by R S Surtees
“There was Lord Abingdon,” continued the old gentleman, telling them off on his fingers— “Duke of Bolton — Sir Charles Bunbury — Mr. Bradyll — Lord Clermont — Mr. Jolliff — remember his bay horse, Foxhuntoribus by Fox-hunter, well. Then there was Lord Milsintown — Mr. Pulteney — Mr. Panton — Duke of Queensbury — and a host whose names I forget. Ah! those recollections make an old man of me. Well, never mind! I’ve had my day, and the old ‘uns must make way for the young;” then, turning short upon Charley, who was glancing at the newspaper as it lay on the table, he said, with a jerk, “Allow me the privilege of inquiring the name of the gentleman I have the honour of addressing.”
This was a poser, and coming after such a string of high-sounding names, poor Charles’s humble one would cut but a poor figure. It so happened, however, that he was just skimming by a sort of sidelong glance the monthly advertisement of the heavy triumvirate, wherein well-known “unknowns” make names for themselves much better than their own. There was “Shooting, by Ranger,” and “Racing, by Rover,” and “Fishing, by Flogger,” and in larger letters, as if the great gun of the number, “A Trip to Trumpington, by Pomponius Ego.”
Charles had just got so far as this, when suddenly interrogated as described, when he unconsciously slipped out the words, “Pomponius Ego.”
“Pomponius Ego!” exclaimed the little gentleman, jumping on to his short legs as though he were shot, extending his arms and staring with astonishment, “I never was so out in my life!”
Charley, “I beg pardon —
“No apologies, my dear sir,” interrupted our host, resuming his seat with a thump that stotted his short legs off the carpet. “No apology! no apology! no apology! We old men are apt to fancy things, to fancy things, to fancy things — and I candidly confess I pictured Pomponius Ego quite a different sort of man to myself.”
Charles, “But if you’ll allow me to ex—”
“No explanations necessary, my dear Mr. Ego — Mr. Pomponius Ego, I mean,” jabbered the voluble little old gentleman. “Eat your muffin and sausages, and believe me you’re heartily welcome; I’ve lived long in the world — take some more coffee — there’s tea if you like it, but I never was so out before. Lord! if old Q. . could see me!” continued he, clasping his hands, and casting his eyes up to the ceiling.
Charley, “Well, but perhaps, sir—”
“There’s no perhaps’s in the matter, my dear sir — no perhaps in the matter; I’ll tell you candidly, I pictured Pomponius Ego a prosy old chap, who went the horse-in-the-mill round of his stories from sheer want of originality and inability to move from home in search of novelty. The only thing that ever staggered me was your constant assertion, that second horses were unknown in Leicestershire in Meynell’s time. Never was a greater fallacy, saving your presence! Always had a second horse out myself, though I only rode eight stun ten — never took soup for fear of getting fat — a host of others had second horses — Lambton and Lockley, and Lindow and Loraine Smith, and — But never mind! don’t assert that again, you know — don’t assert that again. Now take another sausage,” pushing the dish towards Charley in a friendly, forgiving sort of way, as if to atone for the uneasiness the correction had occasioned him.
“But I never said anything of the sort!” exclaimed Charley, reddening up, as soon as he could get a word in sideways.
“Saving your presence, a dozen times,” rejoined the little mercurial old gentleman— “a dozen times at least!” repeated he, most emphatically. “The fact is, my dear sir, I dare say you write so much, you forget what you say. We readers have better memories. I noted it particularly, for it was the only thing that ever shook my conviction of Pomponius Ego being a very old man. But let that pass. Don’t be discouraged. I like your writings, especially the first time over. Few stories bear constant telling; but you’ve a wonderful knack at dressing them up. My father had a jolly knack at cooking up an almanack, Yes, he had a jolly knack, at cooking up an almanack. By the way, you once cooked up an almanack! and a pretty hash it was, too!” added the little old gentleman. “I’ll tell you what,” continued he, tucking his legs up in his chair, and grasping a knee with each hand; “I’ll tell you what — I’d like to match you against the gentleman that does the cunning advertisements of Rowland’s Odonto or Pearl Dentifrice; I’d lay—”
“Zounds, sir!” interrupted Charles.
