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                      Jorrocks' Jaunts and Jollities

                              Robert Surtees

CONTENTS

  I. THE SWELL AND THE SURREY
  II. THE YORKSHIREMAN AND THE SURREY
  III. SURREY SHOOTING: MR. JORROCKS IN TROUBLE
  IV. MR. JORROCKS AND THE SURREY STAGHOUNDS
  V. THE TURF: MR. JORROCKS AT NEWMARKET
  VI. A WEEK AT CHELTENHAM: THE CHELTENHAM DANDY
  VII. AQUATICS: MR. JORROCKS AT MARGATE
  VIII. THE ROAD: ENGLISH AND FRENCH
  IX. MR. JORROCKS IN PARIS
  X. SPORTING IN FRANCE
  XI. A RIDE TO BRIGHTON ON "THE AGE"
  XII. MR. JORROCKS'S DINNER PARTY
  XIII. THE DAY AFTER THE FEAST: AN EPISODE BY THE YORKSHIREMAN



I. THE SWELL AND THE SURREY

What true-bred city sportsman has not in his day put off the most urgent
business--perhaps his marriage, or even the interment of his rib--that
he might "brave the morn" with that renowned pack, the Surrey
subscription foxhounds? Lives there, we would ask, a thoroughbred,
prime, bang-up, slap-dash, break-neck, out-and-out artist, within three
miles of the Monument, who has not occasionally "gone a good 'un" with
this celebrated pack? And shall we, the bard of Eastcheap, born all
deeds of daring to record, shall we, who so oft have witnessed--nay,
shared--the hardy exploits of our fellow-cits, shall we sit still, and
never cease the eternal twirl of our dexter around our sinister thumb,
while other scribes hand down to future ages the paltry feats of
beardless Meltonians, and try to shame old Father Thames himself with
muddy Whissendine's foul stream? Away! thou vampire, Indolence, that
suckest the marrow of imagination, and fattenest on the cream of idea
ere yet it float on the milk of reflection. Hence! slug-begotten hag,
thy power is gone--the murky veil thou'st drawn o'er memory's sweetest
page is rent!

    Harp of Eastcheap, awake!

Our thoughts hark back to the cover-side, and our heart o'erflows with
recollections of the past, when life rode the pace through our veins,
and the bark of the veriest mongrel, or the bray of the sorriest
costermonger's sorriest "Jerusalem," were far more musical sounds than
Paganini's pizzicatos or Catalani's clamorous caterwaulings.

And, thou, Goddess of the Silver Bow--chaste Diana--deign to become the
leading star of our lucubrations; come perch upon our grey goose quill;
shout in our ear the maddening Tally-ho! and ever and anon give a
salutary "refresher" to our memory with thy heaven-wrought spurs--those
spurs old Vulcan forged when in his maddest mood--whilst we relate such
feats of town-born youths and city squires, as shall "harrow up
the souls" of milk-sop Melton's choicest sons, and "fright their
grass-galloping garrons from their propriety." But gently,
Pegasus!--Here again, boys, and "let's to business," as they say on
'Change.

'Twere almost needless to inform our readers, that such portion of a
county as is hunted by any one pack of hounds is technically denominated
their country; and of all countries under the sun, that of the Surrey
subscription foxhounds undoubtedly bears the bell. This superiority
arises from the peculiar nature of the soil--wretched starvation stuff
most profusely studded with huge sharp flints--the abundance of large
woods, particularly on the Kent side, and the range of mountainous hills
that run directly through the centre, which afford accommodation to the
timid, and are unknown in most counties and unequalled in any.

One of the most striking features in the aspect of this chosen region of
fox-hunting, is the quiet easy manner in which the sportsmen take the
thing. On they go--now trotting gently over the flints--now softly
ambling along the grassy ridge of some stupendous hill--now quietly
following each other in long-drawn files, like geese, through some
close and deep ravine, or interminable wood, which re-echoes to their
never-ceasing holloas--every man shouting in proportion to the amount of
his subscription, until day is made horrible with their yelling. There
is no pushing, jostling, rushing, cramming, or riding over one another;
no jealousy, discord, or daring; no ridiculous foolhardy feats; but each
man cranes and rides, and rides and cranes in a style that would gladden
the eye of a director of an insurance office.

The members of the Surrey are the people that combine business with
pleasure, and even in the severest run can find time for sweet
discourse, and talk about the price of stocks or stockings. "Yooi wind
him there, good dog, yooi wind him."--"Cottons is fell."--"Hark to
Cottager! Hark!"--"Take your bill at three months, or give you three
and a half discount for cash." "Eu in there, eu in, Cheapside, good
dog."--"Don't be in a hurry, sir, pray. He may be in the empty casks
behind the cooper's. Yooi, try for him, good bitch. Yooi, push him
out."--"You're not going down that bank, surely sir? Why, it's almost
perpendicular! For God's sake, sir, take care--remember you are not
insured. Ah! you had better get off--here, let me hold your nag, and
when you're down you can catch mine;--that's your sort but mind he
doesn't break the bridle. He won't run away, for he knows I've got some
sliced carrots in my pocket to reward him if he does well.--Thank you,
sir, and now for a leg up--there we are--that's your sort--I'll wait
till you are up also, and we'll be off together."

It is this union of the elegant courtesies and business of life with
the energetic sports of the field, that constitutes the charm of Surrey
hunting; and who can wonder that smoke-dried cits, pent up all the week,
should gladly fly from their shops to enjoy a day's sport on a Saturday?
We must not, however, omit to express a hope that young men, who
have their way to make in the world, may not be led astray by its
allurements. It is all very well for old-established shopkeepers "to do
a bit of pleasure" occasionally, but the apprentice or journeyman, who
understands his duties and the tricks of his trade, will never be found
capering in the hunting field. He will feel that his proper place is
behind the counter; and while his master is away enjoying the pleasures
of the chase, he can prig as much "pewter" from the till as will take
both himself and his lass to Sadler's Wells theatre, or any other place
she may choose to appoint.

But to return to the Surrey. The town of Croydon, nine miles from
the standard in Cornhill, is the general rendezvous of the gallant
sportsmen. It is the principal market town in the eastern division of
the county of Surrey; and the chaw-bacons who carry the produce of their
acres to it, instead of to the neighbouring village of London, retain
much of their pristine barbarity. The town furnishes an interesting
scene on a hunting morning, particularly on a Saturday. At an early
hour, groups of grinning cits may be seen pouring in from the London
side, some on the top of Cloud's coaches,[1] some in taxed carts, but
the greater number mounted on good serviceable-looking nags, of the
invaluable species, calculated for sport or business, "warranted free
from vice, and quiet both to ride and in harness"; some few there are,
who, with that kindness and considerate attention which peculiarly mark
this class of sportsmen, have tacked a buggy to their hunter, and given
a seat to a friend, who leaning over the back of the gig, his jocund
phiz turned towards his fidus Achates, leads his own horse behind,
listening to the discourse of "his ancient," or regaling him "with sweet
converse"; and thus they onward jog, until the sign of the "Greyhound,"
stretching quite across the main street, greets their expectant optics,
and seems to forbid their passing the open portal below. In they wend
then, and having seen their horses "sorted," and the collar marks (as
much as may be) carefully effaced by the shrewd application of a due
quantity of grease and lamp-black, speed in to "mine host" and order a
sound repast of the good things of this world; the which to discuss,
they presently apply themselves with a vigour that indicates as much a
determination to recruit fatigue endured, as to lay in stock against the
effects of future exertion. Meanwhile the bustle increases; sportsmen
arrive by the score, fresh tables are laid out, covered with "no end" of
vivers; and towards the hour of nine, may be heard to perfection, that
pleasing assemblage of sounds issuing from the masticatory organs of
a number of men steadfastly and studiously employed in the delightful
occupation of preparing their mouthfuls for deglutition. "O noctes
coenæque Deûm," said friend Flaccus. Oh, hunting breakfasts! say we.
Where are now the jocund laugh, the repartee, the oft-repeated tale, the
last debate? As our sporting contemporary, the _Quarterly_, said, when
describing the noiseless pursuit of old reynard by the Quorn: "Reader,
there is no crash now, and not much music." It is the tinker that makes
a great noise over a little work, but, at the pace these men are eating,
there is no time for babbling. So, gentle lector, there is now no
leisure for bandying compliments, 'tis your small eater alone who
chatters o'er his meals; your true-born sportsman is ever a silent and,
consequently, an assiduous grubber. True it is that occasionally space
is found between mouthfuls to vociferate "WAITER!" in a tone that
requires not repetition; and most sonorously do the throats of the
assembled eaters re-echo the sound; but this is all--no useless
exuberance of speech--no, the knife or fork is directed towards what
is wanted, nor needs there any more expressive intimation of the
applicant's wants.

[Footnote 1: The date of this description, it must be remembered, is put
many years back.]

At length the hour of ten approaches; bills are paid, pocket-pistols
filled, sandwiches stowed away, horses accoutred, and our bevy straddle
forth into the town, to the infinite gratification of troops of
dirty-nosed urchins, who, for the last hour, have been peeping in at the
windows, impatiently watching for the _exeunt_ of our worthies.--They
mount, and away--trot, trot--bump, bump--trot, trot--bump, bump--over
Addington Heath, through the village, and up the hill to Hayes Common,
which having gained, spurs are applied, and any slight degree of
pursiness that the good steeds may have acquired by standing at livery
in Cripplegate, or elsewhere, is speedily pumped out of them by a
smart brush over the turf, to the "Fox," at Keston, where a numerous
assemblage of true sportsmen patiently await the usual hour for throwing
off. At length time being called, say twenty minutes to eleven, and Mr.
Jorrocks, Nodding Homer, and the principal subscribers having cast up,
the hounds approach the cover. "Yooi in there!" shouts Tom Hills, who
has long hunted this crack pack; and crack! crack! crack! go the whips
of some scores of sportsmen. "Yelp, yelp, yelp," howl the hounds; and in
about a quarter of an hour Tom has not above four or five couple at his
heels. This number being a trifle, Tom runs his prad at a gap in the
fence by the wood-side; the old nag goes well at it, but stops short at
the critical moment, and, instead of taking the ditch, bolts and wheels
round. Tom, however, who is "large in the boiling pieces," as they say
at Whitechapel, is prevented by his weight from being shaken out of his
saddle; and, being resolved to take no denial, he lays the crop of his
hunting-whip about the head of his beast, and runs him at the same spot
a second time, with an _obligato_ accompaniment of his spur-rowels,
backed by a "curm along then!" issued in such a tone as plainly informs
his quadruped he is in no joking humour. These incentives succeed in
landing Tom and his nag in the wished-for spot, when, immediately,
the wood begins to resound with shouts of "Yoicks True-bo-y, yoicks
True-bo-y, yoicks push him up, yoicks wind him!" and the whole pack
begin to work like good 'uns. Occasionally may be heard the howl of some
unfortunate hound that has been caught in a fox trap, or taken in a hare
snare; and not unfrequently the discordant growls of some three or
four more, vociferously quarrelling over the venerable remains of some
defunct rabbit. "Oh, you rogues!" cries Mr. Jorrocks, a cit rapturously
fond of the sport. After the lapse of half an hour the noise in the wood
for a time increases audibly. 'Tis Tom chastising the gourmands. Another
quarter of an hour, and a hound that has finished his coney bone slips
out of the wood, and takes a roll upon the greensward, opining, no
doubt, that such pastime is preferable to scratching his hide among
brambles in the covers. "Hounds have no right to opine," opines the head
whipper-in; so clapping spurs into his prad, he begins to pursue the
delinquent round the common, with "Markis, Markis! what are you at,
Markis? get into cover, Markis!" But "it's no go"; Marquis creeps
through a hedge, and "grins horribly a ghastly smile" at his ruthless
tormentor, who wends back, well pleased at having had an excuse for
taking "a bit gallop"! Half an hour more slips away, and some of
the least hasty of our cits begin to wax impatient, in spite of the
oft-repeated admonition, "don't be in a hurry!" At length a yokel pops
out of the cover, and as soon as he has recovered breath, informs the
field that he has been "a-hollorin' to 'em for half an hour," and that
the fox had "gone away for Tatsfield, 'most as soon as ever the 'oounds
went into 'ood."

All is now hurry-scurry--girths are tightened--reins gathered
up--half-munched sandwiches thrust into the mouth--pocket-pistols
applied to--coats comfortably buttoned up to the throat; and, these
preparations made, away goes the whole field, "coolly and fairly," along
the road to Leaves Green and Crown Ash Hill--from which latter spot, the
operations of the pack in the bottom may be comfortably and securely
viewed--leaving the whips to flog as many hounds out of cover as they
can, and Tom to entice as many more as are willing to follow the "twang,
twang, twang" of his horn.

And now, a sufficient number of hounds having been seduced from the
wood, forth sallies "Tummas," and making straight for the spot where our
yokel's "mate" stands leaning on his plough-stilts, obtains from him the
exact latitude and longitude of the spot where reynard broke through the
hedge. To this identical place is the pack forthwith led; and, no sooner
have they reached it, than the wagging of their sterns clearly shows how
genuine is their breed. Old Strumpet, at length, first looking up in
Tom's face for applause, ventures to send forth a long-drawn howl,
which, coupled with Tom's screech, setting the rest agog, away they all
go, like beans; and the wind, fortunately setting towards Westerham,
bears the melodious sound to the delighted ears of our "roadsters," who,
forthwith catching the infection, respond with deafening shouts and
joyous yells, set to every key, and disdaining the laws of harmony.
Thus, what with Tom's horn, the holloaing of the whips, and the shouts
of the riders, a very pretty notion may be formed of what Virgil calls:

  "Clamorque virûm, clangorque tubarum."

A terrible noise is the result!

At the end of nine minutes or so, the hounds come to fault in the
bottom, below the blacksmith's, at Crown Ash Hill, and the fox has a
capital chance; in fact, they have changed for the blacksmith's tom cat,
which rushed out before them, and finding their mistake, return at their
leisure. This gives the most daring of the field, on the eminence, an
opportunity of descending to view the sport more closely; and being
assembled in the bottom, each congratulates his neighbour on the
excellent condition and stanchness of the hounds, and the admirable view
that has been afforded them of their peculiar style of hunting. At this
interesting period, a "regular swell" from Melton Mowbray, unknown to
everyone except his tailor, to whom he owes a long tick, makes his
appearance and affords abundance of merriment for our sportsmen. He
is just turned out of the hands of his valet, and presents the very
beau-ideal of his caste--"quite the lady," in fact. His hat is stuck on
one side, displaying a profusion of well-waxed ringlets; a corresponding
infinity of whisker, terminating at the chin, there joins an enormous
pair of moustaches, which give him the appearance of having caught the
fox himself and stuck its brush below his nose. His neck is very stiff;
and the exact Jackson-like fit of his coat, which almost nips him in two
at the waist, and his superlatively well-cleaned leather Andersons,[2]
together with the perfume and the general puppyism of his appearance,
proclaim that he is a "swell" of the very first water, and one that a
Surrey sportsman would like to buy at his own price and sell at the
other's. In addition to this, his boots, which his "fellow" has
just denuded from a pair of wash-leather covers, are of the finest,
brightest, blackest patent leather imaginable; the left one being the
identical boot by which Warren's monkey shaved himself, while the right
is the one at which the game-cock pecked, mistaking its own shadow for
an opponent, the mark of its bill being still visible above the instep;
and the tops--whose pampered appetites have been fed on champagne--are
of the most delicate cream-colour, the whole devoid of mud or speck. The
animal he bestrides is no less calculated than himself to excite the
risible faculties of the field, being a sort of mouse colour, with dun
mane and tail, got by Nicolo, out of a flibbertigibbet mare, and he
stands seventeen hands and an inch. His head is small and blood-like,
his girth a mere trifle, and his legs, very long and spidery, of course
without any hair at the pasterns to protect them from the flints; his
whole appearance bespeaking him fitter to run for half-mile hunters'
stakes at Croxton Park or Leicester, than contend for foxes' brushes in
such a splendid country as the Surrey. There he stands, with his tail
stuck tight between his legs, shivering and shaking for all the world as
if troubled with a fit of ague. And well he may, poor beast, for--oh,
men of Surrey, London, Kent, and Middlesex, hearken to my word--on
closer inspection he proves to have been shaved!!![3]

[Footnote 2: Anderson, of South Audley Street, is, or was, a famous
breeches-maker.]

[Footnote 3: Shaving was in great vogue at Melton some seasons back. It
was succeeded by clipping, and clipping by singeing.]

After a considerable time spent in casting to the right, the left, and
the rear, "True-bouy" chances to take a fling in advance, and hitting
upon the scent, proclaims it with his wonted energy, which drawing all
his brethren to the spot, they pick it slowly over some brick-fields and
flint-beds, to an old lady's flower-garden, through which they carry it
with a surprising head into the fields beyond, when they begin to fall
into line, and the sportsmen doing the same--"one at a time and it will
last the longer"--"Tummas" tootles his horn, the hunt is up, and away
they all rattle at "Parliament pace," as the hackney-coachmen say.

Our swell, who flatters himself he can "ride a few," according to the
fashion of his country, takes up a line of his own, abreast of the
leading hounds, notwithstanding the oft vociferated cry of "Hold hard,
sir!" "Pray, hold hard, sir!" "For God's sake, hold hard, sir!" "G--d
d--n you, hold hard, sir!" "Where the h--ll are you going to, sir?" and
other familiar inquiries and benedictions, with which a stranger is
sometimes greeted, who ventures to take a look at a strange pack of
hounds.

In the meantime the fox, who has often had a game at romps with his
pursuers, being resolved this time to give them a tickler, bears
straight away for Westerham, to the infinite satisfaction of the "hill
folks," who thus have an excellent opportunity of seeing the run without
putting their horses to the trouble of "rejoicing in their strength, or
pawing in the valley." But who is so fortunate as to be near the scene
of action in this second scurry, almost as fast as the first? Our fancy
supplies us, and there not being many, we will just initialise them all,
and let he whom the cap fits put it on.

If we look to the left, nearly abreast of the three couple of hounds
that are leading by some half mile or so, we shall see "Swell"--like a
monkey on a giraffe--striding away in the true Leicestershire style; the
animal contracting its stride after every exertion in pulling its long
legs out of the deep and clayey soil, until the Bromley barber, who has
been quilting his mule along at a fearful rate, and in high dudgeon at
anyone presuming to exercise his profession upon a dumb brute, overtakes
him, and in the endeavour to pass, lays it into his mule in a style that
would insure him rotatory occupation at Brixton for his spindles, should
any member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals
witness his proceedings; while his friend and neighbour old B----, the
tinker, plies his little mare with the Brummagems, to be ready to ride
over "Swell" the instant the barber gets him down. On the right of the
leading hounds are three crack members of the Surrey, Messrs. B--e,
S--bs, and B--l, all lads who can go; while a long way in the rear of
the body of the pack are some dozen, who, while they sat on the hills,
thought they could also, but who now find out their mistake. Down Windy
Lane, a glimpse of a few red coats may be caught passing the gaps and
weak parts of the fence, among whom we distinctly recognise the worthy
master of the pack, followed by Jorrocks, with his long coat-laps
floating in the breeze, who thinking that "catching-time" must be near
at hand, and being dearly fond of blood, has descended from his high
station to witness the close of the scene. "Vot a pace! and vot a
country!" cries the grocer, standing high in his stirrups, and bending
over the neck of his chestnut as though he were meditating a plunge over
his head; "how they stick to him! vot a pack! by Jove they are at fault
again. Yooi, Pilgrim! Yooi, Warbler, ma load! (lad). Tom, try down the
hedge-row." "Hold your jaw, Mr. J----," cries Tom, "you are always
throwing that red rag of yours. I wish you would keep your potato-trap
shut. See! you've made every hound throw up, and it's ten to one that
ne'er a one among 'em will stoop again." "Yonder he goes," cries a cock
of the old school, who used to hunt with Colonel Jolliffe's hounds,
and still sports the long blue surtout lined with orange, yellow-ochre
unmentionables, and mahogany-coloured knee-caps, with mother-of-pearl
buttons. "Yonder he goes among the ship (sheep), for a thousand! see how
the skulking waggabone makes them scamper." At this particular moment
a shrill scream is heard at the far end of a long shaw, and every man
pushes on to the best of his endeavour. "Holloo o-o-u, h'loo o-o-u,
h'loo--o-o-u, gone away! gone away! forward! forrard! hark back! hark
forrard! hark forrard! hark back!" resounds from every mouth. "He's
making for the 'oods beyond Addington, and we shall have a rare teaser
up these hills," cries Jorrocks, throwing his arms round his horse's
neck as he reaches the foot of them.--"D--n your hills," cries "Swell,"
as he suddenly finds himself sitting on the hindquarters of his horse,
his saddle having slipped back for want of a breastplate,--"I wish the
hills had been piled on your back, and the flints thrust down your
confounded throat, before I came into such a cursed provincial." "Haw,
haw, haw!" roars a Croydon butcher. "What don't 'e like it, sir, eh? too
sharp to be pleasant, eh?--Your nag should have put on his boots before
he showed among us."

"He's making straight for Fuller's farm," exclaims a thirsty veteran on
reaching the top, "and I'll pull up and have a nip of ale, please God."
"Hang your ale," cries a certain sporting cheesemonger, "you had better
come out with a barrel of it tacked to your horse's tail."--"Or 'unt on
a steam-engine," adds his friend the omnibus proprietor, "and then
you can brew as you go." "We shall have the Croydon Canal," cries Mr.
H----n, of Tottenham, who knows every flint in the country, "and how
will you like that, my hearties?" "Curse the Croydon Canal," bawls the
little Bromley barber, "my mule can swim like a soap-bladder, and my
toggery can't spoil, thank God!"

The prophecy turns up. Having skirted Fuller's farm, the villain finds
no place to hide; and in two minutes, or less, the canal appears in
view. It is full of craft, and the locks are open, but there is a bridge
about half a mile to the right. "If my horse can do nothing else he can
jump this," cries "Swell," as he gathers him together, and prepares for
the effort. He hardens his heart and goes at it full tilt, and the leggy
animal lands him three yards on the other side. "Curse this fellow,"
cries Jorrocks, grinning with rage as he sees "Swell" skimming through
the air like a swallow on a summer's eve, "he'll have a laugh at the
Surrey, for ever and ever, Amen. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish I durst leap
it. What shall I do? Here bargee," cries he to a bargeman, "lend us a
help over and I'll give you ninepence." The bargeman takes him at his
word, and getting the vessel close to the water's edge, Jorrocks has
nothing to do but ride in, and, the opposite bank being accommodating,
he lands without difficulty. Ramming his spurs into his nag, he now
starts after "Swell," who is sailing away with a few couple of hounds
that took the canal; the body of the pack and all the rest of the
field--except the Bromley barber, who is now floundering in the
water--having gone round to the bridge.

The country is open, the line being across commons and along roads, so
that Jorrocks, who is not afraid of "the pace" so long as there is no
leaping, has a pretty good chance with "Swell." The scene now shifts. On
turning out of a lane, along which they have just rattled, a fence of
this description appears: The bottom part is made of flints, and the
upper part of mud, with gorse stuck along the top, and there is a gutter
on each side. Jorrocks, seeing that a leap is likely, hangs astern, and
"Swell," thinking to shake off his only opponent, and to have a rare
laugh at the Surrey when he gets back to Melton, puts his nag at it most
manfully, who, though somewhat blown, manages to get his long carcass
over, but, unfortunately alighting on a bed of flints on the far side,
cuts a back sinew, and "Swell" measures his length on the headland.
Jorrocks then pulls up.

The tragedy of George Barnwell ends with a death, and we are happy in
being able to gratify our readers with a similar entertainment. Already
have the best-mounted men in the field attained the summit of one of the
Mont Blancs of the country, when on looking down the other side of the
"mountain's brow," they, to their infinite astonishment, espy at some
distance our "Swell" dismounted and playing at "pull devil, pull
baker" with the hounds, whose discordant bickerings rend the skies.
"Whoo-hoop!" cries one; "whoo-hoop!" responds another; "whoo-hoop!"
screams a third; and the contagion spreading, and each man dismounting,
they descend the hill with due caution, whoo-hooping, hallooing, and
congratulating each other on the splendour of the run, interspersed with
divers surmises as to what mighty magic had aided the hounds in getting
on such good terms with the warmint, and exclamations at the good
fortune of the stranger, in being able (by nicking,[4] and the fox
changing his line) to get in at the finish.

[Footnote 4: A stranger never rides straight if he beats the members of
the hunt.]

And now some dozens of sportsmen quietly ambling up to the scene of
action, view with delight (alone equalled by their wonder at so unusual
and unexpected an event) the quarrels of the hounds, as they dispute
with each other the possession of their victim's remains, when suddenly
a gentleman, clad in a bright green silk-velvet shooting-coat, with
white leathers, and Hessian boots with large tassels, carrying his Joe
Manton on his shoulder, issues from an adjoining coppice, and commences
a loud complaint of the "unhandsome conduct of the gentlemen's 'ounds in
devouring the 'are (hare) which he had taken so much pains to shoot."
Scarcely are these words out of his mouth than the whole hunt, from
Jorrocks downwards, let drive such a rich torrent of abuse at our
unfortunate _chasseur_, that he is fain to betake himself to his heels,
leaving them undisputed masters of the field.

The visages of our sportsmen become dismally lengthened on finding that
their fox has been "gathered unto his fathers" by means of hot lead and
that villainous saltpetre "digged out of the bowels of the harmless
earth"; some few, indeed, there are who are bold enough to declare that
the pack has actually made a meal of a hare, and that their fox is
snugly earthed in the neighbouring cover. However, as there are no
"reliquias Danaum," to prove or disprove this assertion, Tom Hills,
having an eye to the cap-money, ventures to give it as his opinion,
that pug has fairly yielded to his invincible pursuers, without having
"dropped to shot." This appearing to give very general satisfaction, the
first whip makes no scruple of swearing that he saw the hounds pull him
down fairly; and Peckham, drawing his mouth up on one side, with his
usual intellectual grin, takes a similar affidavit. The Bromley barber
too, anxious to have it to say that he has for once been in at the death
of a fox, vows by his beard that he saw the "varmint" lathered in style;
and these protestations being received with clamorous applause, and
everyone being pleased to have so unusual an event to record to his
admiring spouse, agrees that a fox has not only been killed, but killed
in a most sportsmanlike, workmanlike, businesslike manner; and long and
loud are the congratulations, great is the increased importance of each
man's physiognomy, and thereupon they all lug out their half-crowns for
Tom Hills.

In the meantime our "Swell" lays hold of his nag--who is sorely damaged
with the flints, and whose wind has been pretty well pumped out of
him by the hills--and proceeds to lead him back to Croydon, inwardly
promising himself for the future most studiously to avoid the renowned
county of Surrey, its woods, its barbers, its mountains, and its flints,
and to leave more daring spirits to overcome the difficulties it
presents; most religiously resolving, at the same time, to return as
speedily as possible to his dear Leicestershire, there to amble o'er
the turf, and fancy himself an "angel on horseback." The story of the
country mouse, who must needs see the town, occurs forcibly to his
recollection, and he exclaims aloud:

  "me sylva, cavusque
  Tutus ab insidiis tenui solabitur ervo."

On overhearing which, Mr. Jorrocks hurries back to his brother
subscribers, and informs them, very gravely, that the stranger is no
less a personage than "Prince Matuchevitz, the Russian ambassador and
minister plenipotentiary extraordinary," whereupon the whole field join
in wishing him safe back in Russia--or anywhere else--and wonder at his
incredible assurance in supposing that he could cope with THE SURREY
HUNT.



II. THE YORKSHIREMAN AND THE SURREY

It is an axiom among fox-hunters that the hounds they individually hunt
with are the best--compared with them all others are "slow."

Of this species of pardonable egotism, Mr. Jorrocks--who in addition
to the conspicuous place he holds in the Surrey Hunt, as shown in the
preceding chapter, we should introduce to our readers as a substantial
grocer in St. Botolph's Lane, with an elegant residence in Great Coram
Street, Russell Square--has his full, if not rather more than his fair
share. Vanity, however, is never satisfied without display, and Mr.
Jorrocks longed for a customer before whom he could exhibit the prowess
of his[5] pack.

[Footnote 5: Subscribers, speaking to strangers, always talk of the
hounds as their own.]

Chance threw in his way a young Yorkshireman, who frequently appearing
in subsequent pages, we may introduce as a loosish sort of hand, up to
anything in the way of a lark, but rather deficient in cash--a character
so common in London, as to render further description needless.

Now it is well known that a Yorkshireman, like a dragoon, is nothing
without his horse, and if he does understand anything better than
racing--it is hunting. Our readers will therefore readily conceive that
a Yorkshireman is more likely to be astonished at the possibility of
fox-hunting from London, than captivated by the country, or style of
turn-out; and in truth, looking at it calmly and dispassionately, in our
easy-chair drawn to a window which overlooks the cream of the grazing
grounds in the Vale of White Horse, it does strike us with astonishment,
that such a thing as a fox should be found within a day's ride of the
suburbs. The very idea seems preposterous, for one cannot but associate
the charms of a "find" with the horrors of "going to ground" in an
omnibus, or the fox being headed by a great Dr. Eady placard, or some
such monstrosity. Mr. Mayne,[6] to be sure, has brought racing home to
every man's door, but fox-hunting is not quite so tractable a sport. But
to our story.

[Footnote 6: The promoter of the Hippodrome, near Bayswater--a
speculation that soon came to grief.]

It was on a nasty, cold, foggy, dark, drizzling morning in the month of
February, that the Yorkshireman, having been offered a "mount" by Mr.
Jorrocks, found himself shivering under the Piazza in Covent Garden
about seven o'clock, surrounded by cabs, cabbages, carrots, ducks,
dollys, and drabs of all sorts, waiting for his horse and the appearance
of the friend who had seduced him into the extraordinary predicament of
attiring himself in top-boots and breeches in London. After pacing up
and down some minutes, the sound of a horse's hoofs were heard turning
down from Long Acre, and reaching the lamp-post at the corner of James
Street, his astonished eyes were struck with the sight of a man in a
capacious, long, full-tailed, red frock coat reaching nearly to his
spurs, with mother-of-pearl buttons, with sporting devices--which
afterwards proved to be foxes, done in black--brown shag breeches, that
would have been spurned by the late worthy master of the Hurworth,[7]
and boots, that looked for all the world as if they were made to tear up
the very land and soil, tied round the knees with pieces of white tape,
the flowing ends of which dangled over the mahogany-coloured tops. Mr.
Jorrocks--whose dark collar, green to his coat, and _tout ensemble_,
might have caused him to be mistaken for a mounted general postman--was
on a most becoming steed--a great raking, raw-boned chestnut, with a
twisted snaffle in his mouth, decorated with a faded yellow silk front,
a nose-band, and an ivory ring under his jaws, for the double purpose
of keeping the reins together and Jorrocks's teeth in his head--the nag
having flattened the noses and otherwise damaged the countenances of his
two previous owners, who had not the knack of preventing him tossing
his head in their faces. The saddle--large and capacious--made on the
principle of the impossibility of putting a round of beef upon a pudding
plate--was "spick and span new," as was an enormous hunting-whip, whose
iron-headed hammer he clenched in a way that would make the blood curdle
in one's veins, to see such an instrument in the hands of a misguided
man.

[Footnote 7: The late Mr. Wilkinson, commonly called "Matty Wilkinson,"
master of the Hurworth foxhounds, was a rigid adherent of the
"d----n-all-dandy" school of sportsmen.]

"Punctuality is the politeness of princes," said Mr. Jorrocks, raising a
broad-brimmed, lowish-crowned hat, as high as a green hunting-cord which
tackled it to his yellow waistcoat by a fox's tooth would allow, as he
came upon the Yorkshireman at the corner. "My soul's on fire and eager
for the chase! By heavens, I declare I've dreamt of nothing else all
night, and the worst of it is, that in a par-ox-ism of delight, when
I thought I saw the darlings running into the warmint, I brought Mrs.
J---- such a dig in the side as knocked her out of bed, and she swears
she'll go to Jenner, and the court for the protection of injured ribs!
But come--jump up--where's your nag? Binjimin, you blackguard, where are
you? The fog is blinding me, I declare! Binjimin, I say! Binjimin! you
willain, where are you?"

"Here, sir! coming!" responded a voice from the bottom of one of the
long mugs at a street breakfast stall, which the fog almost concealed
from their view, and presently an urchin in a drab coat and blue collar
came towing a wretched, ewe-necked, hungry-looking, roan rosinante along
from where he had been regaling himself with a mug of undeniable bohea,
sweetened with a composition of brown sugar and sand.

"Now be after getting up," said Jorrocks, "for time and the Surrey
'ounds wait for no man. That's not a werry elegant tit, but still
it'll carry you to Croydon well enough, where I'll put you on a most
undeniable bit of 'orse-flesh--a reg'lar clipper. That's a hack--what
they calls three-and-sixpence a side, but I only pays half a crown.
Now, Binjimin, cut away home, and tell Batsay to have dinner ready at
half-past five to a minute, and to be most particular in doing the lamb
to a turn."

The Yorkshireman having adjusted himself in the old flat-flapped hack
saddle, and got his stirrups let out from "Binjimin's" length to his
own, gathered up the stiff, weather-beaten reins, gave the animal a
touch with his spurs, and fell into the rear of Mr. Jorrocks. The
morning appeared to be getting worse. Instead of the grey day-dawn of
the country, when the thin transparent mist gradually rises from the
hills, revealing an unclouded landscape, a dense, thick, yellow fog
came rolling in masses along the streets, obscuring the gas lights, and
rendering every step one of peril. It could be both eat and felt, and
the damp struck through their clothes in the most summary manner. "This
is bad," said Mr. Jorrocks, coughing as he turned the corner by Drury
Lane, making for Catherine Street, and upset an early breakfast and
periwinkle stall, by catching one corner of the fragile fabric with his
toe, having ridden too near to the pavement. "Where are you for now? and
bad luck to ye, ye boiled lobster!" roared a stout Irish wench, emerging
from a neighbouring gin-palace on seeing the dainty viands rolling in
the street. "Cut away!" cried Jorrocks to his friend, running his horse
between one of George Stapleton's dust-carts and a hackney-coach, "or
the Philistines will be upon us." The fog and crowd concealed them,
but "Holloa! mind where you're going, you great haw-buck!" from a
buy-a-hearth-stone boy, whose stock-in-trade Jorrocks nearly demolished,
as he crossed the corner of Catherine Street before him, again roused
his vigilance. "The deuce be in the fog," said he, "I declare I can't
see across the Strand. It's as dark as a wolf's mouth.--Now where are
you going to with that meazly-looking cab of yours?--you've nearly run
your shafts into my 'oss's ribs!" cried he to a cabman who nearly upset
him. The Strand was kept alive by a few slip-shod housemaids, on their
marrow-bones, washing the doorsteps, or ogling the neighbouring pot-boy
on his morning errand for the pewters. Now and then a crazy jarvey
passed slowly by, while a hurrying mail, with a drowsy driver and
sleeping guard, rattled by to deliver their cargo at the post office.
Here and there appeared one of those beings, who like the owl hide
themselves by day, and are visible only in the dusk. Many of
them appeared to belong to the other world. Poor, puny, ragged,
sickly-looking creatures, that seemed as though they had been suckled
and reared with gin. "How different," thought the Yorkshireman to
himself, "to the fine, stout, active labourer one meets at an early hour
on a hunting morning in the country!" His reverie was interrupted on
arriving opposite the _Morning Chronicle_ office, by the most discordant
yells that ever issued from human beings, and on examining the quarter
from whence they proceeded, a group of fifty or a hundred boys, or
rather little old men, were seen with newspapers in their hands and
under their arms, in all the activity of speculation and exchange. "A
clean _Post_ for Tuesday's _Times_!" bellowed one. "I want the _Hurl_!
(Herald) for the _Satirist_!" shouted another. "Bell's _Life_ for the
_Bull_! _The Spectator_ for the _Sunday Times_!"

The approach of our sportsmen was the signal for a change of the chorus,
and immediately Jorrocks was assailed with "A hunter! a hunter! crikey,
a hunter! My eyes! there's a gamecock for you! Vot a beauty! Vere do you
turn out to-day? Vere's the stag? Don't tumble off, old boy! 'Ave you
got ever a rope in your pocket? Take Bell's _Life in London_, vot
contains all the sporting news of the country! Vot a vip the gemman's
got! Vot a precious basternadering he could give us--my eyes, vot a
swell!--vot a shocking bad hat!_[8]--vot shocking bad breeches!"

[Footnote 8: "Vot a shocking bad hat!"--a slang cockney phrase of 1831.]

The fog, which became denser at every step, by the time they reached St.
Clement's Danes rendered their further progress almost impossible.--"Oh,
dear! oh, dear! how unlucky," exclaimed Jorrocks, "I would have given
twenty pounds of best Twankay for a fine day--and see what a thing we've
got! Hold my 'oss," said he to the Yorkshireman, "while I run into the
'Angel,' and borrow an argand burner, or we shall be endorsed[9] to a
dead certainty." Off he got, and ran to the inn. Presently he emerged
from the yard--followed by horse-keepers, coach-washers, porters, cads,
waiters and others, amid loud cries of "Flare up, flare up, old cock!
talliho fox-hunter!"--with a bright mail-coach footboard lamp, strapped
to his middle, which, lighting up the whole of his broad back now cased
in scarlet, gave him the appearance of a gigantic red-and-gold insurance
office badge, or an elderly cherub without wings.

[Footnote 9: City--for having a pole run into one's rear.]

The hackney-coach-and cab-men, along whose lines they passed, could not
make him out at all. Some thought he was a mail-coach guard riding
post with the bags; but as the light was pretty strong he trotted
on regardless of observation. The fog, however, abated none of its
denseness even on the "Surrey side," and before they reached the
"Elephant and Castle," Jorrocks had run against two trucks, three
watercress women, one pies-all-ot!-all-ot! man, dispersed a whole covey
of Welsh milkmaids, and rode slap over one end of a buy 'at (hat) box!
bonnet-box! man's pole, damaging a dozen paste-boards, and finally
upsetting Balham Hill Joe's Barcelona "come crack 'em and try 'em" stall
at the door of the inn, for all whose benedictions, the Yorkshireman, as
this great fox-hunting knight-errant's "Esquire," came in.

Here the Yorkshireman would fain have persuaded Mr. Jorrocks to
desist from his quixotic undertaking, but he turned a deaf ear to his
entreaties. "We are getting fast into the country, and I hold it to
be utterly impossible for this fog to extend beyond Kennington
Common--'twill ewaporate, you'll see, as we approach the open. Indeed,
if I mistake not, I begin to sniff the morning air already, and hark!
there's a lark a-carrolling before us!" "Now, spooney! where are you
for?" bellowed a carter, breaking off in the middle of his whistle, as
Jorrocks rode slap against his leader, the concussion at once dispelling
the pleasing pastoral delusion, and nearly knocking Jorrocks off his
horse.

As they approached Brixton Hill, a large red ball of lurid light
appeared in the firmament, and just at the moment up rode another member
of the Surrey Hunt in uniform, whom Jorrocks hailed as Mr. Crane. "By
Jove, 'ow beautiful the moon is," said the latter, after the usual
salutations. "Moon!" said Mr. Jorrocks, "that's not never no moon--I
reckon it's Mrs. Graham's balloon." "Come, that's a good 'un," said
Crane, "perhaps you'll lay me an 'at about it". "Done!" said Mr.
Jorrocks, "a guinea one--and we'll ax my friend here.--Now, what's
that?" "Why, judging from its position and the hour, I should say it is
the sun!" was the reply.

We have omitted to mention that this memorable day was a Saturday,
one on which civic sportsmen exhibit. We may also premise, that the
particular hunt we are about to describe, took place when there were
very many packs of hounds within reach of the metropolis, all of which
boasted their respective admiring subscribers. As our party proceeded
they overtook a gentleman perusing a long bill of the meets for the
next week, of at least half a dozen packs, the top of the list being
decorated with a cut of a stag-hunt, and the bottom containing a
notification that hunters were "carefully attended to by Charles
Morton,[10] at the 'Derby Arms,' Croydon," a snug rural _auberge_ near
the barrack. On the hunting bill-of-fare, were Mr. Jolliffe's foxhounds,
Mr. Meager's harriers, the Derby staghounds, the Sanderstead harriers,
the Union foxhounds, the Surrey foxhounds, rabbit beagles on Epsom
Downs, and dwarf foxhounds on Woolwich Common. What a list to bewilder a
stranger! The Yorkshireman left it all to Mr. Jorrocks.

[Footnote 10: Where the carrion is, there will be the crow, and on the
demise of the "Surrey staggers," Charley brushed off to the west, to
valet the gentlemen's hunters that attend the Royal Stag Hunt.--_Vide_
Sir F. Grant's picture of the meet of the Royal Staghounds.]

"You're for Jolliffe, I suppose," said the gentleman with the bill,
to another with a blue coat and buff lining. "He's at Chipstead
Church--only six miles from Croydon, a sure find and good country."
"What are you for, Mr. Jorrocks?" inquired another in green, with black
velvet breeches, Hessian boots, and a red waistcoat, who just rode up.
"My own, to be sure," said Jorrocks, taking hold of the green collar of
his coat, as much as to say, "How can you ask such a question?" "Oh,
no," said the gentleman in green, "Come to the stag--much better
sport--sure of a gallop--open country--get it over soon--back in town
before the post goes out." Before Mr. Jorrocks had time to make a reply
to this last interrogatory, they were overtaken by another horseman,
who came hopping along at a sort of a butcher's shuffle, on a worn-out,
three-legged, four-cornered hack, with one eye, a rat-tail, and a head
as large as a fiddle-case.--"Who's for the blue mottles?" said he,
casting a glance at their respective coats, and at length fixing it on
the Yorkshireman. "Why, Dickens, you're not going thistle-whipping with
that nice 'orse of yours," said the gentleman in the velvets; "come
and see the stag turned out--sure of a gallop--no hedges--soft
country--plenty of publics--far better sport, man, than pottering about
looking for your foxes and hares, and wasting your time; take my advice,
and come with me." "But," says Dickens, "my 'orse won't stand it; I had
him in the shay till eleven last night, and he came forty-three mile
with our traveller the day before, else he's a 'good 'un to go,' as you
know. Do you remember the owdacious leap he took over the tinker's tent,
at Epping 'Unt, last Easter? How he astonished the natives within!"
"Yes; but then, you know, you fell head-foremost through the canvas, and
no wonder your ugly mug frightened them," replied he of the velvets.
"Ay; but that was in consequence of my riding by balance instead of
gripping with my legs," replied Dickens; "you see, I had taken seven
lessons in riding at the school in Bidborough Street, Burton Crescent,
and they always told me to balance myself equally on the saddle, and
harden my heart, and ride at whatever came in the way; and the tinker's
tent coming first, why, naturally enough, I went at it. But I have had
some practice since then, and, of course, can stick on better. I have
'unted regularly ever since, and can 'do the trick' now." "What, summer
and winter?" said Jorrocks. "No," replied he, "but I have 'unted
regularly every fifth Saturday since the 'unting began."

After numerous discourses similar to the foregoing, they arrived at the
end of the first stage on the road to the hunt, namely, the small town
of Croydon, the rendezvous of London sportsmen. The whole place was
alive with red coats, green coats, blue coats, black coats, brown
coats, in short, coats of all the colours of the rainbow. Horsemen were
mounting, horsemen were dismounting, one-horse "shays" and two-horse
chaises were discharging their burdens, grooms were buckling on their
masters' spurs, and others were pulling off their overalls. Eschewing
the "Greyhound," they turn short to the right, and make for the "Derby
Arms" hunting stables.

Charley Morton, a fine old boy of his age, was buckling on his armour
for the fight, for his soul, too, was "on fire, and eager for the
chase." He was for the "venison"; and having mounted his "deer-stalker,"
was speedily joined by divers perfect "swells," in beautiful leathers,
beautiful coats, beautiful tops, beautiful everything, except horses,
and off they rode to cut in for the first course--a stag-hunt on a
Saturday being usually divided into three.

The ride down had somewhat sharpened Jorrocks's appetite; and feeling,
as he said, quite ready for his dinner, he repaired to Mr. Morton's
house--a kind of sporting snuggery, everything in apple-pie order, and
very good--where he baited himself on sausages and salt herrings, a
basin of new milk, with some "sticking powder" as he called it, _alias_
rum, infused into it; and having deposited a half-quartern loaf in one
pocket, as a sort of balance against a huge bunch of keys which rattled
in the other, he pulled out his watch, and finding they had a quarter of
an hour to spare, proposed to chaperon the Yorkshireman on a tour of the
hunting stables. Jorrocks summoned the ostler, and with great dignity
led the way. "Humph," said he, evidently disappointed at seeing half the
stalls empty, "no great show this morning--pity--gentleman come from a
distance--should like to have shown him some good nags.--What sort of
a devil's this?" "Oh, sir, he's a good 'un, and nothing but a good
'un!--Leap! Lord love ye, he'll leap anything. A railway cut, a windmill
with the sails going, a navigable river with ships--anything in short.
This is the 'orse wot took the line of houses down at Beddington the day
they had the tremendious run from Reigate Hill." "And wot's the grey in
the far stall?" "Oh, that's Mr. Pepper's old nag--Pepper-Caster as we
call him, since he threw the old gemman, the morning they met at the
'Leg-of-Mutton' at Ashtead. But he's good for nothing. Bless ye! his
tail shakes for all the world like a pepper-box afore he's gone half a
mile. Those be yours in the far stalls, and since they were turned round
I've won a bob of a gemman who I bet I'd show him two 'osses with their
heads vere their tails should be.[11] I always says," added he with a
leer, "that you rides the best 'osses of any gemman vot comes to our
governor's." This flattered Jorrocks, and sidling up, he slipped a
shilling into his hand, saying, "Well--bring them out, and let's see how
they look this morning." The stall reins are slipped, and out they step
with their hoods on their quarters. One was a large, fat, full-sized
chestnut, with a white ratch down the full extent of his face, a long
square tail, bushy mane, with untrimmed heels. The other was a brown,
about fifteen two, coarse-headed, with a rat-tail, and collar-marked.
The tackle was the same as they came down with. "You'll do the trick on
that, I reckon," said Jorrocks, throwing his leg over the chestnut, and
looking askew at the Yorkshireman as he mounted. "Tatt., and old Tatt.,
and Tatt. sen. before him, all agree that they never knew a bad 'oss
with a rat-tail."

[Footnote 11: A favourite joke among grooms when a horse is turned round
in his stall.]

"But, let me tell you, you must be werry lively, if you mean to live
with our 'ounds. They go like the wind. But come! touch him with the
spur, and let's do a trot." The Yorkshireman obeyed, and getting into
the main street, onwards they jogged, right through Croydon, and struck
into a line of villas of all sorts, shapes, and sizes, which extend for
several miles along the road, exhibiting all sorts of architecture,
Gothic, Corinthian, Doric, Ionic, Dutch, and Chinese. These gradually
diminished in number, and at length they found themselves on an open
heath, within a few miles of the meet of the "Surrey foxhounds". "Now",
says Mr. Jorrocks, clawing up his smalls, "you will see the werry finest
pack of hounds in all England; I don't care where the next best are; and
you will see as good a turn-out as ever you saw in your life, and as
nice a country to ride over as ever you were in".

They reach the meet--a wayside public-house on a common, before which
the hounds with their attendants and some fifty or sixty horsemen, many
of them in scarlet, were assembled. Jorrocks was received with the
greatest cordiality, amid whoops and holloas, and cries of "now
Twankay!--now Sugar!--now Figs!" Waving his hand in token of
recognition, he passed on and made straight for Tom Hill, with a face
full of importance, and nearly rode over a hound in his hurry. "Now,
Tom," said he, with the greatest energy, "do, my good fellow, strain
every nerve to show sport to-day.--A gentleman has come all the way from
the north-east side of the town of Boroughbridge, in the county of York,
to see our excellent 'ounds, and I would fain have him galvanised.--Do
show us a run, and let it end with blood, so that he may have something
to tell the natives when he gets back to his own parts. That's him, see,
sitting under the yew-tree, in a bottle-green coat with basket buttons,
just striking a light on the pommel of his saddle to indulge in a
fumigation.--Keep your eye on him all day, and if you can lead him over
an awkward place, and get him a purl, so much the better.--If he'll risk
his neck I'll risk my 'oss's."

