by R S Surtees
It is, doubtless, very flattering of great people to vote all the little ones “one of us,” and not introduce them to anybody, but we take leave to say, that society is considerably improved by a judicious presentation. We talk of our advanced civilisation, but manners are not nearly so good, or so “at-ease-setting,” as they were with the last generation of apparently stiffer, but in reality easier, more affable gentlemen of the old school. But what a note of admiration our Billy is! How gloriously he is attired. His naturally curling hair, how gracefully it flows; his elliptic collar, how faultlessly it stands; his cravat, how correct; his shirt, how wonderfully fine; and, oh! how happy he must be with such splendid sparkling diamond studs — such beautiful amethyst buttons at his wrists — and such a love of a chain disporting itself over his richly embroidered blood-stone-buttoned vest. Altogether, such a first-class swell is rarely seen beyond the bills of mortality. He looks as if he ought to be kept under a glass shade. But here comes the Bumbler, and now for the agony of the entertainment.
The Major, who for the last few minutes has been fidgetting about pairing parties off according to a written programme he has in his waistcoat pocket, has just time to assign Billy to Mrs. Rocket Larkspur, to assuage her anguish at not being taken in before Mrs. Crickleton, when the Bumbler’s half-fledged voice is heard proclaiming at its utmost altitude— “dinner is sarved!” Then there is such a bobbing and bowing, and backing of chairs, and such inward congratulations, that the “‘orrid ‘alf’our” is over, and hopes from some that they may not get next the fire — while others wish to be there. Though the Major could not, perhaps, manage to get twenty thousand men out of Hyde Park, he can, nevertheless, manouvre a party out of his drawing-room into his dining-room, and forthwith he led the way, with Mrs. Crickleton under his arm, trusting to the reel winding off right at the end. And right it would most likely have wound off had not the leg-protruding Bumbler’s tongue-buckle caught the balloon-like amplitude of Mrs. Rocket Larkspur’s dress and caused a slight stoppage — in the passage, — during which time two couples slipped past and so deranged the entire order of the table. However, there was no great harm done, as far as Mrs. Larkspur’s consequence was concerned, for she got next Mr. Tightlace, with Mr. Pringle between her and Miss Yammerton, whom Mrs. Larkspur had just got to admit, that she wouldn’t mind being Mrs. P —— —— , and Miss having been thus confidential, Mrs. was inclined, partly out of gratitude, — partly, perhaps, because she couldn’t help it — to befriend her. She was a great mouser, and would promote the most forlorn hope, sooner than not be doing.
We are now in the dining-room, and very smart everything is. In the centre of the table, of course, stands the Yammer ton testimonial, — a “Savory” chased silver plated candelabrum, with six branches, all lighted up, and an ornamental centre flower-basket, decorated with evergreens and winter roses, presented to our friend on his completing his “five and twentieth year as master of harriers,” and in gratitude for the unparalleled sport he had uniformly shown the subscribers.
Testimonialising has become quite a mania since the Major got his, and no one can say whose turn it may be next. It is not everybody who, like Mr. Daniel Whittle Harvey with the police force one, can nip them in the bud; but Inspector Field, we think, might usefully combine testimonial-detecting with his other secret services. He would have plenty to do — especially in the provinces. Indeed London does not seem to be exempt from the mania, if we may judge by Davis the Queen’s huntsman’s recent attempt to avert the intended honour; neatly informing the projectors that “their continuing to meet him in the hunting field would be the best proof of their approbation of his conduct.” However, the Major got his testimonial; and there it stands, flanked by two pretty imitation Dresden vases decorated with flowers and evergreens also. And now the company being at length seated and grace said, the reeking covers are removed from the hare and mock turtle tureens, and the confusion of tongues gradually subsides into sip-sip-sipping of soup. And now Jarperson, having told his newly caught footman groom to get him hare soup instead of mock turtle, the lad takes the plate of the latter up to the tureen of the former, and his master gets a mixture of both — which he thinks very good.
