Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  Here Bumptious cast a parting frown at Jorrocks, and banging down his brief, tucked his gown under his arm, turned on his heel and left the court, to indulge in a glass of pale sherry and a sandwich, regardless which way the verdict went, so long as he had given him a good quilting. The silence that followed had the effect of rousing some of the dozing justices, who nudging those who had fallen asleep, they all began to stir themselves, and having laid their heads together, during which time they settled the dinner-hour for that day, and the meets of the staghounds for the next fortnight, they began to talk of the matter before the court.

  “I vote for reversing,” said Squire Jolthead; “Jorrocks is such a capital fellow.” “I must support Boreem,” said Squire Hicks: “he gave me a turn when I made the mistaken commitment of Gipsy Jack.” “What do you say, Mr. Giles?” inquired Mr. Tomkins. “Oh, anything you like, Mr. Tomkins.” “And you, Mr. Hopper?” who had been asleep all the time. “Oh! guilty, I should say — three months at the treadmill — privately whipped, if you like,” was the reply. Mr. Petty always voted on whichever side Bumptious was counsel — the learned serjeant having married his sister — and four others always followed the chair.

  Tomkins then turned round, the magistrates resumed their seats along the bench, and coming forward he stood before the judge’s chair, and taking off his hat with solemn dignity and precision, laid it down exactly in the centre of the desk, amid cries from the bailiffs and ushers for “Silence, while the justices of the peace of our sovereign lord the king, deliver the judgment of the court.”

  “The appellant in this case,” said Mr. Tomkins, very slowly, “seeks to set aside a conviction for trespass, on the ground, as I understand, of his not having committed one. The principal points of the case are admitted, as also the fact of Mr. Jorrocks’s toe, or a part of his toe, having intruded upon the respondent’s estate. Now, so far as that point is concerned, it seems clear to myself and to my brother magistrates, that it mattereth not how much or how little of the toe was upon the land, so long as any part thereof was there. ‘De minimis non curat lex’ — the English of which is ‘the law taketh no cognisance of fractions’ — is a maxim among the salaried judges of the inferior courts in Westminster Hall, which we the unpaid, the in-cor-rup-ti-ble magistrates of the proud county of Surrey, have adopted in the very deep and mature deliberation that preceded the formation of our most solemn judgment. In the present great and important case, we, the unpaid magistrates of our sovereign lord the king, do not consider it necessary that there should be ‘a toe, a whole toe, and nothing but a toe,’ to constitute a trespass, any more than it would be necessary in the case of an assault to prove that the kick was given by the foot, the whole foot, and nothing but the foot. If any part of the toe was there, the law considers that it was there in toto. Upon this doctrine, it is clear that Mr. Jorrocks was guilty of a trespass, and the conviction must be affirmed. Before I dismiss the case I must say a few words on the statute under which this decision takes place.

  “This is the first conviction that has taken place since the passing of the Act, and will serve as a precedent throughout all England. I congratulate the country upon the efficacy of the tribunal to which it has been submitted. The court has listened with great and becoming attention to the arguments of the counsel on both sides: and though one gentleman with a flippant ignorance has denounced this new law as inferior to the pre-existing system, and a curse to the country, we, the magistrates of the proud county of Surrey, must enter our protest against such a doctrine being promulgated. Peradventure, you are all acquainted with my prowess as a shooter; I won two silver tankards at the Red House, Anno Domini 1815. I mention this to show that I am a practical sportsman, and as to the theory of the Game Laws, I derive my information from the same source that you may all derive yours — from the bright refulgent pages of the New Sporting Magazine!”

  IV. MR. JORROCKS AND THE SURREY STAGHOUNDS

  THE SURREY FOXHOUNDS had closed their season — a most brilliant one — but ere Mr. Jorrocks consigned his boots and breeches to their summer slumber, he bethought of having a look at the Surrey staghounds, a pack now numbered among the things that were.

