Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  Passing over some intermediate matter, chiefly about horses that people sent for him to look at, believing on the strength of his lecture that he would not require them to be warranted — a supposition that they found themselves mistaken in, we come to the following entry about a gentleman with whom we shall presently have the pleasure of making the reader acquainted.

  “Most purlite letter from a gentleman signin’ himself Marmaduke Muleygrubs, J. P., sayin’ that being a country gentleman, and anxious to do wot is right, he should be ‘appy to encourage the ‘unt, and would be glad if I would fix a day for dinin’ at Cockolorum Hall, and let the hounds meet before it the next mornin’.”

  To which Mr. Jorrocks replied as follows: —

  “M.F.H. John Jorrocks presents his compliments to Mr. Marmadue Muleygrubs, and in reply to his purlite favour duly received, begs to say that he will be ‘appy to dine and sleep at Cockolorum Hall as soon as ever his other ‘unting arrangements will enable him to meet on that side of the country; and that with regard to the subscription so ‘andsomely promised to his ‘ounds, it can be paid either to his credit at Bullock and Hulker’s in the Strand, or to the M.F.H.’s account at Stumpey and Co.’s here —

  “Handley Cross Spa,

  “Diana Lodge.”

  The few next days disclose no feature of general interest — found, lost, killed, lost, found, killed, &c., being the burthen of the journal, so we omit them altogether.

  “Letter from Bowker, brimful of gratitude for the loan of 50l.” This letter being pasted into the journal, we give the greater part of it, containing, as it does, some further particulars of Bowker’s badger-baiting friend.

  “You will be sorry to hear,” says he to Mr. Jorrocks, “that the Slender is found guilty, and ordered to be scragged on Monday morning, for though they have not found the exciseman, the jury found Billy guilty. Poor Slender! I’ve known him long, and safely can I aver, that a nobler fellow never breathed. He combined many callings: bear and badger-baiter, dog-fancier, which has been unhandsomely interpreted into fancy gentlemen that fancy other people’s dogs, horse-slaughterer, private distiller, and smasher. About five years ago he was nearly caught at the latter work. Sitting, as ‘was his custom always in an afternoon,’ at a public-house in the Hampstead-Lane, upon ‘his secure hour,’ two policemen stole. The energetic firmness of Billy’s character was manfully displayed. Seizing a handful of bank-notes, which he had in his pocket, he thrust his hand into the fire, and held them there until they were consumed. The flesh peel’d off his fingers.

  “He once had a turn with the excisemen before. With his intimates Billy had no deceit, and used to boast that there was summut running under his heaps of old horse-bones that was the marrow of his existence. Well, the Excise strongly suspecting this, sent down a posse comitatus to Copenhagen-fields to bring up Billy’s body. He was busy with a bunch of sporting men at a dog-fight when Miss Aberford came to give the office. Billy’s mind was soon made up. Sending all his sporting friends into the house, and locking the doors, he unmuzzled his two bears and turned them loose among the officers. The scramble that ensued beggars description. In less than five minutes the red-breasts — for it was before the crusher times — were flown. It is a singular fact and says much for the influence of female charms, that Mrs. Aberford could hold and fight the dogs when they were too savage for Billy.

  “I always feared Billy’s illegitimate pursuits would lead him into trouble. ‘Master Bowker,’ said he to me one day, ‘Do you want to buy an ‘oss cheap?’ ‘Where did you get him, Billy?’ said I. ‘Found him, master,’ said he. ‘As I was coming home on foot from Chiswick, I sees a gig and ‘oss a standing all alone in Chiswick-Lane — says I, Billy, my boy, you may as well ride as walk — so I driv it home, and now the body o’ the gig’s in the black ditch, the wheels are on my knacker-cart, and I’ve hogged the ‘os’s mane and cut his tail, so that his own master wouldn’t know him.’

  “Altogether, Billy has been a queer one, but still hangin’s a hard matter, especially as they have not found the exciseman. Billy may now sport his own joke to Jack Ketch, of ‘Live and let live, as the criminal said to the hangman.’

  “Your second letter about the mountebanks is just received — strange, that I should be writing about rope-dancing just as it came. I’ll see what I can do about sending you a troop. We of the sock and buskin do not call them companies. I rather think Polito is down in your part of England, perhaps his wild beasts would answer as well; — beef-eaters, tambourine, &c., would make a grand row before Sanctity Hall. Mello wants flooring. I’ll send him a broken dish by this post, requesting his acceptance of a piece of plate from his London patients. A basket of cats by coach would be a nice present, labelled ‘game.’

