' With the Post Office Directory and
Mr. Sponge at his elbow, Mr. Bottleends, the butler--'delirius tremendous,'
as Bottleends called it, having quite incapacitated Sir Harry--wrote off
for champagne from this man, sherry from that, turtle from a third, turbot
from a fourth, tea from a fifth, truffles from a sixth, wax-lights from
one, sperm from another; and down came the things with such alacrity, such
thanks for the past and hopes for the future, as we poor devils of the
untitled world are quite unacquainted with. Nay, not content with giving
him the goods, many of the poor demented creatures actually paraded their
folly at their doors in new deal packing-cases, flourishingly directed
'TO SIR HARRY SCATTERCASH, BART., NONSUCH HOUSE, &c. _By Express
Train_.' In some cases they even paid the carriage.
And here, in the midst of love, luxury, and fox-hunting, let us for a time
leave our enterprising friend, Mr. Sponge, while we take a look at a
species of cruelty that some people call 'sport.' For this purpose we will
begin a fresh chapter.
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