  Of course he required a companion, were it only to have some one to criticise the hounds with, so the evening before the appointed day, as the Yorkshireman was sitting in his old corner at the far end of the Piazza Coffee-room in Covent Garden, having just finished his second marrowbone and glass of white brandy, George — the only waiter in the room with a name — came smirking up with a card in his hand, saying, that the gentleman was waiting outside to speak with him. It was a printed one, but the large round hand in which the address had been filled up, encroaching upon the letters, had made the name somewhat difficult to decipher. At length he puzzled out “Mr. John Jorrocks — Coram Street”; the name of the city house or shop in the corner (No. — , St. Botolph’s Lane) being struck through with a pen. “Oh, ask him to walk in directly,” said the Yorkshireman to George, who trotted off, and presently the flapping of the doors in the passage announced his approach, and honest Jorrocks came rolling up the room — not like a fox-hunter, or any other sort of hunter, but like an honest wholesale grocer, fresh from the city.

  “My dear fellow, I’m so glad to see you, you can’t think,” said he, advancing with both hands out, and hugging the Yorkshireman after the manner of a Polar bear. “I have not time to stay one moment; I have to meet Mr. Wiggins at the corner of Bloomsbury Square at a quarter to six, and it wants now only seven minutes to,” casting his eye up at the clock over the sideboard.— “I have just called to say that as you are fond of hunting, and all that sort of thing, if you have a mind for a day with the staghounds to-morrow, I will mount you same as before, and all that sort of thing — you understand, eh?” “Thank you, my good friend,” said the Yorkshireman; “I have nothing to do to-morrow, and am your man for a stag-hunt.” “That’s right, my good fellow,” said Jorrocks, “then I’ll tell you what do — come and breakfast with me in Great Coram Street, at half-past seven to a minute. I’ve got one of the first ‘ams (hams) you ever clapt eyes on in the whole course of your memorable existence. — Saw the hog alive myself — sixteen score within a pound; must come — know you like a fork breakfast — dejeune à la fauchette, as we say in France, eh? Like my Lord Mayor’s fool I guess, love what’s good; well, all right too — so come without any ceremony — us fox-hunters hates ceremony — where there’s ceremony there’s no friendship. — Stay — I had almost forgotten,” added he, checking himself as he was on the point of departure. “When you come, ring the area bell, and then Mrs. J —— won’t hear; know you don’t like Mrs. J —— no more than myself.”

  At the appointed hour the Yorkshireman reached Great Coram Street, just as Old Jorrocks had opened the door to look down the street for him. He was dressed in a fine flowing, olive-green frock (made like a dressing-gown), with a black velvet collar, having a gold embroidered stag on each side, gilt stag-buttons, with rich embossed edges; an acre of buff waistcoat, and a most antediluvian pair of bright yellow-ochre buckskins, made by White, of Tarporley, in the twenty-first year of the reign of George the Third; they were double-lashed, back-stiched, front-stiched, middle-stiched, and patched at both knees, with a slit up behind. The coat he had won in a bet, and the breeches in a raffle, the latter being then second or third hand. His boots were airing before the fire, consequently he displayed an amplitude of calf in grey worsted stockings, while his feet were thrust into green slippers. “So glad to see you”! said he; “here’s a charming morning, indeed — regular southerly wind and a cloudy sky — rare scenting it will be — think I could almost run a stag myself. Come in — never mind your hat, hang it anywhere, but don’t make a noise. I stole away and left Mrs. J —— snoring, so won’t do to wake her, you know. By the way, you should see my hat; — Batsey, fatch my hat out of the back parlour. I’ve set up a new green silk cord, with a gold frog to fasten it to my button-hole — werry illigant, I th
ink, and werry suitable to the dress — quite my own idea — have a notion all the Surrey chaps will get them; for, between you and me, I set the fashions, and what is more, I sometimes set them at a leap too. But now tell me, have you any objection to breakfasting in the kitchen? — more retired, you know, besides which you get everything hot and hot, which is what I call doing a bit of plisure.” “Not at all,” said the Yorkshireman, “so lead the way”; and down they walked to the lower regions.

