‘My tooth!’ cried the poor man, staring in alarm at the dentist, who was getting his implements ready; ‘but it doesn’t ache. It’s as sound as a rock, and as fast as a church. Who sent for him?’
‘I did, Mr. Sutton, because I was sure you’d never have courage to do so yourself. I did it from the best of motives, and entirely out of regard for your convenience, for I knew your tooth had been aching, and was sure to ache again, very likely at a time that would be particularly inconvenient to you. The races are coming on, you know, and you’ve many other engagements besides — so I felt I shouldn’t be acting the part of a friend, if I allowed you to run the risk of such an annoyance. But sit down without more ado. It’ll be over in a second.’ There was no help for it, so poor Sutton resigned himself to his fate, while the crafty Pilcher hurried out of the room, laughing in his sleeve at the success of his stratagem.”
An awkward interruption here took place. Our butler, somehow or other in passing, contrived to hook the large button at his wrist into the curls of Mr. D’Ewes’s wig; and, in plucking his hand away too hastily, he laid bare the poor gentleman’s naked poll. What Mr. D’Ewes’s feeling must have been I do not pretend to say. But Mr. Comberbach made matters worse; for, in his fright and confusion, espying Doctor Foam’s bald head, and imagining it to be the one he had robbed of its covering, he clapped the hot wig upon it, and pulled it carefully down, before he found out his mistake. Up started the doctor, swearing lustily. Up started, also, Mr. D’Ewes, not swearing, but tremendously wroth; and several minutes elapsed before all could be put to rights. Our butler’s apologies and regrets were then accepted, and the dinner was allowed to proceed.
As dish after dish was handed round and loudly named by Mr. Comberbach, Doctor Bray, who was not prepared for such a strange nomenclature, pricked up his ears. The Gladsmuir cutlets seemed to tickle his fancy, and also to tickle his palate, for he asked for a second supply; and the fillets of rabbits, a la Chevalier de Johnstone, did not displease him; but when at length a large raised pie was placed before him, he thought fit to feign great displeasure.
“Madam,” he said to Mrs. Mervyn, in a solemn tone, and with great apparent gravity, “I have partaken of many dishes, the names of which were obnoxious to my ears, but I have tolerated them, — nay, more, I have eaten them with relish. I have not raised the voice of reproof against calf’s head with Non juror sauce, because I must admit the sauce so named to be meritorious; but I decidedly object, madam, to the Cardinal of York’s pie. P.C. may be marked on it, as the girls used to mark their pincushions in the Pretender’s times, but that does not appease me. Mr. Comberbach, take away this pie.”
“Take it away, sir?” our butler inquired in astonishment. “You are not aware how good it is, sir. It’s our cook’s shay doover.”
“That may be,” the doctor sternly rejoined, “but I cannot allow it to remain. There are limits even to toleration. Remove it, I say.”
“When you goes to Rum, you should do as the Rummuns does, sir; and when you dines with a Jackeybite lady, you should make up your mouth to Jackeybite fare,” our butler observed, with more than his customary assurance, for he was highly offended.
Doctor Bray had some ado to preserve his countenance at this sally, but he managed to repeat his injunction with some semblance of gravity.
But when Mr. Comberbach took up the silver dish on which the pie was placed, such an outcry arose from the other guests, that he held it suspended over the head of his mistress.
“Is it really going?” I said to Cuthbert Spring.
“Upon my soul I don’t know!” he replied, rising from his seat. “Come, come, this is carrying the joke too far. I meant to have some of that pie myself.”
“And so did I,” Mr. D’Ewes cried. “I know it’s excellence of old.”
“So did we all,” Mr. Freckleton added:
—”’The pie — the pie’s the thing,
Wherein we’ll catch the conscience of the king.’”
“And upon my conscience, ladies and gentlemen, it’s a pie worthy of a king — and of the right line too,” our butler exclaimed.
On this there was a loud laugh, during which Mrs. Mervyn interposed.
“Really, Doctor Bray, I must insist upon being mistress in my own house. Some of my guests wish to taste that pie, and I beg it may be replaced on the table.”
“On the condition only that its heterodox designation be dropped, will I consent, madam,” the apparently inflexible doctor replied. “If the letters P.C. be reversed, they may signify Cold Pie. Call it by that name, and my objections vanish.”
