Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

“Dash my vig, he’s been here,” says Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing some feathers sticking in a bush; “there’s three and sixpence at least for an old fat ‘en,” wondering whether he would have to pay for it or not.

  The hounds strike forward, and getting upon a grassy ride, carry the scent with a good head for some quarter of a mile, to the ecstatic delight of Mr. Jorrocks, who bumps along, listening to their music, and hoping it might never cease.

  A check! They’ve overrun the scent. “Hie back!” cries Mr Jorrocks, turning his horse round; “gone to the low crags I’ll be bund — that’s the way he always goes; I’ll pop up ‘ill, and stare him out o’ countenance, if he takes his old line;” saying which, Mr. Jorrocks stuck spurs into Arterxerxes, and, amid the grunts of the horse and the rumbling of the loose stones, succeeded in gaining the rising ground, while the hounds worked along the brook below.

  The chorus grows louder! The rocky dell resounds the cry a hundred fold! The tawny owl, scared from his ivied crag, faces the sun in a Bacchanalian sort of flight; wood-pigeons wing their timid way, the magpie is on high, and the jay’s grating screech adds wildness to the scene. What a crash! Warm in the woody dell, half-circled by the winding brook, where rising hills ward off the wintry winds, the old customer had curled himself up to sleep, till evening’s dusk invited him back to the hen-roost. That outburst of melody proclaims that he is unkennelled before the pack!

  Mr. Jorrocks, having gained his point, places himself behind a gnarled and knotted ivy-covered mountain ash, whose hollow trunk tells of ages long gone by, through a hole in which he commands a view of the grass ride towards the rising ground, upon which the “old customer” generally wends his way. There, as Mr. Jorrocks sat, with anxious eyes and ears, devouring the rich melody, he sees what, at first sight, looked like a hare coming up at a stealthy, stopping, listening sort of pace; but a second glance shows that it is a fox — and not only a fox, but his identical old friend, who has led him so many dances, and whose lightening fur tells of many seasons’ wickedness.

  Mr. Jorrocks can hardly contain himself, and but for his old expedient of counting twenty, would infallibly have halloaed.

  The fox comes close up, but is so busy with his own affairs, that he has not time to look about; and before Mr. Jorrocks has counted nine, the fox has made a calculation that the hounds are too near for him to break, so he just turns short into the wood before they get a view. Up they come, frantic for blood, and dash into the field, in spite of Mr. Jorrocks’s efforts to turn them, who, hat in hand, sweeps towards the line the fox has taken. A momentary check ensues, and the hounds return as if ashamed of their obstinacy. Now they are on him again, and Mr. Jorrocks thrusts his hat upon his brow, runs the fox’s tooth of his hat-string through the button-hole of his roomy coat, gathers up his reins, and bustles away outside the cover, in a state of the utmost excitement — half frantic, in fact! There is a tremendous scent, and Reynard is puzzled whether to fly or stay. He tries the opposite side, but Pigg, who is planted on a hill, heads him, and he is beat off his line.

  The hounds gain upon him, and there is nothing left but a bold venture up the middle, so, taking the bed of the brook, he endeavours to baffle his followers by the water. Now they splash after him, the echoing banks and yew-studded cliffs resounding to their cry. The dell narrows towards the west, and Mr. Jorrocks rides forward to view him away. A countryman yoking his plough is before him, and with hat high in air, “Talliho’s” till he’s hoarse. Pigg’s horn on one side, and Jorrocks’s on the other, get the hounds out in a crack; the countryman mounts one of his carters, the other runs away with the plough, and the three sportsmen are as near mad as anything can possibly be. It’s ding, dong, hey away pop with them all!

  The fallows carry a little, but there’s a rare scent, and for two miles of ill-enclosed land Reynard is scarcely a field before the hounds. Now Pigg views him! Now Jorrocks! Now Charley! Now Pigg again! Thirty couple of hounds lengthen as they go, but there is no Pomponius Ego to tell. The fox falls back at a wall, and the hounds are in the same field. He tries again — now he’s over! The hounds follow, and dash forward,but the fox has turned short up the inside of the wall, and gains a momentary respite. Now they are on him again! They view him through the gateway beyond: he rolls as he goes! Another moment, and they pull him down in the middle of a large grass field!

  “Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!” exclaims Mr. Jorrocks, rolling off his horse, and diving into the middle of the pack, and snatching the fox, which old Thunderer resents by seizing him behind, and tearing his white cords half-way down his legs. “Hooray!” repeats he, kicking out behind, and holding the fox over his head, his linen flying out, and his enthusiastic old face all beaming with joy.

