MISCELLANY NO 17
EARLY VICTORIAN TRAVEL
MR JORROCKS’S JAUNT TO FRANCE PART 2
[Mr
Jorrocks is on the boat to France.]
Mr. Jorrocks, what with his Margate trips,
and a most substantial breakfast of beef-steaks and porter, tea, eggs, muffins,
prawns, and fried ham, held out as long as anybody—indeed, at one time the odds
were that he would not be sick at all; and he kept walking up and down deck
like a true British tar. In one of his turns he was observed to make a full
stop.—Immediately before the boiler his eye caught a cadaverous-looking
countenance that rose between the top of a blue camlet cloak, and the bottom of
a green travelling-cap, with a large patent-leather peak; he was certain that
he knew it, and, somehow or other, he thought, not favourably. The passenger
was in that happy mood just debating whether he should hold out against
sickness any longer, or resign himself unreservedly to its horrors, when Mr.
Jorrocks's eye encountered his, and the meeting did not appear to contribute to
his happiness. Mr. Jorrocks paused and looked at him steadily for some seconds,
during which time his thoughts made a rapid cast over his memory.
"Sergeant Bumptious, by gum!" exclaimed he, giving his thigh a hearty
slap, as the deeply indented pock-marks on the learned gentleman's face
betrayed his identity. "Sergeant," said he, going up to him,
"I'm werry 'appy to see ye—may be in the course of your practice at
Croydon you've heard that there are more times than one to catch a thief."
"Who are you?" inquired the sergeant with a growl, just at which
moment the boat gave a roll, and he wound up the inquiry by a donation to the
fishes. "Who am I?" replied Mr. Jorrocks, as soon as he was done,
"I'll soon tell ye that—I'm Mr. JORROCKS! Jorrocks wersus Cheatum, in
fact—now that you have got your bullying toggery off, I'll be 'appy to fight ye
either by land or sea." "Oh-h-h-h!" groaned the sergeant at the
mention of the latter word, and thereupon he put his head over the boat and
paid his second subscription. Mr. Jorrocks stood eyeing him, and when the
sergeant recovered, he observed with apparent mildness and compassion,
"Now, my dear sergeant, to show ye that I can return good for evil, allow
me to fatch you a nice 'ot mutton chop!" "Oh-h-h-h-h!" groaned
the sergeant, as though he would die. "Or perhaps you'd prefer a cut of
boiled beef with yellow fat, and a dab of cabbage?" an alternative which
was too powerful for the worthy citizen himself—for, like Sterne with his
captive, he had drawn a picture that his own imagination could not sustain—and,
in attempting to reach the side of the boat, he cascaded over the sergeant, and
they rolled over each other, senseless and helpless upon deck.
"Mew, mew," screamed the
seagulls;—"creak, creak," went the cordage;—"flop, flop,"
went the sails; round went the white basins, and the steward with the mop; and
few passengers would have cared to have gone overboard, when, at the end of
three hours' misery, the captain proclaimed that they were running into still
water off Boulogne. This intimation was followed by the collection of the
passage money by the mate, and the jingling of a tin box by the steward, under
the noses of the party, for perquisites for the crew. Jorrocks and the sergeant
lay together like babes in the wood until they were roused by this operation,
when, with a parting growl at his companion, Mr. Jorrocks got up; and though he
had an idea in his own mind that a man had better live abroad all his life than
encounter such misery as he had undergone, for the purpose of returning to
England, he recollected his intended work upon France, and began to make his
observations upon the town of Boulogne, towards which the vessel was rapidly
steaming. "Not half so fine as Margate," said he; "the houses
seem all afraid of the sea, and turn their ends to it instead of fronting it,
except yon great white place, which I suppose is the baths"; and, taking
his hunting telescope out of his pocket, he stuck out his legs and prepared to
make an observation. "How the people are swarming down to see us!" he
exclaimed. "I see such a load of petticoats—glad Mrs. J—— ain't with us;
may have some fun here, I guess. Dear me, wot lovely women! wot ankles! beat
the English, hollow—would give something to be a single man!" While he
made these remarks, the boat ran up the harbour in good style, to the evident
gratification of the multitude who lined the pier from end to end, and followed
her in her passage. "Ease her! stop her!" at last cried the captain,
as she got opposite a low wooden guard-house, midway down the port. A few
strokes of the paddles sent her up to the quay, some ropes were run from each
end of the guard-house down to the boat, within which space no one was admitted
except about a dozen soldiers or custom-house officers—in green coats, white
trousers, black sugar-loaf "caps," and having swords by their
sides—and some thick-legged fisherwomen, with long gold ear-rings, to lower the
ladder for disembarkation. The idlers, that is to say, all the inhabitants of
Boulogne, range themselves outside the ropes on foot, horseback, in carriages,
or anyhow, to take the chance of seeing someone they know, to laugh at the
melancholy looks of those who have been sick, and to criticise the company, who
are turned into the guarded space like a flock of sheep before them.
