by R S Surtees
Mr. Jorrocks retired to the back of the platform, and Pigg presently brought him a stiff tumbler of brandy-and-water, which considerably revived our old friend, but still he did not feel quite equal to the resumption of his lecture. He therefore announced that his Pigg would favour the company with one of his national melodies, after which he had no doubt he should be able to go on, and Pigg, after a few minutes confab with his Master, who wanted him to sing, “Unrivalled the ‘ounds o’er which Jorrocks presides!” advanced to the front of the platform, and with a bob of his head and a kick of his heel, said, “Gen’l’men, wor ‘ard Maister’s gettin’ the gripes, and ar’s gannin’ to sing ye a sang till he gets better.” So saying James rubbed his sleeve across his nose, and turned his quid in his mouth. “Now,” continued he, “what ar’ll sing ye ‘ill be yen o’ the bonniest sangs that iver was sung, arle aboot ard Squier Lambton and his h’unds, and a grand hunt that they had fre Fox-hill, afore mast o’ ye were born; and when ar stamps wi’ my foot, ye mun all join chorus.” So saying our huntsman struck up with the following, which we give, like the former, as it was written, and not as Pigg sung it: — Descend ye chaste Nine, strike the chord you love best, I’ve a theme that will put your high notes to the test; I’ve a chase to describe that assuredly will Rouse the dead from their graves with huzzas for Fox Hill. Ballanamona ora The hounds of Ralph Lambton for me. We must ever remember the glorious day When to Long Newton Village we rattled away, Each hound seem’d that morning instinctive to know, That the Long Newton Country would give them a go — Ballanamona. &c. Burn Wood was drawn blank — we cared not a rap — Though we all thought it smel’t hellish strong of a trap, For we knew that a rallying point we could make, Where a thoro’ bred Son of Old Cæsar must break. Ballanamona, &c. Scarce the pack crack’d the furzen, away the Rogue stole, How high beat each heart, how transported each soul! Every hound in his place, and to give them their due, Over Newbiggin pastures like pigeons they flew. Ballanamona, &c. By Sadberge and Stainton he now bent his way, Old Elstob affording no shelter this day, Little Stainton he gained — but durst not look back So close at his brush lay this brilliant pack Ballanamona, &c. Next pointing to Whitton by Stillington Mill, One or two boasted clippers were fain to stand still, But remember, my boys, with a Long Newton Fox It won’t do to flash when y’re up to the hooks. Ballanamona, &c. O’er the famed Seaton Hills with what vigour he flew! Determin’d to prove himself thoro’ true blue, Sterns down, bristles up— ’twould have done your heart good To have seen the Dog Pack running frantic for Blood! Ballanamona, &c. By Fulthorp and Grindon we rattled like smoke, The hounds gaining on him at every stroke! Disdaining Thorp Wood should his destiny mark Dropp’d his brush and died varmint in Wynyard Park, Ballanamona, &c. Fill, fill ye brave spirits that rode in the run, May the pack add fresh laurels to those they have won; At my toast — how each bosom with ecstacy bounds, Long life to Ralph Lambton!! success to his hounds!!
When the enthusiastic applause, produced by the foregoing, had subsided, there was a general call for Mr. Jorrocks, who advancing to the front of the platform thus addressed the company: —
“Beloved ‘earers, you must ‘scuse my pursuin’ the subject o’ the chass — it’s too much for my feelin’s. I meant to have enlightened you on the management of ‘osses and ‘ounds at ‘ome and in the field, glanced at the ‘ard meat and the ‘ard work systems, and taken a wide range o’er the realms of sportin’ generally, but, somehow or other, I feels unequal to the task, — the excitement is too much for me. I feels as though my stomach was a biler, a throwin’ red-’ot words up into my mouth. With your permission, therefore, we’ll drop the subject till the arrival of the next ‘unting season, when I will finish wot I’ve left unsung, as the tom-cat said when the brick-bat cut short his serenade. (Laughter and applause.)
