by R S Surtees
Yorkshireman. Why, I can’t say that he’s either exactly — but he’s always been as good as a grandmother to me, I know.
Grace was right. About three o’clock in the morning a sort of revulsion of nature took place, and after having lain insensible, and to all appearance lifeless, all that time, he suddenly began to move. Casting his eye wildly around, he seemed lost in amazement. He muttered something, but what it was I could not catch.
“Lush-crib again, by Jove!” were the first words he articulated, and then, appearing to recollect himself, he added, “Oh, I forgot, I’m drowned — well drowned, too — can’t be help’d, however — wasn’t born to be hanged — and that seems clear.” Thus he kept muttering and mumbling for an hour, until old Grace thinking him so far recovered as to remove all danger from sudden surprise, allowed me to take her seat at the bedside. He looked at me long and intensely, but the light was not sufficiently strong to enable him to make out who I was.
“Jorrocks!” at length said I, taking him by the hand, “how are you, my old boy?” He started at the sound of his name. “Jorrocks,” said he, “who’s that?” “Why, the Yorkshireman; you surely have not forgotten your old friend and companion in a hundred fights!”
Jorrocks. Oh, Mr. York, it’s you, is it? Much obliged by your inquiries, but I’m drowned.
Yorkshireman. Aye, but you are coming round, you’ll be better before long.
Jorrocks. Never! Don’t try to gammon me. You know as well as I do that I’m drowned, and a drowned man never recovers. No, no, it’s all up with me, I feel. Set down, however, while I say a few words to you. You’re a good fellow, and I’ve remembered you in my will, which you’ll find in the strong port-wine-bin, along with nine pounds secret service money. I hopes you’ll think the legacy a fat one. I meant it as such. If you marry Belinda, I have left you a third of my fourth in the tea trade. Always said you were cut out for a grocer. Let Tat sell my stud. An excellent man, Tat — proudish perhaps — at least, he never inwites me to none of his dinners — but still a werry good man. Let him sell them, I say, and mind give Snapdragon a charge or two of shot before he goes to the ‘ammer, to prevent his roaring. Put up a plain monument to my memory — black or white marble, whichever’s cheapest — but mind, no Cupids or seraphums, or none of those sort of things — quite plain — with just this upon it — Hic jacet Jorrocks. And now I’ll give you a bit of news. Neptune has appointed me huntsman to his pack of haddocks. Have two dolphins for my own riding, and a young lobster to look after them. Lord Farebrother whips in to me — he rides a turtle. “And now, my good friend,” said he, grasping my hands with redoubled energy, “do you think you could accomplish me a rump-steak and oyster sauce? — also a pot of stout? — but, mind, blow the froth off the top, for it’s bad for the kidneys!”
THE END
Mr. Jorrocks
CONTENTS
I. HE MEETS CELEBRITIES AT CHELTENHAM.
II. HIS OYSTER PARTY.
III. A HUNTING BREAKFAST.
IV. THE OYSTER MATCH.
I. HE MEETS CELEBRITIES AT CHELTENHAM.
A NIGHT’S SLEEP and the prospect of a hunt when he awoke made things smooth, and the first thing I heard in the morning was Jorrocks sending to a saddler’s to borrow a hunting-whip with an iron head. At first I feared he might want it for the purpose of inflicting summary punishment on his ‘gammonacious’ friend of the previous evening, but was relieved to find that it was only his conception of the necessary equipment of a sportsman, whether his dress were in keeping or not. Indeed, his costume was anything but that of a sportsman: white hat with green rims, his coat and tight worsted net pantaloons blue, and a pair of white jean knee-caps, bought for three and sixpence, which he had buttoned round the tops of his hessian boots, leaving a pair of tassels as large as ordinary sized bell-pulls dangling in front.
At nine o’clock a couple of nags were at the door, very fairly caparisoned for hacks. Jorrocks, being of old Stephen Goodall’s opinion that it does not do to put a round of beef on a plate, chose the one with the largest saddle, whereby I got the best horse. The fixture was some eight or nine miles off on the North Leach road; and the draw the famous Hazleton Grove, a mile or so off the road, in a fine sporting country, chiefly light arable land with large enclosures and stone walls, the latter not over-high nor yet unreasonably stiff.
