by R S Surtees
Crane was shy — unused to sing in company — nevertheless, if it was the wish of the party, and if it would oblige his good customer, Mr. Jorrocks, he would try his hand at a stave or two made in honour of the immortal Surrey. Having emptied his glass and cleared his windpipe, Crane commenced:
“Here’s a health to them that can ride!
Here’s a health to them that can ride!
And those that don’t wish good luck to the cause.
May they roast by their own fireside!
It’s good to drown care in the chase,
It’s good to drown care in the bowl.
It’s good to support Daniel Haigh and his hounds,
Here’s his health from the depth of my soul.”
CHORUS
“Hurrah for the loud tally-ho!
Hurrah for the loud tally-ho!
It’s good to support Daniel Haigh and his hounds.
And echo the shrill tally-ho!”
“Here’s a health to them that can ride!
Here’s a health to them that ride bold!
May the leaps and the dangers that each has defied,
In columns of sporting be told!
Here’s freedom to him that would walk!
Here’s freedom to him that would ride!
There’s none ever feared that the horn should be heard
Who the joys of the chase ever tried.”
“Hurrah for the loud tally-ho!
Hurrah for the loud tally-ho!
It’s good to support Daniel Haigh and his hounds,
And halloo the loud tally-ho!”
“Beautiful! beautiful!” exclaimed Jorrocks, clapping his hands and stamping as Crane had ceased.
“A werry good song, and it’s werry well sung.
Jolly companions every one!”
“Gentlemen, pray charge your glasses — there’s one toast we must drink in a bumper if we ne’er take a bumper again. Mr. Spiers, pray charge your glass — Mr. Stubbs, vy don’t you fill up? — Mr. Nimrod, off with your ‘eel taps, pray — I’ll give ye the ‘Surrey ‘Unt,’ with all my ‘art and soul. Crane, my boy, here’s your werry good health, and thanks for your song!” (All drink the Surrey Hunt and Crane’s good health, with applause, which brings him on his legs with the following speech):
“Gentlemen, unaccustomed as I am to public speaking (laughter), I beg leave on behalf of myself and the absent members of the Surrey ‘Unt, to return you our own most ‘artfelt thanks for the flattering compliment you have just paid us, and to assure you that the esteem and approbation of our fellow-sportsmen is to us the magnum bonum of all earthly ‘appiness (cheers and laughter). Gentlemen, I will not trespass longer upon your valuable time, but as you seem to enjoy this wine of my friend Mr. Jorrocks’s, I may just say that I have got some more of the same quality left, at from forty-two to forty-eight shillings a dozen, also some good stout draught port, at ten and sixpence a gallon — some ditto werry superior at fifteen; also foreign and British spirits, and Dutch liqueurs, rich and rare.” The conclusion of the vintner’s address was drowned in shouts of laughter. Mr. Jorrocks then called upon the company in succession for a toast, a song, or a sentiment. Nimrod gave, “The Royal Staghounds”; Crane gave, “Champagne to our real friends, and real pain to our sham friends”; Green sung, “I’d be a butterfly”; Mr. Stubbs gave, “Honest men and bonnie lasses”; and Mr. Spiers, like a patriotic printer, gave, “The liberty of the Press,” which he said was like fox-hunting— “if we have it not we die” — all of which Mr. Jorrocks applauded as if he had never heard them before, and drank in bumpers. It was evident that unless tea was speedily announced he would soon become;
O’er the ills of life victorious,
for he had pocketed his wig, and had been clipping the Queen’s English for some time. After a pause, during which his cheeks twice changed colour, from red to green and back to red, he again called for a bumper toast, which he prefaced with the following speech, or parts of a speech:
“Gentlemen — in rising — propose toast about to give — feel werry — feel werry — (Yorkshireman, ‘werry muzzy?’) J —— feel werry — (Mr. Spiers, ‘werry sick?’) J —— werry — (Crane, ‘werry thirsty?’) J —— feel werry — (Nimrod, ‘werry wise?’) J —— no; but werry sensible — great compliment — eyes of England upon us — give you the health — Mr. Happerley Nimrod — three times three!”
He then attempted to rise for the purpose of marking the time, but his legs deserted his body, and after two or three lurches down he went with a tremendous thump under the table. He called first for “Batsay,” then for “Binjimin,” and, game to the last, blurted out, “Lift me up! — tie me in my chair! — fill my glass!”
