by R S Surtees
first person Mr. Jorrocks met on his return to Hillingdon Hall was Joshua Sneakington. Joshua was prowling about on his travels, backbiting and making mischief, and occasionally displaying his newly-acquired importance by bullying some unfortunate cottage tenant. Mr. Jorrocks was full of the farming project, and Joshua was just the man he wanted to see.
“Vell, Sneak,” said Mr. Jorrocks, in his usual free-and-easy-style, when Joshua’s broad-brimmed hat regained his finely shaped head after the salute it gave the Squire; “veil, Sneak, ’ow are you gettin’ on here?”
“Why, middling, I think, Mr. Jorrocks — can’t expect perfection all at once — but I strive all I can to keep things right and comfortable. It’s really an unpleasant office looking after a great estate like this, one gets a deal of ill-will — many mischievous ill-disposed people about.”
“I thought all the ill-disposed people had been in London,” observed Mr. Jorrocks.
“Oh no, sir,” replied Sneakington, with a shake of the head, “town and country’s pretty much alike for that, I dare say.”
“The farmers are a long way behind the intelligence o” the day,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, after a pause.
“Ob, a long way,” replied Mr. Sneakington.
“‘What my father did I’ll do’ style about them,” said Mr. Jorrocks.
“Just so,” rejoined Joshua. “They have no life about them — no energy.”
“No taste for nitrate o’ sober, subsoil, Smith o’ Deanston — Smith’s the greatest benefactor the world ever saw.”
“Indeed!” replied Joshua Sneakington, an answer that may mean anything.
“I’m a thinkin’,” said Mr. Jorrocks after a pause, during which he kept digging a Suffolk weed-spud into the ground in a fanciful sort of way, “it would be a good thing to get up a Hagricultural ‘Sociation here — monstrous good thing, I think.”
“No doubt,” replied Joshua.
“Put a little life into the farmers,” said Mr. Jorrocks. “Teach ’em the use o’ manures — book-keepin’ by double entry — rural economy — meadow fox-tail grass. Fine thing fox-tail grass— ‘unters should be fed on it.”
“Indeed!” replied Joshua.
“You are an intelligent man, Sneak, and enjoy the confidence of the country in a remarkable degree. I wish you would take the thing in hand, and talk to some o’-the farmers, and let us get the thing started.”
“Why, sir, I shall be very happy to do anything to serve you,” replied Mr. Sneakington, “and agriculture is à thing I have given my mind to very particularly; but the world’s ill-natured, Mr. Jorrocks, and perhaps some of the people might think I was taking too much upon me.”
“Never sich a thing! never sich a thing!” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “you are jest the man — Hillingdon ‘Sociation — President, the Markiss o’ Bray; Wice-President, Mr. Jorrocks; Secretary, Mr. Sneakington — I tells you, you shall.”
“Well, sir, what you please,” replied Joshua; “only my time is precious just now, for I have, an application from a gentleman in North Wales to build him a castle, and in course, if I take the secretaryship, I can’t build the castle.”
“Never mind the castle,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, “never mind the castle — dare say he never meant to pay you for it — castle-builders seldom do; you stir your stumps, and go among the farmers — tell them they are all benighted — that we want to enlighten them; give them premiums — gold medals! — silver medals — lectors! — frinds and fellow-countrymen! walk in procession! band o’ music! flags flyin’! dine in a tent, dance in a barn, tickets for tea, all that sort o’ thing, in fact.”
“Well, sir, what you please, sir,” replied Mr. Sneakington, who was now about to undertake the character of agriculturist at short notice. “What you please, sir. There is no doubt such a society would be a great benefit — encourage activity — early rising. Your tenants, Mr. Jorrocks, though I shouldn’t like it to go further, are a very indolent set of men. Mr. Westbury let them their farms too easy, dare say they would stand raising ten or fifteen per cent, some of them. But then you know it’s not my business to interfere, and I shouldn’t like to make mischief; but you may rely upon it, your estate should produce a deal more than it does.”