  “Oh, dear! oh, dear! “exclaims he, dancing about with it over his head, “if ever there was a warmint properly dusted it’s you,” looking the fox full in the face; “you’ve been a hugly customer to me, dash my vig if you havn’t;” and thereupon Mr. Jorrocks resumed his capers, singing,

  “Unrivalled the ‘ounds o’er which Jorrocks presides!

  Then drink to the fox-’ounds,

  The ‘igh-mettled fox-’ounds,

  We’ll drink to the ‘ounds o’er which Jorrocks presides.”

  “Sink ar’s left mar Jack-a-legs ahint,” says Pigg, wanting to cut off the fox’s brush. “Has ony on ye getten a knife?”

  The cart-horsed countryman has one, and Jorrocks holds the fox, while Pigg performs the last rites of the chase.

  With whoops and holloas Jorrocks throws the carcass high in air, which, falling among the baying pack, is torn to pieces in a minute.

  Joy, delightful joy, is theirs, clouded by but one reflection — that that was the last day of the season.

  They re-enter Handley Cross by half-past nine, and at ten sit down to breakfast, Pigg getting such a tuck-out as he hadn’t had since he left his “coosin Deavilboger’s.”

  CHAPTER LIX. ANOTHER SPORTING LECTOR.

  MR. JORROCKS NOW began sorting and righting his hunting clothes, seeing what boots and things would patch and come out again, and what might be condemned as no use keeping. Among the condemned were the memorable old customer whites, which, independently of the tear they got on that day, were in a somewhat perishing state from their over frequent visits to the washing tub. Two pair of shags he thought would do again, and he would give a pair of old moleskins the benefit of a doubt. One pair of boots — the Pinch-me-near-Forest ones — were a good deal gone at the toe, but he would consult Welts the cobbler before he cast them. Then as he sat in judgment on his coats, folding up No. 1 with the care and respect due to the best one, regarding No. 2 as werry good when not beside a better, and saying that No. 3 would do “werry well for a wet day;” Betsey came to say that some gents. wanted to see him.

  It was a deputation from the Handley Cross Infirmary, come to ask him to give a sporting lecture in aid of their funds, which, as usual, were very low.

  Mr. Jorrocks hesitated at first, for he wanted to ease the steam of his hunting enthusiasm down to business-like pitch before he returned to Great Coram Street and the City. However, as they were very pressing, and flattered him agreeably, he at length consented, and the lecture was duly announced, as well by placards and hand-bills as by sending the bellman about. Our Master resuscitated his “Beckford” for inspiration, thinking to dwell on the delights of the chase. The Infirmary scheme answered, and tickets were in great demand, many parties coming up from the country to hear our worthy Master hold forth.

  Precisely at eight o’clock, on the appointed night, Mr. Jorrocks entered the lecture-room (the long room of the Dragon) by the president’s door, and ascended the raised platform immediately on the left. He was dressed in the full evening costume of the hunt — sky-blue coat, lined with pink silk, canary-coloured shorts, white waistcoat, and white silk stockings, and looked uncommonly spruce — his pumps shone with French polish. Several members of the hunt, some in morning dress, others in evening, followed; and James Pigg
and Benjamin, in scarlet coats, black caps, and top-boots, brought up the rear. The room at this time was as full as it could possibly hold, not less than three hundred and fifty persons being assembled; among whom, of course, “we observed” several elegantly dressed females. Mrs. Jorrocks, we are sorry to say, had the tooth-ache, and could not come; neither were Belinda nor Mr. Stobbs there, it being supposed they were availing themselves of Mrs. Jorrocks’ indisposition. Immediately as Mr. Jorrocks entered, the whole company rose and greeted our hero with a volley of most enthusiastic cheers, which continued for some minutes, and appeared greatly to affect the worthy gentleman, who stood bowing and grinning like a Chinese monster on a mantel-piece. Silence being at length obtained, and all the attendants having settled themselves into their places on the platform, and the company having resumed their seats, he advanced to the front, and spoke as follows: —

  “Beloved ‘earers, behold your old frind John (cheers). John! old in years, but young in mind and body, and dewoted — oh dewoted, to the noble cause of ‘unting. Oh, my beloved ‘earers! I repeats, for the ‘underd and fifty-fust time, that ‘unting is the sport of kings, the image of war without its guilt, and only five-and-twenty per cent. of its danger (cheers). Do not think I say so for the sake of gainin’ your most sweet applause, for, believe me werry sineere when I declare I’d rayther ‘ear the cry of ‘ounds, or even the lowest whimper whatever owned the scent, than have all the cheerin’ your woices can bestow (laughter, with slight hissing).

