IF a dinner-party in town, with all the aids and appliances of
sham-butlers, job-cooks, area-sneak-entrés, and extraneous
confectionary, causes confusion in an establishment, how much
more so must a party in the country, where, in addition to the
guests, their servants, their horses, and their carriages, are to
be accommodated. What a turning-out, and putting-up, and
make-shifting, is there! What a grumbling and growling at not
getting into the best stable, or at not having the state-vehicle
put into the coach-house. If Solomon had not combined the wisdom
of his namesake, with the patience of Job, he would have
succumbed to the pressure from without. As it was, he kept
persevering on until having got the last shandry-dan deposited
under the hay house, he had just time to slip up-stairs to “clean
himself,” and be ready to wait at dinner.
But what a commotion the party makes in the kitchen! Everybody is
in a state of stew, from the gallant Betty Bone down to the
hind’s little girl from Bonnyriggs Farm, whom they have “got in”
for the occasion.
Nor do their anxieties end with the dishing-up of the dinner; for
no sooner is it despatched, than that scarcely less onerous
entertainment, the supper for the servants, has to be provided.
Then comes the coffee, then the tea, then the tray, and then the
carriages wanted, then good night, good night, good night; most
agreeable evening; no idea it was so late; and getting away. But
the heat, and steam, and vapour of the kitchen overpowers us, and
we gladly seek refuge in the newly “done-up” drawing-room.
In it behold the Major!—the Major in all the glory of the
Yammerton harrier uniform, a myrtle-green coat, with a gold
embroidered hare on the myrtle-green velvet collar, and puss with
her ears well back, striding away over a dead gold surface, with
a raised burnished rim of a button, a nicely-washed,
stiffly-starched, white vest, with a yellow silk one underneath,
black shorts, black silk stockings, and patent leather pumps. He
has told off his very rare and singularly fine port wine, his
prime old Madeira, matured in the West Indies; his nutty sherry,
and excellently flavoured claret, all recently bought at the
auction mart, not forgetting the ginger-pop-like
champagne,—allowing the liberal measure of a pint for each person
of the latter, and he is now trying to cool himself down into the
easy-minded, unconcerned, every-day-dinner-giving host.
Mrs. Yammerton too, on whom devolves the care of the wax and the
modérateurs, is here superintending her department—seeing that
the hearth is properly swept, and distributing the Punches, and
Posts, and “Ask Mamma’s” judiciously over the fine variegated
table-cover. She is dressed in a rich silvery grey—with a sort of
thing like a silver cow tie, with full tassels, twisted and
twined serpent-like into her full, slightly streaked, dark hair.
The illumination being complete, she seats herself fan in hand on
the sofa, and a solemn pause then ensues, broken only by Billy’s
and Monsieur’s meanderings over-head, and the keen whistle of the
November wind careering among the hollies and evergreens which
the Major keeps interpreting into wheels.
Then his wife and he seek to relieve the suspense of the moment
by speculating on who will come first.
“Those nasty Tightlaces for a guinea,” observed the Major,
polishing his nails, while Mrs. Yammerton predicted the
Larkspurs.
“No, the Tights,” reiterated the Major, jingling his silver;
“Tights always comes first—thinks to catch one unprepared—”
At length the furious bark of the inhospitable terrier, who
really seemed as if he would eat horses, vehicle, visitors, and
all, was followed by a quick grind up to the door, and such a
pull at the bell as made the Major fear would cause it to suspend
payment for good—_ring-ring-ring-ring-ring_ it went, as if it was
never going to stop.
“Pulled the bell out of the socket, for a guinea,” exclaimed the
Major, listening for the letting down of steps, iron or
recessed—recessed had it.
“Mrs. D.” said the Major—figuring her old Landaulet in his mind.
“_Ladies_ evidently,” assented Mrs. Yammerton, as the rustle of
silks on their way to the put-to-rights Sanctum, sounded past the
drawing-room door. The Major then began speculating as to whether
they would get announced before another arrival took place, or
not.
****
Presently a renewed rustle was succeeded by the now
yellow-legged, brown-backed Bumbler, throwing open the door and
exclaiming in a stentorian voice, as if he thought his master and
mistress had turned suddenly deaf, “Mrs. and Miss Dotherington!”
and in an instant the four were hugging, and grinning, and
pump-handling each other’s arms as if they were going into
ecstacies, Mrs. Dotherington interlarding her gymnastics with
Mrs. Yammerton, with sly squeezes of the hand, suited to _soto
voce_ observations not intended for the Major’s ears, of “so
_‘appy_ to ear it! so glad to congratulate you! _So nice!_” with
an inquisitive whisper of—“_which is it? which is it?_ Do tell
me!”