The Yorkshireman, having lighted his cigar and tightened his girths,
rode leisurely among the horsemen, many of whom were in eager council,
and a gentle breeze wafted divers scraps of conversation to his ear.

What is that hound got by? No. How is that horse bred? No. What sport
had you on Wednesday? No. Is it a likely find to-day? No, no, no; it was
not where the hounds, but what the Consols, left off at; what the four
per cents, and not the four horses, were up to; what the condition of
the money, not the horse, market. "Anything doing in Danish bonds,
sir?" said one. "You must do it by lease and release, and levy a fine,"
replied another. Scott _v._ Brown, crim. con. to be heard on or before
Wednesday next.--Barley thirty-two to forty-two.--Fine upland meadow
and rye grass hay, seventy to eighty.--The last pocket of hops I sold
brought seven pounds fifteen shillings. Sussex bags six pounds ten
shillings.--There were only twenty-eight and a quarter ships at market,
"and coals are coals." "Glad to hear it, sir, for half the last you sent
me were slates."--"Best qualities of beef four shillings and eightpence
a stone--mutton three shillings and eightpence, to four shillings and
sixpence.--He was exceedingly ill when I paid my last visit--I gave him
nearly a stone of Epsom-salts, and bled him twice.--This horse would
suit you to a T, sir, but my skip-jack is coming out on one at two
o'clock that can carry a house.--See what a bosom this one's got.--Well,
Gunter, old boy, have you iced your horse to-day?--Have you heard that
Brown and Co. are in the _Gazette_? No, which Brown--not John Brown?
No, William Brown. What, Brown of Goodman's Fields? No, Brown of----
Street--Brown_e_ with an _e_; you know the man I mean.--Oh, Lord, ay,
the man wot used to be called Nosey Browne." A general move ensued, and
they left "the meet."

"Vere be you going to turn out pray, sir, may I inquire?" said a
gentleman in green to the huntsman, as he turned into a field. "Turn
out," said he, "why, ye don't suppose we be come calf-hunting, do ye?
We throws off some two stones'-throw from here, if so be you mean what
cover we are going to draw." "No," said green-coat, "I mean where do
you turn out the stag?"--"D--n the stag, we know nothing about such
matters," replied the huntsman. "Ware wheat! ware wheat! ware wheat!"
was now the general cry, as a gentleman in nankeen pantaloons and
Hessian boots with long brass spurs, commenced a navigation across a
sprouting crop. "Ware wheat, ware wheat!" replied he, considering it
part of the ceremony of hunting, and continued his forward course. "Come
to my side," said Mr.----, to the whipper-in, "and meet that gentleman
as he arrives at yonder gate; and keep by him while I scold you."--"Now,
sir, most particularly d--n you, for riding slap-dash over the young
wheat, you most confounded insensible ignorant tinker, isn't the
headland wide enough both for you and your horse, even if your spurs
were as long again as they are?" Shouts of "Yooi over, over, over
hounds--try for him--yoicks--wind him! good dogs--yoicks! stir him
up--have at him there!"--here interrupted the jawbation, and the whip
rode off shaking his sides with laughter. "Your horse has got a stone in
each forefoot, and a thorn in his near hock," observed a dentist to a
wholesale haberdasher from Ludgate Hill, "allow me to extract them for
you--no pain, I assure--over before you know it." "Come away, hounds!
come away!" was heard, and presently the huntsman, with some of the pack
at his horse's heels, issued from the wood playing _Rule, Britannia!_
on a key-bugle, while the cracks of heavy-thonged whips warned the
stragglers and loiterers to follow. "Music hath charms to soothe the
savage beast," observed Jorrocks, as he tucked the laps of his frock
over his thighs, "and I hope we shall find before long, else that
quarter of house-lamb will be utterly ruined. Oh, dear, they are going
below hill I do believe! why we shall never get home to-day, and I told
Mrs. Jorrocks half-past five to a minute, and I invited old Fleecy, who
is a most punctual man."

Jorrocks was right in his surmise. They arrived on the summit of a
range of steep hills commanding an extensive view over the neighbouring
country--almost, he said, as far as the sea-coast. The huntsman and
hounds went down, but many of the field held a council of war on the
top. "Well! who's going down?" said one. "I shall wait for the next
turn," said Jorrocks, "for my horse does not like collar work." "I shall
go this time," said another, "and the rest next." "And so will I,"
said a third, "for mayhap there will be no second turn." "Ay," added a
fourth, "and he may go the other way, and then where-shall we all be?"
"Poh!" said Jorrocks, "did you ever know a Surrey fox not take to the
hills?--If he does not, I'll eat him without mint sauce," again harping
on the quarter of lamb. Facilis descensus Averni--two-thirds of the
field went down, leaving Jorrocks, two horse-dealers in scarlet, three
chicken-butchers, half a dozen swells in leathers, a whip, and the
Yorkshireman on the summit. "Why don't you go with the hounds?" inquired
the latter of the whip. "Oh, I wait here, sir," said he, "to meet Tom
Hills as he comes up, and to give him a fresh horse." "And who is Tom
Hills?" inquired the Yorkshireman. "Oh, he's our huntsman," replied he;
"you know Tom, don't you?" "Why, I can't say I do, exactly," said he;
"but tell me, is he called Hills because he rides up and down these
hills, or is that his real name?" "Hought! you know as well as I do,"
said he, quite indignantly, "that Tom Hills is his name."

The hounds, with the majority of the field, having effected the descent
of the hills, were now trotting on in the valley below, sufficiently
near, however, to allow our hill party full view of their proceedings.
After drawing a couple of osier-beds blank, they assumed a line parallel
to the hills, and moved on to a wood of about ten acres, the west end
of which terminated in a natural gorse. "They'll find there to a
certainty," said Mr. Jorrocks, pulling a telescope out of his breeches'
pocket, and adjusting the sight. "Never saw it blank but once, and that
was the werry day the commercial panic of twenty-five commenced.--I
remember making an entry in my ledger when I got home to that effect.
Humph!" continued he, looking through the glass, "they are through the
wood, though, without a challenge.--Now, my booys, push him out of
the gorse! Let's see vot you're made of.--There goes the first 'ound
in.--It's Galloper, I believe.--I can almost see the bag of shot round
his neck.--Now they all follow.--One--two--three--four--five--all
together, my beauties! Oh, vot a sight! Peckham's cap's in the air, and
it's a find, by heavens!" Mr. Jorrocks is right.--The southerly wind
wafts up the fading notes of the "Huntsman's Chorus" in _Der Frieschutz_
and confirms the fact.--Jorrocks is in ecstasies.--"Now," said he,
clawing up his breeches (for he dispenses with the article of
braces when out hunting), "that's what I calls fine. Oh, beautiful!
beautiful!--Now, follow me if you please, and if yon gentleman in drab
does not shoot the fox, he will be on the hills before long." Away
they scampered along the top of the ridge, with a complete view of the
operations below. At length Jorrocks stopped, and pulling the telescope
out, began making an observation. "There he is, at last," cried he,
"just crossed the corner of yon green field--now he creeps through the
hedge by the fir-tree, and is in the fallow one. Yet, stay--that's no
fox--it's a hare: and yet Tom Hills makes straight for the spot--and
did you hear that loud tally-ho? Oh! gentlemen, gentlemen, we shall be
laughed to scorn--what can they be doing--see, they take up the scent,
and the whole pack have joined in chorus. Great heavens, it's no more a
fox than I am!--No more brush than a badger! Oh, dear! oh, dear! that I
should live to see my old friends, the Surrey fox'ounds, 'unt hare, and
that too in the presence of a stranger." The animal made direct for the
hills--whatever it was, the hounds were on good terms with it, and got
away in good form. The sight was splendid--all the field got well off,
nor between the cover and the hills was there sufficient space for
tailing. A little elderly gentleman, in a pepper-and-salt coat, led the
way gallantly--then came the scarlets--then the darks--and then the
fustian-clad countrymen. Jorrocks was in a shocking state, and rolled
along the hill-tops, almost frantic. The field reached the bottom, and
the foremost commenced the steep ascent.

"Oh, Tom Hills!--Tom Hills!--'what are you at? what are you after?'"
demanded Jorrocks, as he landed on the top. "Here's a gentleman come all
the way from the north-east side of the town of Boroughbridge, in the
county of York, to see our excellent 'ounds, and here you are running
a hare. Oh, Tom Hills! Tom Hills! ride forward, ride forward, and
whip them off, ere we eternally disgrace ourselves." "Oh," says Tom,
laughing, "he's a fox! but he's so tarnation frightened of our hounds,
that his brush dropped off through very fear, as soon as ever he heard
us go into the wood; if you go back, you'll find it somewhere, Mr.
Jorrocks; haw, haw, haw! No fox indeed!" said he.--"Forrard, hounds,
forrard!" And away he went--caught the old whipper-in, dismounted him in
a twinkling, and was on a fresh horse with his hounds in full cry. The
line of flight was still along the hill-tops, and all eagerly pressed
on, making a goodly rattle over the beds of flints. A check ensued. "The
guard on yonder nasty Brighton coach has frightened him with his horn,"
said Tom; "now we must make a cast up to yonder garden, and see if he's
taken shelter among the geraniums in the green-house. As little damage
as possible, gentlemen, if you please, in riding through the nursery
grounds. Now, hold hard, sir--pray do--there's no occasion for you to
break the kale pots; he can't be under them. Ah, yonder he goes, the
tailless beggar; did you see him as he stole past the corner out of the
early-cabbage bed? Now bring on the hounds, and let us press him towards
London."

"See the conquering hero comes", sounded through the avenue of elms as
Tom dashed forward with the merry, merry pack. "I shall stay on the
hills", said one, "and be ready for him as he comes back; I took a good
deal of the shine out of my horse in coming up this time". "I think
I will do the same", said two or three more. "Let's be doing", said
Jorrocks, ramming his spurs into his nag to seduce him into a gallop,
who after sending his heels in the air a few times in token of
his disapprobation of such treatment, at last put himself into a
round-rolling sort of canter, which Jorrocks kept up by dint of spurring
and dropping his great bastinaderer of a whip every now and then across
his shoulders. Away they go pounding together!

The line lies over flint fallows occasionally diversified with a
turnip-field or market-garden, and every now and then a "willa" appears,
from which emerge footmen in jackets, and in yellow, red and green plush
breeches, with no end of admiring housemaids, governesses, and nurses
with children in their arms.

Great was the emulation when any of these were approached, and the
rasping sportsmen rushed eagerly to the "fore." At last they approach
"Miss Birchwell's finishing and polishing seminary for young ladies,"
whose great flaring blue-and-gold sign, reflecting the noonday rays of
the sun, had frightened the fox and caused him to alter his line and
take away to the west. A momentary check ensued, but all the amateur
huntsmen being blown, Tom, who is well up with his hounds, makes a quick
cast round the house, and hits off the scent like a workman. A private
road and a line of gates through fields now greet the eyes of our
M'Adamisers. A young gentleman on a hired hunter very nattily attired,
here singles himself out and takes place next to Tom, throwing the
pebbles and dirt back in the eyes of the field. Tom crams away, throwing
the gates open as he goes, and our young gentleman very coolly passes
through, without a touch, letting them bang-to behind him. The
Yorkshireman, who had been gradually creeping up, until he has got the
third place, having opened two or three, and seeing another likely to
close for want of a push, cries out to our friend as he approaches, "Put
out your hand, sir!" The gentleman obediently extends his limb like the
arm of a telegraph, and rides over half the next field with his hand in
the air! The gate, of course, falls to.

A stopper appears--a gate locked and spiked, with a downward hinge to
prevent its being lifted. To the right is a rail, and a ha-ha beyond
it--to the left a quick fence. Tom glances at both, but turns short,
and backing his horse, rides at the rail. The Yorkshireman follows, but
Jorrocks, who espies a weak place in the fence a few yards from the
gate, turns short, and jumping off, prepares to lead over. It is an old
gap, and the farmer has placed a sheep hurdle on the far side. Just as
Jorrocks has pulled that out, his horse, who is a bit of a rusher, and
has got his "monkey" completely up, pushes forward while his master is
yet stooping--and hitting him in the rear, knocks him clean through the
fence, head foremost into a squire-trap beyond!--"Non redolet sed olet!"
exclaims the Yorkshireman, who dismounts in a twinkling, lending his
friend a hand out of the unsavoury cesspool.--"That's what comes of
hunting in a new[12] saddle, you see," added he, holding his nose.
Jorrocks scrambles upon "terra firma" and exhibits such a spectacle as
provokes the shouts of the field. He has lost his wig, his hat hangs to
his back, and one side of his person and face is completely japanned
with black odoriferous mixture. "My vig!" exclaims he, spitting and
spluttering, "but that's the nastiest hole I ever was in--Fleet Ditch is
lavender-water compared to it! Hooi yonder!" hailing a lad, "Catch
my 'oss, boouy!" Tom Hills has him; and Jorrocks, pocketing his wig,
remounts, rams his spurs into the nag, and again tackles with the pack,
which had come to a momentary check on the Eden Bridge road. The fox
has been headed by a party of gipsies, and, changing his point, bends
southward and again reaches the hills, along which some score of
horsemen have planted themselves in the likeliest places to head him.
Reynard, however, is too deep for them, and has stolen down unperceived.
Poor Jorrocks, what with the violent exertion of riding, his fall, and
the souvenir of the cesspool that he still bears about him, pulls up
fairly exhausted. "Oh, dear," says he, scraping the thick of the filth
off his coat with his whip, "I'm reglarly blown, I earn't go down with
the 'ounds this turn; but, my good fellow," turning to the Yorkshireman,
who was helping to purify him, "don't let me stop you, go down by all
means, but mind, bear in mind the quarter of house-lamb--at half-past
five to a minute."

[Footnote 12: There is a superstition among sportsmen that they are sure
to get a fall the first day they appear in anything new.]

Many of the cits now gladly avail themselves of the excuse of assisting
Mr. Jorrocks to clean himself for pulling up, but as soon as ever those
that are going below hill are out of sight and they have given him two
or three wipes, they advise him to let it "dry on," and immediately
commence a different sort of amusement--each man dives into his pocket
and produces the eatables.

Part of Jorrocks's half-quartern loaf was bartered with the captain of
an East Indiaman for a slice of buffalo-beef. The dentist exchanged
some veal sandwiches with a Jew for ham ones; a lawyer from the Borough
offered two slices of toast for a hard-boiled egg; in fact there was a
petty market "ouvert" held. "Now, Tomkins, where's the bottle?" demanded
Jenkins. "Vy, I thought you would bring it out to-day," replied he; "I
brought it last time, you know." "Take a little of mine, sir," said a
gentleman, presenting a leather-covered flask--"real Thomson and Fearon,
I assure you." "I wish someone would fetch an ocean of porter from the
nearest public," said another. "Take a cigar, sir?" "No; I feel werry
much obliged, but they always make me womit." "Is there any gentleman
here going to Halifax, who would like to make a third in a new yellow
barouche, with lavender-coloured wheels, and pink lining?" inquired
Mr.----, the coach-maker. "Look at the hounds, gentlemen sportsmen,
my noble sportsmen!" bellowed out an Epsom Dorling's
correct--cardseller--and turning their eyes in the direction in which
he was looking, our sportsmen saw them again making for the hills.
Pepper-and-salt first, and oh, what a goodly tail was there!--three
quarters of a mile in length, at the least. Now up they come--the "corps
de reserve" again join, and again a party halt upon the hills. Again Tom
Hills exchanges horses; and again the hounds go on in full cry. "I must
be off," said a gentleman in balloon-like leathers to another tiger; "we
have just time to get back to town, and ride round by the park before it
is dark--much better than seeing the end of this brute. Let us go"; and
away they went to canter through Hyde Park in their red coats. "I must
go and all," said another gentleman; "my dinner will be ready at five,
and it is now three." Jorrocks was game; and forgetting the quarter of
house-lamb, again tackled with the pack. A smaller sweep sufficed this
time, and the hills were once more descended, Jorrocks the first to lead
the way. He well knew the fox was sinking, and was determined to be in
at the death. Short running ensued--a check--the fox had lain down,
and they had overrun the scent. Now they were on him, and Tom Hills's
who-whoop confirmed the whole.

"Ah! Tom Hills, Tom Hills!" exclaimed Jorrocks, as the former took up
the fox, "'ow splendid, 'ow truly brilliant--by Jove, you deserve to
be Lord Hill--oh, had he but a brush that we might present it to this
gentleman from the north-east side of the town of Boroughbridge, in the
county of York, to show the gallant doings of the men of Surrey!" "Ay,"
said Tom, "but Squire----'s keeper has been before us for it."

"Now," said a gentleman in a cap, to another in a hat, "if you will
ride up the hill and collect the money there, I will do so
below--half-a-crown, if you please, sir--half-a-crown, if you please,
sir.--Have I got your half-a-crown, sir?"--"Here's three shillings if
you will give me sixpence." "Certainly, sir--certainly." "We have no
time to spare," said Jorrocks, looking at his watch. "Good afternoon,
gentlemen, good afternoon," muttering as he went, "a quarter of
house-lamb at half-past five--Mrs. Jorrocks werry punctual--old Fleecy
werry particular." They cut across country to Croydon, and as they
approached the town, innumerable sportsmen came flocking in from all
quarters. "What sport have you had?" inquired Jorrocks of a gentleman in
scarlet; "have you been with Jolliffe?" "No, with the staghounds; three
beautiful runs; took him once in a millpond, once in a barn, and once in
a brickfield--altogether the finest day's sport I ever saw in my life."
"What have you done, Mr. J----?" "Oh, we have had a most gallant thing;
a brilliant run indeed--three hours and twenty minutes without a
check--over the finest country imaginable." "And who got the brush?"
inquired the stag-man. "Oh, it was a gallant run," said Jorrocks, "by
far the finest I ever remember." "But did you kill?" demanded his
friend. "Kill! to be sure we did. When don't the Surrey kill, I should
like to know?" "And who got his brush, did you say?" "I can't tell,"
said he--"didn't hear the gentleman's name." "What sport has Mr. Meager
had to-day?" inquired he of a gentleman in trousers, who issued from a
side lane into the high road. "I have been with the Sanderstead, sir--a
very capital day's sport--run five hares and killed three. We should
have killed four--only--we didn't." "I don't think Mr. Meager has done
anything to-day." "Yes, he has," said a gentleman, who just joined
with a hare buckled on in front of his saddle, and his white cords all
stained with blood; "we killed this chap after an hour and forty-five
minutes' gallop; and accounted for another by losing her after running
upwards of-three-quarters of an hour." "Well, then, we have all had
sport," said Jorrocks, as he spurred his horse into a trot, and made for
Morton's stables--"and if the quarter of house-lamb is but right, then
indeed am I a happy man."



III. SURREY SHOOTING: MR. JORROCKS IN TROUBLE

Our readers are now becoming pretty familiar with our principal hero,
Mr. Jorrocks, and we hope he improves on acquaintance. Our fox-hunting
friends, we are sure, will allow him to be an enthusiastic member of the
brotherhood, and though we do not profess to put him in competition with
Musters, Osbaldeston, or any of those sort of men, we yet mean to say
that had his lot been cast in the country instead of behind a counter,
his keenness would have rendered him as conspicuous--if not as
scientific--as the best of them.

For a cockney sportsman, however, he is a very excellent fellow--frank,
hearty, open, generous, and hospitable, and with the exception of riding
up Fleet Street one Saturday afternoon, with a cock-pheasant's tail
sticking out of his red coat pocket, no one ever saw him do a cock tail
action in his life.

The circumstances attending that exhibition are rather curious.--He had
gone out as usual on a Saturday to have a day with the Surrey, but on
mounting his hunter at Croydon, he felt the nag rather queer under him,
and thinking he might have been pricked in the shoeing, he pulled up at
the smith's at Addington to have his feet examined. This lost him five
minutes, and unfortunately when he got to the meet, he found that a
"travelling[13] fox" had been tallied at the precise moment of throwing
off, with which the hounds had gone away in their usual brilliant style,
to the tune of "Blue bonnets are over the border." As may be supposed,
he was in a deuce of a rage; and his first impulse prompted him to
withdraw his subscription and be done with the hunt altogether, and he
trotted forward "on the line," in the hopes of catching them up to tell
them so. In this he was foiled, for after riding some distance, he
overtook a string of Smithfield horses journeying "foreign for Evans,"
whose imprints he had been taking for the hoof-marks of the hunters.
About noon he found himself dull, melancholy, and disconsolate, before
the sign of the "Pig and Whistle," on the Westerham road, where, after
wetting his own whistle with a pint of half-and-half, he again journeyed
onward, ruminating on the uncertainty and mutability of all earthly
affairs, the comparative merits of stag-, fox-, and hare-hunting, and
the necessity of getting rid of the day somehow or other in the country.

[Footnote 13: He might well be called a "travelling fox," for it was
said he had just travelled down from Herring's, in the New Road, by the
Bromley stage.]

Suddenly his reverie was interrupted by the discharge of a gun in the
field adjoining the hedge along which he was passing, and the boisterous
whirring of a great cock-pheasant over his head, which caused his horse
to start and stop short, and to nearly pitch Jorrocks over his head. The
bird was missed, but the sportsman's dog dashed after it, with all the
eagerness of expectation, regardless of the cracks of the whip--the
"comes to heel," and "downs to charge" of the master. Jorrocks pulled
out his hunting telescope, and having marked the bird down with the
precision of a billiard-table keeper, rode to the gate to acquaint the
shooter with the fact, when to his infinite amazement he discovered his
friend, Nosey Browne (late of "The Surrey"), who, since his affairs had
taken the unfortunate turn mentioned in the last paper, had given up
hunting and determined to confine himself to shooting only. Nosey,
however, was no great performer, as may be inferred, when we state that
he had been in pursuit of the above-mentioned cock-pheasant ever since
daybreak, and after firing thirteen shots at him had not yet touched a
feather.

His dog was of the right sort--for Nosey at least--and hope deferred had
not made his heart sick; on the contrary, he dashed after his bird for
the thirteenth time with all the eagerness he displayed on the first.
"Let me have a crack at him," said Jorrocks to Nosey, after their mutual
salutations were over. "I know where he is, and I think I can floor
him." Browne handed the gun to Jorrocks, who, giving up his hunter in
exchange, strode off, and having marked his bird accurately, he kicked
him up out of a bit of furze, and knocked him down as "dead as a
door-nail." By that pheasant's tail hangs the present one.

Now Nosey Browne and Jorrocks were old friends, and Nosey's affairs
having gone crooked, why of course, like most men in a similar
situation, he was all the better for it; and while his creditors were
taking twopence-halfpenny in the pound, he was taking his diversion on
his wife's property, which a sagacious old father-in-law had secured to
the family in the event of such a contingency as a failure happening; so
knowing Jorrock's propensity for sports, and being desirous of chatting
over all his gallant doings with "The Surrey," shortly after the
above-mentioned day he dispatched a "twopenny," offering him a day's
shooting on his property in Surrey, adding, that he hoped he would dine
with him after. Jorrocks being invited himself, with a freedom peculiar
to fox-hunters, invited his friend the Yorkshireman, and visiting his
armoury, selected him a regular shot-scatterer of a gun, capable of
carrying ten yards on every side.

At the appointed hour on the appointed morning, the Yorkshireman
appeared in Great Coram Street, where he found Mr. Jorrocks in the
parlour in the act of settling himself into a new spruce green cut-away
gambroon butler's pantry-jacket, with pockets equal to holding
a powder-flask each, his lower man being attired in tight drab
stocking-net pantaloons, and Hessian boots with large tassels--a
striking contrast to the fustian pocket-and-all-pocket jackets marked
with game-bag strap, and shot-belt, and the weather-beaten many-coloured
breeches and gaiters, and hob-nail shoes, that compose the equipment of
a shooter in Yorkshire. Mr. Jorrocks not keeping any "sporting dogs," as
the tax-papers call them, had borrowed a fat house-dog--a cross between
a setter and a Dalmatian--of his friend Mr. Evergreen the greengrocer,
which he had seen make a most undeniable point one morning in the
Copenhagen Fields at a flock of pigeons in a beetroot garden. This
valuable animal was now attached by a trash-cord through a ring in his
brass collar to a leg of the sideboard, while a clean licked dish at his
side, showed that Jorrocks had been trying to attach him to himself, by
feeding him before starting.

"We'll take a coach to the Castle", said Jorrocks, "and then get a
go-cart or a cast somehow or other to Streatham, for we shall have
walking enough when we get there. Browne is an excellent fellow, and
will make us range every acre of his estate over half a dozen times
before we give in". A coach was speedily summoned, into which Jorrocks,
the dog Pompey, the Yorkshireman, and the guns were speedily placed, and
away they drove to the "Elephant and Castle."

There were short stages about for every possible place except Streatham.
Greenwich, Deptford, Blackheath, Eltham, Bromley, Footscray, Beckenham,
Lewisham--all places but the right. However, there were abundance of
"go-carts," a species of vehicle that ply in the outskirts of the
metropolis, and which, like the watering-place "fly," take their name
from the contrary--in fact, a sort of _lucus a non lucendo_. They are
carts on springs, drawn by one horse (with curtains to protect the
company from the weather), the drivers of which, partly by cheating, and
partly by picking pockets, eke out a comfortable existence, and are
the most lawless set of rascals under the sun. Their arrival at
the "Elephant and Castle" was a signal for a general muster of the
fraternity, who, seeing the guns, were convinced that their journey was
only what they call "a few miles down the road," and they were speedily
surrounded by twenty or thirty of them, all with "excellent 'osses, vot
vould take their honours fourteen miles an hour." All men of business
are aware of the advantages of competition, and no one more so
than Jorrocks, who stood listening to their offers with the utmost
sang-froid, until he closed with one to take them to Streatham Church
for two shillings, and deliver them within the half-hour, which was a
signal for all the rest to set-to and abuse them, their coachman, and
his horse, which they swore had been carrying "stiff-uns" [14] all night,
and "could not go not none at all". Nor were they far wrong; for the
horse, after scrambling a hundred yards or two, gradually relaxed into
something between a walk and a trot, while the driver kept soliciting
every passer-by to "ride," much to our sportsmen's chagrin, who
conceived they were to have the "go" all to themselves. Remonstrance
was vain, and he crammed in a master chimney-sweep, Major Ballenger the
licensed dealer in tea, coffee, tobacco, and snuff, of Streatham
(a customer of Jorrocks), and a wet-nurse; and took up an Italian
organ-grinder to ride beside himself on the front, before they had
accomplished Brixton Hill. Jorrocks swore most lustily that he would
fine him, and at every fresh assurance, the driver offered a passer-by
a seat; but having enlisted Major Ballenger into their cause, they at
length made a stand, which, unfortunately for them, was more than the
horse could do, for just as he was showing off, as he thought, with a
bit of a trot, down they all soused in the mud. Great was the scramble;
guns, barrel-organ, Pompey, Jorrocks, driver, master chimney-sweep,
Major Ballenger, were all down together, while the wet-nurse, who sat at
the end nearest the door, was chucked clean over the hedge into a dry
ditch. This was a signal to quit the vessel, and having extricated
themselves the best way they could, they all set off on foot, and left
the driver to right himself at his leisure.

[Footnote 14: Doing a bit of resurrection work.]

Ballenger looked rather queer when he heard they were going to Nosey
Browne's, for it so happened that Nosey had managed to walk into his
books for groceries and kitchen-stuff to the tune of fourteen pounds, a
large sum to a man in a small way of business; and to be entertaining
friends so soon after his composition, seemed curious to Ballenger's
uninitiated suburban mind.

Crossing Streatham Common, a short turn to the left by some yew-trees
leads, by a near cut across the fields, to Browne's house; a fiery-red
brick castellated cottage, standing on the slope of a gentle eminence,
and combining almost every absurdity a cockney imagination can be
capable of. Nosey, who was his own "Nash," set out with the intention of
making it a castle and nothing but a castle, and accordingly the windows
were made in the loophole fashion, and the door occupied a third of the
whole frontage. The inconveniences of the arrangements were soon felt,
for while the light was almost excluded from the rooms, "rude Boreas"
had the complete run of the castle whenever the door was opened. To
remedy this, Nosey increased the one and curtailed the other, and the
Gothic oak-painted windows and door flew from their positions to make
way for modern plate-glass in rich pea-green casements, and a door of
similar hue. The battlements, however, remained, and two wooden guns
guarded a brace of chimney-pots and commanded the wings of the castle,
one whereof was formed into a green-, the other into a gig-house.

The peals of a bright brass-handled bell at a garden-gate, surmounted by
a holly-bush with the top cut into the shape of a fox, announced their
arrival to the inhabitants of "Rosalinda Castle," and on entering they
discovered young Nosey in the act of bobbing for goldfish, in a
pond about the size of a soup-basin; while Nosey senior, a fat,
stupid-looking fellow, with a large corporation and a bottle nose,
attired in a single-breasted green cloth coat, buff waistcoat, with drab
shorts and continuations, was reposing, _sub tegmine fagi_, in a sort
of tea-garden arbour, overlooking a dung-heap, waiting their arrival to
commence an attack upon the sparrows which were regaling thereon. At
one end of the garden was a sort of temple, composed of oyster-shells,
containing a couple of carrier-pigeons, with which Nosey had intended
making his fortune, by the early information to be acquired by them: but
"there is many a slip," as Jorrocks would say.

Greetings being over, and Jorrocks having paid a visit to the larder,
and made up a stock of provisions equal to a journey through the
Wilderness, they adjourned to the yard to get the other dog, and the
man to carry the game--or rather, the prog, for the former was but
problematical. He was a character, a sort of chap of all work, one, in
short, "who has no objection to make himself generally useful"; but if
his genius had any decided bent, it was, perhaps, an inclination towards
sporting.

Having to act the part of groom and gamekeeper during the morning,
and butler and footman in the afternoon, he was attired in a sort of
composition dress, savouring of the different characters performed. He
had on an old white hat, a groom's fustian stable-coat cut down into a
shooting-jacket, with a whistle at the button-hole, red plush smalls,
and top-boots.

There is nothing a cockney delights in more than aping a country
gentleman, and Browne fancied himself no bad hand at it; indeed, since
his London occupation was gone, he looked upon himself as a country
gentleman in fact. "Vell, Joe," said he, striddling and sticking his
thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, to this invaluable man of
all work, "we must show the gemmem some sport to-day; vich do you think
the best line to start upon--shall we go to the ten hacre field, or the
plantation, or Thompson's stubble, or Timms's turnips, or my meadow, or
vere?" "Vy, I doesn't know," said Joe; "there's that old hen-pheasant as
we calls Drab Bess, vot has haunted the plantin' these two seasons, and
none of us ever could 'it (hit), and I hears that Jack, and Tom, and
Bob, are still left out of Thompson's covey; but, my eyes! they're
'special vild!" "Vot, only three left? where is old Tom, and the old
ramping hen?" inquired Browne. "Oh, Mr. Smith, and a party of them 'ere
Bankside chaps, com'd down last Saturday's gone a week, and rattled
nine-and-twenty shots at the covey, and got the two old 'uns; at least
it's supposed they were both killed, though the seven on 'em only bagged
one bird; but I heard they got a goose or two as they vent home. They
had a shot at old Tom, the hare, too, but he is still alive; at least
I pricked him yesterday morn across the path into the turnip-field.
Suppose we goes at him first?"

The estate, like the game, was rather deficient in quantity, but Browne
was a wise man and made the most of what he had, and when he used to
talk about his "manor" on 'Change, people thought he had at least a
thousand acres--the extent a cockney generally advertises for, when he
wants to take a shooting-place. The following is a sketch of what he
had: The east, as far as the eye could reach, was bounded by Norwood,
a name dear to cockneys, and the scene of many a furtive kiss; the
hereditaments and premises belonging to Isaac Cheatum, Esq. ran parallel
with it on the west, containing sixty-three acres, "be the same more or
less," separated from which, by a small brook or runner of water, came
the estate of Mr. Timms, consisting of sixty acres, three roods, and
twenty-four perches, commonly called or known by the name of Fordham;
next to it were two allotments in right of common, for all manner of
cattle, except cows, upon Streatham Common, from whence up to Rosalinda
Castle, on the west, lay the estate of Mr. Browne, consisting of fifty
acres and two perches. Now it so happened that Browne had formerly the
permission to sport all the way up to Norwood, a distance of a mile and
a half, and consequently he might have been said to have the right of
shooting in Norwood itself, for the keepers only direct their attention
to the preservation of the timber and the morals of the visitors; but
since his composition with his creditors, Mr. Cheatum, who had "gone to
the wall" himself in former years, was so scandalised at Browne doing
the same, that no sooner did his name appear in the _Gazette_, than
Cheatum withdrew his permission, thereby cutting him off from Norwood
and stopping him in pursuit of his game.

Joe's proposition being duly seconded, Mr. Jorrocks, in the most
orthodox manner, flushed off his old flint and steel fire-engine, and
proceeded to give it an uncommon good loading. The Yorkshireman, with
a look of disgust, mingled with despair, and a glance at Joe's plush
breeches and top-boots, did the same, while Nosey, in the most
considerate sportsmanlike manner, merely shouldered a stick, in order
that there might be no delicacy with his visitors, as to who should
shoot first--a piece of etiquette that aids the escape of many a bird in
the neighbourhood of London.

Old Tom--a most unfortunate old hare, that what with the harriers, the
shooters, the snarers, and one thing and another, never knew a moment's
peace, and who must have started in the world with as many lives as
a cat--being doomed to receive the first crack on this occasion, our
sportsmen stole gently down the fallow, at the bottom of which were the
turnips, wherein he was said to repose; but scarcely had they reached
the hurdles which divided the field, before he was seen legging it away
clean out of shot. Jorrocks, who had brought his gun to bear upon him,
could scarcely refrain from letting drive, but thinking to come upon him
again by stealth, as he made his circuit for Norwood, he strode away
across the allotments and Fordham estate, and took up a position behind
a shed which stood on the confines of Mr. Timms's and Mr. Cheatum's
properties. Here, having procured a rest for his gun, he waited until
old Tom, who had tarried to nip a few blades of green grass that came
in his way, made his appearance. Presently he came cantering along the
outside of the wood, at a careless, easy sort of pace, betokening either
perfect indifference for the world's mischief, or utter contempt of
cockney sportsmen altogether.

He was a melancholy, woe-begone-looking animal, long and lean, with a
slight inclination to grey on his dingy old coat, one that looked as
though he had survived his kindred and had already lived beyond his day.
Jorrocks, however, saw him differently, and his eyes glistened as
he came within range of his gun. A well-timed shot ends poor Tom's
miseries! He springs into the air, and with a melancholy scream rolls
neck over heels. Knowing that Pompey would infallibly spoil him if he
got up first, Jorrocks, without waiting to load, was in the act of
starting off to pick him up, when, at the first step, he found himself
in the grasp of a Herculean monster, something between a coal-heaver and
a gamekeeper, who had been secreted behind the shed. Nosey Browne, who
had been watching his movements, holloaed out to Jorrocks to "hold
hard," who stood motionless, on the spot from whence he fired, and
Browne was speedily alongside of him. "You are on Squire Cheatum's
estate," said the man; "and I have authority to take up all poachers and
persons found unlawfully trespassing; what's your name?" "He's not on
Cheatum's estate," said Browne. "He is," said the man. "You're a liar,"
said Browne. "You're another," said the man. And so they went on; for
when such gentlemen meet, compliments pass current. At length the keeper
pulled out a foot-rule, and keeping Jorrocks in the same position he
caught him, he set-to to measure the distance of his foot from the
boundary, taking off in a line from the shed; when it certainly did
appear that the length of a big toe was across the mark, and putting up
his measure again, he insisted upon taking Jorrocks before a magistrate
for the trespass. Of course, no objection could be made, and they all
adjourned to Mr. Boreem's, when the whole case was laid before him. To
cut a long matter short--after hearing the pros and cons, and referring
to the Act of Parliament, his worship decided that a trespass had been
committed; and though, he said, it went against the grain to do so, he
fined Jorrocks in the mitigated penalty of one pound one.

This was a sad damper to our heroes, who returned to the castle with
their prog untouched and no great appetite for dinner. Being only a
family party, when Mrs. B---- retired, the subject naturally turned upon
the morning's mishap, and at every glass of port Jorrocks waxed more
valiant, until he swore he would appeal against the "conwiction"; and
remaining in the same mind when he awoke the next morning, he took the
Temple in his way to St. Botolph Lane and had six-and-eightpence worth
with Mr. Capias the attorney, who very judiciously argued each side of
the question without venturing an opinion, and proposed stating a case
for counsel to advise upon.

As usual, he gave one that would cut either way, though if it had any
tendency whatever it was to induce Jorrocks to go on; and he not wanting
much persuasion, it will not surprise our readers to hear that Jorrocks,
Capias, and the Yorkshireman were seen a few days after crossing
Waterloo Bridge in a yellow post-chaise, on their way to Croydon
sessions.

After a "guinea" consultation at the "Greyhound," they adjourned to the
court, which was excessively crowded, Jorrocks being as popular with
the farmers and people as Cheatum was the reverse. Party feeling, too,
running rather high at the time, there had been a strong "whip" among
the magistrates to get a full attendance to reverse Boreem's conviction,
who had made himself rather obnoxious on the blue interest at the
election. Of course they all came in new hats,[15] and sat on the bench
looking as wise as gentlemen judges generally do.

[Footnote 15: Magistrates always buy their hats about session times, as
they have the privilege of keeping their hats on their blocks in court.]

One hundred and twenty-two affiliation cases (for this was in the
old Poor Law time) having been disposed of, about one o'clock in the
afternoon, the chairman, Mr. Tomkins of Tomkins, moved the order of the
day. He was a perfect prototype of a county magistrate--with a bald
powdered head covered by a low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, hair
terminating behind in a _queue_, resting on the ample collar of a
snuff-brown coat, with a large bay-window of a corporation, with
difficulty retained by the joint efforts of a buff waistcoat, and the
waistband of a pair of yellow leather breeches. His countenance, which
was solemn and grave in the extreme, might either be indicative of sense
or what often serves in the place of wisdom--when parties can only hold
their tongues--great natural stupidity. From the judge's seat, which he
occupied in the centre of the bench, he observed, with immense dignity,
"There is an appeal of Jorrocks against Cheatum, which we, the bench of
magistrates of our lord the king, will take if the parties are ready,"
and immediately the court rang with "Jorrocks and Cheatum! Jorrocks and
Cheatum! Mr. Capias, attorney-at-law! Mr. Capias answer to his name! Mr.
Sharp attorney-at-law! Mr. Sharp's in the jury-room.--Then go fetch him
directly," from the ushers and bailiffs of the court; for though Tomkins
of Tomkins was slow himself, he insisted upon others being quick, and
was a great hand at prating about saving the time of the suitors. At
length the bustle of counsel crossing the table, parties coming in
and others leaving court, bailiffs shouting, and ushers responding,
gradually subsided into a whisper of, "That's Jorrocks! That's Cheatum!"
as the belligerent parties took their places by their respective
counsel. Silence having been called and procured, Mr. Smirk, a
goodish-looking man for a lawyer, having deliberately unfolded his
brief, which his clerk had scored plentifully in the margin, to make the
attorney believe he had read it very attentively, rose to address the
court--a signal for half the magistrates to pull their newspapers out of
their pockets, and the other half to settle themselves down for a nap,
all the sport being considered over when the affiliation cases closed.

"I have the honour to appear on behalf of Mr. Jorrocks," said Mr.
Smirk, "a gentleman of the very highest consideration--a fox-hunter--a
shooter--and a grocer. In ordinary cases it might be necessary to prove
the party's claim to respectability, but, in this instance, I feel
myself relieved from any such obligation, knowing, as I do, that there
is no one in this court, no one in these realms--I might almost add,
no one in this world--to whom the fame of my most respectable, my most
distinguished, and much injured client is unknown. Not to know JORROCKS
is indeed to argue oneself unknown."

"This is a case of no ordinary interest, and I approach it with a deep
sense of its importance, conscious of my inability to do justice to the
subject, and lamenting that it has not been entrusted to abler hands.
It is a case involving the commercial and the sporting character of
a gentleman against whom the breath of calumny has never yet been
drawn--of a gentleman who in all the relations of life, whether as a
husband, a fox-hunter, a shooter, or a grocer, has invariably preserved
that character and reputation, so valuable in commercial life, so
necessary in the sporting world, and so indispensable to a man moving in
general society. Were I to look round London town in search of a bright
specimen of a man combining the upright, sterling integrity of the
honourable British merchant of former days with the ardour of the
English fox-hunter of modern times, I would select my most respectable
client, Mr. Jorrocks. He is a man for youth to imitate and revere!
Conceive, then, the horror of a man of his delicate sensibility--of his
nervous dread of depreciation--being compelled to appear here this
day to vindicate his character, nay more, his honour, from one of the
foulest attempts at conspiracy that was ever directed against any
individual. I say that a grosser attack was never made upon the
character of any grocer, and I look confidently to the reversion of this
unjust, unprecedented conviction, and to the triumphant victory of my
most respectable and public-spirited client. It is not for the sake of
the few paltry shillings that he appeals to this court--it is not for
the sake of calling in question the power of the constituted authorities
of this county--but it is for the vindication and preservation of a
character dear to all men, but doubly dear to a grocer, and which once
lost can never be regained. Look, I say, upon my client as he sits below
the witness-box, and say, if in that countenance there appears any
indication of a lawless or rebellious spirit; look, I say, if the milk
of human kindness is not strikingly portrayed in every feature, and
truly may I exclaim in the words of the poet:"

  If to his share some trifling errors fall,
  Look in his face, and you'll forget them all.'

"I regret to be compelled to trespass upon the valuable time of the
court; but, sir, this appeal is based on a trespass, and one good
trespass deserves another."

The learned gentleman then proceeded to detail the proceedings of the
day's shooting, and afterwards to analyse the enactments of the new Game
Bill, which he denounced as arbitrary, oppressive, and ridiculous, and
concluded a long and energetic speech, by calling upon the court to
reverse the decision of the magistrate, and not support the preposterous
position of fining a man for a trespass committed by his toe.

After a few minutes had elapsed, Mr. Sergeant Bumptious, a stiff,
bull-headed little man, desperately pitted with the smallpox, rose to
reply, and looking round the court, thus commenced:

"Five-and-thirty years have I passed in courts of justice, but never,
during a long and extensive practice, have I witnessed so gross a
perversion of that sublimest gift, called eloquence, as within the last
hour"--here he banged his brief against the table, and looked at Mr.
Smirk, who smiled.--"I lament, sir, that it has not been employed in a
better cause--(bang again--and another look). My learned friend has,
indeed, laboured to make the worse appear the better cause--to convert
into a trifle one of the most outrageous acts that ever disgraced a
human being or a civilised country. Well did he describe the importance
of this case!--important as regards his client's character--important
as regards this great and populous county--important as regards those
social ties by which society is held together--important as regards
a legislative enactment, and important as regards the well-being and
prosperity of the whole nation--(bang, bang, bang). I admire the
bombastic eloquence with which my learned friend introduced his
most distinguished client--his most delicate minded--sensitive
client!--Truly, to hear him speaking I should have thought he had been
describing a lovely, blushing young lady, but when he comes to exhibit
his paragon of perfection, and points out that great, red-faced, coarse,
vulgar-looking, lubberly lump of humanity--(here Bumptious looked at
Jorrocks as he would eat him)--sitting below the witness-box, and
seeks to enlist the sympathies of your worships on the Bench--of you,
gentlemen, the high-minded, shrewd, penetrating judges of this important
cause--(and Bumptious smiled and bowed along the Bench upon all whose
eyes he could catch)--on behalf of such a monster of iniquity, it
does make one blush for the degradation of the British
Bar--(bang--bang--bang--Jorrocks here looked unutterable things). Does
my learned friend think by displaying his hero as a fox-hunter,
and extolling his prowess in the field, to gain over the sporting
magistrates on the Bench? He knows little of the upright integrity--the
uncompromising honesty--the undeviating, inflexible impartiality that
pervades the breast of every member of this tribunal, if he thinks
for the sake of gain, fear, favour, hope, or reward, to influence
the opinion, much less turn the judgment, of any one of them." (Here
Bumptious bowed very low to them all and laid his hand upon his heart.
Tomkins nodded approbation.) "Far, far be it from me to dwell with
unbecoming asperity on the conduct of anyone--we are all mortals--and
alike liable to err; but when I see a man who has been guilty of an act
which has brought him all but within the verge of the prisoners' dock; I
say, when I see a man who has been guilty of such an outrage on society
as this ruffian Jorrocks, come forward with the daring effrontery
that he has this day done, and claim redress where he himself is the
offender, it does create a feeling in my mind divided between disgust
and amazement"--(bang).

Here Jorrock's cauldron boiled over, and rising from his seat with an
outstretched shoulder-of-mutton fist, he bawled out, "D--n you, sir,
what do you mean?"

The court was thrown into amazement, and even Bumptious quailed before
the fist of the mighty Jorrocks. "I claim the protection of the court,"
he exclaimed. Mr. Tomkins interposed, and said he should certainly order
Mr. Jorrocks into custody if he repeated his conduct, adding that it was
"most disrespectful to the justices of our lord the king."

Bumptious paused a little to gather breath and a fresh volume of venom
wherewith to annihilate Jorrocks, and catching his eye, he transfixed
him like a rattlesnake, and again resumed.

"How stands the case?" said he. "This cockney grocer--for after all
he is nothing else--who I dare say scarcely knows a hawk from a
hand-saw--leaves his figs and raisins, and sets out on a marauding
excursion into the county of Surrey, and regardless of property--of
boundaries--of laws--of liberties--of life itself--strides over every
man's land, letting drive at whatever comes in his way! The hare he shot
on this occasion was a pet hare!--For three successive summers had
Miss Cheatum watched and fed it with all the interest and anxiety of a
parent. I leave it to you, gentlemen, who have daughters of your own,
with pets also, to picture to yourselves the agony of her mind in
finding that her favourite had found its way down the throat of that
great guzzling, gormandising, cockney cormorant; and then, forsooth,
because he is fined for the outrageous trespass, he comes here as the
injured party, and instructs his counsel to indulge in Billingsgate
abuse that would disgrace the mouth of an Old Bailey practitioner! I
regret that instead of the insignificant fine imposed upon him, the law
did not empower the worthy magistrate to send him to the treadmill,
there to recreate himself for six or eight months, as a warning to the
whole fraternity of lawless vagabonds." Here he nodded his head at
Jorrocks as much as to say, "I'll trounce you, my boy!" He then produced
maps and plans of the different estates, and a model of the shed, to
show how it had all happened, and after going through the case in such a
strain as would induce one to believe it was a trial for murder or high
treason, concluded as follows:

"The eyes of England are upon us--reverse this conviction, and you let
loose a rebel band upon the country, ripe for treason, stratagem, or
spoil--you overturn the finest order of society in the world; henceforth
no man's property will be safe, the laws will be disregarded, and even
the upright, talented, and independent magistracy of England brought
into contempt. But I feel convinced that your decision will be
far otherwise--that by it you will teach these
hot-headed--rebellious--radical grocers that they cannot offend with
impunity, and show them that there is a law which reaches even the
lowest and meanest inhabitant of these realms, that amid these days of
anarchy and innovation you will support the laws and aristocracy of this
country, that you will preserve to our children, and our children's
children, those rights and blessings which a great and enlightened
administration have conferred upon ourselves, and raise for Tomkins
of Tomkins and the magistracy of the proud county of Surrey, a name
resplendent in modern times and venerated to all eternity."

Here Bumptious cast a parting frown at Jorrocks, and banging down his
brief, tucked his gown under his arm, turned on his heel and left the
court, to indulge in a glass of pale sherry and a sandwich, regardless
which way the verdict went, so long as he had given him a good quilting.
The silence that followed had the effect of rousing some of the dozing
justices, who nudging those who had fallen asleep, they all began to
stir themselves, and having laid their heads together, during which
time they settled the dinner-hour for that day, and the meets of the
staghounds for the next fortnight, they began to talk of the matter
before the court.

