My friend Hertford, walking one day near his own shop in Piccadilly,
happened to meet one Mr. Hopkinson, an eminent brewer, I believe--and
the conversation naturally enough turned upon some late dinner at the
Albion, Aldersgate Street--nobody appreciates a real city dinner better
than Monsieur le Marquess--and so on, till the old brewer mentioned,
_par hazard_, that he had just received a noble specimen of wild pig
from a friend in Frankfort, adding, that he had a very particular party,
God knows how many aldermen, to dinner--half the East India direction, I
believe--and that he was something puzzled touching the cookery. "Pooh!"
says Hertford, "send in your porker to my man, and he'll do it for you
_à merveille_." The brewer was a grateful man--the pork came and went
back again. Well, a week after my lord met his friend, and, by the way,
"Hopkinson," says he, "how did the boar concern go off?"--"O,
beautifully," says the brewer; "I can never sufficiently thank your
lordship; nothing could do better. We should never have got on at all
without your lordship's kind assistance."--"The thing gave satisfaction
then, Hopkinson?"--"O, great satisfaction, my lord marquess.--To be sure
we did think it rather queer at first--in fact, not being up to them
there things, we considered it as deucedly stringy--to say the truth, we
should never have thought of eating it cold."--"Cold!" says Hertford;
"did you eat the ham cold?"--"O dear, yes, my lord, to be sure we
did--we eat it just as your lordship's gentleman sent it."--"Why, my
dear Mr. Alderman," says Hertford, "my cook only prepared it for the
spit." Well, I shall never forget how the poor dear Duke of York
laughed!--_Ibid_.
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