by R S Surtees
Stranger. Oh! I don’t doubt but you have some good men among you; I’m sure I didn’t mean anything offensive, by asking if it was a cocktail affair, but we Meltonians certainly have a trick, I must confess, of running every other country down; come, sir, I’ll drink the Surrey hunt with all my heart, said he, swigging off the remains of a glass of brandy-and-water which the waiter had brought him shortly after entering.
Jorrocks. Thank you, sir, kindly. Waiter, bring me a bottom o’ brandy, cold, without — and don’t stint for quantity, if you please. Doesn’t you think these inns werry expensive places, sir? I doesn’t mean this in particular, but inns in general.
Stranger. Oh! I don’t know, sir. We must expect to pay. “Live and let live,” is my motto. I always pay my inn bills without looking them over. Just cast my eyes at the bottom to see the amount, then call for pen and ink, add so much for waiter, so much for chambermaid, so much for boots, and if I’m travelling in my own carriage so much for the ostler for greasing. That’s the way I do business, sir.
Jorrocks. Well, sir, a werry pleasant plan too, especially for the innkeeper — and all werry right for a gentleman of fortune like you. My motto, however, is “Waste not, want not,” and my wife’s father’s motto was “Wilful waste brings woeful want,” and I likes to have my money’s worth. — Now, said he, pulling out a handful of bills, at some places that I go to they charges me six shillings a day for my dinner, and when I was ill and couldn’t digest nothing but the lightest and plainest of breakfasts, when a fork breakfast in fact would have made a stiff ‘un of me, and my muffin mill was almost stopped, they charged me two shillings for one cake, and sixpence for two eggs. — Now I’m in the tea trade myself, you must know, and I contend that as things go, or at least as things went before the Barbarian eye, as they call Napier, kicked up a row with the Hong merchants, it’s altogether a shameful imposition, and I wonder people put up with it.
Stranger. Oh, sir, I don’t know. I think that it is the charge all over the country. Besides, it doesn’t do to look too closely at these things, and you must allow something for keeping up the coffee-room, you know — fire, candles, and so on.
Jorrocks. But blow me tight, you surely don’t want a candle to breakfast by? However, I contends that innkeepers are great fools for making these sort of charges, for it makes people get out of their houses as quick as ever they can, whereas they might be inclined to stay if they could get things moderate. — For my part I likes a coffee-room, but having been used to commercial houses when I travelled, I knows what the charges ought to be. Now, this room is snug enough though small, and won’t require no great keeping up.
Stranger. No — but this room is smaller than the generality of them, you know. They frequently have two fires in them, besides no end of oil burning. — I know the expense of these things, for I have a very large house in the country, and rely upon it, innkeepers have not such immense profits as many people imagines — but, as I said before, “live and let live.”
Jorrocks. So says I, “live and let live” — but wot I complains of is, that some innkeepers charge so much that they won’t let people live. No man is fonder of eating than myself, but I don’t like to pay by the mouthful, or yet to drink tea at so much a thimbleful. By the way, Sar, if you are not previously engaged, I should be werry happy to supply you with red Mocho or best Twankay at a very reasonable figure indeed for cash?
Stranger. Thank you, sir, thank you. Those are things I never interfere with — leave all these things to my people. My housekeeper sends me in her book every quarter day, with an account of what she pays. I just look at the amount — add so much for wages, and write a cheque— “live and let live!” say I. However, added he, pulling out his watch, and ringing the bell for the chambermaid, “I hate to get up very early, so I think it is time to go to bed, and I wish you a very good night, gentlemen all.”
Jorrocks gets up, advances half-way to the door, makes him one of his most obsequious bows, and wishes him a werry good night. Having heard him tramp upstairs and safely deposited in his bedroom, they pulled their chairs together again, and making a smaller circle round the fire, proceeded to canvass their departed friend. Jorrocks began— “I say, wot a regular swell the chap is — a Meltonian, too. — I wonders who the deuce he is. Wish Mr. Nimrod was among us, he could tell us all about him, I dare say. I’m blowed if I didn’t take him for a commercial gentleman at first, until he spoke about his carriages. I likes to see gentlemen of fortune making themselves sociable by coming into the coffee-room, instead of sticking themselves up in private sitting-rooms, as if nobody was good enough for them. You know Melton, Mr. York; did you ever see the gentleman out?”