There was an immense muster of swells and men of all descriptions, to many of whom the extraordinary costume of Jorrocks as he kept poking in and out among them seemed to afford considerable amusement. About eleven o’clock Lord Seagrave threw his hounds into the plantation, and a fox speedily went away, the whole field getting a fair start that was almost like a race. The pack shot away at a fearful pace with a breast-high scent: — they crossed over by a cover called Star Wood, and killed their fox in splendid style after a run of about forty minutes — so I was told, for my hack had no great gift of going, and I had to be content to ride the line. What Jorrocks did I don’t know: when I last saw him he was standing on a half-broken-down stone wall, trying to lead over, tugging away at his horse’s head, exclaiming at every jerk, “Come hup, you hugly beast!” Chance threw us together again, however, at two o’clock, when, both having lost all track of the hounds, we began to inquire our way back to Cheltenham.
After riding a couple of miles or so, we perceived two horsemen in advance, also a man on foot leading a hound; and we rode on to ask where they had left the pack. The horsemen proved to be grooms, and these referred Jorrocks to the pedestrian — a little slight-made man in fustian with a fox on his button — observing that “Hastings would tell him all about it.”
“Hastings!” exclaimed Mr Jorrocks, throwing himself from his steed. “My vig! Is this, then, the most celebrated Mr Hastings, the sporting tailor of Cheltenham, of whom I’ve heard and read so much, and of whom I’ve got a pictor in my house in Great Coram Street, London! Mr Hastings!” seizing the small man by the hand, “for the love of Diana get onto my ‘orse — never shall it be said that John Jorrocks rode while the sporting tailor walked!”
Hastings. Thank ye, Mr Jorrocks — thank ye kindly, but I prefer walking. My lord would keep me a horse for that matter, but I get on better on foot.
Jorrocks. Well, but tell me all about yourself, Mr Hastings — your birth, parentage, and education — all the particulars of your life, in short.
Hastings. Bless you, sir, I’ve no particulars to tell! I just hunt with my lord’s hounds, as you see; this one that I’m now leading is a young one that’s tired. I’m taking him home. I shall be out with them again to-morrow. I question they find again to-day, so I shan’t lose much.
Jorrocks. Well, but do you never tire?
Hastings. Oh no! I can go all day — better on grass land than plough, of course, for the soil sticks to my shoes and makes them heavy, and they’re not over-light at starting. I hunt five days a week here; down at Berkeley we only hunt three, for my lord shoots there.
Jorrocks. And wot do you do all summer?
Hastings. Look after the litters of young foxes, young hounds, and so on. Foxes require a deal of protection, for keepers, confound them! will destroy them, however friendly their masters may be. You see if there’s a good litter they perhaps destroy half, and just keep two or three for appearances sake. Now I’m quite sure that it’s possible to have both foxes and game, for if you look at my lord’s covers at Berkeley you’ll see pheasants enough to darken the air; and yet the covers never draw blank.
Jorrocks. Bliss my soul, you don’t say so! How I should like to be among ’em. I’d scatter the divils right and left, just as I used to do at Bagshot. Ah! I’m afraid my shooting’s all done up there, now the Duke’s gone — he was the man for my money! I used just to write a purlite letter to him requesting a few days pheasant shooting, and then if he didn’t answer, which was generally the case, in course I used to say “Silence gives consent,” and away I went; and then if he wrote back, saying he didn’t know no such person as Mr J. Jorrocks,
I used just to take the back of the letter and show it to the watchers, and I seldom got discharged and fairly off the premises without two or three brace, which paid expenses werry fairly, for I don’t trouble with no licence, you see. But shooting, unless it’s the eating part, is not to be compared to ‘unting. Tell me, Mr Hastings, how long you’ve ‘unted.
Hastings. Why, going on for seventeen or eighteen years. At first, you see, I wasn’t known — may be for four or five years, and I used to go out with the Duke or my lord, just whichever was handiest. A fine pack, my lord’s! Mr Moreton’s are a nice pack, too. Ah, what a deal of pains he’s taken! My word, what a lot of hounds he has had through his hands since he started! We’ve had Mr Grantley down here. He’s a good judge of a hound, and gets many a fine one from my lord.
Amid this and similar conversation we beguiled the road back to Cheltenham, and on taking leave of Hastings I could not but feel that he was a man possessed with a most extraordinary passion for hunting. Jorrocks was in extasies, and, I think, would have walked to London with him for the pleasure of his company. I fully expected he would have invited him to dinner.
