six o’clock was now near at hand, and mrs turnbull entered the drawing-room in full dress. she certainly was a very handsome woman, and had every appearance of being fashionable; but it was her language which exposed her. she was like the peacock. as long as she was silent you could but admire the plumage, but her voice spoilt all. “now, mr turnbull,” said she, “i wish to hexplain to you that there are certain himproprieties in your behaviour which i cannot put hup with, particularly that hof talking about when you were before the mast.”
“well, my dear, is that anything to be ashamed of?”
“yes, mr turnbull, that his—one halways sinks them ere particulars in fashionable society. to wirtuperate in company a’n’t pleasant, and hi’ve thought of a plan which may hact as an himpediment to your vulgarity. recollect, mr t, whenhever i say that hi’ve an ’eadache, it’s to be a sign for you to ’old your tongue; and, mr t, hoblige me by wearing kid gloves all the evening.”
“what! at dinner time, my dear?”
“yes, mr t, at dinner time; your ’ands are not fit to be touched.”
“well, i recollect when you thought otherwise.”
“when, mr t? ’ave i not often told you so?”
“yes, lately; but i referred to the time when one poll bacon of wapping took my hand for better or for worse.”
“really, mr t, you quite shock me. my name was mary, and the bacons are a good old hinglish name. you ’ave their harms quartered on the carriage in right o’ me. that’s something, i can tell you.”
“something i had to pay for pretty smartly, at all events.”
“the payment, mr t, was on account of granting harms to you, who never ’ad any.”
“and never wished for them. what do i care for such stuff?”
“and when you did choose, mr turnbull, you might have consulted me, instead of making yourself the laughing-stock of sir george naylor and all the ’eralds. who but a madman would have chosen three harpoons saluims, and three barrels couchants, with a spouting whale for a crest? just to point out to everybody what should hever be buried in hoblivion; and then your beastly motto—which i would have changed—‘blubber for ever!’ blubber indeed! henough to make hany one blubber for ever.”
“well, the heralds told me they were just what i ought to have chosen, and very apposite, as they termed it.”
“they took your money and laughed at you. two pair of griffins, a lion, half-a-dozen leopards, and a hand with a dagger, wouldn’t ’ave cost a farthing more. but what can you hexpect from an ’og?”
“but if i was cured, i should be what you were—bacon.”
“i won’t demean myself, mr turnbull.”
“that’s right, my dear, don’t; there’s no curing you. recollect the motto you chose in preference to mine.”
“well, and a very proper one—‘too much familiarity breeds contempt’—is it not so, master faithful?”
“yes, madam, it was one of our copies at school.”
“i beg your pardon, sir, it was my hown hinvention.”
rap, tap, rap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
“mr and mrs peters, of petercumb hall,” announced the butler. enter mrs peters first, a very diminutive lady, and followed by mr peters, six feet four inches without his shoes, deduct for stooping and curved shoulders seven inches. mr peters had retired from the stock exchange with a competence, bought a place, named it petercumb hall, and set up his carriage. another knock, and mr and mrs drummond were announced. compliments exchanged, and a pastile lighted by mrs turnbull.
“well, drummond,” said mr turnbull, “what are coals worth now?”
“mr turnbull, i’ve got such an ’eadache.”
this was of course a matter of condolence from all present, and a stopper upon mr turnbull’s tongue.
another sounding rap, and a pause. “monsieur and madame de tagliabue coming up.” enter monsieur and madame de tagliabue. the former, a dapper little frenchman, with a neat pair of legs, and stomach as round as a pea. madame sailing in like an outward-bound east indiaman, with studding sails below and aloft; so large in her dimensions, that her husband might be compared to the pilot-boat plying about her stern.
“charmée de vous voir, madame tom-bulle. vous vous portez bien; n’est-ce pas?”
“ve,” replied mrs turnbull, who thus exhausted her knowledge of the french language while the monsieur tried in vain, first on one side, and then on the other, to get from under the lee of his wife and make his bow. this was not accomplished until the lady had taken possession of a sofa, which she filled most comfortably.
who these people were, and how they lived, i never could find out: they came in a fly from brentford.
another announcement. “my lord babbleton and mr smith coming up.”