“Let us turn to matters more seasonable, though less plisant, and consider the summer department of our lives. We are now about to disperse, some to the north, some to the south, some to the heast, and some to the west. Many on you, I makes no doubt, will think it necessary to go to town, though I cannot but say that you are great fools for your pains. There are more people punish themselves annually once a-year, by goin’ to London, than the unthinkin’ portion of the community would credit. If a man has plenty of blunt, it’s all werry well. London is an undeniable place for gettin’ rid of it in. Frinds abound there for rich men. The kindest, the accommodatingest frinds, wot will do anything to serve you as long as your money lasts. To London let the rich man go. Whatever is gay, or grand, or expensive, will be his; he will mount his thorough-bred, with a bang-tail down to the ‘ocks, put his grum on another, in a dark frock-coat, leather-breeches, and a belt round his waist, to strap on his master in case he tumbles off; they will hamble down Bond Street and hup Regent Street, ‘prowokin’ the caper wot they seem to chide’ — master pretendin’ to be short-sighted, with a quizzin’-glass stuck in his eye.” Here Mr. Jorrocks put a half-crown piece over his, and suiting the action to the word, proceeded amidst universal laughter and applause,— “Meets an acquaintance. ‘‘Ow do?’ ‘Been long i’ town?’ ‘When do you leave?’ For gen’lemen,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, “I’ll lay a guinea ‘at to a gooseberry, when two men meet with little to say, that that is the conversation wot passes. Six o’clock comes and he’s in the Park. Wot a crowd about the gate! It’s to see Wictoria pass. Carriage and four — out-riders — equerring dust-catching — Wictoria smilin’ — Prince Halbert ditto, and touchin’ his ‘at to the cheerers — whisk, and they are out o’ sight. Carriages break hup and scatter over the Park. The band plays at the gardens — up our rich man canters, without knowin’ why he breaks from a walk, throws the rein to his grum, and lounges in to lisp to the ladies. ‘Oh! ‘pon honour — exquisite — delightful band — Second Life Guards — Star and Garter — Crown and Sceptre — Charmin’ weather — Looks like rain— ‘Ow’s your mother? Sister better! — So, Lady— ‘s eloped at last.’ Back then he goes by the Serpentine. Kid gloves are kissed to him, feathers nod, eyes ogle, and Johns and Jehus touched their laced-daubed ‘ats. Now he reins hup at the foot of the Achilles, and, as the late accomplished Mr. Truefit, the Harcadian ‘air-dresser, or some other talented gen’lman sung— ‘Pride in his look, defiance in his eye, He sees the lords o’ ‘uman life pass by. Dinner time comes, and Lord Cut and Shuffle has the rich man on the box of his drag — four spankin’ bays, tigers be’ind, frinds on the roof, gals inside. Away they bowl to Greenwich — best room, dinner two guineas a-’ead, iced fizzey — fish of all sorts — Yarrell done up in dishes — every sort but the one you went down for — should have ten stomachs ‘stead of one — back at eleven. Hopera — Time for ballet — squizzin’-glass — gauze petticoats — or hup Windmill-street to the sparklin’ French Casino, or down heast to the British ‘bomination of a dingy underground kidney-shop. These at length bein’ swept out and closed, away they go to some sham billiard room of a fortified gambling ‘ouse, with scouts on the watch, where they have some cureasore to digest the kidney — iced champagne to correct the cureasore — lobster salad to keep the iced champagne company. Then lounge into the gamblin’ apartment — large round table — strong light. Man with a green shade over his eyes and a hoe in his hand! Old rakes all round him. Fathers sittin’ hopposite sons — the famine of play ragin’ — then sudden noise — clean sweep — down the pipe — rush o’ pollis — seize the party — away to the lock-up — in wi’ false names — hup i’ the mornin’ — discharged for want o’ gamblin’-tool hevidence, and all that sort o’ gammon. All this may be called plissur, &c., but some’ow it never lasts. It’s the pace that kills the finances as well as the fox. It’s all nonsense men spendin’ wots to keep them a lifetime in a single night’s lark (applause). Ax any old member o’ Crocky’s if it is’nt.
