Jacob Faithful Part 20

"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 _H_inglish name. You 'ave their _h_arms 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 _h_arms 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 _h_ever be buried in _h_oblivion; and then your beastly motto--which I _would have_ changed--_'Blubber for ever_!' Blubber indeed! _h_enough to make _h_any 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 _h_expect 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 _h_own _h_invention."

Rap, tap, rap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

"Mr and Mrs Peters, of Peterc.u.mb 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 Peterc.u.mb 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.

"Charmee 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."

"Sn.o.bbs, 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 Sn.o.bbs; 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 chere 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 b.u.t.ton-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--"