by R S Surtees
The streets were werry full, but Sir Wincent wormed his way among the coal-wagons, wans, busses, coaches, bottom-over-tops, — in wulgar French, “cow sur tate,” as they calls the new patent busses — trucks, cabs, &c., in a marvellous workmanlike manner, which seemed the more masterly, inasmuch as the leaders, having their heads at liberty, poked them about in all directions, all a mode Francey, just as they do in Paris. At the Marsh gate we were stopped. A black job was going through on one side, and a haw-buck had drawn a great yellow one ‘oss Gravesend cruelty wan into the other, and was fumbling for his coin.
“Now, Young Omnibus!” cried Sir Wincent, “don’t be standing there all day.” The man cut into his nag, but the brute was about beat. “There, don’t ‘it him so ‘ard (hard),” said Sir Wincent, “or you may hurt him!”
When we got near the Helephant and Castle, Timothy Odgkinson, of Brixton Hill, a low, underselling grocer, got his measly errand cart, with his name and address in great staring white letters, just in advance of the leaders, and kept dodging across the road to get the sound ground, for the whole line was werry “woolley” as you calls it. “Come, Mister independent grocer! go faster if you can,” cries Sir Wincent, “though I think you have bought your horse where you buy your tea, for he’s werry sloe.” A little bit farther on a chap was shoving away at a truck full of market-baskets. “Now, Slavey,” said he, “keep out of my way!” At the Helephant and Castle, and, indeed, wherever he stopped, there were lots of gapers assembled to see the Baronet coachman, but Sir Wincent never minded them, but bustled about with his way-bill, and shoved in his parcels, fish-baskets, and oyster-barrels like a good ‘un. We pulled up to grub at the Feathers at Merstham, and ‘artily glad I was, for I was far on to famish, having ridden whole twenty-five miles in a cold, frosty air without morsel of wittles of any sort. When the Bart. pulled up, he said, “Now, ladies and gentlemen — twenty minutes allowed here, and let me adwise you to make the most of it.” I took the ‘int, and heat away like a regular bagman, who can always dispatch his ducks and green peas in ten minutes.
We started again, and about one hundred yards below the pike stood a lad with a pair of leaders to clap on, for the road, as I said before, was werry woolley. “Now, you see, Mr. Jorrocks,” said Sir Wincent, “I do old Pikey by having my ‘osses on this side. The old screw drew me for four shillings one day for my leaders, two each way, so, says I, ‘My covey, if you don’t draw it a little milder, I’ll send my ‘osses from the stable through my friend Sir William Jolliffe’s fields to the other side of your shop,’ and as he wouldn’t, you see here they are, and he gets nothing.”
The best of company, they say, must part, and Baronets “form no exception to the rule,” as I once heard Dr. Birkbeck say. About a mile below the halfway ‘ouse another coach hove in sight, and each pulling up, they proved to be as like each other as two beans, and beneath a mackintosh, like a tent cover, I twigged my friend Brackenbury’s jolly phiz. “How are you, Jorrocks?” and “How are you, Brack?” flew across like billiard-balls, while Sir Wincent, handing me the ribbons, said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I wish you all a good morning and a pleasant ride,” and Brack having done the same by his coach and passengers, the two heroes met on terry firmey, as we say in France, to exchange way-bills and directions about parcels. “Now,” said Sir Wincent, “you’ll find Miss — — ‘s bustle under the front seat — send it off to the Marine Parade the instant you get in, for she wants it to make herself up to-night for a party.” “By Jove, that’s lucky,” said Brackenbury, “for I’ll be hanged if I haven’t got old Lady — — ‘s false dinner-set of ivories in my waistcoat pocket, which I should have forgot if you hadn’t mentioned t’other things, and then the old lady would have lost her blow-out this Christmas. Here they are,” handing out a small box, “and mind you leave them yourself, for they tell me they are costly, being all fixed in coral, with gold springs, and I don’t know what — warranted to eat of themselves, they say.” “She has lost her modesty with her teeth, it seems,” said Sir Wincent. “Old women ought to be ashamed to be seen out of their graves after their grinders are gone. I’ll pound it the old tabby carn’t be under one hundred. But quick! who does that d —— d parrot and the cock-a-too belong to that you’ve got stuck up there? and look, there’s a canary and all! I’ll be d —— d if you don’t bring me a coach loaded like Wombwell’s menagerie every day! Well, be lively! ‘Twill be all the same one hundred years hence. — All right? Sit tight! Good night!”