“London’s a grand place, to be sure,” continued the worthy lecturer; “but oh, my beloved ‘earers, there is no misery like that of solitude in a crowd, or inconwenience like that of l
ivin’ with men without being able to afford to partake o’ their plissurs. London’s the rich man’s paradise, the poor man’s puggatory? yet how many fools, who can ill afford it, think it necessary to make a hannual pilgrimage once a-year to the shrine of her monstrosity. Hup they come, leavin’ their quiet country ‘omes just as their sparrowgrass is ready for heatin’, and their roses begin to blow — neglectin’ their farms — maybe their families — leavin’ bulls to bail themselves, cattle to get out of the pound, and wagrants into the stocks, as they can; hup, I say, they come to town, to get stuck in garrets at inns with the use of filthy, cigar-smokin’, spitty, sandy-floored, saw-dusty coffee-rooms, a ‘underd and seventy-five steps below, at a price that’s perfectly appalin’. Vot misery is theirs! Down they come of a mornin,’ arter a restless, tumblin’, heated, noisy night, to the day den of the establishment, with little happetite for breakfast, but feelin’ the necessity of havin’ some in order to kill time. A greasy-collared, jerkin’, lank-’aired waiter, casts a second-’and, badly-washed web over a slip of table, in a stewy, red-curtained box, into which the sun beats with unmitigated wengeance. A Britannia-metal tea-pot, a cup, a plate, a knife, and a japanned tea-caddie make their appearance. Then comes a sugar-bason, followed by a swarm of flies, that ‘unt it as the ‘ounds would a fox, and a small jug of ‘sky-blue,’ which the flies use as a bath durin’ their repast on the sugar. A half-buttered muffin mounts a waterless slopbason; a dirty egg accompanies some toasted wedges of bread; the waiter points to a lump of carrion wot he calls beef, on a dusty sideboard, and promises the ‘Post’ as soon as it is out of ‘and. Sixteen gents sit at sixteen slips of table, lookin’ at each other with curiosity or suspicion, but never a word is exchanged by any on them. Prisently they begin to wacate their slips of wood. One paces hup and down the coffee-room, with his thumbs in the harm’oles of his veskit; another takes a coat-lap over each arm, and lounges against the fireless fire-place; a third looks at his watch, and lays his legs along the bench for a nap; while a fourth flattens his nose against the winder, or reads the witticisms of former town captives, or the hamorous contributions of jaded waiters to buxom chambermaids on the panes. Carriages begin to roll; lords, dukes, captains, cockneys, jostle together, and the coffee-room is gradually emptied into the crowded streets.
“Vot a sight! All the world compressed into Bond Street! carriages blocked, cabs locked, ‘ossmen driven on to the footway, and the foot-people driven into the shops. But wot boots it to ingenuous Spoony if there were twice as many? He doesn’t know one carriage from another, and hasn’t got nobody to tell him whose they are. There he stands gapin’ like a stuck pig, now starin’ his eye-balls out at a carriage, now bringin’ his body to bear upon a print-shop window, now fancyin’ a lady in feathers on the footway to be a duchess that has taken a fancy to him, who he follows up to the suberbs, and comes away under the impression that it is their country willa. But wot a relief to have some one to whom he can speak! Talk of dull dogs! Live in London for a week without an acquaintance, and the stupidest lump of lead that ever was moulded into the shape of a man will be a perfect god-send at the end of the time. Well, hup and down the street poor ingenuous Spoony goes, round squares, into crescents, through parks, until his feet are swelled double their size, and the toes of his boots look up into his face, as much as to say, ‘Wot has come over us now?’ Still no one greets him, and Squire Spoony, who is a werry great man, and knows every body at once, is ‘stonished that no one ‘ails him in London.
“Now for a chop-house or coffee-room dinner! Oh, the ‘orrible smell that greets you at the door! Compound of cabbage, pickled salmon, boiled beef, saw-dust, and anchovy sarce. ‘Wot will you take, sir?’ inquires the frowsy waiter, smoothin’ the filthy, mustardy, cabbagey cloth, ‘soles, macrel, vitin’s — werry good, boiled beef — nice cut, cabbage, cold ‘am and weal, cold lamb and sallard.’ — Bah! The den’s ‘ot to suffocation — the kitchen’s below — a trap-door womits up dinners in return for bellows down the pipe to the cook. Flies settle on your face — swarm on your head; a wasp travels round; everything tastes flat, stale, and unprofitable. As a climax, he gets the third of a bottle of warm port as a pint, and, to prevent jealousy between body and mind, gives the latter a repast on second-hand news, by goin’ through the columns of an evenin’ paper. This, too, from a man wot can hardly manage a three-days-a-week one in the country.
“Nine o’clock at length comes, and he is at the theatre; and were it not for the excessive ‘eat and confounded crowd, he might enjoy himself. As it is, the curtain drops, a welcome release, and after half an hour’s solitary stroll, he finds himself smokin’ some painted Jezabel, who sits to be fumigated by all wot buys cigars at her shop. Thus he goes on day after day, week after week, in a melancholy state of existence, and all that he may have the pleasure of sayin’ when he returns to the country, that he has ‘jest come from town’ — that town was werry full — werry gay or werry dull — talk of high people in a low-lived style, and pretend to have been where he never was. No captive released from gaol — no bouy let free from school — no starlin’ escaped from cage, hails with more ‘eartfelt joy the arrival of that hour which restores him to wot the immortal Mr. Fieldin’ (I thinks) calls ‘Fresh fields and pastures new;’ and not all the pliability of a flexible mind can coax him into believin’ that he feels one longin’ lingerin’ pang of regret, as he turns his back upon the crowded, ‘eartless, busy, bustlin’, jadin’ city. (Great applause.)
