by R S Surtees
Having seen the hounds fairly across, Dicky reopened the ball by catching his horse short round by the head, and sticking spurs into his sides, bustling up the clayey, water-logged ride as hard as ever he could lay legs to the ground, thinking what an object of admiration he must be to the rising generation behind.
Scuttle, scuttle, splash, splash, splash, blob, blob, blob, blob, the field went as before, varied by the occasional click, click, click of some little “stuck mud.” Hall and Jug spurred, and grinned, and rode like fools, each determined to be first, so long as there was nothing but galloping.
Up the long quagmire of a ride they all tore to within sight of the crazy old gate that had been left sticking half open in the mud ever since the hounds were there cub-hunting; then, as they neared it, and the forward funksters were preparing to fall back ere they came to the dread chances of the stiff vale beyond, a short turn to the left, followed by a slight diminution of melody, relieved their anxieties, and proclaimed that the fox still hugged the cover, and was bearing away to the left, giving our friends a further chance of riding their horses’ tails off. Then the recent funkers came to the front again, hustling and bustling away, as though they were quite unacquainted with fear.
Round the wood the joyous pack raced, now showing their stem-lashed speckled sides as they crossed some recently cleared ground, now racing up a grassy avenue between lines of feathering spruce, and anon diving into the impenetrable thickets of the wilderness.
The longer they went the calmer the field became, until, at each junction of the rides or cross-roads, knowing sportsmen began pulling up, mopping their brows, and speculating on the fox’s future course, each having some excellent reason to give why he must come back; why he couldn’t go this way, or wouldn’t go that; though, if the reasons had been sifted, they would have been found to originate in the prophet’s convenience. Strutt would stay at the big oak at the cross-rides, at the high end, feeling confident, with the “wind in that airt,” the fox would make for the rocks, while Brassey, who rode a terrible roarer, planted himself beside a clump of hollies that commanded a straight road to the forest.
On, on, however, Hall and Jug went, each slackening of the one only seeming to increase the energy of the other, though their horses by no means corresponded in their exertions. Tom’s horse, at all times a soft one, began to heave and labour in his going; but Tom, having no more feeling or sympathy for a horse than he had for a steam-engine, only spurred him the more, thinking to pay him off for his misconduct on the Silverspring Firs day. Jug, too, who was of the same order, spurred and tugged his second charger, as if he thought his mouth was made of india-rubber. The perspiration began to pour down their legs and over their hoofs. The hounds still careered on, round and round, back, and across — here, there, and everywhere, now joined by this lagging group, now deserted by that, now cheered by Dicky Dyke, now halloaed on by Billy Brick. The ground was all foiled, and the rides dotted with hoof marks, like an over-pricked water-biscuit. Neither Hall or Jug, however, ever looked at that, nor do we believe they knew they were not going straight. Whenever the lulling music of the hounds seemed to prelude a stop, a view of the varmint set all ecstatic again. Many who had looked at their watches, with a keen eye to “pudding time,” were thus inveigled again and again. Even “Head-and-shoulders,” and the jumpers who despised all hunting that didn’t involve good leaping, stayed for the chance of a spin at the end. Dicky, too, had looked at his ticker, thinking he had done enough, and more than enough for any humbugging holiday field, and seeing by the failing scent and diminishing pace of the pack that they had no chance either of catching the fox or making him flag, so wonderfully endowed is the varmint, was determining to pave the way for a stop, by halloaing “Fresh fox!” at the next view, when a death of another sort ensued. Our Tom’s horse, who had given him as many hints as would have served anything short of a wooden man, at length gave a series of convulsive staggering flounders, and fell, bearing Tom standing like a second Colossus of Rhodes astride him.
“Get clear of him!” cried a dozen voices, thinking he might roll and damage our fat friend, but the warning was vain — a horse will never hurt a man if he can help it, — and the poor glassy-eyed brute stretched out its lifeless neck on the spot where he fell, a cutting reproof to his mutton-fisted master.
The Shorter Fiction
Durham School — where Surtees was educated
Jorrocks’ Jaunts and Jollities
Illustrated by Henry Alken
This series of short comic pieces was published in 1838. The book consists of short satirical studies of hunting and other country pursuits, told from the point of view of John Jorrocks, a cockney grocer that becomes a master of the hounds – a transition that allows Surtees to poke fun at the Victorian obsession with class boundaries and traditions.