“Well, Mr. Jorrocks, it’s long since we met,” said Brackenbury, looking me over— “never, I think, since I showed you way over the Weald of Sussex from Torrington Wood, on the gallant wite with the Colonel’s ‘ounds! Ah, those were rare days, Mr. Jorrocks! we shall never see their like again! But you’re looking fresh. Time lays a light hand on your bearing-reins! I hope it will be long ere you are booked by the Gravesend Buss. You don’t lush much, I fancy?” added he, putting a lighted cigar in his mouth. “Yes, I does,” said I— “a good deal; but I tells you what, Brackenbury, I doesn’t fumigate none — it’s the fumigation that does the mischief,” and thereupon we commenced a hargument on the comparitive mischief of smoking and drinking, which ended without either being able to convince the other. “Well, at all events, you gets beefey, Brackenbury,” said I; “you must be a couple of stone heavier than when we used to talliho the ‘ounds together. I think I could lead you over the Weald now, at all ewents if the fences were out of the way,” for I must confess that Brack was always a terrible chap at the jumps, and could go where few would follow.
We did the journey within the six hours — werry good work, considering the load and the state of the roads. No coach like the “Age” — in my opinion. I was so werry much pleased with Brack’s driving, that I presented him with a four-in-hand whip.
I put up at Jonathan Boxall’s, the Star and Garter, one of the pleasantest and best-conducted houses in all Brighton. It is close to the sea, and just by Mahomed, the sham-poor’s shop. I likes Jonathan, for he is a sportsman, and we spin a yarn together about ‘unting, and how he used to ride over the moon when he whipped in to St. John, in Berkshire. But it’s all talk with Jonathan now, for he’s more like a stranded grampus now than a fox-hunter. In course I brought down a pair of kickseys and pipe-cases, intending to have a round with the old muggers, but the snow put a stop to all that. I heard, however, that both the Telscombe Tye and the Devil’s Dike dogs had been running their half-crown rounds after hares, some of which ended in “captures,” others in “escapes,” as the newspapers terms them. I dined at the Albion on Christmas Day, and most misfortunately, my appetite was ready before the joints, so I had to make my dinner off Mary Ann cutlets, I think they call them, that is to say, chops screwed up in large curl papers, and such-like trifles. I saw some chaps drinking small glasses of stuff, so I asked the waiter what it was, and, thinking he said “Elixir of Girls,” I banged the table, and said, “Elixir of Girls! that’s the stuff for my money — give me a glass.” The chap laughed, and said, “Not Girls, sir, but Garus”; and thereupon he gave another great guffaw.
