307m _Original Size_
CARCELY were the congratulations of the company to our hero, on
his becoming a member of the renowned Hit-im and Hold-im shire
hunt, over, ere a great rush of dinner poured into the room,
borne by Peter and the usual miscellaneous attendants at an inn
banquet; servants in livery, servants out of livery, servants in
a sort of half-livery, servants in place, servants out of place,
post-boys converted into footmen, “boots” put into shoes. Then
the carrot and turnip garnished roasts and boils, and stews were
crowded down the table, in a profusion that would astonish any
one who thinks it impossible to dine under a guinea a head.
Rounds, sirloins middles, sucking-pigs, poultry, &c. (for they
dispensed with the formalities of soup and fish ), being duly
distributed. Peter announced the fact deferentially to Sir Moses,
as he stood monopolizing the best place before the fire,
whereupon the Baronet, drawing his hands out of his trowser’s
pockets, let fall his yellow lined gloves and clapping his hands,
exclaimed. “DINNER GENTLEMAN!” in a stentorian voice, adding,
“PRINGLE you sit on my right! and CUDDY!” appealing to our friend
Flintoff’. “will you take the vice-chair?”
“With all my heart!” replied Cuddy, whereupon making an imaginary
hunting-horn of his hand, he put it to his mouth, and went
blowing and hooping down the room, to entice a certain portion of
the guests after him. All parties being at length suited with
seats, grace was said, and the assault commenced with the
vigorous determination of over-due appetites.
If a hand-in-the-pocket-hunt-dinner possesses few attractions in
the way of fare, it is nevertheless free from the restraints and
anxieties that pervade private entertainments, where the host
cranes at the facetious as he scowls at his butler, or madame
mingles her pleasantries with prayers for the safe arrival of the
creams, and those extremely capricious sensitive jellies. People
eat as if they had come to dine and not to talk, some, on this
occasion, eating with their knives, some with their forks, some
with both occasionally. And so, what with one aid and another,
they made a very great clatter.
The first qualms of hunger being at length appeased, Sir Moses
proceeded to select subjects for politeness in the wine-taking
way—men whom he could not exactly have at his own house, but who
might be prevented from asking for cover-rent, or damages, by a
little judicious flattery, or again, men who were only supposed
to be lukewarmly disposed towards the great Hit-im and Hold-im
shire hunt.
Sir Moses would rather put his hand into a chimney-sweep’s pocket
than into his own, but so long as anything could be got by the
tongue he never begrudged it. So he “sherried” with Mossman and
the army of observation generally, also with Pica, who always
puffed his hunt, cutting at D’Orsay Davis’s efforts on behalf of
the Earl, and with Buckwheat (whose son he had recently dom’d à
la Rowley Abingdon), and with Corduroys, and Straddler, and
Hicks, and Doubledrill—with nearly all the dark coats, in
short—Cuddy Flintoff, too, kept the game a-going at his end of
the table, as well to promote conviviality as to get as much wine
as he could; so altogether there was a pretty brisk consumption,
and some of the tight-clad gentlemen began to look rather
apoplectic. Cannon-ball-like plum-puddings, hip-bath-like
apple-pies, and foaming creams, completed the measure of their
uneasiness, and left little room for any cheese. Nature being at
length most abundantly satisfied throughout the assembly, grace
was again said, and the cloth cleared for action. The regulation
port and sherry, with light—very light—Bordeaux, being duly
placed upon the table, with piles of biscuits at intervals, down
the centre, Sir Moses tapped the well-indented mahogany with his
presidential hammer, and proceeded to prepare the guests for the
great toast of the evening, by calling upon them to fill bumpers
to the usual loyal and patriotic ones. These being duly disposed
of, he at length rose for the all-important let off, amid the
nudges and “now then’s,” of such of the party as feared a fresh
attempt on their pockets—Mossman and Co., in particular, were all
eyes, ears, and fears.
“Gentlemen!” cries Sir Moses, rising and diving his hands into
his trouser’s pockets—“Gentlemen!” repeated he, with an ominous
cough, that sounded very like cash.
“_Hark to the Bar owl!—hark_” cheered Cuddy Flintoff from the
other end of the room, thus cutting short a discussion about
wool, a bargain for beans, and an inquiry for snuff in his own
immediate neighbourhood, and causing a tapping of the table
further up.
