by R S Surtees
He seemed to be a sort of character, for his appearance was hailed with a round of jokes and coarse salutes, which gradually subsided into inquiries after the health of Mrs. Tappington and the little Taps. Having replied to these, he ascended the rostrum, and clearing his throat with a substantial hem! commanded silence, and proceeded to read the conditions of sale; after which Talavera came trotting up to the hammer.
“Now,” said the auctioneer, “will any gentleman with the wit in his head and the money in his pocket, favour me with an offer for this proud animal, whose worth is far beyond the reach of my ‘umble imagination!”
“Make a ring, gentlemen, make a ring,” continued he, motioning with his hand, adding to the ostler, “trot him round, and he’ll soon enlarge the circle of our acquaintance,” whereupon crack went the circus-whip of the man in the middle, and round spun the horse with his heels in the air, snowballing the shrinking company with the greatest precision.
That feat being accomplished, he was again trotted up to the rising ground by the rostrum, where he stood panting and snorting with a watchful eye, wondering what was going to happen. “Now, gentlemen,” continued the auctioneer, “perhaps some of you will favour me with an offer for this proud animal — a horse, as far as my ‘umble judgment goes, as near perfection as it is possible to imagine. What will any gentleman say for a beginning?”
“Ah! to be sure,” to a dirty-looking anything-arian, who now approached him, “ah! to be sure, examine him, sir! examine him attentively, sir! examine his mouth! examine his eyes! examine his legs! examine his nose! Well, what d’ye make of his age?”
“Seventy-two,” replied the man coolly.
“Old enough for anything!” retorted the auctioneer, amid the laughter of the company. “What will any gentleman say for this grand animal, with the high courage of a gentleman, and all the docility — this noble viewly beast, with the neck and chest described in the book of Job? Look at his chest! look at his loins! look at his bellows, but mind his heels!” added he, as the horse began plunging and kicking from the cold.
“Ten guineas,” now offered the man who had examined him.
“Ten guineas?” retorted the auctioneer, angrily, “ten guineas! you must be joking; ten guineas for a proud animal like this! You astonish him! you insult him! you degrade him! Ten guineas for such a horse as this! It’s a downright insult to the whole animal creation. And ten guineas are only bid,” continued the auctioneer, adopting the offer, and proceeding to force, and screw, and coax, and exhort, and dwell, in a way that would take Tattersall at least a week to get through an ordinary Monday’s sale. At length the hammer fell on both the proud animals, and on Flaps, the saddler of Loopline, declaring his principal, Mr. Jorrocks was found to be the purchaser of both Talavera at twenty-eight and Corunna at thirty pounds. Mr. Jorrocks then adjourned to inaugurate his purchase with brandy and water, and let Castors know what a great man he really was. And Castors was much chagrined to find that Flaps was not bidding for Martin Greenwood, of the Triumphant Chariot Livery Stables, where he had occasional dealings, for, by very little management, he could have made the cut-em-down Captain’s bill cover a good deal more purchase-money. Mr. Jorrocks, however, mollified him with the old specific, and also succeeded in selling him a couple of chests of tea, Lapsang Souchong and strong Congou — which he managed to deduct from the price of the horses. And Handley Cross being reduced to a state of perfect torpor by the frost, the news that old Jackey, as they profanely called Mr. Jorrocks, had bought some new nags, was a great accommodation, and drew divers parties to the station to criticise them as they came. Among others was our old friend Mr. Barnington, who, being struck with the looks and action of bitter-beer-coloured Corunna asked our master if he would sell him?
“Oh! why, faith, Barney,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, raising his eyebrows, puffing out his cheeks, dangling his seals, and looking the very essence of good-natured innocent simplicity; “oh! why, faith, Barney, I’ve never thought o’ nothin’ o’ the sort, but you’re a good sort o’ feller, and subscribes liberal to my ‘ounds: I doesn’t care ‘bout the lucre o’ gain, nobody cares less ‘bout money nor I do, and you may take him for sixty — take him for sixty, and no more ‘bout it.” So saying, Mr. Jorrocks passed his purchase to his friend, who felt flattered by the favour, and complimented Pigg with a sovereign.