Mr. Jorrocks, having scaled the ladder, gave
himself a hearty and congratulatory shake on again finding himself on terra firma,
and sticking his hat jauntily on one side, as though he didn't know what
sea-sickness was, proceeded to run his eye along the spectators on one side of
the ropes; when presently he was heard to exclaim, "My vig, there's
Thompson! He owes us a hundred pounds, and has been doing these three
years." And thereupon he bolted up to a fine looking young fellow—with
mustachios, in a hussar foraging cap stuck on one side of his head, dressed in
a black velvet shooting-jacket, and with half a jeweller's shop about him in
the way of chains, brooches, rings and buttons—who had brought a good-looking
bay horse to bear with his chest against the cords. "Thompson," said
Mr. Jorrocks, in a firm tone of voice, "how are you?" "How do ye
do, Mister Jorrocks," drawled out the latter, taking a cigar from his
mouth, and puffing a cloud of smoke over the grocer's head. "Well, I'm
werry well, but I should like to have a few moments' conversation with
you." "Would ye?" said Thompson, blowing another cloud. "Yes,
I would; you remember that 'ere little bill you got Simpkins to discount for
you one day when I was absent; we have had it by us a long time now, and it is
about time you were taking it up." "You think so, do you, Mister
Jorrocks; can't you renew it? I'll give you a draft on Aldgate pump for the
amount." "Come, none of your funning with me, I've had enough of your
nonsense: give me my pewter, or I'll have that horse from under you; for though
it has got the hair rubbed off its near knee, it will do werry well to carry me
with the Surrey occasionally." "You old fool," said Thompson,
"you forget where you are; if I could pay you your little bill, do you
suppose I would be here? You can't squeeze blood out of a turnip, can ye? But
I'll tell you what, my covey, if I can't give you satisfaction in money, you
shall give me the satisfaction of a gentleman, if you don't take care what you
are about, you old tinker. By Jove, I'll order pistols and coffee for two
to-morrow morning at Napoleon's column, and let the daylight through your
carcass if you utter another syllable about the bill. Why, now, you stare as
Balaam did at his ass, when he found it capable of holding an argument with
him!"
And true enough, Jorrocks was dumbfounded at
this sort of reply from a creditor, it not being at all in accordance with the Lex
mercatoria, or law of merchants, and quite unknown on 'Change. Before,
however, he had time to recover his surprise, all the passengers having entered
the roped area, one of the green-coated gentry gave him a polite twist by the
coat-tail, and with a wave of the hand and bend of his body, beckoned him to
proceed with the crowd into the guard-house. After passing an outer room, they
entered the bureau by a door in the middle of a wooden partition, where two men
were sitting with pens ready to enter the names of the arrivers in ledgers.
"Votre nom et designation?" said
one of them to Mr. Jorrocks—who, with a bad start, had managed to squeeze in
first—to which Mr. Jorrocks shook his head. "Sare, what's your name,
sare?" inquired the same personage. "JORROCKS," was the answer,
delivered with great emphasis, and thereupon the secretary wrote "Shorrock."
"—Monsieur Shorrock," said he, looking up, "votre profession,
Monsieur? Vot you are, sare?" "A grocer," replied Mr. Jorrocks,
which caused a titter from those behind who meant to sink the shop.
"Marchand-Epicier," wrote the bureau-keeper. "Quel age
avez-vous, Monsieur? How old you are, sare?" "Two pound twelve,"
replied Mr. Jorrocks, surprised at his inquisitiveness. "No, sare, not vot
monnay you have, sare, hot old you are, sare." "Well, two pound
twelve, fifty-two in fact." Mr. Jorrocks was then passed out, to take his
chance among the touts and commissionaires of the various hotels, who are
enough to pull passengers to pieces in their solicitations for custom. In
Boulogne, however, no man with money is ever short of friends; and Thompson
having given the hint to two or three acquaintances as he rode up street, there
were no end of broken-down sportsmen, levanters, and gentlemen who live on the
interest of what they owe other people, waiting to receive Mr. Jorrocks. The
greetings on their parts were most cordial and enthusiastic, and even some who
were in his books did not hesitate to hail him; the majority of the party,
however, was composed of those with whom he had at various tunes and places
enjoyed the sports of the field, but whom he had never missed until they met at
Boulogne.