“Gentlemen!” repeated Sir Moses, for the third time, amid cries
of “hear, hear,” and “order, order,”—“I now have the pleasure of
introducing to your notice the toast of the evening—a toast
endeared by a thousand associations, and rendered classical by
the recollection of the great and good men who have given it in
times gone by from this very chair—(applause). I need hardly say,
gentlemen, that that toast is the renowned Hit-im and Hold-im
shire hunt—(renewed applause)—a hunt second to none in the
kingdom; a hunt whose name is famous throughout the land, and
whose members are the very flower and élite of society—(renewed
applause). Never, he was happy to say, since it was established,
were its prospects so bright and cheering as they were at the
present time—(great applause, the announcement being considered
indicative of a healthy exchequer)—its country was great, its
covers perfect, and thanks to their truly invaluable allies—the
farmers—their foxes most abundant—(renewed applause). Of those
excellent men it was impossible to speak in terms of too great
admiration and respect—(applause)—whether he looked at those he
was blessed with upon his own estate—(laughter)—or at the great
body generally, he was lost for words to express his opinion of
their patriotism, and the obligations he felt under to them. So
far from ever hinting at such a thing as damage, he really
believed a farmer would be hooted from the market-table who
broached such a subject—(applause, with murmurs of dissent)—or
who even admitted it was possible that any could be
done—(laughter and applause). As for a few cocks and hens, he was
sure they felt a pleasure in presenting them to the foxes. At all
events, he could safely say he had never paid for any—(renewed
laughter). Looking, therefore, at the hunt in all its aspects—its
sport past, present, and to come—he felt that he never addressed
them under circumstances of greater promise, or with feelings of
livelier satisfaction. It only remained for them to keep matters
up to the present mark, to insure great and permanent prosperity.
He begged, therefore, to propose, with all the honours, Success
to the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt!”—(drunk with three times
three and one cheer more). Sir Moses and Cuddy Flintoff mounting
their chairs to mark time. Flintoff finishing off with a round of
view halloas and other hunting noises.
When the applause and Sir Moses had both subsided, parties who
had felt uneasy about their pockets, began to breathe more
freely, and as the bottles again circulated, Mr. Mossman and
others, for whom wine was too cold, slipped out to get their
pipes, and something warm in the bar; Mossman calling for
whiskey, Buckwheat for brandy, Broadfurrow for gin, and so on.
Then as they sugared and flavoured their tumblers, they chewed
the cud of Sir Moses’s eloquence, and at length commenced
discussing it, as each man got seated with his pipe in his mouth
and his glass on his knee, in a little glass-fronted bar.
“What a man he is to talk, that Sir Moses,” observed Buckwheat
after a long respiration.
“He’s a greet economist of the truth, I reckon,” replied Mr.
Mossman, withdrawing his pipe from his mouth, “for I’ve written
to him till I’m tired, about last year’s damage to Mrs. Anthill’s
sown grass.”
“He’s right, though, in saying he never paid for poultry,”
observed Mr. Broadfurrow, with a humorous shake of his big head,
“but, my word, his hook-nosed agent has as many letters as would
paper a room;” and so they sipped, and smoked, and talked the
Baronet over, each man feeling considerably relieved at there
being no fresh attempt on the pocket.
Meanwhile Sir Moses, with the aid of Cuddy Flintoff, trimmed the
table, and kept the bottles circulating briskly, presently
calling on Mr. Paul Straddler for a song, who gave them the old
heroic one, descriptive of a gallant run with the Hit-im and
Hold-im shire hounds, in the days of Mr. Customer, at which they
all laughed and applauded as heartily as if they had never heard
it before. They then drank Mr. Straddler’s health, and thanks to
him for his excellent song.
As it proceeded, Sir Moses intimated quietly to our friend Billy
Pringle that he should propose his health next, which would
enable Mr. Pringle to return the compliment by proposing Sir
Moses, an announcement that threw our hero into a very
considerable state of trepidation, but from which he saw no mode
of escape. Sir Moses then having allowed a due time to elapse
after the applause that followed the drinking of Mr. Straddler’s
health, again arose, and tapping the table with his hammer,
called upon them to fill bumpers to the health of his young
friend on his right (applause). “He could not express the
pleasure it afforded him,” he said, “to see a nephew of his old
friend and brother Baronet, Sir Jonathan Pringle, become a member
of their excellent hunt, and he hoped Billy would long live to
enjoy the glorious diversion of fox-hunting,” which Sir Moses
said it was the bounden duty of every true-born Briton to support
to the utmost of his ability, for that it was peculiarly the
sport of gentlemen, and about the only one that defied the
insidious arts of the blackleg, adding that Lord Derby was quite
right in saying that racing had got into the hands of parties who
kept horses not for sport, but as mere instruments of gambling,
and if his (Sir Moses’s) young friend, Mr. Pringle, would allow
him to counsel him, he would say, Never have anything to do with
the turf (applause). Stick to hunting, and if it didn’t bring him
in money, it would bring him in health, which was better than
money, with which declaration Sir Moses most cordially proposed
Mr. Pringle’s health (drunk with three times three and one cheer
more).
Now our friend had never made a speech in his life, but being, as
we said at the outset, blessed with a great determination of
words to the mouth, he rose at a hint from Sir Moses, and assured
the company “how grateful he was for the honour they had done him
as well in electing him a member of their delightful sociable
hunt, as in responding to the toast of his health in the
flattering manner they had, and he could assure them that nothing
should be wanting on his part to promote the interests of the
establishment, and to prove himself worthy of their continued
good opinion,” at which intimation Sir Moses winked knowingly at
Mr. Smoothley, who hemmed a recognition of his meaning.