It is a capital coffee-room, full of winders, and finely-polished tables, waiters in silk stockings, and they give spermaceti cheese, and burn Parmesan candles. The chaps in it, however, were werry unsociable, and there wasn’t a man there that I would borrow half a crown to get drunk with. Stickey is the landlord, but he does not stick it in so deep as might be expected from the looks of the house, and the cheese and candles considered. It was a most tempestersome night, and, having eaten and drank to completion, I determined to go and see if my aunt, in Cavendish Street, was alive; and after having been nearly blown out to France several times, I succeeded in making my point and running to ground. The storm grew worser and worser, and when I came to open the door to go away, I found it blocked with snow, and the drifts whirling about in all directions. My aunt, who is a werry feeling woman, insisted on my staying all night, which only made the matter worse, for when I came
to look out in the morning I found the drift as high as the first floor winder, and the street completely buried in snow. Having breakfasted, and seeing no hopes of emancipation, I hangs out a flag of distress — a red wipe — which, after flapping about for some time, drew three or four sailors and a fly-man or two. I explained from the winder how dreadfully I was situated, prayed of them to release me, but the wretches did nothing but laugh, and ax wot I would give to be out. At last one of them, who acted as spokesman, proposed that I should put an armchair out of the winder, and pay them five shillings each for carrying me home on their shoulders. It seemed a vast of money, but the storm continuing, the crowd increasing, and I not wishing to kick up a row at my aunt’s, after offering four and sixpence, agreed to their terms, and throwing out a chair, plumped up to the middle in a drift. Three cheers followed the feat, which drew all the neighbours to the winders, when about half a dozen fellows, some drunk, some sober, and some half-and-half, pulled me into the chair, hoisted me on to their shoulders, and proceeded into St. James’s Street, bellowing out, “Here’s the new member for Brighton! Here’s the boy wot sleeps in Cavendish Street! Huzzah, the old ‘un for ever! There’s an elegant man for a small tea-party! Who wants a fat chap to send to their friends this Christmas?” The noise they made was quite tremendious, and the snow in many places being up to their middles, we made werry slow progress, but still they would keep me in the chair, and before we got to the end of the street the crowd had increased to some hundreds. Here they began snow-balling, and my hat and wig soon went flying, and then there was a fresh holloa. “Here’s Mr. Wigney, the member for Brighton,” they cried out; “I say, old boy, are you for the ballot? You must call on the King this morning; he wants to give you a Christmas-box.” Just then one of the front bearers tumbled, and down we all rolled into a drift, just opposite Daly’s backey shop. There were about twenty of us in together, but being pretty near the top, I was soon on my legs, and seeing an opening, I bolted right forward — sent three or four fellows flying — dashed down the passage behind Saxby’s wine vaults, across the Steyne, floundering into the drifts, followed by the mob, shouting and pelting me all the way. This double made some of the beggars over-shoot the mark, and run past the statute of George the Fourth, but, seeing their mistake, or hearing the other portion of the pack running in the contrary direction, they speedily joined heads and tails, and gave me a devil of a burst up the narrow lane by the Wite ‘Orse ‘Otel. Fortunately Jonathan Boxall’s door was open, and Jonathan himself in the passage bar, washing some decanters. “Look sharp, Jonathan!” said I, dashing past him as wite as a miller, “look sharp! come out of that, and be after clapping your great carcase against the door to keep the Philistines out, or they’ll be the death of us both.” Quick as thought the door was closed and bolted before ever the leaders had got up, but, finding this the case, the mob halted and proceeded to make a deuce of a kick-up before the house, bellowing and shouting like mad fellows, and threatening to pull it down if I did not show. Jonathan got narvous, and begged and intreated me to address them. I recommended him to do it himself, but he said he was quite unaccustomed to public speaking, and he would stand two glasses of “cold without” if I would. “Hot with,” said I, “and I’ll do it.” “Done,” said he, and he knocked the snow off my coat, pulled my wig straight, and made me look decent, and took me to a bow-winder’d room on the first floor, threw up; the sash, and exhibited me to the company outside. I bowed and kissed my hand like a candidate. They cheered and shouted, and then called for silence whilst; I addressed them. “Gentlemen,” said I, “Who are you?” “Why, we be the men wot carried your honour’s glory from Cavendish Street, and wants to be paid for it.”; “Gentlemen,” said I, “I’m no orator, but I’m a honest man; I pays everybody twenty shillings in the pound. and no mistake (cheers). If you had done your part of the bargain, I would have done mine, but ’ow can you expect to be paid after spilling me? This is a most inclement day, and, whatever you may say to the contrary, I’m not Mr. Clement Wigney.”— “No, nor Mr. Faithful neither,” bellowed one of the bearers. — said I, “you’ll get the complaints of the season, chilblains and influhensa, if you stand dribbling there in the snow. Let me advise you to mizzle, for, if you don’t, I’m blowed if I don’t divide a whole jug of cold water equally amongst you. Go home to your wives and children, and don’t be after annoying an honest, independent, amiable publican, like Jonathan Boxall. That’s all I’ve got to say, and if I was to talk till I’m black in the face, I couldn’t say nothing more to the purpose; so, I wishes you all ‘A Merry Christmas and an ‘Appy New Year.’”