This day the Plough was the inn we laid under contribution for a dinner. The coffee-room, as every one who has been there knows, is a long but comfortable room on the ground floor, looking into the High Street, with the fireplace at the far end, the point of attraction, of course, in winter. Having satisfied nature, we ordered our wine up to the fireplace end, and proceeded to make ourselves comfortable. There were not many men there that night; but on the right of the hearth, with one leg resting on a chair, sat a tallish elderly man in a short green coat, drab breeches, and top - boots. There was something pleasant, intelligent, and good-natured in his countenance, with a slight tendency to redness about the nose; and, having observed him nicking and riding to hounds in the morning — extremely intent on the sport — of course we soon opened conversation. The reader acquainted with Cheltenham will perhaps recognise in my sketch the celebrated ‘Tommy’ Fretwell, though until he rose from his chair and limped across the room with the aid of a stick I was not quite certain of my man. In the early part of the season his horse slipped up with him and damaged Mr Fretwell’s knee-pan, and I believe this was the first day he had got to hounds after his accident; indeed none but a game one would have gone out so soon. It was evident from the stiffness of his leg and the difficulty with which he walked that he was only partially recovered.
“That’s Tommy Fretwell,” said I to Jorrocks; “you may get a rise out of him.”
“Tommy Fretwell!” he exclaimed. “Then for-time favours me! This werry day have I encountered two of the greatest men in the West!”
“Gently!” said I. “Don’t make a noise or you’ll alarm him, and he’ll perhaps shut up. Lead him on gently.”
“A fine day’s sport, sir!” said Jorrocks, filling up a bumper of port and eyeing it at the candle.
Tommy Fretwell. A very fine day’s sport, indeed, sir. Never saw hounds do their work better. There was a rare scent, to be sure! Did you see them dash through the belt of plantation by the side of the turnpike? And how they rose the hill! All in a cluster! Do you know, sir, I remember just such a run as this five-and-twenty years ago, when, finding at the same place, the fox took the same fine and was killed in the identical cover where we killed him to-day.
Jorrocks. My vig! Wot a memory you must have! Sure, Mr Fretwell, you are a true lover of the sport, and werry difficult it is to find any such as are so! I’ve always said, and still maintain, that most of the chaps that pretend to be sportsmen are merely so for show sake, and not from any genuine inclination that way. You knows wot ‘unting is and can appreciate a run. I’ll drink your werry good health.
Fretwell. Thank you, sir, thank you. Oh dear, there’s nothing to be compared to hunting, sir! I don’t know what I should do without it. It’s not the riding or the jumping that I care for — it’s the genuine hunting of the hounds that I look to.
Jorrocks. Oh, Mr Fretwell, you’re a man after my own heart! Pray take a bumper of port — and, waiter! — bring another bottle. Oh, how I loves a chap of your description! That’s wot I’ve always said myself. As for the galloping, I wouldn’t care to ‘unt in a balloon. It’s the dash of the ‘ound, the feathering for the scent, the picking it out, the challenge when it’s found, the rush of the pack to the cry, the werry sight of the beautous mottled intelligent h’ animals is enough to set my werry blood boiling; and you know, Mr Fretwell, that during the ‘unting season I dreams so much about it, and gets so agitated that I kicks Mrs Jorrocks out o’ bed once in three weeks on an average during the whole of it?
Fretwell (looking astonished). Indeed, sir! Pray may I inquire if you are the celebrated Mr Jorrocks of whom we have all heard so much?
Jorrocks. I AM the man! I’m a perfect martyr to the chase. Mrs Jorrocks says it’s madness, and I dare say would like to shop me if she could. Hopes the day may never come! Don’t know wot the Surrey chaps would do without me.
Fretwell. What do you think of my lord’s hounds, pray, and the turn-out?
Jorrocks. Oh, werry fine — werry fine indeed. In course you know, Mr Fretwell, that every man sticks up for his own, but still I must admit that my lord does the thing like a lord and looks like a lord himself. Four men in scarlet and caps, besides the groom in scarlet, all mounted on the same sort o’ nags and all so werry clean; and the black welwet collars with silver foxes and gold brushes look so warmint that I really doesn’t know, but I likes them almost as well as the Surrey. Wot a little bit of a chap the huntsman is!