And now the nutty sherry comes round, which the Major introduces with a stuttering exordium that would induce anyone who didn’t know him to suppose it cost at least 80s. a-dozen, instead of 36s. (bottles included); and this being sipped and smacked and pronounced excellent, “two fishes” replace the two soups, and the banquet proceeds, Mr. Tightlace trying to poke his sporting knowledge at Billy between heats, but without success, the commoner not rising at the bait, indeed rather shirking it.
A long-necked green bottle of what the Bumbler called “bluecellas,” then goes its rounds; and the first qualms of hunger being appeased, the gentlemen are more inclined to talk and listen to the luncheon-dining ladies. Mrs. Rocket Larkspur has been waiting most anxiously for Billy’s last mouthful, in order to interrogate him, as well as to London fashion, as to his opinions of the Miss “ums.” Of course with Miss “um” sitting just below Billy, the latter must be done through the medium of the former, — so she leads off upon London.
“She supposed he’d been very gay in London?”
“Yarse,” drawled Billy in the true dandified style, drawing his napkin across his lips as he spoke.
Mrs. Rocket wasn’t so young as she had been, and Billy was too young to take up with what he profanely called “old ladies.”
“He’d live at the west-end, she s’posed?”
“Yarse,” replied Billy, feeling his amplified tie.
“Did he know Billiter Square?”
“Yarse,” replied he, running his ringed fingers down his studs. “Was it fashionable?” asked Mrs. Rocket. (She had a cousin lived there who had asked her to go and see her.)
“Y-a-a-rse, I should say it is,” drawled Billy, now playing with a bunch of trinkets, a gold miniature pistol, a pearl and diamond studded locket, a gold pencil-case, and a white cornelian heart, suspended to his watch-chain. “Y-a-a-rse, I should say it is,” repeated he; adding “not so fashionable as Belgrave.”
“Sceuse me, sare,” interrupted Monsieur Jean Rougier from behind his master’s chair, “Sceuse me, it is not fashionable, sare, — it is not near de Palace or de Park of Hyde, sare, bot down away among those dem base mechanics in de east — beyond de Mansion ‘Ouse, in fact.”
“Oh, ah, y-a-a-rse, true,” replied Billy, not knowing where it was, but presuming from Mrs. Larkspur’s inquiry that it was some newly sprung-up square on one of the western horns of the metropolis.
Taking advantage of the interruption, Mr. Tightlace again essayed to edge in his “British Sportsman” knowledge beginning with an inquiry if “the Earl of Ladythorne had a good set of dogs this season?” but the Bumbler soon cut short the thread of his discourse by presenting a bottle of brisk gooseberry at his ear. The fizzing stuff then went quickly round, taxing the ingenuity of the drinkers to manoeuvre the frothy fluid out of their needlecase-shaped glasses. Then as conversation was beginning to be restored, the door suddenly flew open to a general rush of returning servants. There was Soloman carrying a sirloin of beef, followed by Mr. Crickleton’s gaudy red-and-yellow young man with a boiled turkey, who in turn was succeeded by Mr. Rocket Larkspur’s hobbledehoy with a ham, and Mr. Tightlace’s with a stew. Pâtés and côtelettes, and minces, and messes follow in quick succession; and these having taken their seats, immediately vacate them for the Chiltern-hundreds of the hand. A shoal of vegetables and sundries alight on the side table, and the feast seems fairly under weigh.
But see! somehow it prospers not!
People stop short at the second or third mouthful, and lay down their knives and forks as if they had had quite enough. Patties, and cutlets, and sausages, and side-dishes, all share the same fate!
“Take round the champagne,” says the Major, with an air, thinking to retrieve the character of his kitchen with the solids. The juicy roas
t beef, and delicate white turkey with inviting green stulling, and rich red ham, and turnip-and-carrot-adorned stewed beef then made their progresses, but the same fate attends them also. People stop at the second or third mouthful; — some send their plates away slily, and ask for a little of a different dish to what they have been eating, or rather tasting. That, however, shares the same fate.
“Take round the champagne,” again says the Major, trying what another cheerer would do. Then he invites the turkey-eaters — or leavers, rather — to eat beef; and the beef eaters — or leavers — to eat turkey: but they all decline with a thoroughly satisfied ‘no-more-for-me’ sort of shake of the head.
