The huntsman’s cottage—Preparations for a seven days’ carousal—A
cock-fight—Welsh main—Harmony—A cow and a hogshead of wine consumed by
the party—Comparison between former dissipation and that of the
present day—A dandy at dinner in Bond-street—Captain Parsons Hoye and
his nephew—Character and description of both—The nephew disinherited
by his uncle for dandyism—Curious anecdote of Dr. Jenkins piercing
Admiral Cosby’s fist.
Close to the kennel of my father’s hounds, he had built a small cottage,
which was occupied solely by an old huntsman, (Matthew Querns,) his
older wife, and his nephew, a whipper-in. The chase, the bottle, and the
piper, were the enjoyments of winter; and nothing could recompense a
suspension of these enjoyments.
My elder brother, justly apprehending that the frost and snow of
Christmas might probably prevent their usual occupation of the chase, on
St. Stephen’s day, (26th Dec.) determined to provide against any
listlessness during the shut-up period, by an uninterrupted match of
what was called _hard going_, till the weather should break up.
A hogshead of superior claret[17] was therefore sent to the cottage of
old Querns the huntsman; and a fat cow, killed, and plundered of her
skin, was hung up by the heels. All the windows were closed, to keep out
the light. One room, filled with straw and numerous blankets, was
destined for a bed-chamber in common; and another was prepared as a
kitchen for the use of the servants. Claret,—cold, mulled, or
buttered,[18]—was to be the beverage for the whole company; and in
addition to the cow above mentioned, chickens, bacon, and bread were the
only admitted viands. Wallace and Hosey, my father’s and my brother’s
pipers, and Doyle, a blind but famous fiddler, were employed to enliven
the banquet, which it was determined should continue till the cow became
a skeleton, and the claret should be on its stoop.
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Footnote 17:
Claret was at that time about 18_l._ the hogshead, if sold for _ready
rhino_; if on credit, the law, before payment, generally mounted it to
200_l._; besides bribing the sub-sheriff to make his return, and swear
that Squire * * * * had “neither _body_ nor _goods_.” It is a
remarkable fact, that formerly scarce a hogshead of claret crossed the
bridge of Banaghu, for a country gentleman, without being followed,
within two years, by an attorney, a sheriff’s officer, and a _receiver
of all his rents_, who generally carried back securities for 500_l._
Footnote 18:
Buttered claret was then a favourite beverage—viz. claret boiled with
spice and sugar, orange-peel, and a glass of brandy; four eggs, well
beat up, were then introduced, and the whole poured in a foaming state
from one jug into another, till all was frothy and cream-coloured.
’Twas “very _savoury_!”
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My two elder brothers;—two gentlemen of the name of Taylor (one of them
afterward a writer in India);—Mr. Barrington Lodge, a rough
songster;—Frank Skelton, a jester and a butt;—Jemmy Moffat, the most
knowing sportsman of the neighbourhood;—and two other sporting gentlemen
of the county,—composed the _permanent_ bacchanalians. A few visitors
were occasionally admitted.
As for myself, I was too unseasoned to go through more than the first
ordeal, which was on a frosty St. Stephen’s day, when the _hard goers_
partook of their opening banquet, and several neighbours were invited,
to honour the commencement of what they called their _shut-up
pilgrimage_.
The old huntsman was the only male attendant; and his ancient spouse,
once a kitchen-maid in the family, (now somewhat resembling the amiable
Leonarda in Gil Blas,) was the cook; whilst the drudgery fell to the lot
of the whipper-in. A long knife was prepared, to cut collops from the
cow; a large turf fire seemed to court the gridiron on its cinders; the
pot bubbled up as if proud of its contents, whilst plump white chickens
floated in crowds upon the surface of the water; the simmering potatoes,
just bursting their drab surtouts, exposed the delicate whiteness of
their mealy bosoms; the claret was tapped, and the long earthen
wide-mouthed pitchers stood gaping under the impatient cock, to receive
their portions. The pipers plied their chants; the fiddler clasped his
cremona; and never did any feast commence with more auspicious
appearances of hilarity and dissipation—anticipations which were not
doomed to be falsified.
I shall never forget the attraction this novelty had for my youthful
mind. All thoughts but those of good cheer were for the time totally
obliterated. A few curses were, it is true, requisite to spur on old
Leonarda’s skill, but at length the banquet entered: the luscious smoked
bacon, bedded on its cabbage mattress, and partly obscured by its own
savoury steam, might have tempted the most fastidious of epicures;
whilst the round trussed chickens, ranged by the half dozen on hot
pewter dishes, turned up their white plump merry-thoughts exciting
equally the eye and appetite: fat collops of the hanging cow, sliced
indiscriminately from her tenderest points, grilled over the clear
embers upon a shining gridiron, (half drowned in their own luscious
juices, and garnished with little pyramids of congenial shalots,) smoked
at the bottom of the well-furnished board. A prologue of cherry-bounce
(brandy) preceded the entertainment, which was enlivened by hob-nobs and
joyous exclamations.
