by R S Surtees
“The Dinner. — At five o’clock precisely, for no man is more punctual than Mr. Jorrocks, I found myself comfortably seated with my legs under his mahogany, in a delightful little party, formed of my estimable host and his lady, a very Venus, and suggesting, by her complexion, the words of the Poet of Love, ‘ut flos’ &c. Miss Belinda Jorrocks, their niece, a most lovely and fascinating young creature, the Diana of private life, ‘rosy, with dew’ as Moore says. Mr. James Stobbs, a Yorkshire gentleman — heir, I understand, to a pretty fortune, and who was evidently making love to Miss Belinda, and another gentleman of the name of Smith, or Smyth, but which it was, I regret exceedingly to say, I am unable to state.
“We had an excellent repast, in the old English style, of abundant profusion, which I so greatly admire — pig at the top, pig at the bottom, and myself on one side — turkey to remove one and a couple of hares to supplant the other. For side dishes, there were what I never saw before in any country — a round of beef, cut in two, one half placed on each side of the table; on inquiry, I found it was done to get the real juicy part of the beef, without the salt. In addition to these, there were two pork-pies.
“But my readers will naturally inquire, ‘Had you, Ego, with all this eating, any thing like drinking in proportion?’ Oh, indeed, I answer yes — Oceans of Port! We drank ‘Fox-hunting’ again, and again, and again. In short, whenever my inestimable host found himself at a loss for a joke, a toast, or a sentiment, he invariably exclaimed, ‘Come, Mr. Ego, let’s drink Fox-’unting again!’ Particulars I will not enter into, but I may be allowed to speak of myself. I paid such devotion to Bacchus, that I fancied I became the God myself! Ego’s forehead fancied the vinecrown around it! But he trusts he never, in his moments of deepest hilarity, forgot what was due to beauty and moral worth! Yet, the wine in — well may we say with the Augustan classic— ‘Cereus in vitium flecti, monitoribus asper Utilium tardus provisor, prodigus æris, Sublimis, cupidusque, et amata relinquere pernix.’
“Any particulars of the establishment of so celebrated a gentleman as Mr. Jorrocks, will, I am sure, be interesting to the innumerable readers of the ‘Heavy Triumvirate’ I may, therefore, mention the first thing that occurred to me on returning to sensibility on the following morning. I was lying tossing and tumbling about in a very nice French bed, with white dimity furniture, with a splitting headache from my over-night’s Anacreonism, as Moore would elegantly call it, when a gentle tap at my door first drew my attention to the fact that I was not, as I fancied, in the Calais packet, off Dover. ‘Come in!’ at length I cried, after the knock had been more than once repeated, and in obedience to the order, little Benjamin, Mr. Jorrocks’s ‘buoy’ of all work, presented himself at my bed-side. His whole person was enveloped in an old faded green baize apron, but there was no mistaking the rogueish ginnified countenance that appeared above it, even if he had suffered his tongue to lie dormant, which was not the case.
“‘I say, guv’nor!’ exclaimed he, in the slangy, saucy dialect, peculiar to the lower orders in London, ‘I say, guv’nor, Betsy complains!’
‘Sirrah! Remember what the Latian said!— ‘Syllaba longa brevi subjecta vocatur iambus, Pes citus.’
“‘Hold your tongue!’ cried I.
“Benjamin was struck with the language.
“‘What business have you here?’
“‘Vot business have I here? I’ll tell you vot business I have here’ said he. ‘The old ‘un’ (meaning his master) ‘says, if your coppers are ‘ot, you may have one of his Sizeley (Seidlitz) pooders’ producing a box as he spoke.
