by R S Surtees
“Well, but you’ll walk in and take a little jelly, chicken broth, or something, after your long drive,” said the Marquis.
“I think not, thank you,” replied Mr. Jorrocks—” never takes the bloom off my appetite by luncheon — s’pose we walk and see the ball, while Binjimin gets Dickey Cobden a feed o corn.
“With all my heart,” replied the Marquis—” only it’s a long way from here.”
“Three or four miles, perhaps,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, looking at the soles of his Hessians, and wondering whether Dickey Cobden could draw them there.
“Oh no, only outside the wall — a mile or so.”
“A mile’s nothin’,” observed Mr. Jorrocks with a smile, giving the reins to Benjamin.
The two then set off on foot.
“It is a charming day,” observed the Marquis, throwing back his pea-green cashmere coat, lined with silk, and displaying his embroidered braces, pink rowing-shirt, and amber-coloured waistcoat adorned with many chains. “Pray, how are all the ladies?”
“All werry well,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “take care they don’t make you the rewerse,” added he, with a knowing leer. “What for?” inquired the Marquis.
“You knows wot for,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, with a jerk of the head. “Mrs. Trotter’ll stand no nonsense,” added he; “she’s a real knock-me-down man o’ business.”
“But I’ve had nothing to do with Mrs. Trotter,” replied the Marquis, colouring brightly.
“No; but you’ve been havin’ to do with her darter, she says, and she won’t stand no nonsense.”
“Oh, the silly woman!” exclaimed the Marquis; “it was Emma Plather I was flirting with.”
“Ay, Emma too” said Mr. Jorrocks. “Her mother wants to take you through ‘ands. Howsomever, never mind. Don’t you go too far, or they’ll be bringin’ of you afore my worship — haw, haw, haw.”
“Well, but what do they say?” inquired the Marquis, anxious to know how the land lay.
“Vy, jest that,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, “that you’re a courtin’ on ’em both — and the mothers are wise enough to know they can’t both get you.”
“That’s awkward,” observed the Marquis aloud, thinking he might flirt with half-a-dozen in London without the others being much the wiser.
“Mrs. Trotter’s a fine woman, but I shouldn’t like to be basted by her,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, shrugging up his shoulders—” she’s a divil of a harm.”
The Marquis shuddered. “You are joking, Mr. Jorrocks,” at length said he.
“Deuce a bit! deuce a bit! they’ve been at me, both on ’em — lay in’ informations — layin’ informations — trespass on the feelin’s — trespass on the feelin’s — howsomever, as I said before, don’t go too far.”
“Far!” exclaimed the Marquis; “why, I’ve really said nothing!”
“Then you’ve been a squeezin’ their ‘ands, or lookin’ sweet at them, or somethin’, for both the mothers are hup in harms, and when an old ooman takes a thing in her, the deuce and all won’t drive it out again.”
The long silence that ensued brought our friends to the encircling wall, and the Marquis, applying a key to a small green door, let them out on the vulgar world beyond.
They were now upon the Duke’s farm. Lucky it was a Duke’s farm, for it would have ruined any other man. The spacious house was of the Elizabethan order, guarded by a haw-haw and a shrubbery in front, which rose into forest trees towards the sides, shutting out the huge range of farm buildings behind. The house seemed to possess every requisite for a “genteel family,” as the auctioneers advertise. Mrs. Jobson was basking in an arbour on the west side, in an elegant morning dishabille — white muslin, with lavender-coloured ribbons — reading a pocket edition of “Don Juan,” when the well-known clap of the door, as the Marquis closed the Park one after him, sent her hurry skurry into the house, to arrange a more attractive attire, beginning, of course, with that all-important article in female eyes, an elaborately worked collar. Mr. Jobson was loitering about in a brown sporting buttoned cut-away, duck trousers, and Wellington boots, giving orders to sundry clowns in clogs, who looked far too white and puffy to work. Seeing the Marquis, he came deferentially forward, and, hat in hand, stood to receive his commands. His lordship proposed showing Mr. Jorrocks round the establishment, and accordingly a bell was rung at the back of the house, which served as a dinner bell for Jobson, and a summoning bell for the servants. The drones were suddenly called into activity. John Tolpiddle, the Dorsetshire dairyman, came forward in a brown holland blouse, and a short whip in his hand, to show the cows, some five-and-twenty of which stood dos-à-dos in a sky-lit byre, littered like Newmarket racers, with a tramway