Their inquiries were business-like and
familiar:—"are ye, Jorrocks?" cried one, holding out both hands.
"How are ye, my lad of wax? Do you still play billiards?—Give you nine,
and play you for a Nap." "Come to my house this evening, old boy, and
take a hand at whist for old acquaintance sake," urged the friend on his
left; "got some rare cogniac, and a box of beautiful Havannahs."
"No, Jorrocks,—dine with me," said a third, "and play
chicken-hazard." "Don't," said a fourth, confidentially,
"he'll fleece ye like fun". "Let me put your name down to our
Pigeon Club; only a guinea entrance and a guinea subscription—nothing to a rich
man like you." "Have you any coin to lend on unexceptionable personal
security, with a power of killing and selling your man if he don't pay?"
inquired another. "Are they going to abolish the law of arrest? 'twould be
very convenient if they did." "Will you discount me a bill at three
months?" "Is B—— out of the Bench yet?" "Who do they call
Nodding Homer in your hunt?" "Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen!" cried
Mr. Jorrocks, "go it gently, go it gently! Consider the day is 'ot, I'm
almost out of breath, and faint for want of food. I've come all the way from
Angle-tear, as we say in France, and lost my breakfast on the wogaye. Where is
there an inn where I can recruit my famished frame? What's this?" looking
up at a sign, "'Done a boar in a manger,' what does this mean?—where's my
French dictionary? I've heard that boar is very good to eat." "Yes,
but this boar is to drink," said a friend on the right; "but you must
not put up at a house of that sort; come to the Hôtel d'Orleans, where all the
best fellows and men of consequence go, a celebrated house in the days of the
Boulogne Hunt. Ah, that was the time, Mr. Jorrocks! we lived like fighting-cocks
then; you should have been among us, such a rollicking set of dogs! could hunt
all day, race maggots and drink claret all night, and take an occasional by-day
with the hounds on a Sunday. Can't do that with the Surrey, I guess. There's
the Hôtel d'Orleans," pointing to it as they turned the corner of the
street; "splendid house it is. I've no interest in taking you there, don't
suppose so; but the sun of its greatness is fast setting—there's no such
shaking of elbows as there used to be—the IOU system knocked that up. Still,
you'll be very comfortable; a bit of carpet by your bedside, curtains to your
windows, a pie-dish to wash in, a clean towel every third day, and as many
friends to dine with you as ever you like—no want of company in Boulogne, I assure
you. Here, Mr. W——," addressing the innkeeper who appeared at the door,
"this is the very celebrated Mr. Jorrocks, of whom we have all heard so
much,—take him and use him as you would your own son; and, hark ye (aside),
don't forget I brought him."
"Garsoon," said Jorrocks, after
having composed himself a little during which time he was also composing a
French speech from his dictionary and Madame de Genlis's20
Manuel du Voyageur, "A che hora [ora] si pranza?" looking at
the waiter, who seemed astonished. "Oh, stop!" said he, looking
again, "that's Italian—I've got hold of the wrong column. A quelle heure
dine—hang me if I know how to call this chap—dine [spelling it], t'on?"
"What were you wishing to say, sir?" inquired the waiter,
interrupting his display of the language. "Wot, do you speak
English?" asked Jorrocks in amazement. "I hope so, sir," replied
the man, "for I'm an Englishman." "Then, why the devil did you
not say so, you great lout, instead of putting me into a sweat this 'ot day by
speaking French to you?" "Beg pardon, sir, thought you were a
Frenchman." "Did you, indeed?" said Jorrocks, delighted;
"then, by Jove, I do speak French! Somehow or other I thought I could, as
I came over. Bring me a thundering beef-steak, and a pint of stout,
directly!" The Hôtel d'Orleans being a regular roast-beef and plum-pudding
sort of house, Mr. Jorrocks speedily had an immense stripe of tough beef and
boiled potatoes placed before him, in the well-windowed salle à manger,
and the day being fine he regaled himself at a table at an open window, whereby
he saw the smart passers-by, and let them view him in return.
