A feeling of awe came over me as we approached the formidable personage in question. Doctor Bray was seated in an arm-chair in the little octagonal room opening out of the library, and was pouring over a volume, which I knew to be Salmasius’s “Commentary on the Hellenic Language.” He was short and corpulent, with rather hard features, charged with a sort of bull-dog expression, and though Mr. Comberbach had prepared me for his full clerical suit of black, his band and cassock, my ideas had not come up to his full-blown cauliflower wig. It was portentous. I did not wonder that our butler had taken him for a bishop, for he certainly had the air of one; but I did wonder that the rascal ventured to treat him with familiarity. I never could have done so. Doctor Bray looked up at me from beneath his shaggy, grey eyebrows, and grunted out, “Salve puer!”
“Salve, doctor eruditissime,” I replied, bowing respectfully.
“Humph! Well, boy, so you are at the Cottonborough grammar-school, I understand, and a fairly reputed school it is, though Doctor Lonsdale spoils you all because he does not flog you. ‘Lumbos dolare virgis,’ is my maxim. I always use the birch freely, and find it of wonderful efficacy. It quickens the circulation, and sharpens the intellect. No boy can get on well unless he is well birched.”
“Mr. Cane is apparently of your opinion, sir,” I replied, timidly.
“And, sir, let me tell you, Mr. Cane is right, and Doctor Lonsdale wrong. Severity is wholesome — wholesome as a bitter potion. Infantiam delitiis solvimus. Doctor Lonsdale is all honey — and I tell you it won’t do, sir. If you have any classical knowledge at all, you owe it to Mr. Cane.”
“He certainly did not spare me, sir,” I answered, quaking.
“And quite right, I say again. Whatever punishment you received must have been richly deserved. Sir, I honour Mr. Cane. A good flogging is like exercise to the body, it gives you an appetite for study.”
As he said this, he put on such a terrible countenance, that I hastily retired into the library, almost apprehensive lest he should try whether a good flogging would give me an appetite for dinner. Probably he was only jesting though; for I noticed a smile cross his cynical features as he glanced at Doctor Foam, who appeared greatly amused. Whether jesting or not, I was glad when the first dinner-bell rang, giving me an excuse for beating a retreat, and I left the two classical seniors talking about Vossius and Scaliger, Bellendenus and Warburton, Bentley and Porson.
About half an hour afterwards, on coming down stairs, I met Mr. Barton Lever, and was glad of his support as I entered the drawing-room. Doctor Bray was seated in an easy-chair next to Mrs. Mervyn, and I suppose they had been discussing the lady’s favourite topic, for Doctor Foam observed to her, “I begin to think, madam, that you will make Doctor Bray a convert to your Jacobite opinions.”
“Nay, sir, I am of Mrs. Mervyn’s opinions already; for though I will not say what I might have felt, or how I might have acted at the time of the Risings of ‘15 or’45, my sympathies are always for the unfortunate, and I now therefore lean towards the Jacobites.”
“I scarcely expected so much from you, Doctor Bray,” Mrs. Mervyn said, looking much gratified.
“He must have little bravery in his nature, madam, who could triumph over a fallen cause; and I am not so prejudiced as to be incapable of admiring loyalty and devotion, even when employed against my own party. Many pleasing portraits adorn your walls, madam. Probably, they are those of your ancestry.”
“They are so, Doctor Bray,” she replied. “ This martial figure, in the steel breastplate and plumed cap, and leaning on his cane, with the war-horse behind him, is Montacute Mervyn, a staunch cavalier, who fought at Edge-hill, Marston Moor, and Naseby. On either side are his two sons, one of whom was a judge, and the other a general. I descend from the soldier, Pierrepoint Mervyn, who served under James the Second, and attended him during his exile at Saint Germains. Some of the ladies of our line were much admired as beauties in their days. My great-grandmother, whom you see there, was considered to be very lovely.”
“The wife of Ambrose Mervyn, I suppose. She was a Widdrington, I think?” Doctor Foam remarked.
