by R S Surtees
Writing 129 rejoinders to 129 answers from 129 gentlemen who did not readily come into the thing, pointing out the merits and advantages of fox-hunting in general, and of the Handley Cross fox-hunt in particular
10 0 0
Seven gentlemen refusing to subscribe on the grounds that the hounds would hunt hare, drawing long and special affidavit that they were true to fox and would not look at hare
2 2 0
Attending swearing same, and paid for oaths
0 6 8
Three gentlemen refusing to become members unless the hounds were allowed to run hare occasionally, writing to assure them their wishes would be complied with
1 1 0
Mr. Spinnage having written to say he could not subscribe unless they occasionally hunted stags, writing to assure him that they were stag-hounds quite as much as fox-hounds
0 6 8
Mrs. Margery Mumbleby having sent in a bill of 1l. 8s. 6d. for four hens, a duck, and a goose, stolen by the foxes, consulting sporting records to see whether foxes were in the habit of doing such things, engaged all day, and paid Mr. Hookem, the librarian, for searching through his Sporting Works
2 2 0
Writing Mrs. Margery Mumbleby very fully thereon, and stating my firm conviction that it was not the foxes (copy to keep)
0 13 4
Mrs. Margery Mumbleby not being satisfied with my answer, drawing case for the opinion of the Editor of the “Field; or, Country Gentleman’s Newspaper,” three brief sheets
1 11 6
Paid carriage of parcel and booking
0 3 4
Paid him and secretary
2 4 6
Carriage of parcel back, containing Editor’s answer, who said he had no doubt the foxes were “two-legged” ones
0 3 0
Fair copy of answer for Mrs. Margery Mumbleby, and writing her fully thereon (copy to keep)
0 6 8
Hearing that Dennis O’Brien, Esq., was going to visit his castle in Ireland, calling at his lodgings to receive the amount of his subscription prior to his departure, when the maid-servant said her master was not at home
Calling again, same answer
Ditto ditto
Ditto ditto
Ditto ditto
Ditto ditto, when the servant said Mr. O’Brien had left this morning
Much mental anxiety, postage, parcels, letters, &c., not before charged (what you please)
Total
£85 16 2
It is but justice to Mr. Fleeceall’s accurate method of transacting business, to state that on the creditor side was 18l. 18s. for six subscriptions received, and a very promising list of gentlemen who had not yet found it convenient to pay, amounting in the whole to some 300l.
The two bills, however, sealed the fate of the committee of management, and drove the slaughtered wether and scarlet-cloaked old woman of the morning out of their recollections.
Shocked at his situation, Stephen Dumpling took the white-legged chesnut to Duncan Nevin, but though that worthy admitted that he was varry like the field, neither his long tail, nor his flowing mane, would induce him to offer more than twenty-five pounds for him.
“I really have more horses than I can do with,” repeated Mr. Nevin; “had you come last week, or the week afore, I had three gentlemen wanting horses for the season, and I could have given you more, for I should have got him kept till April, and there may be a vast of frost or snow before then, but it would not do for me to have him standing eating his head off; you know I’ve nothing to do with the weather,” added he, “when they are once let.” Had Duncan known how things stood, he would not have offered him more than ten.
Fortunately for Stephen, Smith and Barnington being both in high credit, the chesnut was saved from the “Nimrod livery and bait stables.” Still the committee was at an end, and that soon became known. “Who now was to take the hounds?” was the universal inquiry, which no one could answer. The visitors looked to the townspeople to make the move, and the townspeople wished to give them precedence. With the uninitiated, the main qualification for a master appears to be “plenty of money.” With them the great sporting objection of “he knows nothing about hunting,” is unheard of.
The case was urgent and the emergency great. None of the committee would touch again, and there was no engagement to hunt out the season. Puff paragraphs were tried in the Handley Cross Paul Pry, a gossiping publication, which enlivened the list of arrivals, departures, changes of residence, parties given, &c., with what it called the “sports of the chase,” but without success. Some, to be sure, nibbled, and made inquiries as to expense and subscription, but their ultimatums were always in the negative! Sky-blue coats and pink linings were likely to be at a discount.
