All went on well—songs, toasts and sentiments—punch, puns and witticisms, were handed about in abundance; in the mean time, the room began to wear an appearance of thinness, many of the boxes were completely deserted, and the Knights of the Bound Table were no longer surrounded by their Esquires—still the joys of the bowl were exhilarating, and the conversation agreeable, though at times a little more in a strain of vociferation than had been manifested at the entrance of our party. It was no time to ask questions as to the names and occupations of the persons by whom he was surrounded; and Bob, plainly perceiving Frank Harry was getting into Queer Street, very prudently declined all interrogatories for the present, making, however, a determination within himself to know more of the house and the company.
Mortimer also discovered symptoms of lush-logic, for though he had an inclination to keep up the chaff, his dictionary appeared to be new modelled, and his lingo abridged by repeated clips at his mother tongue, by which he afforded considerable food for laughter.
Perceiving this, Tallyho thought it prudent to give his Cousin a hint, which was immediately taken, and the party broke up.
CHAPTER XIX
“O there are swilling wights in London town Term'd jolly dogs—choice spirits—alias swine, Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down, Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine. These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures thus outrun, Dosing with head-aches till the afternoon, Lose half men's regular estate of Sun, By borrowing too largely of the Moon: And being Bacchi plenus—full of wine— Although they have a tolerable notion Of aiming at progressive motion, Tis not direct, 'tis rather serpentine.”
UPON leaving the house, it was quickly discovered that Mortimer was at sea without a rudder or compass, but was still enabled to preserve the true line of beauty, which is said to be in a flowing curve; Merry well was magnanimous, Frank Harry moppy, and all of them rather muggy. Harry was going Eastward, and the remainder of the party Westward; it was half-past one in the morning—the weather had cleared up as their brains had been getting foggy.
Tom proposed a rattler.
Frank Harry swore by the Bacchanalian divinity they might ride in the rumble-tumble if they liked, but none of it for him, and began to stammer out
How sweet in—the—wood-lands Wi—ith ii—eet hound—and horn— To awaken—shrill—[hiccup)—echo, And taste the—(hiccup)—fresh morn.