CHAPTER IX.

BACHELOR’S HALL.

Its quaint Interior—An Old Friend’s Memory—Crabbe’s Peter at Ilford Hall—Singular Time-pieces—A Meet at Hangster’s Gate—Jolly Doings—Dibdin at Dinner—Broseley Pipes—Parson Stephens in his Shirt—The Parson’s Song.

WE have already described the exterior of the Hall and its approaches. In the interior of the building the same air of antiquity reigned. Its capacious chimney-pieces, and rooms wainscoted with oak to the ceiling, are familiar from the descriptions of an old friend, whose memory was still fresh and green as regards events and scenes of the time when the Hall stood entire, and who when a boy was not an unfrequent visitor. Like Crabbe’s Peter among the rooms and galleries of Ilford Hall,

“His vast delight was mixed with equal awe, There was such magic in the things he saw; Portraits he passed, admiring, but with pain Turned from some objects, nor would look again.”

Against the walls were grim old portraits of the Squire’s predecessors of the Weld and Forester lines, with stiff-starched frills, large vests, and small round hats of Henry VII.’s time; others of the fashions of earlier periods by distinguished painters, together with later productions of the pencil by less famous artists, representing dogs, cattle, and favourite horses. In the great hall were horns and antlers, and other trophies of the chase, ancient guns which had done good execution in their time, a bustard, and rare species of birds of a like kind. Here and there were ancient time-pieces, singular in construction and quaint in contrivance, one of which, on striking the hours of noon and midnight, set in motion figures with trumpets and various other instruments, which gave forth their appropriate sounds. A great lamp—hoisted to its place by a thick rope—lighted up that portion of the hall into which opened the doors of the dining and other rooms, and from which a staircase led to the gallery.

A meet in the neighbourhood of Willey was usually well attended: first, because of the certainty of good sport; secondly, because such sport was often preceded, or often followed by receptions at the Hall, so famous for its cheer. Jolly were the doings on these occasions; songs were sung, racy tales were told, old October ale flowed freely, and the jovial merits and household virtues of Willey were fully up to the mark of the good old times. The Squire usually dined about four o’clock, and his guests occasionally came booted and spurred, ready for the hunt the following day, and rarely left the festive board ’neath the hospitable roof of the Squire until they mounted their coursers in the court-yard.

Dibdin, from materials gathered on the spot, has, in his own happy manner, drawn representations of these gatherings. His portraits of horses and dogs, and his description of the social habits of the Squire and his friends are faithfully set forth in his song of “Bachelor’s Hall:”—

“To Bachelor’s Hall we good fellows invite To partake of the chase which makes up our delight, We’ve spirits like fire, and of health such a stock, That our pulse strikes the seconds as true as a clock. Did you see us you’d swear that we mount with a grace, That Diana had dubb’d some new gods of the chase. Hark away! hark away! all nature looks gay, And Aurora with smiles ushers in the bright day.

“Dick Thickset came mounted upon a fine black, A finer fleet gelding ne’er hunter did back; Tom Trig rode a bay full of mettle and bone, And gaily Bob Buckson rode on a roan; But the horse of all horses that rivalled the day Was the Squire’s Neck-or-Nothing, and that was a grey. Hark away! &c.

“Then for hounds there was Nimble who well would climb rocks, And Cocknose a good one at finding a fox; Little Plunge, like a mole, who would ferret and search, And beetle-brow’d Hawk’s Eye so dead at a lurch: Young Sly-looks that scents the strong breeze from the south, And Musical Echo with his deep mouth. Hark away! &c.

“Our horses, thus all of the very best blood, ’Tis not likely you’d easily find such a stud; Then for foxhounds, our opinion for thousands we’ll back, That all England throughout can’t produce such a pack. Thus having described you our dogs, horses, and crew, Away we set off, for our fox is in view. Hark away! &c.

“Sly Reynard’s brought home, while the horn sounds the call, And now you’re all welcome to Bachelor’s Hall; The savoury sirloin gracefully smokes on the board, And Bacchus pours wine from his sacred hoard. Come on, then, do honour to this jovial place, And enjoy the sweet pleasures that have sprung from the chase. Hark away! hark away! while our spirits are gay, Let us drink to the joys of next meeting day.”

On the occasion of Dibdin’s visit there were at the Hall more than the usual local notables, and Parson Stephens was amongst them. As a treat intended specially for Dibdin, the second course at dinner consisted of Severn fish, such as we no longer have in the river. There were eels cooked in various ways, flounders, perch, trout, carp, grayling, pike, and at the head of the table that king of Severn fish, a salmon.

_Dibdin_: “This is a treat, Squire, and I can readily understand now why the Severn should be called the ‘Queen of Rivers;’ it certainly deserves the distinction for its fish, if for nothing else.”

_Mr. Forester_: “Do you know, Dibdin, that fellow Jessop, the engineer, set on by those Gloucester fellows, wants to put thirteen or fourteen bars or weirs in the river between here and Gloucester; why, it would shut out every fish worth eating.”

“What could be his object?” asked Dibdin.

“Oh, he believes, like Brindley, that rivers were made to feed canals with, and his backers—the Gloucester gentlemen, and the Stafford and Worcester Canal Company—say, to make the river navigable at all seasons up to Coalbrookdale; but my belief is that it is intended to crush what bit of trade there yet remains on the river here, and to give them a monopoly in the carrying trade, for our bargemen would be taxed, whilst their carriers would be free, or nearly so.”

“We beat them, though,” said Mr. Pritchard.

