in shouts of laughter.  Mr. Jorrocks then called upon the company in succession for a toast, a song, or a sentiment.  Nimrod gave, “The Royal Staghounds”; Crane gave, “Champagne to our real friends, and real pain to our sham friends”; Green sung, “I’d be a butterfly”; Mr. Stubbs gave, “Honest men and bonnie lasses”; and Mr. Spiers, like a patriotic printer, gave, “The liberty of the Press,” which he said was like fox-hunting—­“if we have it not we die”—­all of which Mr. Jorrocks applauded as if he had never heard them before, and drank in bumpers.  It was evident that unless tea was speedily announced he would soon become;

  O’er the ills of life victorious,

for he had pocketed his wig, and had been clipping the Queen’s English for some time.  After a pause, during which his cheeks twice changed colour, from red to green and back to red, he again called for a bumper toast, which he prefaced with the following speech, or parts of a speech: 

“Gentlemen—­in rising—­propose toast about to give—­feel werry—­feel werry—­(Yorkshireman, ‘werry muzzy?’) J——­ feel werry—­(Mr. Spiers, ‘werry sick?’) J——­ werry—­(Crane, ‘werry thirsty?’) J——­ feel werry —­(Nimrod, ‘werry wise?’) J——­ no; but werry sensible —­great compliment—­eyes of England upon us—­give you the health—­Mr. Happerley Nimrod—­three times three!”

He then attempted to rise for the purpose of marking the time, but his legs deserted his body, and after two or three lurches down he went with a tremendous thump under the table.  He called first for “Batsay,” then for “Binjimin,” and, game to the last, blurted out, “Lift me up!—­tie me in my chair!—­fill my glass!”

XIII.  THE DAY AFTER THE FEAST:  AN EPISODE BY THE YORKSHIREMAN

On the morning after Mr. Jorrocks’s “dinner party” I had occasion to go into the city, and took Great Coram Street in my way.  My heart misgave me when I recollected Mrs. J——­ and her horrid paws, but still I thought it my duty to see how the grocer was after his fall.  Arrived at the house I rang the area bell, and Benjamin, who was cleaning knives below, popped his head up, and seeing who it was, ran upstairs and opened the door.  His master was up, he said, but “werry bad,” and his misses was out.  Leaving him to resume his knife-cleaning occupation, I slipped quietly upstairs, and hearing a noise in the bedroom, opened the door, and found Jorrocks sitting in his dressing-gown in an easy chair, with Betsey patting his bald head with a damp towel.

“Do that again, Batsay!  Do that again!” was the first sound I heard, being an invitation to Betsey to continue her occupation.  “Here’s the Yorkshireman, sir,” said Betsey, looking around.

“Ah, Mr. York, how are you this morning?” said he, turning a pair of eyes upon me that looked like boiled gooseberries—­his countenance indicating severe indisposition.  “Set down, sir; set down—­I’m werry bad—­werry bad indeed—­bad go last night.  Doesn’t do to go to the lush-crib this weather.  How are you, eh? tell me all about it.  Is Mr. Nimrod gone?”