“Take away!” at length says the Major, with an air of disgust, following the order with an invitation to Mrs. Rocket Larkspur to take wine. The guests follow the host’s example, and a momentary rally of liveliness ensues. Mrs. Rocket Larkspur and Mr. Tight-lace contend for Fine Billy’s ear; but Miss Yammerton interposing with a sly whisper supersedes them both. Mrs. Rocket construes that accordingly. A general chirp of conversation is presently established, interspersed with heavy demands upon the breadbasket by the gentlemen. Presently the door is thrown open, and a grand procession of sweets enters — jellies, blancmanges, open tarts, shut tarts, meringues, plum pudding, maccaroni, black puddings, — we know not what besides: and the funds of conviviality again look up. The rally is, however, but of momentary duration. The same evil genius that awaited on the second course seems to attend on the third. People stop at the second or third mouthful and send away the undiminished plates slily, as before. Home venture on other dishes — but the result is the same — the plate vanishes with its contents. There is, however, a great run upon the cheese — Cheshire and Gloucester; and the dessert suffers severely. All the make-weight dishes, even, disappear; and when the gentlemen rejoin the ladies in the drawing-room they attack the tea as if they had not had any dinner.
At length a “most agreeable evening” is got through; and as each group whisks away, there is a general exclamation of “What a most extraordinary taste everything had of —— —— —” What do you think, gentle reader?
“Can’t guess! can’t you?”
“What do you think, Mrs. Brown?”
“What do you think, Mrs. Jones?
“What do you, Mrs. Robinson?”
“What! none of you able to guess! And yet everybody at table hit off directly!”
“All give it up?” Brown, Jones, and Robinson?
“Yes — yes — yes.”
“Well then, we’ll tell you”: —
“Everything tasted of Castor oil!”
“Castor oil!” exclaims Mrs. Brown.
“Castor oil!” shrieks Mrs. Jones.
“Castor oil!” shudders Mrs. Robinson.
“O-o-o-o! how nasty!”
“But how came it there?” asks Mrs. Brown.
“We’ll tell you that, too—”
The Major’s famous cow Strawberry-cream’s calf was ill, and they had tapped a pint of fine “cold-drawn” for it, which Monsieur Jean Rougier happening to upset, just mopped it up with his napkin, and chucking it away, it was speedily adopted by the hind’s little girl in charge of the plates and dishes, who imparted a most liberal castor oil flavour to everything she touched.
And that entertainment is now known by the name of the “Castor Oil Dinner.”
CHAPTER XXII. A HUNTING MORNING. — UNKENNELING.
WHAT A COMMOTION there was in the house the next morning! As great a disturbance as if the Major had been going to hunt an African Lion, a royal Bengal Tiger, or a Bison itself. Ring-ring-ring-ring went one bell, tinkle-tinkle-tinkle went another, ring-ring-ring went the first again, followed by exclamations of “There’s master’s bell again!” with such a running down stairs, and such a getting up again. Master wanted this, master wanted that, master had carried away the buttons at his knees, master wanted his other pair of White what-do-they-call-ems — not cords, but moleskins — that treacherous material being much in vogue among masters of harriers. Then master’s boots wouldn’t do, he wanted his last pair, not the newly-footed ones, and they were on the trees, and the Bumbler was busy in the stable, and Betty Bone could not skin the trees, and altogether there was a terrible hubbub in the house. His overnight exertions, though coupled with the castor oil catastrophe, seemed to have abated none of his ardour in pursuit of the hare.
Meanwhile our little dandy, Billy, lay tumbling and tossing in bed, listening to the dread preparations, wishing he could devise an excuse for declining to join him. The recollection of his bumps, and his jumps, and his falls, arose vividly before him, and he would fain have said “no” to any more. He felt certain that the Major was going to give him a startler, more dreadful perhaps than those he had had with his lordship. Would that he was well out of it! What pleasure could there be in galloping after an animal they could shoot? In the midst of these reflections Mons. Rougier entered the apartment and threw further light on the matter by opening the shutters.