XIII. THE DAY AFTER THE FEAST: AN EPISODE BY THE YORKSHIREMAN
ON THE MORNING after Mr. Jorrocks’s “dinner party” I had occasion to go into the city, and took Great Coram Street in my way. My heart misgave me when I recollected Mrs. J —— and her horrid paws, but still I thought it my duty to see how the grocer was after his fall. Arrived at the house I rang the area bell, and Benjamin, who was cleaning knives below, popped his head up, and seeing who it was, ran upstairs and opened the door. His master was up, he said, but “werry bad,” and his misses was out. Leaving him to resume his knife-cleaning occupation, I slipped quietly upstairs, and hearing a noise in the bedroom, opened the door, and found Jorrocks sitting in his dressing-gown in an easy chair, with Betsey patting his bald head with a damp towel.
“Do that again, Batsay! Do that again!” was the first sound I heard, being an invitation to Betsey to continue her occupation. “Here’s the Yorkshireman, sir,” said Betsey, looking around.
“Ah, Mr. York, how are you this morning?” said he, turning a pair of eyes upon me that looked like boiled gooseberries — his countenance indicating severe indisposition. “Set down, sir; set down — I’m werry bad — werry bad indeed — bad go last night. Doesn’t do to go to the lush-crib this weather. How are you, eh? tell me all about it. Is Mr. Nimrod gone?”
“Don’t know,” said I; “I have just come from Lancaster Street, where I have been seeing an aunt, and thought I would take Great Coram Street in my way to the city, to ask how you do — but where’s Mrs. Jorrocks?”
Jorrocks. Oh, cuss Mrs. J —— ; I knows nothing about her — been reading the Riot Act, and giving her red rag a holiday all the morning — wish to God I’d never see’d her — took her for better and worser, it’s werry true; but she’s a d —— d deal worser than I took her for. Hope your hat may long cover your family. Mrs. J — — ‘s gone to the Commons to Jenner — swears she’ll have a diworce, a mensa et thorax, I think she calls it — wish she may get it — sick of hearing her talk about it — Jenner’s the only man wot puts up with her, and that’s because he gets his fees. Batsay, my dear! you may damp another towel, and then get me something to cool my coppers — all in a glow, I declare — complete fever. You whiles go to the lush-crib, Mr. Yorkshireman; what now do you reckon best after a regular drench?
Yorkshireman. Oh, nothing like a glass of soda-water with a bottom of brandy — some people prefer a sermon, but that won’t suit you or I. After your soda and brandy take a good chivy in the open air, and you’ll be all right by dinner-time.
Jorrocks. Right I Bliss ye, I shall niver be right again. I can scarce move out of my chair, I’m so bad — my head’s just fit to split in two — I’m in no state to be seen.
Yorkshireman. Oh, pooh! — get your soda-water and brandy, then have some strong coffee and a red herring, and you’ll be all right, and if you’ll find cash, I’ll find company, and we’ll go and have a lark together.
Jorrocks. Couldn’t really be seen out — besides, cash is werry scarce. By the way, now that I come to think on it, I had a five-pounder in my breeches last night. Just feel in the pocket of them ’ere nankeens, and see that Mrs. J —— has not grabbed it to pay Jenner’s fee with.
Yorkshireman (feels). No — all right — here it is
— No. 10,497 — I promise to pay Mr. Thos. Rippon, or bearer, on demand, five pounds! Let’s demand it, and go and spend the cash.
Jorrocks. No, no — put it back — or into the table-drawer, see — fives are werry scarce with me — can’t afford it — must be just before I’m generous.
Yorkshireman. Well, then, J —— , you must just stay at home and get bullied by Mrs. J —— , who will be back just now, I dare say, perhaps followed by Jenner and half Doctors’ Commons.
Jorrocks. The deuce! I forgot all that — curse Mrs. J —— and the Commons too. Well, Mr. Yorkshireman, I don’t care if I do go with you — but where shall it be to? Some place where we can be quiet, for I really am werry bad, and not up to nothing like a lark.
Yorkshireman. Suppose we take a sniff of the briny — Margate — Ramsgate — Broadstairs?