“So we did,” added the Squire, “but we had a hard job: begad, I thought our watermen had pretty well primed me when I went up to see Pitt on the subject; but I had not been with him five minutes before I found he knew far more about the river than I did:

“‘I am no orator, as Brutus is, But, as you know me all, a plain and honest man.’”

_Several voices_: “Bravo, Squire.”

_To Stephens_: “Will you take a flounder?—‘flat as a flounder,’ they say. I know you have a sympathy with flats, if not a liking for them.”

“The Broseley colliers made a flat of him when they dragged his own pond for the fish he was so grateful for,” said Hinton.

The laugh went against the parson, who somehow missed his share of a venison pasty, which was a favourite of his. He had been helped to a slice from a haunch which stood in the centre of the table, and had had a cut out of a saddle of mutton at one end, but he missed his favourite dish.

“Is it true,” inquired Dibdin, looking round at roast, and boiled, and pasties, “what we hear in London, that there is very considerable _scarcity_ and _distress_ in the country?”—(general laughter). This brought up questions of political economy, excess of population, stock-jobbing, usury, gentlemen taking their money out of the country and aping Frenchified, stick-frog fashions on their return. The latter was a favourite subject with the Squire, who could not see, he said, what amusement a gentleman could find out of the country equal to foxhunting, and gave him an opportunity of introducing his favourite theory of taxing heavily those who did so. The discussion had lasted over the fifth course, when more potent liquors were put upon the table, together with Broseley pipes. The production of the latter was a temptation Stephens could not resist of telling the story of the Squire purchasing a box, for which he paid a high price, in London, and finding, on showing them to one of his tenants, as models, that they were made upon his own estate. The laugh went against the Squire, who gave indication, by a merry twinkle in his eye, that he would take an opportunity of being quits. Discussions ensued upon the virtues and evils of tobacco, and the refusal of Parliament to allow a census to be taken; one of the guests expressing a belief, founded upon a statement put forth by a Dr. Price, that the population of England and Wales was under five millions, or less, in fact, than it was in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. “Which,” added the Squire, “is not correct, according to poor-law and other statistics produced before Parliament, which show that there are from three to four births to one death.”

_Mr. Whitmore_: “I can readily believe that this is true in your parishes of Willey and Barrow, Forester, where a certain person’s amours, like Jupiter’s, are too numerous to mention.” (Laughter, in which the Squire joined.)

_Mr. Forester_: “A truce to statistics and politics, let us have Larry Palmer, our local Incledon, in to sing us some of Dibdin’s songs.” (General approbation.)

And Larry, who was blind, and who was purposely kept in ignorance of Dibdin being present, then gave in succession several of what Incledon called his “sheet-anchors,” including “The Quaker,” “My Trim-built Wherry,” “Tom Bowling,” &c., with an effect and force which made the author exclaim that he never heard greater justice done to his compositions, and led to an exhibition of feeling which made the old hall ring again.

Dibdin’s health was next given, with high eulogiums as to the effect of his animating effusions on the loyalty, valour, and patriotism which at that time blazed so intensely in the bosom of the British tar.

Dibdin, in acknowledging the toast, related incidents he had himself several times witnessed at sea; and how deeply indebted he felt to men like Incledon and others, adding that the inspiration which moved him was strongly in his mind from his earliest remembrance. It lay, he said, a quiet hidden spark which, for a time, found nothing hard enough to vivify it; but which, coming in contact with proper materials, expanded.

“Tell Dibdin of Old Tinker,” cried Childe, of Kinlet.

The tale of Old Tinker was given, the last bit of court scandal discussed, and some tales told of the King, with whom Mr. Forester was on terms of friendship, and the festivities of the evening had extended into the small hours of the morning, when, during a brief pause in the general mirth, a tremendous crash was heard, and the Squire rushing out to see what was the matter, met one of the servants, who said the sound came from the larder, whither Mr. Forester repaired. Looking in, he saw Stephens _in his shirt_, and, with presence of mind, he turned the key, and went back to his company to consider how he should turn the incident to account.

It appears that Stephens had been several hours in bed, when, waking up from his first sleep, he fancied he should like a dip into the venison pie, and forthwith had gone down into the larder, where, in searching for the pie, he knocked down the dish, with one or two more. The Squire was not long in making up his mind how he should turn the matter to account; he declared that it was time to retire, but before doing so, he said, they must have a country dance, and insisted upon the whole household being roused to take part in it. There was no resisting the wishes of the host; the whole of the house assembled, and formed sides for a dance in the hall, through which Stephens must necessarily pass in going to his room. Whilst this was taking place Mr. Forester slipped the key into the door, and going behind Stephens, unkennelled his fox, making the parson run the gauntlet, in his shirt, amid an indescribable scene of merriment and confusion!

The very Rev. Dr. Stephens had paid for his nocturnal escapade, one would have thought, sufficiently to satisfy the most exacting. But the Squire and his guests, just ripe for fun, insisted that he should dress and come down into the dining-room to finish the night. The further penalty, too, was inflicted of making him join in the chorus of the old song, sung with boundless approbation by one of the company, beginning—

“A parson once had a remarkable foible Of loving good liquor far more than his Bible; His neighbours all said he was much less perplext In handling a tankard than in handling a text. Derry down, down, down, derry down.”

The gist of which lies in the parson’s reply to his wife, who, when the pigs set his ale running, and he stormed and swore, reminded him of his laudation of the patience of Job, whereupon he denies the application, with the remark—

“Job never had such a cask in his life.”

“The hunting in the Cheviot,”

now called “Chevy Chase,” succeeded, and the night closed with Dibdin singing his last new song, to music of his own composing, with a jolly, rollicking chorus by the whole company.