Fretwell. What, Ayris? Ay, but he’s a clever fellow, that! A capital man for getting over stone walls. He was bred up by Mr Freeman, of whom perhaps you may have heard. He formerly had a pack of harriers in Berkshire, and now hunts the Nottingham country. He’s subject to pains in the head, and his health is not very good. But did you observe one of the whippers-in, a sallow-faced man called Foster? He’s about as good a servant as ever I saw, but he is going to leave; I think he must have got a huntsman’s place somewhere, for he has capital wages with my lord, and never touches a horse after hunting; just gets off his back and goes home, and has a fresh one brought to him in the morning. Then there’s Skinner, a stouter chap again: — nice, clean, civil fellow as ever was. Brother to Tom, who lived with Mr Grantley Berkeley — but it’s a good turn-out. They are a fine pack; my lord leaves nothing wanting. I wish I had known you were out; he would have liked to see you.
Jorrocks. Indeed! It would have been a werry distinguished honour. I can’t say as how I was ever acquainted with a lord. I once lodged with a lady in Paris — a countess, they called her Countess Benwolio — perhaps you may have heard of her; but them French lords and ladies are no great things, I think, and we didn’t part uncommon friendly. Was you ever in Paris, Mr Fretwell?
Fretwell. Can’t say that ever I was.
Jorrocks. Ah, then you’ve had a werry great loss. The man wot hasn’t seen Paris hasn’t seen nothing in my mind. The most extraordinary place that ever was seen. Houses so high that a man looks like a midge on the top of one. Half a mile high some o’ them. You drink fine wan de bones out of them long-neck’d jiggers o’ bottles, for which they would charge you ten and sixpence here, at the werry least, for summut under two shillings, and I believe then they charge about double wot they ought. The women — ferns they call ’em there — are the most beautifullest and the most wirtuousest o’ being! None but the most insinivating chaps has any chance with them; they dance and go to the play on Sunday nights, and —
Fretwell. Is there any hunting, sir?
Jorrocks. No — no ‘unting — at least not wot we calls ‘unting. Shooting if you like — werry fine shooting at the target with pea-guns; and if you hits the bull’s eye, down comes Cupid and crowns you with a wreath of roses — fine place in fine weather, Paris — such eating — oh, my eyes!
Fretwell. And how do you manage about the language?
Jorrocks. Oh, that’s
easy enough. If you do’sn’t speak French naturally, why, you must just stop a day or two in Calais or Boulogne to learn it. Help yourself and pass the bottle, for my windpipe feels full o’ dust.
Fretwell (helping himself). I think I shalln’t trouble to go. Old England’s good enough for me, Mr Jorrocks. Shouldn’t like to lose my hunting.
Jorrocks. Why, but you can’t hunt in summer, you know, Mr Fretwell; and why not see the world? It expends the mind, as they call it. I mean to go this summer and shall write my own travels.
Fretwell. If all I have heard about Paris is true, it must indeed be a queer place.
Jorrocks. Oh, werry! Few men knows it better than I do; and I’ll tell you what, Mr Fretwell, you must go with me in the summer.
Fretwell. No, Mr Jorrocks, no — I can’t manage that, anyhow. I like home in summer and being among my old friends. Come! I’ll give you the health of a good sportsman if you’ll fill up a bumper.
(Jorrocks fills to the brim.)
Fretwell. Here’s Jerry Hawkins! And better health to him. He’s very poorly, poor man. Oh! what a true lover of hunting he is, Mr Jorrocks.
Jorrocks. So I suppose. Mr Nimrod mentions him, I remember. Here’s his better health with all my ‘eart. I loves a sportsman, particular the old breed. Most o’ the young fellows nowadays are such smart steeplechase riding swells, there’s no coming near them. If you don’t chance to be out with the ‘ounds, and you meet one o’ them on the road and ask what sport they have had, it’s always the same story. “Oh, Mr Jorrocks” (and do you know some of the finest o’ the fools pretend not to know my name, and calls me Mr Horrocks)—” Oh, Mr Jorrocks,” say they, “you’ve missed such a day! The werry finest day’s sport that ever was seen.” It’s always the werry finest, you see. Just like the largest rat wot ever was seen. “Oh, sir,” says my maid Batsay to me one morning as she brought me up my shaving water, “there’s the largest rat wot iver I seed just pop’t into the bottle-stand in the yard. Do come and knock it on the head.”
