Jacob Faithful Part 21

"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 embra.s.ser 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 gla.s.s of wine with me?" said Mr Turnbull.

"I hate your sour French wines. Will you take Madeira? I was on sh.o.r.e 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 lords.h.i.+p 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 _h_a.s.sisted 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 chere," 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 gla.s.s 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 _ecarte_, but no one knew how to play it except his wife; who sat down with him to pa.s.s away the time. The ladies sauntered about the room, looking at the contents of the tables, Mrs Peters occasionally talking of Peterc.u.mb 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 fas.h.i.+onable pretensions, the whole was vividly brought back to my recollection.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE TOMKINSES' FETE CHAMPETRE AND FETE DANSANTE--LIGHTS AMONG THE GOOSEBERRY-BUSHES--ALL WENT OFF WELL, EXCEPTING THE LIGHTS, THEY WENT OUT--A WINDING UP THAT HAD NEARLY PROVED A CATASTROPHE--OLD TOM PROVES THAT DANGER MAKES FRIENDS BY A YARN, YOUNG TOM BY A FACT.

I remained with Mr Drummond about eight months, when at last the new clerk made his appearance--a little fat fellow, about twenty, with a face as round as a full moon, thick lips, and red cheeks. During this time I frequently had the pleasure of meeting with old and young Tom, who appeared very anxious that I should rejoin them; and I must say that I was equally willing to return to the lighter. Still Mr Drummond put his veto on it, and Mrs Drummond was also constantly pointing out the very desirable situation I might have on sh.o.r.e as a clerk in the office; but I could not bear it--seated nearly the whole day--perched up on a high stool--turning over Debtors, contra Creditors, and only occasionally interrupted by the head clerk, with his attempt to make rhymes. The new clerk came, I expected my release, but I was disappointed. Mr Drummond discovered him to be so awkward, and the head clerk declared that the time was so busy, that he could not spare me. This was true; Mr Drummond had just come to a final arrangement, which had been some time pending, by which he purchased a wharf and large warehouses, with a house adjoining, in Lower Thames Street--a very large concern, for which he had paid a considerable sum of money. What with the valuations, winding up of the Brentford concern on the old account, etcetera, there was much to do, and I toiled at the desk until the removal took place; and when the family were removed, I was still detained, as there was no warehouseman to superintend the unloading and hoisting up of goods. Mr Tomkins, the head clerk, who had been many years a faithful servant to Mr Drummond, was admitted a partner, and had charge of the Brentford wharf, a species of promotion which he and his wife resolved to celebrate with a party. After a long debate, it was resolved that they should give a ball, and Mrs Tomkins exerted all her taste and ingenuity on the occasion. My friend Tomkins lived at a short distance from the premises, in a small house, surrounded with half an acre of garden, chiefly filled with gooseberry-bushes, and perambulated by means of four straight gravel walks. Mr and Mrs Drummond were invited, and accepted the invitation, which was considered by the Tomkinses as a great mark of condescension. As a specimen of Mr Tomkins's poetical talents, I shall give his invitation to Mr Drummond, written in the very best German text:--

"Mr and Mrs T--- Sincerely hope to see Mr and Mrs Drum- Mond, to a very hum- Ble party that they in- Tend to ask their kin To, on the Sat.u.r.day Of the week ensuing: When fiddles they will play, And other things be doing."

_Belle Vue House_.

To which _jeu d'esprit_ Mr Drummond answered with a pencil on a card--

"Mr and Mrs Drum- Mond intend to come."

"Here, give Tomkins that, Jacob; it will please him better than any formal acceptation." Mr and Mrs Turnbull were also asked; the former accepted, but the latter indignantly refused.

When I arrived with Mr and Mrs Drummond many of the company were there; the garden was what they called illuminated, that is, every gooseberry-bush had one variegated lamp suspended above the centre; and, as Mr Tomkins told me afterwards, the lamps were red and yellow, according to the fruit they bore. It was a cold, frosty, clear night, and the lamps twinkled as brightly among the bare boughs of the gooseberry trees as the stars did in the heavens. The company in general were quite charmed with the novelty. "Quite a _minor Wauxhall_," cried one lady, whose exuberance of fat kept her warm enough to allow her to stare about in the open air. The entrance porch had a dozen little lamps, backed with laurel twigs, and looked very imposing.

Mrs Tomkins received her company upon the steps outside, that she might have the pleasure of hearing their praises of her external arrangements; still it was freezing, and she s.h.i.+vered not a little. The drawing-room, fourteen feet by ten, was fitted up as a ballroom, with two fiddlers and a fifer sitting in a corner and a country-dance was performing when we arrived. Over the mantle-piece was a square of laurel twigs, inclosing as a frame this couplet from the poetical brain of the master of the house, cut out in red paper, and bespangled with blue and yellow tinsel--

"Here we are to dance so gay, While the fiddlers play away."

Other appropriate distichs, which I have now forgotten, were framed in the same way on each of the other compartments. But the dining-room was the _chef d'oeuvre_. It was formed into a bower, with evergreens, and on the evergreen boughs were stuck real apples and oranges in all directions, so that you could help yourself.

"Vell, I do declare, this is a paradise!" exclaimed the fat lady who entered with me.

"In all but one thing, ma'am," replied Mr Turnbull, who, with his coat off, was squeezing lemons for the punch--"there's no _forbidden_ fruit.

You may help yourself."

The bon-mot was repeated by Mr Tomkins to the end of his existence, not only for its own sake, but because it gave him an opportunity of entering into a detail of the whole _fete_--the first he had ever given in his life. "Ah, Jacob, my boy, glad to see you--come and help here-- they'll soon be thirsty, I'll warrant," said Mr Turnbull, who was in his glory. The company, although not so very select, were very happy; they danced, drank punch, laughed, and danced again; and it was not till a late hour, long after Mr and Mrs Drummond had gone home, that I quitted the "festive scene;" Mr Turnbull, who walked away with me, declaring that it was worth a dozen of his party, although they had not such grand people as Mrs Tagliabue, or the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Babbleton. I thought so too; every one was happy, and every one at their ease; and I do believe they would have stayed much longer, but the musicians took so much punch that one fiddler broke his fiddle, the other broke his head in going down the steps into the garden, and the fifer swore he could blow no longer; so, as there was an end to the music, clogs, pattens, and lanterns were called for, the shawls were brought out of the kitchen, and every one went away. Nothing could _go off better_. Mrs Tomkins had a cold and rheumatism the next day; but that was not surprising, a _minor Wauxhall_ not being seasonable in the month of December.

A week after this party we removed to Thames Street, and I performed the duty of warehouseman. Our quant.i.ty of lighters was now much increased, and employed in carrying dry goods, etcetera. One morning old Tom came under the crane to discharge his lighter, and wis.h.i.+ng to see me, when the fall had been overhauled down to heave up the casks with which the lighter was laden, instead of hooking on a cask, held on by his hands, crying, "Hoist away," intending to be hoisting himself up to the door of the warehouse where I was presiding. Now, there was nothing unusual in this whim of old Tom's, but still he ran a very narrow chance, in consequence of an extra whim of young Tom's, who, as soon as his father was suspended in the air, caught hold of his two wooden stumps, to be hoisted up also; and as he caught hold of them, standing on tiptoe, they both swung clear of the lighter, which could not approach to within five feet of the buildings. The crane was on the third story of the warehouse, and very high up. "Tom, Tom, you rascal, what the devil are you about?" cried the old man, when he felt the weight of his son's body hanging to him.

"Going up along with you, father--hope we shall go to heaven the same way."