In the midst of the dilemma, Captain Doleful’s anxious mind, quickened by self-interest, hit upon a gentleman made for the place — rich as Croesus, a keen and scientific sportsman — an out-and-out lover of hunting — everything in fact that they wanted. His face wrinkled like a Norfolk biffin with delight, and he summoned Fleeceall, Hookem the librarian, Boltem the billiard-table keeper, to Miss Jelly’s, where over a tray of hot mutton pies, most magnanimously furnished at his own expense, he arranged the scheme disclosed in the following chapter.
CHAPTER VII. MR. JORROCKS.
“A MAN HE was to all the country dear.”
“Where can that be from, Binjimin?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks of his boy of all-work, as the latter presented him with a large double-headed letter, with a flourishing coat of arms seal.
Mr. Jorrocks was a great city grocer of the old school, one who was neither ashamed of his trade, nor of carrying it on in a dingy warehouse that would shock the managers of the fine mahogany-countered, giltcanistered, puffing, poet-keeping establishments of modern times. He had been in business long enough to remember each succeeding lord mayor before he was anybody— “reg’lar little tuppences in fact,” as he used to say. Not that Mr. Jorrocks decried the dignity of civic honour, but his ambition took a different turn. He was for the field, not the forum.
As a merchant he stood high — country traders took his teas without tasting, and his bills were as good as bank notes. Though an unlettered man he had great powers of thought and expression in his peculiar way. He was “highly respectable,” as they say on ’Change — that is to say, he was very rich, the result of prudence and economy — not that he was stingy, but his income outstripped his expenses, and money like snow rolls up amazingly fast.
A natural born sportsman, his lot being cast behind a counter instead of in the country, is one of those frolics of fortune that there is no accounting for. To remedy the error of the blind goddess, Mr. Jorrocks had taken to hunting as soon as he could keep a horse, and though his exploits were long confined to the suburban county of Surrey, he should rather be “credited” for keenness in following the sport in so unpropitious a region, than “debited” as a Cockney and laughed at for his pains. But here the old adage of “where ignorance is bliss,” &c. came to his aid, for before he had seen any better country than Surrey, he was impressed with the conviction that it was the “werry best,” and their hounds the finest in England.
“Doesn’t the best of everything come to London?” he would ask, and doesn’t it follow as a nattaral consequence, that the best ‘unting is to be had from it?”
Moreover, Mr. Jorrocks looked upon Surrey as the peculiar province of Cockneys — we beg pardon — Londoners. His earliest recollections carried him back to the days of Alderman Harley, and though his participation in the sport consisted in reading the meets in a boot-maker’s window in the Borough, he could tell of all the succeeding masters, and criticise the establishments of Clayton, Snow, Maberly, and the renowned Daniel Haigh.
It was during the career of the latter great sportsman, that Mr. Jorrocks shone a brilliant meteor in the Surrey hunt — he was no rider, but with an almost intuitive knowledge of the run of a fox, would take off his hat to him several times in the course of a run. No Sa
turday seemed perfect unless. Mr. Jorrocks was there; and his great chesnut horse, with his master’s coat-laps flying out beyond his tail, will long be remembered on the outline of the Surrey hills. These are recollections that many will enjoy, nor will their interest be diminished as time throws them back in the distance. Many bold sportsmen, now laid on the shelf, and many a bold one still going, will glow with animation at the thoughts of the sport they shared in with him.
Of the start before day-break — the cries of the cads — the mirth of the lads — the breakfasts at Croydon — the dear “Derby Arms,” — the cheery Charley Morton then the ride to the meet — the jovial greeting — the glorious find, and the exhilarating scrambles up and down the Surrey hills. — Then if they killed! — O, joy! unutterable joy! How they holloaed! How they hooped! How they lugged out their half-crowns for Tom Hill, and returned to town flushed with victory and eau-de-vie.