  “Great ‘eavens!” continued Mr. Jorrocks, with up-turned eyes, “wot a many things are wantin’ to ‘unt a country plisantly — things that would never enter the ‘ead of a sailor!

  “First and foremost, there should be the means o’ praise — all labour’s lost if the world’s not well told. The finest runs are lost, the largest leaps over-looked, the ‘ardest falls forgot, if an efficient record’s not preserved. Every ‘unt should have its trumpeter as well as its ‘untsman — some nice easy-writin’ cove to exhibit its bright pints; butterin’ without bedaubin’ — praisin’ without besmearin’ — jest as a barber hoils a customer arter a sixpenny clip. Oh, gen’lemen, gen’lemen,” continued our Master, “I’ve been sufferin’ severely from the effects o’ clumsy soapin’ (cheers and laughter) — hawkward hoilin’ — havin’ things told that I wanted kept snug, and havin’ things kept snug that I wanted told. Gen’lemen, take my adwice, and never employ a reg’lar butterer. Do it yourselves, or get a kind frind wot knows your likin’s and weak pints to do it.

  “But enough of that — p’raps too much — let’s to the business of the evenin’.

  “Gen’lemen, this is the werry age of balderdash and ‘umbug — balderdash the grossest, and ‘umbug the greatest, that the most imaginative eye of the liveliest intellect can possibly conceive (applause). There was a poet, I think his name was Brown, — John Brown, who said, ‘We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow, Our wiser sons no doubt will think us so.’ And well they may, for we do our best to merit the opinion. See ’ow we treat ‘unting! Dear, delightful ‘unting, the werry mention of whose name kivers me with the creeps, and thrills me all over with joy. We must now ‘unt by book, forsooth: fox and ‘ounds must be alike under our subjection, and if they don’t do jest wot is laid down in print, reynard is all wrong, and the ‘ounds good for nothin’ (cheers). Oh, my vig! to think I should ever live to see a fox ‘unted on mathematical principles (cheers); to see the problem ‘vich vay has he gone?’ worked without the aid of ‘ounds!

  “But gently, old buoy, gently,” continued he, in a more subdued tone, “your wehimence has got the bit between its teeth, and with borin’ ‘ead is runnin’ clean away with you — steady there, steady. Now, my beloved ‘earers, I’ve brought you here to tell you all about the chass — to teach you to enjoy that sport,

  ‘For the weak too strong,

  Too costly for the poor.’

  Aye, too costly for the poor, and more’s the pity that it is too costly, for there is more real genuine fox-’untitiveness, more of the innate genuine hardour and dewoted affection for the chass in the poor man wot sacrifices a day’s pay for the sake of a ‘unt, than in all your wauntin’ cover-canterin’ swells wot ride forty miles to the meet for the sake of the boast, and the plisure o’ridin’ forty miles back. But that’s beside the question, or another pair of shoes, as we say in France. The chass! — the chass! or the noble science, as the swells now call it, is to be the subject of my discourse; but oh, my beloved ‘earers; it’s werry ‘ard to turn one’s ‘tention to things that are fit to brik one’s ‘eart to think on — werry ‘ard indeed. There was a man wrote a book, and, among other intelligent things he put in, was an obserwation that one cannot do an act not in itself morally evil for the last time without feelin’s of regret; and if that be true with regard to indifferent things, ’ow much more tellin’ must it be when applied to what may be called the liver and bacon of one’s existence! To that noblest, sublimest, grandest, best of all sports, the gallant, cheerin’, soul-stirrin’ chass” (cheers). Mr. Jorrocks paused for some seconds, as if overcome by his feelings.

