by R S Surtees
Of this species of pardonable egotism, Mr. Jorrocks — who in addition to the conspicuous place he holds in the Surrey Hunt, as shown in the preceding chapter, we should introduce to our readers as a substantial grocer in St. Botolph’s Lane, with an elegant residence in Great Coram Street, Russell Square — has his full, if not rather more than his fair share. Vanity, however, is never satisfied without display, and Mr. Jorrocks longed for a customer before whom he could exhibit the prowess of his pack.
Footnote 5: Subscribers, speaking to strangers, always talk of the hounds as their own.
Chance threw in his way a young Yorkshireman, who frequently appearing in subsequent pages, we may introduce as a loosish sort of hand, up to anything in the way of a lark, but rather deficient in cash — a character so common in London, as to render further description needless.
Now it is well known that a Yorkshireman, like a dragoon, is nothing without his horse, and if he does understand anything better than racing — it is hunting. Our readers will therefore readily conceive that a Yorkshireman is more likely to be astonished at the possibility of fox-hunting from London, than captivated by the country, or style of turn-out; and in truth, looking at it calmly and dispassionately, in our easy-chair drawn to a window which overlooks the cream of the grazing grounds in the Vale of White Horse, it does strike us with astonishment, that such a thing as a fox should be found within a day’s ride of the suburbs. The very idea seems preposterous, for one cannot but associate the charms of a “find” with the horrors of “going to ground” in an omnibus, or the fox being headed by a great Dr. Eady placard, or some such monstrosity. Mr. Mayne, to be sure, has brought racing home to every man’s door, but fox-hunting is not quite so tractable a sport. But to our story.
Footnote 6: The promoter of the Hippodrome, near Bayswater — a speculation that soon came to grief.
It was on a nasty, cold, foggy, dark, drizzling morning in the month of February, that the Yorkshireman, having been offered a “mount” by Mr. Jorrocks, found himself shivering under the Piazza in Covent Garden about seven o’clock, surrounded by cabs, cabbages, carrots, ducks, dollys, and drabs of all sorts, waiting for his horse and the appearance of the friend who had seduced him into the extraordinary predicament of attiring himself in top-boots and breeches in London. After pacing up and down some minutes, the sound of a horse’s hoofs were heard turning down from Long Acre, and reaching the lamp-post at the corner of James Street, his astonished eyes were struck with the sight of a man in a capacious, long, full-tailed, red frock coat reaching nearly to his spurs, with mother-of-pearl buttons, with sporting devices — which afterwards proved to be foxes, done in black — brown shag breeches, that would have been spurned by the late worthy master of the Hurworth, and boots, that looked for all the world as if they were made to tear up the very land and soil, tied round the knees with pieces of white tape, the flowing ends of which dangled over the mahogany-coloured tops. Mr. Jorrocks — whose dark collar, green to his coat, and tout ensemble, might have caused him to be mistaken for a mounted general postman — was on a most becoming steed — a great raking, raw-boned chestnut, with a twisted snaffle in his mouth, decorated with a faded yellow silk front, a nose-band, and an ivory ring under his jaws, for the double purpose of keeping the reins together and Jorrocks’s teeth in his head — the nag having flattened the noses and otherwise damaged the countenances of his two previous owners, who had not the knack of preventing him tossing his head in their faces. The saddle — large and capacious — made on the principle of the impossibility of putting a round of beef upon a pudding plate — was “spick and span new,” as was an enormous hunting-whip, whose iron-headed hammer he clenched in a way that would make the blood curdle in one’s veins, to see such an instrument in the hands of a misguided man.
Footnote 7: The late Mr. Wilkinson, commonly called “Matty Wilkinson,” master of the Hurworth foxhounds, was a rigid adherent of the “d —— n-all-dandy” school of sportsmen.
“Punctuality is the politeness of princes,” said Mr. Jorrocks, raising a broad-brimmed, lowish-crowned hat, as high as a green hunting-cord which tackled it to his yellow waistcoat by a fox’s tooth would allow, as he came upon the Yorkshireman at the corner. “My soul’s on fire and eager for the chase! By heavens, I declare I’ve dreamt of nothing else all night, and the worst of it is, that in a par-ox-ism of delight, when I thought I saw the darlings running into the warmint, I brought Mrs. J —— such a dig in the side as knocked her out of bed, and she swears she’ll go to Jenner, and the court for the protection of injured ribs! But come — jump up — where’s your nag? Binjimin, you blackguard, where are you? The fog is blinding me, I declare! Binjimin, I say! Binjimin! you willain, where are you?”
“Here, sir! coming!” responded a voice from the bottom of one of the long mugs at a street breakfast stall, which the fog almost concealed from their view, and presently an urchin in a drab coat and blue collar came towing a wretched, ewe-necked, hungry-looking, roan rosinante along from where he had been regaling himself with a mug of undeniable bohea, sweetened with a composition of brown sugar and sand.