“Mr. Jorrocks, however, I suppose, gets Ben on such terms as makes it convenient for him to put up with his impudence, as on no other score can I reconcile the idea of his keeping such a scoundrel. One word more relative to Mr. Jorrocks, and, for the present, I take leave of my most respected friend, of whom none but himself can be his parallel. It may not, perhaps, be generally known, that prior to Mr. Jorrocks becoming master of the Handley Cross Fox Hounds, his amiable lady and he did not live upon the most amicable terms, and frequent feuds disturbed the serenity of Great Coram Street. Since he got them, all goes on smoothly and well. Mrs. Jorrocks identifies herself with the sports of her husband, and not unfrequently graces the field in a fly. Is not this a compliment to hunting; and may not I, the chosen, the only real historian of the chase, take some little credit to myself for the accomplishment of so desirable an object?
“I think I may!
“Pomponius Ego!”
When Mr. Jorrocks, who had anticipated all sorts of flattering encomiums and agreeable comparisons — that would place him in the front rank of sportsmen, and astonish the chaps in the city — read the foregoing, he was half frantic with rage, and kept dashing the Heavy Triumvirate about the room, until he knocked all the number to pieces. He then deliberately kicked it together, and, taking the tongs, burnt it before a slow fire under a heavy discharge of depreciatory anathemas and declarations that it was as much out of date as an old six inside coach.
The following is his entry in his Journal respecting the account, to hear which he had summoned a select party to dinner: —
“Read Pomponius Hego’s account of me, my missus, my miss, my ‘ats, my pork pyes, and my ‘ounds. Never was such nonsense. This sort of hoiling won’t answer. Always one word for his host and two for himself. All nonsense payin’ chaps for butterin’ one when one can do it so much better oneself. Will take a leaf out o’ the Blackmore Wale chap’s books another time. Spoiled the best dinner that ever was cooked — turtle soup and turbot — haunch o’ doe wenison and Stilton — couldn’t eat a bit.”
And there leaving him to recover, we will take another peep at his huntsman.
CHAPTER LIII. THE PIGG TESTIMONIAL.
“YIS: — RESOLVED that James Pigg is evidently desarvin’ of a testimonial — is evidently desarvin’ of a testimonial, — yis — is evidently desarvin’ of a testimonial.” Such were the words that escaped the lanthorn jaws of friend James at the end of a long carouse at the sign of the Salmon in Handley Cross (beds 1s., breakfast 1s. 6d., dinners with ale 2s. 6d.), where a sporting or perhaps gambling conversation had gradually turned into an enquiry as to the best means of raising the wind. Owen Sherry, the landlord, suggested one thing; Boltem, the billiard-table keeper, suggested another; Tom Taws, the schoolmaster a third; — but at length it was unanimously agreed that there was nothing like a testimonial. It required no capital; fourpence for books, a penny for pens, and a like sum for ink, would cover the expenses of any amount they could gather. It only wanted a popular character to testimonialise, and where would they get such a man as Mr. Pigg? They would give it a start, so Duncan Nevin being, as the most respectable man, voted into the chair, it was moved and seconded— “That James Pigg was eminently deserving of a testimonial, and that a committee, consisting of the present party, with power to add to their number, be appointed to carry the same into effect.”
And, after a glorious evening, James went hiccuping home, bumping against pillar and post, vociferating— “Resolved! resolved that James Pigg is evidently desarvin’ of a testimonial! — yis — evidently desarvin’ of a testimonial!” adding, as he nearly came over on his nose, “had up ‘ard boy, or ye’ll be brikin’ your knees. Sink! they dinna mak’ their streets hafe wide enough,” continued he, taking his bearings for another lamp post. Then, as he reached the top of Hill-street, he steadied himself awhile, and after shouting at the top ‘of his voice, “Whativer ye keep the tambourine a roulin!” he gave such a series of shrieks and view holloas, as brought a night-capped head to almost every window in the street.
“What’s the matter!” demanded one.
“Police!” roared another.
“Thieves! fire! murder!” screeched a score.
“Sink ye! brandy and baccy ‘ill gar a man live for iver!” hiccupped Pigg again; whereupon a fresh volley of yells arose, which Pigg seasoned with view holloas, who-hoops, and other hunting noises.