down the centre, for the double purpose of carrying down forage and carrying up litter. The cows were beautifully clean, and the byre as sweet as a drawing-room. The loss upon this branch of the establishment was something under two hundred a year, including Mr and Mrs. Tolpiddle’s wages, and that was considered very low. It had been as high as four hundred a year, but that was in consequence of his Grace having insisted upon making Cheshire cheese, which the poverty of the pasture had not allowed them to accomplish. The Tolpiddles, however, made very good white cheese; and Mr. Jobson, with a consideration that did him the highest credit, sooner than his noble master should be disappointed in his prophecy, that ere long they would make as good cheese at Donkeyton as they did in Cheshire, had arranged with another nobleman’s Jobson in that county to exchange a certain quantity of cheese annually, and his Grace now ate Cheshire cheese with a hearty gusto, and a firm conviction that it was of his own making. “Let me send you a little Donkeyton Cheshire,” he would exclaim, down the table; “excellent cheese — monstrous good cheese indeed! Shows what science and perseverance can accomplish. This cheese was made on my own farm, at Strawberry Hill; everybody said it was impossible. I said there was no such thing as an impossibility, and by persevering I’ve accomplished it. Let me send you a piece — just to taste.” And so his Grace praised and distributed his cheese round the table, which of course his guests praised also.
“Excellent! nothing could be better! better than Cheshire!”
“Well, I think so too,” his Grace would exclaim. “Binks! the burgundy.”
The pigs were next inspected. John Jolter, late of Martyrs Worthy, in Hampshire, had been lured from his native hogs to superintend his Grace’s piggery at Donkeyton, and with Mrs. Jolter, and a numerous family of little Jolters, occupied a sentimental-looking cottage in one corner of the spacious square forming the farmyard. —
Mrs. Smith, late of Leatherhead, superintended the Dorking fowls; while Mrs. Tubs, late of Pakenham, in Norfolk, had the charge of the turkeys; for each of which a beautifully clean, well-lighted, flued and stoved apartment was kept, above which were pigeon-houses, under the direction of Mr. Kite, the Islington bird-fancier. There were two shepherds, one from Cheviot, the other from Old Shoreham, in Sussex; also a goose-driver, from Spalding, in Lincolnshire; and a horse-breaker, from Mai ton, in Yorkshire. The confusion of tongues, and the confusion of animals, was great.
Mr. Jorrocks went the rounds, as we have seen many a man go the rounds of a house, with ill-assumed interest. All he wanted to see was his ball. At length they arrived at the bull department. These were under the charge of a Durham man, John Topham, late of Middleton St. George. He first brought out one bull, then another, until at length he produced Mr. Jorrocks’s “Young Goliah,” as he was called. He was a noble animal, milk-white and silky coated, with a curly pow, and a deep dewlap reaching to his knees. He roared and bellowed and pawed the ground, and lashed his tail, as though all the world were his, and the bystanders mere intruders.
“He’s an uncommon fine ‘un!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, advancing towards him, a liberty the bull resented by rushing headlong at our Squire, and landing him on the top of the midden.
“Take care, my lord! take care, my lord! For God’s sake, take care, my lord!” exclaimed half-a-dozen hanger
s-on, rushing to his assistance, and raising Mr. Jorrocks from his soft, though impure position. “He’s not to be trusted with strangers, my lord,” added Mr. Jobson, lording our Squire like the rest, for noblemen’s servants always fancy noblemen’s visitors must be noblemen.
“I fears Binjimin won’t be able to take him ‘ome,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, adjusting his wig, and cleaning himself of the straw.
“Oh, we’ll send him for you,” observed the Marquis, still laughing at the upset.
“Ah, but I should like to take him ‘ome with me,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “there’s to be a little festival in our willage in honour of his arrival, and you see we can’t rejoice without he’s there. He must be introduced as a ball of his great consequence ought to be — a ball of consideration, in fact. I fears he will be rayther too many for my bouy Binjimin, though,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing the bull’s enormous proportions.
“Oh, a boy would have no chance with him,” observed the keeper; “he’d knock a whole troop of them over with his tail. So, my man, so,” added the keeper coaxingly, to the bull, rubbing his hand into his curly pow.
