Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  “What does Mr. Johnson think?” inquired the Chairman, addressing Mr. Jorrocks. —

  “Jorrocks is his name,” observed Captain Bluster, with a growl.

  “I beg his pardon,” said the Chairman, with a low bow. “Pray, what does Mr. Jorrocks think?”

  Mr. Jorrocks then, with great gravity, delivered himself of the following opinion: —

  “Every man wot keeps a jackass is a waggabone,” said he very slowly. “Every man wot keeps a jackass keeps a pair of big panniers also, and there’s no sayin’ wot on airth goes into them.”

  Mr. Jorrocks paused. —

  “Then what do you think should be done to him?” asked the Chairman. “What punishment shall we inflict upon him?”

  “Skin him alive!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, looking as if he would eat the defendant.

  “I’m afraid that’s hardly ‘law,’” observed the Clerk, looking respectfully up at his ten-pound friend.

  “If it’s not law, it’s what law ought to be,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, with great gravity.

  “A very good observation! very capital observation!” observed Captain Bluster, as soon as Mr. Jorrocks bad done; “you’ll make an excellent magistrate.”

  “I think I shall,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “I think I shall, as soon as I get up a little law at least.”

  Captain Bluster: “Oh, hang the law! The less law one has in a justice-room the better. Get Stone’s ‘Justice’s Pocket Manual,’ it’ll keep you all right as to form; and if you read ‘Sam Slick,’ it will do you more good than all the rubbishing stuff the lawyers write put together. Stone for the law — Slick for the sense.”

  “Stone for the law and Slick for the sense,” repeated Mr. Jorrocks.

  “Yes; and the first time you’re in London go to the Judge and Jury Court at the “Garrick’s Head” in Bow Street, and learn some Latin sentences from Chief Baron Richards — Latin tells well from the bench.”

  The Chairman then informed the prisoner that he was convicted, and had to pay to Her Majesty the Queen the sum of one pound over and above the costs of the prosecution and the amount of the damage done by the donkey.

  The defendant pleaded hard in mitigation.

  “No,” said the Chairman; “we have dealt very leniently with you.”

  “You are liable to a month’s imprisonment, with hard labour, in the House of Correction,” observed ‘another.

  “One month! six months!” rejoined a third; “this is a second offence.”

  “Whipping also!” exclaimed a fourth, “this conviction being before a bench of magistrates.”

  The mercantile man then begged for time, his trade being seriously depressed.

  “By the police protecting the woods, I suppose,” observed the Chairman.

  “You must pay the money down,” grunted Captain Bluster, “nullum, tempus occurrit Regi. The Queen stands no nonsense.”

  Mr. Jorrocks, on leaving the Court, which he did after hearing a few more cases similar to the foregoing, strutted very consequentially down the middle of the street, making the quiet monotony of the place more apparent by the noisy clamour of his boots. He felt like a very great man.

  He ran his mind through the backward course of life — thought of the time when he swept out his master’s shop for his meat — then when he got a trifle for wages — next how he was advanced to a clerkship — how he bought his first pair of top-boots — how he stamped out two pair before he got a horse; his horses then came in chronological order, like kings and queens in a Memoria Technicha. His first, a white one, that tumbled neck and croup with him down Snow Hill, and broke both its own knees and his nose; his second, a brown, that always tried to kick him over his head when he mounted; and so he went on through a long list, the recollection of each bringing with it many other interesting associations.

  Then he thought of the day when he was elected a member of the Surrey Hunt, and of the glories and honours he had reaped in that sporting country. Then of his advancement to the mastership of the Handley Cross Foxhounds, his short though brilliant reign at the Spa, and now how a whole wheelbarrowful of greatness had been heaped upon him in the shape of a J.P.-ship.

  “Vell,” said he, feeling his chin with one handy and sliding a whole handful of half-crown pieces down the smooth inside leather of his breeches pocket with the other; “veil,” said he, “for all this I am but mortal man.”

  Just as our friend had indulged in this humble-minded observation, he crossed the street at an angle to get back to the “Duke’s Head,” and the mail-gig hurrying up at the time, rather drove him from his point, and caused him to land opposite Mr. Pippin, the fruiterer’s.