Pigg too was pleased with the horse that went into his stud, so that altogether our master did pretty well — cleared his railway expenses, as he said. The thing now was, to get a little work out of his establishment, for he was no man for keeping things to look at.
The storm weighed heavily on Mr. Jorrocks’s spirits, and James Pigg d — d the south country, and swore “they never had seck weather i’ the north.” Often did our worthy, warming himself at Batsay’s pittance of a kitchen fire, wish himself at Deavilboger’s never-failing grate.
“Ar think we’re gannin’ to have fresh,” observed Pigg to his master one day, as the latter was paying his usual lengthy visit to the stable.
“Have what?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks.
“Fresh,” repeated Pigg, with an emphasis; “ye ken what fresh weather is, dinnat ye?”
“Vy, no,” replied our master thoughtfully; “you don’t mean a thaw?”
“Yeas, a thow,” replied Pigg.
“I vish we may!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, brightening up; “somehow the day feels softer; but the hair generally is after a fall. Howsomever, nous werrons, as we say in France: it’ll be a long time afore we can ‘unt, though— ‘edges will be full o’ snow.”
“Ay, dike backs,” replied Pigg, “lies lang i’ them; but one can always loup in, or loup o’er.”
“Ah, that’s all werry good talkin’,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, shaking his head, and jingling the silver in his breeches-pocket; “that’s werry good talkin’,” repeated he, “but there are sich things as ‘osses’ necks to be considered.”
“A! but if ar’ll risk mar neck, ye surely may risk yeer ‘osse’s,” observed Pigg.
“Don’t know,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, smiling at his huntsman’s keenness. “Fear we shalln’t have a chance in a hurry: have you seen Junks?”
“No, ar’s not; the missis was on the house-end as I came to stable, but Gabriel wern’t there.”
“Ah, the missis is nothin’,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, “had Gabriel been there it would have been summut like; good bird Mrs. Junks, but has’nt Gabey’s delicate perception ‘bout the weather — follows — never takes a lead. A scream from Gabey would give one ‘opes of getting the Jenny Linds to work again.” So saying, our master drew on his American overshoes, and returned to the consolations of the cupboard.
Despite Mr. Jorrocks’ opinion of her, Mrs. Junks was a true prophet. The next day, Gabriel himself descended from the stable top into the garden with a loud and piercing scream. His crest was erect, his neck feathers slightly ruffled, and as he lifted one foot and then the other out of the snow, there was an air of comfort in his walk that told of other feelings than that of frost — Mr. Jorrocks went out at the back-door in his slippers, and poking his finger into the snow, proclaimed it was a thaw — a large drop splashing on his wig confirmed the judgment — spouts began to trickle, then to run, sewers to overflow, streets stood in snowbroth, and the prospect of a return to verdure and animation was the only consolation for wet-footed walkers. It was a decided thaw. There was a gentle wind, and the rain fell soft and warm — laurels expanded to the more genial atmosphere, the leafless trees seemed to increase in size, and the lately distinct distant objects resumed their gray dimness in the landscape.
Mr. Jorrocks soon began to wax uncommonly eager, and he, who had reproved Pigg’s ardour, now in turn proposed a day — a quiet bye, just by their two selves to see “’ow the country looked and when they could begin to advertise.” And as luck would have it, they fell in with a high-conditioned old flyer, who led Pigg such a dance as never was seen, and left Mr. Jorrocks stuck in a snow wreath in Eastfieldlane
, out of which he had to be dug at an expense of seven shillings, the tinkers who found him refusing to put in a spade until he said what he’d give. That cooled our master’s courage for a week, at the end of which time, things got into working order, and the establishment soon assumed such a form as tempted Mr. Jorrocks into the indiscretion disclosed in the following chapter.
CHAPTER L. POMPONIUS EGO.