Mrs. Mervyn replied in the affirmative; and as the doctor went up to examine the portrait, which was that of a very beautiful woman in the costume of Queen Anne’s day, I looked at it too, and was then struck by a certain resemblance which it seemed to bear to Mrs. Brideoake, so much so, that I almost expected to hear Doctor Foam make a remark to that effect; but whatever he might think, he kept his opinion to himself.
“But, my dear lady,” Doctor Bray observed, “there are two other portraits which you have omitted to particularise, though they strike me more than all the rest. They are likenesses, I should say, of a father and son — homines spectatissim fidei — very loyal-hearted, determined men.”
“You have judged correctly, and characterised them justly, Doctor Bray,” Mrs. Mervyn replied, with some emotion. “Both were distinguished for the qualities you mention, and were, in the words of the poet, —
“‘True as the dial to the sun,
Although it be not shone upon.
Both suffered for their loyalty.”
These were the portraits of Ambrose and Stuart Mervyn, which had been recently removed to the place they now occupied.
Very opportunely, at this moment, some arrivals took place, the first of which were Colonel and Mrs. Harbottle. The colonel was a very stout, short man, with a face quite as red as his coat, and snow-white hair. He commanded a regiment of heavy dragoons then quartered at Cottonborough. His lady was a little inclined to embonpoint, but still very handsome, with a brilliant complexion, remarkably fine eyes, and a casket of pearls in her mouth which were constantly offered to general inspection. She was twenty years at least younger than the colonel, and they formed a curious contrast, for she was the taller of the two by the head. Mrs. Harbottle was related, though not very nearly, to Mrs. Mervyn, and they were great friends. On the present occasion the colonel’s lady was dressed in black velvet, which suited her full, stately figure exactly, and set off her white arms and beautifully rounded shoulders to admiration. The Harbottles were accompanied by their eldest daughter, Bosetta — a good-humoured, lively girl of eighteen, who had neither mamma’s figure nor mamma’s features, being round-faced, fat, and dumpy; but she had a fresh complexion, and good eyes, which did some execution, though, as she disliked boys, they rarely strayed towards me. When Mrs. Harbottle was presented to Doctor Bray, he seemed greatly struck by her, for I heard him observe in a loud whisper to Doctor Foam: “Sir, — a gorgeous woman — domina venustate eximia — quite a Juno, sir.” Though very complaisant to her, the doctor was distant and dignified with the colonel, who seemed as glad to get away from him as I had been; making way for two newcomers, whose reception by the great man was no less frigid and ceremonious. The first of these, the Reverend Mr. D’Ewes, was tall and thin, and distinguishable for a claret-coloured complexion, an aquiline nose, and a very well made light-brown wig. His thumbs were generally stuck in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and he moved about his fingers as a seal uses his flappers, often whistling as he talked. The next was the Beverend Hardicanute Freckleton, a large man, rather pompous, inclined to grandiloquence, and fond of a quotation. Mr. D’Ewes and Mr. Freckleton, having made their bows to the “lion,” stepped aside, when another lady was presented — Mrs. Addington, a young and handsome widow, with raven hair, and eyes of oriental size and splendour; and, lastly, a gentleman was introduced whose appearance I hailed with the greatest satisfaction.
A more agreeable person than Cuthbert Spring could not easily be found. What Mr. Freckleton applied to him, during his presentation to Doctor Bray, was richly deserved:
“A merrier man
Within the limits of becoming mirth,
I never spent an hour’s talk withal.”
