace, into which she had crammed her uncouth, ill-shaped figure, _a la swab_; her copper-coloured neck was adorned with an enormous necklace of _barley-sugar_ appearance; and her trout skin, morphew-wrinkled unprepossessing visage, was encircled by the straggling ringlets of a black wig, which ever and anon tormented her gooseberry-coloured crowfooted blinkers.

Mr. Henpeck was as clean scraped up and powdered as lovey could make him appear: she had plaited his frill and tied his neckcloth as nice as a new pin, and no doubt deputed his seat behind the door, where he seemed fixed like one of Punch’s puppets, till the word of command from his wife twitched the wire of liberty, and set the poor automaton in motion.

“Mr. Henpeck!” shrieked his lady, “how you sit _glued_ to your chair, _my love_: why don’t you introduce the company: pray, who so proper as the master of the house.”

The placid man obeyed the mandate, and thus announced the group: “Mr. and Mrs. Coniac; Major Pea-Chick; Mr. Munchausen; Mrs. Wau-Wau; Miss Bleary Wau-Wau; Lady Flam;” he then continued--“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Mr. Tweazy, this Mr. Victor St. Alban: now, my love, I’ve done my duty,” and down he sat.

“Lord! Mr. Henpeck,” exclaimed his wife, “you’ll never be _Sir Clement_ the _Second_--but what, in the name of wonder, my dear, have you resumed your seat for? why don’t you ring the bell for dinner?”

Mr. Henpeck obeyed: but somehow stumbled, and his glossy shoe, of Fawcett brilliance, coming in contact with the ancle of his clean silk stocking, left an indelible mark, and highly provoked the lady of the house.

“My God, Mr. Henpeck, you’re worse than a child: see what a condition your stocking is in, and you know I always _wash_ them myself--I’m the most particular _nice_ woman living--you know I am.”

“Well, well, my love, never mind,” said the timid man.

“But I do mind,” rejoined Mrs. Henpeck, “I hate to be put out of temper when I’ve my friends about me, I love _peace_ and _mildness_;” then elevating her voice to a pitch of _violence_, “ring the bell again, Mr. Henpeck: if the servants don’t answer, ring it _down_, and don’t sit like a statue.”

Again Mr. Henpeck agitated the wire, and the servant appeared.

“Is dinner served?” asked Mrs. Henpeck with visible impatience.

“No, Ma’am,” said the foot-boy, “cook’s had an _accidency_ with the fish _sarse_, and it’s like to have set the chimbly on fire.”

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Henpeck, “all my rich lobster sauce wasted--a nasty careless hussy!” and up she jumped, like an enraged tygress, to bolt off to the scene of action.

“You can’t get into the kitchen, ma’am,” continued the boy, “it’s all of a swim of water in trying to put the fire out, and cook’s washing the soot off the ducks.”

“Gracious heaven! I shall run mad,” cried Mrs. Henpeck, darting out of the room, without any interruption from her quiet husband, who knew he did not dare interfere in kitchen fracas, till his wife’s sonorous squall from the bottom of the stairs roused his obedience in the following words:

“Mr. Henpeck! Mr. Henpeck! _put on my pattens_, and come down into the floating kitchen, this moment.”

“Dear me,” said Lady Flam, “I hope the chimney is not on fire: the very idea makes me tremble.”

“Never fear, madam,” replied Mr. Munchausen, “there’s plenty of us to put it out; now I entertain no fears of conflagration, for I have very often a fire in every room in the house at my Staffordshire villa, and I think we compute _fifteen rooms, en suite, three stories high_--for it’s a d--d cold place, I do assure you, in the hunting season; why, would your ladyship believe it, that the poultry and spring chickens in my hennery, to the tune of about 750 of them, were actually so cramped with cold, that I was compelled to erect a Buzaglo stove in the centre, guarded with gold wire work to prevent accident, and have a large _turkey carpet_ to cover the floor, so that you’ll observe, they could use exercise over their woollen parterre, or huddle round the fire at pleasure; and then as to my pigs, no man so particular! Why it cost me 75 _guineas_ in _chestnuts_ for them last winter, beside a hundred weight of _Pistachio nuts_! I assure you my expences are not trifling.”

“Bless me,” said Lady Flam, “I’m astonished--I really never heard of such things as _carpets_ in a _hennery_, and _pigs_ fed on a _Pistachio nuts_.”

“My dear lady,” resumed Mr. Munchausen, “perhaps you have never visited Italy?”

“Never,” replied her ladyship.

“Ah! then I don’t wonder at your surprise; because it’s a very common thing with people of distinction in Italy to give their choice pigs Pistachio’s,” replied the bombastic narrator; “my sow, for instance, was a present to me from the emperor of China, for some trivial services I had rendered myself conspicuous in at his court, and a most valuable beautiful creature she is--she was one of _five and thirty at a litter_! and, therefore, as I before said, no man in England possessing such a sow as myself, I don’t mind what expence I incur to maintain her.”

“What a shame, Mr. Munchausen,” cried Miss Bleary Wau Wau, (hanging her head on one shoulder, and leering her non-descript eye in every direction of vacancy towards the object addressed) “what an extravagant creature to feed pigs with such delicious rarities--’pon honour, I don’t believe it.”