  “Your much obliged and very humble servant,

  “Wm. Bowker.”

  The following seems to have been a good run; we take it verbatim from the journal, omitting some matters of no interest: —

  Candid Pigg — Went with the ‘ounds for fear of accidents. Large field, and many strangers. Lots o’ farmers. Mr. Yarnley in a yellow gig. Told us to draw his withey bed first. Trotted down to it, and no sooner were the ‘ounds in than out went Reynard at the low end. Sich a fine chap! Bright ruddy coat, with a well-tagged brush. One whisk of his brush, and away he went! Pigg flew a double flight of oak rails, and Bin began to cry as soon as ever he saw them. ‘Ounds got well away, and settled to the scent without interruption. Away for Frampton End, and on to Pippen Hall, past Willerton Brake, and up to Snapperton Wood. Here a check let in the roadsters; it was but momentary. Through the wood and away for Lutterworth Bank. Earths open, but Reynard didn’t know them, or hadn’t time to try them — headed about a mile to the north of Lutterworth Spinney by people at a foot-ball match, and turned as if for Hollington Dean, taking over the large grass enclosures between that and Reeve’s Mill, bringing the deep race into the line. Pigg blobbed in and out like a water-rat; out on the right side too. Barnington went over head, and his ‘oss came out on one side, and he on t’other. Stobb’s little Yorkshire nag cleared it in his stride; and Captain Shortflat went in and came out with a cart-load of water-cress on his back; lost his hat too. Duncan Nevin piloted his pupils down to the bridge, followed by the rest of the field. Fox had run the margin of the race, and we nicked the ‘ounds just at the bridge. Man on Stoke Hill holloa’d, and Pigg lifted his ‘ounds, the scent bein’ weak from the water. Viewed the fox stealin’ down to the walley below, and Pigg capped them on and ran into the varmint in Tew Great Fields, within a quarter of a mile of Staveston Wood. Finest run wot ever was seen! Time, one hour and twenty-five minutes, with only one check. Distance, from pin’t to pin’t, twelve miles. As they ran, from fifteen to twenty. Many ‘osses tired. Pigg rode young May’s ‘oss, Young Hyson, and went well — worth his 30l. I think; — shall ax 60l. at the end of the season. Barnington got up before the worry, wet, but quite ‘appy. Felt somethin’ movin’ in his pocket; put in his hand and pulled out a pike! Fishin’ as well as ‘unting. Paid for catchin’ my ‘oss twice two shillings.

  “Grumble Corner. — Drew the gorse blank, then to Finmere Diggin’s, crossin’ two or three turnip fields in our line. All blank; smelt werry strong of a trap. Barrack Wood. Found immediately. Away for Newtimber Forest; but headed within a quarter of a mile by coursers. Field rather too forrard, or Pigg rather too backward, havin’ got bogged comin’ out of cover. Came up in a desperate rage, grinnin’ and swearin’ as he went. Barnington in front, swore at him just as he would at a three-punder. The idea of swearin’ at a gen’l’man wot gives 50l. a year to the ‘ounds! Made nothin’ more of the fox. Came on rain, and give in at two. Lectored Pigg for swearin’ at a large payin’ subscriber. Paid for catchin’ my ‘oss 6d.”

  The following bunch of anathemas seem to have been produced by Mr. Jorrocks being brought up short by a double ditch, with a fence most unjustifiably mended with old wire-rope, whereby our energetic master lost another of the “finest
runs wotever was seen,” from Screecher Gorse to earth at Sandford Banks — time and distance, anything that anybody liked to call it!

  Con — found all farmers say I, wot deal in double ditches!

  Con — found all farmers say I, wot mend their fences with old wire-rope!

  Con — found all farmers say I, wot don’t keep their gates in good order!

  Con — found all farmers say I, wot are unaccommodation’ about gaps!

  Con — found all farmers say I, wot arn’t flatter’d by ‘avin’ their fields ridden over!

  Con — found all farmers say I, wot grumble at the price o’ grain, and then plough out their grass!

  Con — found all farmers say I, wot hobject to ‘avin’ a litter of foxes billeted upon them!

  Con — found all farmers say I, wot hobject to walkin’ the M.F.H. a pup!

  Con — found all farmers say I, wot don’t keep their stock at ‘ome, when the ‘ounds are out!

