The Parent's Assistant; Or, Stories for Children

Fred. (aside). 'My dear,' again, Marianne!

Mar. Yes, brother, because she is frightened, you know, and Mrs. Carbuncle always says 'my dear' to him when she's frightened, and looks so pale from side to side; and sometimes she cries before dinner's done, and then all the company are quite silent, and don't know what to do.

'Oh, such a little creature; to have so much sense, too!' exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, with rapture. 'Mr. Frederick, you'll make me die with laughing! Pray go on, Dr. Carbuncle.'

Fred. Well, ma'am, then if I must eat something, send me a bit of fowl; a leg and wing, the liver wing, and a bit of the breast, oyster sauce, and a slice of that ham, if you please, ma'am.

    (Dr. Carbuncle eats voraciously, with his head down to his plate, and, dropping the sauce, he buttons up his coat tight across the breast.)

Fred. Here; a plate, knife and fork, bit o' bread, a glass of Dorchester ale!

'Oh, admirable!' exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, clapping her hands.

'Now, brother, suppose that it is after dinner,' said Marianne; 'and show us how the doctor goes to sleep.'

Frederick threw himself back in an arm-chair, leaning his head back, with his mouth open, snoring; nodded from time to time, crossed and uncrossed his legs, tried to awake himself by twitching his wig, settling his collar, blowing his nose, and rapping on the lid of his snuff-box.

All which infinitely diverted Mrs. Tattle, who, when she could stop herself from laughing, declared 'it made her sigh, too, to think of the life poor Mrs. Carbuncle led with that man, and all for nothing, too; for her jointure was nothing, next to nothing, though a great thing, to be sure, her friends thought, for her, when she was only Sally Ridgeway before she was married. Such a wife as she makes,' continued Mrs. Theresa, lifting up her hands and eyes to heaven, 'and so much as she has gone through, the brute ought to be ashamed of himself if he does not leave her something extraordinary in his will; for turn it which way she will, she can never keep a carriage, or live like anybody else, on her jointure, after all, she tells me, poor soul! A sad prospect, after her husband's death, to look forward to, instead of being comfortable, as her friends expected; and she, poor young thing! knowing no better when they married her! People should look into these things beforehand, or never marry at all, I say, Miss Marianne.'

Miss Marianne, who did not clearly comprehend this affair of the jointure, or the reason why Mrs. Carbuncle would be so unhappy after her husband's death, turned to Frederick, who was at that instant studying Mrs. Theresa as a future character to mimic. 'Brother,' said Marianne, 'now sing an Italian song for us like Miss Croker. Pray, Miss Croker, favour us with a song. Mrs. Theresa Tattle has never had the pleasure of hearing you sing; she's quite impatient to hear you sing.'

'Yes, indeed, I am,' said Mrs. Theresa.

Frederick put his hands before him affectedly. 'Oh, indeed, ma'am! indeed, ladies! I really am so hoarse, it distresses me so to be pressed to sing; besides, upon my word, I have quite left off singing. I've never sung once, except for very particular people, this winter.'

Mar. But Mrs. Theresa Tattle is a very particular person. I'm sure you'll sing for her.

Fred. Certainly, ma'am, I allow that you use a powerful argument; but I assure you now, I would do my best to oblige you, but I absolutely have forgotten all my English songs. Nobody hears anything but Italian now, and I have been so giddy as to leave my Italian music behind me. Besides, I make it a rule never to hazard myself without an accompaniment.

Mar. Oh, try, Miss Croker, for once.

(Frederick sings, after much preluding.)

Violante in the pantry,
Gnawing of a mutton-bone;
How she gnawed it,
How she claw'd it,
When she found herself alone!

'Charming!' exclaimed Mrs. Tattle; 'so like Miss Croker, I'm sure I shall think of you, Mr. Frederick, when I hear her asked to sing again. Her voice, however, introduces her to very pleasant parties, and she's a girl that's very much taken notice of, and I don't doubt will go off vastly well. She's a particular favourite of mine, you must know; and I mean to do her a piece of service the first opportunity, by saying something or other, that shall go round to her relations in Northumberland, and make them do something for her; as well they may, for they are all rolling in gold, and won't give her a penny.

Mar. Now, brother, read the newspaper like Counsellor Puff.

'Oh, pray do, Mr. Frederick, for I declare I admire you of all things! You are quite yourself to-night. Here's a newspaper, sir, pray let us have Counsellor Puff. It's not late.'

(Frederick reads in a pompous voice.)

'As a delicate white hand has ever been deemed a distinguishing ornament in either sex, Messrs. Valiant and Wise conceive it to be their duty to take the earliest opportunity to advertise the nobility and gentry of Great Britain in general, and their friends in particular, that they have now ready for sale, as usual, at the Hippocrates' Head, a fresh assortment of new-invented, much-admired primrose soap. To prevent impositions and counterfeits, the public are requested to take notice, that the only genuine primrose soap is stamped on the outside, "Valiant and Wise."'