  At length he resumed: “Here,” said he, “we have closed a most beautiful season. Though I says it who should not, never did a pack give more universal satisfaction than mine, — satisfaction the most boundless, and gratification the most complete. No ‘ounds in England can ‘old a candle to mine for the sport they’ve shown. Summer is now drawin’ on, at least it did ought to do, if it is a comin’ at all, leavin’ us a long season of repose to contemplate the past, and spekilate on the futur’ — that uncertain futur’ to which we all look forward with such presumptuous certainty. Oh, my beloved ‘earers, summer is a dreadful season. Whoever talked o’ the winter of our discontent, talked like an insane man, and no sportsman. Summer is the season of our misery! Long days, short nights, and nankeen shorts. Contemptible wear! — but oh! genl’men, genl’men, top-boots delight me not now, drab shags nouther. Wot a change is comin’ o’er the spirit of our dream! I knows no more melancholic ceremony than takin’ the string out of one’s ‘at at the end of a season, foldin’ hup and puttin’ away the old red rag — a rag unlike all other rags, the dearer and more waluable the older and more worthless it becomes. Every rent, every stain, every patch, every darn, has its story and ‘sociation. The large black patch all down the right side was got in Swallerton Bog, which I charged like a troop of ‘oss, jest as the darlin’s were viewin’ the warmint, and I thought to pick him hup on the far side. Crikey, vot a flounder I had! — old Arterxerxes bogged up to the werry tail, plungin’, and heavin’, and groanin’, and snortin’, and sweatin’, with every appearance of being ‘stablished for life. Oh, my beloved ‘earers, a bog is a werry rum thing to get into, and is so werry enticin’ withal, that I don’t wonder at people bein’ cotched. Quiet, sly, soft, green, omelette-soufflée-lookin’ things, so stuffed with currants as to be perfectly black below, and as holdin’ as a stick-jaw puddin’ at a charity school. I doesn’t mean to detract from the merits of other bogs, but that Swallerton Bog, i’ my mind, is the biggest bog whatever was seen, and as ‘ospitable as man can desire, for once in, it is in no hurry to part with you again.

  “Then the great double stitched rent right across the back! ‘Ow well I remembers doin’ o’ that! We were goin’ like beans over Harroway Fleets, with sich a crack scent as only comes twice a year. I viewed a fox or a dog, I couldn’t say whether, risin’ the ‘ill by Hookem-Snivey Church; and wot with keepin’ my eye on him, and gallopin’ like blazes, I never saw a bulfinch that Arterxerxes was preparin’ himself for on the sly until it was too late, and he charged a thing so big and so black, that if a lanthorn had been ‘eld on the far side you couldn’t have seen it; well, I say, he charged it with such wicked wigour and determination, that he left me stickin’ like a sweet little cherub aloft right atween two strong ‘olders, one of which had to be sawn off afore ever I could get out; and when I did, I found I had lost one coat-lap, and the other was ‘ang
in’ by a mere thread (laughter and applause). Delightful recollection! Shall I ever forget the joy I experienced, as, stickin’ tight in the ‘edge, I saw the darlin’s take up the line on which I viewed the warmint travellin’? A delicate compliment to the brightness of my wision! Oh, never! My too sensible ‘eart sickens at the thought that the joy of life is over for a season. Oh, the long summer months that are about to succeed are truly appallin’ to the ‘eart of a sportsman! True, each season brings its hoccupation, but if that hoccupation is no enjoyment, wot matter does it make there bein’ such a thing? Oh,” groaned the worthy lecturer, “but we are enterin’ upon a most melancholic, sea-kaleish, buy-a-moss-rose season. ‘Ow we are ever to get through it, I’m sure I don’t know. I’m thankful ‘owever to think that I pivied the old customer. Blow me tight if I ‘adn’t pivied the old customer, I really believe the old customer would ha’ pivied me. Never suffered so much from a fox i’ my life. He ‘aunted me day and night. Seemed as if he was ‘pointed to revenge the wrongs of all the foxes i’ the world. Certainly he was a saucy sinner — a werry saucy sinner — wakin’ and sleepin’, he was always at me. ‘Owsomever he’s settled.” Mr. Jorrocks again made a long pause, and appeared lost in thought.

  At length he resumed.

  “Great Coram is a lovely street,” said he “the trees within the rails, and the wines within the areas, flourish and expand with all the wigour of foliage and wegetable life in the purest and most salubrisome spots. But sweeter, dearer far is the wild bleak heat, ‘Where man has ne’er or rarely trod,’ with a good strong ‘olding goss-cover, lyin’ on a gentle slope, catchin’ the rays of a mid-day sun, out of which one may reasonably calkilate upon findin’ old reynard at home any hour of the day. But I can’t pursue the subject. It is too much for me — painful to a degree. Pigg, get me some brandy-and-water — strong without — for I feels all over trembulation and fear, like a maid that thinks she’s not a goin’ to be married.”