But I’m fatiguing you, Mr. Nimrod, with all this, which is only hinteresting to the parties concerned, so will pass on to other topics. I saw the King riding in his coach with his Sunday coat on. He looked werry well, but his nose was rather blueish at the end, a sure sign that he is but a mortal, and feels the cold just like any other man. The Queen did not show, but I saw some of her maids of honour, who made me think of the Richmond cheesecakes. There were a host of pretty ladies, and the cold gave a little colour to their noses, too, which, I think, improved their appearance wastly, for I’ve always remarked that your ladies of quality are rather pasty, and do not generally show their high blood in their cheeks and noses. I’m werry fond of looking at pretty girls, whether maids of ‘onour or maids of all work.
The storm stopped all wisiting, and even the Countess of Winterton’s ball was obliged to be put off. Howsomever, that did not interfere at all with Jonathan Boxall and me, except that it, perhaps, made us take a bottom of brandy more than usual, particularly after Jonathan had run over again one of his best runs.
Now, dear Nimrod, adieu. Whenever you comes over to England, I shall be werry ‘appy to see you in Great Coram Street, where dinner is on the table punctually at five on week days, and four on Sundays; and with best regards to Mrs. Nimrod, and all the little Nimrods,
I remain, for Self and Co., yours to serve,
JOHN JORROCKS.
XII. MR. JORROCKS’S DINNER PARTY
THE GENERAL POSTMAN had given the final flourish to his bell, and the muffin-girl had just begun to tinkle hers, when a capacious yellow hackney-coach, with a faded scarlet hammer-cloth, was seen jolting down Great Coram Street, and pulling up at Mr. Jorrocks’s door.
Before Jarvey had time to apply his hand to the area bell, after giving the usual three knocks and a half to the brass lion’s head on the door, it was opened by the boy Benjamin in a new drab coat, with a blue collar, and white sugar-loaf buttons, drab waistcoat, and black velveteen breeches, with well-darned white cotton stockings.
The knock drew Mr. Jorrocks from his dining-room, where he had been acting the part of butler, for which purpose he had put off his coat and appeared in his shirtsleeves, dressed in nankeen shorts, white gauze silk stockings, white neckcloth, and white waistcoat, with a frill as large as a hand-saw. Handing the bottle and corkscrew to Betsey, he shuffled himself into a smart new blue saxony coat with velvet collar and metal buttons, and advanced into the passage to greet the arrivers.
“Oh! gentlemen, gentlemen,” exclaimed he, “I’m so ‘appy to see you — so werry ‘appy you carn’t think,” holding out both hands to the foremost, who happened to be Nimrod; “this is werry kind of you, for I declare it’s six to a minute. ‘Ow are you, Mr. Nimrod? Most proud to see you at my humble crib. Well, Stubbs, my boy, ’ow do you do? Never knew you late in my life,” giving him a hearty slap on the back. “Mr. Spiers, I’m werry ‘appy to see you. You are just what a sporting publisher ought to be — punctuality itself. Now, gentlemen, dispose of your tiles, and come upstairs to Mrs. J —— , and let’s get you introduced.” “I fear we are late, Mr. Jorrocks,” observed Nimrod, advancing past the staircase end to hang up his hat on a line of pegs against the wall.