“Now be after getting up,” said Jorrocks, “for time and the Surrey ‘ounds wait for no man. That’s not a werry elegant tit, but still it’ll carry you to Croydon well enough, where I’ll put you on a most undeniable bit of ‘orse-flesh — a reg’lar clipper. That’s a hack — what they calls three-and-sixpence a side, but I only pays half a crown. Now, Binjimin, cut away home, and tell Batsay to have dinner ready at half-past five to a minute, and to be most particular in doing the lamb to a turn.”
The Yorkshireman having adjusted himself in the old flat-flapped hack saddle, and got his stirrups let out from “Binjimin’s” length to his own, gathered up the stiff, weather-beaten reins, gave the animal a touch with his spurs, and fell into the rear of Mr. Jorrocks. The morning appeared to be getting worse. Instead of the grey day-dawn of the country, when the thin transparent mist gradually rises from the hills, revealing an unclouded landscape, a dense, thick, yellow fog came rolling in masses along the streets, obscuring the gas lights, and rendering every step one of peril. It could be both eat and felt, and the damp struck through their clothes in the most summary manner. “This is bad,” said Mr. Jorrocks, coughing as he turned the corner by Drury Lane, making for Catherine Street, and upset an early breakfast and periwinkle stall, by catching one corner of the fragile fabric with his toe, having ridden too near to the pavement. “Where are you for now? and bad luck to ye, ye boiled lobster!” roared a stout Irish wench, emerging from a neighbouring gin-palace on seeing the dainty viands rolling in the street. “Cut away!” cried Jorrocks to his friend, running his horse between one of George Stapleton’s dust-carts and a hackney-coach, “or the Philistines will be upon us.” The fog and crowd concealed them, but “Holloa! mind where you’re going, you great haw-buck!” from a buy-a-hearth-stone boy, whose stock-in-trade Jorrocks nearly demolished, as he crossed the corner of Catherine Street before him, again roused his vigilance. “The deuce be in the fog,” said he, “I declare I can’t see across the Strand. It’s as dark as a wolf’s mouth. — Now where are you going to with that meazly-looking cab of yours? — you’ve nearly run your shafts into my ‘oss’s ribs!” cried he to a cabman who nearly upset him. The Strand was kept alive by a few slip-shod housemaids, on their marrow-bones, washing the doorsteps, or ogling the neighbouring pot-boy on his morning errand for the pewters. Now and then a crazy jarvey passed slowly by, while a hurrying mail, with a drowsy driver and sleeping guard, rattled by to deliver their cargo at the post office. Here and there appeared one of those beings, who like the owl hide themselves by day, and are visible only in the dusk. Many of them appeared to belong to the other world. Poor, puny, ragged, sickly-looking creatures, that seemed as though they had been suckled and reared with gin. “How different,” thought the Yorkshireman to himself, “to the fine, stout, active labourer one meets at an early hour on a hunting morning in the country!” His rev
erie was interrupted on arriving opposite the Morning Chronicle office, by the most discordant yells that ever issued from human beings, and on examining the quarter from whence they proceeded, a group of fifty or a hundred boys, or rather little old men, were seen with newspapers in their hands and under their arms, in all the activity of speculation and exchange. “A clean Post for Tuesday’s Times!” bellowed one. “I want the Hurl! (Herald) for the Satirist!” shouted another. “Bell’s Life for the Bull! The Spectator for the Sunday Times!”
The approach of our sportsmen was the signal for a change of the chorus, and immediately Jorrocks was assailed with “A hunter! a hunter! crikey, a hunter! My eyes! there’s a gamecock for you! Vot a beauty! Vere do you turn out to-day? Vere’s the stag? Don’t tumble off, old boy! ‘Ave you got ever a rope in your pocket? Take Bell’s Life in London, vot contains all the sporting news of the country! Vot a vip the gemman’s got! Vot a precious basternadering he could give us — my eyes, vot a swell! — vot a shocking bad hat! — vot shocking bad breeches!”
Footnote 8: “Vot a shocking bad hat!” — a slang cockney phrase of 1831.
The fog, which became denser at every step, by the time they reached St. Clement’s Danes rendered their further progress almost impossible.— “Oh, dear! oh, dear! how unlucky,” exclaimed Jorrocks, “I would have given twenty pounds of best Twankay for a fine day — and see what a thing we’ve got! Hold my ‘oss,” said he to the Yorkshireman, “while I run into the ‘Angel,’ and borrow an argand burner, or we shall be endorsed to a dead certainty.” Off he got, and ran to the inn. Presently he emerged from the yard — followed by horse-keepers, coach-washers, porters, cads, waiters and others, amid loud cries of “Flare up, flare up, old cock! talliho fox-hunter!” — with a bright mail-coach footboard lamp, strapped to his middle, which, lighting up the whole of his broad back now cased in scarlet, gave him the appearance of a gigantic red-and-gold insurance office badge, or an elderly cherub without wings.