“Vy,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “that’s all werry well, I’m glad to hear it. Ven we’ve stuck the new lights into their candlesticks, may be it’ll produce twice as much, and then we may get a leetle more tin. Smith o’ Deanston should be knighted — baronet’d indeed! greatest benefactor the world ever saw; makes four blades grow where one grew before. You go, brush up my tenants, tell them to drain, subsoil, guano, nitrate o’ sober, and gipsey manure.”
“If I had a horse,” observed Mr. Sneakington, “I should be able to make a survey of each farm, so as to judge of its capabilities, and talk to the tenant at the same time. It doesn’t look well to see the agent of a great man going about on foot,” added he, seeing Mr. Jorrocks did not exactly relish the proposal.
“Vy, as to an ‘oss, you know, Sneak, it would only be a bother to you; for instance, if you came to a field with a large stone wall, and never a way out, you wouldn’t know what to do with the nag while you was over a lookin’ at the crop; and as to leapin’! vy, you know you’d tumble off!”—’
“Oh, but the tenant would be there to hold the horse you know. There’s work enough, I assure you, for a horse to look after all your concerns, and keep things square; farmers want a deal of looking after. It would be a saying in the end.” —
“Vy, time’s tin in the City, certainly,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, tinkling his silver in his breeches pocket; “it’s all ’ow d’ye do? and off again — state your case and away you go; but some’ow the day seems a many ‘ours longer i’ the country. No one’s ever in a hurry here. Howsomever, I’ve no objection to lend you Dickey Cobden now and then; only you must mind and not overmark him, for he’s only one o’ the buttery sort — werry soft — can stand a deal o’ rest — you twig.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Sneakington, who thought riding the Squire’s cob would have a grand effect— “then if I go to your stable, perhaps you’ll tell Mr. Benjamin to let me have it to-morrow. Your rent-day’s coming on, and I should like to go my rounds before, so as to make a proper report of the state in which everything is at present.”
“Jest so,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, “and then we shall see what improvement is made. Farmers should keep journals, write down everything they see and do, make obserwations on the weather, and so on — signs o’ the sky; be philosophers as well as farmers in fact.”
The next morning Joshua was seen riding Dickey Cobden slowly up the village of Hillingdon, with an armful of plans and a green gingham umbrella for a whip. His low-crowned broad-brimmed Sunday hat was well brushed, he had a clean white neckcloth, and his second-best black coat and waistcoat, and every-day trousers and gaiters on; also a pair of gloves, an appendage denoting that the wearer is going “from home.” The cottagers eyed Joshua with suspicion and astonishment, and Beckey Brown ran into Polly Jones’s to ask where Jos could be going to; while sundry of the “betterly people” who kept servants were sorely annoyed at the grievous length of time they stayed at the “well” — a sort of rural parliament, where Janes and Marys talk over their masters and mistresses, and tell all the secrets of the house. A little thing makes a great talk in the country.
Never did a Lord Mayor ride through Cheapside in his gingerbread coach and six, on his way (like his web-footed brethren the geese) to “take water” to be-sworn in at our Lady the Queen’s Exchequer, with a more inflated mind than Joshua Sneakington possessed as he rode through the village of Hillingdon on that important morning. Twice he was for turning back under pretence of having forgotten something, but Dickey Cobden had a will of his own, and feeling Joshua had a loose seat, he gave certain indications of dissent that caused Joshua to alter his resolutions, and proceed on his journey rejoicing.
It was a fine day, clear and sunshiny, and Joshua’s mind par
took of the apparent happiness of nature.
Firfield — Johnny Wopstraw’s farm — was the first in Joshua Sneakington’s circuit, and he timed his visit so as to arrive as Johnny was sitting down to his twelve o’clock dinner, with his wife, children, and servants. Potatoes and bacon, and gooseberry dumplings. Jos, like most lazy dogs, was a good eater, and didn’t require a second invitation to induce him to sit down and partake of the frugal meal.
After it was over, and the party were dispersing to their respective occupations, Joshua began broaching the subject of his mission.
“Well, and how are you getting on in the farming way?” inquired he.
“Oh, why, upon the whoole, middling well; times are bad, but the land’s pretty good, and the situation not amiss, and I hope the Squire will not be over hard with us.”
