 | A HUNTING DINNER. Tales of a traveller |  |
A HUNTING DINNER.
I was once at a hunting dinner, given by a
worthy fox-hunting old Baronet, who kept Bachelor's
Hall in jovial style, in an ancient rook-haunted
family mansion, in one of the middle
counties. He had been a devoted admirer of the
fair sex in his young days; but having travelled
much, studied the sex in various countries with
distinguished success, and returned home profoundly
instructed, as he supposed, in the ways
of woman, and a perfect master of the art of
pleasing, he had the mortification of being jilted
by a little boarding school girl, who was scarcely
versed in the accidence of love.
The Baronet was completely overcome by
such an incredible defeat; retired from the world
in disgust, put himself under the government of
his housekeeper, and took to fox hunting like a
perfect Jehu. Whatever poets may say to the
grows old; and a pack of fox hounds may chase
out of his heart even the memory of a boarding
school goddess. The Baronet was when I saw
him as merry and mellow an old bachelor as
ever followed a hound; and the love he had once
felt for one woman had spread itself over the
whole sex; so that there was not a pretty face
in the whole country round, but came in for a
share.
The dinner was prolonged till a late hour;
for our host having no ladies in his household
to summon us to the drawing room, the bottle
maintained its true bachelor sway, unrivalled by
its potent enemy the tea-kettle. The old hall
in which we dined echoed to bursts of robustious
fox hunting merriment, that made the ancient
antlers shake on the walls. By degrees, however,
the wine and wassail of mine host began
to operate upon bodies already a little jaded by
the chase. The choice spirits that flashed up at
the beginning of the dinner, sparkled for a time,
then gradually went out one after another, or
the socket. Some of the briskest talkers, who
had given tongue so bravely at the first burst, fell
fast asleep; and none kept on their way but
certain of those long-winded prosers, who, like
short legged hounds, worry on unnoticed at the
bottom of conversation, but are sure to be in at
the death. Even these at length subsided into
silence; and scarcely any thing was heard but
the nasal communications of two or three veteran
masticators, who, having been silent while
awake, were indemnifying the company in their
sleep.
At length the announcement of tea and coffee
in the cedar parlour roused all hands from this
temporary torpor. Every one awoke marvellously
renovated, and while sipping the refreshing
beverage out of the Baronet's old-fashioned hereditary
china, began to think of departing for
their several homes. But here a sudden difficulty
arose. While we had been prolonging our
repast, a heavy winter storm had set in, with
snow, rain, and sleet, driven by such bitter blasts
very bone.
“It's all in vain,” said our hospitable host,
“to think of putting one's head out of doors in
such weather. So, gentlemen, I hold you my
guests for this night at least, and will have your
quarters prepared accordingly.”
The unruly weather, which became more and
more tempestuous, rendered the hospitable suggestion
unanswerable. The only question was,
whether such an unexpected accession of company,
to an already crowded house, would not put
the housekeeper to her trumps to accommodate
them.
“Pshaw,” cried mine host, “did you ever
know of a Bachelor's Hall that was not elastic,
and able to accommodate twice as many as it
could hold?” So out of a good humoured pique
the housekeeper was summoned to consultation
before us all. The old lady appeared, in her gala
suit of faded brocade, which rustled with flurry
and agitation, for in spite of mine host's bravado,
she was a little perplexed. But in a bachelor's
are readily managed. There is no lady of the
house to stand upon squeamish points about
lodging guests in odd holes and corners, and exposing
the shabby parts of the establishment. A
bachelor's housekeeper is used to shifts and emergencies.
After much worrying to and fro; and
divers consultations about the red room, and the
blue room, and the chintz room, and the damask
room, and the little room with the bow window,
the matter was finally arranged.
When all this was done, we were once more
summoned to the standing rural amusement of
eating. The time that had been consumed in
dozing after dinner, and in the refreshment and
consultation of the cedar parlour, was sufficient,
in the opinion of the rosy-faced butler, to engender
a reasonable appetite for supper. A slight
repast had therefore been tricked up from the residue
of dinner, consisting of a cold sirloin of beef;
hashed venison; a devilled leg of a turkey or so,
and a few other of those light articles taken by
heavy snoring.
