UNCLE TWEAZY
AND HIS
QUIZZICAL NEIGHBOURS.
Plummer and Brewis, Printers, Love-lane, Eastcheap.
UNCLE TWEAZY AND HIS QUIZZICAL NEIGHBOURS:
A COMI-SATIRIC NOVEL.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
BY
The Author of the “Observant Pedestrian,”
&c. &c. &c.
“Holds to the world a picture of itself, “And raises sly the fair impartial laugh.”
Thomson’s Winter.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR W. SIMPKIN AND R. MARSHALL, STATIONERS’-COURT, LUDGATE-STREET.
1816.
UNCLE TWEAZY
CHAP. I.
The next morning, as soon as we had finished breakfast, my uncle proposed a visit to the Rectory, to take a peep at the paragon Doctor Tonic was so lavish in praise of, and to pass our respective judgment on his perspicuity.
It was a delightful walk to the Rectory, which stood most romantically at the end of a beautiful shrubbery, shaded by the light foilage of a double row of limes; the mansion was a low white building, luxuriantly encircled by honeysuckles and roses, subjoined to a highly cultivated vine, whose abundant clusters hung in rich purple fringe against the Gothic windows, whose octagon panes gave it the appearance of some venerable structure, while the beautiful surrounding prospect of richly fertilized and diversified wood and water rendered it a little Elysian.
As we approached, we distinctly perceived the sylph-like form of a female figure, who, with a basket of roses in one hand, was reclining on the arm of the venerable pastor, exactly bringing to my remembrance the entree of Sterne and Maria to Moulines.
Dr. Markwell perceiving our approach, politely advanced to open the gate and welcomed us in.
“Miss Fitzclarence,” said he, introducing the lady, who gracefully curtsied, but the obtruding shade of a straw hat totally precluded my curiosity, and compelled me to pass on the other side and offer my services to carry the basket—but such roses as struck my view out of the basket, might have dazzled the eye of a basilisk; for in the countenance of the lovely object who stood by my side, I beheld not only the beautiful girl described by Dr. Tonic, but the chef-d’ouvre of nature.
My uncle, who had merely stolen a sidelong glance, preceded us into the house, whither we immediately followed; but never shall I forget his expressive countenance as Miss Fitzclarence took her seat on an opposite chair, his eyes were rivetted on her features, and he seemed lost in astonishment, till roused by Dr. Markwell’s observing what a charming proficient Miss Fitzclarence was on the harp.
“Rosa, if you please, my dear Sir,” replied the blooming angel; “by that familiar title I shall feel myself completely at home.”
“Well, then, my charming, my amiable Rosa,” continued the Rector (charmed with her affability) “will you treat my friends with the dulcet sonnet you played this morning?”
Rosa caught up her harp, and, like a second Cecilia, all was silent rapture; but, when her heavenly voice subjoined, my uncle melted into tears, exclaiming, “I can’t bear it, sweet young lady: in compassion to an old man’s feelings, pause one moment.”
The beauteous minstrel ceased, and the Rector, unperceived by my uncle, gave her a significant wink not to continue the song; whilst I, lost in amazement at my uncle’s conduct, replaced the harp in silence, and various topics of conversation ensued; yet still his scrutinizing eye was fixed on Rosa till the moment of our departure, when pressing her beautiful hand respectfully to his lip, “young lady,” said he, “this is a liberty I have not assumed these thirty years—accept it as the sacred incense due only to yourself.”
“Sir, sir,” said I. “am I unpriviledged to follow your example? surely your gallantry ought not to eclipse mine, and, with Miss Fitzclarence’s leave, thus I avail myself.”
One fervent kiss I pressed upon that hand, which, in the purest marble, chisselled by a Tumerelli, never in symmetry was equalled; ask not, then, gentle reader, when St. Albans left the Rectory, if he was victor—No! he was the captive of love, indissolubly bound in the chains of Rosa Fitzclarence.