He had great vivacity of manner, unflagging spirits, perfect good humour; was as ready to take a joke as to make one; and his droll stories were inexhaustible. I was much atta
ched to him, and he took an interest in me, for he had been my father’s schoolfellow and intimate friend, and was chosen groomsman on the occasion of my father’s marriage. Mr. Spring had some reason to recollect the circumstance, for in riding home from the wedding he broke his arm. But Cuthbert was no less remarkable for soundness of judgment than for good spirits. He was always ready to advise or to serve a friend, and, as ho had more friends than any man in Cottonborough, this was no joke’ Sometimes his counting-house was besieged, and it was with difficulty that admission could be obtained to him. What with public meetings, and private business, scarcely a moment of his time was unemployed. He had all sorts of charities connected with the town to dispense; widows without end to advise about their jointures; and spinsters to counsel as to their marriage settlements. In the highest circles it has been said that a matrimonial alliance cannot take place without a certain great duke being consulted; and in Cottonborough, on these occasions, Cuthbert Spring played the part of the great duke. He was sometimes referred to before the family solicitor. A young gentleman about to propose was sure to apply to Cuthbert; while ten to one but the papa would repair to the same quarter “to inquire into the said young gentleman’s eligibility. Thus, in many cases, Cuthbert was consulted by both parties, and always gave his advice so judiciously and dexterously, that he accomplished the most difficult of all tasks, offending neither if he did not please both. He was everybody’s trustee; everybody’s executor; everybody’s friend; and nobody’s enemy — not even his own. Cuthbert was a confirmed old bachelor, of good fortune and good family — hospitable, but unostentatious. Bather under than above the ordinary height, he had large, handsome features, so mobile that they took any expression he chose while relating a story; and as he abominated the modem practice of clothing the cheeks with whisker and beard, there was nothing to interfere with their effect. His brow was lofty and ample, and his bright, merry blue eye “begot occasion for his wit.” His manner was singularly prepossessing, and he had much of the courtesy of the old school, without its formality, as in his attire he was precise, without foppery. He lost nothing of his stature, but stood remarkably upright.
The ordeal of presentation over, Cuthbert Spring shook me very cordially by the hand, and set off at score as usual: “There ought to be a great deal of wisdom under that wig; though on the principle of good wine needing no bush, a man should hardly hang out a sign to let us know how learned he is. But some folks judge by the outside merely. Well, thank Heaven! pigtails, powder, and periwigs are all gone out. I once wore a pigtail myself, but never could manage a wig. Did I ever tell you about Doctor Peacock’s wig? No. I will then. Doctor Peacock was very particular — particular about his dress — particular about his eating — particular about his acquaintance — and particularly particular about his wigs, for he had two, one of which was daily powdered and dressed for him by Stoby, the perruquier. You should have seen him strut about with his wig and cane. Well, there were two maiden ladies — sisters — young I won’t call them, for they weren’t so exactly, but they had charms enough for the doctor, whose wig they very much admired. He was supposed to be paying his addresses to one of them, though which was not exactly settled, for both claimed him. Exactly opposite their residence was a shop kept by a widow, who was young, and extremely lively and captivating; and for these reasons, I suppose, and because she attracted the young sparks of the town, the two old maids disliked her. Amongst the pretty widow’s admirers was my friend Pilcher Phipps, who, being fond of a practical joke, determined to play off one at Doctor Peacock’s expense. So, being aware of the arrangement with the hairdresser, he goes there one evening, just before dusk, and hires the doctor’s full-bottomed wig, and clapping it on, and wrapping himself in a cloak, pretends to sneak into the pretty widow’s shop, taking care that the two old maids, who were generally on the watch at that hour, should see him. This trick he repeated on three occasions, and always with success, for the lively little widow good-naturedly favoured the joke. Perhaps she bore no great goodwill towards her opposite neighbours, and thought them prudish and envious. After the third evening, the two old maids could stand it no longer, and when the doctor presented himself, in happy unconsciousness, and in the offending wig, they burst like furies upon him, wondering how he dared show himself in a respectable house, after his improper conduct. He besought an explanation, but they would give him none; till at last they cried, looking daggers, ‘Your wig, doctor! We blush to name it — but it has betrayed your proceedings.’
‘My proceedings, ladies!’ he exclaimed, in utter astonishment at the charge. ‘Dear me! is there anything wrong about my wig? It was only dressed last night.’
‘We know that, doctor;’ and they added with fearful emphasis, ‘and we also know who dressed it.’ —
‘Really, ladies, I can’t see any harm in that.’
‘You can’t see any harm in it,’ they both screamed—’ and you have the effrontery to tell us to our faces. Leave the house instantly, sir, and never let us see either your face or your wig again.’ So the doctor was summarily dismissed, and after this mishap, which caused much laughter at his expense, he very wisely took to the covering with which nature had provided his head.”