  Mr. Pippin was a game-seller as well as a fruiterer, and the 12th of August drawing nigh, he had stuck a newly gilt and lettered sign to that effect over his door: —

  “Pippin, Fruiterer, and Licensed Dealer in Game,” read Mr. Jorrocks, in that vacant sort of way that people read anything that comes in their way.

  “Pippin, Fruiterer and Game-seller,” said he to himself, shortening the sign. “Wonders if he’s got any cranberries.” Mr. J. was very fond of cranberries.

  “Have you got any cranberries?” asked he of Pippin, who, on the look-out for “squalls,” now rushed to the door.

  “Not any cranberries, sir; particular nice gooseberries, strawberries, cauliflowers, radishes, fish sauces of all kinds, sir; cucumbers, cigars, pickles — expect some peas in tonight, sir — step in, sir; step in.”

  Mr. Jorrocks complied, but oh! what a sight greeted him on the opposite wall—” three brace of grouse hanging by the neck!” Mr. Jorrocks stood transfixed.

  “How now?” exclaimed he, as speech returned, and with staring eye-balls he turned to the shopkeeper.

  “How now?” repeated he, pointing to the birds, “grouse for sale before the 12th of August.”

  “Five shillings a brace,” replied Mr. Pippin, quite unconcerned; “we generally charge six, but the season’s coming on, and we shall soon get plenty more.”

  “Plenty more,” roared Mr. Jorrocks; “aren’t you ‘shamed of yourself?”

  “Oh dear no, sir, not at all; take the whole for fourteen shillings.”

  “Til fourteen you!” repeated Mr. Jorrocks, stamping with rage, “I’ll fourteen you, you waggabone. I’m one of Her Majesty’s jestices o’ the peace—’ nullum tempus occurrit’ somethin’ — the Queen stands no nonsense — I’ll fine you!”

  “What for, sir?” inquired Mr. Pippin.

  “For havin’ game afore the twelfth — I’ll summons you directly,” added ‘Mr. Jorrocks, hurrying out of the shop.

  “Please say they’re stuffed-!” roared Mr. Pippin after him.

  CHAPTER XX.

  THIS DONE, HE took the dame about the neck,

  And kissed her lips with such a clamorous smack,

  That at the parting all the room did echo.”

  “CRANIOLOGY. — A science that virtually professes to discover how the interior of a house is furnished, from a mere examination of the inequalities upon the roof of it.” —

  WE have not seen anything of our friends the Flathers since the Marquis’s brougham drove away from their door, and they contributed their quota (as it is supposed) to the heaviness of the Hillingdon letter-bag.

  What passed on the occasion of the Marquis’s visit we are not at liberty to mention. Indeed we don’t know — most probably Mrs. Flather would have him a little to herself at first, during which she would hint at her great esteem for him — but her duty to guard her daughter from the risk of forming hopeless attachments; and then at the proper period Emma would appear suffused in tears, and Mrs. Flather would possibly leave them to themselves a little. All this, however, is chiefly conjecture — or at best mere servants’ gossip, formed from an outline of what Mrs. Flather’s boy in buttons communicated to Benjamin, who detailed it to Betsey for the information of Mrs. Jorrocks. Our readers must therefore just give such credence to the story as they consider it worth. It will
be remembered that each party claimed the victory, and each indulged in the usual “crow.”

  The story was — for we may as well tell it out now that we have begun — that the boy in buttons having taken it into his head to water the myrtle below the window, saw the Marquis with Emma’s head on his shoulder, administering consolation to her eyes with his blue bandana. As a justice would say — that may, or may not be — it may be true, or it may be a lie — it may be Betsey’s lie — it may be Benjamin’s lie — or it may be the boy in buttons’ lie — it may be true and yet have nothing in it. The Marquis might merely be doing what any man in such a situation would do, trying to soothe the poor girl. Had she been on his knee, we think the case would have been different. The presumption then would have been that he had got her there — at least we hope so. As it was, there was very little but supposition in the case. Our own opinion, however, is that there was something in it, though whether intentional on the part of the Marquis, or merely one of those involuntary, inadvertent, consolatory acts a man sometimes commits when suddenly beset by a pretty girl in tears, is another question. We dare say the Marquis would be very tender — very soft, and very likely say many things he never intended. A pretty girl in tears is a very dangerous thing, more especially when the tears are caused, or supposed to be caused, by one’s self. We fear the Marquis said more than was prudent. Very possibly he thought no more of it after he had bowled away in his brougham; but Mrs. Flather’s more than insinuation to Mrs. Jorrocks that her daughter and the Marquis were engaged, with the profusion of letters that showered into the Hillingdon letter-box, were presumptive evidence that the words had made some impression on her daughter.