“‘Owever shall I get him ‘ome?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks aloud to himself, as the bull began bellowing and roaring and lurching to and fro. “He’s a hawkward customer, I’m a thinkin’, with them polished ‘orns of his. He may be a short ‘orn, but I shouldn’t like to have one o’ them in my bread-basket, ‘owever short.”
“Oh, we will send him for you to-morrow,” said the Marquis, “in the van; we keep a carriage for the quadrupeds on this farm.”
“That’s cuttin’ it fat,” observed Mr. Jorrocks—” ‘opes he won’t expect to have a chay kept with me; but howsomever, you see, I must have him ‘ome to-night by ‘ook or by crook, or the willagers’ll be disappointed of their rejoicin’ — bells to ring — children to dance — chaws to shout — self to make a speech, and all that sort of thing. Are there no posters to get in this country? Wouldn’t mind standin’ eighteen-pence a mile for sich an unkimmon fine quadruped. The finest ball wotever was seen! — ball of all balls!”
“Oh, we can manage all that for you,” observed the Marquis, who had only to give the order to be obeyed. “Tell them,” said he to Jobson, “to put horses to the caravan, and take Mr. Jorrocks’s bull home.”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Mr. Jobson, bowing respectfully. The cart-horses, however, were all down at the Flemish farm, as a certain portion of Strawberry Hill was called, preparing a piece of ground for another triumph over nature, that of planting potatoes in autumn; and when Mr. Jorrocks and the Marquis returned from paying their respects to Mrs. Jobson, who had got herself and some seed-cake elegantly arranged in the lavender-coloured silk-furnished drawingroom, notwithstanding the time Mr. Jorrocks had consumed in prefacing the healths of the lady, and of Jobson, and of the Duke of Donkeyton, and of the Duchess of Donkeyton, and of the Marquis of Bray, and of the “Marquis secundus,” as he called him, that was to say his ball, to each of which he drank a bumper of sherry, still, on his return, no horses had arrived. Jobson and Jorrocks then went to seek them; and the Marquis, fearful of walking himself into a fever, took leave of his respected friend, first intimating that he should soon pay him a visit at Hillingdon Hall, and after spending half-an-hour with his premier amour, Mrs. Jobson, he returned alone to the Castle.
Things then relapsed into a very lethargic mood, and-the day was far spent before Mr. Jorrocks got his bull into the caravan. Having seen it in and off, he returned to Donkeyton Castle, to get “Benjamin and the carriage to follow; but we are ashamed to say, the servants had taken their revenge of Benjamin for winning so much money of them when he was there before, and not bringing any to play with them again, and had made him so drunk that he could not stand. Shocked at the boy’s depravity, Mr. Jorrocks curled him up like a codfish, and stuffing him in behind the carriage, drove away as hard as ever Dickey Cobden could lay legs to the ground, to overtake the caravan with the bull. This he was not long in doing, for the driver had pulled up at the first public, and was regaling himself with a pot and a pipe. The consequence of all this was, that the villagers were disappointed of their festival. In vain the big-bustled girls strained their eyes along the turnpike. In vain the chaws climbed on the gates. In vain Joshua Sneakington walked on as far as Old Moor Hill. No symptoms of Mr. Jorrocks or his bull appeared. At length the shades of summer night drew on; the beetles blundered in the waiters’ faces, the bats hovered round and round, and the bark of the shepherd’s dog was heard more plainly in the evening still. At length Mrs. Jorrocks and her girls beat a retreat. The chaws gradually cleared off, some with their sweethearts, some in couples, some by themselves, and when Mr. Jorrocks arrived a couple of hours after, the road was as clear as if it had never known bustle. The only symptoms of the movement that remained on his arrival was a letter from James Blake, upbraiding him severely for having written to ask to have the bells rung in honour of his bull.
CHAPTER XXIII.
AND IF THE night
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.”