'Oh, you most incomparable mimic! 'tis absolutely the counsellor himself. I absolutely must show you, some day, to my friend Lady Battersby; you'd absolutely make her die with laughing; and she'd quite adore you,' said Mrs. Theresa, who was well aware that every pause must be filled with flattery. 'Pray go on, pray go on. I shall never be tired, if I sit looking at you these hundred years.'

Stimulated by these plaudits, Frederick proceeded to show how Colonel Epaulette blew his nose, flourished his cambric handkerchief, bowed to Lady Diana Periwinkle, and admired her work, saying, 'Done by no hands, as you may guess, but those of Fairly Fair.' Whilst Lady Diana, he observed, simpered so prettily, and took herself so quietly for Fairly Fair, not perceiving that the colonel was admiring his own nails all the while.

Next to Colonel Epaulette, Frederick, at Marianne's particular desire, came into the room like Sir Charles Slang.

'Very well, brother,' cried she, 'your hand down to the very bottom of your pocket, and your other shoulder up to your ear; but you are not quite wooden enough, and you should walk as if your hip were out of joint. There now, Mrs. Tattle, are not those good eyes? They stare so like his, without seeming to see anything all the while.'

'Excellent! admirable! Mr. Frederick. I must say that you are the best mimic of your age I ever saw, and I'm sure Lady Battersby will think so too. That is Sir Charles to the very life. But with all that, you must know he's a mighty pleasant, fashionable young man when you come to know him, and has a great deal of sense under all that, and is of a very good family – the Slangs, you know. Sir Charles will come into a fine fortune himself next year, if he can keep clear of gambling, which I hear is his foible, poor young man! Pray go on. I interrupt you, Mr. Frederick.'

'Now, brother,' said Marianne.

'No, Marianne, I can do no more. I'm quite tired, and I will do no more,' said Frederick, stretching himself at full length upon a sofa.

Even in the midst of laughter, and whilst the voice of flattery yet sounded in his ear, Frederick felt sad, displeased with himself, and disgusted with Mrs. Theresa.

'What a deep sigh was there!' said Mrs. Theresa; 'what can make you sigh so bitterly? You, who make everybody else laugh. Oh, such another sigh again!'

'Marianne,' cried Frederick, 'do you remember the man in the mask?'

'What man in the mask, brother?'

'The man – the actor – the buffoon, that my father told us of, who used to cry behind the mask that made everybody else laugh.'

'Cry! bless me,' said Mrs. Theresa, 'mighty odd! very extraordinary! but one can't be surprised at meeting with extraordinary characters amongst that race of people, actors by profession, you know; for they are brought up from the egg to make their fortune, or at least their bread, by their oddities. But, my dear Mr. Frederick, you are quite pale, quite exhausted; no wonder – what will you have? a glass of cowslip-wine?'

'Oh no, thank you, ma'am,' said Frederick.

'Oh yes; indeed you must not leave me without taking something; and Miss Marianne must have another macaroon. I insist upon it,' said Mrs. Theresa, ringing the bell. 'It is not late, and my man Christopher will bring up the cowslip-wine in a minute.'

'But, Sophy! and papa and mamma, you know, will come home presently,' said Marianne.

'Oh! Miss Sophy has her books and drawings. You know she's never afraid of being alone. Besides, to-night it was her own choice. And as to your papa and mamma, they won't be home to-night, I'm pretty sure; for a gentleman, who had it from their own authority, told me where they were going, which is further off than they think; but they did not consult me; and I fancy they'll be obliged to sleep out; so you need not be in a hurry about them. We'll have candles.'

The door opened just as Mrs. Tattle was going to ring the bell again for candles and the cowslip-wine. 'Christopher! Christopher!' said Mrs. Theresa, who was standing at the fire, with her back to the door, when it opened, 'Christopher! pray bring – Do you hear?' but no Christopher answered; and, upon turning round, Mrs. Tattle, instead of Christopher, beheld two little black figures, which stood perfectly still and silent. It was so dark, that their forms could scarcely be discerned.

'In the name of heaven, who and what may you be? Speak, I conjure you! what are ye?'

'The chimney-sweepers, ma'am, an' please your ladyship.'

'Chimney-sweepers!' repeated Frederick and Marianne, bursting out a-laughing.

'Chimney-sweepers!' repeated Mrs. Theresa, provoked at the recollection of her late solemn address to them. 'Chimney-sweepers! and could not you say so a little sooner? Pray, what brings you here, gentlemen, at this time of night?'

'The bell rang, ma'am,' answered a squeaking voice.

'The bell rang! yes, for Christopher. The boy's mad, or drunk.'

'Ma'am,' said the taller of the chimney-sweepers, who had not yet spoken, and who now began in a very blunt manner; 'ma'am, your brother desired us to come up when the bell rang; so we did.'