  A country post-office is a queer place. The post-mistress — for they are generally kept by ladies — has a sort of intuitive acquaintance with every letter that comes or goes, knows who they are from, and can guess pretty nearly what they are about. There is none of that tranquil easy security one feels, or rather used to feel, when dropping a letter into the well-accustomed depths of a large town post-office, where the variety of writings, the number of letters, the hurry of sorting, put all idea of curiosity out of the question. The country post-office generally consists of a black pane, with a slit in the middle of it, put into the parlour window with the words “Post-Office,” done in white letters, above or below; and the letter, instead of passing, as the sender perhaps supposes, from all observation until it greets the eyes of the expectant receiver, drops through the hole into a plate or a table in the parlour, or perhaps in the bar of a public-house, where the landlady or her daughters are sewing, or drawing drops of comfort for the customers in the kitchen. Down it glides, and is immediately whipped up; and if the handwriting is unknown, and the seal uninforming, the postmistress has nothing to do but open the sash and look up and down street to see who was the party putting it in. Townspeople wouldn’t believe the curiosity there is in the country.

  But to return to Emma Flather and the Marquis of Bray.

  The usual answers of congratulation, with the usual amount of sincerity — some with good-natured, ill-suppressed wishes that the news might not be too good to be true, or hopes that such an alteration might not injure the head of either party — having been received, each party rested on their oars in expectation of a “move” from the Castle. The “cock-a-hoopness” of both mammas was considerably lessened on finding that each had similar expectations, and a thought occasionally glanced across their minds that it might have been better had they waited till they were a little more certain ere they announced the thing. One Marquis for two ladies would do nothing, still we dare say our readers will agree with us that it would not have been natural not to have announced it immediately. Indeed,’ the Marquis’s manner was so truly love-making, that the villagers all set it down as a fixed thing; and even Johnny Wopstraw, who happened to be passing along on the top of his wain, observed to his wife when he got home that he thought “upon the who-o-ole there was a young gentleman making love to Miss Eliza.” The change in, the Marquis’s costume, and the height from which Johnny overlooked down, prevented him recognising his over-night orator and draining-tile maker.

  Thus things stood for at least a fortnight, each day adding additional uneasiness to the ladies. Every post delivery was anxiously looked for; every large seal that passed in review as Mrs. Medler sorted the letters was conjured into the impress of a ducal coronet, or a marquis’s at least, with the reverse side directed to Mrs. Flather or Mrs. Trotter. Still it came not, neither was there anything heard of the Marquis, except that he had got a bad cold. This, however, was some consolation, enabling them to account in some measure for his silence. As a set-off against this, however, they had to take into account the Duke’s letter to Mr. Jorrocks offering him a J.P.-ship, in which nothing was said of the marriage, or even hinted at. All this was very perplexing.

  Mr. Jorrocks had now got himself into all his honours. Mr. Bowker had furnished him with a fine old edition of Burn’s Justice; and Mr. Jones, the bookseller at Sellborough, had supplied him with a copy of Stone’s “Pocket Manual” and “Sam Slick,” according to Captain Bluster’s recommendation; while Benjamin had been rigged out in a Welsh wig, and a pair of green spectacles with tortoise-shell rims, and a sort of beadle’s dress, formed out of Mrs. Jorrocks’s old bombazine gowns. Moreover, Mr. Jorrocks being a great believer in phrenology, or bampology as he called it, had furnished himself with a copy of Combe’s “Outlines,” as also with a plaster of Paris head and phrenological chart, for the purpose of examining such culprits as might be brought before him, and ascertaining their bumps. His sanctum was now converted into a justice-room. In the centre, behind a high desk, stood an important old carved black oak arm-chair, on a raised stand: while below the desk were stools and a table, for Benjamin and Joshua Sneakington to sit and cry silence and take the depositions upon.