  Con — found all farmers say I, wot let their ‘erds keep a cur!

  Con — found all farmers say I, wot ‘aven’t a round o’ beef or a cold pork pie to pull out, when the ‘ounds pass!

  Con — found all farmers say I, wot ‘aven’t a tap of good “October” to wash them down with

  CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN DAY.

  “WAS THAT THE vind, or a dream?” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, starting out of his sleep at something like thunder over-head — rumble, rumble, tumble, went a stack of chimneys, and Mr. Jorrocks was on the floor in an instant. Blast went the wind, and in came his window— “Vot next? as the frog said when his tail dropped off,” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, wondering what was going to happen — over went the looking-glass, which was dashed to atoms, two five-pound notes were whisked about the room, and the clothes-horse came clattering among the jugs.

  “It’s a confounded wind,” said Mr. Jorrocks, running after the five pound notes, “wonder wot’s the meanin’ of it all — fear th’ ‘ounds will be werry wild,” recollecting that they were to meet at the “World Turned Upside Down,” on the Hookem-Snivey road.

  It was a terrific morning — the wind blew a perfect hurricane — chimneys were toppling and tumbling, slates falling, tiles breaking, and here and there whole roofs taking flight — family washings were whisked away, or torn to tatters on the drying lines — children were lifted off their legs, and grown-up people knocked against each other at the corners of the streets.

  “This is summut new at all ewents,” said Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing a large laurel torn up by the roots in the garden, “that tree never had such a hike afore in its life,” and as he looked, the back-door flew open with a crash that split it from top to bottom.

  “Wish there mayn’t be mischief,” said he, huddling on his dressing-gown and running down-stairs, recollecting there was something about repairs in his agreement. Here he found the soot covering the drawing-room carpet, and the kitchen floor strewed with bricks and mortar— “Oh dear! oh dear,” exclaimed he, “here’s a terrible disaster, five punds worth of damage at least, and, ord rot it! there’s my Jerry Hawkins mug broke:” gathering the fragments of a jug representing that renowned Gloucestershire sportsman.

  The wind was cuttingly keen, and swept up and down with unrestrained freedom. There was not a fire lighted, and the whole place smelt of soot, and was the picture of misery.

  “Shall never get to the World Turned Upside Down to-day,” said Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing the scene of desolation, and wishing what he saw might be the extent of the mischief. “Pity to lose a day too,” added he, thinking it might only be a squall.

  He now sought the refuge of the parlour, but oh! what greeted him there! — the window wide open — chairs huddled in the centre of the room, the table in the corner, and Betsey with up-turned gown, scrubbing away at the grate.

  “Now blast it, Batsay,” roared Mr. Jorrocks, as a gust of wind swept a row of china off a chiffonier, “Now blast it Batsay, vot in the name of all that’s hugly are you arter now?”

  “Only polishing the grate!” exclaimed Betsey, astonished at seeing her master walking about in his night-cap and dressing-gown.

  “But vot in the name o’ badness are you workin’ with the winder open for?”

  “To air the house, to be sure!” replied Betsey, tartly.

  “Hair the ‘ouse!” screamed Mr. Jorrocks, whisking his dressing-gown round as he spoke; “Hair the ‘ouse, it’s hairy enough already! — ord rot it! you ‘ousmaids have no sort o’ compassion about you — the colder the day, the hairier you are! See vot you’ve done now! Belinda’s pet-lambs, your misses’s Cupid, and my model of the Saracen’s ‘Ead on snow ‘Ill, all dashed to spinnage! Enough to make the Harchbishop o’ York swear!” saying which, Mr. Jorrocks whisked his dressing-gown the reverse way, and bounced out of the room, lest he might be tempted into the indiscretion of an oath.

  Our master ran up-stairs, but little consolation greeted him there. His dressing-table was covered with blacks — his looking-glass was on the swing — his soap was reduced to a wafer — there was nothing but cold water to shave with, and his beard being at all times rather untractable, rough enough to light a lucifer match upon, he inflicted sundry little gashes on his chin, as he jagged a blunt razor over the stubborn stubble; altogether his toilette was performed under most discouraging disheartening circumstances. Still he dressed for hunting, the hounds being advertised, and there being a possibility of the wind lulling.

  Batsay had got the parlour “haired” before he made his second appearance, but she had had to borrow a neighbour’s kettle, and was making some toast in the room when he entered. The wind having abated, Mr. Jorrocks thought he might as well make up with her, as a sort of peace-offering to Æolus.