Footnote 20:
(return) For the benefit of our "tarry-at-home" readers, we
should premise that Madame de Genlis's work is arranged for the convenience of
travellers who do not speak any language but their own; and it consists of
dialogues on different necessary subjects, with French and Italian translations
opposite the English.
Sunday is a gay day in France, and Boulogne
equals the best town in smartness. The shops are better set out, the women are
better dressed, and there is a holiday brightness and air of pleasure on every
countenance. Then instead of seeing a sulky husband trudging behind a pouting
wife with a child in her arms, an infallible sign of a Sunday evening in
England, they trip away to the rural fête champêtre, where with dancing,
lemonade, and love, they pass away the night in temperate if not innocent
hilarity. "Happy people! that once a week, at least, lay down their cares,
and dance and sing, and sport away the weights of grievance, which bow down the
spirit of other nations to the earth."
The voyage, though short, commenced a new era
in Mr. Jorrocks's life, and he entirely forget all about Sunday and Dover
dullness the moment he set foot on sprightly France, and he no more recollected
it was Sunday, than if such a day had ceased to exist in the calendar. Having
bolted his steak, he gave his Hessians their usual flop with his handkerchief,
combed his whiskers, pulled his wig straight, and sallied forth, dictionary in
hand, to translate the signs, admire the clever little children talking French,
quiz the horses, and laugh at everything he didn't understand; to spend his
first afternoon, in short, as nine-tenths of the English who go
"abroad" are in the habit of doing.
Early the next morning. Mr. Jorrocks and the
Yorkshireman, accompanied by the commissionnaire of the Hôtel d'Orleans,
repaired to the upper town, for the purpose of obtaining passports, and as they
ascended the steep street called La grand Rue, which connects the two towns,
they held a consultation as to what the former should be described. A
"Marchand-Epicier" would obtain Mr. Jorrocks no respect, but, then,
he objected to the word "Rentier." "What is the French for
fox-'unter?" said he, after a thoughtful pause, turning to his dictionary.
There was no such word. "Sportsman, then? Ay, Chasseur! how would that
read? John Jorrocks, Esq., Chasseur,—not bad, I think," said he.
"That will do," replied the Yorkshireman, "but you must sink the
Esquire now, and tack 'Monsieur' before your name, and a very pretty euphonious
sound 'Monsieur Jorrocks' will have; and when you hear some of the little
Parisian grisettes lisp it out as you turn the garters over on their counters,
while they turn their dark flashing eyes over upon you, it will be enough to
rejuvenate your old frame. But suppose we add to 'Chasseur'—'Member of the
Surrey Hunt?'" "By all means," replied Mr. Jorrocks, delighted
at the idea, and ascending the stairs of the Consulate three steps at a time.
The Consul, Mons. De Horter, was in
attendance sitting in state, with a gendarme at the door and his secretary at
his elbow. "Bonjour, Monsieur," said he, bowing, as Mr.
Jorrocks passed through the lofty folding door; to which our traveller replied,
"The top of the morning to you, sir," thinking something of that sort
would be right. The Consul, having scanned him through his green spectacles,
drew a large sheet of thin printed paper from his portfolio, with the arms of
France placed under a great petticoat at the top, and proceeded to fill up a
request from his most Christian Majesty to all the authorities, both civil and
military, of France, and also of all the allied "pays," "de
laisser librement passer" Monsieur John Jorrocks, Chasseur and member of
the Hont de Surrey, and plusieurs other Honts; and also, Monsieur Stubbs,
native of Angleterre, going from Boulogne to Paris, and to give them aid and
protection, "en cas de besoin," all of which Mr. Jorrocks —like many
travellers before him—construed into a most flattering compliment and mark of
respect, from his most Christian Majesty to himself.
Under the word "signalement" in the
margin, the Consul also drew the following sketch of our hero, in order, as Mr.
Jorrocks supposed, that the King of the Mouncheers might know him when he saw
him:
"Age de 52 ans
Taille d'un mètre 62 centimetres
Perruque brun
Front large
Yeux gris-sanguin
Nez moyen
Barbe grisâtre
Vizage ronde
Teint rouge."
He then handed it over to Mr. Jorrocks for
his signature, who, observing the words "Signature du Porteur" at the
bottom, passed it on to the porter of the inn, until put right by the Consul,
who, on receiving his fee, bowed him out with great politeness.