But we wander —
When the gates of the world were opened by railways, our friend’s active mind saw that business might be combined with pleasure, and as first one line opened and then another, he shot down into the different countries — bags and all — Beckford in one pocket — order book in the other — hunting one day and selling teas another. Nay, he sometimes did both together, and they tell a story of him in Wiltshire, holloaing out to a man who had taken a fence to get rid of him, “Did you say two chests o’ black and one o’ green?”
Then when the Great Northern opened he took a turn down to Peterborough, and emboldened by what he saw with Lord Fitzwilliam, he at length ventured, right into the heaven of heavens — the grass — or what he calls the “cut ’em down” countries. What a commotion he caused! Which is Jorrocks? Show me Jorrocks! Is that old Jorrocks! and men would ride to and fro eyeing him as if he were a wild beast. Gradually the bolder ventured a word at him — observed it was a fine day — asked him how he liked their country? or their hounds. Next, perhaps, the M.F.H. would give him a friendly lift — say “good morning, Mr. Jorrocks” — then some of what Jorrocks calls the “hupper crusts” of the hunt, would begin talking to him, until he got fairly launched among them — when he would out with his order book and do no end of business in tea. None but Jorrocks & Co.’s tea goes down in the midland counties. Great, however, as he is in the country, he is equally famous in London, where his “Readings in Beckford” and sporting lectures in Oxendon Street, procured him the attentions of the police.
Mr. Jorrocks had now passed the grand climacteric, and balancing his age with less accuracy than he balanced his books, called himself somewhere between fifty and sixty. He wouldn’t own to three pund, as he called sixty, at any price. Neither could he ever be persuaded to get into the scales to see whether he was nearer eighteen “stun” or twenty. He was always “‘ticlarly engaged” just at the time, either goin’ to wet samples of tea with his traveller, or with some one to look at “an oss,” or, if hard pressed, to take Mrs. J. out in the chay. “He didn’t ride stipple chases,” he would say, “and wot matter did it make ow much he weighed? It was altogether ‘twixt him and his oss, and weighin’ wouldn’t make him any lighter.” In person he was a stiff, square-built, middle-sized man, with a thick neck and a large round head. A wooly broad-brimmed lowish-crowned hat sat with a jaunty side-long sort of air upon a bushy nut-brown wig, worn for comfort and not deception. Indeed his grey whiskers would have acted as a contradiction if he had, but deception formed no part of Mr. Jorrocks’s character. He had a fine open countenance, and though his turn-up nose, little grey eyes, and rather twisted mouth, were not handsome, still there was a combination of fun and good-humour in his looks that pleased at first sight, and made one forget all the rest. His dress was generally the same — a puddingey white neckcloth tied in a knot, capacious shirt frill (shirt made without collars), a single-breasted high-collared buff waistcoat with covered buttons, a blue coat with metal ones, dark blue stockingnet pantaloons, and hessian boots with large tassels, displaying the liberal dimensions of his full, well-turned limbs. The coat pockets were outside, and the back buttons far apart.
His business place was in St. Botolph’s Lane, in the city, but his residence was in Great Coram Street. This is rather a curious locality, — city people considering it west, while those in the west consider it east. The fact is, that Great Coram Street is somewhere about the centre of London, near the London University, and not a great way from the Euston station of the Birmingham railway. Jorrocks says it is close to the two best cover hacks in the world, the Great Northern and Euston stations. Approaching it from the east, which seems the proper way of advancing to a city man’s residence, you pass the Founding Hospital in Guildford Street, cross Brunswick Square, and turning short to the left you find yourself in “Great Coram Street.” Neat unassuming houses form the sides, and the west end is graced with a building that acts the double part of a reading-room and swimming-bath; “literature and lavement” is over the door.
In this region the dazzling glare of civic pomp and courtly state are equally unknown. Fifteen-year-old footboys in cotton velveteens and variously fitting coats being the objects of ambition, while the rattling of pewter pots about four o’clock denote the usual dinner hour. — It is a nice quiet street, highly popular with Punch and other public characters. A smart confectioner’s in the neighbourhood leads one to suppose that it is a favourite locality for citizens.