“Hear me out!” exclaimed the old gentleman, “Hear me out!” repeated he, throwing an arm out on each side of the chair; “I’d match you to lead one further on in an old story, without discovery, than Rowland’s man does with his puffs of paste, or whatever his stuff is.”
“But you are on the wrong scent altogether,” roared Charles; “I’ve nothing to do with Pomponius Ego or Pearl Dentifrice either.”
“Blastation!” screamed the little old gentleman, jumping up frantically into his chair, with a coffee-cup in one hand and a saucer in the other; “Blastation! tell me that, when it’s written in every feature of your face!” So saying, he sent the cup through the window, and clapped the saucer on his head.
“Come and feed the chuck cocks — pretty chuck cocks,” said Aaron, stumping in at the sound of the crash; “Come and feed the chuck cocks — pretty chuck cocks,” repeated he soothingly, taking his master down by the arm, and leading him quietly out of the room, observing to Stobbs as they went, “It’s your red coat that’s raisin’ him.”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
“‘BOUT LONNUN, THEN, divent ye make sic a rout, There’s nowse there maw winkers to dazzle: For a’ the fine things ye are gobbin about, We can marra in canny Newcassel.” —
Pigg’s Poems.
CAN ye let us lie i’ yere barn, please, canny man?” inquired Pigg of a farmer, at whose door he knocked a long time on the night of this memorable run, before he got him to answer. “Ar’s drippin’ wet, huss is tired, and hunds can’t travel.”
“Who are ye?” inquired the farmer, unused to visitors at any time, more particularly after nightfall.
“Ar’s Pigg, Squire Jorrocks’s huntsman,” replied James; “we’ve had a desperate run, and canna get hyem te neet.”
“S-o-o-o!” replied the farmer in astonishment. “Here, Mary!” holloaing to his wife; “fetch a light, here be the hounds. And hev ye killed him?” inquired the farmer, looking closer at his visitor.
“Aye, killed him, aye. Ar’s gettin’ his head i’ my pocket — if ye can put your hand in you may get it — ar’s see numb ar can de nout.”
“Sure-lie he’s a big un!” exclaimed the farmer, pulling out the head, and weighing it by the ears; “Well, I think! — but come, let’s get ye put up — it’s a tarrible night; not one for standin’ out at doors. Here! fetch the lantern, Jane, and help me to put the beast away, so as to make room for the gen’leman’s horse;” adding to Pigg, “you are surely very wet.”
Pigg.— “Wet, aye! wet as muck. Ar wish ar may ha’ getten all my hunds away though. If ye can let us have some clean stree i’ the barn, wor ard maister ‘ill pay ye liberal for ‘t i’ the mornin’ — he’s quite the gent.”
“A! never mind about the pay, we will do what we can for you,” replied the farmer. So saying he led the way with the lantern, and the jaded horse and tired hounds followed on with Pigg.
The farmer’s lads took the horse, while Pigg looked over his hounds, and finding only a couple and a half wanting, he shook them down plenty of straw, and returned to the house to see what he could get to feed them on. A tub full of milk, with brown loaves sliced into it, was quickly prepared, but there was little demand for it, the majority of the hounds seeming to prefer a continuance of the rest into which they were quietly subsiding to being disturbed for a meal. At length they had all been coaxed to the pail, and after a hearty shake each nestled into his neighbour, and the pack were soon in a very small compass.
Having seen his horse done up also, Pigg began to turn his attention to himself.
“Sink, but it’s wet,” said he, giving h
is cap a dash towards the floor, which sent a shower bath on to the flags; “however, ar’s lucky in gettin’ housed at all; for ar really thou’ht ar’d ha had to lie out like them poor divils at Chobham;” saying which he followed the farmer into an apartment, in which sat his wife and daughters, round a fire composed of a little coal and a good deal of rubbish-wood.
“Ar think ar’ll gan into the kitchen,” observed Pigg, looking at the fire.
“This be the kitchen,” replied the farmer’s wife, setting him a chair by the fire, thinking he was shy.
Pigg sat down, and after contemplating the fire a few seconds, he exclaimed, “Ods wons! but ye keep varry bad fires i’ this country.”
“Nay, man,” replied Mr. Butterfield, his host, “we call that a varra good one.”
