Joseph Wilmot, or, The Memoirs of a Man-Servant — page 88: what you’re looking at

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JOSEPH WILMOT; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A MAN-SERVANT. 75 | ee eee ———————————————————————EEE—— EEE early as mid-day. During the brief intervals be- tween his countless repasts, he would seek some nook in the back part of the premises; and pre- ferring an inverted tub or a pail turned topsy- turvy to a chair, would sit smoking a short pipe in a kind of half-drowsy, half-ruminating fashion. But, as above stated, when he could get anybody to listen to his stories, he would even forget his bread and cold meat—would lay down his pipe— and talk away as long as he was attended to. Here is a specimen of one of these anecdotes of Mr. Thomas Austin’s :— “T don’t think I ever told you about that there business of Sir George Dashwood’s. Ah! Sir George was a fine feller: he had three thousand a year, and spent thirty. Took his bottled ale and cherry-brandy for breakfast—his bottled ale and cherry-brandy again for lunch—his three bottles of wine every day for dinner—and was carried up to bed every night of his life. That’s what I call doing the thing slap-up: that’s the way a genelman ought to live! None of your tea and slops for breakfast—ygur one glass of sherry and biscuit for lunch—and your pint of wine for dinner—then coffee and slops again in the drawing-room—and then walking up to bed as steady and sober as if you hadn’t got a flunkey to carry you. That’s not what I calls life: it’s only a wishy-washy kind of existence. Ah! Sir George Dashwood—or Georgy Dashwood as we used to call him—did things better than that: he would have scorned his-self if he had been caught going to bed sober, and couldn’t have a-beared to look his walley-de-shamble in the face next morn- ing if he hadn’t been ‘carried up quite blazing. Well, I needn’t tell you—cos why you must all have heerd it—that Sir George had a ‘lovely place called Dashwood Park, about fifteen mile t’other side of Exeter; and he run through all his pro- perty in a matter of five year arter he come of age: so he was only twenty-six when he was ruined. Ah! a prime feller was Georgy—always three or four prize-fighters staying at his house, dining at his table, and treated just for all the world as well as his-self. Well, von day—that’s about seven year ago now—Ridley says to me, says h¢, ‘I say, Tom, you and me must just go down to Georgy Dashwood’s and take possession.’ —So we gets into the gig, and down we drives to George’s, getting there at two o’clock in the arternoon, just as Georgy and his friends was a sitting down to lunch. There was a dozen on’em ; and such prime company! There was Tim Bul- lockhead, the Champion of England ; and a couple of other milling coves—regular smashers of their kind. Then there was honest Jack Robins, the horse-chaunter. Ah! he knowed a trick or two about hosses—didn’t he? that’s all! And then there was a couple of splendid chaps as kept fighting cocks ; and there was three jockies, and Ben Snelling the trainer. A sharp feller was Ben! Howsomever, I don’t recollect who the rest was: but I know they was all of the right sort; and they was setting at table, drinking the bottled ale and the cherry-brandy, and kicking up such a thundering row, when me and Ridley goesin. So the instant we enters, Georgy twigs us, and gives us each such a hearty shake of the hand, as if we was his best friends and had come to do him a saryice. So he makes us sit down; and we gets so precious jolly, that when Ridley wanted to go away, he was too drunk to get into his gig; and Georgy and the others puts him under the pump, and pumps on him for ten minutes, till he was nigh drownded—but quite sober. So away he goes—and I was left in pos- session.” At this part of his story, Tom Austin was wont to pause and assume a yery complaisant look, as if mentally contemplating with infinite satisfaction the pumping feat and the jocose hilarity of Sir George Dashwood and his delectable friends. “ Well,” he resumed, “ I never had such a time of it in all my life. Iwas in possession about three months, Sir George keeping off the sale by feeing Sharpfist and Ridley ten pound a veek; and I never goes to bed sober the whole time. Often and often I was blind drunk at noon; and Jed such a game I raly began to think I was a tip-top genelman myself. Georgy gave me this coat, he did: so you see I’ve had it a matter o1 seven year: it isn’t veared out yet. I keep’s it for poor George’s sake. At last things couldn’t go on no longer: no more fees was coming for Sharpfist and Ridley. So von day down comes Ridley with the hauctioneer to take the wallyation. Georgy seemed to get happier the nearer the time came ; and he used to say to me, slapping me on the shoulder—for Georgy and me was quite tormiliar, — Tom,’ says he, ‘I’ve had five year on it, and that’s enow for any genelman as calls his-seli a genelman. A short life and a merry von,’ says he: ‘that’s my maxim. [I think I should have been happier, Tom, if I’d gone a little faster. Howm- somever, Tom,’ says he, ‘Pye done it up brown enough; and that’s a blessing. When’s the sale, Tom ?’—In three days, sir,’ says I.—‘ Werry good, Tom,’ says he: ‘we'll spree it out till the last. They let us drink the wine: so arter all, there’s nothink to say agin your people, Tom.—And for them three days we did keep it up too, I can tell you,—every one going blazing drunk to bed, ser- vants and all, except Georgy his-self; and for them three days he used to sleep under the table where he tumbled down, cos why his walley-de-shambles was too tosticated to carry him up as they was wont todo. They just managed to get to their rooms: but he was too far gone to reach his’n. Well, the morning of the sale comes: every winder of the old manor-house was kivered with posting- bills ; and there was a precious lot of brokers and what not, assembled in the hall, where the sale took place. All went on pleasant enough,—Georgy sitting close to the hauctioneer and cracking his jokes as harticle after harticle was knocked down. Well, at two o’clock there was lunch; and Georgy was the gayest of the gay,—singing, and laughing, and telling such capital stories, he kept us all in a roo-ay. The hauctioneer lunched with us; and Georgy tried hard to make him drunk, but couldn’t. Well, when the hauctioneer gets up from lunch, and says, says he, ‘ Now, Sir George, with your leave, well go back and knock off this here little business, —Georgy says, says he, ‘Just von glass of champagne all round, cos I see by the katilog the wines is to be sold next; and when vonce they’re knocked down, I sha’n’t have no more right to touch a single bottle. —So a dozen of champagne and glasses was ordered up all at vonce. The glasses was filled; and Georgy says, a ee { GOMmicdbooks ( (0)