&n
bsp; At length heads gradually withdrew, windows closed, and lights disappeared, and Pigg went lurching down the street, singing, “Sommer’s comin’ on, and ar shall roul i’ riches, and ar will buy mar fancy man a pair o’ leather breeches.”
When Porker, the policeman (No. 9), was making his round some half-hour after, he stumbled over Pigg, lying in the gutter in Duke-street, muttering, as the dirty water trickled under his nose, “Not another drop, I thank ye. No, not another drop.” Porker then got a shutter, and, aided by a comrade, shot Mr. Pigg down in Mr. Jorrocks’s back kitchen.
The next number of the “Paul Pry” newspaper contained a neatlyworded paragraph, stating that their numerous readers would be glad to see by an advertisement in their first page that a subscription had been set on foot by certain influential parties, for the purpose of presenting Mr. Jorrocks’s excellent Highland huntsman with a becoming testimonial, which would afford all well-wishers of their unrivalled Spa, who did not partake of the exhilirating pastime of the chase, an opportunity of testifying their admiration of a man who contributed so much to the prosperity of the place; while the great “we” said he was sure all sportsmen would eagerly rush to do honour to one whose keenness was only equalled by his success.
The paragraph, which of course was paid for, concluded by saying, that in addition to, Mr. Pigg’s eminent qualifications as a huntsman, he had a claim upon their sympathies, as a gentleman of ancient lineage, and the chief of his clan, who had been unjustly defrauded of his rightful inheritance, which was very considerable.
The following is a copy of the advertisement referred to which occupied a conspicuous place in the paper, along with Holloway’s Pills, Dredge’s Heal-All, Cockle’s Antibilious, and similar stock announcements: —
“PROPOSED TESTIMONIAL TO MR. JAMES PIGG, HUNTSMAN TO THE HANDLEY CROSS (MR. JORROCKS’S) FOX-HOUNDS.
“Many of the sportsmen in the habit of hunting with this well-known and highly efficient pack having expressed a desire to present Mr. Pigg, their able huntsman, with a testimonial of respect, as well for his civility in the field as his general private worth, the following gentlemen have consented to act as a committee to receive subscriptions to effect that object, and they earnestly request the co-operation of all true lovers of the noble sport.
“Duncan Nevin,
Owen Sherry,
Alfred Boltem,
Simon Hookem,
Judas Turnbull,
Michael Grasper,
Thomas Taws,
James Blash,
John de Pledge.”
The committee having agreed to sup together twice a week out of the proceeds of the subscription, did not think it necessary to add to their number, and went to work vigorously, aided by the chieftain, who did not consider it derogatory to his dignity to canvass for subscriptions; on the contrary, he went about urging people to “beave ‘andsome,” intimating to some that he would “ride o’er them,” or “jump a top on ’em” the first time he caught them down, if they didn’t.
Of course they went to our master first, who did not take the sanguine view the gentlemen anticipated. Indeed, he threw cold water upon it altogether, and gave the deputation a good lecture on the “wice” of insobriety, which he assured them was the root of all evil, — adding that he had seen drinkin’ tried in warious lines of life, but had never seen it answer in any, and hinted that he thought his Pigg would be quite as well without the “‘quaintance o’ certain gen’lmen in ‘Andley Cross,” looking significantly at Blash and De Pledge as he spoke. Finding there was nothing to be got out of Mr. Jorrocks in the way of cash, they proceeded to coax him into being a decoy, by representing how injurious it would be to Pigg if his master didn’t appear to sanction the proceeding; and ultimately Mr. Jorrocks put his name down for a guinea, our master paying the shilling, and making them mark him down “then and there,” as he said, as having paid the whole.
They then went to Captain Doleful, who, appalled at the amount Mr. Jorrocks had given, would fain have backed out of it altogether, on the plea of not being a fox-hunter; but the committee urging the same arguments upon him that they had upon Mr. Jorrocks, he at length consented to write himself down for a sovereign, on the assurance that it would “never be called for,” a delusion in which he indulged until a county-court summons enlightened him on the subject.