THE GREAT MR. Ego having exalted the horns of the principal hunts in the kingdom, was now spending his time pleasantly between London and Paris — living at Calais — from whence he emerged at short notice to attend buttering matches in England; and the glowing account he gave of some great man’s establishment, caused Mr. Jorrocks to pant for that enduring fame which statuary and stationary best can give. Accordingly he made the overture contained in the following letter: —
“Dear Mr. Hego,
“If your intercourse with Dukes and other great guns o’ the world, leaves any margin for the doin’s of the pop-guns o’ the chase, I shall be werry ‘appy if you will come here and take a look at our most provincial pack. In course I needn’t tell you that my ‘ouse is not large enough to require a kiver ‘ack to canter from the dinin’ to the drawin’-room, neither is the pack on a par with many you have seen; but I can give you a good blow-out, both in the way of wittles and drink, and shall be ‘appy to ‘put you up,’ as they say in the cut-me-downs, on as good a quad as I can, and show you sich sport as the country will afford. Entre nous, as we say in France, I want to be famous, and you know how to do it. In course mum’s the word.
“Yours to serve,
“John Jorrocks.
“P.S. — Compts. to Julius Seizeher and all the ancient Romans when you write.” “Diana Lodge, Handley Cross Spa. “To Pomponius Ego, Esq., Calais.
The following is Mr. Ego’s answer: —
“Dear Mr. Jorrocks, —
“You remind me of Catullus! None but the old Latian could have put the point as you do. D — m all dukes! I’m for mercantile life — l s. d. — I shall have great satisfaction in inspecting your pack, on Thursday next, which I have no doubt I shall find all I can desire. Pick me out an easy-going, sure-footed, safe-leaping horse, with a light mouth, and let him have a Whippy-saddle on — I can’t ride in any other. I like a bed-room with a southern aspect, — the feathers above the mattress, if you please; wax-candles and Eau de Cologne, will pitch the tune for the rest, Compliments to Mrs. Jorrocks, from, dear Jorrocks,
“Yours very truly,
“Pomponius Ego.
“P.S. — What would you like to be done in? The ‘Q. R.,’ the ‘H. T.,’ ‘Fraser,’ ‘Blackwood,’ ‘New Monthly,’ ‘Encyclopedia,’ ‘Life,’ ‘Field,’ ‘Era,’ or what? “To John Jorrocks, Esq., “Master of Fox-Hounds, “Diana Lodge, Handley Cross Spa.”
This point being arranged, great preparations were made for the important event. Hounds may go on for centuries without being known beyond the limits of their country, but the one day that brings the Inspector-General lives for ever in the page of history. Where, then, is the master of hounds, where the huntsman, where the whip, where the member of a hunt, whose heart does not beat responsive with Mr. Jorrocks’, on this trying occasion? Who, in the familiar language of low life, does not wish him well out of it?
“Now, James,” said our master to his huntsman, as they stood in the kennel-yard looking over the hounds, a few days before the appointed visit, “you must get all on the square; the great Pomponius Hego is a comin’, and we shall be all down in black and wite.”
“Whe’s he?” inquired Pigg, scratching his head.
“Vot! not know Pomponius Hego!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, in astonishment; “you surelie don’t mean to say so.”
“Ar’ dinna ken him, ar’s sure,” replied Pigg, with the greatest indifference. “Is he a skeulmaister?”
“A skeulmaister!” repeated Mr. Jorrocks, with a sneer and an indignant curl of his lip; “a skeulmaister! No! — a master of ‘unting — not an M.F.H., like me, but a man wot makes hobserwations on M.F.H.’s, their packs, their ‘osses, their ‘untsmen — their every thing, in fact.”
“What’s he de that for?” inquired Pigg, with surprise.
“Vy that the world at large may know what he thinks on ’em, to be sure. He prints all he sees, hears, or thinks, in a book.”
Pigg.— “Ye dinna say se!”
“Quite true, I assure you,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “and if by any unlucky chance he blames an ‘untsman, or condemns a pack, it’s all dickey with them for ever; for no livin’ man dare contradict him, and every one swears by wot he says.”
“Woons man,” replied Pigg, in a pucker, “we maun be uncommon kittle then ar’ guess.”
“You must exert your hutmost powers,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, most emphatically; “for dash my vig, if we fail, I, even I — John Jorrocks himself, will go perfectly mad with rage and wexation.”
