I found the party congregated in the piazza around Mr Fyall, who was
passing his jokes, without much regard to the feelings of his guests, and
exhibiting as great a disregard of the common civilities and courtesies of
life as can well be imagined. One of the party was a little red--faced
gentleman, Peregrine Whiffle, Esquire, by name who, in Jamaica parlance,
was designated an extraordinary master in Chancery; the overseer of the
pen, or breeding farm, in the great house as it is called, or mansionhouse
of which Mr Fyall resided, and a merry, laughing, intelligent, round,
red--faced man, with a sort of Duncan Knockdunder nose, through the wide
nostrils of which you could see a cable's length into his head; he was
either Fyall's head clerk, or a sort of first lieutenant; these personages
and myself composed the party. The dinner itself was excellent, although
rather of the rough and round order; the wines and food intrinsically
good; but my appetite was not increased by the exhibition of a deformed,
bloated negro child, about ten years old, which Mr Fyall planted at his
elbow, and, by way of practical joke, stuffed to repletion with all kinds
of food and strong drink, until the little dingy brute was carried out
drunk.
The wine circulated freely, and by and by Fyall indulged in some
remarkable stories of his youth, for he was the only speaker, which I
found some difficulty in swallowing, until at length, on one thumper being
tabled, involving an impossibility, and utterly indigestible, I
involuntarily exclaimed, "by Jupiter!"
"You want any ting, massa?" promptly chimed in the black servant at my
elbow, a diminutive kiln--dried old negro.
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