Great as had been the grocer's astonishment
at the horses and carts that he had seen stirring about the streets, his
amazement knew no bounds when the first Paris diligence came rolling into town
with six horses, spreading over the streets as they swung about in all
directions—covered with bells, sheep-skins, worsted balls, and foxes' brushes,
driven by one solitary postilion on the off wheeler. "My vig," cried
he, "here's Wombwell's wild-beast show! What the deuce are they doing in
France? I've not heard of them since last Bartlemy-fair, when I took my brother
Joe's children to see them feed. But stop—this is full of men! My eyes, so it
is! It's what young Dutch Sam would call a male coach, because there are no
females about it. Well, I declare, I am almost sorry I did not bring Mrs. J——.
Wot would they think to see such a concern in Cheapside? Why, it holds half a
township—a perfect willage on wheels. My eyes, wot a curiosity! Well, I never
thought to live to see such a sight as this!—wish it was going our way that I
might have a ride in it. Hope ours will be as big." Shortly after theirs
did arrive, and Mr. Jorrocks was like a perfect child with delight. It was not
a male coach, however, for in the different compartments were five or six
ladies. "Oh, wot elegant creatures," cried he, eyeing them; "I
could ride to Jerusalem with them without being tired; wot a thing it is to be
a bachelor!"
The Conducteur—with the usual frogged,
tagged, embroidered jacket, and fur-bound cap—having hoisted their luggage on
high, the passengers who had turned out of their respective compartments to
stretch their legs after their cramping from Calais, proceeded to resume their
places. There were only two seats vacant in the interior, or, as Mr. Jorrocks
called it, the "middle house," consequently the Yorkshireman and he
crossed legs. The other four passengers had corner-seats, things much coveted
by French travellers. On Mr. Stubbs's right sat an immense Englishman,
enveloped in a dark blue camlet cloak, fastened with bronze lionhead clasps, a
red neckcloth, and a shabby, napless, broad-brimmed, brown hat. His face was
large, round, and red, without an atom of expression, and his little pig eyes
twinkled over a sort of a mark that denoted where his nose should have been; in
short, his head was more like a barber's wig block than anything else, and his
outline would have formed a model of the dome of St. Paul's. On the
Yorkshireman's left was a chattering young red-trousered dragoon, in a
frock-coat and flat foraging cap with a flying tassel. Mr. Jorrocks was more
fortunate than his friend, and rubbed sides with two women; one was English,
either an upper nursery-maid or an under governess, but who might be safely
trusted to travel by herself. She was dressed in a black beaver bonnet lined
with scarlet silk, a nankeen pelisse with a blue ribbon, and pea-green boots,
and she carried a sort of small fish-basket on her knee, with a "plain
Christian's prayer book" on the top. The other was French, approaching to
middle age, with a nice smart plump figure, good hazel-coloured eyes, a
beautiful foot and ankle, and very well dressed. Indeed, her dress very
materially reduced the appearance of her age, and she was what the milliners
would call remarkably well "got up." Her bonnet was a pink satin,
with a white blonde ruche surmounted by a rich blonde veil, with a white rose
placed elegantly on one side, and her glossy auburn hair pressed down the sides
of a milk-white forehead, in the Madonna style.—Her pelisse was of
"violet-des-bois" figured silk, worn with a black velvet pelerine and
a handsomely embroidered collar. Her boots were of a colour to match the pelisse;
and a massive gold chain round her neck, and a solitary pearl ring on a middle
finger, were all the jewellery she displayed. Mr. Jorrocks caught a glimpse of
her foot and ankle as she mounted the steps to resume her place in the
diligence, and pushing the Yorkshireman aside, he bundled in directly after
her, and took up the place we have described.
The vehicle was soon in motion, and its
ponderous roll enchanted the heart of the grocer. Independently of the novelty,
he was in a humour to be pleased, and everything with him was couleur de
rose. Not so the Yorkshireman's right-hand neighbour, who lounged in the
corner, muffled up in his cloak, muttering and cursing at every jolt of the
diligence, as it bumped across the gutters and jolted along the streets of Boulogne.
At length having got off the pavement, after crushing along at a trot through
the soft road that immediately succeeds, they reached the little hill near Mr.