  It was a nice comfortable-looking place, with a blazing fire, half the floor covered with an old oil-cloth, and the rest exhibiting the cheerless aspect of the naked flags. About a yard and a half from the fire was placed the breakfast table; in the centre stood a magnificent uncut ham, with a great quartern loaf on one side and a huge Bologna sausage on the other; besides these there were nine eggs, two pyramids of muffins, a great deal of toast, a dozen ship-biscuits, and half a pork-pie, while a dozen kidneys were spluttering on a spit before the fire, and Betsy held a gridiron covered with mutton-chops on the top; altogether there was as much as would have served ten people. “Now, sit down,” said Jorrocks, “and let us be doing, for I am as hungry as a hunter. Hope you are peckish too; what shall I give you? tea or coffee? — but take both — coffee first and tea after a bit. If I can’t give you them good, don’t know who can. You must pay your devours, as we say in France, to the ‘am, for it is an especial fine one, and do take a few eggs with it; there, I’ve not given you above a pound of ‘am, but you can come again, you know — waste not want not. Now take some muffins, do, pray. Batsey, bring some more cream, and set the kidneys on the table, the Yorkshireman is getting nothing to eat. Have a chop with your kidney, werry luxterous — I could eat an elephant stuffed with grenadiers, and wash them down with a ocean of tea; but pray lay in to the breakfast, or I shall think you don’t like it. There, now take some tea and toast or one of those biscuits, or whatever you like; would a little more ‘am be agreeable? Batsey, run into the larder and see if your Missis left any of that cold chine of pork last night — and hear, bring the cold goose, and any cold flesh you can lay hands on, there are really no wittles on the table. I am quite ashamed to set you down to such a scanty fork breakfast; but this is what comes of not being master of your own house. Hope your hat may long cover your family: rely upon it, it is cheaper to buy your bacon than to keep a pig”. Just as Jorrocks uttered these last words the side door opened, and without either “with your leave or by your leave”, in bounced Mrs. Jorrocks in an elegant dishabille (or “dish-of-veal”, as Jorrocks pronounced it), with her hair tucked up in papers, and a pair of worsted slippers on her feet, worked with roses and blue lilies.

  “Pray, Mister J —— ,” said she, taking no more notice of the Yorkshireman than if he had been enveloped in Jack the Giant-killer’s coat of darkness, “what is the meaning of this card? I found it in your best coat pocket, which you had on last night, and I do desire, sir, that you will tell me how it came there. Good morning, sir (spying the Yorkshireman at last), perhaps you know where Mr. Jorrocks was last night, and perhaps you can tell me who this person is whose card I have found in the corner of Mr. Jorrocks’s best coat pocket?” “Indeed, madam”, replied the Yorkshireman, “Mr. Jorrocks’s movements of yesterday evening are quite a secret to me. It is the night that he usually spends at the Magpie and Stump, but whether he was there or not I cannot pretend to say, not being a member of the free and easy club. As for the card, madam...” “There, then, take it and read it,” interrupted Mrs. J —— ; and he took the card accordingly — a delicate pale pink, with blue borders and gilt edge — and read — we would fain put it all in dashes and asterisks— “Miss Juliana Granville, John Street, Waterloo Road.”

  This digression giving Mr. Jorrocks a moment or two to recollect himself, he pretended to get into a thundering passion, and seizing the card out of the Yorkshireman’s hand, he thrust it into the fire, swearing it was an application for admission into the Deaf and Dumb Institution, where he wished he had Mrs. J —— . The Yorkshireman, seeing the probability of a breeze, pretended to have forgotten something at the Piazza, and stole away, begging Jorrocks to pick him up as he passed. Peace had soon been restored; for the Yorkshireman had not taken above three or four turns up and down the coffee-room, ere George the waiter came to say that a gentleman waited outside. Putting on his hat and taking a coat over his arm, he turned out; when just before the door he saw a man muffled up in a great military cloak, and a glazed hat, endeavouring to back a nondescript double-bodied carriage (with lofty mail box-seats and red wheels), close to the pavement. “Who-ay, who-ay,” said he, “who-ay, who-ay, horse!” at the same time jerking at his mouth. As the Yorkshireman made his exit, a pair eyes of gleamed through the small aperture between the high cloak collar and the flipe of the glazed hat, which he instantly recognised to belong to Jorrocks. “Why, what the deuce is this you are in?” said he, looking at the vehicle. “Jump up,” said Jorrocks, “and I’ll tell you all about it,” which having done, and the machine being set in motion he proceeded to relate the manner in which he had exchanged his cruelty-van for it — by the way, as arrant a bone-setter as ever unfortunate got into, but which he, with the predilection all men have for their own, pronounced to be a “monstrous nice carriage.” On their turning off the rough pavement on to the quiet smooth Macadamised road leading to Waterloo Bridge, his dissertation was interrupted by a loud horse-laugh raised by two or three toll-takers and boys lounging about the gate.