EARLY risers see strange sights. Mr. Jorrocks’s bull kept him in a state of excitement the whole night. He dreamt all sorts of horrible dreams. First that the bull-house was on fire, and the bull wouldn’t come out. No, not all the bran inashes and chopped turnips in the world would induce “the Marquis” to come out. Then with a last desperate effort, just as he thought he saw the flames catching the straw behind the bull’s tail, he succeeded in landing Mrs. J. with a terrible flam on the floor; next after he had got Mrs. Jorrocks appeased, and himself composed to sleep again, he dreamt he saw some idle boys pull the animal’s tail off, and some idle girls join it and another bull’s tail together, and make a skipping rope of them. Then he dreamt he saw a blue-aproned butcher, with a knife in his hand, and a steel at his side, arrive for the purpose of slaughtering “the Marquis,” and the effort he made in roaring out “That ar’nt him!” again awoke him. No sooner was he composed to sleep after this, than he dreamt he had the bull at the Smithfield Cattle Show, and the judges wouldn’t look at him — next that they gave him the premium, and Sir R. Peel snatched it from him as he carried it out of the bazaar. Then, that Lord Spencer inveigled him to Althorp, and kept him on oil-cake till he declared himself an anti-corn-law repealer. That when he was released, he had grown so fat he couldn’t get out of the door. Then that his lord-ship put him and his Durham ox, and Prince Albert’s Suffolk and Bedfordshire pig into a caravan, and sent them round the country as a show — a penny apiece, or twopence for the three. That he (Mr. Jorrocks) was continually getting stirred up with the long pole to show himself.
At length, feeling the impossibility of procuring anything like comfortable repose, our worthy Cockney Squire determined to vacate his couch altogether, and rose just as a lovely summer sun beamed its first rays upon the beautiful landscape, gilding wood and water, hill and dale, with the luxuriance of its effulgence. Autumn was coming on. The reapers had been busy in many parts, and the golden corn stood in sheaf and stook in all the early places. Mr. Jorrocks surveyed the all-beauteous landscape from his room, and dressing himself in thick shoes, drab shags and gaiters, instead of the blue stockingettes and Hessians of the previous day, determined upon taking a ramble about the country, ere the harvesting population were abroad. Having first visited his bull, and found none of the direful calamities he had dreamt had befallen him, and having foddered him, and littered out his stall, and admired his just proportions, now seen to greater advantage without the competitors of Mr. Jobson’s establishment, Mr. Jorrocks set out on his rambles. First he looked at Tompkins’s sheep winding round the side of Holford Hill, then he stared Johnny Wopstraw’s cows out of countenance — wondered how much milk each gave — whether the milk made good cream — and how much cheese the dairy produced. Then he sauntered on, and admired Willey Goodheart’s cart-horses enjoying their rest, during the progress of the harvest �
� calculated how much each could draw — priced them separately — thought how much each would sell for at Tatt’s; then lumped them all together and struck an average. Then he hung over a gate opening into Tommy Sloggers’ fallow — counted the thistles till he couldn’t count them for thickness — calculated their probable produce next year — admired the brackens, and wondered whether the fallow was meant for a wheat or a bracken crop. Thought nothing could beat Sloggers for dirt — was sure he would get the prize for slovenliness. Had a good mind to walk on and knock at his door and tell him so. Thought perhaps he’d better not. Didn’t like to be bit. Thought how often he had been bit in horse-dealing. Run his hunters through his mind, and thought he might write a paper, headed, “My’Osses, by Jorrocks.” Stared at Smith’s stack, wondered how many tons of hay it held. How long his bull would be in eating it. Thus our farmer friend sauntered over hill and over dale, now standing with his mouth open inhaling the fresh morning air, admiring the prospect, or wondering whether it would be a good harvest — whether the yield would be deficient — whether the straw would be short or not — and considering whether money in the funds or money in a farm was the safest spec; thought it very odd that while all the farmers swore everything was ruinously cheap, yet if he happened to want anything, that article was invariably dear. Tried to make out how it was that lime was only a manure when given by the landlord, and possessed no “wirtues” when the tenant had to buy it. The more Mr. Jorrocks thought, the more he was puzzled about farming.
He had now got upon Mr. Heavytail’s, or the “pet farm.” Here he saw people astir on the side of the hill, and looking at his watch, and finding it yet wanted twenty minutes to five, he gave Mr. Heavy tail or his people credit for great industry. They were in a corn-field setting up the sheaves that no doubt had toppled over. No, they were on the part where the corn had been led. What could they be after? They crawled about as if they were after no good, now down the hedge side, now across the field corner, now flat on their bellies. They must be waggabones. He would go and see.