Gooseman's farm, and the horses gradually relaxed into a walk, when he burst
forth with a tremendous oath, swearing that he had "travelled three
hundred thousand miles, and never saw horses walk up such a bit of a bank
before." He looked round the diligence in the expectation of someone
joining him, but no one deigned a reply, so, with a growl and a jerk of his
shoulders, he again threw himself into his corner. The dragoon and the French
lady then began narrating the histories of their lives, as the French people
always do, and Mr. Jorrocks and the Yorkshireman sat looking at each other. At
length Mr. Jorrocks, pulling his dictionary and Madame de Genlis out of
his pocket, observed, "I quite forgot to ask the guard at what time we
dine—most important consideration, for I hold it unfair to takes one's stomach
by surprise, and a man should have due notice, that he may tune his appetite
accordingly. I have always thought, that there's as much dexterity required to
bring an appetite to table in the full bloom of perfection, as there is in
training an 'oss to run on a particular day.—Let me see," added he,
turning over the pages of de Genlis—"it will be under the head of
eating and drinking, I suppose.—Here it is—(opens and reads)—'I have a good
appetite—I am hungry—I am werry hungry—I am almost starved'—that won't do—'I
have eaten enough'—that won't do either—'To breakfast'—no.—But here it is, by
Jingo—'Dialogue before dinner'—capital book for us travellers, this Mrs. de
Genlis—(reads) 'Pray, take dinner with us to-day, I shall give you plain
fare.'—That means rough and enough, I suppose," observed Mr. Jorrocks to
the Yorkshireman.—"'What time do we dine to-day? French: A quelle heure
dinons-nous aujourd'hui?—Italian: A che hora (ora) si prancey (pranza)
oggi?'" "Ah, Monsieur, vous parlez Français à merveille," said
the French lady, smiling with the greatest good nature upon him. "A
marble!" said Mr. Jorrocks, "wot does that mean?" preparing to
look it out in the dictionary. "Ah, Monsieur, I shall you explain—you
speak French like a natif." "Indeed!" said Mr. Jorrocks, with a
bow, "I feel werry proud of your praise; and your English is quite
delightful.—By Jove," said he to the Yorkshireman, with a most
self-satisfied grin, "you were right in what you told me about the gals
calling me Monsieur.—I declare she's driven right home to my 'art—transfixed me
at once, in fact."
Everyone who has done a little
"voyaging," as they call it in France, knows that a few miles to the
south of Samer rises a very steep hill, across which the route lies, and that
diligence travellers are generally invited to walk up it. A path which strikes
off near the foot of the hill, across the open, cuts off the angle,
and—diligences being anything but what the name would imply,—the passengers, by
availing themselves of the short cut, have ample time for striking up confabs,
and inquiring into the comforts of the occupiers of the various compartments.
Our friends of the "interior" were all busy jabbering and
talking—some with their tongues, others with their hands and tongues—with the
exception of the monster in the cloak, who sat like a sack in the corner, until
the horses, having reached the well-known breathing place, made a dead halt,
and the conducteur proceeded to invite the party to descend and
"promenade" up the hill. "What's happened now?" cried the
monster, jumping up as the door opened; "surely, they don't expect us to
walk up this mountain! I've travelled three hundred thousand miles, and was
never asked to do such a thing in all my life before. I won't do it; I paid for
riding, and ride I will. You are all a set of infamous cheats," said he to
the conducteur in good plain English; but the conducteur, not understanding the
language, shut the door as soon as all the rest were out, and let him roll on
by himself. Jorrocks stuck to his woman, who had a negro boy in the rotonde,
dressed in baggy slate-coloured trousers, with a green waistcoat and a blue
coat, with a coronet on the button, who came to hand her out, and was addressed
by the heroic name of "Agamemnon." Jorrocks got a glimpse of the
button, but, not understanding foreign coronets, thought it was a crest;
nevertheless, he thought he might as well inquire who his friend was, so,
slinking back as they reached the foot of the hill he got hold of the nigger,
and asked what they called his missis. Massa did not understand, and Mr.
Jorrocks, sorely puzzled how to explain, again had recourse to the Manuel du
Voyageur; but Madame de Genlis had not anticipated such an occurrence, and
there was no dialogue adapted to his situation. There was a conversation with a
lacquey, however, commencing with—"Are you disposed to enter into my
service?" and, in the hopes of hitting upon something that would convey
his wishes, he "hark'd forward," and passing by—"Are you
married?" arrived at—"What is your wife's occupation?" "Que
fait votre femme?" said he, suiting the action to the word, and pointing
to Madame. Agamemnon showed his ivories, as he laughed at the idea of Jorrocks
calling his mistress his wife, and by signs and words conveyed to him some idea
of the importance of the personage to whom he alluded. This he did most
completely, for before the diligence came up, Jorrocks pulled the Yorkshireman
aside, and asked if he was aware that they were travelling with a real live
Countess; "Madame la Countess Benwolio, the nigger informs me," said
he; "a werry grande femme, though what that means I don't know."