“He’ll ken all aboot the hunds and huntin’ then, ar’s warn’d,” replied Pigg, catching the infection of fear.
Mr. Jorrocks.— “Oh, yes! — at least he writes about them; and no one disputes print. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I almost fear I’ve made a mess o’ myself, by axin’ of him to come. I question if the world would not have been as ‘appy without the mighty Hego. Hoil, butter, sugar, soap, all that sort o’ thing is werry pleasant; but then — oh, ‘orror! the idea of being rubbed the wrong way by Hego! Death itself would be better!”
Pigg.— “Hout, tout! — fear nout! there’s nout to boggle a man! Gin I were ye, with all yeer brass, ar’ wadn’t care for neone.”
Mr. Jorrocks.— “Ah! but, Pigg! — think of hambition! — think of fame! — think of that summut arter life wot prompts men to great hactions! Here, for five-and-thirty years, have I been a hardent follower of the chase — loved it, oh, ‘eavens! for its own sake, and not from any hanxious longins arter himmortality! and now, when greatness has been thrust upon me — when I shines forth an M.F.H. — to think that all may be dashed from me, and ‘stead of reignin’ King of ‘Andley Cross— ‘stead of bein’ the great and renowned John Jorrocks — I may be dashed t’ oblivion! Oh, Pigg! — hambition is a frightful, a dreadful thing!”
Pigg.— “Hout, tout, fear nout. Does he ride, or nabbut looks at pack at cover-soide loike?”
Mr. Jorrocks.— “Both, both — fust, he’ll come and look us all over, ax the name of this ‘ound and that — call ’em level — enquire ’ow each is bred — talk of Hosbaldeston’s Furrier, Lord Enry’s Contest, or Sutton’s Trueman — look at this nag — then at that — ax their pedigrees — their hages — their prices — their ever things — vether we summers them in the ‘ouse or in the field — do a little about ‘ard meat— ’ow much corn they get — if we bruise it — vether we split our beans, or give them whole — then when we throws off he marks each motion — sees whether we put in at the right end of the cover or the wrong — observes whether the men have ‘ands equal to their nerves, or nerves equal to their ‘ands; books their seats and their names — not their seats by the coach, mind — but their seats in the saddle. To read his accounts of the runs you’d fancy he was every where at once, both before, behind, and above — with the fox — with the ‘ounds — with the first, and with the last man in the field — so knowin’ly does he describe every twist, every turn, every bend of the run. Oh Pigg! my excellent, my beautiful Pigg! now that the fatal day ‘proaches, and I sees the full brightness o’ my indiscretion starin’ me i’ the face, I begins to repent havin’ axed him to come. Wot can fame do for Jorrocks? I have as much tin as I wants, and needn’t care a copper for no man. Would that I was well out o’ the mess!”
“Never fear,” replied Pigg, “here be good like h’unds, and yeer husses can gan; if we de but find, the deuce is in it if we don’t cook him up a run.”
“Oh, Pigg! my buck of a Pigg!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, “those ifs are the deuce and all in ‘unting — There’s nothin’ so difficult to ride as an ‘if.’ If we find a fox,
then there’s the difficulty of gettin’ well away with him; or if we do get well away, then there’s the chance of his bein’ ‘eaded back; or of there bein’ no scent, or of his takin’ a bad line, or of his bein’ chased by a cur, or of his gainin’ an earth we don’t know of, or of a great banging ‘are misleadin’ the ‘ounds, or of the fox beatin’ us disgracefully at the far end — these things are dreadful to the anxious mind of a M.F.H. at all times, but’ orrible, most ‘orrible, at a time like the prisent.”
“Dinna fear,” replied Pigg, “dinna fear — you’ll see he’ll be nowt but mortal man after all. If you want to kill a fox, gan to big wood, and have somebody there with black bitch.”
“Black bitch,” said Mr. Jorrocks, thoughtfully, “black bitch — Wot should we want with black bitch when we have all the ‘ounds out?”
“Hout, thou fondy!” said Pigg, “doesn’t thou ken what black bitch is?”
“No I doesn’t — unless it’s a dog’s wife.”