Jorrocks. No, none of them places — over-well-known at ’em all — can’t be quiet — get to the lush-crib again, perhaps catch the cholera and go to Gravesend by mistake. Let’s go to the Eel Pye at Twickenham and live upon fish.
Yorkshireman. Fish! you old flat. Why, you know, you’d be the first to cry out if you had to do so. No, no — let’s have no humbug — here, drink your coffee like a man, and then hustle your purse and see what it will produce. Why, even Betsey’s laughing at the idea of your living upon fish.
Jorrocks. Don’t shout so, pray — your woice shoots through every nerve of my head and distracts me (drinks). This is grand Mocho — quite the cordial balm of Gilead — werry fine indeed. Now I feel rewived and can listen to you.
Yorkshireman. Well, then, pull on your boots — gird up your loins, and let’s go and spend this five pounds — stay away as long as it lasts, in fact.
Jorrocks. Well, but give me the coin — it’s mine you know — and let me be paymaster, or I know you’ll soon be into dock again. That’s right; and now I have got three half-crowns besides, which I will add.
Yorkshireman. And I’ve got three pence, which, not to be behind-hand in point of liberality, I’ll do the same with, so that we have got five pounds seven shillings and ninepence between us, according to Cocker.
Jorrocks. Between us, indeed! I likes that. You’re a generous churchwarden.
Yorkshireman. Well — we won’t stand upon trifles the principle is the thing I look to — and not the amount. So now where to, your honour?
After a long parley, we fixed upon Herne Bay. Our reasons for doing so were numerous, though it would be superfluous to mention them, save that the circumstance of neither of us ever having been there, and the prospect of finding a quiet retreat for Jorrocks to recover in, were the principal ones. Our arrangements were soon made. “Batsay,” said J —— to his principessa of a cook, slut, and butler, “the Yorkshireman and I are going out of town to stay five pounds seven and ninepence, so put up my traps.” Two shirts (one to wash the other as he said), three pairs of stockings, with other etceteras, were stamped into a carpet-bag, and taking a cab, we called at the “Piazza,” where I took a few things, and away we drove to Temple Bar. “Stop here with the bags,” said Jorrocks, “while I go to the Temple Stairs and make a bargain with a Jacob Faithful to put us on board, for if they see the bags they’ll think it’s a case of necessity, and ask double; whereas I’ll pretend I’m just going a-pleasuring, and when I’ve made a bargain, I’ll whistle, and you can come.” Away he rolled, and after the lapse of a few minutes I heard a sort of shilling-gallery cat-call, and obeying the summons, found he had concluded a bargain for one and sixpence. We reached St. Catherine’s Docks just as the Herne Bay boat — the Hero — moored alongside, consequently were nearly the first on board.
Herne Bay being then quite in its infancy, and this being what the cits call a “weekday,” they had rather a shy cargo, nor had they any of that cockney tomfoolery that generally characterises a Ramsgate or Margate crew, more particularly a Margate one. Indeed, it was a very slow cargo, Jorrocks being the only character on board, and he was as sulky as a bear with a sore head when anyone approached. The day was beautifully fine, and a thin grey mist gradually disappeared from the Kentish hills as we passed down the Thames. The river was gay enough. Adelaide, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, was expected on her return from Germany, and all the vessels hung out their best and gayest flags and colours to do her honour. The towns of Greenwich and Woolwich were in commotion. Charity schools were marching, and soldiers were doing the like, while steamboats went puffing down the river with cargoes to meet and escort Her Majesty. When we got near Tilbury Fort, a man at the head of the steamer announced that we should meet the Queen in ten minutes, and all the passengers crowded on to the paddle-box of the side on which she was to pass, to view and greet her. Jorrocks even roused himself up and joined the throng. Presently a crowd of steamers were seen in the distance, proceeding up the river at a rapid pace, with a couple of lofty-masted vessels in tow, the first of which contained the royal cargo. The leading steamboat was the celebrated Magnet — considered the fastest boat on the river, and the one in which Jorrocks and myself steamed from Margate, racing against and beating the Royal William. This had the Lord Mayor and Aldermen on board, who had gone down to the extent of the city jurisdiction to meet the Queen, and have an excuse for a good dinner. The deck presented a gay scene, being covered with a military band, and the gaudy-liveried lackeys belonging to the Mansion House, and sheriffs whose clothes were one continuous mass of gold lace and frippery, shining beautifully brilliant in the midday sun. The royal yacht, with its crimson and gold pennant floating on the breeze, came towering up at a rapid pace, with the Queen sitting under a canopy on deck. As we neared, all hats were off, and three cheers — or at least as many as we could wedge in during the time the cortège took to sweep past us — were given, our band consisting of three brandy-faced musicians, striking up God save the King — a compliment which Her Majesty acknowledged by a little mandarining; and before the majority of the passengers had recovered from the astonishment produced by meeting a live Queen on the Thames, the whole fleet had shot out of sight. By the time the ripple on the water, raised by their progress, had subsided, we had all relapsed into our former state of apathy and sullenness. A duller or staider set I never saw outside a Quakers’ meeting. Still the beggars eat, as when does a cockney not in the open air? The stewards of these steamboats must make a rare thing of their places, for they have plenty of custom at their own prices. In fact, being in a steamboat is a species of personal incarceration, and you have only the option between bringing your own prog, or taking theirs at whatever they choose to charge — unless, indeed, a person prefers going without any. Jorrocks took nothing. He laid down again after the Queen had passed, and never looked up until we were a mile or two off Herne Bay.