  In other respects the sanctum underwent little change; the old red morocco hunting-chair occupying one side of the fireplace, a sporting picture screen and a coal scuttle the other.

  Here, as his worship sat in the hunting-chair, thinking first of one thing, then of another — when his apples would be ripe, whether he should buy Brown’s bull, whether Thompson’s wouldn’t be better — one loud knock at the door informed him that Benjamin was there, and before our friend had let his leg down that he had been nursing, in came the boy and stood before him.

  “Please, sir, you’re wanted, sir,” said Benjamin.

  “Vanted, Binjimin,” repeated Mr. Jorrocks, pulling his wig straight; “who vants me now, I wonder — jestice or gentlefolk?” Mr. J. had now two sorts of visitors.

  “Gentlefolk, I thinks,” said Benjamin; “at least, she wants you alone. It’s a ‘ooman — old mother Flather.”

  “Mrs. Flather, you should say, Binjimin; there are no old women in this world. I’ll see her in a minute,” added he, running to a small mirror, and adjusting his neckcloth and frill.

  ‘My dear Mrs. Flather, I’m werry ‘appy to see you,” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, as Mrs. Flather came sidling in past Benjamin, who stood with the door in his hand, arranging the latch so as to see through the key-hole. “Take a chair; pray take a chair,” added he, passing her on to the one he had just vacated, and motioning Benjamin to leave the room.

  “Here’s a werry fine day,” observed he, pressing her shoulder to get her to sit down in the hunting chair, at the same time drawing a smaller one close to it. “How’s Emma?” said he.

  “Pretty well, I thank you,” replied Mrs. Flather, throwing up her veil, and setting herself forward, as if for business.

  “Fine gal, Emma,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “fine gal! I always says, though,” added he, sotto wee, squeezing Mrs., Flather’s arm, “that the gals of the present day ar’nt to be compared to their mothers.”

  Mrs. Flather smiled.

  “It’s a fact,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, smacking his lips as he looked at her. “And ‘ow’s she getting on with the Markis? I hear there are two o
n ’em arter him.”

  “That’s just what I’ve come to talk to you about,” observed Mrs. Flather in a low tone, laying her hand r confidentially on Mr. Jorrocks’s wrist, as his arm rested on the elbow of her chair. “I want a little of your advice.”

  “Always ‘appy to adwise the ladies,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, “particklar ‘appy. We’ll jest bolt the door,” added he, bundling up and making for it, “and then we shalln’t be interrupted. You knows wot Byron said about interruptions,” observed he, as he bustled towards it.

  Having locked it and bolted it too, he resumed his place by the side of Mrs. Flather.

  “It’s a very delicate situation we are in with regard to that young man,” observed Mrs. Flather, after a pause; “he’s engaged my daughter’s affections, and I really fear he’s only making a fool of her.”

  “Werry naughty o’ him,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, “werry naughty o’ him” — muttering over the word “affection, affection,” wondering if it was in Stone — (Mr. Jorrocks did everything judicially now). “Yot’s he done? Kissed her, I s’pose,” added he; “kissed her, kissed her; no sich title as that; come under the ‘ead of assault, though. Kissin’ ar’nt altogether right,” added he to Mrs. Flather, “unless, indeed, she consented, and then it is wot us jestices call justifiable kissiside.”

  Mr. Jorrocks turned to Mrs. Flather, for the purpose of demonstrating the law, when one of Benjamin’s loud knocks at the door, and attempt to open it, arrested his movement.

  “Yot’s ‘appen’d now, Binjimin?” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, starting back; “vot’s ‘appen’d now?”

  “A waggabone!” squeaked Benjamin through the door.

  “Confound them waggabones,” muttered Mr. Jorrocks, thinking how to get rid of the charge without bothering himself.