****
_Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow_ went the clamorous Fury again;
_Ring-ring-ring-ring-ring-ring-ring_ went the aggravated bell,
half drowning Mrs. Yammerton’s impressive “O dear! nothin’ of the
sort—nothin’ of the sort, only a fox-hunting acquaintance of the
Major’s—only a fox-hunting acquaintance of the Major’s.” And then
the Major came to renew his affectionate embraces, with inquiries
about the night, and the looks of the moon—was it hazy, or was it
clear, or how was it?
“Mr. and Mrs. Rocket Larkspur!” exclaimed the Bumbler, following
up the key-note in which he had pitched his first announcement
and forthwith the hugging and grinning was resumed with the new
comers, Mrs. Larkspur presently leading Mrs. Yammerton off
sofawards, in order to poke her inquiries unheard by the Major,
who was now opening a turnip dialogue with Mr. Rocket—yellow
bullocks, purple tops, and so on. “Well, tell me—_which is it?_”
ejaculated Mrs. Rocket Larkspur, looking earnestly, in Mrs.
Yammerton’s expressive eyes—“_which is it,_” repeated she, in a
determined sort of take-no-denial tone.
“Oh dear! nothin’ of the sort—nothin’ of the sort, I assure you!”
whispered Mrs. Yammerton anxiously, well knowing the danger of
holloaing before you are out of the wood.
“Oh, _tell me—tell me_,” whispered Mrs. Rocket, coaxingly; “I’m
not like Mrs.————um there, looking at Mrs. Dotherington, who
would blab it all over the country.”
“_Really_ I have nothing to tell,” replied Mrs. Yammerton
serenely.
“Why, do you mean to say he’s not after one of the————um’s?”
demanded Mrs. Rocket eagerly.
“I don’t know what you mean,” laughed Mrs. Yammerton.
167m
_Original Size_
_Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow_ went the terrier again, giving Mrs.
Yammerton an excuse for sidling off to Mrs. “um,” who with her
daughter were lost in admiration at a floss silk cockatoo,
perched on an orange tree, the production of Miss Flora. “Oh, it
was so beautiful! Oh, what a love of a screen it would make; what
would she give if her Margaret could do such work,” inwardly
thinking how much better Margaret was employed making her own—we
will not say what.
_Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow_ went Fury again, the proceeds of this
bark being Mr. and Mrs. Tightlace, who now entered, the former
“‘oping they weren’t late,” as he smirked, and smiled, and looked
round for the youth on whom he had to vent his “British
Sportsman” knowledge—the latter speedily drawing Mrs. Yammerton
aside—to the ladies know what. But it was “no go” again. Mrs.
Yammerton really didn’t know what Mrs. Tightlace meant. No; she
_really_ didn’t. Nor did Mrs. Tightlace’s assurance that it was
“the talk of the country,” afford any clue to her meaning—but
Mrs. Tightlace’s large miniature brooch being luckily loose, Mrs.
Yammerton essayed to fasten it, which afforded her an opportunity
of bursting into transports of delight at its beauty, mingled
with exclamations as to its “_wonderful_ likeness to Mr. T.,”
though in reality she was looking at Mrs. Tightlace’s berthe, to
see whether it was machinery lace, or real.
Then the grand rush took place; and Fury’s throat seemed wholly
inadequate to the occasion, as first Blurkins’s Brougham, then
Jarperson’s Gig, next the corn-cutter’s _calèche_, and lastly,
Hetherington’s Dog-cart whisked up to the door, causing a meeting
of the highly decorated watered silks of the house, and the
hooded enveloped visitors hurrying through the passage to the
cloak-room.
By the time the young ladies had made their obeisances and got
congratulated on their looks, the now metamorphosed visitors came
trooping in, flourishing their laced kerchiefs, and flattening
their _chapeaux mèchaniques_ as they entered. Then the full
chorus of conversation was established; moon, hounds, turnips,
horses.
Parliament, with the usual—“Oi see by the papers that Her Majesty
is gone to Osborne,” or, “Oi see by the papers that the Comet is
coming;” while Mrs. Rocket Larkspur draws Miss Yammerton aside to
try what she can fish out of her. But here comes Fine Billy, and
if ever hero realised an author’s description of him, assuredly
it is our friend, for he sidles as unconcernedly into the room as
he would into a Club or Casino, with all the dreamy listlessness
of a thorough exquisite, apparently unconscious of any change
having taken place in the party. But if Billy is unconscious of
the presence of strangers, his host is not, and forthwith he
inducts him into their acquaintance—Hetherington’s, Hyæna’s, and
all.
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 Yammerton
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 roast 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.
Tightlace 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. Some
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.”