“I can’t say that I ever did,” said his friend, “but people look so different in their red coats to what they do in mufti, that there’s no such thing as recognising them unless you had a previous acquaintance with them. The fields in Leicestershire are sometimes so large that it requires a residence to get anything like a general knowledge of the hunt, and, you know, Northamptonshire’s the country for my money, after Surrey, of course.”
“I don’t think he is a gentleman,” observed a thin sallow-complexioned young man, who, sitting on one side of the fire, had watched the stranger very narrowly without joining in the conversation. “He gives me more the idea of a gentleman’s servant, acting the part of master, than anything else.”
Jorrocks. Oh! he is a gentleman, I’m sure — besides, a servant wouldn’t travel in a carriage you know, and he talked about greasing the wheels and all that sort of thing, which showed he was familiar with the thing.
“That’s very true,” replied the youth— “but a servant may travel in the rumble and pay for greasing the wheels all the same, or perhaps have to grease them himself.”
“Well, I should say he’s a foolish purse-proud sort of fellow,” observed another, “who has come into money unexpectedly, and who likes to be the cock of his party, and show off a little.”
Jorrocks. I’ll be bound to say you’re all wrong — you are not fox-hunters, you see, or you would know that that is a way the sportsmen have — we always make ourselves at home and agreeable — have a word for everybody in fact, and no reserve; besides, you see, there was nothing gammonacious, as I calls it, about his toggery, no round-cut coats with sporting buttons, or coaches and four, or foxes for pins in his shirt.
“I don’t care for that,” replied the sallow youth, “dress him as you will, court suit, bag wig, and sword, you’ll make nothing better of him — he’s a SNOB.”
Jorrocks, getting up, runs to the table on which the hats were standing, saying, “I wonder if he’s left his castor behind him? I’ve always found a man’s hat will tell a good deal. This is yours, Mr. York, with the loop to it, and here’s mine — I always writes Golgotha in mine, which being interpreted, you know, means the place of a skull. These are yours, I presume, gentlemen?” said he, taking up two others. “Confound him, he’s taken his tile with him — however, I’m quite positive he’s a gentleman — lay you a hat apiece all round he is, if you like!”
“But how are we to prove it?” inquired the youth.
Jorrocks. Call in the waiter.
Youth. He may know nothing about him, and a waiter’s gentleman is always the man who pays him most.
Jorrocks. Trust the waiter for knowing something about him, and if he doesn’t, why, it’s only to send a purlite message upstairs, saying that two gentlemen in the coffee-room have bet a trifle that he is some nobleman — Lord Maryborough, for instance, — he’s a little chap — but we must make haste, or the gentleman will be asleep.
“Well, then, I’ll take your bet of a hat,” replied the youth, “that he is not what I call a gentleman.”
Jorrocks. I don’t know what you calls a gentleman. I’ll lay you a hat, a guinea one, either white or black, whichever you like, but none o’ your dog hairs or gossamers, mind — that he’s a man of dibs, and doesn’t follow no trade or calling, and if that isn�
�t a gentleman, I don’t know wot is. What say you, Mr. York?
“Suppose we put it thus — You bet this gentleman a hat that he’s a Meltonian, which will comprise all the rest.”
Jorrocks. Werry well put. Do you take me, sir? A guinea hat against a guinea hat.
“I do,” said the youth.
Jorrocks. Then DONE — now ring the bell for the waiter — I’ll pump him.
Enter waiter.
Jorrocks. Snuff them candles, if you please, and bring me another bottom o’ brandy-cold, without — and, waiter! here, pray who is that gentleman that came in by the Liverpool coach to-night? The little gentleman in long black gaiters who sat in this chair, you know, and had some brandy-and-water.
Waiter. I know who you mean, sir, quite well, the gentleman who’s gone to bed. Let me see, what’s his name? He keeps that large Hotel in —— Street, Liverpool — what’s the — Here an immense burst of laughter drowned the remainder of the sentence.
Jorrocks rose in a rage. “No! you double-distilled blockhead,” said he, “no such thing — you’re thinking of someone else. The gentleman hunts at Melton Mowbray, and travels in his own carriage.”