"I vote for reversing," said Squire Jolthead; "Jorrocks is such a
capital fellow." "I must support Boreem," said Squire Hicks: "he gave me
a turn when I made the mistaken commitment of Gipsy Jack." "What do
you say, Mr. Giles?" inquired Mr. Tomkins. "Oh, anything you like, Mr.
Tomkins." "And you, Mr. Hopper?" who had been asleep all the time. "Oh!
guilty, I should say--three months at the treadmill--privately whipped,
if you like," was the reply. Mr. Petty always voted on whichever
side Bumptious was counsel--the learned serjeant having married his
sister--and four others always followed the chair.

Tomkins then turned round, the magistrates resumed their seats along the
bench, and coming forward he stood before the judge's chair, and taking
off his hat with solemn dignity and precision, laid it down exactly in
the centre of the desk, amid cries from the bailiffs and ushers for
"Silence, while the justices of the peace of our sovereign lord the
king, deliver the judgment of the court."

"The appellant in this case," said Mr. Tomkins, very slowly, "seeks to
set aside a conviction for trespass, on the ground, as I understand,
of his not having committed one. The principal points of the case are
admitted, as also the fact of Mr. Jorrocks's toe, or a part of his toe,
having intruded upon the respondent's estate. Now, so far as that point
is concerned, it seems clear to myself and to my brother magistrates,
that it mattereth not how much or how little of the toe was upon the
land, so long as any part thereof was there. 'De minimis non curat
lex'--the English of which is 'the law taketh no cognisance of
fractions'--is a maxim among the salaried judges of the inferior
courts in Westminster Hall, which we the unpaid, the in-cor-rup-ti-ble
magistrates of the proud county of Surrey, have adopted in the very deep
and mature deliberation that preceded the formation of our most solemn
judgment. In the present great and important case, we, the unpaid
magistrates of our sovereign lord the king, do not consider it necessary
that there should be 'a toe, a whole toe, and nothing but a toe,' to
constitute a trespass, any more than it would be necessary in the case
of an assault to prove that the kick was given by the foot, the whole
foot, and nothing but the foot. If any part of the toe was there, the
law considers that it was there _in toto_. Upon this doctrine, it is
clear that Mr. Jorrocks was guilty of a trespass, and the conviction
must be affirmed. Before I dismiss the case I must say a few words on
the statute under which this decision takes place.

"This is the first conviction that has taken place since the passing
of the Act, and will serve as a precedent throughout all England. I
congratulate the country upon the efficacy of the tribunal to which
it has been submitted. The court has listened with great and becoming
attention to the arguments of the counsel on both sides: and though
one gentleman with a flippant ignorance has denounced this new law as
inferior to the pre-existing system, and a curse to the country, we,
the magistrates of the proud county of Surrey, must enter our protest
against such a doctrine being promulgated. Peradventure, you are all
acquainted with my prowess as a shooter; I won two silver tankards at
the Red House, Anno Domini 1815. I mention this to show that I am a
practical sportsman, and as to the theory of the Game Laws, I derive my
information from the same source that you may all derive yours--from the
bright refulgent pages of the _New Sporting Magazine_!"



IV. MR. JORROCKS AND THE SURREY STAGHOUNDS

The Surrey foxhounds had closed their season--a most brilliant one--but
ere Mr. Jorrocks consigned his boots and breeches to their summer
slumber, he bethought of having a look at the Surrey staghounds, a pack
now numbered among the things that were.

Of course he required a companion, were it only to have some one to
criticise the hounds with, so the evening before the appointed day, as
the Yorkshireman was sitting in his old corner at the far end of the
Piazza Coffee-room in Covent Garden, having just finished his second
marrowbone and glass of white brandy, George--the only waiter in the
room with a name--came smirking up with a card in his hand, saying, that
the gentleman was waiting outside to speak with him. It was a printed
one, but the large round hand in which the address had been filled up,
encroaching upon the letters, had made the name somewhat difficult to
decipher. At length he puzzled out "Mr. John Jorrocks--Coram Street";
the name of the city house or shop in the corner (No.--, St. Botolph's
Lane) being struck through with a pen. "Oh, ask him to walk in
directly," said the Yorkshireman to George, who trotted off, and
presently the flapping of the doors in the passage announced his
approach, and honest Jorrocks came rolling up the room--not like a
fox-hunter, or any other sort of hunter, but like an honest wholesale
grocer, fresh from the city.

"My dear fellow, I'm so glad to see you, you can't think," said he,
advancing with both hands out, and hugging the Yorkshireman after the
manner of a Polar bear. "I have not time to stay one moment; I have to
meet Mr. Wiggins at the corner of Bloomsbury Square at a quarter to six,
and it wants now only seven minutes to," casting his eye up at the clock
over the sideboard.--"I have just called to say that as you are fond of
hunting, and all that sort of thing, if you have a mind for a day with
the staghounds to-morrow, I will mount you same as before, and all that
sort of thing--you understand, eh?" "Thank you, my good friend," said
the Yorkshireman; "I have nothing to do to-morrow, and am your man for
a stag-hunt." "That's right, my good fellow," said Jorrocks, "then I'll
tell you what do--come and breakfast with me in Great Coram Street, at
half-past seven to a minute. I've got one of the first 'ams (hams) you
ever clapt eyes on in the whole course of your memorable existence.--Saw
the hog alive myself--sixteen score within a pound; must come--know you
like a fork breakfast--dejeune à la fauchette, as we say in France, eh?
Like my Lord Mayor's fool I guess, love what's good; well, all right
too--so come without any ceremony--us fox-hunters hates ceremony--where
there's ceremony there's no friendship.--Stay--I had almost forgotten,"
added he, checking himself as he was on the point of departure. "When
you come, ring the area bell, and then Mrs. J---- won't hear; know you
don't like Mrs. J---- no more than myself."

At the appointed hour the Yorkshireman reached Great Coram Street, just
as Old Jorrocks had opened the door to look down the street for him.
He was dressed in a fine flowing, olive-green frock (made like a
dressing-gown), with a black velvet collar, having a gold embroidered
stag on each side, gilt stag-buttons, with rich embossed edges; an acre
of buff waistcoat, and a most antediluvian pair of bright yellow-ochre
buckskins, made by White, of Tarporley, in the twenty-first year of
the reign of George the Third; they were double-lashed, back-stiched,
front-stiched, middle-stiched, and patched at both knees, with a slit up
behind. The coat he had won in a bet, and the breeches in a raffle, the
latter being then second or third hand. His boots were airing before the
fire, consequently he displayed an amplitude of calf in grey worsted
stockings, while his feet were thrust into green slippers. "So glad to
see you"! said he; "here's a charming morning, indeed--regular southerly
wind and a cloudy sky--rare scenting it will be--think I could almost
run a stag myself. Come in--never mind your hat, hang it anywhere, but
don't make a noise. I stole away and left Mrs. J---- snoring, so won't
do to wake her, you know. By the way, you should see my hat;--Batsey,
fatch my hat out of the back parlour. I've set up a new green silk cord,
with a gold frog to fasten it to my button-hole--werry illigant, I
think, and werry suitable to the dress--quite my own idea--have a notion
all the Surrey chaps will get them; for, between you and me, I set the
fashions, and what is more, I sometimes set them at a leap too. But now
tell me, have you any objection to breakfasting in the kitchen?--more
retired, you know, besides which you get everything hot and hot,
which is what I call doing a bit of plisure." "Not at all," said the
Yorkshireman, "so lead the way"; and down they walked to the lower
regions.

It was a nice comfortable-looking place, with a blazing fire, half
the floor covered with an old oil-cloth, and the rest exhibiting the
cheerless aspect of the naked flags. About a yard and a half from the
fire was placed the breakfast table; in the centre stood a magnificent
uncut ham, with a great quartern loaf on one side and a huge Bologna
sausage on the other; besides these there were nine eggs, two pyramids
of muffins, a great deal of toast, a dozen ship-biscuits, and half a
pork-pie, while a dozen kidneys were spluttering on a spit before the
fire, and Betsy held a gridiron covered with mutton-chops on the top;
altogether there was as much as would have served ten people. "Now, sit
down," said Jorrocks, "and let us be doing, for I am as hungry as
a hunter. Hope you are peckish too; what shall I give you? tea or
coffee?--but take both--coffee first and tea after a bit. If I can't
give you them good, don't know who can. You must pay your devours, as we
say in France, to the 'am, for it is an especial fine one, and do take
a few eggs with it; there, I've not given you above a pound of 'am, but
you can come again, you know--waste not want not. Now take some muffins,
do, pray. Batsey, bring some more cream, and set the kidneys on the
table, the Yorkshireman is getting nothing to eat. Have a chop with
your kidney, werry luxterous--I could eat an elephant stuffed with
grenadiers, and wash them down with a ocean of tea; but pray lay in to
the breakfast, or I shall think you don't like it. There, now take some
tea and toast or one of those biscuits, or whatever you like; would a
little more 'am be agreeable? Batsey, run into the larder and see if
your Missis left any of that cold chine of pork last night--and hear,
bring the cold goose, and any cold flesh you can lay hands on, there are
really no wittles on the table. I am quite ashamed to set you down to
such a scanty fork breakfast; but this is what comes of not being master
of your own house. Hope your hat may long cover your family: rely
upon it, it is cheaper to buy your bacon than to keep a pig". Just as
Jorrocks uttered these last words the side door opened, and without
either "with your leave or by your leave", in bounced Mrs. Jorrocks in
an elegant dishabille (or "dish-of-veal", as Jorrocks pronounced it),
with her hair tucked up in papers, and a pair of worsted slippers on her
feet, worked with roses and blue lilies.

"Pray, Mister J----," said she, taking no more notice of the
Yorkshireman than if he had been enveloped in Jack the Giant-killer's
coat of darkness, "what is the meaning of this card? I found it in your
best coat pocket, which you had on last night, and I do desire, sir,
that you will tell me how it came there. Good morning, sir (spying the
Yorkshireman at last), perhaps you know where Mr. Jorrocks was last
night, and perhaps you can tell me who this person is whose card I
have found in the corner of Mr. Jorrocks's best coat pocket?" "Indeed,
madam", replied the Yorkshireman, "Mr. Jorrocks's movements of yesterday
evening are quite a secret to me. It is the night that he usually spends
at the Magpie and Stump, but whether he was there or not I cannot
pretend to say, not being a member of the free and easy club. As for the
card, madam..." "There, then, take it and read it," interrupted Mrs.
J----; and he took the card accordingly--a delicate pale pink, with blue
borders and gilt edge--and read--we would fain put it all in dashes and
asterisks--"Miss Juliana Granville, John Street, Waterloo Road."

This digression giving Mr. Jorrocks a moment or two to recollect
himself, he pretended to get into a thundering passion, and seizing
the card out of the Yorkshireman's hand, he thrust it into the fire,
swearing it was an application for admission into the Deaf and Dumb
Institution, where he wished he had Mrs. J----. The Yorkshireman, seeing
the probability of a breeze, pretended to have forgotten something
at the Piazza, and stole away, begging Jorrocks to pick him up as he
passed. Peace had soon been restored; for the Yorkshireman had not taken
above three or four turns up and down the coffee-room, ere George the
waiter came to say that a gentleman waited outside. Putting on his hat
and taking a coat over his arm, he turned out; when just before the door
he saw a man muffled up in a great military cloak, and a glazed hat,
endeavouring to back a nondescript double-bodied carriage (with lofty
mail box-seats and red wheels), close to the pavement. "Who-ay, who-ay,"
said he, "who-ay, who-ay, horse!" at the same time jerking at his mouth.
As the Yorkshireman made his exit, a pair eyes of gleamed through the
small aperture between the high cloak collar and the flipe of the glazed
hat, which he instantly recognised to belong to Jorrocks. "Why, what the
deuce is this you are in?" said he, looking at the vehicle. "Jump up,"
said Jorrocks, "and I'll tell you all about it," which having done, and
the machine being set in motion he proceeded to relate the manner in
which he had exchanged his cruelty-van for it--by the way, as arrant
a bone-setter as ever unfortunate got into, but which he, with the
predilection all men have for their own, pronounced to be a "monstrous
nice carriage." On their turning off the rough pavement on to the quiet
smooth Macadamised road leading to Waterloo Bridge, his dissertation was
interrupted by a loud horse-laugh raised by two or three toll-takers and
boys lounging about the gate.

"I say, Tom, twig this 'ere machine," said one. "Dash my buttons, I
never seed such a thing in all my life." "What's to pay?" inquired
Jorrocks, pulling up with great dignity, their observations not having
penetrated the cloak collar which encircled his ears. "To pay!" said the
toll-taker--"vy, vot do ye call your consarn?" "Why, a phaeton," said
Jorrocks. "My eyes! that's a good 'un," said another. "I say, Jim--he
calls this 'ere thing a phe-a-ton!" "A phe-a-ton!--vy, it's more like a
fire-engine," said Jim. "Don't be impertinent," said Jorrocks, who had
pulled down his collar to hear what he had to pay--"but tell me what's
to pay?" "Vy, it's a phe-a-ton drawn by von or more 'orses," said
the toll-taker; "and containing von or more asses," said Tom.
"Sixpence-halfpenny, sir," "You are a saucy fellow," said Jorrocks.
"Thank ye, master, you're another," said the toll-taker; "and now that
you have had your say, vot do ye ax for your mouth?" "I say, sir, do you
belong to the Phenix? Vy don't you show your badge?" "I say, Tom, that
'ere fire-engine has been painted by some house-painter, it's never been
in the hands of no coach-maker. Do you shave by that 'ere glazed castor
of yours?" "I'm blowed it I wouldn't get you a shilling a week to
shove your face in sand, to make moulds for brass knockers." "Ay, get
away!--make haste, or the fire will be out," bawled out another, as
Jorrocks whipped on, and rattled out of hearing.

"Now, you see," said he, resuming the thread of his discourse, as if
nothing had happened, "this back seat turns down and makes a box, so
that when Mrs. J---- goes to her mother's at Tooting, she can take all
her things with her, instead of sending half of them by the coach as she
used to do; and if we are heavy, there is a pole belonging to it, so
that we can have two horses; and then there is a seat draws out here
(pulling a stool from between his legs) which anybody can sit on." "Yes,
anybody that is small enough," said the Yorkshireman, "but you would cut
a queer figure on it, I reckon." The truth was, that the "fire-engine"
was one of those useless affairs built by some fool upon a plan of his
own, with the idea of combining every possible comfort and advantage,
and in reality not possessing one. Friend Jorrocks had seen it at a
second-hand shop in Fore Street, and became the happy owner of it, in
exchange for the cruelty-van and seventeen pounds.--Their appearance on
the road created no small sensation, and many were the jokes passed upon
the "fire-engine." One said they were mountebanks; another that it was
a horse-break; a third asked if it was one of Gurney's steam-carriages,
while a fourth swore it was a new convict-cart going to Brixton.
Jorrocks either did not or would not hear their remarks, and kept
expatiating upon the different purposes to which the machine might be
converted, and the stoutness of the horse that was drawing it.

As they approached the town of Croydon, he turned his cloak over his
legs in a very workman-like manner, and was instantly hailed by some
brother sportsmen;--one complimented him on his looks, another on his
breeches, a third praised his horse, a fourth abused the fire-engine,
and a fifth inquired where he got his glazed hat. He had an answer for
them all, and a nod or a wink for every pretty maid that showed at the
windows; for though past the grand climacteric, he still has a spice of
the devil in him--and, as he says, "there is no harm in looking." The
"Red Lion" at Smitham Bottom was the rendezvous of the day. It is a
small inn on the Brighton road, some three or four miles below Croydon.
On the left of the road stands the inn, on the right is a small
training-ground, and the country about is open common and down. There
was an immense muster about the inn, and also on the training-ground,
consisting of horsemen, gig-men, post-chaise-men, footmen,--Jorrocks and
the Yorkshireman made the firemen.

"Here's old Jorrocks, I do declare", exclaimed one, as Jorrocks drove
the fire-engine up at as quick a pace as his horse would go. "Why,
what a concern he's in", said another, "why, the old man's mad,
surely".--"He's good for a subscription," added another, addressing him.
"I say, Jorrocks, old boy, you'll give us ten pound for our hounds
won't you?--that's a good fellow." "Oh yes, Jorrocks promised us a
subscription last year," observed another, "and he is a man of his
word--arn't you old leather breeches?" "No, gentlemen," said Jorrocks,
standing up in the fire-engine, and sticking the whip into its nest,
"I really cannot--I wish I could, but I really cannot afford it. Times
really are so bad, and I have my own pack to subscribe to, and I must
be 'just before I am generous.'" "Oh, but ten pounds is nothing in your
way, you know, Jorrocks--adulterate a chest of tea. Old----here will
give you all the leaves off his ash-trees." "No," said Jorrocks,
"I really cannot--ten pounds is ten pounds, and I must cut my coat
according to my cloth." "By Jove, but you must have had plenty of cloth
when you cut that coat you've got on, old boy. Why there's as much cloth
in the laps as would make a pair of horse-sheets." "Never mind," said
Jorrocks, "I wear it, and not you." "Now," said Jorrocks in an undertone
to the Yorkshireman, "you see what an unconscionable set of dogs these
stag-'unters are. They're at every man for a subscription, and talk
about guineas as if they grew upon gooseberry-bushes. Besides, they are
such a rubbishing set--all drafts from the fox'ounds.--Now there's a
chap on a piebald just by the trees--he goes into the _Gazette_ reglarly
once in three years, and yet to see him out, you'd fancy all the country
round belonged to him. And there's a buck with his bearing-rein so tight
that he can hardly move his neck," pointing to a gentleman in scarlet,
with a tremendous stiff blue cravat--"he lives by keeping a mad-house
and being werry high, consequential sort of a cock, they calls him the
'Lord High Keeper!'--I'll tell ye a joke about that fellow," said he,
pointing to a man alighting from a red-wheeled buggy--"he's a werry
shabby screw, and is always trying to save a penny.--Well, he hires a
young half-witted hawbuck for a servant, who didn't clean his boots to
his liking, so he began reading the Riot Act one day, and concluded by
saying, 'I'm blowed if I couldn't clean them better myself with a little
pump-water.'--The next day, up came the boots duller than ever.--'Bless
my soul,' exclaimed he, 'why, they are worse than before, how's this,
sir?'--'Please, sir, you said you could clean them better with a little
pump-water, so I tried it, and I do think they are worse!' Haw! haw!
haw!--Yon chap in the black plush breeches and Hessians, standing by the
ginger-pop tray, is the only man what ever got the better of me in the
'oss-dealing line, and he certainlie did bite me uncommon 'andsomely.
I gave him three and twenty pounds, a strong violin case with patent
hinges, lined with superfine green baize, and an uncut copy of
Middleton's _Cicero_, for an 'oss that the blacksmith really declared
wasn't worth shoeing.--Howsomever, I paid him off, for I christened the
'oss Barabbas--who, you knows, was a robber--and the seller has gone by
the name of Barabbas ever since."

"Well, but tell me, gentlemen, where do we dine?" inquired Jorrocks,
turning to a group who had just approached the fire-engine. "We don't
know yet," said a gentleman in scarlet, "the deer has not come yet; but
yonder he is," pointing up the road to a covered cart, "and there are
the hounds just coming over the hill at the back." The covered cart
approached, and several went to meet it. The cry of "Oh, it's old
Tunbridge," was soon heard. "Well, we shall have a good dinner," said
Jorrocks, "if that is the case. Is it Tunbridge?" inquired he eagerly
of one of the party who returned from the deer-cart. "Yes, it's old
Tunbridge, and Snooks has ordered dinner at the Wells for sixteen at
five o'clock, so the first sixteen that get there had better look out."
"Here, bouy," said Jorrocks in an undertone to his servant, who was
leading his screws about on the green, "take this 'oss out of the
carriage, and give him a feed of corn, and then go on to Tunbridge
Wells, and tell Mr. Pegg, at the Sussex Arms, that I shall be there with
a friend to the dinner, and bid him write 'Jorrocks' upon two plates and
place them together.--Nothing like making sure," said he, chuckling at
his own acuteness.

"Now to 'orse--to 'orse!" exclaimed he, suiting the action to the word,
and climbing on to his great chestnut, leaving the Yorkshireman to mount
the rat-tail brown. "Let's have a look at the 'ounds", turning his horse
in the direction in which they were coming. Jonathan Griffin[16] took off
his cap to Jorrocks, as he approached, who waved his hand in the most
patronising manner possible, adding "How are you, Jonathan?" "Pretty
well, thank you, Mister Jorrocks, hope you're the same." "No, not the
same, for I'm werry well, which makes all the difference--haw! haw! haw!
You seem to have but a shortish pack, I think--ten, twelve, fourteen
couple--'ow's that? We always take nine and twenty with the Surrey".
"Why, you see, Mister Jorrocks, stag-hunting and fox-hunting are very
different. The scent of the deer is very ravishing, and then we have no
drawing for our game. Besides, at this season, there are always bitches
to put back--but we have plenty of hounds for sport.--I suppose we may
be after turning out," added Jonathan, looking at his watch--"it's past
eleven."

[Footnote 16: Poor Jonathan, one of the hardest riders and drinkers of his
day, exists, like his pack, but in the recollection of mankind. He
was long huntsman to the late Lord Derby, who, when he gave up his
staghounds, made Jonathan a present of them, and for two or three
seasons he scratched on in an indifferent sort of way, until the hounds
were sold to go abroad--to Hungary, we believe.]

On hearing this, a gentleman off with his glove and began collecting,
or capping, prior to turning out--it being the rule of the hunt to make
sure of the money before starting, for fear of accidents. "Half a crown,
if you please, sir." "Now I'll take your half a crown." "Mr. Jorrocks,
shall I trouble you for half a crown?" "Oh, surely," said Jorrocks,
pulling out a handful of great five-shilling pieces; "here's for this
gentleman and myself," handing one of them over, "and I shan't even ask
you for discount for ready money." The capping went round, and a goodly
sum was collected. Meanwhile the deer-cart was drawn to the far side of
a thick fence, and the door being opened, a lubberly-looking animal, as
big as a donkey, blobbed out, and began feeding very composedly. "That
won't do," said Jonathan Griffin, eyeing him--"ride on, Tom, and whip
him away." Off went the whip, followed by a score of sportsmen whose
shouts, aided by the cracking of their whips, would have frightened the
devil himself; and these worthies, knowing the hounds would catch them
up in due time, resolved themselves into a hunt for the present, and
pursued the animal themselves. Ten minutes having expired and the hounds
seeming likely to break away, Jonathan thought it advisable to let them
have their wicked will, and accordingly they rushed off in full cry
to the spot where the deer had been uncarted. Of course, there was no
trouble in casting for the scent; indeed they were very honest, and did
not pretend to any mystery; the hounds knew within an inch where it
would be, and the start was pretty much like that for a hunter's plate
in four-mile heats. A few dashing blades rode before the hounds
at starting, but otherwise the field was tolerably quiet, and was
considerably diminished after the three first leaps. The scent improved,
as did the pace, and presently they got into a lane along which they
rattled for five miles as hard as ever they could lay legs to the
ground, throwing the mud into each other's faces, until each man looked
as if he was roughcast. A Kentish wagon, drawn by six oxen, taking up
the whole of the lane, had obliged the dear animal to take to the fields
again, where, at the first fence, most of our high-mettled racers stood
still. In truth, it was rather a nasty place, a yawning ditch, with a
mud bank and a rotten landing. "Now, who's for it? Go it, Jorrocks,
you're a fox-hunter," said one, who, erecting himself in his stirrups,
was ogling the opposite side. "I don't like it," said Jorrocks; "is
never a gate near?" "Oh yes, at the bottom of the field," and away they
all tore for it. The hounds now had got out of sight, but were heard
running in cover at the bottom of the turnip-field into which they had
just passed, and also the clattering of horses' hoofs on the highway.
The hounds came out several times on to the road, evidently carrying the
scent, but as often threw up and returned into the cover. The huntsman
was puzzled at last; and quite convinced that the deer was not in the
wood, he called them out, and proceeded to make a cast, followed by the
majority of the field. They trotted about at a brisk pace, first to the
right, then to the left, afterwards to the north, and then to the
south, over grass, fallow, turnips, potatoes, and flints, through three
farmyards, round two horse-ponds, and at the back of a small village or
hamlet, without a note, save those of a few babblers. Everyone seemed to
consider it a desperate job. They were all puzzled; at last they heard
a terrible holloaing about a quarter of a mile to the south, and
immediately after was espied a group of horsemen, galloping along the
road at full speed, in the centre of which was Jorrocks; his green coat
wide open, with the tails flying a long way behind that of his horse,
his right leg was thrust out, down the side of which he kept applying
his ponderous hunting whip, making a most terrible clatter. As they
approached, he singled himself out from the group, and was the first to
reach the field. He immediately burst out into one of his usual hunting
energetic strains. "Oh Jonathan Griffin! Jonathan Griffin!" said he,
"here's a lamentable occurrence--a terrible disaster! Oh dear, oh
dear--we shall never get to Tunbridge--that unfortunate deer has escaped
us, and we shall never see nothing more of him--rely upon it, he's
killed before this." "Why, how's that?" inquired Griffin, evidently in a
terrible perturbation. "Why," said Jorrocks, slapping the whip down his
leg again, "there's a little girl tells me, that as she was getting
water at the well just at the end of the wood, where we lost him, she
saw what she took to be a donkey jump into a return post-chaise from the
'Bell', at Seven Oaks, that was passing along the road with the door
swinging wide open! and you may rely upon it, it was the deer. The
landlord of the 'Bell' will have cut his throat before this, for, you
know, he vowed wengeance against us last year, because his wife's
pony-chaise was upset, and he swore that we did it." "Oh, but that's a
bad job", said the huntsman; "what shall we do?" "Here, Tom," calling to
the whipper-in, "jump on to the Hastings coach" (which just came up),
"and try if you can't overtake him, and bring him back, chaise and all,
and I'll follow slowly with the hounds." Tom was soon up, the coach
bowled on, and Jonathan and the hounds trotted gently forward till they
came to a public-house. Here, as they stopped lamenting over their
unhappy fate, and consoling themselves with some cold sherry negus, the
post-chaise appeared in sight, with the deer's head sticking out of the
side window with all the dignity of a Lord Mayor. "Huzza! huzza! huzza!"
exclaimed Jorrocks, taking off his hat, "here's old Tunbridge come back
again, huzza! huzza!" "But who's to pay me for the po-chay," said the
driver, pulling up; "I must be paid before I let him out." "How much?"
says Jonathan. "Why, eighteen-pence a mile, to be sure, and three-pence
a mile to the driver." "No," says Jorrocks, "that won't do, yours is a
return chay; however, here's five shillings for you, and now, Jonathan,
turn him out again--he's quite fresh after his ride--and see, he's got
some straw in the bottom."

Old Tunbridge was again turned out, with his head towards the town from
whence he took his name, and after a quarter of an hour's law, the pack
was again laid on. He was not, however, in very good wind, and it was
necessary to divide the second chase into two heats, for which purpose
the hounds were whipped off about the middle, while the deer took a cold
bath, after which he was again set a-going. By half-past three they had
accomplished the run; and Mr. Pegg, of the "Sussex Arms," having mounted
his Pegasus, found them at the appointed place by the Medway, where old
Tunbridge's carriage was waiting, into which having handed him, they
repaired to the inn, and at five o'clock eighteen of them sat down to a
dinner consisting of every delicacy of the season, the Lord High Keeper
in the chair. Being all "hungry as hunters," little conversation passed
until after the removal of the cloth, when after the King and his
Majesty's Ministers had been drunk, the President gave "The noble, manly
sport of stag-hunting," which he eulogised as the most legitimate and
exhilarating of all sports, and sketched its progress from its wild
state of infancy when the unhappy sportsmen had to range the fields and
forests for their uncertain game, to the present state of luxurious ease
and elaborate refinement, when they not only brought their deer to the
meet, but by selecting the proper animal, could insure a finish at
the place they most wished to dine at--all of which was most
enthusiastically applauded; and on the speaker's ending, "Stag-hunting,"
and the "Surrey staghounds," and "Long life to all stag-hunters," were
drank in brimming and overflowing bumpers. Fox-hunting, hare-hunting,
rabbit-hunting, cat-hunting, rat-catching, badger-baiting--all wild,
seasonable, and legitimate sports followed; and the chairman having
run through his list, and thinking Jorrocks was getting rather mellow,
resolved to try the soothing system on him for a subscription, the
badgering of the morning not having answered. Accordingly, he called
on the company to charge their glasses, as he would give them a bumper
toast, which he knew they would have great pleasure in drinking.--"He
wished to propose the health of his excellent friend on his right--MR.
JORROCKS (applause), a gentleman whose name only required mentioning in
any society of hunters to insure it a hearty and enthusiastic reception.
He did not flatter his excellent friend when he said he was a man for
the imitation of all, and he was sure that when the present company
recollected the liberal support he gave to the Surrey foxhounds,
together with the keenness with which he followed that branch of
amusement, they would duly appreciate, not only the honour he had
conferred upon them by his presence in the field that morning, and at
the table that day, but the disinterested generosity which had prompted
him voluntarily to declare his intention of contributing to the future
support of the Surrey staghounds (immense cheers). He therefore thought
the least they could do was to drink the health of Mr. Jorrocks, and
success to the Surrey foxhounds, with three times three," which was
immediately responded to with deafening cheers.

Old Jorrocks, after the noise had subsided, got on his legs, and with
one hand rattling the five-shilling pieces in his breeches-pocket, and
the thumb of the other thrust into the arm-hole of his waistcoat, thus
began to address them.--"Gentlemen," said he, "I'm no orator, but I'm
an honest man--(hiccup)--I feels werry (hiccup) much obliged to my
excellent friend the Lord High Keeper (shouts of laughter), I begs his
pardon--my friend Mr. Juggins--for the werry flattering compliment he
has paid me in coupling my name (hiccup) with the Surrey fox'ounds--a
pack, I may say, without wanity (hiccup), second to none. I'm a werry
old member of the 'unt, and when I was a werry poor man (hiccup) I
always did my best to support them (hiccup), and now that I'm a werry
rich man (cheers) I shan't do no otherwise. About subscribing to the
staggers, I doesn't recollect saying nothing whatsomever about it
(hiccup), but as I'm werry friendly to sporting in all its
ramifications (hiccup), I'll be werry happy to give ten pounds to your
'ounds."--Immense cheers followed this declaration, which lasted for
some seconds. When they had subsided, Jorrocks put his finger on his
nose and, with a knowing wink of his eye, added: "Prowided my friend
the Lord High Keep--I begs his pardon--Juggins--will give ten pounds to
ours!"



V. THE TURF: MR. JORROCKS AT NEWMARKET

"A muffin--and the _Post_, sir," said George to the Yorkshireman,--on
one of the fine fresh mornings that gently usher in the returning
spring, and draw from the town-pent cits sighs for the verdure of
the fields,--as he placed the above mentioned articles on his usual
breakfast table in the coffee-room of the "Piazza."

With the calm deliberation of a man whose whole day is unoccupied, the
Yorkshireman sweetened his tea, drew the muffin and a select dish of
prawns to his elbow, and turning sideways to the table, crossed his legs
and prepared to con the contents of the paper. The first page as usual
was full of advertisements.--Sales by auction--Favour of your vote
and interest--If the next of kin--Reform your tailor's bills--Law---
Articled clerk--An absolute reversion--Pony phaeton--Artificial
teeth--Messrs. Tattersall--Brace of pointers--Dog lost--Boy found--Great
sacrifice--No advance in coffee--Matrimony--A single gentleman--Board
and lodging in an airy situation--To omnibus proprietors--Steam to Leith
and Hull--Stationery--Desirable investment for a small capital--The fire
reviver or lighter.

Then turning it over, his eye ranged over a whole meadow of type,
consisting of the previous night's debate, followed on by City news,
Police reports, Fashionable arrivals and departures, Dinners given,
Sporting intelligence, Newmarket Craven meeting. "That's more in my
way," said the Yorkshireman to himself as he laid down the paper and
took a sip of his tea. "I've a great mind to go, for I may just as well
be at Newmarket as here, having nothing particular to do in either
place. I came to stay a hundred pounds in London it's true, but if I
stay ten of it at Newmarket, it'll be all the same, and I can go home
from there just as well as from here"; so saying, he took another turn
at the tea. The race list was a tempting one, Riddlesworth, Craven
Stakes, Column Stakes, Oatlands, Port, Claret, Sherry, Madeira, and all
other sorts. A good week's racing in fact, for the saintly sinners who
frequent the Heath had not then discovered any greater impropriety in
travelling on a Sunday, then in cheating each other on the Monday. The
tea was good, as were the prawns and eggs, and George brought a second
muffin, at the very moment that the Yorkshireman had finished the last
piece of the first, so that by the time he had done his breakfast and
drawn on his boots, which were dryer and pleasanter than the recent damp
weather had allowed of their being, he felt completely at peace with
himself and all the world, and putting on his hat, sallied forth with
the self-satisfied air of a man who had eat a good breakfast, and yet
not too much.

Newmarket was still uppermost in his mind, and as he sauntered along
in the direction of the Strand, it occurred to him that perhaps Mr.
Jorrocks might have no objection to accompany him. On entering that
great thoroughfare of humanity, he turned to the east, and having
examined the contents of all the caricature shops in the line, and paid
threepence for a look at the _York Herald_, in the Chapter Coffee-house,
St. Paul's Churchyard, about noon he reached the corner of St. Botolph
Lane. Before Jorrocks & Co.'s warehouse, great bustle and symptoms
of brisk trade were visible. With true city pride, the name on the
door-post was in small dirty-white letters, sufficiently obscure to
render it apparent that Mr. Jorrocks considered his house required no
sign; while, as a sort of contradiction, the covered errand-cart before
it, bore "JORROCKS & Co.'s WHOLESALE TEA WAREHOUSE," in great gilt
letters on each side of the cover, so large that "he who runs might
read," even though the errand-cart were running too. Into this cart,
which was drawn by the celebrated rat-tail hunter, they were pitching
divers packages for town delivery, and a couple of light porters nearly
upset the Yorkshireman, as they bustled out with their loads. The
warehouse itself gave evident proof of great antiquity. It was not
one of your fine, light, lofty, mahogany-countered, banker-like
establishments of modern times, where the stock-in-trade often consists
of books and empty canisters, but a large, roomy, gloomy, dirty,
dingy sort of cellar above ground, full of hogsheads, casks, flasks,
sugar-loaves, jars, bags, bottles, and boxes.

The floor was half an inch thick, at least, with dirt, and was sprinkled
with rice, currants, and raisins, as though they had been scattered for
the purpose of growing. A small corner seemed to have been cut off, like
the fold of a Leicestershire grazing-ground, and made into an office in
the centre of which was a square or two of glass that commanded a view
of the whole warehouse. "Is Mr. Jorrocks in?" inquired the Yorkshireman
of a porter, who was busy digging currants with a wooden spade. "Yes,
sir, you'll find him in the counting-house," was the answer; but on
looking in, though his hat and gloves were there, no Jorrocks was
visible. At the farther end of the warehouse a man in his shirt-sleeves,
with a white apron round his waist and a brown paper cap on his head,
was seen under a very melancholy-looking skylight, holding his head over
something, as if his nose were bleeding. The Yorkshireman groped his way
up to him, and asking if Mr. Jorrocks was in, found he was addressing
the grocer himself. He had been leaning over a large trayful of little
white cups--with teapots to match--trying the strength, flavour, and
virtue of a large purchase of tea, and the beverage was all smoking
before him. "My vig," exclaimed he, holding out his hand, "who'd have
thought of seeing you in the city, this is something unkimmon! However,
you're werry welcome in St. Botolph Lane, and as this is your
first wisit, why, I'll make you a present of some tea--wot do you
drink?--black or green, or perhaps both--four pounds of one and two of
t'other. Here, Joe!" summoning his foreman, "put up four pounds of that
last lot of black that came in, and two pounds of superior green, and
this gentleman will tell you where to leave it.--And when do you think
of starting?" again addressing the Yorkshireman--"egad this is fine
weather for the country--have half a mind to have a jaunt myself--makes
one quite young--feel as if I'd laid full fifty years aside, and were
again a boy--when did you say you start?" "Why, I don't know exactly,"
replied the Yorkshireman, "the weather's so fine that I'm half tempted
to go round by Newmarket." "Newmarket!" exclaimed Jorrocks, throwing
his arm in the air, while his paper cap fell from his head with the
jerk--"by Newmarket! why, what in the name of all that's impure, have
you to do at Newmarket?"

"Why, nothing in particular; only, when there's neither hunting nor
shooting going on, what is a man to do with himself?--I'm sure you'd
despise me if I were to go fishing." "True," observed Mr. Jorrocks
somewhat subdued, and jingling the silver in his breeches-pocket.
"Fox-'unting is indeed the prince of sports. The image of war, without
its guilt, and only half its danger. I confess that I'm a martyr to
it--a perfect wictim--no one knows wot I suffer from my ardour.--If ever
I'm wisited with the last infirmity of noble minds, it will be caused by
my ingovernable passion for the chase. The sight of a saddle makes me
sweat. An 'ound makes me perfectly wild. A red coat throws me into a
scarlet fever. Never throughout life have I had a good night's rest
before an 'unting morning. But werry little racing does for me; Sadler's
Wells is well enough of a fine summer evening--especially when they
plump the clown over head in the New River cut, and the ponies don't
misbehave in the Circus,--but oh! Newmarket's a dreadful place, the
werry name's a sickener. I used to hear a vast about it from poor Will
Softly of Friday Street. It was the ruin of him--and wot a fine business
his father left him, both wholesale and retail, in the tripe and
cow-heel line--all went in two years, and he had nothing to show at the
end of that time for upwards of twenty thousand golden sovereigns, but a
hundredweight of children's lamb's-wool socks, and warrants for thirteen
hogsheads of damaged sherry in the docks. No, take my adwice, and have
nothing to say to them--stay where you are, or, if you're short of swag,
come to Great Coram Street, where you shall have a bed, wear-and-tear
for your teeth, and all that sort of thing found you, and, if Saturday's
a fine day, I'll treat you with a jaunt to Margate."

"You are a regular old trump," said the Yorkshireman, after listening
attentively until Mr. Jorrocks had exhausted himself, "but, you see,
you've never been at Newmarket, and the people have been hoaxing you
about it. I can assure you from personal experience that the people
there are quite as honest as those you meet every day on 'Change,
besides which, there is nothing more invigorating to the human
frame--nothing more cheering to the spirits, than the sight and air of
Newmarket Heath on a fine fresh spring morning like the present. The
wind seems to go by you at a racing pace, and the blood canters up and
down the veins with the finest and freest action imaginable. A stranger
to the race-course would feel, and almost instinctively know, what turf
he was treading, and the purpose for which that turf was intended".

  "There's a magic in the web of it."

"Oh, I knows you are a most persuasive cock," observed Mr. Jorrocks
interrupting the Yorkshireman, "and would conwince the devil himself
that black is white, but you'll never make me believe the Newmarket
folks are honest, and as to the fine hair (air) you talk of, there's
quite as good to get on Hampstead Heath, and if it doesn't make the
blood canter up and down your weins, you can always amuse yourself
by watching the donkeys cantering up and down with the sweet little
children--haw! haw! haw!--But tell me what is there at Newmarket that
should take a man there?" "What is there?" rejoined the Yorkshireman,
"why, there's everything that makes life desirable and constitutes
happiness, in this world, except hunting. First there is the beautiful,
neat, clean town, with groups of booted professors, ready for the
rapidest march of intellect; then there are the strings of clothed
horses--the finest in the world--passing indolently at intervals to
their exercise,--the flower of the English aristocracy residing in the
place. You leave the town and stroll to the wide open heath, where all
is brightness and space; the white rails stand forth against the dear
blue sky--the brushing gallop ever and anon startles the ear and eye;
crowds of stable urchins, full of silent importance, stud the heath; you
feel elated and long to bound over the well groomed turf and to try the
speed of the careering wind. All things at Newmarket train the mind to
racing. Life seems on the start, and dull indeed were he who could rein
in his feelings when such inspiring objects meet together to madden
them!"

"Bravo!" exclaimed Jorrocks, throwing his paper cap in the air as the
Yorkshireman concluded.--"Bravo!--werry good indeed! You speak like ten
Lord Mayors--never heard nothing better. Dash my vig, if I won't go. By
Jove, you've done it. Tell me one thing--is there a good place to feed
at?"

"Capital!" replied the Yorkshireman, "beef, mutton, cheese, ham, all
the delicacies of the season, as the sailor said"; and thereupon the
Yorkshireman and Jorrocks shook hands upon the bargain.

Sunday night arrived, and with it arrived, at the "Belle Sauvage,"
in Ludgate Hill, Mr. Jorrocks's boy "Binjimin," with Mr. Jorrocks's
carpet-bag; and shortly after Mr. Jorrocks, on his chestnut hunter, and
the Yorkshireman, in a hack cab, entered the yard. Having consigned his
horse to Binjimin; after giving him a very instructive lesson relative
to the manner in which he would chastise him if he heard of his trotting
or playing any tricks with the horse on his way home, Mr. Jorrocks
proceeded to pay the remainder of his fare in the coach office. The mail
was full inside and out, indeed the book-keeper assured him he could
have filled a dozen more, so anxious ware all London to see the
Riddlesworth run. "Inside," said he, "are you and your friend, and if it
wern't that the night air might give you cold, Mr. Jorrocks" (for all
the book-keepers in London know him), "I should have liked to have got
you outsides, and I tried to make an exchange with two black-legs, but
they would hear of nothing less than two guineas a head, which wouldn't
do, you know. Here comes another of your passengers--a great foreign
nobleman, they say--Baron something--though he looks as much like a
foreign pickpocket as anything else."

"Vich be de voiture?" inquired a tall, gaunt-looking foreigner, with
immense moustache, a high conical hat with a bright buckle, long, loose,
blueish-blackish frock-coat, very short white waistcoat, baggy brownish
striped trousers, and long-footed Wellington boots, with a sort of
Chinese turn up at the toe. "Vich be de Newmarket Voiture?" said he,
repeating the query, as he entered the office and deposited a silk
umbrella, a camlet cloak, and a Swiss knapsack on the counter. The
porter, without any attempt at an answer, took his goods and walked off
to the mail, followed closely by the Baron, and after depositing the
cloak inside, so that the Baron might ride with his "face to the
horses," as the saying is, he turned the knapsack into the hind boot,
and swung himself into the office till it was time to ask for something
for his exertions. Meanwhile the Baron made a tour of the yard, taking
a lesson in English from the lettering on the various coaches, when,
on the hind boot of one, he deciphered the word Cheapside.--"Ah,
Cheapside!" said he, pulling out his dictionary and turning to the
letter C. "Chaste, chat, chaw,--cheap, dat be it. Cheap,--to be had at
a low price--small value. Ah! I hev (have) it," said he, stamping and
knitting his brows, "sacré-e-e-e-e nom de Dieu," and the first word
being drawn out to its usual longitude, three strides brought him and
the conclusion of the oath into the office together. He then opened out
upon the book-keeper, in a tremendous volley of French, English and
Hanoverian oaths, for he was a cross between the first and last named
countries, the purport of which was "dat he had paid de best price,
and he be dem if he vod ride on de Cheapside of de coach." In vain
the clerks and book-keepers tried to convince him he was wrong in his
interpretation. With the full conviction of a foreigner that he was
about to be cheated, he had his cloak shifted to the opposite side of
the coach, and the knapsack placed on the roof. The fourth inside having
cast up, the outside passengers mounted, the insides took their places,
three-pences and sixpences were pulled out for the porters, the guard
twanged his horn, the coachman turned out his elbow, flourished his
whip, caught the point, cried "All right! sit tight!" and trotted out of
the yard.

Jorrocks and the Yorkshireman sat opposite each other, the Baron and old
Sam Spring, the betting man, did likewise. Who doesn't know old Sam,
with his curious tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, his old drab hat
turned up with green, careless neckcloth, flowing robe, and comical cut?
He knew Jorrocks--though--tell it not in Coram Street, he didn't know
his name; but concluded from the disparity of age between him and his
companion, that Jorrocks was either a shark or a shark's jackal, and
the Yorkshireman a victim. With due professional delicacy, he contented
himself with scrutinising the latter through his specs. The Baron's
choler having subsided, he was the first to break the ice of silence.
"Foine noight," was the observation, which was thrown out promiscuously
to see who would take it up. Now Sam Spring, though he came late, had
learned from the porter that there was a Baron in the coach, and being a
great admirer of the nobility, for whose use he has a code of signals
of his own, consisting of one finger to his hat for a Baron Lord as he
calls them, two for a Viscount, three for an Earl, four for a Marquis,
and the whole hand for a Duke, he immediately responded with "Yes, my
lord," with a fore-finger to his hat. There is something sweet in the
word "Lord" which finds its way home to the heart of an Englishman.
No sooner did Sam pronounce it, than the Baron became transformed in
Jorrocks's eyes into a very superior sort of person, and forthwith he
commences ingratiating himself by offering him a share of a large paper
of sandwiches, which the Baron accepted with the greatest condescension,
eating what he could and stuffing the remainder into his hat. His
lordship was a better hand at eating than speaking, and the united
efforts of the party could not extract from him the precise purport of
his journey. Sam threw out two or three feasible offers in the way of
bets, but they fell still-born to the bottom of the coach, and Jorrocks
talked to him about hunting and had the conversation all to himself,
the Baron merely replying with a bow and a stare, sometimes diversified
with, or "I tank you--vare good." The conversation by degrees resolved
itself into a snore, in which they were all indulging, when the raw
morning air rushed in among them, as a porter with a lanthorn opened the
door and announced their arrival at Newmarket. Forthwith they turned
into the street, and the outside passengers having descended, they all
commenced straddling, yawning, and stretching their limbs while the
guard and porters sorted their luggage. The Yorkshireman having an eye
to a bed, speedily had Mr. Jorrocks's luggage and his own on the back
of a porter on its way to the "Rutland Arms," while that worthy citizen
followed in a sort of sleepy astonishment at the smallness of the place,
inquiring if they were sure they had not stopped at some village by
mistake. Two beds had been ordered for two gentlemen who could not get
two seats by the mail, which fell to the lot of those who did, and into
these our heroes trundled, having arranged to be called by the early
exercising hour.

Whether it was from want of his usual night-cap of brandy and water, or
the fatigues of travelling, or what else, remains unknown, but no sooner
was Mr. Jorrocks left alone with his candle, than all at once he was
seized with a sudden fit of trepidation, on thinking that he should have
been inveigled to such a place as Newmarket, and the tremor increasing
as he pulled four five-pound bank-notes out of his watch-pocket, besides
a vast of silver and his great gold watch, he was resolved, should an
attempt be made upon his property, to defend it with his life, and
having squeezed the notes into the toe of his boots, and hid the silver
in the wash-hand stand, he very deliberately put his watch and the poker
under the pillow, and set the heavy chest of drawers with two stout
chairs and a table against the door, after all which exertions he got
into bed and very soon fell sound asleep.

Most of the inmates of the house were up with the lark to the early
exercises, and the Yorkshireman was as early as any of them. Having
found Mr. Jorrocks's door, he commenced a loud battery against it
without awaking the grocer; he then tried to open it, but only succeeded
in getting it an inch or two from the post, and after several holloas of
"Jorrocks, my man! Mr. Jorrocks! Jorrocks, old boy! holloa, Jorrocks!"
he succeeded in extracting the word "Wot?" from the worthy gentleman as
he rolled over in his bed. "Jorrocks!" repeated the Yorkshireman, "it's
time to be up." "Wot?" again was the answer. "Time to get up. The
morning's breaking." "Let it break," replied he, adding in a mutter, as
he turned over again, "it owes me nothing."