“The Squire’s a thinking,” observed Joshua, with a hem and a stroke of his puritanical chin, “of having a fresh survey made of his estate, and letting the farms according to the times.” li So-o-o” replied Wopstraw, wondering how that would cut.
“The farmers in this country, he thinks, are a long way behind the intelligence of the day — too much of what-my-father-did-I-do style about them.”
“Just so,” observed Johnny Wopstraw.
“The Squire you see’s a very clever man — and has been used to first-rate farming — patent ploughs — gipsey manure — fox-tail grass — and he wants to encourage activity and emulation among his tenants. There’s a grand discovery just made, for making eight blades grow where one grew before.”
“So-o-o-o!” ejaculated Johnny Wopstraw.
“And the Squire thinks if he can get the farmers to adopt it there will be like twopence gained to them and a penny to him.”
“Just so,” observed Johnny Wopstraw; “upon the whoole, I should think it must be a grand discovery.”
“The man should be made a lord,” replied Joshua, rubbing his chin and looking very sagacious — as much as to say that he had had a hand in the pie.
“Upon the whoole, I think he should,” replied Wopstraw. “If you’ll bring me out my horse I’ll just ride over your farm, now that I have got the plan in my pocket, and then we’ll be better able to talk the matter over at our rent day,” observed Joshua, drawing on his gloves most consequentially. —
Wopstraw, somewhat astonished at the sudden elevation of the scamp, though not at all surprised at his airs, brought out the nag, and Joshua mounting, desired Wopstraw to take him such a circuit as would lead him on to the next tenant’s farm, so that he might not lose time by going over the same ground twice. Off then they set, Joshua on Dickey Cobden, and Wopstraw walking alongside, opening gates, handing up specimens of soil, and replying to Joshua’s interrogatories. —
“Give me a piece of that!” Joshua would exclaim on entering a fallow; then he would break the clod, and eye it, just as Master Homer eyed his Christmas pie, to see how much fruit there was in it. “Ah, I see,” Joshua would observe thoughtfully, as if to himself, but in reality to Wopstraw—” Silicious sand — clay — calcareous sand — carbonate of lime — humus” — and thereupon he would make a memorandum, as if he was entering the quality in his book.
Having played at this game over a few fields, and glanced at the crops generally, during which operation he imparted no small degree of astonishment to Johnny Wopstraw’s simple mind, he at length observed he had no doubt the farm was capable of very great improvement, particularly if this new system of making ten blades grow where only one grew at present was introduced; and that he thought it would be well for Mr. Wopstraw to secure a lease, intimating at the same time that the usual custom in farming was to make the steward a present in proportion to the rent and length of the term.
A word here to landowners.
It has long been remarked that whatever becomes of the owner of an estate, the steward invariably thrives, and we have often heard wonder expressed how this happens. Having made what to us was a discovery, the other day, on this head, we will here impart it to you in case you may be ignorant of it also.
We were fishing in the neighbourhood of a water corn-’mill, and the trout not being inclined to be taken, we were about shutting up shop, with some half-dozen in our creel, when we encountered an old farmer riding on his cart for a sack of flour. The usual country courtesies, “What sport have you had?” and “How are you getting on?” having been exchanged, a conversation sprang up about the farmer’s landlord (who was an absentee) and his agent, Mr Jeremiah Jumps. Jumps was a new broom, and, of course, sweeping clean — we don’t mean to say he was racking the land, but he was displaying a little unusual activity on behalf of an absentee landlord — well, the present Jumps brought up the previous Jumps, or whatever his name was, and the present Jumps’ activity was contrasted with the indolence of the former, and then the former Jumps’ riches came to be talked of.
“Ah, he had a grand time of it,” said the farmer; “no trouble — no one to check him — just did what he liked — granted leases to whom he pleased, and every tenant down with his five or ten pounds on each letting, as regular as could be.”
“The agent got that, then, did he?” asked we.
“Oh, to be sure — that’s the custom, you know — always make the steward a compliment on taking.”
“Indeed,” said we, “that’s a wrinkle we weren’t up to — do us the pleasure to accept these trout — two and two’s four — five and one’s six — there you are — and good morning to you — good morning — knowledge should not be had for nothing.”