Footnote 9: City — for having a pole run into one’s rear.
The hackney-coach-and cab-men, along whose lines they passed, could not make him out at all. Some thought he was a mail-coach guard riding post with the bags; but as the light was pretty strong he trotted on regardless of observation. The fog, however, abated none of its denseness even on the “Surrey side,” and before they reached the “Elephant and Castle,” Jorrocks had run against two trucks, three watercress women, one pies-all-ot!-all-ot! man, dispersed a whole covey of Welsh milkmaids, and rode slap over one end of a buy ‘at (hat) box! bonnet-box! man’s pole, damaging a dozen paste-boards, and finally upsetting Balham Hill Joe’s Barcelona “come crack ’em and try ’em” stall at the door of the inn, for all whose benedictions, the Yorkshireman, as this great fox-hunting knight-errant’s “Esquire,” came in.
Here the Yorkshireman would fain have persuaded Mr. Jorrocks to desist from his quixotic undertaking, but he turned a deaf ear to his entreaties. “We are getting fast into the country, and I hold it to be utterly impossible for this fog to extend beyond Kennington Common— ‘twill ewaporate, you’ll see, as we approach the open. Indeed, if I mistake not, I begin to sniff the morning air already, and hark! there’s a lark a-carrolling before us!” “Now, spooney! where are you for?” bellowed a carter, breaking off in the middle of his whistle, as Jorrocks rode slap against his leader, the concussion at once dispelling the pleasing pastoral delusion, and nearly knocking Jorrocks off his horse.
As they approached Brixton Hill, a large red ball of lurid light appeared in the firmament, and just at the moment up rode another member of the Surrey Hunt in uniform, whom Jorrocks hailed as Mr. Crane. “By Jove, ’ow beautiful the moon is,” said the latter, after the usual salutations. “Moon!” said Mr. Jorrocks, “that’s not never no moon — I reckon it’s Mrs. Graham’s balloon.” “Come, that’s a good ‘un,” said Crane, “perhaps you’ll lay me an ‘at about it”. “Done!” said Mr. Jorrocks, “a guinea one — and we’ll ax my friend here. — Now, what’s that?” “Why, judging from its position and the hour, I should say it is the sun!” was the reply.
We have omitted to mention that this memorable day was a Saturday, one on which civic sportsmen exhibit. We may also premise, that the particular hunt we are about to describe, took place when there were very many packs of hounds within reach of the metropolis, all of which boasted their respective admiring subscribers. As our party proceeded they overtook a gentleman perusing a long bill of the meets for the next week, of at least half a dozen packs, the top of the list being decorated with a cut of a stag-hunt, and the bottom containing a notification that hunters were “carefully attended to by Charles Morton, at the ‘Derby Arms,’ Croydon,” a snug rural auberge near the barrack. On the hunting bill-of-fare, were Mr. Jolliffe’s foxhounds, Mr. Meager’s harriers, the Derby staghounds, the Sanderstead harriers, the Union foxhounds, the Surrey foxhounds, rabbit beagles on Epsom Downs, and dwarf foxhounds on Woolwich Common. What a list to bewilder a stranger! The Yorkshireman left it all to Mr. Jorrocks.
Footnote 10: Where the carrion is, there will be the crow, and on the demise of the “Surrey staggers,” Charley brushed off to the west, to valet the gentlemen’s hunters that attend the Royal Stag Hunt. — Vide Sir F. Grant’s picture of the meet of the Royal Staghounds.