“What’s in a name?” cried Mr. Freckleton:
—”’That which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet.’”
“Thank you, Mr. Freckleton,” Mrs. Mervyn said. “Put the cold pie on the table, Mr. Comberbach. I dare say it will eat just as well under its new name.”
“It ought to do, ma’am, for it has been well doctor’d,” our facetious butler remarked.
Instead of being offended by this piece of impertinence, Doctor Bray laughed heartily, making it evident he had been merely jesting throughout.. The pie was set down, but before he could remove the crust, and plunge his spoon into its savoury contents, Cuthbert Spring called out in a loud voice, “Mr. Comberbach, be so good as to hand the obnoxious pasty round. We won’t trouble Doctor Bray to help us to it.”
Our butler did not require a second order, but carried off the dish to Mr. Spring, who, putting a large portion on his plate, whispered to his neighbours to do the like. We obeyed, and the rest of the party, divining his intentions, followed his example, so that when the pie came back to Doctor Bray, who had watched its progress with some anxiety, it was entirely empty.
“P.C. stands for pie-crust, as well as cold pie, sir,” our butler said; “there’s plenty of that left, though not much of the Cardinal Prince’s good stuff.”
Doctor Bray had the good sense not to be offended; and he invited Cuthbert Spring to take a glass of Madeira with him, saying:
“And be sure that the next time I meet with the Cardinal of York’s pasty — I mean cold pie — I shan’t send it to you till I’ve helped myself.”
“Sorry you should have been disappointed on the present occasion, doctor. Allow me to send you some of this hare, which is roasted to perfection. You never tasted a boiled hare, perhaps? Nor I. But I’ll tell you a story of one. Counsellor Leech was a large man, with an appetite in proportion — a great bon vivant, who liked a bit of the best, especially if it could be had at a friend’s expense; but of all good things he preferred a roast hare. And he liked it done to a hair — well basted, and well froth’d. ‘When a man sends one a hare,’ he would say, in his big, round voice, ‘he ought always to send with it a pound of butter and a quart of cream, or the present is no present at all.’ So well known among his circle of acquaintance were his tastes in this respect, that it became a matter of course with them to ask a friend to eat a hare and meet Counsellor Leech. And few could escape the infliction, for he invariably contrived to And out when and where a hare was sent; and on making the discovery, never failed to invite himself to partake of it. Among his acquaintance was Mr. Oldcastle, who determined to put a stop to the practice, so far as himself was concerned; and having received a hamper of game, he thought the opportunity had arrived, for he made sure Leech would hear of its arrival. And so it turned out, for three days afterwards the counsellor popped upon him as he was coming from ’Change, crying out, ‘Well, Oldcastle, when do you mean to cook that hare?’ ‘Today.’ ‘Oh, then I’ll come and dine with you. Make no stranger of me. Only the hare, mind.’ ‘You won’t object to a woodcock afterwards?’ ‘Why, no, provided it only flies through the kitchen. Mind that. But give strict orders about the hare. Your cook dresses it well, I know. Bid her not spare the cream and butter — baste it well — froth it well — that’s the grand secret. A sharp six, eh? I’ll be punctual.’ And as the clock struck the hour
he knocked at Mr. Oldcastle’s door. He was in high glee, and rubbed his hands in ecstatic anticipation of the feast. Presently dinner was announced. A plain boiled sole to begin with. He could trifle with that till better things came. But why not fry the sole? His patience was rewarded at last. The principal dish was put upon the table; the cover was raised; when — oh! horror of horrors! in place of the richly-embrowned, well-dressed dish he expected, he beheld a ragged, scraggy, unsightly, utterly uneatable object. The hare was trussed for roasting, but it was BOILED. ‘Boiled hare! Who ever heard of such a barbarous proceeding? The cook must be mad or drunk.’ ‘I ordered it so,’ Mr. Oldcastle calmly replied. ‘Let me help you?” No, thank you! I’ll wait for the woodcock.’ And he fumed and fretted till the new dish appeared. ‘What’s this?’ he cried, as the servant uncovered it. ‘Boiled woodcock! You must have taken leave of your senses, Oldcastle.’ ‘A mistake, certainly,’ the host replied; ‘I told the cook to let the bird merely fly through the kitchen, in compliance with your request; but I suppose it must have dropped into the pot by the way. Try it.’ But the counsellor declined, and making an excuse, got away as soon as he could; nor did he ever afterwards volunteer to eat roast hare with his friends. And now, Doctor Bray, let me recommend you a glass of port wine. Counsellor Leech declared it was the correct thing, and he was a judge. Red wine with red meat.”