“Ar doesn’t ken what a bad un ‘ill be like, then,” rejoined James.
“Well,” said Butterfield, throwing on another fagot, “you are welcome to it, such as it is. What will you have to eat?”
“Ought ye can give me,” said Pigg; “a rasher o’ bacon, collops and eggs, or ought,” casting his eye up at the flitches and hams hanging from the ceiling, adding, “ar’s mortal hungry.”
While the rashers of bacon were frying, Butterfield made Pigg exchange his wet coat, waistcoat, and shirt, for dry clothes of his own, and adding a cold pork-pie and a flagon of ale to the hot bacon, Pigg was very soon in his glory. Having at length cleared the decks, he again turned to the fire, which, eyeing for some time with critical amazement, he at length exclaimed, with a laugh, “Sink, if mar cousin Deavilboger see’d sick a fire i’ his kitchen, ar wonder what he’d say!”
“You’ll keep good fires in your country, then, I presume?” inquired Mrs. Butterfield.
“Aye, fires, aye!” exclaimed Pigg; “nebody kens what a fire is but them as has been i’ wor country.”
“Whereabouts is it?” inquired Butterfield, puzzled with his dialect.
Pigg.— “A canny Newcassel, where all the coals come frae. You’ve niver been there, ar’s warn’d, or you’d have heard tell o’ mar coosin Deavilboger — farms a hundred and nine acres of land aside Kenton. Sink it, frae his loupin on stane ar’s seen all the country side flaring wi’ pit loues. Mar cousin’s kitchen fire niver gans out frae Kirsmas to Kirsmas. A! it is a bonny country! By my soule, ar’s niver been reetly warmed sin ar left the North.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Butterfield, in astonishment; “your cousin must spend a fortin i’ firin’.”
“Deil a bit — coals cost nout — if they did, folks wad warm theirsels at the pit heaps. Iv’ry poor man has his shed full o’ coals; great blazin’ fires to come hyem te at night, a nice singin’ hinnies, all ready for slicin and butterin’, swingin’ o’ the girdle — but ye dinna ken what a girdle is i’ this country, ar’s warn’d.”
“No,” replied Mrs. Butterfield; “we don’t.”
“Why, ye see,” said James, “it’s a great round, flat iron broad like, may be, three times as big as your hat-crown, with a hoop over the top to hank it on tiv a crook i’ the chimley; and then the missis makes a thing like a spice loaf, which she rolls out flat with a rollin’-pin, till it’s the size o’ the girdle, and about as thick as yeer finger, and then she bakes it on the girdle, and splets it up, and butters it see that the grease runs right down your gob as ye eat it.”
“Nay, then!” exclaimed Mrs. Butterfield, “but that will only be for gentle folk?”
Pigg.— “Iv’ry man i’ the country has a singin’ hinnie of a Saturday night, and many of a Sunday, tee. There wasn’t a man on mar cousin Deavilboger’s farm but has his fifteen and sixteen shillin’ a-week, and some up to twenty.”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Mr. Butterfield, who only paid his eight. “It must be a grand country to live in.”
“A, it’s a grand country!” repeated Pigg. “Ar’s sure ar’s never been rightly warm sin’ I left it. What they call a fire i’ the South, is nabbut what we wad tak to light one on with i’ the North;” rubbing his wet cords as he spoke. “A, it’s a bonny country! — bonny Shiney Raws all about the pits. Ivery man with his pig and his gairden; sweetbriar i’ the middle, and poseys round about.”
“You must have a drop of gin, and see if that will warm you,” rejoined Mr. Butterfield, unlocking a cupboard as he spoke. “Here, Mary, get some glasses, and put the kettle on, and let us have a cheerer to the gentleman’s health. It’s not every night that brings us a visitor.”
A large black bottle of Hollands, labelled “Eye Water,” part of a contraband cargo, was fearlessly placed on the table. More wood and coal were added to the fire; the wood crackled merrily up the chimney, shedding a cheerful blaze over the family group circled about. One seat of honour was ceded to Pigg, the other was occupied by Mrs. Butterfield, while her two daughters came in between her and their father, who sat in the centre, and the servant lads kept a little in the rear of their master on the left. The servant girl bustled about in the background.