Numerous toasts, as was customary in those days, intervened to prolong
and give zest to the repast: every man shouted forth the name of his
fair favourite, and each voluntarily surrendered a portion of his own
reason, in bumpers to the beauty of his neighbour’s mistress. The pipers
jerked from their bags appropriate planxties to every jolly sentiment:
the jokers cracked the usual jests and ribaldry: one songster chanted
the joys of wine and women; another gave, in full glee, “stole away” and
“the pleasures of the fox-chase:” the fiddler sawed his merriest jigs:
the old huntsman sounded his long cow’s horn, and thrusting his
fore-finger into his ear (to aid the quaver,) gave the _view holloa!_ of
nearly ten minutes’ duration; to which melody _tally ho!_ was responded
by every stentorian voice. A fox’s brush stuck into a candlestick, in
the centre of the table, was worshipped as a divinity! Claret
flowed—bumpers were multiplied—and chickens, in the garb of spicy
spitchcocks, assumed the name of _devils_ to whet the appetites which it
was impossible to conquer.
For some hours my jollity kept pace with that of my companions: but at
length reason gradually began to lighten me of its burden, and in its
last efforts kindly suggested the straw-chamber as an asylum. Two couple
of favourite hounds had been introduced to share the joyous pastime of
their friends and master; and the deep bass of their throats, excited by
the shrillness of the huntsman’s tenor, harmonized by two rattling
pipers, a jigging fiddler, and twelve voices, in twelve different keys,
all bellowing in one continuous unrelenting chime—was the last point of
recognition which Bacchus permitted me to exercise: my eyes now began to
perceive a much larger company than the room actually contained;—the
lights were more than doubled, without any _real_ increase of their
number; and even the chairs and tables commenced dancing a series of
minuets before me. A faint _tally ho!_ was attempted by my reluctant
lips; but I believe the effort was unsuccessful, and I very soon lost,
in the straw-room, all that brilliant consciousness of existence, in the
possession of which the morning had found me so happy.
Just as I was closing my eyes to a twelve hours’ slumber, I
distinguished the general roar of “stole away!” which seemed almost to
raise up the very roof of old Matt Querns’s cottage.
At noon, next day, a scene of a different nature was exhibited. I found,
on waking, two associates by my side, in as perfect insensibility as
that from which I had just aroused. Our pipers appeared indubitably
_dead_! but the fiddler, who had the privilege of age and blindness, had
taken a hearty nap, and seemed as much alive as ever.
The room of banquet had been re-arranged by the old woman: spitchcocked
chickens, fried rashers, and broiled marrowbones appeared struggling for
precedence. The clean cloth looked fresh and exciting: jugs of mulled
and buttered claret foamed hot upon the refurnished table; and a better
or heartier breakfast I never enjoyed in my life.
A few members of the jovial crew had remained all night at their posts;
but I suppose alternately took some rest, as they seemed not at all
affected by their repletion. Soap and hot water restored at once their
spirits and their persons; and it was determined that the rooms should
be ventilated and cleared out for a cock-fight, to pass time till the
approach of dinner.
In this battle-royal, every man backed his own bird; twelve of which
courageous animals were set down together to fight it out—the survivor
to gain all. In point of principle, the battle of the Horatii and
Curiatii was re-acted; and in about an hour, one cock crowed out his
triumph over the mangled body of his last opponent;—being himself,
strange to say, but little wounded. The other eleven lay dead; and to
the victor was unanimously voted a _writ of ease_, with sole monarchy
over the hen-roost for the remainder of his days; and I remember him,
for many years, the proud and happy commandant of his poultry-yard and
seraglio. They named him “Hyder Ally;”—and I do not think a more
enviable two-legged animal existed.
Fresh visitors were introduced each successive day, and the seventh
morning had arisen before the feast broke up. As that day advanced, the
cow was proclaimed to have furnished her full quantum of good dishes;
the claret was upon its stoop; and the last gallon, mulled with a pound
of spices, was drunk in tumblers to the next merry meeting!—All now
retired to their _natural_ rest, until the evening announced a different
scene.
An early supper, to be partaken of by all the young folks, of both
sexes, in the neighbourhood, was provided in the dwelling-house, to
terminate the festivities. A dance, as usual, wound up the
entertainment; and what was then termed a “raking pot of tea,”[19] put a
finishing stroke, in jollity and good-humour, to such a revel as I never
saw before, and, I am sure, shall never see again.
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Footnote 19:
A _raking pot of tea_ always wound up an Irish jollification. It
consisted of a general meeting about day-break, in the common hall, of
all the “young people” of the house—mothers and old aunts of course
excluded; of a huge hot cake well buttered—strong tea—brandy, milk,
and nutmeg, amalgamated into syllabubs—the fox-hunter’s jig,
thoroughly danced—a kiss all round, and a sorrowful “_good_-morning.”
