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 worms[21] 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.
IX. MR. JORROCKS IN PARIS
As the grey morning mist gradually dispersed, and daylight began to penetrate the cloud that dimmed the four squares of glass composing the windows of the diligence, the Yorkshireman, half-asleep and half-awake, took a mental survey of his fellow-travellers.—Before him sat his worthy friend, snoring away with his mouth open, and his head, which kept bobbing over on to the shoulder of the Countess, enveloped in the ample folds of a white cotton nightcap.—She, too, was asleep and, disarmed of all her daylight arts, dozed away in tranquil security. Her mouth also was open, exhibiting rather a moderate set of teeth, and her Madonna front having got a-twist, exposed a mixture of brown and iron-grey hairs at the parting place. Her bonnet swung from the roof of the diligence, and its place was supplied by a handsome lace cap, fastened under her chin by a broad-hemmed cambric handkerchief. Presently the sun rose, and a bright ray shooting into the Countess's corner, awoke her with a start, and after a hurried glance at the passengers, who appeared to be all asleep, she drew a small ivory-cased looking-glass from her bag, and proceeded to examine her features. Mr. Jorrocks awoke shortly after, and with an awful groan exclaimed that his backbone was fairly worn out with sitting. "Oh dear!" said he, "my behind aches as if I had been kicked all the way from Hockleyhole to Marylebone. Are we near Paris? for I'm sure I can't find seat any longer, indeed I can't. I'd rather ride two hundred miles in nine hours, like H'osbaldeston, than be shut up in this woiture another hour. It really is past bearing, and that's the long and short of the matter." This exclamation roused all the party, who began yawning and rubbing their eyes and looking at their watches. The windows also were lowered to take in fresh air, and on looking out they found themselves rolling along a sandy road, lined on each side with apple-trees, whose branches were "groaning" with fruit. They breakfasted at Beaumont, and had a regular spread of fish, beef-steak, mutton-chops, a large joint of hot roast veal, roast chickens, several yards of sour bread, grapes, peaches, pears, and plums, with vin ordinaire, and coffee au lait; but Mr. Jorrocks was off his feed, and stood all the time to ease his haunches.