With the reader’s permission, we will suppose that we have just landed, and, bags in hand, ascended the flight of steps that conduct passengers, as it were, from the briny ocean on to the stage of life.
“My eyes!” said Jorrocks, as he reached the top, “wot a pier, and wot a bit of a place! Why, there don’t seem to be fifty houses altogether, reckoning the windmill in the centre as one. What’s this thing?” said he to a ticket-porter, pointing to a sort of French diligence-looking concern which had just been pushed up to the landing end. “To carry the lumber, sir — live and dead — gentlemen and their bags, as don’t like to walk.” “Do you charge anything for the ride?” inquired Jorrocks, with his customary caution. “Nothing,” was the answer. “Then, let’s get on the roof,” said J —— , “and take it easy, and survey the place as we go along.” So, accordingly, we clambered on to the top of the diligence, “summâ diligentiâ,” and seated ourselves on a pile of luggage; being all stowed away, and as many passengers as it would hold put inside, two or three porters proceeded to propel the machine along the railroad on which it runs. “Now, Mr. Yorkshireman,” said Jorrocks, “we are in a strange land, and it behoves us to proceed with caution, or we may spend our five pounds seven and sixpence before we know wher
e we are.”
Yorkshireman. Seven and ninepence it is, sir.
Jorrocks. Well, be it so — five pounds seven and ninepence between two, is by no means an impossible sum to spend, and the trick is to make it go as far as we can. Now some men can make one guinea go as far as others can make two, and we will try what we can do. In the first place, you know I makes it a rule never to darken the door of a place wot calls itself an ‘otel, for ‘otel prices and inn prices are werry different. You young chaps don’t consider these things, and as long as you have got a rap in the world you go swaggering about, ordering claret and waxlights, and everything wot’s expensive, as though you must spend money because you are in an inn. Now, that’s all gammon. If a man haven’t got money he can’t spend it; and we all know that many poor folks are obliged at times to go to houses of public entertainment, and you don’t suppose that they pay for fire and waxlights, private sitting-rooms, and all them ’ere sort of things. Now, said he, adjusting his hunting telescope and raking the town of Herne Bay, towards which we were gently approaching on our dignified eminence, but as yet had not got near enough to descry “what was what” with the naked eye, I should say yon great staring-looking shop directly opposite us is the cock inn of the place (looks through his glass). I’m right P-i-e-r, Pier ‘Otel I reads upon the top, and that’s no shop for my money. Let’s see what else we have. There’s nothing on the right, I think, but here on the left is something like our cut — D-o-l dol, p-h-i-n phin, Dolphin Inn. It’s long since I went the circuit, as the commercial gentlemen (or what were called bagmen in my days) term it, but I haven’t forgot the experience I gained in my travels, and I whiles turn it to werry good account now.
“Coach to Canterbury, Deal, Margate, sir, going directly,” interrupted him, and reminded us that we had got to the end of the pier, and ought to be descending. Two or three coaches were drawn up, waiting to carry passengers on, but we had got to our journey’s end. “Now,” said J —— , “let’s take our bags in hand and draw up wind, trying the ‘Dolphin’ first.”