Entreaties being useless, and a large party being on the point of
setting off, the Yorkshireman joined them, and spent a couple of hours
on the dew-bespangled heath, during which time they not only criticised
the figure and action of every horse that was out, but got up tremendous
appetites for breakfast. In the meantime Mr. Jorrocks had risen, and
having attired himself with his usual care, in a smart blue coat with
metal buttons, buff waistcoat, blue stocking-netted tights, and Hessian
boots, he turned into the main street of Newmarket, where he was lost in
astonishment at the insignificance of the place. But wiser men than
Mr. Jorrocks have been similarly disappointed, for it enters into
the philosophy of few to conceive the fame and grandeur of Newmarket
compressed into the limits of the petty, outlandish, Icelandish place
that bears the name. "Dash my vig," said Mr. Jorrocks, as he brought
himself to bear upon Rogers's shop-window, "this is the werry
meanest town I ever did see. Pray, sir," addressing himself to a
groomish-looking man in a brown cut-away coat, drab shorts and
continuations, who had just emerged from the shop with a race list in
his hand, "Pray, sir, be this your principal street?" The man eyed him
with a mixed look of incredulity and contempt. At length, putting his
thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, he replied, "I bet a crown
you know as well as I do." "Done," said Mr. Jorrocks holding out his
hand. "No--I won't do that," replied the man, "but I'll tell you what
I'll do with you,--I'll lay you two to one, in fives or fifties if you
like, that you knew before you axed, and that Thunderbolt don't win the
Riddlesworth." "Really," said Mr. Jorrocks, "I'm not a betting man."
"Then, wot the 'ell business have you at Newmarket?" was all the answer
he got. Disgusted with such inhospitable impertinence, Mr. Jorrocks
turned on his heel and walked away. Before the "White Hart" Inn was a
smartish pony phaeton, in charge of a stunted stable lad. "I say, young
chap," inquired Jorrocks, "whose is that?" "How did you know that I
was a young chap?" inquired the abortion turning round. "Guessed it,"
replied Jorrocks, chuckling at his own wit. "Then guess whose it is."

"Pray, are your clocks here by London time?" he asked of a respectable
elderly-looking man whom he saw turn out of the entry leading to the
Kingston rooms, and take the usual survey first up the town and then
down it, and afterwards compose his hands in his breeches-pockets, there
to stand to see the "world." [17] "Come now, old 'un--none o' your tricks
here--you've got a match on against time, I suppose," was all the answer
he could get after the man (old R--n the ex-flagellator) had surveyed
him from head to foot.

[Footnote 17: Newmarket or London--it's all the same--"The world" is but
composed of one's own acquaintance.]

We need hardly say after all these rebuffs that when Mr. Jorrocks met
the Yorkshireman, he was not in the best possible humour; indeed, to say
nothing of the extreme sharpness and suspicion of the people, we know of
no place where a man, not fond of racing, is so completely out of his
element as at Newmarket, for with the exception of a little "elbow
shaking" in the evening, there is literally and truly nothing else
to do. It is "Heath," "Ditch in," "Abingdon mile," "T.Y.C. Stakes,"
"Sweepstakes," "Handicaps," "Bet," "Lay," "Take," "Odds," "Evens,"
morning, noon and night.

Mr. Jorrocks made bitter complaints during the breakfast, and some
invidious comparisons between racing men and fox-hunters, which,
however, became softer towards the close, as he got deeper in the
delicacy of a fine Cambridge brawn. Nature being at length appeased, he
again thought of turning out, to have a look, as he said, at the shows
on the course, but the appearance of his friend the Baron opposite the
window, put it out of his head, and he sallied forth to join him. The
Baron was evidently incog.: for he had on the same short dirty-white
waistcoat, Chinese boots, and conical hat, that he travelled down in,
and being a stranger in the land, of course he was uncommonly glad to
pick up Jorrocks, so after he had hugged him a little, called him a "bon
garçon," and a few other endearing terms, he run his great long arm
through his, and walked him down street, the whole peregrinations of
Newmarket being comprised in the words "up street" and "down." He then
communicated in most unrepresentable language, that he was on his way
to buy "an 'oss," and Jorrocks informing him that he was a perfect
connoisseur in the article, the Baron again assured him of his
distinguished consideration. They were met by Joe Rogers the trainer
with a ring-key in his hand, who led the way to the stable, and having
unlocked a box in which was a fine slapping four-year old, according to
etiquette he put his hat in a corner, took a switch in one hand, laid
hold of the horse's head with the other, while the lad in attendance
stripped off its clothes. The Baron then turned up his wrists, and
making a curious noise in his throat, proceeded to pass his hand down
each leg, and along its back, after which he gave it a thump in the
belly and squeezed its throat, when, being as wise as he was at
starting, he stuck his thumb in his side, and took a mental survey of
the whole.--"Ah," said he at length--"foin 'oss,--foin 'oss; vot ears he
has?" "Oh," said Rogers, "they show breeding." "Non, non, I say vot ears
he has?" "Well, but he carries them well," was the answer. "Non, non,"
stamping, "I say vot ears (years) he has?" "Oh, hang it, I twig--four
years old." Then the Baron took another long look at him. At length he
resumed, "I vill my wet." "What's that?" inquired Rogers of Jorrocks.
"His wet--why, a drink to be sure," and thereupon Rogers went to the
pump and brought a glass of pure water, which the Baron refused with
becoming indignation. "Non, non," said he stamping, "I vill my wet."
Rogers looked at Jorrocks, and Jorrocks looked at Rogers, but neither
Rogers nor Jorrocks understood him. "I vill my wet," repeated the Baron
with vehemence. "He must want some brandy in it," observed Mr. Jorrocks,
judging of the Baron by himself, and thereupon the lad was sent for
three-penn'orth. When it arrived, the Baron dashed it out of his hand
with a prolonged sacré-e-e-e--! adding "I vill von wet-tin-nin-na-ary
surgeon." The boy was dispatched for one, and on his arrival the
veterinary surgeon went through the process that the Baron had
attempted, and not being a man of many words, he just gave the Baron a
nod at the end. "How moch?" inquked the Baron of Rogers. "Five hundred,"
was the answer. "Vot, five hundred livre?" "Oh d----n it, you may take
or leave him, just as you like, but you won't get him for less." The
"vet" explained that the Baron wished to know whether it was five
hundred francs (French ten-pences), or five hundred guineas English
money, and being informed that it was the latter, he gave his conical
hat a thrust on his brow, and bolted out of the box.

But race hour approaches, and people begin to assemble in groups before
the "rooms," while tax-carts, pony-gigs, post-chaises, the usual
aristocratical accompaniments of Newmarket, come dribbling at intervals
into the town. Here is old Sam Spring in a spring-cart, driven by a
ploughboy in fustian, there the Earl of---- on a ten-pound pony, with
the girths elegantly parted to prevent the saddle slipping over its
head, while Miss----, his jockey's daughter, dashes by him in a phaeton
with a powdered footman, and the postilion in scarlet and leathers, with
a badge on his arm. Old Crockey puts on his greatcoat, Jem Bland draws
the yellow phaeton and greys to the gateway of the "White Hart," to take
up his friend Crutch Robinson; Zac, Jack and another, have just driven
on in a fly. In short, it's a brilliant meeting! Besides four coronetted
carriages with post-horses, there are three phaetons-and-pair; a
thing that would have been a phaeton if they'd have let it; General
Grosvenor's dog-carriage, that is to say, his carriage with a dog upon
it; Lady Chesterfield and the Hon. Mrs. Anson in a pony phaeton with an
out-rider (Miss---- will have one next meeting instead of the
powdered footman); Tattersall in his double carriage driving without
bearing-reins; Old Theobald in leather breeches and a buggy; five Bury
butchers in a tax-cart; Young Dutch Sam on a pony; "Short-odds Richards"
on a long-backed crocodile-looking rosinante; and no end of pedestrians.

But where is Mr. Jorrocks all this time? Why eating brawn in the
"Rutland Arms" with his friend the Baron, perfectly unconscious that
all these passers-by were not the daily visables of the place. "Dash
my vig," said he, as he bolted another half of the round, "I see no
symptoms of a stir. Come, my lord, do me the honour to take another
glass of sherry." His lordship was nothing loath, so by mutual
entreaties they finished the bottle, besides a considerable quantity
of porter. A fine, fat, chestnut, long-tailed Suffolk punch cart
mare--fresh from the plough--having been considerately provided by the
Yorkshireman for Mr. Jorrocks, with a cob for himself, they proceeded
to mount in the yard, when Mr. Jorrocks was concerned to find that the
Baron had nothing to carry him. His lordship, too, seemed disconcerted,
but it was only momentary; for walking up to the punch mare, and resting
his elbow on her hind quarter to try if she kicked, he very coolly
vaulted up behind Mr. Jorrocks. Now Jorrocks, though proud of the
patronage of a lord, did not exactly comprehend whether he was in
earnest or not, but the Baron soon let him know; for thrusting his
conical hat on his brow, he put his arm round Jorrocks's waist, and
gave the old mare a touch in the flank with the Chinese boot, crying
out--"Along me, brave _garçon_, along _ma cher_," and the owner of the
mare living at Kentford, she went off at a brisk trot in that direction,
while the Yorkshireman slipped down the town unperceived. The sherry had
done its business on them both; the Baron, and who, perhaps was the most
"cut" of the two, chaunted the _Marsellaise_ hymn of liberty with
as much freedom as though he were sitting in the saddle. Thus they
proceeded laughing and singing until the Bury pay-gate arrested their
progress, when it occurred to the steersman to ask if they were going
right. "Be this the vay to Newmarket races?" inquired Jorrocks of the
pike-keeper. The man dived into the small pocket of his white apron for
a ticket and very coolly replied, "Shell out, old 'un." "How much?" said
Jorrocks. "Tuppence," which having got, he said, "Now, then, you may
turn, for the heath be over yonder," pointing back, "at least it was
there this morning, I know." After a volley of abuse for his impudence,
Mr. Jorrocks, with some difficulty got the old mare pulled round, for
she had a deuced hard mouth of her own, and only a plain snaffle in it;
at last, however, with the aid of a boy to beat her with a furze-bush,
they got her set a-going again, and, retracing their steps, they trotted
"down street," rose the hill, and entered the spacious wide-extending
flat of Newmarket Heath. The races were going forward on one of the
distant courses, and a slight, insignificant, black streak, swelling
into a sort of oblong (for all the world like an overgrown tadpole),
was all that denoted the spot, or interrupted the verdant aspect of
the quiet extensive plain. Jorrocks was horrified, having through life
pictured Epsom as a mere drop in the ocean compared with the countless
multitude of Newmarket, while the Baron, who was wholly indifferent to
the matter, nearly had old Jorrocks pitched over the mare's head by
applying the furze-bush (which he had got from the boy) to her tail
while Mr. Jorrocks was sitting loosely, contemplating the barrenness
of the prospect. The sherry was still alive, and being all for fun, he
shuffled back into the saddle as soon as the old mare gave over kicking;
and giving a loud tally-ho, with some minor "hunting noises," which were
responded to by the Baron in notes not capable of being set to music,
and aided by an equally indescribable accompaniment from the old mare at
every application of the bush, she went off at score over the springy
turf, and bore them triumphantly to the betting-post just as the ring
was in course of formation, a fact which she announced by a loud neigh
on viewing her companion of the plough, as well as by unpsetting some
half-dozen black-legs as she rushed through the crowd to greet her.
Great was the hubbub, shouting, swearing, and laughing,--for though the
Newmarketites are familiar with most conveyances, from a pair of horses
down to a pair of shoes, it had not then fallen to their lot to see two
men ride into the ring on the same horse,--certainly not with such a hat
between them as the Baron's.

The gravest and weightiest matters will not long distract the attention
of a black-leg, and the laughter having subsided without Jorrocks or the
Baron being in the slightest degree disconcerted, the ring was again
formed; horses' heads again turn towards the post, while carriages,
gigs, and carts form an outer circle. A solemn silence ensues. The legs
are scanning the list. At length one gives tongue. "What starts? Does
Lord Eldon start?" "No, he don't," replies the owner. "Does Trick, by
Catton?" "Yes, and Conolly rides--but mind, three pounds over." "Does
John Bull?" "No John's struck out." "Polly Hopkins does, so does
Talleyrand, also O, Fy! out of Penitence; Beagle and Paradox also--and
perhaps Pickpocket."

Another pause, and the pencils are pulled from the betting-books. The
legs and lords look at each other, but no one likes to lead off. At
length a voice is heard offering to take nine to one he names the
winner. "It's short odds, doing it cautiously. I'll take eight then," he
adds--"sivin!" but no one bites. "What will anyone lay about Trick, by
Catton?" inquires Jem Bland. "I'll lay three to two again him. I'll
take two to one--two ponies to one, and give you a suv. for laying it."
"Carn't" is the answer. "I'll do it, Jem," cries a voice. "No, you
won't," from Bland, not liking his customer. Now they are all at it, and
what a hubbub there is! "I'll back the field--I'll lay--I'll take--I'll
bet--ponies--fifties--hundreds--five hundred to two." "What do you
want, my lord?" "Three to one against Trick, by Catton." "Carn't afford
it--the odds really arn't that in the ring." "Take two--two hundred to
one." "No." "Crockford, you'll do it for me?" "Yes, my lord. Twice over
if you like. Done, done." "Do it again?" "No, thank you."

"Trick, by Catton, don't start!" cries a voice. "Impossible!" exclaim
his backers. "Quite true, I'm just from the weighing-house, and----told
me so himself." "Shame! shame!" roar those who have backed him, and
"honour--rascals--rogues--thieves--robbery--swindle--turf-ruined"--fly
from tongue to tongue, but they are all speakers with never a speaker to
cry order. Meanwhile the lads have galloped by on their hacks with
the horses' cloths to the rubbing-house, and the horses have actually
started, and are now visible in the distance sweeping over the open
heath, apparently without guide or beacon.

The majority of the ring rush to the white judge's box, and have just
time to range themselves along the rude stakes and ropes that guard the
run in, and the course-keeper in a shooting-jacket on a rough pony
to crack his whip, and cry to half a dozen stable-lads to "clear the
course," before the horses come flying towards home. Now all is tremor;
hope and fear vacillating in each breast. Silence stands breathless with
expectation--all eyes are riveted--the horses come within descrying
distance--"beautiful!" three close together, two behind. "Clear the
course! clear the course! pray clear the course!" "Polly Hopkins! Polly
Hopkins!" roar a hundred voices as they near. "O, Fy! O, Fy!" respond an
equal number. "The horse! the horse!" bellow a hundred more, as though
their yells would aid his speed, as Polly Hopkins, O, Fy! and Talleyrand
rush neck-and-neck along the cords and pass the judge's box. A cry of
"dead heat!" is heard. The bystanders see as suits their books, and
immediately rush to the judge's box, betting, bellowing, roaring,
and yelling the whole way. "What's won? what's won? what's won?" is
vociferated from a hundred voices. "Polly Hopkins! Polly Hopkins! Polly
Hopkins!" replies Mr. Clark with judicial dignity. "By how much? by how
much?" "Half a head--half a head," [18] replies the same functionary.
"What's second?" "O, Fy!" and so, amid the song of "Pretty, pretty Polly
Hopkins," from the winners, and curses and execrations long, loud, and
deep, from the losers, the scene closes.

The admiring winners follow Polly to the rubbing-house, while the losing
horses are left in the care of their trainers and stable-boys, who
console themselves with hopes of "better luck next time."

After a storm comes a calm, and the next proceeding is the wheeling of
the judge's box, and removal of the old stakes and ropes to another
course on a different part of the heath, which is accomplished by a few
ragged rascals, as rude and uncouth as the furniture they bear. In less
than half an hour the same group of anxious careworn countenances are
again turned upon each other at the betting-post, as though they had
never separated. But see! the noble owner of Trick, by Catton, is in the
crowd, and Jem Bland eyeing him like a hawk. "I say, Waggey," cries he
(singling out a friend stationed by his lordship), "had you ought on
Trick, by Catton?" "No, Jem," roars Wagstaff, shaking his head, "I knew
my man too well." "Why now, Waggey, do you know I wouldn't have done
such a thing for the world! no, not even to have been made a Markiss!"
a horse-laugh follows this denunciation, at which the newly created
marquis bites his livid lips.

[Footnote 18: No judge ever gave a race as won by half a head; but we let
the whole passage stand as originally written.--EDITOR.]

The Baron, who appears to have no taste for walking, still sticks to the
punch mare, which Mr. Jorrocks steers to the newly formed ring aided by
the Baron and the furze-bush. Here they come upon Sam Spring, whose boy
has just brought his spring-cart to bear upon the ring formed by the
horsemen, and thinking it a pity a nobleman of any county should be
reduced to the necessity of riding double, very politely offers to
take one into his carriage. Jorrocks accepts the offer, and forthwith
proceeds to make himself quite at home in it. The chorus again
commences, and Jorrocks interrogates Sam as to the names of the
brawlers. "Who be that?" said he, "offering to bet a thousand to a
hundred." Spring, after eyeing him through his spectacles, with a
grin and a look of suspicion replies, "Come now--come--let's have no
nonsense--you know as well as I." "Really," replies Mr. Jorrocks most
earnestly, "I don't." "Why, where have you lived all your life?"
"First part of it with my grandmother at Lisson Grove, afterwards at
Camberwell, but now I resides in Great Coram Street, Russell Square--a
werry fashionable neighbourhood." "Oh, I see," replies Sam, "you are one
of the reg'lar city coves, then--now, what brings you here?" "Just to
say that I have been at Newmarket, for I'm blowed if ever you catch
me here again." "That's a pity," replied Sam, "for you look like a
promising man--a handsome-bodied chap in the face--don't you sport any?"
"O a vast!--'unt regularly--I'm a member of the Surrey 'unt--capital one
it is too--best in England by far." "What do you hunt?" inquired Sam.
"Foxes, to be sure." "And are they good eating?" "Come," replied
Jorrocks, "you know, as well as I do, we don't eat 'em." The dialogue
was interrupted by someone calling to Sam to know what he was backing.

"The Bedlamite colt, my lord," with a forefinger to his hat. "Who's
that?" inquired Jorrocks. "That's my Lord L----, a baron-lord--and a
very nice one--best baron-lord I know--always bets with me--that's
another baron-lord next him, and the man next him is a baron-knight, a
stage below a baron-lord--something between a nobleman and a gentleman."
"And who be that stout, good-looking man in a blue coat and velvet
collar next him, just rubbing his chin with the race card--he'll be a
lord too, I suppose?" "No,--that's Mr. Gully, as honest a man as ever
came here,--that's Crockford before him. The man on the right is
Mr. C----, who they call the 'cracksman,' because formerly he was a
professional housebreaker, but he has given up that trade, and turned
gentleman, bets, and keeps a gaming-table. This little ugly black-faced
chap, that looks for all the world like a bilious Scotch terrier,
has lately come among us. He was a tramping pedlar--sold worsted
stockings--attended country courses, and occasionally bet a pair. Now he
bets thousands of pounds, and keeps racehorses. The chaps about him
all covered with chains and rings and brooches, were in the duffing
line--sold brimstoned sparrows for canary-birds, Norwich shawls for real
Cashmere, and dried cabbage-leaves for cigars. Now each has a first-rate
house, horses and carriages, and a play-actress among them. Yon chap,
with the extravagantly big mouth, is a cabinet-maker at Cambridge. He'll
bet you a thousand pounds as soon as look at you."

"The chap on the right of the post with the red tie, is the son of an
ostler. He commenced betting thousands with a farthing capital. The man
next him, all teeth and hair, like a rat-catcher's dog, is an Honourable
by birth, but not very honourable in his nature." "But see," cried Mr.
Jorrocks, "Lord---- is talking to the Cracksman." "To be sure," replies
Sam, "that's the beauty of the turf. The lord and the leg are reduced to
an equality. Take my word for it, if you have a turn for good society,
you should come upon the turf.--I say, my Lord Duke!" with all five
fingers up to his hat, "I'll lay you three to two on the Bedlamite
colt." "Done, Mr. Spring," replies his Grace, "three ponies to two."
"There!" cried Mr. Spring, turning to Jorrocks, "didn't I tell you so?"
The riot around the post increases. It is near the moment of starting,
and the legs again become clamorous for what they want. Their vehemence
increases. Each man is _in extremis_. "They are off!" cries one. "No,
they are not," replies another. "False start," roars a third. "Now they
come!" "No, they don't!" "Back again." They are off at last, however,
and away they speed over the flat. The horses come within descrying
distance. It's a beautiful race--run at score the whole way, and only
two tailed off within the cords. Now they set to--whips and spurs go,
legs leap, lords shout, and amid the same scene of confusion, betting,
galloping, cursing, swearing, and bellowing, the horses rush past the
judge's box.

But we have run our race, and will not fatigue our readers with
repetition. Let us, however, spend the evening, and then the "Day at
Newmarket" will be done.

Mr. Spring, with his usual attention to strangers, persuades Mr.
Jorrocks to make one of a most agreeable dinner-party at the "White
Hart" on the assurance of spending a delightful evening. Covers are laid
for sixteen in the front room downstairs, and about six o'clock that
number are ready to sit down. Mr. Badchild, the accomplished keeper of
an oyster-room and minor hell in Pickering Place, is prevailed upon to
take the chair, supported on his right by Mr. Jorrocks, and on his left
by Mr. Tom Rhodes, of Thames Street, while the stout, jolly, portly
Jerry Hawthorn fills--in the fullest sense of the word--the vice-chair.
Just as the waiters are removing the covers, in stalks the Baron, in his
conical hat, and reconnoitres the viands. Sam, all politeness, invites
him to join the party. "I tank you," replies the Baron, "but I have my
wet in de next room." "But bring your wet with you," rejoins Sam, "we'll
all have our wet together after dinner," thinking the Baron meant his
wine.

The usual inn grace--"For what we are going to receive, the host expects
to be paid",--having been said with great feeling and earnestness, they
all set to at the victuals, and little conversation passed until the
removal of the cloth, when Mr. Badchild, calling upon his vice, observed
that as in all probability there were gentlemen of different political
and other opinions present, perhaps the best way would be to give a
comprehensive toast, and so get over any debatable ground,--he therefore
proposed to drink in a bumper "The king, the queen, and all the royal
family, the ministry, particularly the Master of the Horse, the Army,
the Navy, the Church, the State, and after the excellent dinner they
had eaten, he would include the name of the landlord of the White Hart"
(great applause). Song from Jerry Hawthorn--"The King of the Cannibal
Islands".--The chairman then called upon the company to fill their
glasses to a toast upon which there could be no difference of opinion.
"It was a sport which they all enjoyed, one that was delightful to the
old and to the young, to the peer and to the peasant, and open to all.
Whatever might be the merits of other amusements, he had never yet met
any man with the hardihood to deny that racing was at once the noblest
and the most legitimate" (loud cheers, and thumps on the table, that
set all the glasses dancing), "not only was it the noblest and most
legitimate, but it was the most profitable; and where was the man of
high and honourable principle who did not feel when breathing the pure
atmosphere of that Heath, a lofty self-satisfaction at the thought, that
though he might have left those who were near and dear to him in a less
genial atmosphere, still he was not selfishly enjoying himself, without
a thought for their welfare; for racing, while it brought health and
vigour to the father, also brought what was dearer to the mind of a
parent--the means of promoting the happiness and prosperity of his
family--(immense cheers). With these few observations he should simply
propose 'The Turf,' and may we long be above it"--(applause and, on the
motion of Mr. Spring, three cheers for Mrs. Badchild and all the little
Badchildren were called for and given). When the noise had subsided. Mr.
Jorrocks very deliberately got up, amid whispers and inquiries as to who
he was. "Gentlemen," said he, with an indignant stare, and a thump on
the table, "Gentlemen, I say, in much of what has fallen from our worthy
chairman, I go-in-sides, save in what he says about racing--I insists
that 'unting is the sport of sports" (immense laughter, and cries of
"wot an old fool!") "Gentlemen may laugh, but I say it's a fact, and
though I doesn't wish to create no displeasancy whatsomever, yet I
should despise myself most confoundedly--should consider myself unworthy
of the great and distinguished 'unt to which I have the honour to
belong, if I sat quietly down without sticking up for the chase
(laughter).--I say, it's one of the balances of the constitution
(laughter).--I say, it's the sport of kings! the image of war without
its guilt (hisses and immense laughter). He would fearlessly propose a
bumper toast--he would give them 'fox-hunting.'" There was some demur
about drinking it, but on the interposition of Sam Spring, who assured
the company that Jorrocks was one of the right sort, and with an
addition proposed by Jerry Hawthorn, which made the toast more
comprehensible, they swallowed it, and the chairman followed it up
with "The Sod",--which was drunk with great applause. Mr. Cox of Blue
Hammerton returned thanks. "He considered cock-fighting the finest of
all fine amusements. Nothing could equal the rush between two prime
grey-hackles--that was his colour. The chairman had said a vast for
racing, and to cut the matter short, he might observe that cock-fighting
combined all the advantages of making money, with the additional benefit
of not being interfered with by the weather. He begged to return his
best thanks for himself and brother sods, and only regretted he had not
been taught speaking in his youth, or he would certainly have convinced
them all, that 'cocking' was the sport." "Coursing" was the next
toast--for which Arthur Pavis, the jockey, returned thanks. "He was very
fond of the 'long dogs,' and thought, after racing, coursing was the
true thing. He was no orator, and so he drank off his wine to the health
of the company." "Steeplechasing" followed, for which Mr. Coalman of
St. Albans returned thanks, assuring the company that it answered his
purpose remarkably well. Then the Vice gave the "Chair," and the Chair
gave the "Vice"; and by way of a finale, Mr. Badchild proposed the
game of "Chicken-hazard," observing in a whisper to Mr. Jorrocks, that
perhaps he would like to subscribe to a joint-stock purse for the
purpose of going to hell. To which Mr. Jorrocks, with great gravity,
replied; "Sir, I'm d----d if I do."



VI. A WEEK AT CHELTENHAM: THE CHELTENHAM DANDY

Mr. Jorrocks had been very poorly indeed of indigestion, as he calls
it, produced by tucking in too much roast beef and plum pudding at
Christmas, and prolonging the period of his festivities a little beyond
the season allowed by Moore's _Almanack_, and having in vain applied the
usual remedies prescribed on such occasions, he at length consented to
try the Cheltenham waters, though altogether opposed to the element, he
not having "astonished his stomach," as he says, for the last fifteen
years with a glass of water.

Having established himself and the Yorkshireman in a small private
lodging in High Street, consisting of two bedrooms and a sitting-room,
he commenced his visits to the royal spa, and after a few good drenches,
picked up so rapidly, that to whatever inn they went to dine, the
landlords and waiters were astounded at the consumption of prog, and in
a very short time he was known from the "Royal Hotel" down to Hurlston's
Commercial Inn, as the great London Cormorant. At first, however, he was
extremely depressed in spirits, and did nothing the whole day after his
arrival, but talk about the arrangement of his temporal affairs; and the
first symptom he gave of returning health was one day at dinner at the
"Plough," by astonishing two or three scarlet-coated swells, who as
usual were disporting themselves in the coffee-room, by bellowing to the
waiter for some Talli-ho "sarce" to his fish. Before this he had never
once spoken of his favourite diversion, and the sportsmen cantered by
the window to cover in the morning, and back in the afternoon, without
eliciting a single observation from him. The morning after this change
for the better, he addressed his companion at breakfast as follows:
"Blow me tight, Mr. York, if I arn't regularly renowated. I'm as fresh
as an old hat after a shower of rain. I really thinks I shall get over
this terrible illness, for I dreamt of 'unting last night, and, if
you've a mind, we'll go and see my Lord Segrave's reynard dog, and then
start from this 'ere corrupt place, for, you see, it's nothing but a
town, and what's the use of sticking oneself in a little pokey lodging
like this 'ere, where there really is not room to swing a cat, and
paying the deuce knows how much tin, too, when one has a splendid house
in Great Coram Street going on all the time, with a rigler establishment
of servants and all that sort of thing. Now, you knows, I doesn't grudge
a wisit to Margate, though that's a town too, but then, you see, one has
the sea to look at, whereas here, it's nothing but a long street with
shops, not so good as those in Red Lion Street, with a few small streets
branching off from it, and as to the prommenard, as they calls it, aside
the spa, with its trees and garden stuff, why, I'm sure, to my mind, the
Clarence Gardens up by the Regent's Park, are quite as fine. It's true
the doctor says I must remain another fortnight to perfect the cure, but
then them 'ere M.D.'s, or whatever you calls them, are such rum jockeys,
and I always thinks they say one word for the patient and two for
themselves. Now, my chap said, I must only take half a bottle o' black
strap a day at the werry most, whereas I have never had less than a
whole one--his half first, as I say, and my own after--and because I
tells him I take a pint, he flatters himself his treatment is capital,
and that he is a wonderful M.D.; but as a man can't be better than well,
I think we'll just see what there's to be seen in the neighbourhood, and
then cut our sticks, and, as I said before, I should like werry much to
see my Lord Segrave's hounds, in order that I may judge whether there
is anything in the wide world to be compared to the Surrey, for if I
remember right, Mr. Nimrod described them as werry, werry fine, indeed."

Having formed this resolution, Jorrocks stamped on the floor (for the
bell was broken) for the little boy who did the odd jobs of the house,
to bring up his Hessian boots, into which having thrust his great
calves, and replaced the old brown great-coat which he uses for a
dressing-gown by a superfine Saxony blue, with metal buttons and pockets
outside, he pulled his wig straight, stuck his white hat with the green
flaps knowingly on his head, and sallied forth for execution as stout a
man as ever. Knowing that the kennel is near the Winchcourt road, they
proceeded in that direction, but after walking about a mile, came upon
a groom on a chestnut horse, who, returning from the chase, was wetting
his whistle at the appropriate sign of the "Fox and Hounds," and who
informed them that they had passed the turning for the kennel, but that
the hounds were out, and then in a wood which he pointed out on the
hillside about two miles off, into which they had just brought their
fox. Looking in that direction, they presently saw the summit of one of
the highest of the range of hills that encircle the town of Cheltenham,
covered with horsemen and pedestrians, who kept moving backwards and
forwards on the "mountain's brow," looking in the distance more like a
flock of sheep than anything else. Jorrocks, being all right again and
up to anything, proposed a start to the wood, and though he thought they
should hardly reach it before the hounds either killed their fox or he
broke away again, they agreed to take the chance, and away they went,
"best leg first" as the saying is. The cover (Queen Wood by name, and,
as Jorrocks found out from somebody, the property of Lord Ellenborough)
being much larger than it at first appeared and the fox but a bad one,
they were in lots of time, and having toiled to the top of the wood,
Jorrocks swaggered in among the horsemen with all the importance of an
alderman. For full an hour after they got there the hounds kept running
in cover, the fox being repeatedly viewed and the pack continually
pressing him. Once or twice he came out, but after skirting the cover's
edge a few yards turned in again. Indeed, there were two foxes on foot,
one being a three-legged one, and it was extraordinary how he went and
stood before hounds, going apparently very cautiously and stopping every
now and then to listen. At last a thundering old grey-backed fellow went
away before the whole field, making for the steep declivities that
lead into the downs, and though the brow of the hill was covered with
foot-people who holloa'd and shouted enough to turn a lion, he would
make his point, and only altering his course so as to avoid running
right among the mob, he gained the summit of the hill and disappeared.
This hill, being uncommonly steep, was a breather for hounds that had
been running so long as they had, in a thick cover too, and neither they
nor the horses went at it with any great dash. The fox was not a fellow
to be caught very easily, and nothing but a good start could have given
them any chance, but the hounds never got well settled to the scent, and
after a fruitless cast his lordship gave it up, and Jorrocks and Co.
trudged back to Cheltenham, J---- highly delighted at so favourable an
opportunity of seeing the hounds. Indeed, so pleased was he with the
turn-out and the whole thing, that finding from Skinner, one of
the whippers-in, that they met on the following morning at Purge
Down-turnpike, in their best country, forgetting all about his
indigestion and the royal spa, he went to Newman and Longridge, the
horse dealers and livery stable keepers and engaged a couple of nags "to
look at the hounds upon," as he impressed upon their minds, which he
ordered to be ready at nine o'clock.

This day he proposed to give the landlord of the "George Inn," in the
High Street, the benefit of his rapacious appetite, and about five
o'clock (his latest London hour) they sat down to dinner. The "George"
is neither exactly a swell house like the "Royal Hotel" or the "Plough,"
nor yet a commercial one, but something betwixt and between. The
coffee-room is very small, consequently all the frequenters are drawn
together, and if a conversation is started a man must be deuced
unsociable that does not join in the cry.

As three or four were sitting round the fire chatting over their tipple,
and Jorrocks was telling some of his best bouncers, the door opened
and a waiter bowed a fresh animal into the cage, who, after eyeing the
party, took off his hat and forthwith proceeded to pull off divers
neckcloths, cloaks, great-coats, muffitees, until he reduced himself to
about half the size he was on entering. He was a little square-built
old man, with white hair and plenty of it, a long stupid red face with
little pig eyes, a very long awkward body, and very short legs. He
was dressed in a blue coat, buff waistcoat, a sort of baggy grey or
thunder-and-lightning trousers, over which he had buttoned a pair of
long black gaiters. Having "peeled," he rubbed his hands and blew upon
them, as much as to say, "Now, gentlemen, won't you let me have a smell
of the fire?" and, accordingly, by a sort of military revolution, they
made a place for him right in the centre.

"Coldish night I reckon, sir," said Jorrocks, looking him over.

"Very cold indeed, very cold indeed," answered he, rubbing his elbows
against his ribs, and stamping with his feet. "I've just got off the top
of the Liverpool coach, and, I can assure you, it's very cold riding
outside a coach all day long--however, I always say that it's better
than being inside, though, indeed, it's very little that I trouble
coaches at all in the course of the year--generally travel in my own
carriage, only my family have it with them in Bristol now, where
I'm going to join them; but I'm well used to the elements, hunting,
shooting, and fishing, as I do constantly."

This later announcement made Jorrocks rouse up, and finding himself
in the company of a sportsman and one, too, who travelled in his
own carriage, he assumed a different tone and commenced on a fresh
tack--"and pray, may I make bold to inquire what country you hunts in,
sir?" said he.

"Oh! I live in Cheshire--Mainwaring's country, but Melton's the place I
chiefly hunt at,--know all the fellows there; rare set of dogs, to be
sure,--only country worth hunting in, to my mind."

_Jorrocks_. Rigler swells, though, the chaps, arn't they? Recollect
one swell of a fellow coming with his upper lip all over fur into our
country, thinking to astonish our weak minds, but I reckon we told him
out.

_Stranger_. What! you hunt, do you?

_Jorrocks_. A few--you've perhaps heard tell of the Surrey 'unt?

_Stranger_. Cocktail affair, isn't it?

_Jorrocks_. No such thing, I assure you. Cocktail indeed! I likes that.

_Stranger_. Well, but it's not what we calls a fast-coach.

_Jorrocks_. I doesn't know wot you calls a fast-coach, but if you've a
mind to make a match, I'll bet you a hat, ay, or half a dozen hats, that
I'll find a fellow to take the conceit out o' any your Meltonians.

_Stranger_. Oh! I don't doubt but you have some good men among you; I'm
sure I didn't mean anything offensive, by asking if it was a cocktail
affair, but we Meltonians certainly have a trick, I must confess, of
running every other country down; come, sir, I'll drink the Surrey hunt
with all my heart, said he, swigging off the remains of a glass of
brandy-and-water which the waiter had brought him shortly after
entering.

_Jorrocks_. Thank you, sir, kindly. Waiter, bring me a bottom o' brandy,
cold, without--and don't stint for quantity, if you please. Doesn't you
think these inns werry expensive places, sir? I doesn't mean this in
particular, but inns in general.

_Stranger_. Oh! I don't know, sir. We must expect to pay. "Live and let
live," is my motto. I always pay my inn bills without looking them over.
Just cast my eyes at the bottom to see the amount, then call for pen and
ink, add so much for waiter, so much for chambermaid, so much for boots,
and if I'm travelling in my own carriage so much for the ostler for
greasing. That's the way I do business, sir.

_Jorrocks_. Well, sir, a werry pleasant plan too, especially for the
innkeeper--and all werry right for a gentleman of fortune like you. My
motto, however, is "Waste not, want not," and my wife's father's motto
was "Wilful waste brings woeful want," and I likes to have my money's
worth.--Now, said he, pulling out a handful of bills, at some places
that I go to they charges me six shillings a day for my dinner, and when
I was ill and couldn't digest nothing but the lightest and plainest of
breakfasts, when a fork breakfast in fact would have made a stiff 'un of
me, and my muffin mill was almost stopped, they charged me two shillings
for one cake, and sixpence for two eggs.--Now I'm in the tea trade
myself, you must know, and I contend that as things go, or at least as
things went before the Barbarian eye, as they call Napier, kicked up a
row with the Hong merchants, it's altogether a shameful imposition, and
I wonder people put up with it.

_Stranger_. Oh, sir, I don't know. I think that it is the charge all
over the country. Besides, it doesn't do to look too closely at these
things, and you must allow something for keeping up the coffee-room, you
know--fire, candles, and so on.

_Jorrocks_. But blow me tight, you surely don't want a candle to
breakfast by? However, I contends that innkeepers are great fools for
making these sort of charges, for it makes people get out of their
houses as quick as ever they can, whereas they might be inclined to stay
if they could get things moderate.--For my part I likes a coffee-room,
but having been used to commercial houses when I travelled, I knows what
the charges ought to be. Now, this room is snug enough though small, and
won't require no great keeping up.

_Stranger_. No--but this room is smaller than the generality of them,
you know. They frequently have two fires in them, besides no end of oil
burning.--I know the expense of these things, for I have a very large
house in the country, and rely upon it, innkeepers have not such immense
profits as many people imagines--but, as I said before, "live and let
live."

_Jorrocks_. So says I, "live and let live"--but wot I complains of is,
that some innkeepers charge so much that they won't let people live.
No man is fonder of eating than myself, but I don't like to pay by the
mouthful, or yet to drink tea at so much a thimbleful. By the way, Sar,
if you are not previously engaged, I should be werry happy to supply you
with red Mocho or best Twankay at a very reasonable figure indeed for
cash?

_Stranger._ Thank you, sir, thank you. Those are things I never
interfere with--leave all these things to my people. My housekeeper
sends me in her book every quarter day, with an account of what she
pays. I just look at the amount--add so much for wages, and write a
cheque--"live and let live!" say I. However, added he, pulling out his
watch, and ringing the bell for the chambermaid, "I hate to get up very
early, so I think it is time to go to bed, and I wish you a very good
night, gentlemen all."

Jorrocks gets up, advances half-way to the door, makes him one of his
most obsequious bows, and wishes him a werry good night. Having heard
him tramp upstairs and safely deposited in his bedroom, they pulled
their chairs together again, and making a smaller circle round the fire,
proceeded to canvass their departed friend. Jorrocks began--"I say, wot
a regular swell the chap is--a Meltonian, too.--I wonders who the deuce
he is. Wish Mr. Nimrod was among us, he could tell us all about him, I
dare say. I'm blowed if I didn't take him for a commercial gentleman at
first, until he spoke about his carriages. I likes to see gentlemen
of fortune making themselves sociable by coming into the coffee-room,
instead of sticking themselves up in private sitting-rooms, as if nobody
was good enough for them. You know Melton, Mr. York; did you ever see
the gentleman out?"

"I can't say that I ever did," said his friend, "but people look so
different in their red coats to what they do in mufti, that there's no
such thing as recognising them unless you had a previous acquaintance
with them. The fields in Leicestershire are sometimes so large that it
requires a residence to get anything like a general knowledge of the
hunt, and, you know, Northamptonshire's the country for my money, after
Surrey, of course."

"I don't think he is a gentleman," observed a thin sallow-complexioned
young man, who, sitting on one side of the fire, had watched the
stranger very narrowly without joining in the conversation. "He gives me
more the idea of a gentleman's servant, acting the part of master, than
anything else."

_Jorrocks._ Oh! he is a gentleman, I'm sure--besides, a servant wouldn't
travel in a carriage you know, and he talked about greasing the wheels
and all that sort of thing, which showed he was familiar with the thing.

"That's very true," replied the youth--"but a servant may travel in the
rumble and pay for greasing the wheels all the same, or perhaps have to
grease them himself."

"Well, I should say he's a foolish purse-proud sort of fellow," observed
another, "who has come into money unexpectedly, and who likes to be the
cock of his party, and show off a little."

_Jorrocks._ I'll be bound to say you're all wrong--you are not
fox-hunters, you see, or you would know that that is a way the sportsmen
have--we always make ourselves at home and agreeable--have a word for
everybody in fact, and no reserve; besides, you see, there was nothing
gammonacious, as I calls it, about his toggery, no round-cut coats with
sporting buttons, or coaches and four, or foxes for pins in his shirt.

"I don't care for that," replied the sallow youth, "dress him as you
will, court suit, bag wig, and sword, you'll make nothing better of
him--he's a SNOB."

Jorrocks, getting up, runs to the table on which the hats were standing,
saying, "I wonder if he's left his castor behind him? I've always found
a man's hat will tell a good deal. This is yours, Mr. York, with the
loop to it, and here's mine--I always writes Golgotha in mine, which
being interpreted, you know, means the place of a skull. These are
yours, I presume, gentlemen?" said he, taking up two others. "Confound
him, he's taken his tile with him--however, I'm quite positive he's a
gentleman--lay you a hat apiece all round he is, if you like!"

"But how are we to prove it?" inquired the youth.

_Jorrocks._ Call in the waiter.

_Youth._ He may know nothing about him, and a waiter's gentleman is
always the man who pays him most.

_Jorrocks._ Trust the waiter for knowing something about him, and if he
doesn't, why, it's only to send a purlite message upstairs, saying that
two gentlemen in the coffee-room have bet a trifle that he is some
nobleman--Lord Maryborough, for instance,--he's a little chap--but we
must make haste, or the gentleman will be asleep.

"Well, then, I'll take your bet of a hat," replied the youth, "that he
is not what I call a gentleman."

_Jorrocks._ I don't know what you calls a gentleman. I'll lay you a hat,
a guinea one, either white or black, whichever you like, but none o'
your dog hairs or gossamers, mind--that he's a man of dibs, and doesn't
follow no trade or calling, and if that isn't a gentleman, I don't know
wot is. What say you, Mr. York?

"Suppose we put it thus--You bet this gentleman a hat that he's a
Meltonian, which will comprise all the rest."

_Jorrocks._ Werry well put. Do you take me, sir? A guinea hat against a
guinea hat.

"I do," said the youth.

_Jorrocks._ Then DONE--now ring the bell for the waiter--I'll pump him.

_Enter waiter._

_Jorrocks._ Snuff them candles, if you please, and bring me another
bottom o' brandy-cold, without--and, waiter! here, pray who is that
gentleman that came in by the Liverpool coach to-night? The little
gentleman in long black gaiters who sat in this chair, you know, and had
some brandy-and-water.

_Waiter._ I know who you mean, sir, quite well, the gentleman who's gone
to bed. Let me see, what's his name? He keeps that large Hotel in----
Street, Liverpool--what's the--Here an immense burst of laughter drowned
the remainder of the sentence.

Jorrocks rose in a rage. "No! you double-distilled blockhead," said he,
"no such thing--you're thinking of someone else. The gentleman hunts at
Melton Mowbray, and travels in his own carriage."

_Waiter_. I don't know nothing about Melton Mowbray, sir, but the last
time he came through here on his road to Bristol, he was in one of his
own rattle-trap yellows, and had such a load--his wife, a nurse, and
eight children inside; himself, his son, and an apple-tree on the
dickey--that the horses knocked up half-way and...

_Jorrocks_. Say no more--say no more--d----n his teeth and
toe-nails--and that's swearing--a thing I never do but on the most
outrageous occasions. Confounded humbug, I'll be upsides with him,
however. Waiter, bring the bill and no more brandy. Never was so done in
all my life--a gammonacious fellow! "There, sir, there's your one pound
one," said he, handing a sovereign and a shilling to the winner of the
hat. "Give me my tile, and let's mizzle.--Waiter, I can't wait; must
bring the bill up to my lodgings in the morning if it isn't ready.--Come
away, come away--I shall never get over this as long as ever I live.
'Live and let live,' indeed! no wonder he stuck up for the innkeepers--a
publican and a sinner as he is. Good night, gentlemen, good night."

_Exit Jorrocks_.



VII. AQUATICS: MR. JORROCKS AT MARGATE

The shady side of Cheapside had become a luxury, and footmen in red
plush breeches objects of real commiseration, when Mr. Jorrocks,
tired of the heat and "ungrateful hurry of the town," resolved upon
undertaking an aquatic excursion. He was sitting, as is "his custom
always in the afternoon," in the arbour at the farther end of his gravel
walk, which he dignifies by the name of "garden," and had just finished
a rough mental calculation, as to whether he could eat more bread spread
with jam or honey, when the idea of the jaunt entered his imagination.
Being a man of great decision, he speedily winnowed the project over
in his mind, and producing a five-pound note from the fob of his small
clothes, passed it in review between his fingers, rubbed out the
creases, held it up to the light, refolded and restored it to his fob.
"Batsay," cried he, "bring my castor--the white one as hangs next the
blue cloak;" and forthwith a rough-napped, unshorn-looking, white hat
was transferred from the peg to Mr. Jorrocks's head. This done, he
proceeded to the "Piazza," where he found the Yorkshireman exercising
himself up and down the spacious coffee-room, and, grasping his hand
with the firmness of a vice, he forthwith began unburthening himself of
the object of his mission. "'Ow are you?" said he, shaking his arm like
the handle of a pump. "'Ow are you, I say?--I'm so delighted to see you,
ye carn't think--isn't this charming weather! It makes me feel like a
butterfly--really think the 'air is sprouting under my vig." Here he
took off his wig and rubbed his hand over his bald head, as though he
were feeling for the shoots.

"Now to business--Mrs. J---- is away at Tooting, as you perhaps knows,
and I'm all alone in Great Coram Street, with the key of the cellar,
larder, and all that sort of thing, and I've a werry great mind to be
off on a jaunt--what say you?" "Not the slightest objection," replied
the Yorkshireman, "on the old principle of you finding cash, and me
finding company." "Why, now I'll tell you, werry honestly, that I should
greatly prefer your paying your own shot; but, however, if you've a mind
to do as I do, I'll let you stand in the half of a five-pound note and
whatever silver I have in my pocket," pulling out a great handful as he
spoke, and counting up thirty-two and sixpence. "Very good," replied
the Yorkshireman when he had finished, "I'm your man;--and not to be
behindhand in point of liberality, I've got threepence that I received
in change at the cigar divan just now, which I will add to the common
stock, so that we shall have six pounds twelve and ninepence between
us." "Between us!" exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, "now that's so like a
Yorkshireman. I declare you Northerns seem to think all the world are
asleep except yourselves;--howsomever, I von't quarrel with you--you're
a goodish sort of chap in your way, and so long as I keep the swag,
we carn't get far wrong. Well, then, to-morrow at two we'll start for
Margate--the most delightful place in all the world, where we will have
a rare jollification, and can stay just as long as the money holds
out. So now good-bye--I'm off home again to see about wittles for the
woyage."

It were almost superfluous to mention that the following day was a
Saturday--for no discreet citizen would think of leaving town on any
other. It dawned with uncommon splendour, and the cocks of Coram Street
and adjacent parts seemed to hail the morn with more than their wonted
energy. Never, save on a hunting morning, did Mr. Jorrocks tumble about
in bed with such restless anxiety as cock after cock took up the crow
in every gradation of noise from the shrill note of the free
street-scouring chanticleer before the door, to the faint response of
the cooped and prisoned victims of the neighbouring poulterer's, their
efforts being aided by the flutterings and impertinent chirruping of
swarms of town-bred sparrows.

At length the boy, Binjimin, tapped at his master's door, and,
depositing his can of shaving-water on his dressing-table, took away his
coat and waistcoat, under pretence of brushing them, but in reality to
feel if he had left any pence in the pockets. With pleasure Mr. Jorrocks
threw aside the bed-clothes, and bounded upon the floor with a bump that
shook his own and adjoining houses. On this day a few extra minutes were
devoted to his toilet, one or two of which were expended in adjusting a
gold foxhead pin in a conspicuous part of his white tie, and in drawing
on a pair of new dark blue stocking-net pantaloons, made so excessively
tight, that at starting, any of his Newmarket friends would have laid
three to two against his ever getting into them at all. When on,
however, they fully developed the substantial proportions of his
well-rounded limbs, while his large tasselled Hessians showed that the
bootmaker had been instructed to make a pair for a "great calf." A
blue coat, with metal buttons, ample laps, and pockets outside, with a
handsome buff kerseymere waistcoat, formed his costume on this occasion.
Breakfast being over, he repaired to St. Botolph Lane, there to see his
letters and look after his commercial affairs; in which the reader not
being interested, we will allow the Yorkshireman to figure a little.