“‘Well, but,’ says a sportin’ reader, ‘I must see the Darby and Hoaks run for!’
“Darby and Hoaks run for!” exclaimed the worthy lecturer. “Wot matter does it make to him who wins the Darby and Hoaks! Why can’t he content ‘imself wi’ readin’ on it i’ the paper, or in seein’ a neighbourly donkey race on a common? He may know summut ‘bout the donkeys, but he can know nothin’ ‘bout ‘osses, the owners of which werry likely know nothin’ themselves. Then bother their bettin’ books, and the ‘ole tribe of trickey, lynx-eyed circumwenti’n knaves wot would rob their own fathers if they could, and who set hup to bet thousands with a farthin’ capital! O that the noblest of hanimals should be soiled with the contamination of such reptiles! O that the ‘ighest and the noblest should be found jostlin’ and helbowin’ for hodds ‘mong the werry scum and scourins o’ the stews — fellers that no decent tradesman would touch wi’ a pair o’ tongs (applause). On the turf and under the turf all men are obliged to be equal,” mused our Master. “But let us leave the gloomy subject,” continued he, “and gather hup our points for a finish. Some on you will p’raps ax wot has racin’ and livin’ i’ London to do wi’ ‘unting? I say it has a great deal. There is an old sayin’ and a true one, that you carn’t eat both your cake and ‘ave it, and by the same rule, or one werry like it, you carn’t both spend your money and have it. Now, if ingenuous Spooney comes to London on a gallivantin’ expedition, with nothin whatsomever at all to do, the chances are that he gets rooked. ‘Idleness’ has been werry well described as ‘the papa of all mischief;’ and assuredly Satan, as Mrs. Barbauld beautifully expresses it in her ‘Pleasures of ‘Ope,’ is always busy in London, findin’ work for ‘idle ‘ands to do.’ Walk along Jermyn Street of an evenin’, and see how many beautifully illuminated doors stand ajar inwitin’ the passer-by to enter; go — and you’re done. It is not here, ‘All ye what enter abandon ‘ope; but wot I say is, all ye wot enter, leave your pusses at home, or assuredly you will have werry little call for them when you come out. In short, if you waste your money i’ summer, you can’t expect to have it to spend i’ winter, and then wot comes of your ‘unting? — ay, then wot comes of my ‘ounds? That’s the question put in a familiar form (cheers). Ah, now I see you twig, and go along with me. Oh gen’lmen, gen’lmen, there’s nothin’ so difficult as gettin’ a subscription to a pack of hounds. Chaps that would give a ‘undred a-year to a cuk, grudge a fi pun note to a pack that would keep them in ‘ealth, and save them all the money i’ Seidletz pooders
(laughter and applause). Which then will you have? ‘Unting i’ winter, or street-strollin’ i’ summer? I’ll diwide the meetin’ on the question, and take the sense of this assembly. All then who are for the sport of kings, the image of war without its guilt, with only five and twenty per cent of its danger, ‘old up their ‘ands.”
A forest of hands were held up for hunting; on the other question being put, no one was found in favour of it, whereupon Mr. Jorrocks concluded amidst loud and long-continued applause, by complimenting them on their choice, calling on every man to put his shoulder to the wheel, and do his possible in support of himself and the “Handley Cross Fox Hounds.” A large party sat down to supper after the lecture; and we are happy to add that a subscription was opened for the purpose of presenting Mr. Jorrocks with a solid token of esteem in the shape of a silver steak dish, with a model of himself on Arterxerxes on the cover. More gratifying still it is to add, that the subscrption was immediately filled.
CHAPTER LX. THE STUD SALE.
THE FOLLOWING WAS the strength of Mr. Jorrocks a stud at the close of the season.
There were our old friends Xerxes and Arterxerxes; also a great raking, bony, cock-throppled, ragged-hipped, shabby-tailed, white-legged, chestnut, fired all round, that had belonged to a smuggler, and was christened “Ginnums;” a little jumped-up, thick-set, mealy-legged, sunken-eyed bay, with a short tail and full coarse mane, whose unhappy look procured him the name of Dismal Geordy; a neatish brown, that our master bought of young May, the grocer at Handley Cross, and christened Young Hyson; and the cut ’em down Captain’s quad, six in all. Arterxerxes did most of Mr. Jorrocks’s work, and Xerxes could carry half-a-dozen Bens every day in the week, so that Pigg and Charley came in for most of the work of the others, Charley never having gone to the trouble of getting any more horses than the one he brought with him.