The nap after dinner had brightened up every
one's wit; and a great deal of excellent humour
was expended upon the perplexities of mine host
and his housekeeper, by certain married gentlemen
of the company, who considered themselves
privileged in joking with a bachelor's establishment.
From this the banter turned as to what
quarters each would find, on being thus suddenly
billeted in so antiquated a mansion.
“By my soul,” said an Irish captain of dragoons,
one of the most merry and boisterous of
the party—“by my soul, but I should not be surprised
if some of those good-looking gentlefolks
that hang along the walls, should walk about the
rooms of this stormy night; or if I should find
the ghost of one of these long-waisted ladies turning
into my bed in mistake for her grave in the
church-yard.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, then?” said a thin
hatchet-faced gentleman, with projecting eyes
like a lobster.
I had remarked this last personage throughout
dinner time for one of those incessant questioners,
who seem to have a craving, unhealthy, appetite
in conversation. He never seemed satisfied with
the whole of a story; never laughed when others
laughed; but always put the joke to the question.
He could never enjoy the kernel of the
nut, but pestered himself to get more out of the
shell.
“Do you believe in ghosts, then?” said the
inquisitive gentleman.
“Faith, but I do,” replied the jovial Irishman;
“I was brought up in the fear and belief of them:
we had a Benshee in our own family, honey.”
“A Benshee—and what's that?” cried the
questioner.
“Why an old lady ghost that tends upon your
real Milesian families, and wails at their window
to let them know when some of them are to die.”
“A mighty pleasant piece of information,”
cried an elderly gentleman, with a knowing look
and a flexible nose, to which he could give a
whimsical twist when he wished to be waggish.
“By my soul, but I'd have you know it's a
piece of distinction to be waited upon by a Benshee.
It's a proof that one has pure blood in
one's veins. But, egad, now we're talking of
ghosts, there never was a house or a night better
fitted than the present for a ghost adventure.
Faith, Sir John, have'nt you such a thing as a
haunted chamber to put a guest in?”
“Perhaps,” said the Baronet smiling, “I
might accommodate you even on that point.”
“Oh, I should like it of all things, my jewel.
Some dark oaken room, with ugly wo-begone
portraits that stare dismally at one, and about
which the housekeeper has a power of delightful
stories of love and murder. And then a dim
lamp, a table with a rusty sword across it, and a
spectre all in white to draw aside one's curtains
at midnight”—
“In truth,” said an old gentleman at one end
of the table, “you put me in mind of an anecdote”—
“Oh, a ghost story! a ghost story!” was vociferated
chair a little nearer.
The attention of the whole company was now
turned upon the speaker. He was an old gentleman,
one side of whose face was no match for
the other. The eyelid drooped and hung down
like an unhinged window shutter. Indeed, the
whole side of his head was dilapidated, and
seemed like the wing of a house shut up and
haunted. I'll warrant that side was well stuffed
with ghost stories.
There was a universal demand for the tale.
“Nay,” said the old gentleman, “it's a mere
anecdote—and a very commonplace one; but
such as it is you shall have it. It is a story that I
once heard my uncle tell when I was a boy. But
whether as having happened to himself or to another,
I cannot recollect. But no matter, it's very
likely it happened to himself, for he was a man
very apt to meet with strange adventures. I
have heard him tell of others much more singular.
At any rate, we will suppose it happened
to himself.”
“What kind of man was your uncle?” said
the questioning gentleman.
“Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd kind of
body; a great traveller, and fond of telling his
adventures.”
“Pray, how old might he have been when this
happened?”
“When what happened?” cried the gentleman
with the flexible nose, impatiently—“Egad, you
have not given any thing a chance to happen—
come, never mind our uncle's age; let us have
his adventures.”
The inquisitive gentleman being for the moment
silenced, the old gentleman with the haunted
head proceeded.
| A HUNTING DINNER. Tales of a traveller | |