“Well, madam,” Doctor Bray observed, after grace had been said and the cloth removed (for Mrs. Mervyn was too proud of her darkly-polished table to keep it covered), “whatever other merits the Jacobites may have possessed — and I will deny them none here — they must have had excellent cookery, and that is much to say for them.”
“Much, sir!” Doctor Foam rejoined. “It is everything. I should always be of High-Church and Tory principles in the matter of good living.”
“No one but a Tory deserves port like this,” Colonel Harbottle cried, smacking his lips. “Admirable indeed! — bright as a ruby. And look at the bee’s-wing. You beat us hollow, Mrs. Mervyn. We have no such wine at our mess. Would we had fifty dozen of it.”
“It is, indeed, superlatively good— ‘vinum vetustate edentulum,’” Doctor Bray said, emptying his glass. “I never drank better — perhaps not so good. This increases my respect for the Jacobites; and I am clearly of opinion that, out of compliment to our hostess, of whose hospitality we have partaken, and whose feelings we appreciate, though we may not share them, we ought to drink to the memory of the unfortunate house of Stuart.” And he filled a brimmer.
Mrs. Mervyn looked much gratified as the toast was drunk, and so did Mr. Comberbach, who now appeared to regard the doctor as a convert to his own opinions.
“You have many family recollections, no doubt, madam, connected with the Young Pretender’s — I beg pardon, the young prince’s — visit to Cottonborough?” Doctor Bray observed.
“A great many,” Mrs. Mervyn replied. “The prince breakfasted in this very room.”
“Indeed, madam?” Doctor Bray exclaimed. “I was not aware of it.”
“Yes, indeed, doctor. I have often heard my father relate the circumstance; for, though a mere child at the time, he recollected it perfectly. It was on the 29th of November, 1745; and the main body of the prince’s forces had marched from Wigan to Cottonborough, where preparations were made for his reception. My grandfather placed his house at the prince’s disposal, but it was thought advisable that he should be in the town; and, therefore, Mr. Dickenson’s house, in Market-street-lane, was chosen. My grandfather had joined the prince on the march into England; and when a halt was made at Preston, he rode on to procure all the aid he could. About ten o’clock in the morning, Prince Charles Edward, accompanied by M. d’Eguilles, and attended by a body of Highlanders, arrived here, and was received by my grandfather at the gates with as much ceremony as if he had been crowned monarch of the realms. The prince was very affable, and said, with a most engaging smile, ‘I wish, Mr. Mervyn, that we had many such loyal servants as you in this county. In that case my father would soon be master of his dominions again.’ ‘Fear nothing, prince,’ my grandfather replied; ‘Lancashire is full of loyal men.’ And taking my father by the hand, who as I have said, was but a child then, he continued: ‘I devote this boy to your restoration. If I fall he will supply my place.’ On this the child kissed the prince’s hand, which was graciously extended to him; while the latter said, ‘I trust I shall be able to requite your devotion, sir. The Mervyns have always been a loyal race; and, if I ever mount the throne, your son shall find I have not forgotten his father’s devotion, nor that of his grandfather, which was sealed with his blood.’ The prince then entered the house with M. d’Eugilles, and was ushered into this very room, where a substantial repast was prepared for them, and where my grandfather waited upon his highness. While that was going forward, Colonel Townley and Lord George Murray arrived. The colonel came in booted and spurred, and, dashing his hat upon the table, swore — for, I am sorry to say, he generally swore very profanely — that the Cottonborough folks had deceived him, and that many of them were rank Hanoverians. ‘But we’ll send all the wrongheads to the devil!’ he cried. Seeing the prince look a little downcast at what Colonel Townley had said, my father observed, that ‘his highness had only to show himself in the town, and thousands would flock round his standard.’ On this the colonel laughed, and, swearing a great oath, hoped it might prove true. The prince then filled a flagon with wine, and, putting it to his lips, drank to my grandfather, and told him to pledge him; and as my father had come into the room at the time, his highness said the boy must pledge him too. And he did so. You may be quite sure I set great store on the cup which has been so honoured, Doctor Bray.”