The pieces began to appear in New Sporting Magazine from 1831 and helped to inspire Dickens’ creation of the itinerant eccentric Pickwick, who similarly tours Britain’s towns and countryside in search of hapless adventure. Surtees had trained as a lawyer, but was unsuccessful in that profession. He began contributing to periodicals as a means of supplementing his income, eventually becoming the founding editor of New Sporting Magazine. Despite inheriting a fortune and a country seat in 1835, Surtees continued to write anonymously and Jorrocks went on to appear in two full-length novels, also on sporting themes: Handley Cross and Hillingdon Hall.
How the first piece appeared in ‘New Sporting Magazine’
CONTENTS
I. THE SWELL AND THE SURREY
II. THE YORKSHIREMAN AND THE SURREY
III. SURREY SHOOTING: MR. JORROCKS IN TROUBLE
IV. MR. JORROCKS AND THE SURREY STAGHOUNDS
V. THE TURF: MR. JORROCKS AT NEWMARKET
VI. A WEEK AT CHELTENHAM: THE CHELTENHAM DANDY
VII. AQUATICS: MR. JORROCKS AT MARGATE
VIII. THE ROAD: ENGLISH AND FRENCH.
IX. MR. JORROCKS IN PARIS
X. SPORTING IN FRANCE
XI. A RIDE TO BRIGHTON ON “THE AGE”
XII. MR. JORROCKS’S DINNER PARTY
XIII. THE DAY AFTER THE FEAST: AN EPISODE BY THE YORKSHIREMAN
The original frontispiece
I. THE SWELL AND THE SURREY
WHAT TRUE-BRED CITY sportsman has not in his day put off the most urgent business — perhaps his marriage, or even the interment of his rib — that he might “brave the morn” with that renowned pack, the Surrey subscription foxhounds? Lives there, we would ask, a thoroughbred, prime, bang-up, slap-dash, break-neck, out-and-out artist, within three miles of the Monument, who has not occasionally “gone a good ‘un” with this celebrated pack? And shall we, the bard of Eastcheap, born all deeds of daring to record, shall we, who so oft have witnessed — nay, shared — the hardy exploits of our fellow-cits, shall we sit still, and never cease the eternal twirl of our dexter around our sinister thumb, while other scribes hand down to future ages the paltry feats of beardless Meltonians, and try to shame old Father Thames himself with muddy Whissendine’s foul stream? Away! thou vampire, Indolence, that suckest the marrow of imagination, and fattenest on the cream of idea ere yet it float on the milk of reflection. Hence! slug-begotten hag, thy power is gone — the murky veil thou’st drawn o’er memory’s sweetest page is rent!
Harp of Eastcheap, awake!
Our thoughts hark back to the cover-side, and our heart o’erflows with recollections of the past, when life rode the pace through our veins, and the bark of the veriest mongrel, or the bray of the sorriest costermonger’s sorriest “Jerusalem,” were far more musical sounds than Paganini’s pizzicatos or Catalani’s clamorous caterwaulings.
And, thou, Goddess of the Silver Bow — chaste Diana — deign to become the leading star of our lucubrations; come perch upon our grey goose quill; shout in our ear the maddening Tally-ho! and ever and anon give a salutary “refresher” to our memory with thy heaven-wrought spurs — those spurs old Vulcan forged when in his mad
dest mood — whilst we relate such feats of town-born youths and city squires, as shall “harrow up the souls” of milk-sop Melton’s choicest sons, and “fright their grass-galloping garrons from their propriety.” But gently, Pegasus! — Here again, boys, and “let’s to business,” as they say on ’Change.
‘Twere almost needless to inform our readers, that such portion of a county as is hunted by any one pack of hounds is technically denominated their country; and of all countries under the sun, that of the Surrey subscription foxhounds undoubtedly bears the bell. This superiority arises from the peculiar nature of the soil — wretched starvation stuff most profusely studded with huge sharp flints — the abundance of large woods, particularly on the Kent side, and the range of mountainous hills that run directly through the centre, which afford accommodation to the timid, and are unknown in most counties and unequalled in any.