During the narration of this story, a group had gathered round Cuthbert Spring, all of whom laughed heartily at its close, and I have no doubt he would have followed it with another equally diverting, if dinner had not been announced; on which he offered his arm to Mrs. Addington, who was standing near him, and we all went down-stairs, Mr. Barton Lever taking Mrs. Harbottle, Mr. D’Ewes Rosetta, and Mrs. Mervyn, of course, consigning herself to the care of Doctor Bray, while I brought up the rear. We were just a dozen — a number which the room could comfortably accommodate. Doctor Bray was placed on Mrs. Mervyn’s right hand, and the colonel on her left; but the arrangements of the table were somewhat disturbed by the doctor, who insisted upon Mrs. Harbottle sitting beside him. This being accomplished to his satisfaction, he said grace in a very sonorous voice, and we all took our seats, mine being between Cuthbert Spring and Mr. Freckleton.
“A very comfortable dining-room, madam,” Doctor Bray observed to Mrs. Mervyn, looking round with satisfaction. “I like your old oak panels, I like your carved sideboard, and I like your old plate. Nothing like an old house. I am reminded of one of our ancient collegiate halls.”
“Royal Stuart turtle, or Hanoverian mock?” Mr. Comberbach interposed, offering a choice of soup to Doctor Bray.
“Give me the first, if it be real turtle, sirrah,” the doctor rejoined. And speedily emptying his plate, he added: “Nay, it is so good, that I care not if I pay court a second time to the Stuart.”
“Very glad to hear it, doctor,” Mrs. Mervyn said. “Allow me to recommend a glass of cold punch.”
“Made after Lord Widdrington’s receipt,” our butler said, handing a glass.
“What! the nobleman who was attainted in 1716?” Doctor Bray exclaimed. “I remember be was fond of good living, and carried a bottle of strong soup with him in his march. His punch, therefore, may be better than his politics. Let me taste it. In good truth, it has merit.” And, turning to Mrs. Harbottle, he added, “You should not omit to taste this Jacobite mixture, madam.”
“I’m afraid it would be too potent for me, doctor.”
“Nay, madam; we must strive against our enemies to overcome them. Taste it. Another glass, Mr. Comberbach, and one for Mrs. Harbottle.”
“It is a pity you did not bring Mrs. Bray with you to Cottonborough, doctor,” Mrs. Mervyn remarked.
“In a forced march, madam, I always leave the heavy baggage behind,” the doctor returned.
“Are we to infer that you have run away from your wife, doctor?” Mrs. Harbottle asked, with a laugh.
“Not exactly, madam,” he replied, with a glance at her. “But there are occasions when one’s wife is quite as well out of the way.”
“Indeed, doctor, I don’t understand you.”
Some fine Babble s
almon, with Townley sauce, was now handed round, and met with universal commendation; and Dr. Bray thought it so good, that he said to Mrs. Mervyn: “Madam, I never expected to admire anything that originated with the crack-brained gentleman, qui temere et saepe dejeravit, after whom this sauce is called, but I suppose he picked up the receipt when he served under Louis the Fourteenth, and fought under the Duke of Berwick, at Philipsburg.”
“It may be so, doctor; but in any case, I am glad you like it,” Mrs. Mervyn replied.
At our part of the table we were merry enough, thanks to Cuthbert Spring, who, during the interval of the courses, related another anecdote of his friend Pilcher Phipps, and gave us, this time, an excellent idea of the original of the story, who, from his representation, must have been a little, weasen-faced, highshouldered man, with a very odd squeaking voice. “Pilcher,” Cuthbert commenced, “had a great horror of dentists — most of us have — but as he was tormented by a raging tooth, it became absolutely necessary to call one in, so, after many qualms, he decided upon undergoing the operation in his own counting-house. But when the tooth-drawer came — from fright, I suppose — the pain entirely subsided. What was to be done? He couldn’t send back the man empty-handed. He must pay him his guinea. Luckily, Pilcher had ready wit, and luckily also for the expedient that occurred to him he had a partner, a good, simple, easy, unsuspecting soul, named Sutton, upon whom it was easy to play a trick. Mr. Sutton was immediately summoned, and, on his appearance Pilcher said, in a whining, hypocritical tone, ‘Oh! Mr. Sutton, here’s Mr. Faulkner come to extract your tooth.’
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 450
