THE DINNER.
"Hold hard there, your eyes on me, gen'lemen."—MR. WELLER,
SENIOR. Pickwick.
Hark to the clatter of the knives and forks,
In go the corkscrews and out come the corks,
Head waiter Smith bends 'neath a ponderous dish,
One hopes a salmon, or some weightier fish,
May be a turbot or a royal sturgeon—
The very thing one's appetite to urge on;
Covers of every size bedeck the feast,
The host has lots of "plate" to say the least;
It may be plated, though, 'tis hard to know
The real from sham, one does get puzzled so
By new inventions—here's albata plate,
Electro silver, numerous plans of late
Beguile the senses of the wondering guest,
And palm off drugs as equal to the best.
But to the dinner; one would think, forsooth,
'Twould be a banquet worthy of the tooth
Of any a city gourmand; wait a minute,
Look at that dish, and mark ye what's there in it;
It seem'd to promise turbot or a sturgeon,
And lo! what's there? a pike set round with gudgeon!
Its vis-à-vis contains a bit of beef
Cut from a cow, that died last week of grief,
At hearing of Sir Robert's new tariff.
A brace of sickly chickens, tough and dried,
Usurp the centre, flank'd on either side
By bad potatoes, baked, boil'd, roast and fried.
I'd most forgot a piece of veal and ham—
Try it—I'll bet a crown there's no one can.
Such, with a few disgusting tarts and pies,
Some cheese of which, at every mouthful, dies
A host of ugly vermin; such your bill
Of foul I call it—call it what you will.
Off with the cloth! don't let a trace remain
Of this vile medley. Off! I say again.
Oh, Mr. Griffith,[[1]] take a friend's advice,
Give the best dinner where you charge best price;
'Twould be far better for your credit's sake,
As for your conscience; that, old Nick may take,
If he will have it, which I greatly doubt,
You are far too clever, he has found you out.
Who's on his legs; hurrah, 'tis honest John,[[2]]
That Fane of Fanes! What topic is he on;
Hark, let us listen! What on earth's he at?
He means some fun, rest well assured of that;
Gazing around, with mirth-creating grin,
Says he, "My friends, I scarce know where begin,
I am so modest, spare my youthful blushes,
I'm yet a colt and have not cut my tushes.
I beg permission to propose a toast.
Such as I guess, just now will please you most;
Health and long life to that illustrious man,
Our now high Sheriff, worthy neighbour Van.
Sheriff! your health! and now with three times three,
And as you love me! let it bumpers be;
We'll drink his health, now Gents, your eyes on me."
Finish'd the toast; High Sheriff! is the call;
Oh, dear! he looks just now uncommon small,
White as his choker, tho' blush-red by turns
With hectic flush, his quivering forehead burns.
At last for words he finds a labouring vent:
"I thank you, Gentlemen, with best intent
"To pay your kindness, with a due requite
"Of mingled thanks, enhanced with delight.
"As I am certainly not used to public speaking,
"And vainly now, for words of thanks am seeking,
"I'll cut it short, and with your kind permission,
"Seek in my chair an easier position."
Round goes the wine, full many a toast goes down,
To Queen and Country, Albert, Church and Crown.
Some worthy Dons, wine-warm'd, propose the Bar;
The Bar, the Dons, and swear the gems they are
Of Oxford's glory. They, good easy men,
Can't twig the joke, nor legal satire stem;
And is it so? for half their mouldering lives
They sweat their Fellowships, then marry wives;
Or when in College, they have topp'd the tree,[[3]]
They drone and doze in dull solemnity.
After this long digression we must try
Back to our Sheriff! What's this? Oh, my eye!
He's fast asleep, bad luck; in vain, in vain,
Old Ashurst[[4]] kicks, and kicks his shins again;
The Doctor roars[[5]] and Waterferry's chief,[[6]]
Thinks of some mode, to gain the wish'd relief.
Nought will avail! at last cries Fane, "Here goes,
Give us a cork, we'll black our sheriff's nose."[[7]]
[[1]] The "Star" sheriff's dinners, teste the author, were miserable. But as per contra to his bad dinners, the author must record Mr. Griffith's conduct towards the "Cause" in the election, A.D. 1862. Colonel Fane won't forget it, nor the author. He placed his "Star," all his horses, men, and carriages at the Colonel's service, free gratis.
[[2]] John Fane of Wormesly, late M.P. for Oxfordshire, father of the Colonel, now M.P. for Oxfordshire—known as honest John Fane, Master of Harriers, and "king of the most celebrated and successful Wormesly Tournament."
[[3]] The author begs to say that this expression must be taken metaphorically. The worthy heads of the different Colleges would be doubtless unable, from the expanse of waistcoat, to "top a tree," nor would their sense of dignity allow it, if they could. He must except the most Rev. the Prases of St. John's College, both from the tree and dozing business; he is without dispute an honour to our College, our University, and our County,
[[4]] Late M.P. for Oxfordshire. Vide his portrait in the County Hall.
[[5]] His brother, late Fellow of All Souls, Oxford.
[[6]] The Right Honourable J. W. Henley, M.P., &c. senior member for Oxfordshire; and long may he so continue.
[[7]] The author not having been present at this dinner cannot be responsible for the concluding scene. He can only say that from his personal knowledge of the parties, he thinks it might most likely have occurred.