Waiter. I don’t know nothing about Melton Mowbray, sir, but the last time he came through here on his road to Bristol, he was in one of his own rattle-trap yellows, and had such a load — his wife, a nurse, and eight children inside; himself, his son, and an apple-tree on the dickey — that the horses knocked up half-way and...
Jorrocks. Say no more — say no more — d —— n his teeth and toe-nails — and that’s swearing — a thing I never do but on the most outrageous occasions. Confounded humbug, I’ll be upsides with him, however. Waiter, bring the bill and no more brandy. Never was so done in all my life — a gammonacious fellow! “There, sir, there’s your one pound one,” said he, handing a sovereign and a shilling to the winner of the hat. “Give me my tile, and let’s mizzle. — Waiter, I can’t wait; must bring the bill up to my lodgings in the morning if it isn’t ready. — Come away, come away — I shall never get over this as long as ever I live. ‘Live and let live,’ indeed! no wonder he stuck up for the innkeepers — a publican and a sinner as he is. Good night, gentlemen, good night.”
Exit Jorrocks.
VII. AQUATICS: MR. JORROCKS AT MARGATE
THE SHADY SIDE of Cheapside had become a luxury, and footmen in red plush breeches objects of real commiseration, when Mr. Jorrocks, tired of the heat and “ungrateful hurry of the town,” resolved upon undertaking an aquatic excursion. He was sitting, as is “his custom always in the afternoon,” in the arbour at the farther end of his gravel walk, which he dignifies by the name of “garden,” and had just finished a rough mental calculation, as to whether he could eat more bread spread with jam or honey, when the idea of the jaunt entered his imagination. Being a man of great decision, he speedily winnowed the project over in his mind, and producing a five-pound note from the fob of his small clothes, passed it in review between his fingers, rubbed out the creases, held it up to the light, refolded and restored it to his fob. “Batsay,” cried he, “bring my castor — the white one as hangs next the blue cloak;” and forthwith a rough-napped, unshorn-looking, white hat was transferred from the peg to Mr. Jorrocks’s head. This done, he proceeded to the “Piazza,” where he found the Yorkshireman exercising himself up and down the spacious coffee-room, and, grasping his hand with the firmness of a vice, he forthwith began unburthening himself of the object of his mission. “‘Ow are you?” said he, shaking his arm like the handle of a pump. “‘Ow are you, I say? — I’m so delighted to see you, ye carn’t think — isn’t this charming weather! It makes me feel like a butterfly — really think the ‘air is sprouting under my vig.” Here he took off his wig and rubbed his hand over his bald head, as though he were feeling for the shoots.
“Now to business — Mrs. J —— is away at Tooting, as you perhaps knows, and I’m all alone in Great Coram Street, with the key of the cellar, larder, and all that sort of thing, and I’ve a werry great mind to be off on a jaunt — what say you?” “Not the slightest objection,” replied the Yorkshireman, “on the old principle of you finding cash, and me finding company.” “Why, now I’ll tell you, werry honestly, that I should greatly prefer your paying your own shot; but, however, if you’ve a mind to do as I do, I’ll let you stand in the half of a five-pound note and whatever silver I have in my pocket,” pulling out a great handful as he spoke, and counting up thirty-two and sixpence. “Very good,” replied the Yorkshireman when he had finished, “I’m your man; — and not to be behindhand in point of liberality, I’ve got threepence that I received in change at the cigar divan just now, which I will add to the common stock, so that we shall have six pounds twelve and ninepence between us.” “Between us!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, “now that’s so like a Yorkshireman. I declare you Northerns seem to think all the world are asleep except yourselves; — howsomever, I von’t quarrel with you — you’re a goodish sort of chap in your way, and so long as I keep the swag, we carn’t get far wrong. Well, then, to-morrow at two we’ll start for Margate — the most delightful place in all the world, where we will have a rare jollification, and can stay just as long as the money holds out. So now good-bye — I’m off home again to see about wittles for the woyage.”