“Help yourself, now,” said Mr. Butterfield, passing the bottle and tumbler to Pigg, having poured himself and his wife each out a glass.
“Don’t be afraid of it; you’re heartily welcome, and there’s more in the cupboard when you’ve finished that. Here’s your good health! I’m fond of fox-hunters.”
“Thank ye,” replied Pigg, filling his glass half full of gin, and topping it with hot water. “Ar wish the country was made o’ sic chaps as ye; we shouldn’t hear se much ‘war wheat’ then, ar’s warn’d ye.”
Mr. Butterfield did not catch the latter part of the sentence, or he would have read him a lecture on riding over wheat.
A second half tumber succeeded the first, and Pigg waxed uncommonly jovial; his eyes twinkled, and his tongue ran riot with all manner of stories, chiefly about hunting, the importance of his cousin Deavilboger, and the magnificence of the town of Newcassel. “Mr. Jorrocks was nothing but a good un. If it wasn’t for him, he’d never stop i’ the South.” At the third half tumbler, Deavilboger’s farm had grown into nine hundred acres, and Newcassel was bigger than London.
“God sink ar’ll sing ye a sang,” said he, turning the quid in his mouth. “A! one o’ the bonniest sangs that iver was sung — all about a dog o’ wor toon, and when ar stamps wi’ my foot, ye mun all join chorus. Now ar’ll begin:— “In a town near Newcassel, a pitman did dwell, Wiv his wife named Peg, a tom-cat, and himsel; A dog called Cappy, he doated upon, Because he was left by his great uncle Tom.
Weel bred Cappy, famous au’d Cappy
Cappy’s the dog, Talliho, Talliho!”
“Now, that last’s chorus,” observed Pigg, wiping the tobacco stream from his mouth with his sleeve. “His tail pitcher-handled, his colour jet black; Just a foot and a half was the length of his back; His legs seven inches frer shoulders to paws, And his lugs like twe dockins, hung owre his jaws.”
Hereupon Pigg gave a mighty stamp, and the company joined in with —
“Weel bred Cappy, famous au’d Cappy,
Cappy’s the dog, Talliho, Talliho!
“For huntin’ of varmin reet clever was he,
And the house frer a’ robbers his bark wad keep free.
Could baith fetch and carry; could sit on a stool,
Or, when frisky, wad hunt water-rats in a pool.
Weel bred Cappy, &c.
“As Ralphy to market one morn did repair,
In his hatband a pipe, and weel combed was his hair,
Ower his arm hung a basket — thus onwards he speels,
And enter’d Newcassel wi’ Cap at his heels.
Weel bred Cappy, &c.
“He hadn’t got further than foot of the side,
Afore he fell in with the dog-killin’ tribe;
When a highwayman fellow slipp’d round in a crack,
And a thump o’ the skull laid him flat on his back!
Down went Cappy, &c.
“Now Ralphy, extonish’d, Cape’s fate did repine,
Whilst its eyes like
twe little pearl buttons did shine;
He then spat on his hands, in a fury he grew,
Cries, ‘‘Gad smash! but ar’l hev settisfaction o’ thou,
For knockin’ down Cappy,’ &c.
“Then this grim-luiken fellow his bludgeon he raised,
When Ralphy eyed Cappy, and then stood amazed;
But fearin’ aside him he might be laid down,
Threw him into the basket, and bang’d out o’ town.
Away went Cappy, &c.
“He breethless gat hyem, and when liftin’ the sneck,
His wife exclaim’d, ‘Ralphy! thou’s suin gettin’ back;’
‘Getten back!’ replied Ralphy, ‘ar wish ar’d ne’er gyen,
In Newcassel, they’re fellin’ dogs, lasses, and men.
They’ve knocked down Cappy, &c.
“‘If aw gan to Newcassel, when comes wor pay week,
Ar’ liken him again by the patch on his cheek;
Or if ever he enters wor toon wiv his stick,
We’ll thump him about till he’s black as au’d Nick,
For killin’ au’d Cappy,’ &c.
“Wiv tears in her een, Peggy heard his sad tale,
And Ralph wiv confusion and terror grew pale;
While Cappy’s transactions with grief they talk’d o’er,
He creeps out o’ the basket quite brisk on the floor!