One of the most striking features in the aspect of this chosen region of fox-hunting, is the quiet easy manner in which the sportsmen take the thing. On they go — now trotting gently over the flints — now softly ambling along the grassy ridge of some stupendous hill — now quietly following each other in long-drawn files, like geese, through some close and deep ravine, or interminable wood, which re-echoes to their never-ceasing holloas — every man shouting in proportion to the amount of his subscription, until day is made horrible with their yelling. There is no pushing, jostling, rushing, cramming, or riding over one another; no jealousy, discord, or daring; no ridiculous foolhardy feats; but each man cranes and rides, and rides and cranes in a style that would gladden the eye of a director of an insurance office.
The members of the Surrey are the people that combine business with pleasure, and even in the severest run can find time for sweet discourse, and talk about the price of stocks or stockings. “Yooi wind him there, good dog, yooi wind him.”— “Cottons is fell.”— “Hark to Cottager! Hark!”— “Take your bill at three months, or give you three and a half discount for cash.” “Eu in there, eu in, Cheapside, good dog.”— “Don’t be in a hurry, sir, pray. He may be in the empty casks behind the cooper’s. Yooi, try for him, good bitch. Yooi, push him out.”— “You’re not going down that bank, surely sir? Why, it’s almost perpendicular! For God’s sake, sir, take care — remember you are not insured. Ah! you had better get off — here, let me hold your nag, and when you’re down you can catch mine; — that’s your sort but mind he doesn’t break the bridle. He won’t run away, for he knows I’ve got some sliced carrots in my pocket to reward him if he does well. — Thank you, sir, and now for a leg up — there we are — that’s your sort — I’ll wait till you are up also, and we’ll be off together.”
It is this union of the elegant courtesies and business of life with the energetic sports of the field, that constitutes the charm of Surrey hunting; and who can wonder that smoke-dried cits, pent up all the week, should gladly fly from their shops to enjoy a day’s sport on a Saturday? We must not, however, omit to express a hope that young men, who have their way to make in the world, may not be led astray by its allurements. It is all very well for old-established shopkeepers “to do a bit of pleasure” occasionally, but the apprentice or journeyman, who understands his duties and the tricks of his trade, will never be found capering in the hunting field. He will feel that his proper place is behind the counter; and while his master is away enjoying the pleasures of the chase, he can prig as much “pewter” from the till as will take both himself and his lass to Sadler’s Wells theatre, or any other place she may choose to appoint.
But to return to the Surrey. The town of Croydon, nine miles from the standard in Cornhill, is the general rendezvous of the gallant sportsmen. It is the principal market town in the eastern division of the county of Surrey; and the chaw-bacons who carry the produce of their acres to it, instead of to the neighbouring village of London, retain much of their pristine barbarity. The town furnishes an interesting scene on a hunting morning, particularly on a Saturday. At an early hour, groups of grinning cits may be seen pouring in from the London side, some on the top of Cloud’s coaches, some in taxed carts, but the greater number mounted on good serviceable-looking nags, of the invaluable species, calculated for sport or business, “warranted free from vice, and quiet both to ride and in harness”; some few there are, who, with that kindness and considerate attention which peculiarly mark this class of sportsmen, have tacked a buggy to their hunter, and given a seat to a friend, who leaning over the back of the gig, his jocund phiz turned towards his fidus Achates, leads his own horse behind, listening to the discourse of “his ancient,” or regaling him “with sweet converse”; and thus they onward jog, until the sign of the “Greyhound,” stretching quite across the main street, greets their expectant optics, and seems to forbid their passing the open portal below. In they wend then, and having seen their horses “sorted,” and the collar marks (as much as may be) carefully effaced by the shrewd application of a due quantity of grease and lamp-black, speed in to “mine host” and order a sound repast of the good things of this world; the which to discuss, they presently apply themselves with a vigour that indicates as much a determination to recruit fatigue endured, as to lay in stock against the effects of future exertion. Meanwhile the bustle increases; sportsmen arrive by the score, fresh tables are laid out, covered with “no end” of vivers; and towards the hour of nine, may be heard to perfection, that pleasing assemblage of sounds issuing from the masticatory organs of a number of men steadfastly and studiously employed in the delightful occupation of preparing their mouthfuls for deglutition. “O noctes coenæque Deûm,” said friend Flaccus. Oh, hunting breakfasts! say we. Where are now the jocund laugh, the repartee, the oft-repeated tale, the last debate? As our sporting contemporary, the Quarterly, said, when describing the noiseless pursuit of old reynard by the Quorn: “Reader, there is no crash now, and not much music.” It is the tinker that makes a great noise over a little work, but, at the pace these men are eating, there is no time for babbling. So, gentle lector, there is now no leisure for bandying compliments, ’tis your small eater alone who chatters o’er his meals; your true-born sportsman is ever a silent and, consequently, an assiduous grubber. True it is that occasionally space is found between mouthfuls to vociferate “WAITER!” in a tone that requires not repetition; and most sonorously do the throats of the assembled eaters re-echo the sound; but this is all — no useless exuberance of speech — no, the knife or fork is directed towards what is wanted, nor needs there any more expressive intimation of the applicant’s wants.