About half-past one this enterprising young man placed himself in Tommy
Sly's wherry at the foot of the Savoy stairs, and not agreeing in
opinion with Mr. Jorrocks that it is of "no use keeping a dog and
barking oneself," he took an oar and helped to row himself down to
London Bridge. At the wharf below the bridge there lay a magnificent
steamer, painted pea-green and white, with flags flying from her masts,
and the deck swarming with smart bonnets and bodices. Her name was the
_Royal Adelaide_, from which the sagacious reader will infer that this
excursion was made during the late reign. The Yorkshireman and Tommy
Sly having wormed their way among the boats, were at length brought up
within one of the vessels, and after lying on their oars a few seconds,
they were attracted by, "Now, sir, are you going to sleep there?"
addressed to a rival nautical whose boat obstructed the way, and on
looking up on deck what a sight burst upon the Yorkshireman's astonished
vision!--Mr. Jorrocks, with his coat off, and a fine green velvet cap or
turban, with a broad gold band and tassel, on his head, hoisting a
great hamper out of the wherry, rejecting all offers of assistance,
and treating the laughter and jeers of the porters and bystanders with
ineffable contempt. At length he placed the load to his liking, and
putting on his coat, adjusted his hunting telescope, and advanced to the
side, as the Yorkshireman mounted the step-ladder and came upon deck.
"Werry near being over late," said he, pulling out his watch, just at
which moment the last bell rang, and a few strokes of the paddles sent
the vessel away from the quay. "A miss is as good as a mile," replied
the Yorkshireman; "but pray what have you got in the hamper?"

"In the 'amper! Why, wittles to be sure. You seem to forget we are going
a woyage, and 'ow keen the sea hair is. I've brought a knuckle of weal,
half a ham, beef, sarsingers, chickens, sherry white, and all that sort
of thing, and werry acceptable they'll be by the time we get to the
Nore, or may be before."

"Ease her! Stop her!" cried the captain through his trumpet, just as
the vessel was getting into her stride in mid-stream, and, with true
curiosity, the passengers flocked to the side, to see who was coming,
though they could not possibly have examined half they had on board.
Mr. Jorrocks, of course, was not behindhand in inquisitiveness, and
proceeded to adjust his telescope. A wherry was seen rowing among the
craft, containing the boatman, and a gentleman in a woolly white hat,
with a bright pea-green coat, and a basket on his knee. "By jingo,
here's Jemmy Green!" exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, taking his telescope from
his eye, and giving his thigh a hearty slap. "How unkimmon lucky! The
werry man of all others I should most like to see. You know James Green,
don't you?" addressing the Yorkshireman--"young James Green, junior,
of Tooley Street--everybody knows him--most agreeable young man in
Christendom--fine warbler--beautiful dancer--everything that a young man
should be."

"How are you James?" cried Jorrocks, seizing him by the hand as his
friend stepped upon deck; but whether it was the nervousness occasioned
by the rocking of the wherry, or the shaking of the step-ladder up the
side of the steamer, or Mr. Jorrocks's new turban cap, but Mr. Green,
with an old-maidish reserve, drew back from the proffered embrace of his
friend. "You have the adwantage of me, sir," said he, fidgeting back
as he spoke, and eyeing Mr. Jorrocks with unmeasured surprise--"Yet
stay--if I'm not deceived it's Mr. Jorrocks--so it is!" and thereupon
they joined hands most cordially, amid exclamations of, "'Ow are you,
J----?" '"Ow are you, G----?" "'Ow are you, J----?" "So glad to see you,
J----" "So glad to see you, G----" "So glad to see you, J----" "And pray
what may you have in your basket?" inquired Mr. Jorrocks, putting his
hand to the bottom of a neat little green-and-white willow woman's
basket, apparently for the purpose of ascertaining its weight. "Only my
clothes, and a little prowision for the woyage. A baked pigeon, some
cold maccaroni, and a few pectoral lozenges. At the bottom are my
Margate shoes, with a comb in one, and a razor in t'other; then comes
the prog, and at the top, I've a dickey and a clean front for to-morrow.
I abominates travelling with much luggage. Where, I ax, is the use of
carrying nightcaps, when the innkeepers always prowide them, without
extra charge? The same with regard to soap. Shave, I say, with what you
find in your tray. A wet towel makes an excellent tooth-brush, and a
pen-knife both cuts and cleans your nails. Perhaps you'll present
your friend to me," added he in the same breath, with a glance at the
Yorkshireman, upon whose arm Mr. Jorrocks was resting his telescope
hand. "Much pleasure," replied Mr. Jorrocks, with his usual urbanity.
"Allow me to introduce Mr. Stubbs, Mr. Green, Mr. Green, Mr. Stubbs: now
pray shake hands," added he, "for I'm sure you'll be werry fond of each
other"; and thereupon Jemmy, in the most patronising manner, extended
his two forefingers to the Yorkshireman, who presented him with one in
return. For the information of such of our readers as may never have
seen Mr. James Green, senior junior, either in Tooley Street, Southwark,
where the patronymic name abounds, or at Messrs. Tattersall's, where he
generally exhibits on a Monday afternoon, we may premise, that though a
little man in stature, he is a great man in mind and a great swell in
costume. On the present occasion, as already stated, he had on a woolly
white hat, his usual pea-green coat, with a fine, false, four-frilled
front to his shirt, embroidered, plaited, and puckered, like a lady's
habit-shirt. Down the front were three or four different sorts of studs,
and a butterfly brooch, made of various coloured glasses, sat in
the centre. His cravat was of a yellow silk with a flowered border,
confining gills sharp and pointed that looked up his nostrils; his
double-breasted waistcoat was of red and yellow tartan with blue glass
post-boy buttons; and his trousers, which were very wide and cut out
over the foot of rusty-black chamois-leather opera-boots, were of a
broad blue stripe upon a white ground. A curly, bushy, sandy-coloured
wig protruded from the sides of his woolly white hat, and shaded a
vacant countenance, which formed the frontispiece of a great chuckle
head. Sky-blue gloves and a stout cane, with large tassels, completed
the rigging of this borough dandy. Altogether he was as fine as any
peacock, and as vain as the proudest.

"And 'ow is Mrs. J----?" inquired Green with the utmost affability--"I
hopes she's uncommon well--pray, is she of your party?" looking round.
"Why, no," replied Mr. Jorrocks, "she's off at Tooting at her mother's,
and I'm just away, on the sly, to stay a five-pound at Margate this
delightful weather. 'Ow long do you remain?" "Oh, only till Monday
morning--I goes every Saturday; in fact," added he in an undertone,
"I've a season ticket, so I may just as well use it, as stay poking in
Tooley Street with the old folks, who really are so uncommon glumpy,
that it's quite refreshing to get away from them."

"That's a pity," replied Mr. Jorrocks, with one of his benevolent looks.
"But 'ow comes it, James, you are not married? You are not a bouy now,
and should be looking out for a home of your own." "True, my dear
J----, true," replied Mr. Green; "and I'll tell you wot, our principal
book-keeper and I have made many calculations on the subject, and being
a man of literature like yourself, he gave it as his opinion the last
time we talked the matter over, that it would only be avoiding Silly and
running into Crab-beds; which I presume means Quod or the Bench. Unless
he can have a wife 'made to order,' he says he'll never wed. Besides,
the women are such a bothersome encroaching set. I declare I'm so
pestered with them that I don't know vich vay to turn. They are always
tormenting of me. Only last week one sent me a specification of what
she'd marry me for, and I declare her dress, alone, came to more than I
have to find myself in clothes, ball-and concert-tickets, keep an 'oss,
go to theatres, buy lozenges, letter-paper, and everything else with.
There were bumbazeens, and challies, and merinos, and crape, and gauze,
and dimity, and caps, bonnets, stockings, shoes, boots, rigids, stays,
ringlets; and, would you believe it, she had the unspeakable audacity to
include a bustle! It was the most monstrous specification and proposal
I ever read, and I returned it by the twopenny post, axing her if she
hadn't forgotten to include a set of false teeth. Still, I confess, I'm
tired of Tooley Street. I feel that I have a soul above hemp, and was
intended for a brighter sphere; but vot can one do, cooped up at home
without men of henergy for companions? No prospect of improvement
either; for I left our old gentleman alarmingly well just now, pulling
about the flax and tow, as though his dinner depended upon his
exertions. I think if the women would let me alone, I might have some
chance, but it worries a man of sensibility and refinement to have them
always tormenting of one.--I've no objection to be led, but, dash my
buttons, I von't be driven." "Certainly not," replied Mr. Jorrocks, with
great gravity, jingling the silver in his breeches-pocket. "It's an old
saying, James, and times proves it true, that you may take an 'oss to
the water but you carn't make him drink--and talking of 'osses, pray,
how are you off in that line?" "Oh, werry well--uncommon, I may say--a
thoroughbred, bang tail down to the hocks, by Phantom, out of Baron
Munchausen's dam--gave a hatful of money for him at Tatts'.--five
fives--a deal of tin as times go. But he's a perfect 'oss, I assure
you--bright bay with four black legs, and never a white hair upon him.
He's touched in the vind, but that's nothing--I'm not a fox-hunter, you
know, Mr. Jorrocks; besides, I find the music he makes werry useful in
the streets, as a warning to the old happle women to get out of the way.
Pray, sir," turning to the Yorkshireman with a jerk, "do you dance?"--as
the boat band, consisting of a harp, a flute, a lute, a long horn, and
a short horn, struck up a quadrille,--and, without waiting for a reply,
our hero sidled past, and glided among the crowd that covered the deck.

"A fine young man, James," observed Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing Jemmy as he
elbowed his way down the boat--"fine young man--wants a little of his
father's ballast, but there's no putting old heads on young shoulders.
He's a beautiful dancer," added Mr. Jorrocks, putting his arm through
the Yorkshireman's, "let's go and see him foot it." Having worked their
way down, they at length got near the dancers, and mounting a ballast
box had a fine view of the quadrille. There were eight or ten couple at
work, and Jemmy had chosen a fat, dumpy, red-faced girl, in a bright
orange-coloured muslin gown, with black velvet Vandyked flounces, and
green boots--a sort of walking sunflower, with whom he was pointing his
toe, kicking out behind, and pirouetting with great energy and agility.
His male _vis-à-vis_ was a waistcoatless young Daniel Lambert, in white
ducks, and a blue dress-coat, with a carnation in his mouth, who with a
damsel in ten colours, reel'd to and fro in humble imitation. "Green
for ever!" cried Mr. Jorrocks, taking off his velvet cap and waving
it encouragingly over his head: "Green for ever! Go it Green!" and,
accordingly, Green went it with redoubled vigour. "Wiggins for ever!"
responded a female voice opposite, "I say, Wiggins!" which was followed
by a loud clapping of hands, as the fat gentleman made an astonishing
step. Each had his admiring applauders, though Wiggins "had the call"
among the ladies--the opposition voice that put him in nomination
proceeding from the mother of his partner, who, like her daughter, was a
sort of walking pattern book. The spirit of emulation lasted throughout
the quadrille, after which, sunflower in hand, Green traversed the deck
to receive the compliments of the company.

"You must be 'ungry," observed Mr. Jorrocks, with great politeness
to the lady, "after all your exertions," as the latter stood mopping
herself with a coarse linen handkerchief--"pray, James, bring your
partner to our 'amper, and let me offer her some refreshment," which was
one word for the Sunflower and two for himself, the sea breeze having
made Mr. Jorrocks what he called "unkimmon peckish." The hamper was
speedily opened, the knuckle of veal, the half ham, the aitch bone of
beef, the Dorking sausages (made in Drury Lane), the chickens, and
some dozen or two of plovers' eggs were exhibited, while Green, with
disinterested generosity, added his baked pigeon and cold maccaroni to
the common stock. A vigorous attack was speedily commenced, and was kept
up, with occasional interruptions by Green running away to dance, until
they hove in sight of Herne Bay, which caused an interruption to a
very interesting lecture on wines, that Mr. Jorrocks was in the act of
delivering, which went to prove that port and sherry were the parents of
all wines, port the father, and sherry the mother; and that Bluecellas,
hock, Burgundy, claret, Teneriffe, Madeira, were made by the addition
of water, vinegar, and a few chemical ingredients, and that of all
"humbugs," pale sherry was the greatest, being neither more nor less
than brown sherry watered. Mr. Jorrocks then set to work to pack up the
leavings in the hamper, observing as he proceeded, that wilful waste
brought woeful want, and that "waste not, want not," had ever been the
motto of the Jorrocks family.

It was nearly eight o'clock ere the _Royal Adelaide_ touched the point
of the far-famed Margate Jetty, a fact that was announced as well by the
usual bump, and scuttle to the side to get out first, as by the band
striking up _God save the King_, and the mate demanding the tickets of
the passengers. The sun had just dropped beneath the horizon, and the
gas-lights of the town had been considerately lighted to show him to
bed, for the day was yet in the full vigour of life and light.

Two or three other cargoes of cockneys having arrived before, the whole
place was in commotion, and the beach swarmed with spectators as anxious
to watch this last disembarkation as they had been to see the first. By
a salutary regulation of the sages who watch over the interests of the
town, "all manner of persons," are prohibited from walking upon the
jetty during this ceremony, but the platform of which it is composed
being very low, those who stand on the beach outside the rails, are just
about on a right level to shoot their impudence cleverly into the ears
of the new-comers who are paraded along two lines of gaping, quizzing,
laughing, joking, jeering citizens, who fire volleys of wit and satire
upon them as they pass. "There's leetle Jemmy Green again!" exclaimed a
nursery-maid with two fat, ruddy children in her arms, "he's a beauty
without paint!" "Hallo, Jorrocks, my hearty! lend us your hand," cried a
brother member of the Surrey Hunt. Then there was a pointing of fingers
and cries of "That's Jorrocks! that's Green!" "That's Green! that's
Jorrocks!" and a murmuring titter, and exclamations of "There's
Simpkins! how pretty he is!" "But there's Wiggins, who's much nicer."
"My eye, what a cauliflower hat Mrs. Thompson's got!" "What a buck young
Snooks is!" "What gummy legs that girl in green has!" "Miss Trotter's
bustle's on crooked!" from the young ladies at Miss Trimmer's seminary
who were drawn up to show the numerical strength of the academy, and act
the part of walking advertisements. These observations were speedily
drowned by the lusty lungs of a flyman bellowing out, as Green passed,
"Hallo! my young brockley-sprout, are you here again?--now then for
the tizzy you owe me,--I have been waiting here for it ever since last
Monday morning." This salute produced an irate look and a shake of his
cane from Green, with a mutter of something about "imperance," and a
wish that he had his big fighting foreman there to thrash him. When they
got to the gate at the end, the tide of fashion became obstructed by the
kissings of husbands and wives, the greetings of fathers and sons, the
officiousness of porters, the cries of flymen, the importunities of
innkeepers, the cards of bathing-women, the salutations of donkey
drivers, the programmes of librarians, and the rush and push of the
inquisitive; and the waters of "comers" and "stayers" mingled in one
common flood of indescribable confusion.

Mr. Jorrocks, who, hamper in hand, had elbowed his way with persevering
resignation, here found himself so beset with friends all anxious to
wring his digits, that, fearful of losing either his bed or his
friends, he besought Green to step on to the "White Hart" and see about
accommodation. Accordingly Green ran his fingers through the bushy
sides of his yellow wig, jerked up his gills, and with a _négligé_ air
strutted up to that inn, which, as all frequenters of Margate know,
stands near the landing-place, and commands a fine view of the harbour.
Mr. Creed, the landlord, was airing himself at the door, or, as
Shakespeare has it, "taking his ease at his inn," and knowing Green of
old to be a most unprofitable customer, he did not trouble to move
his position farther than just to draw up one leg so as not wholly to
obstruct the passage, and looked at him as much as to say "I prefer your
room to your company." "Quite full here, sir," said he, anticipating
Green's question. "Full, indeed?" replied Jemmy, pulling up his
gills--"that's werry awkward, Mr. Jorrocks has come down with myself and
a friend, and we want accommodation." "Mr. Jorrocks, indeed!" replied
Mr. Creed, altering his tone and manner; "I'm sure I shall be delighted
to receive Mr. Jorrocks--he's one of the oldest customers I have--and
one of the best--none of your 'glass of water and toothpick'
gentleman--real downright, black-strap man, likes it hot and strong from
the wood--always pays like a gentleman--never fights about three-pences,
like some people I know," looking at Jemmy. "Pray, what rooms may you
require?" "Vy, there's myself, Mr. Jorrocks, and Mr. Jorrocks's other
friend--three in all, and we shall want three good, hairy bedrooms."
"Well, I don't know," replied Mr. Creed, laughing, "about their
hairiness, but I can rub them with bear's grease for you." Jemmy pulled
up his gills and was about to reply, when Mr. Jorrocks's appearance
interrupted the dialogue. Mr. Creed advanced to receive him, blowing up
his porters for not having been down to carry up the hamper, which he
took himself and bore to the coffee-room, amid protestations of his
delight at seeing his worthy visitor.

Having talked over the changes of Margate, of those that were there,
those that were not, and those that were coming, and adverted to the
important topic of supper, Mr. Jorrocks took out his yellow and white
spotted handkerchief and proceeded to flop his Hessian boots, while Mr.
Creed, with his own hands, rubbed him over with a long billiard-table
brush. Green, too, put himself in form by the aid of the looking-glass,
and these preliminaries being adjusted, the trio sallied forth
arm-in-arm, Mr. Jorrocks occupying the centre. It was a fine, balmy
summer evening, the beetles and moths still buzzed and flickered in
the air, and the sea rippled against the shingly shore, with a low
indistinct murmur that scarcely sounded among the busy hum of men. The
shades of night were drawing on--a slight mist hung about the hills, and
a silvery moon shed a broad brilliant ray upon the quivering waters "of
the dark blue sea," and an equal light over the wide expanse of the
troubled town. How strange that man should leave the quiet scenes of
nature, to mix in myriads of those they profess to quit cities to avoid!
One turn to the shore, and the gas-lights of the town drew back the
party like moths to the streets, which were literally swarming with
the population. "Cheapside, at three o'clock in the afternoon," as Mr.
Jorrocks observed, was never fuller than Margate streets that evening.
All was lighted up--all brilliant and all gay--care seemed banished
from every countenance, and pretty faces and smart gowns reigned in its
stead. Mr. Jorrocks met with friends and acquaintances at every turn,
most of whom asked "when he came?" and "when he was going away?" Having
perambulated the streets, the sound of music attracted Jemmy Green's
attention, and our party turned into a long, crowded and brilliantly
lighted bazaar, just as the last notes of a barrel-organ at the far end
faded away, and a young woman in a hat and feathers, with a swan's-down
muff and tippet, was handed by a very smart young man in dirty white
Berlin gloves, and an equally soiled white waistcoat, into a sort of
orchestra above where, after the plaudits of the company had subsided,
she struck-up:

  "If I had a donkey vot vouldn't go."

At the conclusion of the song, and before the company had time to
disperse, the same smart young gentleman,--having rehanded the young
lady from the orchestra and pocketed his gloves,--ran his fingers
through his hair, and announced from that eminence, that the spirited
proprietors of the Bazaar were then going to offer for public
competition in the enterprising shape of a raffle, in tickets, at one
shilling each, a most magnificently genteel, rosewood, general perfume
box fitted up with cedar and lined with red silk velvet, adorned with
cut-steel clasps at the sides, and a solid, massive, silver name-plate
at the top, with a best patent Bramah lock and six chaste and
beautifully rich cut-glass bottles, and a plate-glass mirror at the
top--a box so splendidly perfect, so beautifully unique, as alike
to defy the powers of praise and the critiques of the envious; and
thereupon he produced a flashy sort of thing that might be worth three
and sixpence, for which he modestly required ten subscribers, at a
shilling each, adding, "that even with that number the proprietors would
incur a werry heavy loss, for which nothing but a boundless sense of
gratitude for favours past could possibly recompense them." The youth's
eloquence and the glitter of the box reflecting, as it did at every
turn, the gas-lights both in its steel and glass, had the desired
effect--shillings went down, and tickets went off rapidly, until
only three remained. "Four, five, and ten, are the only numbers now
remaining," observed the youth, running his eye up the list and wetting
his pencil in his mouth. "Four, five and ten! ten, four, five! five,
four, ten! are the only numbers now vacant for this werry genteel and
magnificent rosewood perfume-box, lined with red velvet, cut-steel
clasps, a silver plate for the name, best patent Bramah lock, and six
beautiful rich cut-glass bottles, with a plate glass mirror in the
lid--and only four, five, and ten now vacant!" "I'll take ten," said
Green, laying down a shilling. "Thank you, sir--only four and five now
wanting, ladies and gentlemen--pray, be in time--pray, be in time! This
is without exception the most brilliant prize ever offered for public
competition. There were only two of these werry elegant boxes made,--the
unfortunate mechanic who executed them being carried off by that
terrible malady, the cholera morbus,--and the other is now in the
possession of his most Christian Majesty the King of the French. Only
four and five wanting to commence throwing for this really perfect
specimen of human ingenuity--only four and five!" "I'll take them,"
cried Green, throwing down two shillings more--and then the table was
cleared--the dice box produced, and the crowd drew round. "Number
one!--who holds number one?" inquired the keeper, arranging the paper,
and sucking the end of his pencil. A young gentleman in a blue jacket
and white trousers owned the lot, and, accordingly, led off the game.
The lottery-keeper handed the box, and put in the dice--rattle, rattle,
rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, plop, and lift up--"seven and four are
eleven"--"now again, if you please, sir," putting the dice into the
box--rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, plop, and
lift up--a loud laugh--"one and two make three"--the youth bit his
lips;--rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, plop--a
pause--and lift up--"threes!"--"six, three, and eleven, are twenty."
"Now who holds number two?--what lady or gentleman holds number two?
Pray, step forward!" The Sunflower drew near--Green looked confused--she
fixed her eye upon him, half in fear, half in entreaty--would he offer
to throw for her? No, by Jove, Green was not so green as all that came
to, and he let her shake herself. She threw twenty-two, thereby putting
an extinguisher on the boy, and raising Jemmy's chance considerably.
"Three" was held by a youngster in nankeen petticoats, who would
throw for himself, and shook the box violently enough to be heard at
Broadstairs. He scored nineteen, and, beginning to cry immediately, was
taken home. Green was next, and all eyes turned upon him, for he was a
noted hand. He advanced to the table with great sangfroid, and, turning
back the wrists of his coat, exhibited his beautiful sparkling paste
shirt buttons, and the elegant turn of his taper hand, the middle finger
of which was covered with massive rings. He took the box in a _négligé_
manner, and without condescending to shake it, slid the dice out upon
the table by a gentle sideway motion--"sixes!" cried all, and down the
marker put twelve. At the second throw, he adopted another mode. As soon
as the dice were in, he just chucked them up in the air like as many
halfpence, and down they came five and six--"eleven," said the marker.
With a look of triumph Green held the box for the third time, which he
just turned upside down, and lo, on uncovering, there stood two--"ones!"
A loud laugh burst forth, and Green looked confused. "I'm so glad!"
whispered a young lady, who had made an unsuccessful "set" at Jemmy the
previous season, in a tone loud enough for him to hear. "I hope he'll
lose," rejoined a female friend, rather louder. "That Jemmy Green is my
absolute abhorrence," observed a third. "'Orrible man, with his nasty
vig," observed the mamma of the first speaker--"shouldn't have my darter
not at no price." Green, however, headed the poll, having beat the
Sunflower, and had still two lots in reserve. For number five, he threw
twenty-five, and was immediately outstripped, amid much laughter and
clapping of hands from the ladies, by number six, who in his turn fell
a prey to number seven. Between eight and nine there was a very
interesting contest who should be lowest, and hopes and fears were at
their altitude, when Jemmy Green again turned back his coat-wrist to
throw for number ten. His confidence had forsaken him a little, as
indicated by a slight quivering of the under-lip, but he managed to
conceal it from all except the ladies, who kept too scrutinising an
eye upon him. His first throw brought sixes, which raised his spirits
amazingly; but on their appearance a second time, he could scarcely
contain himself, backed as he was by the plaudits of his friend Mr.
Jorrocks. Then came the deciding throw--every eye was fixed on Jemmy, he
shook the box, turned it down, and lo! there came seven.

"Mr. James Green is the fortunate winner of this magnificent prize!"
exclaimed the youth, holding up the box in mid-air, and thereupon all
the ladies crowded round Green, some to congratulate him, others to
compliment him on his looks, while one or two of the least knowing tried
to coax him out of his box. Jemmy, however, was too old a stager, and
pocketed the box and other compliments at the same time.

Another grind of the organ, and another song followed from the same
young lady, during which operation Green sent for the manager, and,
after a little beating about the bush, proposed singing a song or
two, if he would give him lottery-tickets gratis. He asked three
shilling-tickets for each song, and finally closed for five tickets
for two songs, on the understanding that he was to be announced as a
distinguished amateur, who had come forward by most particular desire.

Accordingly the manager--a roundabout, red-faced, consequential little
cockney--mounted the rostrum, and begged to announce to the company
that that "celebrated wocalist, Mr. James Green, so well known as a
distinguished amateur and conwivialist, both at Bagnigge Wells, and Vite
Conduit House, LONDON, had werry kindly consented, in order to promote
the hilarity of the evening, to favour the company with a song
immediately after the drawing of the next lottery," and after a few
high-flown compliments, which elicited a laugh from those who were up
to Jemmy's mode of doing business, he concluded by offering a
_papier-maché_ tea-caddy for public competition, in shilling lots as
before.

As soon as the drawing was over, they gave the organ a grind, and Jemmy
popped up with a hop, step, and a jump, with his woolly white hat under
his arm, and presented himself with a scrape and a bow to the company.
After a few preparatory "hems and haws," he pulled up his gills and
spoke as follows: "Ladies and gentlemen! hem"--another pull at his
gills--"ladies and gentlemen--my walued friend, Mr. Kitey Graves, has
announced that I will entertain the company with a song; though nothing,
I assure you--hem--could be farther from my idea--hem--when my excellent
friend asked me,"--"Hookey Walker!" exclaimed someone who had heard
Jemmy declare the same thing half a dozen times--"and, indeed, ladies
and gentlemen--hem--nothing but the werry great regard I have for Mr.
Kitey Graves, who I have known and loved ever since he was the height of
sixpennorth of coppers" a loud laugh followed this allusion, seeing that
eighteenpenny-worth would almost measure out the speaker. On giving
another "hem," and again pulling up his gills, an old Kentish farmer, in
a brown coat and mahogany-coloured tops, holloaed out, "I say, sir! I'm
afear'd you'll be catching cold!" "I 'opes not," replied Jemmy in a
fluster, "is it raining? I've no umbrella, and my werry best coat on!"
"No! raining, no!" replied the farmer, "only you've pulled at your shirt
so long that I think you must be bare behind! Haw! haw! haw!" at which
all the males roared with laughter, and the females hid their faces in
their handkerchiefs, and tittered and giggled, and tried to be shocked.
"ORDER! ORDER!" cried Mr. Jorrocks, in a loud and sonorous voice, which
had the effect of quelling the riot and drawing all eyes upon himself.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said he, taking off his cap with great gravity,
and extending his right arm,

  Immodest words admit of no defence,
  For want of decency is want of sense;

a couplet so apropos, and so well delivered, as to have the immediate
effect of restoring order and making the farmer look foolish. Encouraged
by the voice of his great patron, Green once more essayed to finish his
speech, which he did by a fresh assurance of the surprise by which
he had been taken by the request of his friend, Kitey Graves, and an
exhortation for the company to make allowance for any deficiency of
"woice," inasmuch as how as labouring under "a wiolent 'orseness," for
which he had long been taking pectoral lozenges. He then gave his gills
another pull, felt if they were even, and struck up:

  "Bid me discourse,"

in notes, compared to which the screaming of a peacock would be perfect
melody. Mr. Jorrocks having taken a conspicuous position, applauded
long, loudly, and warmly, at every pause--approbation the more deserved
and disinterested, inasmuch as the worthy gentleman suffers considerably
from music, and only knows two tunes, one of which, he says, "is _God
save the King_, and the other isn't."

Having seen his protégé fairly under way, Mr. Jorrocks gave him a hint
that he would return to the "White Hart," and have supper ready by the
time he was done; accordingly the Yorkshireman and he withdrew along an
avenue politely formed by the separation of the company, who applauded
as they passed.

An imperial quart and a half of Mr. Creed's stoutest draft port, with
the orthodox proportion of lemon, cloves, sugar, and cinnamon, had
almost boiled itself to perfection under the skilful superintendence of
Mr. Jorrocks, on the coffee-room fire, and a table had been handsomely
decorated with shrimps, lobsters, broiled bones, fried ham, poached
eggs, when just as the clock had finished striking eleven, the
coffee-room door opened with a rush, and in tripped Jemmy Green with his
hands crammed full of packages, and his trousers' pockets sticking out
like a Dutch burgomaster's. "Vell, I've done 'em brown to-night, I
think," said he, depositing his hat and half a dozen packages on the
sideboard, and running his fingers through his curls to make them stand
up. "I've won nine lotteries, and left one undrawn when I came away,
because it did not seem likely to fill. Let me see," said he, emptying
his pockets,--"there is the beautiful rosewood box that I won, ven you
was there; the next was a set of crimping-irons, vich I von also; the
third was a jockey-vip, which I did not want and only stood one ticket
for and lost; the fourth was this elegant box, with a view of Margate on
the lid; then came these six sherry labels with silver rims; a snuff-box
with an inwisible mouse; a coral rattle with silver bells; a silk
yard measure in a walnut-shell; a couple of West India beetles; a
humming-bird in a glass case, which I lost; and then these dozen bodkins
with silver eyes--so that altogether I have made a pretty good night's
work of it. Kitey Graves wasn't in great force, so after I had sung _Bid
me Discourse_, and _I'd be a Butterfly_, I cut my stick and went to the
hopposition shop, where they used me much more genteelly; giving me
three tickets for a song, and introducing me in more flattering terms to
the company--don't like being considered one of the nasty 'reglars,' and
they should make a point of explaining that one isn't. Besides, what
business had Kitey to say anything about Bagnigge Vells? a hass!--Now,
perhaps, you'll favour me with some supper."

"Certainly," replied Mr. Jorrocks, patting Jemmy approvingly on the
head--"you deserve some. It's only no song, no supper, and you've
been singing like a nightingale;" thereupon they set to with vigorous
determination.

A bright Sunday dawned, and the beach at an early hour was crowded with
men in dressing-gowns of every shape, hue, and material, with buff
slippers--the "regulation Margate shoeing," both for men and women. As
the hour of eleven approached, and the church bells began to ring, the
town seemed to awaken suddenly from a trance, and bonnets the most
superb, and dresses the most extravagant, poured forth from lodgings
the most miserable. Having shaved and dressed himself with more than
ordinary care and attention, Mr. Jorrocks walked his friends off to
church, assuring them that no one need hope to prosper throughout the
week who did not attend it on the Sunday, and he marked his own devotion
throughout the service by drowning the clerk's voice with his responses.
After this spiritual ablution Mr. Jorrocks bethought himself of having a
bodily one in the sea; and the day being excessively hot, and the tide
about the proper mark, he pocketed a couple of towels out of his bedroom
and went away to bathe, leaving Green and the Yorkshireman to amuse
themselves at the "White Hart."

This house, as we have already stated, faces the harbour, and is a
corner one, running a considerable way up the next street, with a side
door communicating, as well as the front one, with the coffee-room.
This room differs from the generality of coffee-rooms, inasmuch as the
windows range the whole length of the room, and being very low they
afford every facility for the children and passers-by to inspect the
interior. Whether this is done to show the Turkey carpet, the pea-green
cornices, the bright mahogany slips of tables, the gay trellised
geranium-papered room, or the aristocratic visitors who frequent it, is
immaterial--the description is as accurate as if George Robins had drawn
it himself. In this room then, as the Yorkshireman and Green were lying
dozing on three chairs apiece, each having fallen asleep to avoid the
trouble of talking to the other, they were suddenly roused by loud yells
and hootings at the side door, and the bursting into the coffee-room of
what at first brush they thought must be a bull. The Yorkshireman jumped
up, rubbed his eyes, and lo! before him stood Mr. Jorrocks, puffing like
a stranded grampus, with a bunch of sea-weed under his arm and the
dress in which he had started, with the exception of the dark blue
stocking-net pantaloons, the place of which were supplied by a flowing
white linen kilt, commonly called a shirt, in the four corners of which
were knotted a few small pebbles--producing, with the Hessian boots and
one thing and another, the most laughable figure imaginable. The blood
of the Jorrockses was up, however, and throwing his hands in the air, he
thus delivered himself. "Oh gentlemen! gentlemen!--here's a lamentable
occurrence--a terrible disaster--oh dear! oh dear!--I never thought I
should come to this. You know, James Green," appealing to Jemmy, "that
I never was the man to raise a blush on the cheek of modesty; I have
always said that 'want of decency is want of sense,' and see how I
am rewarded! Oh dear! oh dear! that I should ever have trusted my
pantaloons out of my sight." While all this, which was the work of a
moment, was going forward, the mob, which had been shut out at the side
door on Jorrocks's entry, had got round to the coffee-room window,
and were all wedging their faces in to have a sight of him. It was
principally composed of children, who kept up the most discordant yells,
mingled with shouts of "there's old cutty shirt!"--"who's got your
breeches, old cock?"--"make a scramble!"--"turn him out for another
hunt!"--"turn him again!"--until, fearing for the respectability of his
house, the landlord persuaded Mr. Jorrocks to retire into the bar to
state his grievances. It then appeared that having travelled along the
coast, as far as the first preventive stationhouse on the Ramsgate side
of Margate, the grocer had thought it a convenient place for performing
his intended ablutions, and, accordingly, proceeded to do what all
people of either sex agree upon in such cases--namely to divest himself
of his garments; but before he completed the ceremony, observing some
females on the cliffs above, and not being (as he said) a man "to raise
a blush on the cheek of modesty," he advanced to the water's edge in his
aforesaid unmentionables, and forgetting that it was not yet high tide,
he left them there, when they were speedily covered, and the pockets
being full of silver and copper, of course they were "swamped." After
dabbling about in the water and amusing himself with picking up sea-weed
for about ten minutes, Mr. Jorrocks was horrified, on returning to the
spot where he thought he had left his stocking-net pantaloons, to find
that they had disappeared; and after a long fruitless search, the
unfortunate gentleman was compelled to abandon the pursuit, and render
himself an object of chase to all the little boys and girls who chose to
follow him into Margate on his return without them.

Jorrocks, as might be expected, was very bad about his loss, and could
not get over it--it stuck in his gizzard, he said--and there it seemed
likely to remain. In vain Mr. Creed offered him a pair of trousers--he
never had worn a pair. In vain he asked for the loan of a pair of white
cords and top-boots, or even drab shorts and continuations. Mr. Creed
was no sportsman, and did not keep any. The bellman could not cry the
lost unmentionables because it was Sunday, and even if they should be
found on the ebbing of the tide, they would take no end of time to dry.
Mr. Jorrocks declared his pleasure at an end, and forthwith began making
inquiries as to the best mode of getting home. The coaches were all
gone, steamboats there were none, save for every place but London, and
posting, he said, was "cruelly expensive." In the midst of his dilemma,
"Boots," who is always the most intelligent man about an inn, popped in
his curly head, and informed Mr. Jorrocks that the Unity hoy, a most
commodious vessel, neat, trim, and water-tight, manned by his own
maternal uncle, was going to cut away to London at three o'clock, and
would land him before he could say "Jack Robinson." Mr. Jorrocks jumped
at the offer, and forthwith attiring himself in a pair of Mr. Creed's
loose inexpressibles, over which he drew his Hessian boots, he tucked
the hamper containing the knuckle of veal and other etceteras under one
arm, and the bunch of sea-weed he had been busy collecting, instead of
watching his clothes, under the other, and, followed by his friends,
made direct for the vessel.

Everybody knows, or ought to know, what a hoy is--it is a large
sailing-boat, sometimes with one deck, sometimes with none; and the
Unity, trading in bulky goods, was of the latter description, though
there was a sort of dog-hole at the stern, which the master dignified
by the name of a "state cabin," into which he purposed putting Mr.
Jorrocks, if the weather should turn cold before they arrived. The wind,
however, he said, was so favourable, and his cargo--"timber and fruit,"
as he described it, that is to say, broomsticks and potatoes--so light,
that he warranted landing him at Blackwall at least by ten o'clock,
where he could either sleep, or get a short stage or an omnibus on to
Leadenhall Street. The vessel looked anything but tempting, neither was
the captain's appearance prepossessing, still Mr. Jorrocks, all things
considered, thought he would chance it; and depositing his hamper and
sea-weed, and giving special instructions about having his pantaloons
cried in the morning--recounting that besides the silver, and
eighteen-pence in copper, there was a steel pencil-case with "J.J."
on the seal at the top, an anonymous letter, and two keys--he took an
affectionate leave of his friends, and stepped on board, the vessel was
shoved off and stood out to sea.

Monday morning drew the cockneys from their roosts betimes, to take
their farewell splash and dive in the sea. As the day advanced, the
bustle and confusion on the shore and in the town increased, and
everyone seemed on the move. The ladies paid their last visits to the
bazaars and shell shops, and children extracted the last ounce of
exertion from the exhausted leg-weary donkeys. Meanwhile the lords of
the creation strutted about, some in dressing-gowns, others, "full
puff," with bags and boxes under their arms--while sturdy porters were
wheeling barrows full of luggage to the jetty. The bell-man went round
dressed in a blue and red cloak, with a gold hatband. Ring-a-ding,
ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong, went the bell, and the gaping cockneys
congregated around. He commenced--"To be sould in the market-place a
quantity of fresh ling." Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong: "The _Royal
Adelaide_, fast and splendid steam-packet, Capt. Whittingham, will leave
the pier this morning at nine o'clock precisely, and land the passengers
at London Bridge Steam-packet Wharf--fore cabin fares and children four
shillings--saloon five shillings." Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong: "The
superb and splendid steam-packet, the _Magnet_, will leave the pier this
morning at nine o'clock precisely, and land the passengers at the St.
Catherine Docks--fore-cabin fares and children four shillings--saloon
five shillings." Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong: "Lost at the back of
James Street--a lady's black silk--black lace wale--whoever has found
the same, and will bring it to the cryer, shall receive one shilling
reward." Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong: "Lost, last night, between the
jetty and the York Hotel, a little boy, as answers to the name of Spot,
whoever has found the same, and will bring him to the cryer, shall
receive a reward of half-a-crown." Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong:
"Lost, stolen, or strayed, or otherwise conveyed, a brown-and-white King
Charles's setter as answers to the name of Jacob Jones. Whoever has
found the same, or will give such information as shall lead to the
detection and conversion of the offender or offenders shall be
handsomely rewarded." Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong: "Lost below the
prewentive sarvice station by a gentleman of great respectability--a
pair of blue knit pantaloons, containing eighteen penny-worth of
copper--a steel pencil-case--a werry anonymous letter, and two keys.
Whoever will bring the same to the cryer shall receive a reward.--_God
save the King!"_

Then, as the hour of nine approached, what a concourse appeared! There
were fat and lean, and short and tall, and middling, going away, and fat
and lean, and short and tall, and middling, waiting to see them off;
Green, as usual, making himself conspicuous, and canvassing everyone he
could lay hold of for the _Magnet_ steamer. At the end of the jetty, on
each side, lay the _Royal Adelaide_ and the _Magnet_, with as fierce a
contest for patronage as ever was witnessed. Both decks were crowded
with anxious faces--for the Monday's steamboat race is as great an event
as a Derby, and a cockney would as lieve lay on an outside horse as
patronise a boat that was likely to let another pass her. Nay, so
high is the enthusiasm carried, that books are regularly made on the
occasion, and there is as much clamour for bets as in the ring at
Epsom or Newmarket. "Tomkins, I'll lay you a dinner--for three--_Royal
Adelaide_ against the _Magnet_," bawled Jenkins from the former boat.
"Done," cries Tomkins. "The _Magnet_ for a bottle of port," bawled out
another. "A whitebait dinner for two, the _Magnet_ reaches Greenwich
first." "What should you know about the _Magnet_?" inquires the mate
of the _Royal Adelaide_. "Vy, I think I should know something about
nauticals too, for Lord St. Wincent was my godfather." "I'll bet five
shillings on the _Royal Adelaide."_ "I'll take you," says another. "I'll
bet a bottom of brandy on the _Magnet_," roars out the mate. "Two goes
of Hollands', the _Magnet's_ off Herne Bay before the _Royal Adelaide."_
"I'll lay a pair of crimping-irons against five shillings, the _Magnet_
beats the _Royal Adelaide_," bellowed out Green, who having come on
board, had mounted the paddle-box. "I say, Green, I'll lay you an even
five if you like." "Well, five pounds," cries Green. "No, shillings,"
says his friend. "Never bet in shillings," replies Green, pulling up his
shirt collar. "I'll bet fifty pounds," he adds,-getting valiant. "I'll
bet a hundred ponds--a thousand pounds--a million pounds--half the
National Debt, if you like."

Precisely as the jetty clock finishes striking nine, the ropes are
slipped, and the rival steamers stand out to sea with beautiful
precision, amid the crying, the kissing of hands, the raising of hats,
the waving of handkerchiefs, from those who are left for the week, while
the passengers are cheered by adverse tunes from the respective bands on
board. The _Magnet_, having the outside, gets the breeze first hand, but
the _Royal Adelaide_ keeps well alongside, and both firemen being deeply
interested in the event, they boil up a tremendous gallop, without
either being able to claim the slightest advantage for upwards of an
hour and a half, when the _Royal Adelaide_ manages to shoot ahead for
a few minutes, amid the cheers and exclamations of her crew. The
_Magnet's_ fireman, however, is on the alert, and a few extra pokes of
the fire presently bring the boats together again, in which state they
continue, nose and nose, until the stiller water of the side of the
Thames favours the _Magnet_, and she shoots ahead amid the cheers and
vociferations of her party, and is not neared again during the voyage.

This excitement over, the respective crews sink into a sort of
melancholy sedateness, and Green in vain endeavours to kick up a
quadrille. The men were exhausted and the women dispirited, and
altogether they were a very different set of beings to what they were
on the Saturday. Dull faces and dirty-white ducks were the order of the
day.

The only incident of the voyage was, that on approaching the mouth
of the Medway, the _Royal Adelaide_ was hailed by a vessel, and the
Yorkshireman, on looking overboard, was shocked to behold Mr. Jorrocks
sitting in the stern of his hoy in the identical position he had taken
up the previous day, with his bunch of sea-weed under his elbow, and the
remains of the knuckle of veal, ham, and chicken, spread on the hamper
before him. "Stop her?" cried the Yorkshireman, and then hailing Mr.
Jorrocks he holloaed out, "In the name of the prophet, Figs, what are
you doing there?" "Oh, gentlemen! gentlemen!" exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks,
brightening up as he recognised the boat, "take compassion on a most
misfortunate indiwidual--here have I been in this 'orrid 'oy, ever since
three o'clock yesterday afternoon and here I seem likely to end my
days--for blow me tight if I couldn't swim as fast as it goes." "Look
sharp, then," cried the mate of the steamer, "and chuck us up your
luggage." Up went the sea-weed, the hamper, and Mr. Jorrocks; and before
the hoyman awoke out of a nap, into which he had composed himself on
resigning the rudder to his lad, our worthy citizen was steaming away a
mile before his vessel, bilking him of his fare.

Who does not recognise in this last disaster, the truth of the old
adage?

    "Most haste, least speed."



VIII. THE ROAD: ENGLISH AND FRENCH.

"Jorrocks's France, in three wolumes, would sound werry well," observed
our worthy citizen, one afternoon, to his confidential companion the
Yorkshireman, as they sat in the veranda in Coram Street, eating red
currants and sipping cold whiskey punch; "and I thinks I could make
something of it. They tells me that at the 'west end' the booksellers
will give forty pounds for anything that will run into three wolumes,
and one might soon pick up as much matter as would stretch into that
quantity."

The above observation was introduced in a long conversation between Mr.
Jorrocks and his friend, relative to an indignity that had been offered
him by the rejection by the editor of a sporting periodical of a long
treatise on eels, which, independently of the singularity of diction,
had become so attenuated in the handling, as to have every appearance of
filling three whole numbers of the work; and Mr. Jorrocks had determined
to avenge the insult by turning author on his own account. The
Yorkshireman, ever ready for amusement, cordially supported Mr. Jorrocks
in his views, and a bargain was soon struck between them, the main
stipulations of which were, that Mr. Jorrocks should find cash, and the
Yorkshireman should procure information.

Accordingly, on the Saturday after, the nine o'clock Dover heavy drew up
at the "Bricklayers' Arms," with Mr. Jorrocks on the box seat, and the
Yorkshireman imbedded among the usual heterogeneous assembly--soldiers,
sailors, Frenchmen, fishermen, ladies' maids, and footmen--that compose
the cargo of these coaches. Here they were assailed with the usual
persecution from the tribe of Israel, in the shape of a hundred
merchants, proclaiming the virtues of their wares; one with black-lead
pencils, twelve a shilling, with an invitation to "cut 'em and try 'em";
another with a good pocket-knife, "twelve blades and saw, sir"; a third,
with a tame squirrel and a piping bullfinch, that could whistle _God
save the King_ and the _White Cockade_--to be given for an old coat.
"Buy a silver guard-chain for your vatch, sir!" cried a dark eyed
urchin, mounting the fore-wheel, and holding a bunch of them in Mr.
Jorrocks's face; "buy pocket-book, memorandum-book!" whined another.
"Keepsake--Forget-me-not--all the last year's annuals at half-price!"
"Sponge cheap, sponge! take a piece, sir--take a piece." "Patent leather
straps." "Barcelona nuts. Slippers. _Morning Hurl (Herald)._ Rhubarb.
'Andsome dog-collar, sir, cheap!--do to fasten your wife up with!"

"Stand clear, ye warmints!" cries the coachman, elbowing his way among
them--and, remounting the box, he takes the whip and reins out of Mr.
Jorrocks's hands, cries "All right behind? sit tight!" and off they go.

The day was fine, and the hearts of all seemed light and gay. The coach,
though slow, was clean and smart, the harness bright and well-polished,
while the sleek brown horses poked their heads about at ease, without
the torture of the bearing-rein. The coachman, like his vehicle, was
heavy, and had he been set on all fours, a party of six might have eat
off his back. Thus they proceeded at a good steady substantial sort of
pace; trotting on level ground, walking up hills, and dragging down
inclines. Nor among the whole party was there a murmur of discontent at
the pace. Most of the passengers seemed careless which way they went, so
long as they did but move, and they rolled through the Garden of England
with the most stoical indifference. We know not whether it has ever
struck the reader, but the travellers by Dover coaches are less captious
about pace than those on most others.