We may as well introduce the other inmates of Mr. Jorrocks’s house, before we return to our story, premising that they are now going to act a prominent part.
Mrs. Jorrocks, who, her husband said, had a cross of blood in her, her sire being a gent, her dam a lady’s maid, was a commonish sort of woman, with great pretension, and smattering of gentility. She had been reckoned a beauty at Tooting, but had outlived all, save the recollection of it. She was a dumpy figure, very fond of fine bonnets, and dressed so differently, that Mr. Jorrocks himself sometimes did not know her. Her main characteristics were a red snub nose, a profusion of false ringlets, and gooseberry eyes, which were green in one light and grey in another.
Mr. Jorrocks’s mother, who had long held a commission to get him a wife, had departed this life without executing it; and our friend soon finding himself going all wrong in his shirts and stocking-feet, and having then little time to go a courting, just went, hand over head as it were, to a ball at the Horns at Kennington Common, and drew the first woman that seemed inclined to make up to him, who chanced to be the now companion of his greatness.
No children blessed the union; and a niece, the orphan daughter of a brother of Mr. Jorrocks, formed their family circle. Belinda Jorrocks was just entering upon womanhood — young, beautiful, and guileless. In person she was of the middle size, neither too slim nor too stout, but just of that plump and pleasantly-rounded form that charms all eyes, whether admirers of the tall or short. Her light-brown silken hair clasped the ivory forehead of a beautiful oval face, while the delicate regularity of her lightly-pencilled eyebrows contrasted with the long rich fringe of her large blue eyes; rosy lips and pearly teeth appeared below her Grecian nose, while her clear though somewhat pale complexion brightened with the flush of animation when she spoke. Her waist was small, and her feet sylph-like.
“Where can this be from, Binjimin?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks, taking the letter before mentioned as he sat in his red morocco hunting-chair in the back drawing-room in Great Coram Street.
“‘Andley Cross! Where is that?” said he, looking at the post-mark. “Knows no one there, I think,” continued he, cutting the paper on each side of the seal with a pair of large scissors kept in the capacious black inkstand before him. Having opened the envelope, a large sheet of white paper and a gilt-edged pink satin-paper note, headed with an embossed stag-hunt, presented themselves. He opened the note first. The writing was unknown to him, so he took up the other, and folding it cut, proceeded to read the contents. Thus it run: —
“Honoured Sir,
“The committee of management of the Hand
ley Cross fox-hounds being under the necessity of relinquishing their undertaking, we, the undersigned been and determined sportsmen, having experienced the evils of a divided mastership, and feeling fully impressed with the importance of having a country hunted single-handed by a gentleman of known talent and experience, who will command the respect and obedience of his followers and the admiration of the world, look up to you, sir, as pre-eminently qualified for the distinguished, honourable, and much coveted situation.”
“My vig!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, jumping from his chair, slapping his thigh, and hopping round the table, taking up three or four holes of his face with delight— “My vig! who would have ever thought of such a thing! — O, John Jorrocks! John Jorrocks! you are indeed a most fortunate man! a most lucky dog! O dear! — O dear! Was ever any thing so truly delightful!” Some seconds elapsed ere our worthy friend could compose himself sufficiently to look again at the letter. At last he resumed: —
“When we consider, sir,” it continued, “the brilliant position you have long achieved in that most illustrious of all hunts, ‘the Surrey,’ and the glorious character you have gained as an ardent admirer of field sports, we feel most deeply and sincerely sensible that there is no one to whom we can more safely confide this important trust than yourself.”
“Capital! bravo! werry good indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, laying down the letter again for the purpose of digesting what he had read. “Capital indeed,” he repeated, nursing one leg over the other, and casting his eyes up at a dirty fly-catcher dangling over his head. Thus he sat for some moments in mute abstraction. At length he let down his leg and took up the letter.