Footnote 1: The date of this description, it must be remembered, is put many years back.
At length the hour of ten approaches; bills are paid, pocket-pistols filled, sandwiches stowed away, horses accoutred, and our bevy straddle forth into the town, to the infinite gratification of troops of dirty-nosed urchins, who, for the last hour, have been peeping in at the windows, impatiently watching for the exeunt of our worthies. — They mount, and away — trot, trot — bump, bump — trot, trot — bump, bump — over Addington Heath, through the village, and up the hill to Hayes Common, which having gained, spurs are applied, and any slight degree of pursiness that the good steeds may have acquired by standing at livery in Cripplegate, or elsewhere, is speedily pumped out of them by a smart brush over the turf, to the “Fox,” at Keston, where a numerous assemblage of true sportsmen patiently await the usual hour for throwing off. At length time being called, say twenty minutes to eleven, and Mr. Jorrocks, Nodding Homer, and the principal subscribers having cast up, the hounds approach the cover. “Yooi in there!” shouts Tom Hills, who has long hunted this crack pack; and crack! crack! crack! go the whips of some scores of sportsmen. “Yelp, yelp, yelp,” howl the hounds; and in about a quarter of an hour Tom has not above four or five couple at his heels. This number being a trifle, Tom runs his prad at a gap in the fence by the wood-side; the old nag goes well at it, but stops short at the critical moment, and, instead of taking the ditch, bolts and wheels round. Tom, howeve
r, who is “large in the boiling pieces,” as they say at Whitechapel, is prevented by his weight from being shaken out of his saddle; and, being resolved to take no denial, he lays the crop of his hunting-whip about the head of his beast, and runs him at the same spot a second time, with an obligato accompaniment of his spur-rowels, backed by a “curm along then!” issued in such a tone as plainly informs his quadruped he is in no joking humour. These incentives succeed in landing Tom and his nag in the wished-for spot, when, immediately, the wood begins to resound with shouts of “Yoicks True-bo-y, yoicks True-bo-y, yoicks push him up, yoicks wind him!” and the whole pack begin to work like good ‘uns. Occasionally may be heard the howl of some unfortunate hound that has been caught in a fox trap, or taken in a hare snare; and not unfrequently the discordant growls of some three or four more, vociferously quarrelling over the venerable remains of some defunct rabbit. “Oh, you rogues!” cries Mr. Jorrocks, a cit rapturously fond of the sport. After the lapse of half an hour the noise in the wood for a time increases audibly. ’Tis Tom chastising the gourmands. Another quarter of an hour, and a hound that has finished his coney bone slips out of the wood, and takes a roll upon the greensward, opining, no doubt, that such pastime is preferable to scratching his hide among brambles in the covers. “Hounds have no right to opine,” opines the head whipper-in; so clapping spurs into his prad, he begins to pursue the delinquent round the common, with “Markis, Markis! what are you at, Markis? get into cover, Markis!” But “it’s no go”; Marquis creeps through a hedge, and “grins horribly a ghastly smile” at his ruthless tormentor, who wends back, well pleased at having had an excuse for taking “a bit gallop”! Half an hour more slips away, and some of the least hasty of our cits begin to wax impatient, in spite of the oft-repeated admonition, “don’t be in a hurry!” At length a yokel pops out of the cover, and as soon as he has recovered breath, informs the field that he has been “a-hollorin’ to ’em for half an hour,” and that the fox had “gone away for Tatsfield, ‘most as soon as ever the ‘oounds went into ‘ood.”