"Oh, Countesses are common enough here," replied the Yorkshireman.
"I dare say she's a stay-maker. I remember a paint-maker who had a German
Baron for a colour-grinder once." "Oh," said Jorrocks, "you
are jealous—you always try to run down my friends; but that won't do, I'm wide
awake to your tricks"; so saying, he shuffled off, and getting hold of the
Countess, helped Agamemnon to hoist her into the diligence. He was most
insinuating for the next two hours, and jabbered about love and fox-hunting,
admiring the fine, flat, open country, and the absence of hedges and flints;
but as neither youth nor age can subsist on love alone, his confounded appetite
began to trouble him, and got quite the better of him before they reached
Abbeville. Every mile seemed a league, and he had his head out of the window at
least twenty times before they came in sight of the town. At length the
diligence got its slow length dragged not only to Abbeville, but to the sign of
the "Fidèle Berger"—or "Fiddle Burgur," as Mr. Jorrocks
pronounced it—where they were to dine. The door being opened, out he jumped,
and with his Manuel du Voyageur in one hand, and the Countess Benvolio
in the other, he pushed his way through the crowd of "pauvres
misérables" congregated under the gateway, who exhibited every species of
disease and infirmity that poor human nature is liable or heir to, and entered
the hotel. The "Sally manger," as he called it, was a long brick-floored
room on the basement, with a white stove at one end, and the walls plentifully
decorated with a panoramic view of the Grand Nation wallopping the Spaniards at
the siege of Saragossa. The diligence being a leetle behind time as usual, the
soup was on the table when they entered. The passengers quickly ranged
themselves round, and, with his mouth watering as the female garçon lifted the
cover from the tureen, Mr. Jorrocks sat in the expectation of seeing the rich
contents ladled into the plates. His countenance fell fifty per cent as the
first spoonful passed before his eyes.—"My vig, why it's water!"
exclaimed he—"water, I do declare, with worms21
in it—I can't eat such stuff as that—it's not man's meat—oh dear, oh dear, I
fear I've made a terrible mistake in coming to France! Never saw such stuff as
this at Bleaden's or Birch's, or anywhere in the city." "I've
travelled three hundred thousand miles," said the fat man, sending his
plate from him in disgust, "and never tasted such a mess as this
before." "I'll show them up in The Times," cried Mr.
Jorrocks; "and, look, what stuff is here—beef boiled to rags!—well, I
never, no never, saw anything like this before. Oh, I wish I was in Great Coram
Street again!—I'm sure I can't live here—I wonder if I could get a return
chaise—waiter—garsoon—cuss! Oh dear! I see Madame de Genlis is of no use
in a pinch—and yet what a dialogue here is! Oh heavens! grant your poor
Jorrocks but one request, and that is the contents of a single sentence. 'I
want a roasted or boiled leg of mutton, beef, hung beef, a quarter of mutton,
mutton chops, veal cutlets, stuffed tongue, dried tongue, hog's pudding, white
sausage, meat sausage, chicken with rice, a nice fat roast fowl, roast chicken
with cressy, roast or boiled pigeon, a fricassee of chicken, sweet-bread,
goose, lamb, calf's cheek, calf's head, fresh pork, salt pork, cold meat,
hash.'—But where's the use of titivating one's appetite with reading of such
luxteries? Oh, what a wife Madame de Genlis would have made for me! Oh dear, oh
dear, I shall die of hunger, I see —I shall die of absolute famine—my stomach
thinks my throat's cut already!" In the height of his distress in came two
turkeys and a couple of fowls, and his countenance shone forth like an April
sun after a shower. "Come, this is better," said he; "I'll
trouble you, sir, for a leg and a wing, and a bit of the breast, for I'm really
famished—oh hang! the fellow's a Frenchman, and I shall lose half the day in
looking it out in my dictionary. Oh dear, oh dear, where's the dinner
dialogue!—well, here's something to that purpose. 'I will send you a bit of
this fowl.' 'A little bit of the fowl cannot hurt you.'—No, nor a great bit
either.—'Which do you like best, leg or wing?' 'Qu'aimez-vous le mieux, la
cuisse ou l'aile?'" Here the Countess Benvolio, who had been playing a
good knife and fork herself, pricked up her ears, and guessing at Jorrocks's
wants, interceded with her countryman and got him a plateful of fowl. It was