Testimonials, though nominally voluntary, being in reality almost compulsory — a non-subscriber being looked upon, if not in the light of an enemy, at all events not in that of a friend — money came flowing in from all quarters, especially from the townspeople, who did not like to be dunned face and face, taunted with being “shabby fellows,” and “no gentlemen,” as Pigg taunted them.
The country people were more difficult to move, and treated their circulars very small; some putting them in the fire, others lighting their cigars with them; and our active committee were obliged to issue a second circular, drawing attention to the fact of their not having been favoured with an answer to the first, saying “what the party intended to give,” an ingenious device well worth the attention of the promoters of these nuisances.
They also inserted the following advertisement in the Handley Cross “Paul Pry:”— “TESTIMONIAL TO MR. PIGG.
“At a highly respectable and influential ADJOURNED MEETING of the friends of Mr. Pigg, held at Mr. Owen Sherry’s, the sign of the Salmon, in Handley Cross, It was resolved, — That the list be kept open for a fortnight, to enable the outlying members of the hunt and others, to assist in honouring a gentleman who deserves so well at their hands, for his cheery affability and unremitting exertions in the noble cause of fox-hunting.”
And so, leaving the testimonial to the benefit of its fortnight’s grace, we will return to our notices of the pack.
CHAPTER LIV. THE WANING SEASON.
THE SEASON WAS wearing out apace.
An unusually dry spring brought the country forward, and set the farmers to their fences and their fields. Ploughs and harrows were going, grain was scattering, and Reynard was telegraphed wherever he went.
“You bain’t comin’ this way again, I s’pose,” observed each hedger, as he drove his stakes into the ground to stop up the gaps.
The hazel-drops began to hang from the bushes, the larch assumed a greenish tint, and the groves echoed to the sound of minstrelsy. The wood pigeons had long been exhorting Davy to take two cows, when he was about it— “Take two coos Davy, Take two coos,” as some ingenious gentleman has interpreted their mild melody. The rooks, indeed all the birds were busy — primroses opened their yellow leaves, and the wood anemone shot into life and wild luxuriance. The broom was parched and the gorse sun-burnt.
After many days of declining sport, including two or three after the old customer, the following ominous paragraph at length appeared in the “Paul Pry,” under the head of
“Hunting Intelligence.”
“Mr. Jorrocks’s hounds will meet at Furzy Lawn Turpike, on Wednesday, at nine o’clock precisely.” Significant notice! Another “last day” about to be added to the long list of “last days” that had gone before. The old stagers sighed as they read it. It recalled many such notices read in company with those they would never see again. The young ones said it was a “pity,” but consoled themselves with the thoughts of a summer in London, a yachting or a fishing season. The would-be sportsmen who had been putting off hunting all the winter began to think seriously of taking to it next, and to make arrangements for November.
The morning of the last day was anything but propitious. The sun shone clear and bright, while a cutting east wind starved the sheltered side of the face — horses’ coats stared, the hounds looked listless and ill, and men’s boots carried dust instead of mud-sparks. Fitful gusts of wind hurried the dust along the roads, or raised it in eddying volleys on hills and exposed places. It felt like anything but hunting; the fallows were dry and parched, the buds on the trees looked as if they thought they had better retire, and all nature yearned for rain — ra
in would be a real blessing.
Still there was a goodish muster of pinks, and the meet being on the road, sundry flys and other sporting equipages contributed their quota of dust. Great was the moaning and lamentation that the season was over. Men didn’t know what they should do with themselves all the summer. What wild resolutions they might have pledged themselves to is uncertain, for just as the drawing up of vehicles, the cuttings in and out of horsemen, the raising of hats, the kissing of hands, and the volleys of dust, were at their height, Walter Fleeceall’s ominous visage appearing on one side of the gate, and Duncan Nevin’s on the other, caused such a sensation, that (to avoid the dust) many of the gentlemen got into the fields, and never came near the gate again. Added to this a great black cart stallion, with his tail full of red tape, whinnied and kicked up such a row, that people could hardly hear themselves speak.