“Here it is sir,” our butler interposed, bringing forward the two-handled drinking-cup for the doctor’s inspection.
“And how did the prince look on the occasion?” Mrs. Addington inquired.
“Remarkably well, my father said,” Mrs. Mervyn replied. “He wore a Highland dress and sash, and a blue bonnet with a white rose in it.”
“And a grey peruke which my grandfather dressed,” Mr. Comberbach added.
“Very true,” Mrs. Mervyn replied; “but I fear I have wearied you with my Jacobite recollections, Doctor Bray. Do me the favour to pass the wine.”
“Perhaps you may have heard, madam,” the doctor said, “that it is my custom to smoke a pipe after dinner. You look shocked — but it is so — and wherever I go, I am indulged. The finest ladies of my acquaintance, and the most delicate, permit it. Even royalty respects my weakness, and the Duke of Wessex himself not only tolerates my pipe, but smokes with me. I see I have your consent, and having obtained it, I care not who else may object. He who desiderates the society of Doctor Bray must take him as he is. Mr. Comberbach, bring me a pipe and tobacco.”
Though greatly scandalised, our butler went out, and soon afterwards returned with the articles in question “And now, madam,” said the doctor to Mrs. Harbottle, when he had filled his pipe, “you shall light it for me. It is a favour I always accord to the handsomest woman in the room.”
“Well, doctor, after the pretty compliment you have paid me, I shall not disoblige you,” Mrs. Harbottle rejoined, applying the match. And seeing Doctor Bray preparing to exhale a volume of smoke, she got up hastily, crying, “Mrs. Mervyn, I really must make my escape, for I cannot bear the smell of that dreadful weed.”
“Nor I,” Mrs. Addington cried. And all the ladies got up and hurried out of the room as fast as they could, followed by the laughter of Doctor Bray.
An inveterate smoker like his friend, Doctor Foam took a pipe, and so did Colonel Harbottle, and all three puffed away so lustily, that the room was presently in a state of semi-obscurity. Doctor Bray seemed in elysium, and though he presented a very odd and incongruous appearance in his canonicals while thus employed, his conversation was so amusing, and he started so many subjects, displaying such ingenuity of argument, such wit, and such learning, that all were entertained by
him. The fine old port contented the non-smokers, and the smokers were supplied by Mr. Comberbach with a bowl of cold Widdrington punch, which seemed to give them great satisfaction. I went up-stairs long before the rest, and all the ladies declared I smelt so dreadfully of smoke that they couldn’t endure me.
“What will it be, my dear Mrs. Mervyn, when the rest come up-stairs?” Mrs. Addington observed. “Really this is an odious practice in Doctor Bray. I wonder people can endure him.”
“I wonder so too,” Mrs. Mervyn replied; “and I have bought my experience rather dearly. Our old Jacobite gentlemen would never have been guilty of such conduct in a lady’s house.”
And when the gentlemen did make their appearance, they brought with them an atmosphere of tobacco so dreadfully pungent, that it gave Mrs. Addington and Mrs. Harbottle a violent fit of coughing.
“This is really too bad of you, Harbottle,” the latter said.
“My dear, what would you have me do?” the colonel replied, upon whom the combined influences of the punch and tobacco had made some impression. “Consider the great Doctor Bray.”
“Consider a fiddlestick. The great Doctor Bray is no excuse for your making yourself disagreeable. Don’t approach me. Mervyn, give me that bottle of eau de Cologne.” And, after sprinkling some over her husband, she scattered the rest about the room.
It was a great relief to Mrs. Mervyn when, on the departure of her guests, the windows could be thrown open, and a purer air admitted.
I must not omit to mention that Doctor Foam carried off with him the volume of Jacobite correspondence.
CHAPTER XI.
I LOSE MY UNCLE MOBBERLEY, AND BELIEVE MYSELF HEIR TO HIS PROPERTY.
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