“mr t, pray go down and receive his lordship. (there are two wax candles for you to light on the hall table, and you must walk up with them before his lordship,” said the lady aside.)
“i’ll be hanged if i do,” replied mr turnbull; “let the servants light him.”
“o, mr t, i’ve such an ’eadache?”
“so you may have,” replied mr t, sitting down doggedly.
in the meantime mr smith entered, leading lord babbleton, a boy of twelve or thirteen years old, shy, awkward, red-haired, and ugly, to whom mr smith was tutor. mrs t had found out mr smith, who was residing near brentford with his charge, and made his acquaintance on purpose to have a lord on her visiting list, and, to her delight, the leader had not forgotten to bring his bear with him. mrs turnbull sprang to the door to receive them, making a prepared courtesy to the aristocratical cub, and then shaking him respectfully by the hand. “won’t your lordship walk to the fire? isn’t your lordship cold? i hope your lordship’s sty is better in your lordship’s eye. allow me to introduce to your lordship’s notice mr and mrs peters—madame and mounsheer tagleebue—mr and mrs drummond, the right honourable lord viscount babbleton.” as for mr turnbull and myself, we were left out as unworthy of introduction. “we are ready for dinner, mr turnbull.”
“snobbs, get dinner dressed up,” said mr t to the butler.
“o, mr t, i’ve such an ’eadache.”
this last headache was produced by mr t forgetting himself, and calling the butler by his real name, which was snobbs; but mrs turnbull had resolved that it should be changed to mortimer—or rather, to mr mortimer, as the household were directed to call him, on pain of expulsion.
dinner was announced. madame tagliabue, upon what pretence i know not, was considered the first lady in the room, and lord babbleton was requested by mrs turnbull to hand her down. madame rose, took his lordship’s hand, and led him away. before they were out of the room, his lordship had disappeared among the ample folds of madame’s gown, and was seen no more until she pulled him out, on their arrival at the dinner-table. at last we were all arranged according to mrs turnbull’s wishes, although there were several chops and changes about, until the order of precedence could be correctly observed. a french cook had been sent for by mrs turnbull; and not being mistress of the language, she had a card with the names of the dishes to refresh her memory, mr mortimer having informed her that such was always the custom among great people, who, not ordering their own dinners, of course they could not tell what there was to eat.
“mrs turnbull, what soup have you there?”
“consummy soup, my lord. will your lordship make use of that or of this here, which is o’juss.”
his lordship stared, made no answer; looked foolish; and mr mortimer placed some soup before him.
“lord babbleton takes soup,” said mr smith, pompously; and the little right honourable supped soup, much to mrs turnbull’s satisfaction.
“madame, do you soup? or do you fish?”
“merci, no soup—poisson.”
“don’t be afraid, madame; we’ve a french cook: you won’t be poisoned here,” replied mrs turnbull, rather annoyed.
“comment, my chère madame, i meant to say dat i prefer de cod.”
“mr t, some soup for madame. john, a clean plate for lord babbleton. what will your lordship condescend to make use of now?” (mrs turnbull thought the phrase, make use, excessively refined and elegant.)
“ah, madame, votre cuisine est superbe,” exclaimed monsieur tagliabue, tucking the corner of his napkin into his button-hole, and making preparations for well filling his little rotundity.
“ve,” replied mrs turnbull. “mrs peters, will you try the dish next mr turnbull? what is it?” (looking at her card)—“agno roty. will you, my lord? if your lordship has not yet got into your french—it means roast quarter of lamb.”
“his lordship is very partial to lamb,” said mr smith, with emphasis.
“mr turnbull, some lamb for lord babbleton, and for mr peters.”
“directly, my dear.—well, jacob, you see, when i was first mate—”
“dear! mr turnbull—i’ve such an ’eadache. do, pray, cut the lamb. (aside.) mr mortimer, do go and whisper to mr turnbull that i beg he will put on his gloves.”