“You sall get up, sare, and pursue the vild beast of de voods — de Major is a-goin’ to hont.”
“Y-a-r-se,” replied Billy, turning over.
“I sal get out your habit verd, your green coat, dat is to say.”
“No! no!” roared Billy; “the red! the red!”
“De red!” exclaimed Monsieur in astonishment, “de red Not for de soup dogs! you only hont bold reynard in de red.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” retorted Billy, “didn’t the Major come to the carstle in red?”
“Because he came to hont de fox,” replied Monsieur; “if he had com’ for to hont poor puss he would ‘ave ‘ad on his green or his grey, or his some other colour.”
Billy now saw the difference, and his mortification increased. “Well, I’ll breakfast in red at all events,” said he, determined to have that pleasure.
“Vell, sare, you can pleasure yourself in dat matter; but it sall be moch ridicule if you pursue de puss in it.”
“But why not?” asked Billy, “hunting’s hunting, all the world over.”
“I cannot tell you vy, sir; but it is not etiquette, and I as a professor of garniture, toggery vot you call, sid lose caste with my comrades if I lived with a me lor vot honted poor puss in de pink.”
“Humph!” grunted Billy, bouncing out of bed, thinking what a bore it was paying a man for being his master. He then commenced the operations of the occasion, and with the aid of Monsieur was presently attired in the dread costume. He then clonk, clonk, clonked down stairs with his Jersey-patterned spurs, toes well out to clear the steps, most heartily wishing he was clonking up again on his return from the hunt.
Monsieur was right. The Major is in his myrtle-green coat — a coat, not built after the fashion of the scanty swallow-tailed red in which he appears at page 65 of this agreeable work, but with the more liberal allowance of cloth peculiar to the period in which we live. A loosely hanging garment, and not a strait-waistcoat, in fact, a fashion very much in favour of bunglers, seeing that anybody can make a sack, while it takes a tailor to make a coat. The Major’s cost him about two pounds five, the cloth having been purchased at a clothier’s and made up at home, by a three shilling a day man and his meat. We laugh at the ladies for liking to be cheated by their milliners; but young gentlemen are quite as accommodating to their tailors. Let any man of forty look at his tailor’s bill when he was twenty, and see what a liberality of innocence it displays. And that not only in matters of taste and fashion, which are the legitimate loopholes of extortion, but in the sober articles of ordinary requirement. We saw a once-celebrated west-end tailor’s bill the other day, in which a plain black coat was made to figure in the following magniloquent item: —
“A superfine black cloth coat, lappels sewed on” (we wonder if they are usually pinned or glued) “lappels sewed on, cloth collar, cotton sleeve linings, velvet handfacings,” (most likely cotton too,) “embossed edges and fine wove buttons” — how much does the reader
think? four guineas? four pound ten? five guineas? No, five pound eighteen and sixpence! An article that our own excellent tailor supplies for three pounds fifteen! In a tailor’s case that was recently tried, a party swore that fourteen guineas was a fair price for a Taglioni, when every body knows that they are to be had for less than four. But boys will be boys to the end of the chapter, so let us return to our sporting Major. He is not so happy in his nether garments as he is in his upper ones; indeed he has on the same boots and moleskins that Leech drew him in at Tantivy Castle, for these lower habiliments are not so easy of accomplishment in the country as coats, and though most people have tried them there, few wear them out, they are always so ugly and unbecoming. As, however, our Major doesn’t often compare his with town-made ones, he struts about in the comfortable belief that they are all right — very smart.
He is now in a terrible stew, and has been backwards and forwards between the house and the stable, and in and out of the kennel, and has called Solomon repeatedly from his work to give him further instructions and further instructions still, until the Major has about confused himself and every body about him. As soon as ever he heard by his tramp overhead that Billy had got into his boots, he went to the bottom of the stairs and holloaed along the passage towards the kitchen. “Betty! Betty! Betty! send in breakfast as soon as ever Mr. Pringle comes down!”’ “Ah, dere is de Majur.” observed Monsieur, pausing from Billy’s hair-arranging to listen— “him kick up dc deval’s own dost on a huntin’ mornin’.”
