My Irish doctor was by my side, in great good humor, and a wicked twinkle in his eye. Turning to me he said:
“You will soon see some fun; not one of these Frenchmen can take that jump; it is a rasper. Not a man of them will clear that bank and ditch.”
I smiled at this, and felt that to the end of time it would always be English against French. It was cruel; but men should not pretend to ride after hounds when they cannot take the jumps.
“Look at those chaps,” he said, “in spotless pink; not a man among them who can jump a horse to any purpose.”
They were the nobility of the Basses Pyrénées, a splendid, gallant set of fellows; all prepared “to do or die.” The master of the hounds raised his hat, the fox was turned out of the bag; he was given ten minutes’ law; then the huntsman with his pack dashed away, clearing both bank and ditch. It was the severest jump they could find in any part of that country, purposely chosen for that reason. My doctor’s little Irish boy, a lad of sixteen years, went at it, and cleared it at a bound. I saw the master of the hunt (an American, a splendid looking fellow, superbly mounted, and a beautiful rider), with General Bosquet at his side, turn to the General (who was riding one of his horses), and shout:
“General, dash the spurs into her; lift her head a bit, and follow me.”
The General did not hesitate; he plunged the spurs into the beast, dashed ahead, and cleared bank and ditch. All his friends followed him. Forward they went, but only for a few rods, when every horse, as if shot, came to a full stop, planted his forefeet in front of him, and neither whip nor spur could budge him. None would take the jump; every Frenchman’s face became ashey pale, and I really felt sorry for them. Not a Frenchman, with the exception of the General, took that jump. After this, the mere mention of fox hunting would set the Frenchmen wild. It was cruel, but it was sport.
Moral: Men should not attempt to do what is not in them.
Passing two winters at Pau and the summers at Baden-Baden, keeping four horses at the former place, following the hounds at least once a week, giving all through the winter from one to two dinners a week, with an English housekeeper, and living as well as I could possibly live, with the cost of my ball included, I did not spend half the amount in living that I am compelled to in New York. The ball cost me but eight hundred dollars.
HOME AGAIN.
CHAPTER VII.
My Return to New York—Dinner to a Well-known Millionaire—Visit of Lord Frederick Cavendish, Hon. E. Ashley, and G. W. des Voeux to the United States—I Entertain Them at My Southern Home—My Father’s Old Friends Resent my Manner of Entertaining—Her Majesty’s Consul disgruntled—Cedar Wash-tubs and Hot Sheets for my English Guests—Shooting Snipe over the Rice Lands—Scouring the Country for Pretty Girls.
Called home by the stupidity of an agent, who was unable to treat with my old friend, Commodore Vanderbilt, for an extension of his lease of our dock property, most unwillingly we left our dear old Pau, with all its charming associations, and returned to New York.
I have always had a great fondness for men older than myself. Always preferring to associate with my superiors than my inferiors in intellect, and hence when brought in contact with one of America’s noblest and most cultivated men (withal, the then richest man in the United States, if not in the world), by his son-in-law, with whom I had formed a close intimacy abroad, I sought his society, and he, in turn, appeared at least to enjoy mine. Dining with him constantly, I suggested that he should dine with me; to which he readily assented. So I went to Cranston, my landlord of the New York Hotel, and put him to his trumps to give me a suitable dinner. His hotel was then crowded, and I had actually to take down a bedstead and improvise a dining-room. Cranston was one of those hotel-keepers who worked as much for glory as for money. He gave us simply a perfect dinner, and my dear old friend and his wife enjoyed it. I remember his saying to me, “My young friend, if you go on giving such dinners as these you need have no fear of planting yourself in this city.” I here give the menu of this dinner:
CARTE DU DINER.
Les Huitres, salées.
——
Le Potage de Consommé de Volaille, à la Royale.
——
Le Basse rayée, grillée, Sauce Remoulade.
——
Les Pommes de Terre, à la Lyonnaise.
——
La Mayonnaise de Homard, decorée à la gélée.
——
Le Filet de Bœuf, piqué, rôti, aux champignons.
——
Les Cailles, truffées, à la Financière.
Les Côtelettes d’Agneau, à la Soubise.
Les Tomates, à l’Americaine.
Les Petits Pois, à la Française.
——
Canvas-back Ducks, roasted.
Le Celeri, au jus.
——
Les Huitres, grillées, à la Ste. Augustine.
——
Le Pouding de Cabinet.
La Gélée, au rhum.
Les Méringues, à la Chantilly.
——
Les Glaces de Crême, à la Portugaise.
Les Quatre Mendiants.
Les Fruits.
Le Café, etc.
L’Hôtel New York, Mercredi, le 5 Janvier, 1859.
Just at this time three charming men visited New York and were fêted by my little circle of friends. They were Lord Frederick Cavendish, Hon. Evelyn Ashley, and G. W. des Voeux, now Governor of Hong Kong; three of the brightest spirits I had ever met, and without the slightest pretension; in fact, just what the real English gentleman always is—the first gentleman in the world. Fearing a cold winter, and a friend who was going off on a foreign mission offering me his furnished house in Savannah, with all his servants, etc., I took it on a lease and proposed leaving for my native city in January. Finding my English friends also going South, I invited them to pass a month with me in my Southern home. All my European purchases, my china, glass, and bric-à-brac, I did not even unbale in New York, but shipped them directly to Savannah. Before leaving I took the precaution to order my marketing from old Waite of Amity Street (the then famous butcher), to be sent to me weekly, and started my new Southern household.
I naturally prided myself, on appearing in my native city, in putting my best foot foremost, and entertaining as well as I knew how, or, rather, in giving to my Southern friends, the benefit of my European education in the way of dinner giving. I found this, at first, instead of gratifying my father’s friends rather piqued them; they said—“Heydey! here is a young fellow coming out here to show us how to live. Why, his father did not pretend to do this. Let us let him severely alone,” which for a time they did. I took up the young fry, who let their elders very soon know that I had certainly learned something and that Mc’s dinners were bound to be a feature in Savannah. Then the old patriarch of the place relented and asked me to a grand dinner.
The papers had announced the intended visit to Savannah of the son of the Duke of Devonshire, and the son of the Earl of Shaftesbury. Southern people then worshipped the English nobility. They prided themselves