And now let us fancy our friends up, and down, Shooter's Hill, through
Dartford, Northfleet, and Gravesend--at which latter place, the first
foreign symptom appears, in words, "Poste aux Chevaux," on the door-post
of the inn; and let us imagine them bowling down Rochester Hill at a
somewhat amended pace, with the old castle, by the river Medway, the
towns of Chatham, Strood and Rochester full before them, and the finely
wooded country extending round in pleasing variety of hill and dale.
As they reach the foot of the hill, the guard commences a solo on his
bugle, to give notice to the innkeeper to have the coach dinner on the
table. All huddled together, inside and out, long passengers and short
ones, they cut across the bridge, rattle along the narrow street,
sparking the mud from the newly-watered streets on the shop windows and
passengers on each side, and pull up at the "Pig and Crossbow," with a
jerk and a dash as though they had been travelling at the rate of
twelve miles an hour. Two other coaches are "dining," while some few
passengers, whose "hour is not yet come," sit patiently on the roof, or
pace up and down the street with short and hurried turns, anxious to see
the horses brought out that are to forward them on their journey. And
what a commotion this new arrival creates! From the arched doorway of
the inn issue two chamber-maids, one in curls the other in a cap; Boots,
with both curls and a cap, and a ladder in his hand; a knock-kneed
waiter, with a dirty duster, to count noses, while the neat landlady,
in a spruce black silk gown and clean white apron, stands smirking,
smiling, and rubbing her hands down her sides, inveigling the passengers
into the house, where she will turn them over to the waiters to take
their chance the instant she gets them in. About the door the usual
idlers are assembled.--A coachman out of place, a beggar out at the
elbows, a sergeant in uniform, and three recruits with ribbons in their
hats; a captain with his boots cut for corns, the coachman that is to
drive to Dover, a youth in a straw hat and a rowing shirt, the little
inquisitive old man of the place--who sees all the midday coaches change
horses, speculates on the passengers and sees who the parcels are
for--and, though last but not least, Mr. Bangup, the "varmint" man, the
height of whose ambition is to be taken for a coachman. As the coach
pulled up, he was in the bar taking a glass of cold sherry "without"
and a cigar, which latter he brings out lighted in his mouth, with his
shaved white hat stuck knowingly on one side, and the thumbs of his
brown hands thrust into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, throwing back
his single breasted fancy buttoned green coat, and showing a cream
coloured cravat, fastened with a gold coach-and-four pin, which, with a
buff waistcoat and tight drab trousers buttoning over the boot, complete
his "toggery," as he would call it. His whiskers are large and riotous
in the extreme, while his hair is clipped as close as a charity
schoolboy's. The coachman and he are on the best of terms, as the
outward twist of their elbows and jerks of the head on meeting testify.
His conversation is short and slangy, accompanied with the correct nasal
twang. After standing and blowing a few puffs, during which time the
passengers have all alighted, and the coachman has got through the thick
of his business, he takes the cigar out of his mouth, and, spitting on
the flags, addresses his friend with, "Y've got the old near-side leader
back from Joe, I see." "Yes, Mr. Bangup, yes," replies his friend, "but
I had some work first--our gov'rnor was all for the change--at last,
says I to our 'osskeeper, says I, it arn't no use your harnessing that
'ere roan for me any more, for as how I von't drive him, so it's not to
no use harnessing of him, for I von't be gammon'd out of my team not by
none on them, therefore it arn't to never no use harnessing of him again
for me." "So you did 'em," observes Mr. Bangup. "Lord bless ye, yes! it
warn't to no use aggravising about it, for says I, I von't stand it, so
it warn't to no manner of use harnessing of him again for me." "Come,
Smith, what are you chaffing there about?" inquires the landlord, coming
out with the wide-spread way-bill in his hands, "have you two insides?"
"No, gov'rnor, I has but von, and that's precious empty, haw! haw! haw!"
"Well, but now get Brown to blow his horn early, and you help to hurry
the passengers away from my grub, and may be I'll give you your dinner
for your trouble," replies the landlord, reckoning he would save both
his meat and his horses by the experiment. "Ay, there goes the dinner!"
added he, just as Mr. Jorrocks's voice was heard inside the "Pig and
Crossbow," giving a most tremendous roar for his food.--"Pork at the
top, and pork at the bottom," the host observes to the waiter in
passing, "and mind, put the joints before the women--they are slow
carvers."

While the foregoing scene was enacting outside, our travellers had been
driven through the passage into a little, dark, dingy room at the back
of the house, with a dirty, rain-bespattered window, looking against a
whitewashed blank wall. The table, which was covered with a thrice-used
cloth, was set out with lumps of bread, knives, and two and three
pronged forks laid alternately. Altogether it was anything but inviting,
but coach passengers are very complacent; and on the Dover road it
matters little if they are not. The bustle of preparation was soon over.
Coats No. 1, No. 2, and No. 3, are taken off in succession, for some
people wear top-coats to keep out the "heat"; chins are released from
their silken jeopardy, hats are hid in corners, and fur caps thrust
into pockets of the owners. Inside passengers eye outside ones with
suspicion, while a deaf gentleman, who has left his trumpet in the
coach, meets an acquaintance whom he has not seen for seven years,
and can only shake hands and grin to the movements of the lips of the
speaker. "You find it very warm inside, I should think, sir?" "Thank
ye, thank ye, my good friend; I'm rayther deaf, but I presume you're
inquiring after my wife and daughters--they are very well, I thank ye."
"Where will you sit at dinner?" rejoins the first speaker, in hopes of a
more successful hit. "It is two years since I saw him." "No; where
will you sit, sir? I said." "Oh, John? I beg your pardon--I'm rayther
deaf--he's in Jamaica with his regiment." "Come, waiter, BRING DINNER!"
roared Mr. Jorrocks, at the top of his voice, being the identical shout
that was heard outside, and presently the two dishes of pork, a couple
of ducks, and a lump of half-raw, sadly mangled, cold roast beef, with
waxy potatoes and overgrown cabbages, were scattered along the table.
"What a beastly dinner!" exclaims an inside dandy, in a sable-collared
frock-coat--"the whole place reeks with onions and vulgarity. Waiter,
bring me a silver fork!" "Allow me to duck you, ma'am?" inquires an
outside passenger, in a facetious tone, of a female in a green silk
cloak, as he turns the duck over in the dish. "Thank you, sir, but I've
some pork coming." "Will you take some of this thingumbob?" turning a
questionable-looking pig's countenance over in its pewter bed. "You are
in considerable danger, my friend--you are in considerable danger,"
drawls forth the superfine insider to an outsider opposite. "How's
that?" inquires the former in alarm. "Why, you are eating with your
knife, and you are in considerable danger of cutting your mouth".--What
is the matter at the far end of the table?--a lady in russet brown, with
a black velvet bonnet and a feather, in convulsions. "She's choking by
Jove! hit her on the back--gently, gently--she's swallowed a fish-bone."
"I'll lay five to two she dies," cries Mr. Bolus, the sporting doctor of
Sittingbourne. She coughs--up comes a couple of tooth-picks, she having
drunk off a green glass of them in mistake.

"Now hark'e, waiter! there's the guard blowing his horn, and we have
scarcely had a bite apiece," cries Mr. Jorrocks, as that functionary
sounded his instrument most energetically in the passage; "blow me
tight, if I stir before the full half-hour's up, so he may blow till
he's black in the face." "Take some cheese, sir?" inquires the waiter.
"No, surely not, some more pork, and then some tarts". "Sorry, sir,
we have no tarts we can recommend. Cheese is partiklar good." [Enter
coachman, peeled down to a more moderate-sized man.]

"Leaves ye here, if you please, sur." "With all my heart, my good
friend." "Please to remember the coachman--driv ye thirty miles." "Yes,
but you'll recollect how saucy you were about my wife's bonnet-box
there's sixpence between us for you." "Oh, sur! I'm sure I didn't mean
no unpurliteness. I 'opes you'll forget it; it was werry aggravising,
certainly, but driv ye thirty miles. 'Opes you'll give a trifle more,
thirty miles." "No, no, no more; so be off." "Please to remember the
coachman, ma'am, thirty miles!" "Leaves ye here, sir, if you please;
goes no further, sir; thirty miles, ma'am; all the vay from Lunnun,
sir."

A loud flourish on the bugle caused the remainder of the gathering to
be made in dumb show, and having exhausted his wind, the guard squeezed
through the door, and, with an extremely red face, assured the company
that "time was hup" and the "coach quite ready." Then out came the
purses, brown, green, and blue, with the usual inquiry, "What's dinner,
waiter?" "Two and six, dinner, beer, three,--two and nine yours,"
replied the knock-kneed caitiff to the first inquirer, pushing
a blue-and-white plate under his nose; "yours is three and six,
ma'am;--two glasses of brandy-and-water, four shillings, if you please
sir--a bottle of real Devonshire cider."--"You must change me a
sovereign," handing one out. "Certainly, sir," upon which the waiter,
giving it a loud ring upon the table, ran out of the room. "Now,
gentlemen and ladies! pray, come, time's hup--carn't wait--must
go"--roars the guard, as the passengers shuffle themselves into their
coats, cloaks, and cravats, and Joe "Boots" runs up the passage with the
ladder for the lady. "Now, my dear Mrs. Sprat, good-bye.--God bless you,
and remember me most kindly to your husband and dear little ones --and
pray, write soon," says an elderly lady, as she hugs and kisses a
youngish one at the door, who has been staying with her for a week,
during which time they have quarrelled regularly every night. "Have you
all your things, dearest? three boxes, five parcels, an umbrella, a
parasol, the cage for Tommy's canary, and the bundle in the red silk
handkerchief--then good-bye, my beloved, step up--and now, Mr. Guard,
you know where to set her down." "Good-bye, dearest Mrs. Jackson, all
right, thank you," replies Mrs. Sprat, stepping up the ladder, and
adjusting herself in the gammon board opposite the guard, the seat the
last comer generally gets.--"But stay! I've forgot my reticule--it's on
the drawers in the bedroom--stop, coachman! I say, guard!" "Carn't wait,
ma'am--time's hup"--and just at this moment a two-horse coach is
heard stealing up the street, upon which the coachman calls to the
horse-keepers to "stand clear with their cloths, and take care no one
pays them twice over," gives a whistling hiss to his leaders, the double
thong to his wheelers, and starts off at a trot, muttering something
about, "cuss'd pair-'oss coach,--convict-looking passengers," observing
confidentially to Mr. Jorrocks, as he turned the angle of the street,
"that he would rather be hung off a long stage, than die a natural death
on a short one," while the guard drowns the voices of the lady who has
left her reticule, and of the gentleman who has got no change for his
sovereign, in a hearty puff of:

  Rule Britannia,--Britannia rule the waves.
  Britons, never, never, never, shall be slaves!

Blithely and merrily, like all coach passengers after feeding, our
party rolled steadily along, with occasional gibes at those they met or
passed, such as telling waggoners their linch-pins were out; carters'
mates, there were nice pocket-knives lying on the road; making urchins
follow the coach for miles by holding up shillings and mock parcels; or
simple equestrians dismount in a jiffy on telling them their horses'
shoes were not all on "before." [19] Towards the decline of the day,
Dover heights appeared in view, with the stately castle guarding the
Channel, which seen through the clear atmosphere of an autumnal evening,
with the French coast conspicuous in the distance, had more the
appearance of a wide river than a branch of the sea.

[Footnote 19: This is more of a hunting-field joke than a road one. "Have
I all my shoes on?" "They are not all on before."]

The coachman mended his pace a little, as he bowled along the gentle
descents or rounded the base of some lofty hill, and pulling up at
Lydden took a glass of soda-water and brandy, while four strapping
greys, with highly-polished, richly-plated harness, and hollyhocks
at their heads, were put to, to trot the last few miles into Dover.
Paying-time being near, the guard began to do the amiable--hoped Mrs.
Sprat had ridden comfortable; and the coachman turned to the gentleman
whose sovereign was left behind to assure him he would bring his change
the next day, and was much comforted by the assurance that he was on his
way to Italy for the winter. As the coach approached Charlton Gate, the
guard flourished his bugle and again struck up _Rule Britannia_, which
lasted the whole breadth of the market-place, and length of Snargate
Street, drawing from Mr. Muddle's shop the few loiterers who yet
remained, and causing Mr. Le Plastrier, the patriotic moth-impaler, to
suspend the examination of the bowels of a watch, as they rattled past
his window.

At the door of the "Ship Hotel" the canary-coloured coach of Mr. Wright,
the landlord, with four piebald horses, was in waiting for him to take
his evening drive, and Mrs. Wright's pony phaeton, with a neat tiger in
a blue frock-coat and leathers, was also stationed behind to convey
her a few miles on the London road. Of course the equipages of such
important personages could not be expected to move for a common
stage-coach, consequently it pulled up a few yards from the door. It is
melancholy to think that so much spirit should have gone unrewarded,
or in other words, that Mr. Wright should have gone wrong in his
affairs.--Mrs. Ramsbottom said she never understood the meaning of the
term, "The Crown, and Bill of Rights (Wright's)," until she went to
Rochester. Many people, we doubt not, retain a lively recollection of
the "bill of Wright's of Dover." But to our travellers.

"Now, sir! this be Dover, that be the Ship, I be the coachman, and
we goes no further," observed the amphibious-looking coachman, in a
pea-jacket and top-boots, to Mr. Jorrocks, who still kept his seat on
the box, as if he expected, that because they booked people "through
to Paris," at the coach office in London, that the vehicle crossed the
Channel and conveyed them on the other side. At this intimation, Mr.
Jorrocks clambered down, and was speedily surrounded by touts and
captains of vessels soliciting his custom. "_Bonjour,_ me Lor'," said
a gaunt French sailor in ear-rings, and a blue-and-white jersey shirt,
taking off a red nightcap with mock politeness, "you shall be cross."
"What's that about?" inquires Mr. Jorrocks--"cross! what does the chap
mean?" "Ten shillin', just, me Lor'," replied the man. "Cross for ten
shillings," muttered Mr. Jorrocks, "vot does the Mouncheer mean? Hope he
hasn't picked my pocket." "I--you--vill," said the sailor slowly, using
his fingers to enforce his meaning, "take to France," pointing south,
"for ten shillin' in my _bateau_, me Lor," continued the sailor, with
a grin of satisfaction as he saw Mr. Jorrocks began to comprehend
him. "Ah! I twig--you'll take me across the water." said our citizen
chuckling at the idea of understanding French and being called a
Lord--"for ten shillings--half-sovereign in fact." "Don't go with him,
sir," interrupted a Dutch-built English tar; "he's got nothing but a
lousy lugger that will be all to-morrow in getting over, if it ever gets
at all; and the _Royal George_, superb steamer, sails with a King's
Messenger and dispatches for all the foreign courts at half-past ten,
and must be across by twelve, whether it can or not." "Please take a
card for the _Brocklebank_--quickest steamer out of Dover--wind's made
expressly to suit her, and she can beat the _Royal George_ like winking.
Passengers never sick in the most uproarious weather," cried another
tout, running the corner of his card into Mr. Jorrocks's eye to engage
his attention. Then came the captain of the French mail-packet, who was
dressed much like a new policeman, with an embroidered collar to his
coat, and a broad red band round a forage cap which he raised with
great politeness, as he entreated Mr. Jorrocks's patronage of his
high-pressure engine, "vich had beat a balloon, and vod take him for
half less than noting." A crowd collected, in the centre of which stood
Mr. Jorrocks perfectly unmoved, with his wig awry and his carpet-bag
under his arm. "Gentlemen," said he, extending his right hand, "you
seem to me to be desperately civil--your purliteness appears to know no
bounds--but, to be candid with you, I beg to say that whoever will carry
me across the herring pond cheapest shall have my custom, so now
begin and bid downwards." "Nine shillings," said an Englishman
directly--"eight" replied a Frenchman--"seven and sixpence"--"seven
shillings"--"six and sixpence"--"six shillings"--"five and sixpence"; at
last it came down to five shillings, at which there were two bidders,
the French captain and the tout of the _Royal George_,--and Mr.
Jorrocks, like a true born Briton, promised his patronage to the latter,
at which the Frenchmen shrugged up their shoulders, and burst out
a-laughing, one calling him, "my Lor' Ros-bif," and the other "Monsieur
God-dem," as they walked off in search of other victims.

None but the natives of Dover can tell what the weather is, unless the
wind comes directly off the sea, and it was not until Mr. Jorrocks
proceeded to embark after breakfast the next morning, that he
ascertained there was a heavy swell on, so quiet had the heights kept
the gambols of Boreas. Three steamers were simmering into action on
the London-hotel side of the harbour, in one of which--the _Royal
George_--two britzkas and a barouche were lashed ready for sea, while
the custom-house porters were trundling barrows full of luggage
under the personal superintendence of a little shock-headed French
commissionnaire of Mr. Wright's in a gold-laced cap, and the other
gentry of the same profession from the different inns. As the _Royal
George_ lay nearly level with the quay, Mr. Jorrocks stepped on board
without troubling himself to risk his shins among the steps of a ladder
that was considerately thrust into the place of embarkation; and as soon
as he set foot upon deck, of course he was besieged by the usual myriad
of land sharks. First came Monsieur the Commissionnaire with his book,
out of which he enumerated two portmanteaus and two carpet-bags, for
each of which he made a specific charge leaving his own gratuity
optional with his employer; then came Mr. Boots to ask for something for
showing them the way; after him the porter of the inn for carrying their
cloaks and great-coats, all of which Mr. Jorrocks submitted to, most
philosophically, but when the interpreter of the deaf and dumb ladder
man demanded something for the use of the ladder, his indignation got
the better of him and he exclaimed loud enough to be heard by all on
deck, "Surely you wouldn't charge a man for what he has not enjoyed!"

A voyage is to many people like taking an emetic--they look at the
medicine and wish it well over, and look at the sea and wish themselves
well over. Everything looked bright and gay at Dover--the cliffs seemed
whiter than ever--the sailors had on clean trousers, and the few people
that appeared in the streets were dressed in their Sunday best. The
cart-horses were seen feeding leisurely on the hills, and there was a
placid calmness about everything on shore, which the travellers would
fain have had extended to the sea. They came slowly and solemnly upon
deck, muffled up in cloaks and coats, some with their passage money in
their hands, and took their places apparently with the full expectation
of being sick.

The French packet-boat first gave symptoms of animation, in the shape
of a few vigorous puffs from the boiler, which were responded to by the
_Royal George_, whose rope was slipped without the usual tinkle of the
bell, and she shot out to sea, closely followed by the Frenchman, who
was succeeded by the other English boat. Three or four tremendous long
protracted dives, each followed by a majestic rise on the bosom of the
waves, denoted the crossing of the bar; and just as the creaking of the
cordage, the flapping of the sails, and the nervous quivering of the
paddles, as they lost their hold of the water, were in full vigour, the
mate crossed the deck with a large white basin in his hand, the sight of
which turned the stomachs of half the passengers. Who shall describe the
misery that ensued? The groans and moans of the sufferers, increasing
every minute, as the vessel heaved and dived, and rolled and creaked,
while hand-basins multiplied as half-sick passengers caught the green
countenance and fixed eye of some prostrate sufferer and were overcome
themselves.

Mr. Jorrocks, what with his Margate trips, and a most substantial
breakfast of beef-steaks and porter, tea, eggs, muffins, prawns, and
fried ham, held out as long as anybody--indeed, at one time the odds
were that he would not be sick at all; and he kept walking up and down
deck like a true British tar. In one of his turns he was observed to
make a full stop.--Immediately before the boiler his eye caught a
cadaverous-looking countenance that rose between the top of a blue
camlet cloak, and the bottom of a green travelling-cap, with a large
patent-leather peak; he was certain that he knew it, and, somehow or
other, he thought, not favourably. The passenger was in that happy mood
just debating whether he should hold out against sickness any longer,
or resign himself unreservedly to its horrors, when Mr. Jorrocks's eye
encountered his, and the meeting did not appear to contribute to his
happiness. Mr. Jorrocks paused and looked at him steadily for some
seconds, during which time his thoughts made a rapid cast over his
memory. "Sergeant Bumptious, by gum!" exclaimed he, giving his thigh
a hearty slap, as the deeply indented pock-marks on the learned
gentleman's face betrayed his identity. "Sergeant," said he, going up to
him, "I'm werry 'appy to see ye--may be in the course of your practice
at Croydon you've heard that there are more times than one to catch a
thief." "Who are you?" inquired the sergeant with a growl, just at which
moment the boat gave a roll, and he wound up the inquiry by a donation
to the fishes. "Who am I?" replied Mr. Jorrocks, as soon as he was done,
"I'll soon tell ye that--I'm Mr. JORROCKS! Jorrocks wersus Cheatum, in
fact--now that you have got your bullying toggery off, I'll be 'appy to
fight ye either by land or sea." "Oh-h-h-h!" groaned the sergeant at the
mention of the latter word, and thereupon he put his head over the boat
and paid his second subscription. Mr. Jorrocks stood eyeing him, and
when the sergeant recovered, he observed with apparent mildness and
compassion, "Now, my dear sergeant, to show ye that I can return good
for evil, allow me to fatch you a nice 'ot mutton chop!" "Oh-h-h-h-h!"
groaned the sergeant, as though he would die. "Or perhaps you'd prefer
a cut of boiled beef with yellow fat, and a dab of cabbage?" an
alternative which was too powerful for the worthy citizen himself--for,
like Sterne with his captive, he had drawn a picture that his own
imagination could not sustain--and, in attempting to reach the side
of the boat, he cascaded over the sergeant, and they rolled over each
other, senseless and helpless upon deck.

"Mew, mew," screamed the seagulls;--"creak, creak," went the
cordage;--"flop, flop," went the sails; round went the white basins, and
the steward with the mop; and few passengers would have cared to have
gone overboard, when, at the end of three hours' misery, the captain
proclaimed that they were running into still water off Boulogne. This
intimation was followed by the collection of the passage money by the
mate, and the jingling of a tin box by the steward, under the noses of
the party, for perquisites for the crew. Jorrocks and the sergeant
lay together like babes in the wood until they were roused by this
operation, when, with a parting growl at his companion, Mr. Jorrocks got
up; and though he had an idea in his own mind that a man had better live
abroad all his life than encounter such misery as he had undergone, for
the purpose of returning to England, he recollected his intended work
upon France, and began to make his observations upon the town of
Boulogne, towards which the vessel was rapidly steaming. "Not half so
fine as Margate," said he; "the houses seem all afraid of the sea, and
turn their ends to it instead of fronting it, except yon great white
place, which I suppose is the baths"; and, taking his hunting telescope
out of his pocket, he stuck out his legs and prepared to make an
observation. "How the people are swarming down to see us!" he exclaimed.
"I see such a load of petticoats--glad Mrs. J---- ain't with us; may
have some fun here, I guess. Dear me, wot lovely women! wot ankles! beat
the English, hollow--would give something to be a single man!" While he
made these remarks, the boat ran up the harbour in good style, to the
evident gratification of the multitude who lined the pier from end to
end, and followed her in her passage. "Ease her! stop her!" at last
cried the captain, as she got opposite a low wooden guard-house, midway
down the port. A few strokes of the paddles sent her up to the quay,
some ropes were run from each end of the guard-house down to the boat,
within which space no one was admitted except about a dozen soldiers or
custom-house officers--in green coats, white trousers, black sugar-loaf
"caps," and having swords by their sides--and some thick-legged
fisherwomen, with long gold ear-rings, to lower the ladder for
disembarkation. The idlers, that is to say, all the inhabitants of
Boulogne, range themselves outside the ropes on foot, horseback, in
carriages, or anyhow, to take the chance of seeing someone they know,
to laugh at the melancholy looks of those who have been sick, and to
criticise the company, who are turned into the guarded space like a
flock of sheep before them.

Mr. Jorrocks, having scaled the ladder, gave himself a hearty and
congratulatory shake on again finding himself on terra firma, and
sticking his hat jauntily on one side, as though he didn't know what
sea-sickness was, proceeded to run his eye along the spectators on one
side of the ropes; when presently he was heard to exclaim, "My vig,
there's Thompson! He owes us a hundred pounds, and has been doing
these three years." And thereupon he bolted up to a fine looking young
fellow--with mustachios, in a hussar foraging cap stuck on one side of
his head, dressed in a black velvet shooting-jacket, and with half a
jeweller's shop about him in the way of chains, brooches, rings and
buttons--who had brought a good-looking bay horse to bear with his chest
against the cords. "Thompson," said Mr. Jorrocks, in a firm tone of
voice, "how are you?" "How do ye do, Mister Jorrocks," drawled out the
latter, taking a cigar from his mouth, and puffing a cloud of smoke over
the grocer's head. "Well, I'm werry well, but I should like to have a
few moments' conversation with you." "Would ye?" said Thompson, blowing
another cloud. "Yes, I would; you remember that 'ere little bill you got
Simpkins to discount for you one day when I was absent; we have had it
by us a long time now, and it is about time you were taking it up." "You
think so, do you, Mister Jorrocks; can't you renew it? I'll give you a
draft on Aldgate pump for the amount." "Come, none of your funning with
me, I've had enough of your nonsense: give me my pewter, or I'll have
that horse from under you; for though it has got the hair rubbed off
its near knee, it will do werry well to carry me with the Surrey
occasionally." "You old fool," said Thompson, "you forget where you are;
if I could pay you your little bill, do you suppose I would be here? You
can't squeeze blood out of a turnip, can ye? But I'll tell you what, my
covey, if I can't give you satisfaction in money, you shall give me the
satisfaction of a gentleman, if you don't take care what you are about,
you old tinker. By Jove, I'll order pistols and coffee for two to-morrow
morning at Napoleon's column, and let the daylight through your carcass
if you utter another syllable about the bill. Why, now, you stare as
Balaam did at his ass, when he found it capable of holding an argument
with him!"

And true enough, Jorrocks was dumbfounded at this sort of reply from a
creditor, it not being at all in accordance with the _Lex mercatoria_,
or law of merchants, and quite unknown on 'Change. Before, however, he
had time to recover his surprise, all the passengers having entered the
roped area, one of the green-coated gentry gave him a polite twist
by the coat-tail, and with a wave of the hand and bend of his body,
beckoned him to proceed with the crowd into the guard-house. After
passing an outer room, they entered the bureau by a door in the middle
of a wooden partition, where two men were sitting with pens ready to
enter the names of the arrivers in ledgers.

"Votre nom et designation?" said one of them to Mr. Jorrocks--who, with
a bad start, had managed to squeeze in first--to which Mr. Jorrocks
shook his head. "Sare, what's your name, sare?" inquired the same
personage. "JORROCKS," was the answer, delivered with great emphasis,
and thereupon the secretary wrote "Shorrock." "--Monsieur Shorrock,"
said he, looking up, "votre profession, Monsieur? Vot you are, sare?" "A
grocer," replied Mr. Jorrocks, which caused a titter from those behind
who meant to sink the shop. "Marchand-Epicier," wrote the bureau-keeper.
"Quel age avez-vous, Monsieur? How old you are, sare?" "Two pound
twelve," replied Mr. Jorrocks, surprised at his inquisitiveness. "No,
sare, not vot monnay you have, sare, hot old you are, sare." "Well, two
pound twelve, fifty-two in fact." Mr. Jorrocks was then passed out,
to take his chance among the touts and commissionaires of the
various hotels, who are enough to pull passengers to pieces in their
solicitations for custom. In Boulogne, however, no man with money is
ever short of friends; and Thompson having given the hint to two
or three acquaintances as he rode up street, there were no end of
broken-down sportsmen, levanters, and gentlemen who live on the interest
of what they owe other people, waiting to receive Mr. Jorrocks. The
greetings on their parts were most cordial and enthusiastic, and even
some who were in his books did not hesitate to hail him; the majority of
the party, however, was composed of those with whom he had at various
tunes and places enjoyed the sports of the field, but whom he had never
missed until they met at Boulogne.

Their inquiries were business-like and familiar:--"are ye, Jorrocks?"
cried one, holding out both hands. "How are ye, my lad of wax? Do you
still play billiards?--Give you nine, and play you for a Nap." "Come
to my house this evening, old boy, and take a hand at whist for old
acquaintance sake," urged the friend on his left; "got some rare
cogniac, and a box of beautiful Havannahs." "No, Jorrocks,--dine with
me," said a third, "and play chicken-hazard." "Don't," said a fourth,
confidentially, "he'll fleece ye like fun". "Let me put your name
down to our Pigeon Club; only a guinea entrance and a guinea
subscription--nothing to a rich man like you." "Have you any coin to
lend on unexceptionable personal security, with a power of killing and
selling your man if he don't pay?" inquired another. "Are they going
to abolish the law of arrest? 'twould be very convenient if they did."
"Will you discount me a bill at three months?" "Is B---- out of the
Bench yet?" "Who do they call Nodding Homer in your hunt?" "Oh,
gentlemen, gentlemen!" cried Mr. Jorrocks, "go it gently, go it gently!
Consider the day is 'ot, I'm almost out of breath, and faint for want of
food. I've come all the way from Angle-tear, as we say in France, and
lost my breakfast on the wogaye. Where is there an inn where I can
recruit my famished frame? What's this?" looking up at a sign, "'Done a
boar in a manger,' what does this mean?--where's my French dictionary?
I've heard that boar is very good to eat." "Yes, but this boar is to
drink," said a friend on the right; "but you must not put up at a house
of that sort; come to the Hôtel d'Orleans, where all the best fellows
and men of consequence go, a celebrated house in the days of the
Boulogne Hunt. Ah, that was the time, Mr. Jorrocks! we lived like
fighting-cocks then; you should have been among us, such a rollicking
set of dogs! could hunt all day, race maggots and drink claret all
night, and take an occasional by-day with the hounds on a Sunday. Can't
do that with the Surrey, I guess. There's the Hôtel d'Orleans," pointing
to it as they turned the corner of the street; "splendid house it is.
I've no interest in taking you there, don't suppose so; but the sun of
its greatness is fast setting--there's no such shaking of elbows as
there used to be--the IOU system knocked that up. Still, you'll be very
comfortable; a bit of carpet by your bedside, curtains to your windows,
a pie-dish to wash in, a clean towel every third day, and as many
friends to dine with you as ever you like--no want of company in
Boulogne, I assure you. Here, Mr. W----," addressing the innkeeper who
appeared at the door, "this is the very celebrated Mr. Jorrocks, of whom
we have all heard so much,--take him and use him as you would your own
son; and, hark ye (aside), don't forget I brought him."

"Garsoon," said Jorrocks, after having composed himself a little during
which time he was also composing a French speech from his dictionary
and Madame de Genlis's[20] _Manuel du Voyageur_, "A che hora [ora] si
pranza?" looking at the waiter, who seemed astonished. "Oh, stop!" said
he, looking again, "that's Italian--I've got hold of the wrong column.
A quelle heure dine--hang me if I know how to call this chap--dine
[spelling it], t'on?" "What were you wishing to say, sir?" inquired the
waiter, interrupting his display of the language. "Wot, do you speak
English?" asked Jorrocks in amazement. "I hope so, sir," replied the
man, "for I'm an Englishman." "Then, why the devil did you not say so,
you great lout, instead of putting me into a sweat this 'ot day
by speaking French to you?" "Beg pardon, sir, thought you were a
Frenchman." "Did you, indeed?" said Jorrocks, delighted; "then, by Jove,
I do speak French! Somehow or other I thought I could, as I came over.
Bring me a thundering beef-steak, and a pint of stout, directly!" The
Hôtel d'Orleans being a regular roast-beef and plum-pudding sort of
house, Mr. Jorrocks speedily had an immense stripe of tough beef and
boiled potatoes placed before him, in the well-windowed _salle à
manger_, and the day being fine he regaled himself at a table at an open
window, whereby he saw the smart passers-by, and let them view him in
return.

[Footnote 20: For the benefit of our "tarry-at-home" readers, we should
premise that Madame de Genlis's work is arranged for the convenience of
travellers who do not speak any language but their own; and it consists
of dialogues on different necessary subjects, with French and Italian
translations opposite the English.]

Sunday is a gay day in France, and Boulogne equals the best town in
smartness. The shops are better set out, the women are better dressed,
and there is a holiday brightness and air of pleasure on every
countenance. Then instead of seeing a sulky husband trudging behind a
pouting wife with a child in her arms, an infallible sign of a Sunday
evening in England, they trip away to the rural _fête champêtre_, where
with dancing, lemonade, and love, they pass away the night in temperate
if not innocent hilarity. "Happy people! that once a week, at least,
lay down their cares, and dance and sing, and sport away the weights of
grievance, which bow down the spirit of other nations to the earth."

The voyage, though short, commenced a new era in Mr. Jorrocks's life,
and he entirely forget all about Sunday and Dover dullness the moment he
set foot on sprightly France, and he no more recollected it was Sunday,
than if such a day had ceased to exist in the calendar. Having bolted
his steak, he gave his Hessians their usual flop with his handkerchief,
combed his whiskers, pulled his wig straight, and sallied forth,
dictionary in hand, to translate the signs, admire the clever little
children talking French, quiz the horses, and laugh at everything
he didn't understand; to spend his first afternoon, in short, as
nine-tenths of the English who go "abroad" are in the habit of doing.

Early the next morning. Mr. Jorrocks and the Yorkshireman, accompanied
by the commissionnaire of the Hôtel d'Orleans, repaired to the upper
town, for the purpose of obtaining passports, and as they ascended the
steep street called La grand Rue, which connects the two towns, they
held a consultation as to what the former should be described. A
"Marchand-Epicier" would obtain Mr. Jorrocks no respect, but, then, he
objected to the word "Rentier." "What is the French for fox-'unter?"
said he, after a thoughtful pause, turning to his dictionary. There was
no such word. "Sportsman, then? Ay, Chasseur! how would that read? John
Jorrocks, Esq., Chasseur,--not bad, I think," said he. "That will do,"
replied the Yorkshireman, "but you must sink the Esquire now, and
tack 'Monsieur' before your name, and a very pretty euphonious sound
'Monsieur Jorrocks' will have; and when you hear some of the little
Parisian grisettes lisp it out as you turn the garters over on their
counters, while they turn their dark flashing eyes over upon you, it
will be enough to rejuvenate your old frame. But suppose we add to
'Chasseur'--'Member of the Surrey Hunt?'" "By all means," replied
Mr. Jorrocks, delighted at the idea, and ascending the stairs of the
Consulate three steps at a time.

The Consul, Mons. De Horter, was in attendance sitting in state, with
a gendarme at the door and his secretary at his elbow. "_Bonjour,_
Monsieur," said he, bowing, as Mr. Jorrocks passed through the lofty
folding door; to which our traveller replied, "The top of the morning to
you, sir," thinking something of that sort would be right. The Consul,
having scanned him through his green spectacles, drew a large sheet of
thin printed paper from his portfolio, with the arms of France placed
under a great petticoat at the top, and proceeded to fill up a request
from his most Christian Majesty to all the authorities, both civil and
military, of France, and also of all the allied "pays," "de laisser
librement passer" Monsieur John Jorrocks, Chasseur and member of the
Hont de Surrey, and plusieurs other Honts; and also, Monsieur Stubbs,
native of Angleterre, going from Boulogne to Paris, and to give them aid
and protection, "en cas de besoin," all of which Mr. Jorrocks --like
many travellers before him--construed into a most flattering compliment
and mark of respect, from his most Christian Majesty to himself.

Under the word "signalement" in the margin, the Consul also drew the
following sketch of our hero, in order, as Mr. Jorrocks supposed, that
the King of the Mouncheers might know him when he saw him:

  "Age de 52 ans
  Taille d'un mètre 62 centimetres
  Perruque brun
  Front large
  Yeux gris-sanguin
  Nez moyen
  Barbe grisâtre
  Vizage ronde
  Teint rouge."

He then handed it over to Mr. Jorrocks for his signature, who, observing
the words "Signature du Porteur" at the bottom, passed it on to the
porter of the inn, until put right by the Consul, who, on receiving his
fee, bowed him out with great politeness.

Great as had been the grocer's astonishment at the horses and carts that
he had seen stirring about the streets, his amazement knew no bounds
when the first Paris diligence came rolling into town with six
horses, spreading over the streets as they swung about in all
directions--covered with bells, sheep-skins, worsted balls, and foxes'
brushes, driven by one solitary postilion on the off wheeler. "My vig,"
cried he, "here's Wombwell's wild-beast show! What the deuce are they
doing in France? I've not heard of them since last Bartlemy-fair, when I
took my brother Joe's children to see them feed. But stop--this is full
of men! My eyes, so it is! It's what young Dutch Sam would call a male
coach, because there are no females about it. Well, I declare, I am
almost sorry I did not bring Mrs. J----. Wot would they think to see
such a concern in Cheapside? Why, it holds half a township--a perfect
willage on wheels. My eyes, wot a curiosity! Well, I never thought to
live to see such a sight as this!--wish it was going our way that I
might have a ride in it. Hope ours will be as big." Shortly after theirs
did arrive, and Mr. Jorrocks was like a perfect child with delight. It
was not a male coach, however, for in the different compartments were
five or six ladies. "Oh, wot elegant creatures," cried he, eyeing them;
"I could ride to Jerusalem with them without being tired; wot a thing it
is to be a bachelor!"

The Conducteur--with the usual frogged, tagged, embroidered jacket, and
fur-bound cap--having hoisted their luggage on high, the passengers who
had turned out of their respective compartments to stretch their legs
after their cramping from Calais, proceeded to resume their places.
There were only two seats vacant in the interior, or, as Mr. Jorrocks
called it, the "middle house," consequently the Yorkshireman and he
crossed legs. The other four passengers had corner-seats, things much
coveted by French travellers. On Mr. Stubbs's right sat an immense
Englishman, enveloped in a dark blue camlet cloak, fastened with bronze
lionhead clasps, a red neckcloth, and a shabby, napless, broad-brimmed,
brown hat. His face was large, round, and red, without an atom of
expression, and his little pig eyes twinkled over a sort of a mark that
denoted where his nose should have been; in short, his head was more
like a barber's wig block than anything else, and his outline would have
formed a model of the dome of St. Paul's. On the Yorkshireman's left
was a chattering young red-trousered dragoon, in a frock-coat and flat
foraging cap with a flying tassel. Mr. Jorrocks was more fortunate than
his friend, and rubbed sides with two women; one was English, either
an upper nursery-maid or an under governess, but who might be safely
trusted to travel by herself. She was dressed in a black beaver bonnet
lined with scarlet silk, a nankeen pelisse with a blue ribbon, and
pea-green boots, and she carried a sort of small fish-basket on her
knee, with a "plain Christian's prayer book" on the top. The other was
French, approaching to middle age, with a nice smart plump figure, good
hazel-coloured eyes, a beautiful foot and ankle, and very well dressed.
Indeed, her dress very materially reduced the appearance of her age,
and she was what the milliners would call remarkably well "got up." Her
bonnet was a pink satin, with a white blonde ruche surmounted by a rich
blonde veil, with a white rose placed elegantly on one side, and her
glossy auburn hair pressed down the sides of a milk-white forehead, in
the Madonna style.--Her pelisse was of "violet-des-bois" figured silk,
worn with a black velvet pelerine and a handsomely embroidered collar.
Her boots were of a colour to match the pelisse; and a massive gold
chain round her neck, and a solitary pearl ring on a middle finger, were
all the jewellery she displayed. Mr. Jorrocks caught a glimpse of her
foot and ankle as she mounted the steps to resume her place in the
diligence, and pushing the Yorkshireman aside, he bundled in directly
after her, and took up the place we have described.

The vehicle was soon in motion, and its ponderous roll enchanted the
heart of the grocer. Independently of the novelty, he was in a humour to
be pleased, and everything with him was _couleur de rose_. Not so the
Yorkshireman's right-hand neighbour, who lounged in the corner, muffled
up in his cloak, muttering and cursing at every jolt of the diligence,
as it bumped across the gutters and jolted along the streets of
Boulogne. At length having got off the pavement, after crushing along at
a trot through the soft road that immediately succeeds, they reached the
little hill near Mr. Gooseman's farm, and the horses gradually relaxed
into a walk, when he burst forth with a tremendous oath, swearing that
he had "travelled three hundred thousand miles, and never saw horses
walk up such a bit of a bank before." He looked round the diligence in
the expectation of someone joining him, but no one deigned a reply, so,
with a growl and a jerk of his shoulders, he again threw himself into
his corner. The dragoon and the French lady then began narrating the
histories of their lives, as the French people always do, and Mr.
Jorrocks and the Yorkshireman sat looking at each other. At length Mr.
Jorrocks, pulling his dictionary and _Madame de Genlis_ out of his
pocket, observed, "I quite forgot to ask the guard at what time we
dine--most important consideration, for I hold it unfair to takes one's
stomach by surprise, and a man should have due notice, that he may tune
his appetite accordingly. I have always thought, that there's as much
dexterity required to bring an appetite to table in the full bloom of
perfection, as there is in training an 'oss to run on a particular
day.--Let me see," added he, turning over the pages of _de Genlis_--"it
will be under the head of eating and drinking, I suppose.--Here it
is--(opens and reads)--'I have a good appetite--I am hungry--I am werry
hungry--I am almost starved'--that won't do--'I have eaten
enough'--that won't do either--'To breakfast'--no.--But here it is, by
Jingo--'Dialogue before dinner'--capital book for us travellers, this
Mrs. de Genlis--(reads) 'Pray, take dinner with us to-day, I shall give
you plain fare.'--That means rough and enough, I suppose," observed Mr.
Jorrocks to the Yorkshireman.--"'What time do we dine to-day? French:
A quelle heure dinons-nous aujourd'hui?--Italian: A che hora (ora)
si prancey (pranza) oggi?'" "Ah, Monsieur, vous parlez Français à
merveille," said the French lady, smiling with the greatest good nature
upon him. "A marble!" said Mr. Jorrocks, "wot does that mean?"
preparing to look it out in the dictionary. "Ah, Monsieur, I shall you
explain--you speak French like a natif." "Indeed!" said Mr. Jorrocks,
with a bow, "I feel werry proud of your praise; and your English is
quite delightful.--By Jove," said he to the Yorkshireman, with a most
self-satisfied grin, "you were right in what you told me about the
gals calling me Monsieur.--I declare she's driven right home to my
'art--transfixed me at once, in fact."

Everyone who has done a little "voyaging," as they call it in France,
knows that a few miles to the south of Samer rises a very steep hill,
across which the route lies, and that diligence travellers are generally
invited to walk up it. A path which strikes off near the foot of the
hill, across the open, cuts off the angle, and--diligences being
anything but what the name would imply,--the passengers, by availing
themselves of the short cut, have ample time for striking up confabs,
and inquiring into the comforts of the occupiers of the various
compartments. Our friends of the "interior" were all busy jabbering
and talking--some with their tongues, others with their hands and
tongues--with the exception of the monster in the cloak, who sat like
a sack in the corner, until the horses, having reached the well-known
breathing place, made a dead halt, and the conducteur proceeded to
invite the party to descend and "promenade" up the hill. "What's
happened now?" cried the monster, jumping up as the door opened;
"surely, they don't expect us to walk up this mountain! I've travelled
three hundred thousand miles, and was never asked to do such a thing in
all my life before. I won't do it; I paid for riding, and ride I will.
You are all a set of infamous cheats," said he to the conducteur in good
plain English; but the conducteur, not understanding the language,
shut the door as soon as all the rest were out, and let him roll on
by himself. Jorrocks stuck to his woman, who had a negro boy in the
rotonde, dressed in baggy slate-coloured trousers, with a green
waistcoat and a blue coat, with a coronet on the button, who came to
hand her out, and was addressed by the heroic name of "Agamemnon."
Jorrocks got a glimpse of the button, but, not understanding foreign
coronets, thought it was a crest; nevertheless, he thought he might as
well inquire who his friend was, so, slinking back as they reached the
foot of the hill he got hold of the nigger, and asked what they called
his missis. Massa did not understand, and Mr. Jorrocks, sorely puzzled
how to explain, again had recourse to the _Manuel du Voyageur_; but
Madame de Genlis had not anticipated such an occurrence, and there was
no dialogue adapted to his situation. There was a conversation with a
lacquey, however, commencing with--"Are you disposed to enter into my
service?" and, in the hopes of hitting upon something that would convey
his wishes, he "hark'd forward," and passing by--"Are you married?"
arrived at--"What is your wife's occupation?" "Que fait votre femme?"
said he, suiting the action to the word, and pointing to Madame.
Agamemnon showed his ivories, as he laughed at the idea of Jorrocks
calling his mistress his wife, and by signs and words conveyed to him
some idea of the importance of the personage to whom he alluded. This he
did most completely, for before the diligence came up, Jorrocks pulled
the Yorkshireman aside, and asked if he was aware that they were
travelling with a real live Countess; "Madame la Countess Benwolio, the
nigger informs me," said he; "a werry grande femme, though what that
means I don't know." "Oh, Countesses are common enough here," replied
the Yorkshireman. "I dare say she's a stay-maker. I remember a
paint-maker who had a German Baron for a colour-grinder once." "Oh,"
said Jorrocks, "you are jealous--you always try to run down my friends;
but that won't do, I'm wide awake to your tricks"; so saying, he
shuffled off, and getting hold of the Countess, helped Agamemnon to
hoist her into the diligence. He was most insinuating for the next two
hours, and jabbered about love and fox-hunting, admiring the fine, flat,
open country, and the absence of hedges and flints; but as neither youth
nor age can subsist on love alone, his confounded appetite began to
trouble him, and got quite the better of him before they reached
Abbeville. Every mile seemed a league, and he had his head out of the
window at least twenty times before they came in sight of the town. At
length the diligence got its slow length dragged not only to Abbeville,
but to the sign of the "Fidèle Berger"--or "Fiddle Burgur," as Mr.
Jorrocks pronounced it--where they were to dine. The door being opened,
out he jumped, and with his _Manuel du Voyageur_ in one hand, and the
Countess Benvolio in the other, he pushed his way through the crowd of
"pauvres misérables" congregated under the gateway, who exhibited every
species of disease and infirmity that poor human nature is liable or
heir to, and entered the hotel. The "Sally manger," as he called it, was
a long brick-floored room on the basement, with a white stove at one
end, and the walls plentifully decorated with a panoramic view of the
Grand Nation wallopping the Spaniards at the siege of Saragossa. The
diligence being a leetle behind time as usual, the soup was on the table
when they entered. The passengers quickly ranged themselves round, and,
with his mouth watering as the female garçon lifted the cover from the
tureen, Mr. Jorrocks sat in the expectation of seeing the rich contents
ladled into the plates. His countenance fell fifty per cent as the first
spoonful passed before his eyes.--"My vig, why it's water!" exclaimed
he--"water, I do declare, with worms[21] in it--I can't eat such stuff as
that--it's not man's meat--oh dear, oh dear, I fear I've made a terrible
mistake in coming to France! Never saw such stuff as this at Bleaden's
or Birch's, or anywhere in the city." "I've travelled three hundred
thousand miles," said the fat man, sending his plate from him in
disgust, "and never tasted such a mess as this before." "I'll show
them up in _The Times_," cried Mr. Jorrocks; "and, look, what stuff is
here--beef boiled to rags!--well, I never, no never, saw anything like
this before. Oh, I wish I was in Great Coram Street again!--I'm sure
I can't live here--I wonder if I could get a return
chaise--waiter--garsoon--cuss! Oh dear! I see _Madame de Genlis_ is of
no use in a pinch--and yet what a dialogue here is! Oh heavens! grant
your poor Jorrocks but one request, and that is the contents of a single
sentence. 'I want a roasted or boiled leg of mutton, beef, hung beef,
a quarter of mutton, mutton chops, veal cutlets, stuffed tongue, dried
tongue, hog's pudding, white sausage, meat sausage, chicken with rice, a
nice fat roast fowl, roast chicken with cressy, roast or boiled pigeon,
a fricassee of chicken, sweet-bread, goose, lamb, calf's cheek, calf's
head, fresh pork, salt pork, cold meat, hash.'--But where's the use of
titivating one's appetite with reading of such luxteries? Oh, what a
wife Madame de Genlis would have made for me! Oh dear, oh dear, I shall
die of hunger, I see --I shall die of absolute famine--my stomach thinks
my throat's cut already!" In the height of his distress in came two
turkeys and a couple of fowls, and his countenance shone forth like an
April sun after a shower. "Come, this is better," said he; "I'll trouble
you, sir, for a leg and a wing, and a bit of the breast, for I'm really
famished--oh hang! the fellow's a Frenchman, and I shall lose half the
day in looking it out in my dictionary. Oh dear, oh dear, where's the
dinner dialogue!--well, here's something to that purpose. 'I will
send you a bit of this fowl.' 'A little bit of the fowl cannot hurt
you.'--No, nor a great bit either.--'Which do you like best, leg or
wing?' 'Qu'aimez-vous le mieux, la cuisse ou l'aile?'" Here the Countess
Benvolio, who had been playing a good knife and fork herself, pricked
up her ears, and guessing at Jorrocks's wants, interceded with her
countryman and got him a plateful of fowl. It was soon disposed of,
however, and half a dish of hashed hare or cat, that was placed within
reach of him shortly after, was quickly transferred into his plate. A
French dinner is admirably calculated for leading the appetite on by
easy stages to the grand consummation of satiety. It begins meagrely, as
we have shown, and proceeds gradually through the various gradations of
lights, savories, solids, and substantiate. Presently there was a
large dish of stewed eels put on. "What's that?" asked Jorrocks of the
man.--"Poisson," was the reply. "Poison! why, you infidel, have you no
conscience?" "Fishe," said the Countess. "Oh, ay, I smell--eels--just
like what we have at the Eel-pie-house at Twickenham--your ladyship, I
am thirsty--'ge soif,' in fact." "Ah, bon!" said the Countess, laughing,
and giving him a tumbler of claret. "I've travelled three hundred
thousand miles," said the fat man, "and never saw claret drunk in that
way before." "It's not werry good, I think," said Mr. Jorrocks, smacking
his lips; "if it was not claret I would sooner drink port." Some wild
ducks and fricandeau de veau which followed, were cut up and handed
round, Jorrocks helping himself plentifully to both, as also to pommes
de terre à la maitre d'hôtel, and bread at discretion. "Faith, but this
is not a bad dinner, after all's said and done, when one gets fairly
into it." "Fear it will be very expensive," observed the fat man. Just
when Jorrocks began to think he had satisfied nature, in came a roast
leg of mutton, a beef-steak, "à la G--d-dam", [22] and a dish of larks
and snipes.