Reader! take care your “Jumps” isn’t playing you that trick.
Willey Goodheart was the next tenant in Joshua’s route. Willey was one of the very old-fashioned, tarry-at-home school of farmers — neat, careful, prudent, honest, and cheerful. He had been on the estate “man and boy,” as the saying is, for sixty years, and his little farm was a perfect model of neatness and productiveness. Age had now bowed a once upright manly form, and time had strongly marked the handsome features of his face; but there was a mild, gentlemanly, patriarchal air about old Willey, corresponding with his manners; and his venerable grey hair fell in curly locks on the upright collar of his straight-cut, single-breasted, large-buttoned blue coat. On Sundays, his costume partook still more of the character of bygone days, by the addition of a pair of nearly sky-blue worsted stockings, and square-toed shoes, with large silver buckles — shoes that must either have been much better than they make them at the present day, or been devoted exclusively to Sunday wear, for they had seen “square toes” in and out three times since they were bought. Willey seldom went from home except to church. Markets even he did not trouble. His corn was sold to a neighbouring miller; his daughter carried his butter and eggs to the truck shop at Hillingdon, from whence his few wants were also supplied. He was one of the draining, manuring, land working breed of farmers — always some little improvement in hand or in view — some hedge to run straight — some land to lay better away — some slack to fill up — or some gate to remove to a more convenient position; but he knew nothing of “guano, nitrate o’ sober, or gipsey manure,” as Mr. Jorrocks would say. Having in early life been in a gentleman’s service at Grampound (Cornwall), an intimacy be bad then contracted with a fellow-servant bad continued, and showed itself by his sending “Willey the county papers; but the friend most likely being one of Willey’s breed, instead of availing himself of Her Majesty’s post for the conveyance of each paper, boarded them up till be got a year or two’s papers in band, when be transmitted them to Willey per waggon. The consequence was, that Willey read the papers like history, and was generally a year or two behindhand — sometimes more, in the harvest time. Farmers and fox-hunters are not great readers in a general way. We knew a fox-hunter, who borrowed the first volume of one of Scott’s novels, and, having kept it a long time, his friend asked him if he would not like to have another. “Oh no, thank you,” said he, “that does very well. By the time I get to the end, I’ve forgot the beg
inning, so I just begin over again, and it serves my purpose quite as well as a new one.”
Willey was rather better than this, for he studied the Grampound Gun and Tregony Times, as the paper was called, with a patient and persevering assiduity, beginning with the title, and ending with the printer’s name of each number, and remembered what he had read, for he could refer to the file of his authority with great accuracy whenever a difficulty arose in his mind. Indeed, his Bible and the Grampound Gun were the only two works that Willey considered worth having; and, in his younger days, when he mixed more among the farmers, he had acquired the sobriquet of the “Grampound Gun,” from generally prefacing his stories or observations with—” I see by the Grampound Gun and Tregony Times that” so and so has taken place.
Well, on this particular day Willey had been taking a suck at his old friend after his frugal dinner, and the last bundle of Guns was on the table before him, as Joshua’s dry cough and the tread of Dickey Cobden’s feet arrested Willey’s attention. Taking off his tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, he hurried to the woodbined porch of his door to greet the visitor.
There sat Joshua, looking as consequential as could be, with a supercilious smile on his hypocritical countenance, that as much as said, “I’ll astonish the old man.”
“Well, Mr. Goodheart,” said he, “how do you do today?”
“Why, middling, thank ye, Mr. Sneakington,” replied Willey, for he didn’t like Joshua a bit—” middling, thank, you — mustn’t complain — cannot work as I used though — . and I’m nabbut seventy-two. A-dear — but this is a bad job in Lunnun, Mr. Sneakington — shocking bad job. Do you think he’ll be hung?” inquired Willey, with anxiety depicted on his fine expressive face.
“What’s the matter now?” inquired Joshua, who felt himself in a manner connected with London, from his master having come from there.
“A-dear, haven’t you heard,” replied Willey, “of this terrible rascal shooting at the Queen? A-dear, Lunnun must be a terrible place — lucky our Squire’s got away from it, I’m sure.”