Meanwhile Mr. Pringle stood twirling his trifling moustache,
wishing to sit down, but feeling there was something to keep him
up: still he couldn’t hit it off. Even a friendly round of
applause failed to help him out; at length, Sir Moses, fearing he
might stop altogether, whispered the words “_My health_,” just
under his nose; at which Billy perking up, exclaimed, “Oh, aye,
to be sure!” and seizing a decanter under him, he filled himself
a bumper of port, calling upon the company to follow his example.
This favour being duly accorded, our friend then proceeded, in a
very limping, halting sort of way, to eulogise a man with whom he
was very little acquainted amid the friendly word-supplying
cheers and plaudits of the party. At length he stopped again,
still feeling that he was not due on his seat, but quite unable
to say why he should not resume it. The company thinking he might
have something to say to the purpose, how he meant to hunt with
them, or something of that sort, again supplied the cheers of
encouragement. It was of no use, however, he couldn’t hit it off.
****
“_All the honors!_” at length whispered Sir Moses as before.
“O, ah, to be sure! _all the honors!_” replied Billy aloud,
amidst the mirth of the neighbours. “Gentlemen!” continued he,
elevating his voice to its former pitch, “This toast I feel
assured—that is to say, I feel quite certain. I mean,” stammered
he, stamping with his foot, “I, I, I.”
“_Aye, two thou’s i’ Watlington goods!_” exclaimed the
half-drunken Mr. Corduroys, an announcement that drew forth such
a roar of laughter as enabled Billy to tack the words, “all the
honors,” to the end, and so with elevated glass to continue the
noise with cheers. He then sate down perfectly satisfied with
this his first performance, feeling that he had the germs of
oratory within him.
A suitable time having elapsed, Sir Moses rose and returned
thanks with great vigour, declaring that beyond all comparison
that was the proudest moment of his life, and that he wouldn’t
exchange the mastership of the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hounds
for the highest, the noblest office in the world—Dom’d if he
would! with which asseveration he drank all their very good
healths, and resumed his seat amidst loud and long continued
applause, the timidest then feeling safe against further demands
on their purses. Another song quickly followed, and then
according to the usual custom of society, that the more you abuse
a man in private the more you praise him in public, Sir Moses
next proposed the health of that excellent and popular nobleman
the Earl of Ladythorne, whose splendid pack showed such
unrivalled sport in the adjoining county of Featherbedford; Sir
Moses, after a great deal of flattery, concluding by declaring
that he would “go to the world’s end to serve Lord
Ladythorne—Dom’d if he wouldn’t,” a sort of compliment that the
noble Earl never reciprocated; on the contrary, indeed, when he
condescended to admit the existence of such a man as Sir Moses,
it was generally in that well-known disparaging enquiry, “Who
_is_ that Sir Aaron Mainchance? or who is that Sir Somebody
Mainchance, who hunts Hit-im and Hold-im shire?” He never could
hit off the Baronet’s Christian or rather Jewish name. Now,
however, it was all the noble Earl, “my noble friend and brother
master,” the “noble and gallant sportsman,” and so on. Sir Moses
thus partly revenging himself on his lordship with the freedom.
When a master of hounds has to borrow a “draw” from an adjoining
country, it is generally a pretty significant hint that his own
is exhausted, and when the chairman of a hunt dinner begins
toasting his natural enemy the adjoining master, it is pretty
evident that the interest of the evening is over. So it was on
the present occasion. Broad backs kept bending away at intervals,
thinking nobody saw them, leaving large gaps unclosed up, while
the guests that remained merely put a few drops in the bottoms of
their glasses or passed the bottles altogether.
Sir Aaron, we beg his pardon—Sir Moses, perceiving this, and
knowing the value of a good report, called on those who were left
to “fill a bumper to the health of their excellent and truly
invaluable friend Mr. Pica, contrasting his quiet habits with the
swaggering bluster of a certain Brummagem Featherbedfordshire
D’Orsay.” (Drunk with great applause, D’Orsay Davis having more
than once sneered at the equestrian prowess of the Hit-im aud
Hold-im shire-ites.)
Mr. Pica, who was a fisherman and a very bad one to boot, then
arose and began dribbling out the old stereotyped formula about
air we breathe, have it not we die, &c., which was a signal for a
general rise; not all Sir Moses and Cuddy Flintoff’s united
efforts being able to restrain the balance of guests from
breaking away, and a squabble occurring behind the screen about a
hat, the chance was soon irrevocably gone. Mr. Pica was,
therefore, left alone in his glory. If any one, however, can
afford to be indifferent about being heard, it is surely an
editor who can report himself in his paper, and poor Pica did
himself ample justice in the “Hit-im and Hold-im shire Herald” on
the Saturday following.