It were almost superfluous to mention that the following day was a Saturday — for no discreet citizen would think of leaving town on any other. It dawned with uncommon splendour, and the cocks of Coram Street and adjacent parts seemed to hail the morn with more than their wonted energy. Never, save on a hunting morning, did Mr. Jorrocks tumble about in bed with such restless anxiety as cock after cock took up the crow in every gradation of noise from the shrill note of the free street-scouring chanticleer before the door, to the faint response of the cooped and prisoned victims of the neighbouring poulterer’s, their efforts being aided by the flutterings and impertinent chirruping of swarms of town-bred sparrows.
At length the boy, Binjimin, tapped at his master’s door, and, depositing his can of shaving-water on his dressing-table, took away his coat and waistcoat, under pretence of brushing them, but in reality to feel if he had left any pence in the pockets. With pleasure Mr. Jorrocks threw aside the bed-clothes, and bounded upon the floor with a bump that shook his own and adjoining houses. On this day a few extra minutes were devoted to his toilet, one or two of which were expended in adjusting a gold foxhead pin in a conspicuous part of his white tie, and in drawing on a pair of new dark blue stocking-net pantaloons, made so excessively tight, that at starting, any of his Newmarket friends would have laid three to two against his ever getting into them at all. When on, however, they fully developed the substantial proportions of his well-rounded limbs, while his large tasselled Hessians showed that the bootmaker had been instructed to make a pair for a “great calf.” A blue coat, with metal buttons, ample laps, and pockets outside, with a handsome buff kerseymere waistcoat, formed his costume on this occasion. Breakfast being over, he repaired to St. Botolph Lane, there to see his letters and look after his commercial affairs; in which the reader not being interested, we will allow the Yorkshireman to figure a little.
About half-past one this enterprising young man placed himself in Tommy Sly’s wherry at the foot of the Savoy stairs, and not agreeing in opinion with Mr. Jorrocks that it is of “no use keeping a dog and barking oneself,” he took an oar and helped to row himself down to London Bridge. At the wharf below the bridge there lay a magnificent steamer, painted pea-green and white, with flags flying from her masts, and the deck swarming with smart bonnets and bodices. Her name was the Royal Adelaide, from which the sagacious reader will infer that this excursion was made during the late reign. The Yorkshireman and Tommy Sly having wormed their way among the boats, were at length brought up within one of the vessels, and after lying on their oars a few seconds, they were attracted by, “Now, sir, are you going to sleep there?” addressed to a rival nautical whose boat obstructed the way, and on looking up on deck w
hat a sight burst upon the Yorkshireman’s astonished vision! — Mr. Jorrocks, with his coat off, and a fine green velvet cap or turban, with a broad gold band and tassel, on his head, hoisting a great hamper out of the wherry, rejecting all offers of assistance, and treating the laughter and jeers of the porters and bystanders with ineffable contempt. At length he placed the load to his liking, and putting on his coat, adjusted his hunting telescope, and advanced to the side, as the Yorkshireman mounted the step-ladder and came upon deck. “Werry near being over late,” said he, pulling out his watch, just at which moment the last bell rang, and a few strokes of the paddles sent the vessel away from the quay. “A miss is as good as a mile,” replied the Yorkshireman; “but pray what have you got in the hamper?”
“In the ‘amper! Why, wittles to be sure. You seem to forget we are going a woyage, and ’ow keen the sea hair is. I’ve brought a knuckle of weal, half a ham, beef, sarsingers, chickens, sherry white, and all that sort of thing, and werry acceptable they’ll be by the time we get to the Nore, or may be before.”
“Ease her! Stop her!” cried the captain through his trumpet, just as the vessel was getting into her stride in mid-stream, and, with true curiosity, the passengers flocked to the side, to see who was coming, though they could not possibly have examined half they had on board. Mr. Jorrocks, of course, was not behindhand in inquisitiveness, and proceeded to adjust his telescope. A wherry was seen rowing among the craft, containing the boatman, and a gentleman in a woolly white hat, with a bright pea-green coat, and a basket on his knee. “By jingo, here’s Jemmy Green!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, taking his telescope from his eye, and giving his thigh a hearty slap. “How unkimmon lucky! The werry man of all others I should most like to see. You know James Green, don’t you?” addressing the Yorkshireman— “young James Green, junior, of Tooley Street — everybody knows him — most agreeable young man in Christendom — fine warbler — beautiful dancer — everything that a young man should be.”