[Footnote 21: Macaroni soup.]

[Footnote 22: When the giraffe mania prevailed in Paris, and gloves,
handkerchiefs, gowns, reticules, etc. were "à la Giraffe," an Englishman
asked a waiter if they had any beef-steaks "à la Giraffe." "No,
monsieur, but we have them à la G--d-dem," was the answer.]

"Must have another tumbler of wine before I can grapple with these
chaps," said he, eyeing them, and looking into Madame de Genlis's
book: "'Garsoon, donnez-moi un verre de vin,'" holding up the book and
pointing to the sentence. He again set to and "went a good one" at both
mutton and snipes, but on pulling up he appeared somewhat exhausted. He
had not got through it all yet, however. Just as he was taking breath, a
_garçon_ entered with some custards and an enormous omelette soufflée,
whose puffy brown sides bagged over the tin dish that contained it.
"There's a tart!" cried Mr. Jorrocks; "Oh, my eyes, what a swell!--Well,
I suppose I must have a shy at it.--'In for a penny in for a pound!' as
we say at the Lord Mayor's feed. Know I shall be sick, but, however,
here goes," sending his plate across the table to the _garçon_, who was
going to help it. The first dive of the spoon undeceived him as he heard
it sound at the bottom of the dish. "Oh lauk, what a go! All puff, by
Jove!--a regular humbug--a balloon pudding, in short! I won't eat such
stuff--give it to Mouncheer there," rejecting the offer of a piece. "I
like the solids;--will trouble you for some of that cheese, sir, and
don't let it taste of the knive. But what do they mean by setting
the dessert on before the cloth is removed? And here comes tea and
coffee--may as well have some, I suppose it will be all the same price.
And what's this?" eyeing a lot of liqueur glasses full of eau de vie.
"Chasse-café, Monsieur," said the _garçon_. "Chasse calf--chasse
calf--what's that? Oh, I twig--what we call 'shove in the mouth' at the
Free-and-Easy. Yes, certainly, give me a glass." "You shall take some
dessert," said the Countess, handing him over some peaches and biscuits.
"Well, I'll try my hand at it, if it will oblege your ladyship, but I
really have had almost enough." "And some abricot," said she, helping
him to a couple of fine juicy ones. "Oh, thank you, my lady, thank you,
my lady, I'm nearly satisfied." "Vous ne mangez pas," said she, giving
him half a plate of grapes. "Oh, my lady, you don't understand me--I
can't eat any more--I am regularly high and dry--chock full--bursting,
in fact." Here she handed him a plate of sponge-cakes mixed with
bon-bons and macaroons, saying, "Vous êtes un pauvre mangeur--vous
ne mangez rien, Monsieur." "Oh dear, she does not understand me, I
see.--Indeed, my lady, I cannot eat any more.--Ge woudera, se ge
could-era, mais ge can-ne-ra pas!" "Well, now, I've travelled three
hundred thousand miles, and never heard such a bit of French as that
before," said the fat man, chuckling.



IX. MR. JORROCKS IN PARIS

As the grey morning mist gradually dispersed, and daylight began to
penetrate the cloud that dimmed the four squares of glass composing the
windows of the diligence, the Yorkshireman, half-asleep and half-awake,
took a mental survey of his fellow-travellers.--Before him sat his
worthy friend, snoring away with his mouth open, and his head, which
kept bobbing over on to the shoulder of the Countess, enveloped in the
ample folds of a white cotton nightcap.--She, too, was asleep and,
disarmed of all her daylight arts, dozed away in tranquil security. Her
mouth also was open, exhibiting rather a moderate set of teeth, and
her Madonna front having got a-twist, exposed a mixture of brown and
iron-grey hairs at the parting place. Her bonnet swung from the roof
of the diligence, and its place was supplied by a handsome lace cap,
fastened under her chin by a broad-hemmed cambric handkerchief.
Presently the sun rose, and a bright ray shooting into the Countess's
corner, awoke her with a start, and after a hurried glance at the
passengers, who appeared to be all asleep, she drew a small ivory-cased
looking-glass from her bag, and proceeded to examine her features. Mr.
Jorrocks awoke shortly after, and with an awful groan exclaimed that
his backbone was fairly worn out with sitting. "Oh dear!" said he, "my
behind aches as if I had been kicked all the way from Hockleyhole to
Marylebone. Are we near Paris? for I'm sure I can't find seat any
longer, indeed I can't. I'd rather ride two hundred miles in nine hours,
like H'osbaldeston, than be shut up in this woiture another hour. It
really is past bearing, and that's the long and short of the matter."
This exclamation roused all the party, who began yawning and rubbing
their eyes and looking at their watches. The windows also were lowered
to take in fresh air, and on looking out they found themselves rolling
along a sandy road, lined on each side with apple-trees, whose branches
were "groaning" with fruit. They breakfasted at Beaumont, and had a
regular spread of fish, beef-steak, mutton-chops, a large joint of
hot roast veal, roast chickens, several yards of sour bread, grapes,
peaches, pears, and plums, with vin ordinaire, and coffee au lait;
but Mr. Jorrocks was off his feed, and stood all the time to ease his
haunches.

Towards three in the afternoon they caught the first glimpse of the
gilded dome of the Hospital of Invalids, which was a signal for all
the party to brush up and make themselves agreeable. Even the
three-hundred-thousand miler opened out, and began telling some
wonderful anecdotes, while the Countess and Mr. Jorrocks carried on a
fierce flirtation, or whatever else they pleased to call it. At last,
after a deal of jargon, he broke off by appealing to the Yorkshireman
to know what "inn" they should "put up at" in Paris. "I don't know, I'm
sure," said he; "it depends a good deal upon how you mean to live. As
you pay my shot it does not do for beggars to be choosers; but suppose
we try Meurice's" "Oh no," replied Mr. Jorrocks, "her ladyship tells me
it is werry expensive, for the English always pay through the nose if
they go to English houses in Paris; and, as we talk French, we can put
up at a French one, you know." "Well, then, we can try one of the French
ones in the Rue de la Paix." "Rue de la Pay! no, by Jove, that won't do
for me--the werry name is enough--no Rue de la Pay for me, at least if
I have to pay the shot." "Well, then, you must get your friend there to
tell you of some place, for I don't care twopence, as long as I have a
bed, where it is." The Countess and he then laid their heads together
again, and when the diligence stopped to change horses at St. Denis,
Mr. Jorrocks asked the Yorkshireman to alight, and taking him aside,
announced with great glee that her ladyship, finding they were strangers
in the land, had most kindly invited them to stay with her, and that she
had a most splendid house in the Rue des Mauvais-Garçons, ornamented
with mirrors, musical clocks, and he didn't know what, and kept the best
company in all France, marquesses, barons, viscounts, authors, etc.
Before the Yorkshireman had time to reply, the conducteur came and
hurried them back into the diligence, and closed the door with a bang,
to be sure of having his passengers there while he and the postilion
shuffled the cards and cut for a glass of _eau-de-vie_ apiece.

The Countess, suspecting what they had been after, resumed the
conversation as soon as Mr. Jorrocks was seated.--"You shall manger
cinque fois every day," said she; "cinque fois," she repeated.--"Humph!"
said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, "what can that mean?--cank four--four
times five's twenty--eat twenty times a day--not possible!" "Oui,
Monsieur, cinque fois," repeated the Countess, telling the number off
on her fingers--"Café at nine of the matin, déjeuner à la fourchette at
onze o'clock, diner at cinque heure, café at six hour, and souper at
neuf hour." "Upon my word," replied Mr. Jorrocks, his eyes sparkling
with pleasure, "your offer is werry inwiting. My lady," said he, bowing
before her, "Je suis--I am much flattered." "And, Monsieur?" said she,
looking at the Yorkshireman. He, too, assured her that he was very
much flattered, and was beginning to excuse himself, when the Countess
interrupted him somewhat abruptly by turning to Mr. Jorrocks and saying,
"He sall be your son--n'est ce pas?" "No, my lady, I've no children,"
replied he, and the Countess's eyes in their turn underwent a momentary
illumination.

The Parisian barrier was soon reached, and the man taken up to kick
about the jaded travellers' luggage at the journey's end. While this
operation was going on in the diligence yard, the Countess stuck close
to Mr. Jorrocks, and having dispatched Agamemnon for a fiacre, bundled
him in, luggage and all, and desiring her worthy domestic to mount the
box, and direct the driver, she kissed her hand to the Yorkshireman,
assuring him she would be most happy to see him, in proof of which,
she drove away without telling him her number, or where the Rue des
Mauvais-Garçons was.

Paris is a charming place after the heat of the summer has passed away,
and the fine, clear, autumnal days arrive. Then is the time to see the
Tuileries gardens to perfection, when the Parisians have returned from
their châteaus, and emigrating English and those homeward bound halt to
renovate on the road; then is the time that the gayest plants put forth
their brightest hues, and drooping orange flowers scent the air which
silvery fountains lend their aid to cool.

On a Sunday afternoon, such as we have described, our friend Mr. Stubbs
(who since his arrival had been living very comfortably at the Hôtel
d'Hollande, in expectation of Mr. Jorrocks paying his bill) indulged in
six sous' worth of chairs--one to sit upon and one for each leg--and,
John Bull-like, stretched himself out in the shade beneath the lofty
trees, to view the gay groups who promenaded the alleys before him.
First, there came a helmeted cuirassier, with his wife in blue satin,
and a little boy in his hand in uniform, with a wooden sword, a perfect
miniature of the father; then a group of short-petticoated, shuffling
French women, each with an Italian greyhound in slips, followed by an
awkward Englishman with a sister on each arm, all stepping out like
grenadiers; then came a ribbon'd chevalier of the Legion of Honour,
whose hat was oftener in his hand than on his head, followed by a
nondescript looking militaire with fierce mustachios, in shining
jack-boots, white leathers, and a sort of Italian military cloak, with
one side thrown over the shoulder, to exhibit the wearer's leg, and the
bright scabbard of a large sword, while on the hero's left arm hung a
splendidly dressed woman. "What a figure!" said the Yorkshireman to
himself, as they came before him, and he took another good stare.--"Yet
stay--no, impossible!--Gracious Heaven! it can't be--and yet it is--by
Jove, it's Jorrocks!"

"Why now, you old imbecile," cried he, jumping off his chairs and
running up to him, "What are you after?" bursting into a loud laugh as
he looked at Mr. Jorrocks's mustachios (a pair of great false ones). "Is
there no piece of tomfoolery too great for you? What's come across you
now? Where the deuce did you get these things?" taking hold of the curls
at one side of his mustachios.

"How now?" roared Mr. Jorrocks with rage and astonishment. "How now! ye
young scaramouch, vot do you mean by insulting a gentleman sportsman in
broad daylight, in the presence of a lady of quality? By Jingo," added
he, his eyes sparkling with rage, "if you are not off before I can say
'dumpling' I'll run you through the gizzard and give your miserable
carcass to the dogs," suiting the action to the word, and groping
under his cloak for the hilt of his sword.--A crowd collected, and the
Yorkshireman perceiving symptoms of a scene, slunk out of the mêlée, and
Mr. Jorrocks, after an indignant shake or two of his feathers and curl
of his mustachios, pursued his course up the gardens.

This was the first time they had met since their arrival, which was
above a week before; indeed, it was nine days, for the landlord of the
house where the Yorkshireman lived had sent his "little bill" two days
before this, it being an established rule of his house, and one which
was conspicuously posted in all the rooms, that the bills were to be
settled weekly; and Mr. Stubbs had that very morning observed that the
hat of Monsieur l'Hote was not raised half so high from his head, nor
his body inclined so much towards the ground as it was wont to be--a
pretty significant hint that he wanted his cash.--Now the Yorkshireman,
among his other accomplishments, had a turn for play, and unfortunately
had been at the Salon the night before, when, after continuous run
of ill-luck, he came away twelve francs below the amount of the
hotel-keeper's bill, consequently a rumpus with Mr. Jorrocks could not
have taken place at a more unfortunate moment. Thinking, however, a good
night's rest or two might settle him down, and put all matters right,
he let things alone until the Tuesday following, when again finding
Monsieur's little "memoire" on one side of his coffeecup, and a framed
copy of the "rules and regulations" of the house on the other, he
felt constrained to take some decisive step towards its liquidation.
Accordingly, having breakfasted, he combed his hair straight over his
face, and putting on a very penitential look, called a cab, and desired
the man to drive him to the Rue des Mauvais-Garçons.--After zigzagging,
twisting, and turning about in various directions, they at last jingled
to the end of a very narrow dirty-looking street, whose unswept pavement
had not been cheered by a ray of sunshine since the houses were built.
It was excessively narrow, and there were no flags on either side; but
through the centre ran a dribbling stream, here and there obstructed
by oyster-shells, or vegetable refuse, as the water had served as
a plaything for children, or been stopped by servants for domestic
purposes. The street being extremely old, of course the houses were very
large, forming, as all houses do in Paris, little squares entered by
folding doors, at one side of which, in a sort of lodge, lives the
Porter--"Parlez au Portier"--who receives letters, parcels, and
communications for the several occupiers, consisting sometimes of twenty
or thirty different establishments in one house. From this functionary
may be learned the names of the different tenants. Having dismissed his
cab, the Yorkshireman entered the first gateway on his left, to take
the chance of gaining some intelligence of the Countess. The Porter--a
cobbler by trade--was hammering away, last on knee, at the sole of a
shoe, and with a grin on his countenance, informed the Yorkshireman that
the Countess lived next door but one. A thrill of fear came over him on
finding himself so near the residence of his indignant friend, but it
was of momentary duration, and he soon entered the courtyard of No.
3--where he was directed by an unshaved grisly-looking porter, to
proceed "un troisième," and ring the bell at the door on the right-hand
side. Obedient to his directions, the Yorkshireman proceeded to climb a
wide but dirty stone staircase, with carved and gilded balusters, whose
wall and steps had known no water for many years, and at length found
himself on the landing opposite the very apartment which contained the
redoubtable Jorrocks. Here he stood for a few seconds, breathing and
cooling himself after his exertions, during which time he pictured to
himself the worthy citizen immersed in papers deeply engaged in the
preparation of his France in three volumes, and wished that the first
five minutes of their interview were over. At length he mustered courage
to grasp a greasy-looking red tassel, and give a gentle tinkle to the
bell. The door was quickly opened by Agamemnon in dirty loose trousers
and slippers, and without a coat. He recognised his fellow-traveller,
and in answer to his inquiry if Monsieur Jorrocks was at home, grinned,
and answered, "Oh oui, certainement, Monsieur le Colonel Jorrockes est
ici," and motioned him to come in. The Yorkshireman entered the little
ante-room--a sort of scullery, full of mops, pans, dirty shoes, dusters,
candlesticks--and the first thing that caught his eye was Jorrocks's
sword, which Agamemnon had been burnishing up with sandpaper and
leather, lying on a table before the window. This was not very
encouraging, but Agamemnon gave no time for reflection, and opening half
a light salmon-coloured folding door directly opposite the one by which
he entered, the Yorkshireman passed through, unannounced and unperceived
by Mr. Jorrocks or the Countess, who were completely absorbed in a game
of dominoes, sitting on opposite sides of a common deal table, whose
rose-coloured silk cover was laid over the back of a chair. Jorrocks was
sitting on a stool with his back to the door, and the Countess being
very intent on the game, Mr. Stubbs had time for a hasty survey of the
company and apartment before she looked up. It was about one o'clock,
and of course she was still _en déshabillé_, with her nightcap on,
a loose _robe de chambre_ of flannel, and a flaming broad-striped
red-and-black Scotch shawl thrown over her shoulders, and
swan's-down-lined slippers on her feet. Mr. Jorrocks had his leather
pantaloons on, with a rich blue and yellow brocade dressing-gown, and
blue morocco slippers to match. His jack-boots, to which he had added
a pair of regimental heel-spurs, were airing before a stove, which
contained the dying embers of a small log. The room was low, and
contained the usual allowance of red figured velvet-cushioned chairs,
with brass nails; the window curtains were red-and-white on rings and
gilded rods; a secretaire stood against one of the walls, and there was
a large mirror above the marble mantelpiece, which supported a clock
surmounted by a flying Cupid, and two vases of artificial flowers
covered with glass, on one of which was placed an elegant bonnet of the
newest and most approved fashion. The floor, of highly polished oak, was
strewed about with playbills, slippers, curl-papers, boxes, cards, dice,
ribbons, dirty handkerchiefs, etc.; and on one side of the deal table
was a plate containing five well-picked mutton-chop bones, and hard by
lay Mr. Jorrocks's mustachios and a dirty small tooth-comb.

Just as the Yorkshireman had got thus far in his survey, the Countess
gave the finishing stroke to the game, and Mr. Jorrocks, jumping up in a
rage, gave his leathers such a slap as sent a cloud of pipe-clay flying
into his face. "Vous avez the devil's own luck"; exclaimed he, repeating
the blow, when, to avoid the cloud, he turned short round, and
encountered the Yorkshireman.

"How now?" roared he at the top of his voice, "who sent for you? Have
you come here to insult me in my own house? I'll lay my soul to an
'oss-shoe, I'll be too many for ye! Where's my sword?"

"Now, my good Mr. Jorrocks," replied the Yorkshireman very mildly,
"pray, don't put yourself into a passion--consider the lady, and don't
let us have any unpleasantness in Madame la Duchesse Benvolio's house,"
making her a very low bow as he spoke, and laying his hand on his heart.

"D--n your displeasancies!" roared Jorrocks, "and that's swearing--a
thing I've never done since my brother Joe fobbed me of my bottom piece
of muffin. Out with you, I say! Out with ye! you're a nasty dirty
blackguard; I'm done with you for ever. I detest the sight of you and
hate ye afresh every time I see you!"

"Doucement, mon cher Colonel," interposed the Countess, "ve sall play
anoder game, and you sall had von better chance," clapping him on the
back as she spoke. "I von't!" bellowed Jorrocks. "Turn this chap out
first. I'll do it myself. H'Agamemnon! H'Agamemnon! happortez my sword!
bring my sword! tout suite, directly!"

"Police! Police! Police!" screamed the Countess out of the window;
"Police! Police! Police!" bellowed Agamemnon from the next one; "Police!
Police! Police!" re-echoed the grisly porter down below; and before
they had time to reflect on what had passed, a sergeant's file of the
National Guard had entered the hotel, mounted the stairs, and taken
possession of the apartment. The sight of the soldiers with their bright
bayonets, all fixed and gleaming as they were, cooled Mr. Jorrocks's
courage in an instant, and, after standing a few seconds in petrified
astonishment, he made a dart at his jack-boots and bolted out of the
room. The Countess Benvolio then unlocked her secretaire, in which was a
plated liqueur-stand with bottles and glasses, out of which she
poured the sergeant three, and the privates two glasses each of pure
_eau-de-vie,_ after which Agamemnon showed them the top of the stairs.

In less than ten minutes all was quiet again, and the Yorkshireman was
occupying Mr. Jorrocks's stool. The Countess then began putting things
a little in order, adorned the deal table with the rose-coloured
cover--before doing which she swept off Mr. Jorrocks's mustachios, and
thrust a dirty white handkerchief and the small tooth-comb under the
cushion of a chair--while Agamemnon carried away the plate with the
bones. "Ah, le pauvre Colonel," said the Countess, eyeing the bones as
they passed, "he sall be von grand homme to eat--him eat toujours--all
day long--Oh, him mange beaucoup--beaucoup--beaucoup. He is von varé
amiable man, bot he sall not be moch patience. I guess he sall be varé
rich--n'est ce pas? have many guinea?--He say he keep beaucoup des
chiens--many dogs for the hont--he sail be vot dey call rom customer
(rum customer) in Angleterre, I think."

Thus she went rattling on, telling the Yorkshireman all sorts of stories
about the _pauvre_ Colonel, whom she seemed ready to change for a
younger piece of goods with a more moderate appetite; and finding Mr.
Stubbs more complaisant than he had been in the diligence, she concluded
by proposing that he should accompany the Colonel and herself to a
_soirée-dansante_ that evening at a friend of hers, another Countess, in
the "Rue des Bons-Enfants."

Being disengaged as usual, he at once assented, on condition that the
Countess would effect a reconciliation between Mr. Jorrocks and himself,
for which purpose she at once repaired to his room, and presently
reappeared arm-in-arm with our late outrageously indignant hero. The
Colonel had been occupying his time at the toilette, and was _en grand
costume_--finely cleaned leathers, jack-boots and brass spurs, with a
spick and span new blue military frock-coat, hooking and eyeing up to
the chin, and all covered with braid, frogs, tags, and buttons.

"Dere be von beau garçon!" exclaimed the Countess, turning him round
after having led him into the middle of the room--"dat habit does fit
you like vax." "Yes," replied Mr. Jorrocks, raising his arms as though
he were going to take flight, "but it is rather tight--partiklarly round
the waist--shouldn't like to dine in it. What do you think of it?"
turning round and addressing the Yorkshireman as if nothing had
happened--"suppose you get one like it?" "Do," rejoined the Countess,
"and some of the other things--vot you call them, Colonel?"
"What--breeches?" "Yes, breeches--but the oder name--vot you call dem?"
"Oh, leathers?" replied Mr. Jorrocks. "No, no, another name still." "I
know no other. Pantaloons, perhaps, you mean?" "No, no, not pantaloons."
"Not pantaloons?--then I know of nothing else. You don't mean these
sacks of things, called trousers?" taking hold of the Yorkshireman's.
"No, no, not trousers." "Then really, my lady, I don't know any other
name." "Oh, yes, Colonel, you know the things I intend. Vot is it you
call Davil in Angleterre?" "Oh, we have lots of names for him--Old Nick,
for instance."--"Old Nick breeches," said the Countess thoughtfully;
"no, dat sall not be it--vot else?" "Old Harry?" replied Mr.
Jorrocks.--"Old Harry breeches," repeated the Countess in the hopes of
catching the name by the ear--"no, nor dat either, encore anoder name,
Colonel." "Old Scratch, then?" "Old Scratch breeches," re-echoed the
Countess--"no, dat shall not do."--"Beelzebub?" rejoined Mr. Jorrocks.
"Beelzebub breeches," repeated the Countess--"nor dat." "Satan, then?"
said Mr. Jorrocks. "Oh oui!" responded the Countess with delight,
"satan! black satan breeches--you shall von pair of black satan
breeches, like the Colonel."

"And the Colonel will pay for them, I presume?" said the Yorkshireman,
looking at Mr. Jorrocks.

"I carn't," said Mr. Jorrocks in an undertone; "I'm nearly cleaned out,
and shall be in Short's Gardens before I know where I am, unless I hold
better cards this evening than I've done yet. Somehow or other, these
French are rather too sharp for me, and I've been down upon my luck ever
since I came.--Lose every night, in fact, and then they are so werry
anxious for me to have my rewenge, as they call it, that they make
parties expressly for me every evening; but, instead of getting my
rewenge, I only lose more and more money.--They seem to me always to
turn up the king whenever they want him.--To-night we are going to a
Countess's of werry great consequence, and, as you know écarté well,
I'll back your play, and, perhaps, we may do something between us."

This being all arranged, Mr. Stubbs took his departure, and Mr. Jorrocks
having girded on his sword, and the Countess having made her morning
toilette, they proceed to their daily promenade in the Tuileries
Gardens.

A little before nine that evening, the Yorkshireman again found himself
toiling up the dirty staircase, and on reaching the third landing was
received by Agamemnon in a roomy uniform of a chasseur--dark green and
tarnished gold, with a cocked-hat and black feather, and a couteau de
chasse, slung by a shining patent-leather belt over his shoulder. The
opening of the inner door displayed the worthy Colonel sitting at his
ease, with his toes on each side of the stove (for the evenings had
begun to get cool), munching the last bit of crust of the fifth Périgord
pie that the Countess had got him to buy.--He was extremely smart;
thin black gauze-silk stockings, black satin breeches; well-washed,
well-starched white waistcoat with a rolling collar, showing an
amplitude of frill, a blue coat with yellow buttons and a velvet collar,
while his pumps shone as bright as polished steel.

The Countess presently sidled into the room, all smirks and smiles as
dressy ladies generally are when well "got up." Rouge and the milliner
had effectually reduced her age from five and forty down to five and
twenty. She wore a dress of the palest pink satin, with lilies of the
valley in her hair, and an exquisitely wrought gold armlet, with a most
Lilliputian watch in the centre.

Mr. Jorrocks having finished his pie-crust, and stuck on his mustachios,
the Countess blew out her bougies, and the trio, preceeded by Agamemnon
with a lanthorn in his hand, descended the stairs, whose greasy, muddy
steps contrasted strangely with the rich delicacy of the Countess's
beautifully slippered feet. Having handed them into the voiture,
Agamemnon mounted up behind, and in less than ten minutes they rumbled
into the spacious courtyard of the Countess de Jackson, in the Rue des
Bons-Enfants, and drew up beneath a lofty arch at the foot of a long
flight of dirty black-and-white marble stairs, about the centre of which
was stationed a _lacquey de place_ to show the company up to the hall.
The Countess de Jackson (the wife of an English horse-dealer) lived
in an _entresol au troisième_, but the hotel being of considerable
dimensions, her apartment was much more spacious than the Countess
Benvolio's. Indeed, the Countess de Jackson, being a _marchande des
modes_, had occasion for greater accommodation, and she had five low
rooms, whereof the centre one was circular, from which four others,
consisting of an ante-room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and _salle à manger_,
radiated.

Agamemnon having opened the door of the _fiacre_, the Countess Benvolio
took the Yorkshireman's arm, and at once preceded to make the ascent,
leaving the Colonel to settle the fare, observing as they mounted the
stairs, that he was "von exceeding excellent man, but varé slow."

"Madame la Contesse Benvolio and Monsieur Stoops!" cried the _lacquey de
place_ as they reached the door of the low ante-room, where the Countess
Benvolio deposited her shawl, and took a final look at herself in the
glass. She again took the Yorkshireman's arm and entered the round
ballroom, which, though low and out of all proportion, had an
exceedingly gay appearance, from the judicious arrangement of the
numerous lights, reflected in costly mirrors, and the simple elegance of
the crimson drapery, festooned with flowers and evergreens against the
gilded walls. Indeed, the hotel had been the residence of an ambassador
before the first revolution, and this _entresol_ had formed the private
apartment of his Excellency. The door immediately opposite the one by
which they entered, led into the Countess de Jackson's bedroom,
which was also lighted up, with the best furniture exposed and her
toilette-table set out with numberless scent bottles, vases, trinkets,
and nick-nacks, while the _salle à manger_ was converted into a
card-room. Having been presented in due form to the hostess, the
Yorkshireman and his new friend stood surveying the gay crowd of
beautiful and well-dressed women, large frilled and well-whiskered men,
all chatting, and bowing, and dancing, when a half-suppressed titter
that ran through the room attracted their attention, and turning round,
Mr. Jorrocks was seen poking his way through the crowd with a number of
straws sticking to his feet, giving him the appearance of a feathered
Mercury. The fact was, that Agamemnon had cleaned his shoes with the
liquid varnish (french polish), and forgetting to dry it properly, the
carrying away half the straw from the bottom of the _fiacre_ was the
consequence, and Mr. Jorrocks having paid the Jehu rather short, the
latter had not cared to tell him about it.

The straws were, however, soon removed without interruption to the
gaiety of the evening. Mr. Stubbs, of course, took an early opportunity
of waltzing with the Countess Benvolio, who, as all French women are,
was an admirable dancer, and Jorrocks stood by fingering and curling his
mustachios, admiring her movements but apparently rather jealous of the
Yorkshireman. "I wish," said he after the dance was over, "that
you would sit down at _écarté_ and let us try to win some of these
mouncheers' tin, for I'm nearly cleaned out. Let us go into the
cardroom, but first let us see if we can find anything in the way of
nourishment, for I begin to be hungry. Garsoon," said he catching a
servant with a trayful of _eau sucrée_ glasses, "avez-vous kick-shaws to
eat?" putting his finger in his mouth--"ge wouderay some refreshment."
"Oh, oui," replied the garçon taking him to an open window overlooking
the courtyard, and extending his hand in the air, "voilà, monsieur, de
très bon rafraîchissement."

The ball proceeded with the utmost decorum, for though composed of
shopkeepers and such like, there was nothing in their dress or manner
to indicate anything but the best possible breeding. Jorrocks, indeed,
fancied himself in the very élite of French society, and, but for a
little incident, would have remained of that opinion. In an unlucky
moment he took it into his head he could waltz, and surprised the
Countess Benvolio by claiming her hand for the next dance. "It seems
werry easy," said he to himself as he eyed the couples gliding round the
room;--"at all ewents there's nothing like trying, 'for he who never
makes an effort never risks a failure.'" The couples were soon formed
and ranged for a fresh dance. Jorrocks took a conspicuous position in
the centre of the room, buttoned his coat, and, as the music struck up,
put his arm round the waist of his partner. The Countess, it seems, had
some misgivings as to his prowess in the dancing line, and used all her
strength to get him well off, but the majority of the dancers started
before him. At length, however, he began to move, and went rolling away
in something between a gallop and a waltz, effecting two turns, like a
great cart-wheel, which brought him bang across the room, right into the
track of another couple, who were swinging down at full speed, making a
cannon with his head against both theirs, and ending by all four coming
down upon the hard boards with a tremendous crash--the Countess Benvolio
undermost, then the partner of the other Countess, then Jorrocks, and
then the other Countess herself. Great was the commotion, and the music
stopped; Jorrocks lost his wig, and split his Beelzebub breeches across
the knees, while the other gentleman cracked his behind--and the
Countess Benvolio and the other Countess were considerably damaged;
particularly the other Countess, who lost four false teeth and broke an
ear-ring. This, however, was not the worst, for as soon as they were
all scraped together and set right again, the other Countess's partner
attacked Jorrocks most furiously, calling him a _sacré-nom de-Dieu'd
bête_ of an Englishman, a mauvais sujet, a cochon, etc., then spitting
on the floor--the greatest insult a Frenchman can offer--he vapoured
about being one of the "grand nation," "that he was brave--the world
knew it," and concluded by thrusting his card--"Monsieur Charles Adolphe
Eugene, Confiturier, No. 15 bis, Rue Poupée"--into Jorrocks's face. It
was now Jorrocks's turn to speak, so doubling his fists, and getting
close to him, he held one to his nose, exclaiming, "D--n ye, sir, je
suis--JORROCKS!--Je suis an Englishman! je vous lick within an inch of
your life! --Je vous kick!--je vous mill!--je vous flabbergaster!" and
concluded by giving him his card, "Monsieur le Colonel Jorrocks, No 3,
Rue des Mauvais-Garçons."

A friend of the confectioner's interposed and got him away, and Mr.
Stubbs persuaded Mr. Jorrocks to return into the cardroom, where they
were speedily waited upon by the friend of the former, who announced
that the Colonel must make an apology or fight, for he said, although
Jorrocks was a "Colonel Anglais," still Monsieur Eugene was of the
Legion of Honour, and, consequently, very brave and not to be insulted
with impunity. All this the Yorkshireman interpreted to Mr. Jorrocks,
who was most anxious to fight, and wished it was light that they might
go to work immediately. Mr. Stubbs therefore told the confectioner's
friend (who was also his foreman), that the Colonel would fight him with
pistols at six o'clock in the Bois de Boulogne, but no sooner was the
word "pistols" mentioned than the friend exclaimed, with a grimace and
shrug of his shoulders, "Oh horror, no! Monsieur Adolphe is brave, but
he will not touch pistols--they're not weapons of his country."
Jorrocks then proposed to fight him with broad swords, but this the
confectioner's foreman declined on behalf of his principal, and at last
the Colonel suggested that they could not do better than fight it out
with fists. Now, the confectioner was ten years younger than Jorrocks,
tall, long-armed, and not over-burthened with flesh, and had, moreover,
taken lessons of Harry Harmer, when that worthy had his school in Paris,
so he thought the offer was a good one, and immediately closed with it.
Jorrocks, too, had been a patron of the prize-ring, having studied under
Bill Richmond, the man of colour, and was reported to have exhibited
in early life (incog.) with a pugilist of some pretensions at the
Fives-court, so, all things considered, fists seemed a very proper mode
of settling the matter, and that being agreed upon, each party quitted
the Countess de Jackson's--the confectioner putting forth all manner of
high-flown ejaculations and prayers for success, as he groped about the
ante-room for his hat, and descended the stairs. "Oh! God of war!" said
he, throwing up his hands, "who guided the victorious army of this grand
nation in Egypt, when, from the pyramids, forty centuries beheld our
actions--oh, brilliant sun, who shone upon our armies at Jaffa, at
Naples, Montebello, Marengo, Austerlitz, Jena, and Algiers, who blessed
our endeavours, who knowest that we are brave--brave as a hundred
lions--look down on Charles Adolphe Eugene, and enable him to massacre
and immolate on the altar of his wrath, this sacré-nom de-Dieu'd beastly
hog of an Englishman"--and thereupon he spit upon the flags with all the
venom of a viper.

Jorrocks, too, indulged in a few figures of speech, as he poked his way
home, though of a different description. "Now blister my kidneys," said
he, slapping his thigh, "but I'll sarve him out! I'll baste him as
Randall did ugly Borrock. I'll knock him about as Belcher did the Big
Ilkey Pigg. I'll damage his mug as Turner did Scroggins's. I'll fib him
till he's as black as Agamemnon--for I do feel as though I could fight a
few."

       *       *       *       *       *

The massive folding doors of the Porte-Cocher at the Hôtel d'Hollande
had not received their morning opening, when a tremendous loud, long,
protracted rat-tat-tat-tat-tan, sounded like thunder throughout the
extensive square, and brought numerous nightcapped heads to the windows,
to see whether the hotel was on fire, or another revolution had broken
out. The _maître d'hotel_ screamed, the porter ran, the _chef de
cuisine_ looked out of his pigeon-hole window, and the _garçons_
and male _femmes des chambres_ rushed into the yard, with fear and
astonishment depicted on their countenances, when on peeping through the
grating of the little door, Mr. Jorrocks was descried, knocker in hand,
about to sound a second edition. Now, nothing is more offensive to the
nerves of a Frenchman than a riotous knock, and the impertinence was not
at all migitated by its proceeding from a stranger who appeared to have
arrived through the undignified medium of a co-cou.[23] Having scanned
his dimensions and satisfied himself that, notwithstanding all the
noise, Jorrocks was mere mortal man, the porter unbolted the door,
and commenced a loud and energetic tirade of abuse against "Monsieur
Anglais," for his audacious thumping, which he swore was enough to make
every man of the National Guard rush "to arms." In the midst of the
torrent, very little of which Mr. Jorrocks understood, the Yorkshireman
appeared, whom he hurried into the _co-cou_, bundled in after him, cried
"ally!" to the driver, and off they jolted at a miserably slow trot.
A little before seven they reached the village of Passy, where it
was arranged they should meet and proceed from thence to the Bois de
Boulogne, to select a convenient place for the fight; but neither the
confectioner nor his second, nor any one on his behalf, was visible and
they walked the length and breadth of the village, making every possible
inquiry without seeing or hearing anything of them. At length, having
waited a couple of hours, Mr. Jorrocks's appetite overpowered his desire
of revenge, and caused him to retire to the "Chapeau-Rouge" to indulge
in a "fork breakfast." Nature being satisfied, he called for pen and
ink, and with the aid of Mr. Stubbs drew up the following proclamation
which to this day remains posted in the _salle à manger_ a copy whereof
was transmitted by post to the confectioner at Paris.

[Footnote 23: _Co-cous_ are nondescript vehicles that ply in the environs
of Paris. They are a sort of cross between a cab and a young Diligence.]


    PROCLAMATION!

    I, John Jorrocks, of Great Coram Street, in the County of Middlesex,
    Member of the Surrey Hunt, in England, and Colonel of the Army when
    I'm in France, having been grossly insulted by Charles Adolphe
    Eugene of No. 15 bis, Rue Poupée, confectioner, this day repaired
    to Passy, with the intention of sarving him out with my fists; but,
    neither he nor any one for him having come to the scratch, I, John
    Jorrocks, do hereby proclaim the said Charles Adolphe Eugene to be a
    shabby fellow and no soldier, and totally unworthy the notice of a
    fox-hunter and a gentleman sportsman.

    (Signed) JOHN JORROCKS.

    (Countersigned) STUBBS.

This being completed, and the bill paid, they returned leisurely on foot
to Paris, looking first at one object, then at another, so that the
Countess Benvolio's dinner-hour was passed ere they reached the
Tuileries Gardens, where after resting themselves until it began to get
dusk, and their appetites returned, they repaired to the Café de Paris
to destroy them again.--The lofty well-gilded salon was just lighted up,
and the numberless lamps reflected in costly mirrors in almost every
partition of the wall, aided by the graceful figures and elegant dresses
of the ladies, interspersed among the sombre-coated gentry, with here
and there the gay uniforms of the military, imparted a fairy air to the
scene, which was not a little heightened by the contrast produced by Mr.
Jorrocks's substantial figure, stumping through the centre with his hat
on his head, his hands behind his back, and the dust of the day hanging
about his Hessians.

"Garsoon," said he, hanging up his hat, and taking his place at a vacant
table laid for two, "ge wouderai some wittles," and, accordingly, the
spruce-jacketed, white-aproned _garçon_ brought him the usual red-backed
book with gilt edges, cut and lettered at the side, like the index to
a ledger, and, as Mr. Jorrocks said, "containing reading enough for a
month." "Quelle potage voulez vous, monsieur?" inquired the _garçon_ at
last, tired of waiting while he studied the _carte_ and looked the words
out in the dictionary. "_Avez-vous_ any potted lobster?" "Non," said the
_garçon_, "potage au vermicelle, au riz, a la Julienne, consommé, et
potage aux choux." "Old shoe! who the devil do you think eats old shoes
here? Have you any mock turtle or gravy soup?" "Non, monsieur," said the
_garçon_ with a shrug of the shoulders. "Then avez-vous any roast
beef?" "Non, monsieur; nous avons boeuf au naturel--boeuf à la sauce
piquante--boeuf aux cornichons--boeuf à la mode--boeuf aux choux--boeuf
à la sauce tomate--bifteck aux pommes de terre." "Hold hard," said
Jorrocks; "I've often heard that you can dress an egg a thousand ways,
and I want to hear no more about it; bring me a beef-steak and pommes
de terre for three." "Stop!" cried Mr. Stubbs, with dismay--"I see you
don't understand ordering a dinner in France --let me teach you. Where's
the _carte?_" "Here," said Mr. Jorrocks, "is 'the bill of lading,'"
handing over the book.--"Garçon, apportez une douzaine des huîtres, un
citron, et du beurre frais," said the Yorkshireman, and while they were
discussing the propriety of eating them before or after the soup, a
beautiful dish of little green oysters made their appearance, which were
encored before the first supply was finished. "Now, Colonel," said the
Yorkshireman, "take a bumper of Chablis," lifting a pint bottle out of
the cooler. "It has had one plunge in the ice-pail and no more--see what
a delicate rind it leaves on the glass!" eyeing it as he spoke. "Ay, but
I'd rayther it should leave something in the mouth than on the side
of the glass," replied Mr. Jorrocks; "I loves a good strong generous
wine--military port, in fact--but here comes fish and soup--wot are
they?" "Filet de sole au gratin, et potage au macaroni avec fromage de
Parmesan. I'll take fish first, because the soup will keep hot longest."
"So will I," said Mr. Jorrocks, "for I think you understand the
thing--but they seem to give werry small penn'orths--it really
looks like trifling with one's appetite--I likes the old joint--the
cut-and-come-again system, such as we used to have at Sugden's in
Cornhill--joint, wegitables, and cheese all for two shillings." "Don't
talk of your joints here," rejoined the Yorkshireman--"I told you
before, you don't understand the art of eating--the dexterity of the
thing consists in titivating the appetite with delicate morsels so as to
prolong the pleasure. A well-regulated French dinner lasts two hours,
whereas you go off at score, and take the shine out of yourself before
you turn the Tattenham Corner of your appetite. But come, take another
glass of Chablis, for your voice is husky as though your throat was full
of dust.--Will you eat some of this boulli-vert?" "No, not no bouleward
for me thank ye." "Well, then, we will have the 'entrée de
boeuf--beef with sauce tomate--and there is a côtelette de veau en
papillotte;--which will you take?" "I'll trouble the beef, I think; I
don't like that 'ere pantaloon cutlet much, the skin is so tough." "Oh,
but you don't eat the paper, man; that is only put on to keep this nice
layer of fat ham from melting; take some, if it is only that you may
enjoy a glass of champagne after it. There is no meat like veal for
paving the way for a glass of champagne." "Well, I don't care if I do,
now you have explained how to eat it, for I've really been troubled with
indigestion all day from eating one wholesale yesterday; but don't you
stand potatoes--pommes de terre, as we say in France?" "Oh yes, fried,
and à la maître d'hotel; here they come, smoking hot. Now, J---- for a
glass of champagne--take it out of the pail--nay, man! not with both
hands round the middle, unless you like it warm--by the neck, so,"
showing him how to do it and pouring him a glass of still champagne.
"This won't do," said Jorrocks, holding it up to the candle; "garsoon!
garsoon!--no good--no bon--no fizzay, no fizzay," giving the bottom of
the bottle a slap with his hand to rouse it. "Oh, but this is still
champagne," explained the Yorkshireman, "and far the best." "I
don't think so," retorted Mr. Jorrocks, emptying the glass into his
water-stand. "Well, then, have a bottle of the other," rejoined the
Yorkshireman, ordering one. "And who's to pay for it?" inquired Mr.
Jorrocks. "Oh, never mind that--care killed the cat--give a loose to
pleasure for once, for it's a poor heart that never rejoices. Here it
comes, and 'may you never know what it is to want,' as the beggar boys
say.--Now, let's see you treat it like a philosopher--the wire is off,
so you've nothing to do but cut the string, and press the cork on one
side with your thumb.--Nay! you've cut both sides!" Fizz, pop, bang,
and away went the cork close past the ear of an old deaf general, and
bounded against the wall.--"Come, there's no mischief done, so pour out
the wine.--Your good health, old boy, may you live for a thousand years,
and I be there to count them! --Now, that's what I call good," observed
the Yorkshireman, holding up his glass, "see how it dulls the glass,
even to the rim--champagne isn't worth a copper unless it's iced--is
it, Colonel?" "Vy, I don't know--carn't say I like it so werry cold; it
makes my teeth chatter, and cools my courage as it gets below--champagne
certainly gives one werry gentlemanly ideas, but for a continuance, I
don't know but I should prefer mild hale." "You're right, old boy, it
does give one very gentlemanly ideas, so take another glass, and you'll
fancy yourself an emperor.--Your good health again." "The same to you,
sir. And now wot do you call this chap?" "That is a quail, the other a
snipe--which will you take?" "Vy, a bit of both, I think; and do you
eat these chaps with them?" "Yes, nothing nicer--artichokes á la sauce
blanche; you get the real eating part, you see, by having them sent up
this way, instead of like haystacks, as they come in England, diving and
burning your fingers amid an infinity of leaves." "They are werry pretty
eating, I must confess; and this upper Binjamin of ham the birds are
cooked in is delicious. I'll trouble you for another plateful." "That's
right, Colonel, you are yourself again. I always thought you would come
back into the right course; and now you are good for a glass of claret
of light Hermitage. Come, buck up, and give a loose to pleasure for
once." "For once, ay, that's what you always say; but your once comes so
werry often." "Say no more.--Garçon! un demi-bouteille de St. Julien;
and here, J----, is a dish upon which I will stake my credit as an
experienced caterer--a Charlotte de pommes--upon my reputation it is
a fine one, the crust is browned to a turn, and the rich apricot
sweet-meat lies ensconced in the middle, like a sleeping babe in its
cradle. If ever man deserved a peerage and a pension it is this cook."
"It's werry delicious--order another." "Oh, your eyes are bigger than
your stomach, Mr. J----. According to all mathematical calculations,
this will more than suffice. Ay, I thought so--you are regularly at a
stand-still. Take a glass of whatever you like. Good--I'll drink Chablis
to your champagne. And now, that there may be no mistake as to our
country, we will have some cheese--fromage de Roquefort, Gruyère,
Neufchatel, or whatever you like--and a beaker of Burgundy after, and
then remove the cloth, for I hate dabbling in dowlas after dinner is
done." "Rum beggars these French," said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, laying
down the newspaper, and taking a sip of Churchman's chocolate, as on the
Sunday morning he sat with the Countess Benvolio, discussing rolls and
butter, with _Galignani's Messenger_, for breakfast.

"Rum beggars, indeed," said he, resuming the paper, and reading the
programme of the amusements for the day, commencing with the hour of
Protestant service at the Ambassador's Chapel, followed on by Palace and
Gallery of Pictures of the Palais Royal--Review with Military Music in
the Place du Carousel--Horse-races in the Champs de Mars--Fête in the
Park of St. Cloud--Combat d'Animaux, that is to say, dog-fighting and
bull-baiting, at the Barrière du Combat, Tivoli, etc., etc., "It's not
werry right, but I suppose at Rome we must do as Romans do," with which
comfortable reflection Mr. Jorrocks proposed that the Countess and
he should go to the races. Madame was not partial to animals of any
description, but having got a new hat and feathers she consented to show
them, on condition that they adjoined to the fête at St. Cloud in the
evening.

Accordingly, about noon, the ostler's man of a neighbouring English
livery-stable drew up a dark-coloured job cab, with a red-and-white
striped calico lining, drawn by a venerable long-backed white horse, at
the Countess's gateway in the Rue des Mauvais-Garçons, into which Mr.
Jorrocks having handed her ladyship, and Agamemnon, who was attired in
his chasseur uniform, having climbed up behind, the old horse, after two
or three flourishes of his dirty white tail, as a sort of acknowledgment
of the whip on his sides, got himself into motion, and proceeded on
his way to the races. The Countess being resolved to cut a dash, had
persuaded our hero to add a smart second-hand cocked-hat, with a flowing
red-and-white feather, to the rest of his military attire; and the end
of a scarlet handkerchief, peeping out at the breast of his embroidered
frock-coat, gave him the appearance of wearing a decoration, and
procured him the usual salute from the soldiers and veterans of the
Hospital of Invalids, who were lounging about the ramparts and walks of
the edifice. The Countess's costume was simple and elegant; a sky-blue
satin pelisse with boots to match, and a white satin bonnet with white
feathers, tipped with blue, and delicate primrose-coloured gloves. Of
course the head of the cab was well thrown back to exhibit the elegant
inmates to the world.

Great respect is paid to the military in France, as Mr. Jorrocks found
by all the hack, cab, and _fiacre _ drivers pulling up and making way
for him to pass, as the old crocodile-backed white horse slowly dragged
its long length to the gateway of the Champ de Mars. Here the guard,
both horse and foot, saluted him, which he politely acknowledged,
under direction of the Countess, by raising his _chapeau bras_, and a
subaltern was dispatched by the officer in command to conduct him to
the place appointed for the carriages to stand. But for this piece of
attention Mr. Jorrocks would certainly have drawn up at the splendid
building of the École Militaire, standing as it does like a grand stand
in the centre of the gravelly dusty plain of the Champ de Mars. The
officer, having speared his way through the crowd with the usual
courtesy of a Frenchman, at length drew up the cab in a long line of
anonymous vehicles under the rows of stunted elms by the stone-lined
ditch, on the southern side of the plain when, turning his charger
round, he saluted Mr. Jorrocks, and bumped off at a trot. Mr. Jorrocks
then stuck the pig-driving whip into the socket, and throwing forward
the apron, handed out the Countess, and installed Agamemnon in the cab.