“mrs peters, you’re doing nothing. mr mortimer, ’and round the side dishes, and let john serve out the champagne.”
“mrs peters, there’s a wolley went o’ weaters. will you make use of some? mrs drummond, will you try the dish coming round? it is—let me see—chew farsy. my lord babbleton, i ’ope the lamb’s to your liking? monshere tagliabue—william, give monshere a clean plate. what will you take next?”
“vraiment, madame, tout est excellent, superbe! je voudrais embrasser votre cuisinier—c’est un artiste comme il n’y a pas?”
“ve,” replied mrs turnbull.
the first course was removed; and the second, after some delay, made its appearance. in the interim, mr mortimer handed round one or two varieties of wine.
“drummond, will you take a glass of wine with me?” said mr turnbull. “i hate your sour french wines. will you take madeira? i was on shore at madeira once for a few hours, when i was before the mast, in the—”
“mr turnbull, i’ve such an ’eadache,” cried his lady, in an angry tone. “my lord, will you take some of this?—it is ding dong o’ turf—a turkey, my lord.”
“his lordship is fond of turkey,” said mr smith, dictatorially.
monsieur tagliabue, who sat on the other side of mrs t, found that the turkey was in request—it was some time before he could help himself.
“c’est superbe?” said monsieur, thrusting a truffle into his mouth. “apparemment, madame, n’aime pas la cuisine anglaise?”
“ve,” replied mrs turnbull. “madame, what will you be hassisted to?” continued mrs t.
“tout de bon, madame.”
“ve; what are those by you, mr peters?” inquired the lady in continuation.
“i really cannot exactly say; but they are fritters of some sort.”
“let me see—hoh! bidet du poms. madame, will you eat some bidet du poms?”
“comment, madame, je ne vous comprends pas—”
“ve.”
“monsieur tagliabue, expliquez donc;” said the foreign lady, red as a quarter of beef.
“permettez,” said monsieur, looking at the card. “ah, c’est impossible, ma chère,” continued he, laughing. “madame turnbull se trompait; elle voudrait dire beignets de pommes.”
“vous trouvez notre langue fort difficile, n’est-ce pas?” continued madame, who recovered her good humour, and smiled graciously at mrs t.
“ve,” replied mrs turnbull, who perceived that she had made some mistake, and was anxiously awaiting the issue of the dialogue. it had, however, the effect of checking mrs t, who said little more during the dinner and dessert.
at last the ladies rose from the dessert, and left the gentlemen at the table; but we were not permitted to remain long before coffee was announced, and we went up stairs. a variety of french liqueurs were handed about, and praised by most of the company. mr turnbull, however, ordered a glass of brandy as a settler.
“oh! mr turnbull, i’ve such an ’eadache!”
after that the party became very dull. lord babbleton fell asleep on the sofa. mr peters walked round the room, admiring the pictures, and asking the names of the masters.
“i really quite forget; but, mr drummond, you are a judge of paintings i hear. who do you think this is painted by?” said the lady, pointing to a very inferior performance. “i am not quite sure; but i think it is van—van daub.”
“i should think so too,” replied mr drummond, drily; “we have a great many pictures in england by the same hand.”
the french gentleman proposed écarté, but no one knew how to play it except his wife; who sat down with him to pass away the time. the ladies sauntered about the room, looking at the contents of the tables, mrs peters occasionally talking of petercumb hall; mr smith played at patience in one corner; while mr turnbull and mr drummond sat in another in close conversation; and the lady of the house divided her attentions, running from one to the other, and requesting them not to talk so loud as to awake the right honourable lord viscount babbleton. at last the vehicles were announced, and the fashionable party broke up, much to the satisfaction of everybody, and to none more than myself.
i ought to observe that all the peculiar absurdities i have narrated did not strike me so much at the time; but it was an event to me to dine out, and the scene was well impressed upon my memory. after what occurred to me in my after life, and when i became better able to judge of fashionable pretensions, the whole was vividly brought back to my recollection.