  “Now, Batsay,” said he, in a mild agreeable tone, “I’ve never had cause to find fault with you afore, but really on a vindy day like this, it does seem rayther unkind lettin’ old Boreas take the run o’ the ‘ouse in—”

  “It warn’t old Borus,” replied Betsey, colouring brightly.

  “Oh, dash my vig!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, hurrying out, “that confounded young carpenter’s been here again! That’s the way they hair one’s ‘ouse.”

  Whish — Wha-s-s-sh — blash — roar went the wind, as Mr. Jorrocks left the room.

  Stobbs wouldn’t get up, and Mr. Jorrocks got through breakfast alone under very chilly disheartening uncomfortable circumstances. The kettle had only half-boiled, and the tea was little better than water — blacks floated on the cream, and the butter was similarly ornamented — the eggs were cold in the middle, and the sausages only done on one side, added to which, the baker’s oven was blown down, and there was nothing but stale rolls; altogether, it was a very sorry affair. “Well, better luck next time,” said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, hurrying away from the scene of discomfort.

  “Can we ‘unt, think you, Pigg?” inquired he of James, who he found turning the horses round in their stalls, preparing for a start.

  Pigg.— “Yeas, ar should think we may, towards noon; the wind’s uncommon kittle now, though, — maist had mar head smashed with a pantile comin’ past ard Tommy Trotter’s Biar.”

  “It’s werry cold,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, thumping his right hand across his chest. “Now, Binjimin, wot’s ‘appened to you?” looking at the boy all bathed in tears.

  “So-o-o cold,” drawled the boy.

  “Cold! you little warmint!” repeated Mr. Jorrocks briskly; “wot business have you to be cold? — Think o’ ginger. I’m froggy myself, but I doesn’t cry! Think o’ ginger, I say.”

  The boy still went on blubbering, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, imparting a little of their dirt to his face.

  It was ten o’clock before they got started, and the wind still blew with unabated fury. Pigg and Benjamin turned their cap’s peak backwards, and Mr. Jorrocks shortened his string two holes. The hounds set up their backs, and the horses shied at every thing they came near, — indeed, they were not wholly w
ithout excuse, for the broken and uprooted trees, the prostrate walls, demolished barns, and flying stacks, they encountered in their progress, were enough to startle less observing animals than they are. Here was half an elm tree rolling about the country — there a thrashing-machine lifted to the skies. Our party made slow progress in their journey. The wind veered about, now catching their coats, now taking them in the rear, and now nearly blowing them over their horses tails. The hounds, too, took advantage of the scrimmage; some cut away home, while others hung back, or hurried before the horsemen. Had Mr. Jorrocks guessed it was any thing but a high wind, he would never have gone.

  There were few people astir, and the Borrowdale Turnpike-gate was still shut. “Gate! gate! gate!” roared Pigg. “Gate! gate! gate!” shouted Mr. Jorrocks, but the wind scattered their voices in all directions. They were kept there for ten minutes at least, when Mr. Jorrocks had recourse to his horn, and gave it a twang that brought Tom Take-ticket out in a hurry.

  “Bliss my heart!” exclaimed he; “is it you, Mr. Jorrocks? — I thought it was the mail. Sure-lie you arn’t goin’ to hunt such a mornin’ as this?”

  “But I am,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “and I’ll thank you to hopen the gate. — Kept me here quite long enough. — Got to meet at the World Turned Hupside Down, and been bellerin’ here for ‘alf an hour and more. Here, take your pay; I harn’t got no copper, but there are three postage-stamps instead.”

  Having got his stamps, Tom turned the key in the lock, and a blast blew the gate against the post with a crash that shivered it to splinters. — The party then jogged on.

  The “World Turned Upside Down” was one of those quiet way-side inns out of whose sails the march of railroads has taken the wind. It was a substantial old stone mansion, standing a little off the road, approached by a drive round a neatly cultivated oval-shaped garden, where, amid well-rolled gravel walks, and fantastically cut yews, swung a blue and gold sign bearing its name— “The World Turned Upside Down.” A clustering vine covered one end of the house, and reached nearly up to the latticed windows in the stone roof, while luxuriant Irish ivy crept up to the very chimney-pots on the other; rose-bushes and creepers were trained upon trellises in front, and altogether it was a pretty an auberge as any in the land.