“You’re for Jolliffe, I suppose,” said the gentleman with the bill, to another with a blue coat and buff lining. “He’s at Chipstead Church — only six miles from Croydon, a sure find and good country.” “What are you for, Mr. Jorrocks?” inquired another in green, with black velvet breeches, Hessian boots, and a red waistcoat, who just rode up. “My own, to be sure,” said Jorrocks, taking hold of the green collar of his coat, as much as to say, “How can you ask such a question?” “Oh, no,” said the gentleman in green, “Come to the stag — much better sport — sure of a gallop — open country — get it over soon — back in town before the post goes out.” Before Mr. Jorrocks had time to make a reply to this last interrogatory, they were overtaken by another horseman, who came hopping along at a sort of a butcher’s shuffle, on a worn-out, three-legged, four-cornered hack, with one eye, a rat-tail, and a head as large as a fiddle-case.— “Who’s for the blue mottles?” said he, casting a glance at their respective coats, and at length fixing it on the Yorkshireman. “Why, Dickens, you’re not going thistle-whipping with that nice ‘orse of yours,” said the gentleman in the velvets; “come and see the stag turned out — sure of a gallop — no hedges — soft country — plenty of publics — far better sport, man, than pottering about looking for your foxes and hares, and wasting your time; take my advice, and come with me.” “But,” says Dickens, “my ‘orse won’t stand it; I had him in the shay till eleven last night, and he came forty-three mile with our traveller the day before, else he’s a ‘good ‘un to go,’ as you know. Do you remember the owdacious leap he took over the tinker’s tent, at Epping ‘Unt, last Easter? How he astonished the natives within!” “Yes; but then, you know, you fell head-foremost through the canvas, and no wonder your ugly mug frightened them,” replied he of the velvets. “Ay; but that was in consequence of my riding by balance instead of gripping with my legs,” replied Dickens; “you see, I had taken seven lessons in riding at the school in Bidborough Street, Burton Crescent, and they always told me to balance myself equally on the saddle, and harden my heart, and ride at whatever came in the way; and the tinker’s tent coming first, why, naturally enough, I went at it. But I have had some practice since then, and, of course, can stick on better. I have ‘unted regularly ever since, and can ‘do the trick’ now.” “What, summer and winter?” said Jorrocks. “No,” replied he, “but I have ‘unted regularly every fifth Saturday since the ‘unting began.”
After numerous discourses similar to the foregoing, they arrived at the end of the first stage on the road to the hunt, namely, the small town of Croydon, the rendezvous of London sportsmen. The whole place was alive with red coats, green coats, blue coats, black coats, brown coats, in s
hort, coats of all the colours of the rainbow. Horsemen were mounting, horsemen were dismounting, one-horse “shays” and two-horse chaises were discharging their burdens, grooms were buckling on their masters’ spurs, and others were pulling off their overalls. Eschewing the “Greyhound,” they turn short to the right, and make for the “Derby Arms” hunting stables.
Charley Morton, a fine old boy of his age, was buckling on his armour for the fight, for his soul, too, was “on fire, and eager for the chase.” He was for the “venison”; and having mounted his “deer-stalker,” was speedily joined by divers perfect “swells,” in beautiful leathers, beautiful coats, beautiful tops, beautiful everything, except horses, and off they rode to cut in for the first course — a stag-hunt on a Saturday being usually divided into three.
The ride down had somewhat sharpened Jorrocks’s appetite; and feeling, as he said, quite ready for his dinner, he repaired to Mr. Morton’s house — a kind of sporting snuggery, everything in apple-pie order, and very good — where he baited himself on sausages and salt herrings, a basin of new milk, with some “sticking powder” as he called it, alias rum, infused into it; and having deposited a half-quartern loaf in one pocket, as a sort of balance against a huge bunch of keys which rattled in the other, he pulled out his watch, and finding they had a quarter of an hour to spare, proposed to chaperon the Yorkshireman on a tour of the hunting stables. Jorrocks summoned the ostler, and with great dignity led the way. “Humph,” said he, evidently disappointed at seeing half the stalls empty, “no great show this morning — pity — gentleman come from a distance — should like to have shown him some good nags. — What sort of a devil’s this?” “Oh, sir, he’s a good ‘un, and nothing but a good ‘un! — Leap! Lord love ye, he’ll leap anything. A railway cut, a windmill with the sails going, a navigable river with ships — anything in short. This is the ‘orse wot took the line of houses down at Beddington the day they had the tremendious run from Reigate Hill.” “And wot’s the grey in the far stall?” “Oh, that’s Mr. Pepper’s old nag — Pepper-Caster as we call him, since he threw the old gemman, the morning they met at the ‘Leg-of-Mutton’ at Ashtead. But he’s good for nothing. Bless ye! his tail shakes for all the world like a pepper-box afore he’s gone half a mile. Those be yours in the far stalls, and since they were turned round I’ve won a bob of a gemman who I bet I’d show him two ‘osses with their heads vere their tails should be. I always says,” added he with a leer, “that you rides the best ‘osses of any gemman vot comes to our governor’s.” This flattered Jorrocks, and sidling up, he slipped a shilling into his hand, saying, “Well — bring them out, and let’s see how they look this morning.” The stall reins are slipped, and out they step with their hoods on their quarters. One was a large, fat, full-sized chestnut, with a white ratch down the full extent of his face, a long square tail, bushy mane, with untrimmed heels. The other was a brown, about fifteen two, coarse-headed, with a rat-tail, and collar-marked. The tackle was the same as they came down with. “You’ll do the trick on that, I reckon,” said Jorrocks, throwing his leg over the chestnut, and looking askew at the Yorkshireman as he mounted. “Tatt., and old Tatt., and Tatt. sen. before him, all agree that they never knew a bad ‘oss with a rat-tail.”
