Bacchus is the divinity to whom Waggle devotes his especial worship.
'Give me wine, my boy,' says he to his friend Wiggle, who is prating
about lovely woman; and holds up his glass full of the rosy fluid, and
winks at it portentously, and sips it, and smacks his lips after it, and
meditates on it, as if he were the greatest of connoisseurs.
I have remarked this excessive wine-amateurship especially in youth.
Snoblings from college, Fledglings from the army, Goslings from the
public schools, who ornament our Clubs, are frequently to be heard in
great force upon wine questions. 'This bottle's corked,' says Snobling;
and Mr. Sly, the butler, taking it away, returns presently with the same
wine in another jug, which the young amateur pronounces excellent. 'Hang
champagne!' says Fledgling, 'it's only fit for gals and children.
Give me pale sherry at dinner, and my twenty-three claret afterwards.'
'What's port now?' says Gosling; 'disgusting thick sweet stuff--where's
the old dry wine one USED to get?' Until the last twelvemonth, Fledgling
drank small-beer at Doctor Swishtail's; and Gosling used to get his dry
old port at a gin-shop in Westminster--till he quitted that seminary, in
1844.
Anybody who has looked at the caricatures of thirty years ago,
must remember how frequently bottle-noses, pimpled faces, and other
Bardolphian features are introduced by the designer. They are much more
rare now (in nature, and in pictures, therefore,) than in those good old
times; but there are still to be found amongst the youth of our Clubs
lads who glory in drinking-bouts, and whose faces, quite sickly and
yellow, for the most part are decorated with those marks which Rowland's
Kalydor is said to efface. 'I was SO cut last night--old boy!' Hopkins
says to Tomkins (with amiable confidence). 'I tell you what we did. We
breakfasted with Jack Herring at twelve, and kept up with brandy and
soda-water and weeds till four; then we toddled into the Park for an
hour; then we dined and drank mulled port till half-price; then we
looked in for an hour at the Haymarket; then we came back to the Club,
and had grills and whisky punch till all was blue--Hullo, waiter! Get me
a glass of cherry-brandy.' Club waiters, the civilest, the kindest, the
patientest of men, die under the infliction of these cruel young topers.
But if the reader wishes to see a perfect picture on the stage of this
class of young fellows, I would recommend him to witness the ingenious
comedy of LONDON ASSURANCE--the amiable heroes of which are represented,
not only as drunkards and five-o'clock-in-the-morning men, but as
showing a hundred other delightful traits of swindling, lying, and
general debauchery, quite edifying to witness.
How different is the conduct of these outrageous youths to the decent
behaviour of my friend, Mr. Papworthy; who says to Poppins, the butler
at the Club:--
PAPWORTHY.--'Poppins, I'm thinking of dining early; is there any cold
game in the house?'
POPPINS.--'There's a game pie, sir; there's cold grouse, sir; there's
cold pheasant, sir; there's cold peacock, sir; cold swan, sir; cold
ostrich, sir,' &c. &c. (as the case may be).
PAPWORTHY.--'Hem! What's your best claret now, Poppins?--in pints, I
mean.'
POPPINS.--'There's Cooper and Magnum's Lafitte, sir: there's Lath and
Sawdust's St. Julien, sir; Bung's Leoville is considered remarkably
fine; and I think you'd like Jugger's Chateau-Margaux.'
PAPWORTHY.--'Hum!--hah!--well--give me a crust of bread and a glass of
beer. I'll only LUNCH, Poppins.
Captain Shindy is another sort of Club bore. He has been known to throw
all the Club in an uproar about the quality of his mutton-chop.
'Look at it, sir! Is it cooked, sir? Smell it, sir! Is it meat fit for
a gentleman?' he roars out to the steward, who stands trembling before
him, and who in vain tells him that the Bishop of Bullocksmithy has just
had three from the same loin. All the waiters in the Club are huddled
round the captain's mutton-chop. He roars out the most horrible curses
at John for not bringing the pickles; he utters the most dreadful
oaths because Thomas has not arrived with the Harvey Sauce; Peter comes
tumbling with the water-jug over Jeames, who is bringing 'the glittering
canisters with bread.' Whenever Shindy enters the room (such is the
force of character), every table is deserted, every gentleman must dine
as he best may, and all those big footmen are in terror.
He makes his account of it. He scolds, and is better waited upon in
consequence. At the Club he has ten servants scudding about to do his
bidding.
Poor Mrs. Shindy and the children are, meanwhile, in dingy lodgings
somewhere, waited upon by a charity-girl in pattens.