soon disposed of, however, and half a dish of hashed hare or cat, that was
placed within reach of him shortly after, was quickly transferred into his
plate. A French dinner is admirably calculated for leading the appetite on by
easy stages to the grand consummation of satiety. It begins meagrely, as we
have shown, and proceeds gradually through the various gradations of lights,
savories, solids, and substantiate. Presently there was a large dish of stewed
eels put on. "What's that?" asked Jorrocks of the
man.—"Poisson," was the reply. "Poison! why, you infidel, have
you no conscience?" "Fishe," said the Countess. "Oh, ay, I
smell—eels—just like what we have at the Eel-pie-house at Twickenham—your
ladyship, I am thirsty—'ge soif,' in fact." "Ah, bon!" said the
Countess, laughing, and giving him a tumbler of claret. "I've travelled
three hundred thousand miles," said the fat man, "and never saw
claret drunk in that way before." "It's not werry good, I think,"
said Mr. Jorrocks, smacking his lips; "if it was not claret I would sooner
drink port." Some wild ducks and fricandeau de veau which followed, were
cut up and handed round, Jorrocks helping himself plentifully to both, as also
to pommes de terre à la maitre d'hôtel, and bread at discretion. "Faith,
but this is not a bad dinner, after all's said and done, when one gets fairly
into it." "Fear it will be very expensive," observed the fat
man. Just when Jorrocks began to think he had satisfied nature, in came a roast
leg of mutton, a beef-steak, "à la G—d-dam", 22
and a dish of larks and snipes.
Footnote 21:
(return) Macaroni soup.
Footnote 22:
(return) When the giraffe mania prevailed in Paris, and gloves,
handkerchiefs, gowns, reticules, etc. were "à la Giraffe," an
Englishman asked a waiter if they had any beef-steaks "à la Giraffe."
"No, monsieur, but we have them à la G—d-dem," was the answer.
"Must have another tumbler of wine
before I can grapple with these chaps," said he, eyeing them, and looking
into Madame de Genlis's book: "'Garsoon, donnez-moi un verre de
vin,'" holding up the book and pointing to the sentence. He again set to
and "went a good one" at both mutton and snipes, but on pulling up he
appeared somewhat exhausted. He had not got through it all yet, however. Just
as he was taking breath, a garçon entered with some custards and an
enormous omelette soufflée, whose puffy brown sides bagged over the tin dish
that contained it. "There's a tart!" cried Mr. Jorrocks; "Oh, my
eyes, what a swell!—Well, I suppose I must have a shy at it.—'In for a penny in
for a pound!' as we say at the Lord Mayor's feed. Know I shall be sick, but, however,
here goes," sending his plate across the table to the garçon, who
was going to help it. The first dive of the spoon undeceived him as he heard it
sound at the bottom of the dish. "Oh lauk, what a go! All puff, by Jove!—a
regular humbug—a balloon pudding, in short! I won't eat such stuff—give it to
Mouncheer there," rejecting the offer of a piece. "I like the
solids;—will trouble you for some of that cheese, sir, and don't let it taste
of the knive. But what do they mean by setting the dessert on before the cloth
is removed? And here comes tea and coffee—may as well have some, I suppose it
will be all the same price. And what's this?" eyeing a lot of liqueur
glasses full of eau de vie. "Chasse-café, Monsieur," said the garçon.
"Chasse calf—chasse calf—what's that? Oh, I twig—what we call 'shove in
the mouth' at the Free-and-Easy. Yes, certainly, give me a glass."
"You shall take some dessert," said the Countess, handing him over
some peaches and biscuits. "Well, I'll try my hand at it, if it will
oblege your ladyship, but I really have had almost enough." "And some
abricot," said she, helping him to a couple of fine juicy ones. "Oh,
thank you, my lady, thank you, my lady, I'm nearly satisfied." "Vous
ne mangez pas," said she, giving him half a plate of grapes. "Oh, my lady,
you don't understand me—I can't eat any more—I am regularly high and dry—chock
full—bursting, in fact." Here she handed him a plate of sponge-cakes mixed
with bon-bons and macaroons, saying, "Vous êtes un pauvre mangeur—vous ne
mangez rien, Monsieur." "Oh dear, she does not understand me, I
see.—Indeed, my lady, I cannot eat any more.—Ge woudera, se ge could-era, mais
ge can-ne-ra pas!" "Well, now, I've travelled three hundred thousand
miles, and never heard such a bit of French as that before," said the fat
man, chuckling.
To be continued
To be continued