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When I compare with the foregoing the habits of the present day, and see
the grandsons of those joyous and vigorous sportsmen mincing their fish
and tit-bits at their favourite box in Bond-street; amalgamating their
ounce of salad on a silver saucer; employing six sauces to coax one
appetite; burning up the palate to make its enjoyments the more
exquisite; sipping their acid claret, disguised by an olive or
neutralized by a chesnut; lisping out for the scented waiter, and paying
him the price of a feast for the modicum of a Lilliputian, and the pay
of a captain for the attendance of a blackguard;—it amuses me extremely,
and makes me speculate on what their forefathers would have done to
those admirable Epicenes, if they had had them at the “Pilgrimage” in
the huntsman’s cottage.
To these extremes of former roughness and modern affectation, it would
require the pen of such a writer as Fielding to do ample justice. It
may, however, afford our reader some diversion to trace the degrees
which led from the grossness of the former down to the effeminacy of the
latter; and these may, in a great measure, be collected from the various
incidents which will be found scattered throughout these sketches of
sixty solar revolutions.
Nothing indeed can better illustrate the sensation which the
grandfathers, or even aged fathers, of these slim lads of the
Bond-street and St. James’s-street establishments, must have felt upon
finding their offspring in the elegant occupations I have just
mentioned, than an incident relating to Captain Parsons Hoye, of County
Wicklow, who several years since met with a specimen of the kind of lad
at Hudson’s, in Covent-Garden.
A nephew of his, an effeminate young fellow, who had been either on the
Continent or in London a considerable time, and who expected to be the
Captain’s heir, (being his sister’s son) accidentally came into the
coffee-room. Neither uncle nor nephew recollected each other; but old
Parsons’ disgust at the dandified manners, language, and dress of the
youth, gave rise to an occurrence which drew from the bluff seaman
epithets wonderfully droll, but rather too coarse to record:—the end of
it was, that, when Parsons discovered the relationship of the stranger,
(by their exchanging cards in anger,) he first kicked him out of the
coffee-room, and then struck him out of a will which he had made,—and
died very soon after, as if on purpose to mortify the macaroni!
Commodore Trunnion was a civilized man, and a beauty (but a fool),
compared to Parsons Hoye,—who had a moderate hereditary property near
Wicklow; had been a captain in the royal navy; was a bad farmer, a worse
sportsman, and a blustering justice of peace: but great at _potation_!
and what was called, “in the main, a capital fellow.” He was nearly as
boisterous as his adopted element: his voice was always as if on the
quarter-deck; and the whistle of an old boatswain, who had been
decapitated by his side, hung as a memento, by a thong of leather, from
his waistcoat button-hole. It was frequently had recourse to, and,
whenever he wanted a _word_, supplied the deficiency.
In form, the Captain was squat, broad, and coarse: a large purple nose,
with a broad crimson chin to match, were the only features of any
consequence in his countenance, except a couple of good-enough bloodshot
eyes, screened by most exuberant grizzle eye-brows. His powdered wig had
behind it a queue in the form of a hand-spike,—and a couple of rolled-up
paste curls, like a pair of carronades, adorned its broad-sides; a blue
coat, with slash cuffs and plenty of navy buttons, surmounted a scarlet
waistcoat with tarnished gold binding—the skirts of which, he said, he
would have of their enormous length because it assured him that the
tailor had put _all the cloth in it_; a black Barcelona adorned his
neck; while a large old round hat, bordered with gold lace, pitched on
his head, and turned up on one side, with a huge cockade stuck into a
buttonless loop, gave him a swaggering air. He bore a shillelagh, the
growth of his own estate, in a fist which would cover more ground than
the best shoulder of wether mutton in a London market.[20] Yet the
Captain had a look of generosity, good nature, benevolence, and
hospitality, which his features did their very best to conceal, and
which none but a good physiognomist could possibly discover.
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Footnote 20:
I once saw the inconvenience of that species of fist strongly
exemplified. The late Admiral Cosby, of Stradbally Hall, had as large
and as brown a fist as any admiral in His Majesty’s service. Happening
one day unfortunately to lay it on the table during dinner, at Colonel
Fitzgerald’s, Merrion Square, a Mr. Jenkins, a half-blind doctor, who
chanced to sit next to the admiral, cast his eye upon the fist: the
imperfection of his vision led him to believe it was a roll of French
bread, and, without further ceremony, the doctor thrust his steel fork
plump into the admiral’s fist. The confusion which resulted may be
easily imagined:—indeed, had the circumstance happened any where but
at a _private_ table, the doctor would probably never have had
occasion for another _crust_. As it was, a sharp fork, sticking a
sailor’s fist to the table, was rather too irritating an accident for
an admiral of the blue to pass over very quietly.
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