The Reminiscences of Sir Henry Hawkins (Baron Brampton) Part 40

"Naples! By all means, but not at this time of year."

"Oh, I don't mean the town--no, no; but if you don't mind a little mud, I'll show you Naples. Come along this lane."

"Watercourse, you mean. I don't mind a little mud," said I; "it washes off, whoever throws it"--and I looked to see what he thought of that, knowing he would tell it at dinner.

"Good!" said he; "devilish good! Wash off, no matter who throws it--devilish good!"

Down we came off the gate, and through the mud we went, he leading with a fat chuckle.

"You don't see the joke, Hawkins--you don't see the joke about that fast day;" and he gave me another look with his great blue eyes.

I didn't know it was a joke; I thought it was the mare's name, and I heard him mutter "d.a.m.n!"

"This is the way," he said angrily. We seemed to travel through an interminable cesspool, but at last reached the open, and coming to another gate, he extended his arms on it, after the manner of a squire, and said,--

"There, there's _Naples_. Isn't she lovely?"

"Where?" I asked.

"There; and a prettier mare you never saw. Look at her!"

"She's a beauty--a real beauty!" I exclaimed.

He breathed rather short, and I felt easy. His manner, especially the distending of his cheeks, showed me that he was about to bring forth something--a pun of some sort.

"Do you know," he asked, with another turn of his eyes, "_why_ I call her _Naples_?"

"No, I haven't the faintest idea. Naples? no."

"Well," he said, "I've puzzled a good many. I may say n.o.body has ever guessed it. I call that mare _Naples_ because she's such a beautiful _bay_."

I was glad I was not sitting on the gate, for I might have fallen and broken my neck. As I felt his eyes staring at me I preserved a dignified composure, and had the satisfaction of hearing him mutter again, "d.a.m.n!"

"This is our way," said he.

I have no doubt he thought me the dullest fool he ever came near.

Our adventures were not ended. We went on over meadow and stile until we came to "The Park," a tract of land of great beauty and with trees of superb growth. He was sullen and moody, like one whose nerves had failed him when a covey rose.

I saw it coming--his last expiring effort. In the distance was a beautiful black mare, such as might have carried d.i.c.k Turpin from London to York. He was watching to see if I observed her, but I did not.

"Look," he said, in his most coaxing manner, "don't you see that mare yonder--down there by the spinny?"

"What," I said, "on the left?"

"Down there! There--no, a little to the right. Look! There she is."

"Oh, to be sure, a pretty animal."

"Pretty! Why, there's no better bred animal in the kingdom. She's by ---- out of ----."

"She ought to win the Oaks."

"Come, now, _isn't_ she superb?"

"A glory. A novelist would call her a _dream_."

"Ah, I thought you would say so. You know what a horse is."

"When I _see_ one," I said. "I thought you said this was a mare."

This is what the Squire thought,--

"Well, of all the dull devils I ever met, you are the most utterly unappreciative!"

He was at his wits' end, although you must be clever if you can perceive the wits' end of a punster.

"That's _Morning Star_," said he. "Now do you know _why_ I call her _Morning Star_?"

I answered truthfully I did not.

"Why," he said, with a merry laugh, "_because she's a roarer_."

"What a pity!" I exclaimed. "But I don't wonder at it if she has to carry you and your jokes very far."

He took it in good part, and we had a pleasant evening at the Hall.

He discharged a good many other puns, which I am glad to say I have forgotten. But there was a man present who was a good story-teller.

Some I had heard before, but they were none the less welcome, while one or two I related were as good as new to my host and old Squire Fullerton, who had once been High Sheriff, and was supposed to know all about circuit business. He prefaced almost everything he said with, "When I was High Sheriff," so I asked him innocently enough how many times he had been High Sheriff, on which my host, being a quick-witted man, looked at him with a broad grin, while he balanced the nutcrackers on his forefinger.

"Well," said Fullerton, "it was in Parke's time."

"Yes; but which of them?" I asked. "Are you alluding to Sir Alan? They did not both come together, surely."

"Now, lookee, Fullerton," said my old friend, tapping the mahogany with the nutcrackers, as though he was about to say something remarkably clever; "one of 'em, Jemmy, had a kind of a cast in one of his eyes--didn't he, Judge?"

"Yes," said I; "but their names were not spelt alike."

"No, no!" cried the squire; "I'm coming to that. One eye was a little troublesome at times, I believe--at least they said so in my time when _I_ was High Sheriff--and that made him a little ill-tempered at times. Now, that Judge's name was spelt P-a-r-k-e" (tapping every letter with his nutcrackers), "so the Bar used to call him '_Parke with an "e"_;' and what do you think they used to call the other, whose name was Park?--Come, now, Judge, you can guess that."

I suppose I shook my head, for he said, "Why, you told me the story yourself four years ago--ah! it must be five years ago--at this very table, when old Squire Hawley had laid two thousand on Jannette for the Leger. 'This is it,' said you; 'they call one of them Parke with an "e," and the other Park with an "i."'"

"Very well," I said, after they had done laughing at the way in which my host had caught me; "now I'll tell you what the Duke of Wellington said one morning. You recollect his Grace met with an accident and lost an eye, which was kept in spirits of wine. On asking him how he was, the Duke answered,--

"'Oh, Lord Cairns asked me yesterday the same question; and I said, "I am rather depressed, but I believe my eye is in pretty good spirits."'"