  “I say, Tom, twig this ’ere machine,” said one. “Dash my buttons, I never seed such a thing in all my life.” “What’s to pay?” inquired Jorrocks, pulling up with great dignity, their observations not having penetrated the cloak collar which encircled his ears. “To pay!” said the toll-taker— “vy, vot do ye call your consarn?” “Why, a phaeton,” said Jorrocks. “My eyes! that’s a good ‘un,” said another. “I say, Jim — he calls this ’ere thing a phe-a-ton!” “A phe-a-ton! — vy, it’s more like a fire-engine,” said Jim. “Don’t be impertinent,” said Jorrocks, who had pulled down his collar to hear what he had to pay— “but tell me what’s to pay?” “Vy, it’s a phe-a-ton drawn by von or more ‘orses,” said the toll-taker; “and containing von or more asses,” said Tom. “Sixpence-halfpenny, sir,” “You are a saucy fellow,” said Jorrocks. “Thank ye, master, you’re another,” said the toll-taker; “and now that you have had your say, vot do ye ax for your mouth?” “I say, sir, do you belong to the Phenix? Vy don’t you show your badge?” “I say, Tom, that ’ere fire-engine has been painted by some house-painter, it’s never been in the hands of no coach-maker. Do you shave by that ’ere glazed castor of yours?” “I’m blowed it I wouldn’t get you a shilling a week to shove your face in sand, to make moulds for brass knockers.” “Ay, get away! — make haste, or the fire will be out,” bawled out another, as Jorrocks whipped on, and rattled out of hearing.

  “Now, you see,” said he, resuming the thread of his discourse, as if nothing had happened, “this back seat turns down and makes a box, so that when Mrs. J —— goes to her mother’s at Tooting, she can take all her things with her, instead of sending half of them by the coach as she used to do; and if we are heavy, there is a pole belonging to it, so that we can have two horses; and then there is a seat draws out here (pulling a stool from between his legs) which anybody can sit on.” “Yes, anybody that is small enough,” said the Yorkshireman, “but you would cut a queer figure on it, I reckon.” The truth was, that the “fire-engine” was one of those useless affairs built by some fool upon a plan of his own, with the idea of combining every possible comfort and advantage, and in reality not possessing one. Friend Jorrocks had seen it at a second-hand shop in Fore Street, and became the happy owner of it, in exchange for the cruelty-van and seventeen pounds. — Their appearance on the road created no small sensation, and many were the jokes passed upon the “fire-engine.” One said they were mountebanks; another that it was a horse-break; a third asked if it was one of Gurney’s stea
m-carriages, while a fourth swore it was a new convict-cart going to Brixton. Jorrocks either did not or would not hear their remarks, and kept expatiating upon the different purposes to which the machine might be converted, and the stoutness of the horse that was drawing it.

  As they approached the town of Croydon, he turned his cloak over his legs in a very workman-like manner, and was instantly hailed by some brother sportsmen; — one complimented him on his looks, another on his breeches, a third praised his horse, a fourth abused the fire-engine, and a fifth inquired where he got his glazed hat. He had an answer for them all, and a nod or a wink for every pretty maid that showed at the windows; for though past the grand climacteric, he still has a spice of the devil in him — and, as he says, “there is no harm in looking.” The “Red Lion” at Smitham Bottom was the rendezvous of the day. It is a small inn on the Brighton road, some three or four miles below Croydon. On the left of the road stands the inn, on the right is a small training-ground, and the country about is open common and down. There was an immense muster about the inn, and also on the training-ground, consisting of horsemen, gig-men, post-chaise-men, footmen, — Jorrocks and the Yorkshireman made the firemen.