A fine day and a crowd make the French people thoroughly happy, and on
this afternoon the sun shone brightly and warmly on the land;--still
there was no apparently settled purpose for the assembling of the
multitude, who formed themselves in groups upon the plain, or lined the
grass-burnt mounds at the sides, in most independent parties. The Champ
de Mars forms a regular parallelogram of 2700 feet by 1320, and the
course, which is of an oblong form, comprises a circuit of the whole,
and is marked out with strong posts and ropes. Within the course,
equestrians--or more properly speaking, "men on horseback"--are admitted
under the surveillance of a regiment of cavalry, while infantry and
cavalry are placed in all directions with drawn swords and fixed
bayonets to preserve order. Being a gravelly sandy soil, in almost daily
requisition for the exercise and training of troops, no symptoms of
vegetation can be expected, and the course is as hard as the ride in
Rotten Row or up to Kensington Gardens.

About the centre of the south side, near where the carriages were
drawn up, a few temporary stands were erected for the royal family and
visitors, the stand for the former being in the centre, and hung with
scarlet and gold cloth, while the others were tastefully arranged with
tri-coloured drapery. These are entered by tickets only, but there
are always plenty of platforms formed by tables and "chaises à louer"
(chairs to let) for those who don't mind risking their necks for a
sight. Some few itinerants tramped about the plain, offering alternately
tooth-picks, play-bills, and race-lists for sale. Mr. Jorrocks, of
course, purchased one of the latter, which was decorated at the top with
a woodcut, representing three jockeys riding two horses, one with a whip
as big as a broad sword. We append the list as a specimen of "Sporting
in France," which, we are sorry to see, does not run into our pages
quite so cleverly as our printer could wish.[24]

[Footnote 24: Racing in France is, of course, now a very different
business to the primitive sport it was when this sketch was
written.--EDITOR.]

Foreigners accuse the English of claiming every good-looking horse, and
every well-built carriage, met on the Continent, as their own, but we
think that few would be ambitious of laying claim to the honour of
supplying France with jockeys or racehorses. Mr. Jorrocks, indeed,
indifferent as he is to the affairs of the turf, could not suppress his
"conwiction" of the difference between the flibberty-gibberty appearance
of the Frenchmen, and the quiet, easy, close-sitting jockeys of
Newmarket. The former all legs and elbows, spurting and pushing to the
front at starting, in tawdry, faded jackets, and nankeen shorts, just
like the frowsy door-keepers of an Epsom gambling-booth; the latter in
clean, neat-fitting leathers, well-cleaned boots, spick and span new
jackets, feeling their horses' mouths, quietly in the rear, with their
whip hands resting on their thighs. Then such riding! A hulking Norman
with his knees up to his chin, and a long lean half-starved looking
Frenchman sat astride like a pair of tongs, with a wet sponge applied to
his knees before starting, followed by a runaway English stable lad, in
white cords and drab gaiters, and half a dozen others equally singular,
spurring and tearing round and round, throwing the gravel and sand into
each other's faces, until the field was so separated as to render it
difficult to say which was leading and which was tailing, for it is one
of the rules of their races, that each heat must be run in a certain
time, consequently, though all the horses may be distanced, the winner
keeps working away. Then what an absence of interest and enthusiasm on
the part of the spectators! Three-fourths of them did not know where the
horses started, scarcely a man knew their names, and the few tenpenny
bets that were made, were sported upon the colour of the jackets. A
Frenchman has no notion of racing, and it is on record that after a heat
in which the winning horse, after making a waiting race, ran in at the
finish, a Parisian observed, that "although 'Annette' had won at the
finish, he thought the greater honour was due to 'Hercule,' he having
kept the lead the greater part of the distance." On someone explaining
to him that the jockey on Annette had purposely made a waiting race, he
was totally incredulous, asserting that he was sure the jockeys had too
much _amour-propre_ to remain in the rear at any part of the race, when
they might be in front.



X. SPORTING IN FRANCE

PROGRAMME DES COURSES DE CHEVAUX

QUI AURONT LIEU AU CHAMP-DE-MARS LE DIMANCHE A UNE HEURE,
EN PRESENCE DE LL. MM. LE ROI ET LA REINE, ET DES PRINCES DE LA FAMILLE ROYALE

DEUX PRIX ROYAUX
+------------+--------------+----------------+------+--------+----------------+
| NOMS       | SIGNALEMENS  | NOMS           |POIDS |NOMS    | COSTUMES       |
|Des Chevaux |  Et Ages     | Des            |à     |Des     |Des Jockeys     |
|            |              | Proprietaires  |porter|Jockeys |                |
+------------+--------------+----------------+------+--------+----------------+
|Prix royal de 5000 fr. pour les chevaux et jumens de deuxième espèce.--En    |
| partie liée                                                                 |
|            |              |                |      |        |                |
|Moina       |Bai-clair-4   |Haras de Meudon |102 l.|Tom     |Veste rouge     |
|            |              |                |      |   Hall |toque tricolore |
|Corisandre  |Bai-brun-5    |M. Bonvié fils  |115   |Tom     |Veste orange,   |
|            |              |                |      |Wilson  |manches et toque|
|            |              |                |      |        |noires.         |
|Flore       |Bai-cerise-4  |M. de Laroque   |102   |Tony    |Veste noire,    |
|            |              |                |      |Montel  |manches blanches|
|            |              |                |      |        |toque noire.    |
|Eleanor     |Alezan-brulé-5|M. de Royère    |112   |Bernou  |Veste verte,    |
|            |              |                |      |        | toque noire.   |
|Diomède     |Bai-4         |M. le baron de  |105   |Baptiste|Veste bleue,    |
|            |              |  la Bastide    |      |        |manches jaunes, |
|            |              |                |      |        |toque bl. et j. |
|Cirus       |Bai-brun-5    |Lord Seymour    |115   |North   |Veste orange,   |
|            |              |                |      |        | toque noire.   |
|Aline       |Bai-clair-4   |M. Noel         |102   |Tom     |Veste ponceau,  |
|            |              |                |      |        |manches blanches|
|            |              |                |      |        | toque bleue.   |
|Léonie      |Alezan-doré-5 |M. Belhomme     |112   |Pichon  |Veste jaune,    |
|            |              |                |      |        | toque verte    |
|            |              |                |      |        |                |
|            |              |                |      |        |                |
|Prix royal de 6ooo fr. pour les chevaux de première espèce.--En partie liée  |
|            |              |                |      |        |                |
|Young-Milton|Bai-4         |M. Fasquel      |105 l.|Tom Webb|Veste et toque  |
|            |              |                |      |        | noires.        |
|Mouna       |Bai-clair-4   |M. de Laroque   |102   |Tony    |Veste noire,    |
|            |              |                |      | Montal |manches blanches|
|            |              |                |      |        |toque noire     |
|Paméla      |Bai-4         |Heras de Meudon |102   |Tom Hall|Veste rouge,    |
|            |              |                |      |        |toque tricolore.|
|Eglé        |Gris-sanguin-5|Lord Seymour    |112   |Mous    |Veste orange,   |
|            |              |                |      |        | toque noire    |
|Cédéric     |Bai-5         |M. le baron de  |115   |Baptiste|Veste bleue,    |
|            |              | la Bastide     |      |        |manches jaunes, |
|            |              |                |      |        |toque bl. et ja.|
|Young-Tandem|Bai-cerise-4  |M. Schickler    |105   |Webb    |Veste rouge,    |
|            |              |                |      |        | toque noire.   |
|            |              |                |      |        |                |
|Oubiou      |Alezan-6      |MM. Salvador et |121   |Tom     |Veste bleue,    |
|            |              |  Tassinari     |      | Johns  |manches blanches|
|            |              |                |      |        |                |
|            |              |                |      |        |toque rouge.    |
|Coradin     |Bai-5         |M. Moreil       |115   |René    |Veste bleue,    |
|            |              |                |      |        |manches jaunes, |
|            |              |                |      |        |toque bl.&jaune.|
+------------+--------------+----------------+------+--------+----------------+
|Nota. Les chevaux de première espèce sont ceux nés en France de pères et     |
|mères étrangers: ceux de la deuxième espèce sont ceux nés de pères et        |
|mères Français ou seulement de l'un des deux.--Chaque épreuve comprendra     |
|les deux tours du Champs de Mars.--Les courses commenceront par la           |
|premiere épreuve des chevaux de deuxième espèce.--La seconde course se       |
|fera pour la première épreuve des chevaux de première espèce: suivie de      |
|la deuxième épreuve des chevaux de deuxième espèce: et elles seront          |
|terminées par la deuxième épreuve des chevaux de première espèce.            |
+-----------------------------------------------------------------------------+

  ========================================================================
  Transcriber's note: The original document contains an additional column
  that could not be squeezed into the 80 characters allowed in this
  format. That column shows the pedigree of the horses, as follows:

  Moina: Issu de Candide et de Miltonia.
  Corisandre: Issu d'Holbein et de Lisbeth.
  Flore: Issue de Tigris et Biche.
  Eléanor: Issue de Moulay et de Cadette.
  Diomède: Issu de Prémium et de Gabrielle.
  Cirus: Issu de Toley et de Miss.
  Aline: Issue de Snail et d'une jument Normande.
  Léonie: Issue de Massoud et d'une fille de D-y-o.

  Young-Milton: Issu de Milton et de Betzi.
  Mouna: Issu de Rainbow et de Mouna.
  Paméla: Issue de Candid et Géane
  Eglé: Issue de Rainbow and Young-Urganda.
  Cédéric: Issue de Candid et Prestesse.
  Young-Tandem: Issu de Multum-in-Parvo et d'Oida.
  Oubiou: Issu d'Oubiou et d'une fille de Stradlamlad.
  Coradin: Issu de Candid et de Prestesse.
  =======================================================================


"Moderate sport," said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, curling his mustachios
and jingling a handful of five-franc pieces in the pocket of his
leathers--"moderate sport indeed," and therefore he turned his back to
the course and walked the Countess off towards the cab.

From beneath a low tenth-rate-looking booth, called "The Cottage of
Content," supported by poles placed on the stunted trees of the avenue,
and exhibiting on a blue board, "John Jones, dealer in British beer," in
gilt letters, there issued the sound of voices clamouring about odds,
and weights and scales, and on looking in, a score of ragamuffin-looking
grooms, imitation jockeys, and the usual hangers-on of the racehorses
and livery-stables, were seen drinking beer, smoking, playing at cards,
dice, and chuck-farthing. Before the well-patched canvas curtain that
flapped before the entrance, a crowd had collected round one of the
horses which was in the care of five or six fellows, one to hold him,
another to whistle to him, a third to whisk the flies away with a
horse's tail, a fourth to scrape him, a fifth to rinse his mouth
out,--while the stud-groom, a tall, gaunt, hairy-looking fellow, in his
shirt sleeves, with ear-rings, a blue apron and trousers (more like a
gardener than a groom), walked round and round with mystified dignity,
sacréing and muttering, "Ne parlez pas, ne parlez pas," as anyone
approached who seemed likely to ask questions. Mr. Jorrocks, having well
ascertained the importance of his hat and feather, pushed his way with
the greatest coolness into the ring, just to cast his eye over the horse
and see whether he was fit to go with the Surrey, and the stud-groom
immediately took off his lavender-coloured foraging cap, and made two
profound salaams, one to the Colonel, the other to the Countess. Mr.
Jorrocks, all politeness, took off his _chapeau_, and no sooner was it
in the air, than with a wild exclamation of surprise and delight, the
groom screamed, "Oh, Monsieur Shorrock, mon ami, comment vous portez
vous?" threw his arms round the Colonel's neck, and kissed him on each
cheek.

"Hold!" roared the Colonel, half smothered in the embrace, and
disengaging himself he drew back a few paces, putting his hand on the
hilt of his sword, when in the training groom of Paris he recognised his
friend the Baron of Newmarket. The abruptness of the incident disarmed
Mr. Jorrocks of reflection, and being a man of impulse and warm
affections, he at once forgave the novelty of the embrace, and most
cordially joined hands with those of his friend. They then struck up a
mixture of broken English and equally broken French, in mutual inquiries
after each other's healths and movements, and presuming that Mr.
Jorrocks was following up the sporting trade in Paris, the Baron most
considerately gave him his best recommendations which horse to back,
kindly betting with him himself, but, unfortunately, at each time
assigning Mr. Jorrocks the losing horse. At length, being completely
cleaned out, he declined any further transactions, and having got the
Countess into the cab, was in the act of climbing in himself, when
someone took him by the sword as he was hoisting himself up by the
wooden apron, and drew him back to the ground. "Holloa, Stubbs, my
boy!" cried he, "I'm werry 'appy to see ye," holding out his hand, and
thereupon Mr. Stubbs took off his hat to the Countess. "Well now, the
deuce be in these French," observed Mr. Jorrocks, confidentially, in an
undertone as, resigning the reins to Agamemnon, he put his arm through
the Yorkshireman's and drew out of hearing of the Countess behind the
cab--"the deuce be in them. I say. There's that beggarly Baron as we met
at Newmarket has just diddled me out of four Naps and a half, by getting
me to back 'osses that he said were certain to win, and I really don't
know how we are to make 'tongue and buckle' meet, as the coachmen say.
Somehow or other they are far too sharp for me. Cards, dominoes, dice,
backgammon, and racing, all one--they inwariably beat me, and I declare
I haven't as much pewter as will coach me to Calais." The Yorkshireman,
as may be supposed, was not in a condition of any great pecuniary
assistance, but after a turn or two along the mound, he felt it would
be a reproach on his country if he suffered his friend to be done by
a Frenchman, and on consideration he thought of a trick that Monsieur
would not be up to. Accordingly, desiring Mr. Jorrocks to take him to
the Baron, and behave with great cordiality, and agree to the proposal
he should make, they set off in search of that worthy, who, after some
trouble, they discovered in the "Cottage of Content," entertaining John
Jones and his comrades with an account of the manner in which he had
fleeced Monsieur Shorrock. The Yorkshireman met him with the greatest
delight, shook hands with him over and over again, and then began
talking about racing, pigeon-shooting, and Newmarket, pretended to be
full of money, and very anxious for the Baron's advice in laying it out.
On hearing this, the Baron beckoned him to retire, and joining him in
the avenue, walked him up and down, while he recommended his backing a
horse that was notoriously amiss. The Yorkshireman consented, lost a Nap
with great good humour, and banteringly told the Baron he thought he
could beat the horse on foot. This led them to talk of foot-racing and
at last the Yorkshireman offered to bet that Mr. Jorrocks would run
fifty yards with him on his back, before the Baron would run a hundred.
Upon this the Baron scratched his head and looked very knowing,
pretended to make a calculation, when the Yorkshireman affected fear,
and professed his readiness to withdraw the offer. The Baron then
plucked up his courage, and after some haggling, the match was made for
six Naps, the Yorkshireman reckoning the Baron might have ten francs in
addition to what he had won of Mr. Jorrocks and himself. The money was
then deposited in the hands of the Countess Benvolio, and away went the
trio to the "Cottage of Content," to get men and ropes to measure and
keep the ground. The English jockeys and lads, though ready enough to
pigeon a countryman themselves, have no notion of assisting a foreigner
to do so, unless they share in the spoil, and the Baron being a
notorious screw, they all seemed heartily glad to find him in a trap.
Out then they all sallied, amid cheers and shouts, while John Jones,
with a yard-wand in his hand, proceeded to measure a hundred yards along
the low side of the mound. This species of amusement being far more in
accordance with the taste of the French than anything in which horses
are concerned, an immense mob flocked to the scene, and the Baron
having explained how it was, and being considered a safe man to follow,
numerous offers were made to bet against the performance of the match.
The Yorkshireman being a youth of discretion and accustomed to bet among
strangers, got on five Naps more with different parties, who to "prevent
accidents" submitted to deposit the money with the Countess, and all
things being adjusted, and the course cleared by a picket of infantry,
Mr. Jorrocks ungirded his sword, and depositing it with his frock-coat
in the cab, walked up to the fifty yards he was to have for start. "Now,
Colonel," said the Yorkshireman, backing him to the mound, so that he
might leap on without shaking him, "put your best leg first, and it's a
hollow thing; if you don't fall, you must win,"--and thereupon taking
Mr. Jorrocks's cocked hat and feather from his head, he put it sideways
on his own, so that he might not be recognised, and mounted his man. Mr.
Jorrocks then took his place as directed by John Jones, and at a signal
from him--the dropping of a blue cotton handkerchief--away they started
amid the shouts, the clapping of hands, and applause of the spectators,
who covered the mound and lined the course on either side. Mr.
Jorrocks's action was not very capital, his jack-boots and leathers
rather impeding his limbs, while the Baron had as little on him as
decency would allow. The Yorkshireman feeling his man rather roll at the
start, again cautioned him to take it easy, and after a dozen yards he
got into a capital run, and though the lanky Baron came tearing along
like an ill-fed greyhound, Mr. Jorrocks had full two yards to spare,
and ran past the soldier, who stood with his cap on his bayonet as
a winning-post, amid the applause of his backers, the yells of his
opponents, and the general acclamation of the spectators.

The Countess, anticipating the victory of her hero, had dispatched
Agamemnon early in the day for a chaplet of red-and-yellow immortelles,
and having switched the old cab horse up to the winning-post, she
gracefully descended, without showing more of her foot and ankle than
was strictly correct, and decorated his brow with the wreath, as the
Yorkshireman dismounted. Enthusiasm being always the order of the day in
France, this act was greeted with the loudest acclamations, and, without
giving him time to recover his wind, the populace bundled Mr. Jorrocks
neck and shoulders into the cab, and seizing the old horse by the head,
paraded him down the entire length of the Champ de Mars, Mr. Jorrocks
bowing and kissing his hands to the assembled multitude, in return
for the vivas! the clapping of hands, and the waving of ribbons and
handkerchiefs that greeted him as he went.

Popularity is but a fickle goddess, and in no country more fickle than
in France. Ere the procession reached the end of the dusty plain, the
mob had tailed off very considerably, and as the leader of the old white
horse pulled him round to return, a fresh commotion in the distance,
caused by the apprehension of a couple of pickpockets, drew away the few
followers that remained, and the recently applauded and belauded Mr.
Jorrocks was left alone in his glory. He then pulled up, and taking
the chaplet of immortelles from his brow, thrust it under the driving
cushion of the cab, and proceeded to reinstate himself in his tight
military frock, re-gird himself with his sword, and resume the cocked
hat and feather.

Nothing was too good for Mr. Stubbs at that moment, and, had a pen and
ink been ready, Mr. Jorrocks would have endorsed him a bill for any
amount. Having completed his toilette he gave the Yorkshireman the
vacant seat in the cab, flopped the old horse well about the ears with
the pig-driving whip, and trotted briskly up the line he had recently
passed in triumphal procession, and wormed his way among the crowd in
search of the Countess. There was nothing, however, to be seen of her,
and after driving about, and poking his way on foot into all the crowds
he could find, bolting up to every lady in blue, he looked at his great
double-cased gold repeater, and finding it was near three o'clock and
recollecting the fête of St. Cloud, concluded her ladyship must have
gone on, and Agamemnon being anxious to see it, of course was of the
same opinion; so, again flopping the old horse about the ears, he cut
away down the Champ de Mars, and by the direction of Agamemnon crossed
the Seine by the Pont des Invalides, and gained the route to Versailles.

Here the genius of the people was apparent, for the road swarmed with
voitures of every description, diligences, gondoles, co-cous, cabs,
fiacres, omnibuses, dame-blanches, all rolling and rumbling along,
occasionally interrupted by the lilting and tilting of a light English
cab or tilbury, drawn by a thoroughbred, and driven by a dandy. The
spirit of the old white horse even seemed roused as he got among the
carriages and heard the tramping of hoofs and the jingling of bells
round the necks of other horses, and he applied himself to the shafts
with a vigour his enfeebled-looking frame appeared incapable of
supplying. So they trotted on, and after a mile travelling at a foot's
pace after they got into close line, they reached the porte Maillot,
and resigning the cab to the discretion of Agamemnon, Mr. Jorrocks got
himself brushed over by one of the gentry who ply in that profession at
all public places, and tucking his sword under one arm, he thrust the
other through Mr. Stubbs's, and, John-Bull-like, strutted up the long
broad grass avenue, through the low part of the wood of St. Cloud, as if
all he saw belonged to himself. The scene was splendid, and nature, art,
and the weather appeared confederated for effect. On the lofty heights
arose the stately place, looking down with placid grandeur on the full
foliage of the venerable trees, over the beautiful gardens, the spouting
fountains, the rushing cascades, and the gay and countless myriads that
swarmed the avenues, while the circling river flowed calmly on, without
a ripple on its surface, as if in ridicule of the sound of trumpets, the
clang of cymbals, and the beat of drums, that rent the air around.

Along the broad avenue were ranged shows of every description--wild
beasts, giants, jugglers, tumblers, mountebanks, and monsters, while in
spots sheltered from the sun by lofty trees were dancing-places,
swings, roundabouts, archery-butts, pistol-ranges, ball-kicking and
head-thumping places, montagnes-Suisses, all the concomitants of fairs
and fêtes--beating "Bartlemy Fair," as Mr. Jorrocks candidly confessed,
"all to nothing."

The chance of meeting the Countess Benvolio in such a multitude was very
remote indeed, but, to tell the truth, Mr. Jorrocks never once thought
of her, until having eat a couple of cold fowls and drank a bottle of
porter, at an English booth, he felt in his pocket for his purse, and
remembered it was in her keeping. Mr. Stubbs, however, settled the
account, and in high glee Mr. Jorrocks resumed his peregrinations,
visiting first one show, then another, shooting with pea-guns, then
dancing a quadrille, until he was brought up short before a splendid
green-and-gold roundabout, whose magic circle contained two lions, two
swans, two black horses, a tiger, and a giraffe. "Let's have a ride,"
said he, jumping on to one of the black horses and adjusting the
stirrups to his length. The party was soon made up, and as the last
comer crossed his tiger, the engine was propelled by the boys in the
centre, and away they went at Derby pace. In six rounds Mr. Jorrocks
lost his head, turned completely giddy, and bellowed out to them to
stop. They took no heed--all the rest were used to it--and after divers
yells and ineffectual efforts to dismount, he fell to the ground like a
sack. The machine was in full work at the time, and swept round three or
four times before they could stop it. At last Mr. Stubbs got to him,
and a pitiable plight he was in. He had fallen on his head, broken his
feather, crushed his chapeau bras, lost off his mustachios, was as pale
as death, and very sick. Fortunately the accident happened near the
gate leading to the town of St. Cloud, and thither, with the aid of two
gendarmes, Mr. Stubbs conveyed the fallen hero, and having put him to
bed at the Hôtel d'Angleterre, he sent for a "médecin," who of course
shook his head, looked very wise, ordered him to drink warm water--a
never-failing specific in France--and keep quiet. Finding he had an
Englishman for a patient, the "médecin" dropped in every two hours,
always concluding with the order "encore l'eau chaud." A good sleep did
more for Mr. Jorrocks than the doctor, and when the "médecin" called
in the morning, and repeated the injunction "encore l'eau chaud," he
bellowed out, "Cuss your _l'eau chaud_, my stomach ain't a reserwoir!
Give me some wittles!" The return of his appetite being a most
favourable symptom, Mr. Stubbs discharged the doctor, and forthwith
ordered a _déjeuner à la fourchette_, to which Mr. Jorrocks did pretty
fair justice, though trifling in comparison with his usual performances.
They then got into a Versailles diligence that stopped at the door, and
rattling along at a merry pace, very soon reached Paris and the Rue des
Mauvais-Garçons.

"Come up and see the Countess," said Mr. Jorrocks as they arrived at the
bottom of the flight of dirty stairs, and, with his hands behind his
back and his sword dragging at his heels, he poked upstairs, and opening
the outer door entered the apartment. He passed through the small
ante-room without observing his portmanteau and carpet-bag on the table,
and there being no symptoms of the Countess in the next one, he walked
forward into the bedroom beyond.

Before an English fire-place that Mr. Jorrocks himself had been at the
expense of providing, snugly ensconced in the luxurious depths of a
well-cushioned easy chair, sat a monstrous man with a green patch on his
right eye, in slippers, loose hose, a dirty grey woollen dressing-gown,
and black silk nightcap, puffing away at a long meerschaum pipe, with
a figure of Bacchus on the bowl. At a sight so unexpected Mr. Jorrocks
started back, but the smoker seemed quite unconcerned, and casting an
unmeaning grey eye at the intruder, puffed a long-drawn respiration from
his mouth.

"How now!" roared Mr. Jorrocks, boiling into a rage, which caused the
monster to start upon his legs as though he were galvanised. "Vot brings
you here?"

"Sprechen sie Deutsch?" responded the smoker, opening his eye a little
wider, and taking the pipe from his mouth. "Speak English, you fool,"
bawled Mr. Jorrocks. "Sie sind sehr unverschämt" (you are very
impudent), replied the Dutchman with a thump on the table. "I'll run
you through the gizzard!" rejoined Mr. Jorrocks, half drawing his
sword,--"skin you alive, in fact!" when in rushed the Countess and threw
herself between them.

Now, Mynheer Van Rosembom, a burgomaster of Flushing, was an old friend
of the Countess's, and an exceedingly good paying one, and having cast
up that morning quite unexpectedly by the early diligence from Dunkirk,
and the Countess being enraged at Mr. Jorrocks for not sharing the
honours of his procession in the cab on the previous day, and believing,
moreover, that his treasury was pretty well exhausted, thought she could
not do better than instal Rosembom in his place, and retain the stakes
she held for the Colonel's board and lodging.

This arrangement she kept to herself, simply giving Rosembom, who was
not a much better Frenchman than Col. Jorrocks, to understand that the
room would be ready for him shortly, and Agamemnon was ordered to bundle
Mr. Jorrocks's clothes into his portmanteau and bag, and place them in
readiness in the ante-room. Rosembom, fatigued with his journey, then
retired to enjoy his pipe at his ease, while the Countess went to the
Marche St. Honoré to buy some sour crout, roast beef, and prunes for his
dinner.

"Turn this great slush-bucket out of my room!" cried Mr. Jorrocks, as
the Countess rushed into his apartment. "Vot's he doing here?"

"Doucement, mon cher Colonel," said she, clapping him on the back, "he
sall be my brodder." "Never such a thing!" roared Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing
him as he spoke. "Never such a thing! no more than myself--out with him,
I say, or I'll cut my stick--_toute suite--_directly!"

"Avec tout mon coeur!" replied the Countess, her choler rising as she
spoke. "You're another," rejoined Mr. Jorrocks, judging by her manner
that she called him something offensive--"Vous ête one mauvaise woman!"
"Monsieur," said the Countess, her eyes flashing as she spoke, "vous
êtes un polisson!--von rascal!--von dem villain!--un charlatan!--von
nasty--bastely--ross bif!--dem dog!" and thereupon she curled her
fingers and set her teeth on edge as though she would tear his very eyes
out. Rosembom, though he didn't exactly see the merits of the matter,
exchanged his pipe for the poker, so what with this, the sword, and the
nails, things wore a very belligerent aspect.

Mr. Stubbs, as usual, interposed, and the Countess, still keeping up the
semblance of her rage, ordered them to quit her apartment directly, or
she would have recourse to her old friends the police. Mr. Stubbs was
quite agreeable to go, but he hinted that she might as well hand over
the stakes that had been entrusted to her keeping on the previous day,
upon which she again indulged in a torrent of abuse, swore they were
a couple of thieves, and that Mr. Jorrocks owed her far more than the
amount for board and lodging. This made the Colonel stare, for on the
supposition that he was a visitor, he had been firing away his money in
all directions, playing at everything she proposed, buying her bonnets,
Perigord pies, hiring remises, and committing every species of
extravagance, and now to be charged for what he thought was pure
friendship, disgusted him beyond expression.

The Countess speedily summoned the porter, the man of letters of the
establishment, and with his aid drew Mr. Jorrocks out a bill, which he
described as "reaching down each side of his body and round his waist,"
commencing with 2 francs for savon, and then proceeding in the daily
routine of café, 1 franc; déjeuner à la fourchette, 5 francs; diner
avec vin, 10 francs; tea, 1 franc; souper, 3 francs; bougies, 2 francs;
appartement, 3 francs; running him up a bill of 700 francs; and when Mr.
Stubbs remonstrated on the exorbitance of the charges, she replied, "It
sall be, sare, as small monnaie as sail be consistent avec my dignified
respectability, you to charge."

There seemed no help for the matter, so Mr. Stubbs paid the balance,
while Mr. Jorrocks, shocked at the duplicity of the Countess, the
impudence of Rosembom, and the emptiness of his own pockets, bolted away
without saying a word.

That very night the Malle-Poste bore them from the capital, with two
cold fowls, three-quarters of a yard of bread, and a bottle of porter,
for Mr. Jorrocks on the journey, and ere another sun went down, the
sandy suburbs of Calais saw them toiling towards her ramparts, and
rumbling over the drawbridges and under the portcullis, that guard the
entrance to her gloomy town. Calais! cold, cheerless, lifeless Calais!
Whose soul has ever warmed as it approached thy town? but how many
hearts have turned with sickening sorrow from the mirthless tinkling of
thy bells!

"We'll not stay here long I guess," said Mr. Jorrocks as the diligence
pulled up at the post-office, and the conducteur requested the
passengers to descend. "That's optional," said a bystander, who was
waiting for his letters, looking at Mr. Jorrocks with an air as much as
to say, what a rum-looking fellow you are, and not without reason, for
the Colonel was attired in a blue sailor's jacket, white leathers,
and jack-boots, with the cocked hat and feather. The speaker was a
middle-aged, middle-statured man, with a quick intelligent eye, dressed
in a single-breasted green riding-coat, striped toilinette waistcoat,
and drab trousers, with a whip in his hand. "Thank you for nothing!"
replied Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing him in return, upon which the speaker
turned to the clerk and asked if there were any letters for Monsieur
Apperley or Nimrod. "NIMROD!" exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, dropping on his
knees as though he were shot. "Oh my vig what have I done? Oh dear! oh
dear! what a dumbfounderer--flummoxed I declare!"

"Hold up! old 'un," said Nimrod in astonishment; "why, what's the matter
now? You don't owe me anything I dare say!"

"Owe you anything! yes, I does," said Mr. Jorrocks, rising from
the ground, "I owes you a debt of gratitude that I can never wipe
off--you'll be in the day-book and ledger of my memory for ever and a
year."

"Who are you?" inquired Nimrod, becoming more and more puzzled, as he
contrasted his dialect with his dress.

"Who am I? Why, I'm Mister Jorrocks."

"Jorrocks, by Jove! Who'd have thought it! I declare I took you for
a horse-marine. Give us your hand, old boy. I'm proud to make your
acquaintance."

"Ditto to you, sir, twice repeated. I considers you the werry first man
of the age!"--and thereupon they shook hands with uncommon warmth.

"You've been in Paris, I suppose," resumed Nimrod, after their
respective digits were released; "were you much gratified with what you
saw? What pleased you most--the Tuileries, Louvre, Garden of Plants,
Père la Chaise, Notre Dame, or what?"

"Why now, to tell you the truth, singular as it may seem, I saw nothing
but the Tuileries and Naughty Dame.--I may say a werry naughty dame, for
she fleeced me uncommonly, scarcely leaving me a dump to carry me home."

"What, you've been among the ladies, have you? That's gay for a man at
your time of life."

"Yes, I certainlie have been among the ladies,--countesses I may
say--but, dash my vig, they are a rum set, and made me pay for their
acquaintance. The Countess Benwolio certainlie is a bad 'un."

"Oh, the deuce!--did that old devil catch you?" inquired Nimrod.

"Vot, do you know her?"

"Know her! ay--everybody here knows her with her black boy. She's always
on the road, and lives now by the flats she catches between Paris and
the coast. She was an agent for Morison's Pills--but having a fractious
Scotch lodger that she couldn't get out, she physicked him so dreadfully
that he nearly died, and the police took her licence away. But you are
hungry, Mr. Jorrocks, come to my house and spend the evening, and tell
me all about your travels."

Mr. Stubbs objected to this proposition, having just learned that the
London packet sailed in an hour, so the trio adjourned to Mr. Roberts's,
Royal Hotel, where over some strong eau-de-vie they cemented their
acquaintance, and Mr. Jorrocks, finding that Nimrod was to be in England
the following week, insisted upon his naming a day for dining in Great
Coram Street.

"Permits" to embark having been considerately granted "gratis" by the
Government for a franc apiece, at the hour of ten our travellers stepped
on board, and Mr. Jorrocks, having wrapped himself up in his martial
cloak, laid down in the cabin and, like Ulysses in Ithaca, as Nimrod
would say, "arrived in London Asleep."



XI. A RIDE TO BRIGHTON ON "THE AGE"

_(In a very "Familiar Letter" to Nimrod)_

DEAR NIMROD,

You have favoured myself, and the sporting world at large, with a werry
rich high-flavoured account of the great Captain Barclay, and his
extonishing coach, the "Defiance"; and being werry grateful to you for
that and all other favours, past, present, and to come, I take up my
grey goose quill to make it "obedient to my will," as Mr. Pope, the
poet, says, in relating a werry gratifying ride I had on the celebrated
"Brighton Age," along with Sir Wincent Cotton, Bart., and a few other
swells. Being, as you knows, of rather an emigrating disposition, and
objecting to make a nick-stick of my life by marking down each Christmas
Day over roast-beef and plum pudding, cheek-by-jowl with Mrs. J----
at home, I said unto my lad Binjimin--and there's not a bigger rogue
unhung--"Binjimin, be after looking out my Sunday clothes, and run down
to the Regent Circus, and book me the box-seat of the 'Age,' for
I'm blow'd if I'm not going to see the King at Brighton (or
'London-sur-Mary,' as James Green calls it), and tell the pig-eyed
book-keeper it's for Mr. Jorrocks, and you'll be sure to get it."

Accordingly, next day, I put in my appearance at the Circus, dressed in
my best blue Saxony coat, with metal buttons, yellow waistcoat, tights,
and best Hessians, with a fine new castor on my head, and a carnation
in my button-hole. Lots of chaps came dropping in to go, and every one
wanted the box-seat. "Can I have the box-seat?" said one.--"No, sir; Mr.
Jorrocks has it." "Is the box-seat engaged?" asked another.--"Yes, sir;
Mr. Jorrocks has taken it." "Book me the box," said a third with great
dignity.--"It's engaged already." "Who by?"--"Mr. Jorrocks"; and so they
went on to the tune of near a dozen. Presently a rattling of pole chains
was heard, and a cry was raised of "Here's Sir Wincent!" I looks out,
and saw a werry neat, dark, chocolate-coloured coach, with narrow
red-striped wheels, and a crest, either a heagle or a unicorn (I forgets
which), on the door, and just the proprietors' names below the winder,
and "The Age," in large gilt letters, below the gammon board, drawn
by four blood-like, switch-tailed nags, in beautiful highly polished
harness with brass furniture, without bearing reins--driven by a
swellish-looking young chap, in a long-backed, rough, claret-coloured
benjamin, with fancy-coloured tyes, and a bunch of flowers in his
button-hole--no coachman or man of fashion, as you knows, being complete
without the flower. There was nothing gammonacious about the turn-out;
all werry neat and 'andsome, but as plain as plain could be; and there
was not even a bit of Christmas at the 'orses' ears, which I observed
all the other coaches had. Well, down came Sir Wincent, off went his
hat, out came the way-bill, and off he ran into the office to see what
they had for him. "Here, coachman," says a linen-draper's "elegant
extract," waiting outside, "you've to deliver this (giving him a parcel)
in the Marine Parade the instant you get to Brighton. It's Miss---- 's
bustle, and she'll be waiting for it to put on to go out to dinner, so
you musn't lose a moment, and you may charge what you like for your
trouble." "Werry well," says Sir Wincent, laughing, "I'll take care of
her bustle. Now, book-keeper, be awake. Three insides here, and six
out. Pray, sir," touching his hat to me, "are you booked here? Oh! Mr.
Jorrocks, I see. I begs your pardon. Jump up, then; be lively! what
luggage have you?" "Two carpet-bags, with J. J., Great Coram Street,
upon them." "There, then we'll put them in the front boot, and you'll
have them under you. All right behind? Sit tight!" Hist! off we go by
St. Mertain's Church into the Strand, to the booking-office there.

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.

"Not a bit of it," replied Mr. Jorrocks--"not a bit of it--quite the
contrary--you are the first, in fact!"

"Indeed!" replied Nimrod, eyeing a table full of hats by where he
stood--"why here are as many hats as would set up a shop. I really
thought I'd got into Beaver (Belvoir) Castle by mistake!"

"Haw! haw! haw! werry good, Mr. Happerley, werry good indeed--I owes you
one."

"I thought it was a castor-oil mill," rejoined Mr. Spiers.

"Haw! haw! haw! werry good, Mr. Spiers, werry good indeed--owes you one
also--but I see what you're driving at. You think these hats have a
coconut apiece belonging to them upstairs. No such thing I assure you;
no such thing. The fact is, they are what I've won at warious times of
the members of our hunt, and as I've got you great sporting coves dining
with me, I'm a-going to set them out on my sideboard, just as racing
gents exhibit their gold and silver cups, you know. Binjimin! I say,
Binjimin! you blackguard," holloaing down the kitchen stairs, "why don't
you set out the castors as I told you? and see you brush them well!"
"Coming, sir, coming, sir!" replied Benjamin, from below, who at that
moment was busily engaged, taking advantage of Betsey's absence, in
scooping marmalade out of a pot with his thumb. "There's a good lot of
them," said Mr. Jorrocks, resuming the conversation, "four, six, eight,
ten, twelve, thirteen--all trophies of sporting prowess. Real good hats.
None o' your nasty gossamers, or dog-hair ones. There's a tile!" said
he, balancing a nice new white one with green rims on the tip of his
finger. "I won that in a most miraculous manner. A most wonderful
way, in fact. I was driving to Croydon one morning in my four-wheeled
one-'oss chay, and just as I got to Lilleywhite, the blacksmith's,
below Brixton Hill, they had thrown up a drain--a 'gulph' I may call
it--across the road for the purpose of repairing the gas-pipe--I was
rayther late as it was, for our 'ounds are werry punctual, and there was
nothing for me but either to go a mile and a half about, or drive slap
over the gulph. Well, I looked at it, and the more I looked at it the
less I liked it; but just as I was thinking I had seen enough of it, and
was going to turn away, up tools Timothy Truman in his buggy, and he,
too, began to crane and look into the abyss--and a terrible place it
was, I assure you--quite frightful, and he liked it no better than
myself. Seeing this, I takes courage, and said, 'Why, Tim, your 'oss
will do it!' 'Thank'e, Mr. J----,' said he, 'I'll follow you.' 'Then,'
said I, 'if you'll change wehicles'--for, mind ye, I had no notion of
damaging my own--'I'll bet you a hat I gets over.' 'Done,' said he, and
out he got; so I takes his 'oss by the head, looses the bearing-rein,
and leading him quietly up to the place and letting him have a look at
it, gave him a whack over the back, and over he went, gig and all, as
clever as could be!"

_Stubbs_. Well done, Mr. J----, you are really a most wonderful man! You
have the most extraordinary adventures of any man breathing--but what
did you do with your own machine?

_Jorrocks_. Oh! you see, I just turned round to Binjimin, who was with
me, and said, You may go home, and, getting into Timothy's buggy, I had
my ride for nothing, and the hat into the bargain. A nice hat it is
too--regular beaver--a guinea's worth at least. All true what I've told
you, isn't it, Binjimin?

"Quite!" replied Benjamin, putting his thumb to his nose, and spreading
his fingers like a fan as he slunk behind his master.

"But come, gentlemen," resumed Mr. Jorrocks, "let's be after going
upstairs.--Binjimin, announce the gentlemen as your missis taught you.
Open the door with your left hand, and stretch the right towards her, to
let the company see the point to make up to."

The party ascend the stairs one at a time, for the flight is narrow and
rather abrupt, and Benjamin, obeying his worthy master's injunctions,
threw open the front drawing-room door, and discovered Mrs. Jorrocks
sitting in state at a round table, with annuals and albums spread at
orthodox distances around. The possession of this room had long been a
bone of contention between Mr. Jorrocks and his spouse, but at length
they had accommodated matters by Mr. Jorrocks gaining undivided
possession of the back drawing-room (communicating by folding-doors),
with the run of the front one equally with Mrs. Jorrocks on non-company
days. A glance, however, showed which was the master's and which the
mistress's room. The front one was papered with weeping willows, bending
under the weight of ripe cherries on a white ground, and the chair
cushions were covered with pea-green cotton velvet with yellow worsted
bindings.

The round table was made of rosewood, and there was a "whatnot" on
the right of the fire-place of similar material, containing a
handsomely-bound collection of Sir Walter Scott's Works, in wood. The
carpet-pattern consisted of most dashing bouquets of many-coloured
flowers, in winding French horns on a very light drab ground, so light,
indeed, that Mr. Jorrocks was never allowed to tread upon it except in
pumps or slippers. The bell-pulls were made of foxes' brushes, and in
the frame of the looking-glass, above the white marble mantelpiece,
were stuck visiting-cards, notes of invitation, thanks for "obliging
inquiries," etc. The hearth-rug exhibited a bright yellow tiger, with
pink eyes, on a blue ground, with a flossy green border; and the fender
and fire-irons were of shining brass. On the wall, immediately opposite
the fire-place, was a portrait of Mrs. Jorrocks before she was married,
so unlike her present self that no one would have taken it for her. The
back drawing-room, which looked out upon the gravel walk and house-backs
beyond, was papered with broad scarlet and green stripes in honour of
the Surrey Hunt uniform, and was set out with a green-covered library
table in the centre, with a red morocco hunting-chair between it and the
window, and several good strong hair-bottomed mahogany chairs around the
walls. The table had a very literary air, being strewed with sporting
magazines, odd numbers of _Bell's Life_, pamphlets, and papers of
various descriptions, while on a sheet of foolscap on the portfolio were
ten lines of an elegy on a giblet pie which had been broken in coming
from the baker's, at which Mr. Jorrocks had been hammering for some
time. On the side opposite the fire-place, on a hanging range of
mahogany shelves, were ten volumes of _Bell's Life in London_, the _New
Sporting Magazine_, bound gilt and lettered, the _Memoirs of Harriette
Wilson, Boxiana_, Taplin's _Farriery_, Nimrod's _Life of Mytton_, and a
backgammon board that Mr. Jorrocks had bought by mistake for a history
of England.

Mrs. Jorrocks, as we said before, was sitting in state at the far side
of the round table, on a worsted-worked ottoman exhibiting a cock
pheasant on a white ground, and was fanning herself with a red-and-white
paper fan, and turning over the leaves of an annual. How Mr. Jorrocks
happened to marry her, no one could ever divine, for she never was
pretty, had very little money, and not even a decent figure to recommend
her. It was generally supposed at the time, that his brother Joe and
he having had a deadly feud about a bottom piece of muffin, the lady's
friends had talked him into the match, in the hopes of his having a
family to leave his money to, instead of bequeathing it to Joe or his
children. Certain it is, they never were meant for each other; Mr.
Jorrocks, as our readers have seen, being all nature and impulse, while
Mrs. Jorrocks was all vanity and affectation. To describe her accurately
is more than we can pretend to, for she looked so different in different
dresses, that Mr. Jorrocks himself sometimes did not recognise her. Her
face was round, with a good strong brick-dust sort of complexion, a
turn-up nose, eyes that were grey in one light and green in another, and
a middling-sized mouth, with a double chin below. Mr. Jorrocks used
to say that she was "warranted" to him as twelve years younger than
himself, but many people supposed the difference of age between them was
not so great. Her stature was of the middle height, and she was of one
breadth from the shoulders to the heels. She was dressed in a flaming
scarlet satin gown, with swan's-down round the top, as also at the arms,
and two flounces of the same material round the bottom. Her turban was
of green velvet, with a gold fringe, terminating in a bunch over the
left side, while a bird-of-paradise inclined towards the right. Across
her forehead she wore a gold band, with a many-coloured glass butterfly
(a present from James Green), and her neck, arms, waist (at least
what ought to have been her waist) were hung round and studded with
mosaic-gold chains, brooches, rings, buttons, bracelets, etc., looking
for all the world like a portable pawnbroker's shop, or the lump of beef
that Sinbad the sailor threw into the Valley of Diamonds. In the right
of a gold band round her middle, was an immense gold watch, with a bunch
of mosaic seals appended to a massive chain of the same material; and a
large miniature of Mr. Jorrocks when he was a young man, with his hair
stiffly curled, occupied a place on her left side. On her right arm
dangled a green velvet bag with a gold cord, out of which one of
Mr. Jorrocks's silk handkerchiefs protruded, while a crumpled,
yellowish-white cambric one, with a lace fringe, lay at her side.

On an hour-glass stool, a little behind Mrs. Jorrocks, sat her niece
Belinda (Joe Jorrocks's eldest daughter), a nice laughing pretty girl of
sixteen, with languishing blue eyes, brown hair, a nose of the "turn-up"
order, beautiful mouth and teeth, a very fair complexion, and a
gracefully moulded figure. She had just left one of the finishing and
polishing seminaries in the neighbourhood of Bromley, where, for two
hundred a year and upwards, all the teasing accomplishments of life are
taught, and Mrs. Jorrocks, in her own mind, had already appropriated her
to James Green, while Mr. Jorrocks, on the other hand, had assigned her
to Stubbs. Belinda's dress was simplicity itself; her silken hair
hung in shining tresses down her smiling face, confined by a plain
tortoiseshell comb behind, and a narrow pink velvet band before. Round
her swan-like neck was a plain white cornelian necklace; and her
well-washed white muslin frock, confined by a pink sash, flowing behind
in a bow, met in simple folds across her swelling bosom. Black sandal
shoes confined her fairy feet, and with French cotton stockings,
completed her toilette. Belinda, though young, was a celebrated eastern
beauty, and there was not a butcher's boy in Whitechapel, from Michael
Scales downwards, but what eyed her with delight as she passed along
from Shoreditch on her daily walk.

The presentations having been effected, and the heat of the day, the
excellence of the house, the cleanliness of Great Coram Street--the
usual topics, in short, when people know nothing of each other--having
been discussed, our party scattered themselves about the room to await
the pleasing announcement of dinner. Mr. Jorrocks, of course, was in
attendance upon Nimrod, while Mr. Stubbs made love to Belinda behind
Mrs. Jorrocks.

Presently a loud long-protracted "rat-tat-tat-tat-tan,
rat-tat-tat-tat-tan," at the street door sounded through the house, and
Jorrocks, with a slap on his thigh, exclaimed, "By Jingo! there's Green.
No man knocks with such wigorous wiolence as he does. All Great Coram
Street and parts adjacent know when he comes. Julius Caesar himself
couldn't kick up a greater row." "What Green is it, Green of
Rollestone?" inquired Nimrod, thinking of his Leicestershire friend.
"No," said Mr. Jorrocks, "Green of Tooley Street. You'll have heard of
the Greens in the borough, 'emp, 'op, and 'ide (hemp, hop, and hide)
merchants--numerous family, numerous as the 'airs in my vig. This is
James Green, jun., whose father, old James Green, jun., _verd antique_,
as I calls him, is the son of James Green, sen., who is in the 'emp
line, and James is own cousin to young old James Green, sen., whose
father is in the 'ide line." The remainder of the pedigree was lost by
Benjamin throwing open the door and announcing Mr. Green; and Jemmy,
who had been exchanging his cloth boots for patent-leather pumps, came
bounding upstairs like a racket-ball. "My dear Mrs. Jorrocks," cried he,
swinging through the company to her, "I'm delighted to see you looking
so well. I declare you are fifty per cent younger than you were.
Belinda, my love, 'ow are you? Jorrocks, my friend, 'ow do ye do?"

"Thank ye, James," said Jorrocks, shaking hands with him most cordially,
"I'm werry well, indeed, and delighted to see you. Now let me present
you to Nimrod."

"Ay, Nimrod!" said Green, in his usual flippant style, with a nod of his
head, "'ow are ye, Nimrod? I've heard of you, I think--Nimrod Brothers
and Co., bottle merchants, Crutched Friars, ain't it?"

"No," said Jorrocks, in an undertone with a frown--Happerley Nimrod, the
great sporting hauthor."

"True," replied Green, not at all disconcerted, "I've heard of
him--Nimrod--the mighty 'unter before the lord. Glad to see ye, Nimrod.
Stubbs, 'ow are ye?" nodding to the Yorkshireman, as he jerked himself
on to a chair on the other side of Belinda.

As usual, Green was as gay as a peacock. His curly flaxen wig projected
over his forehead like the roof of a Swiss cottage, and his pointed
gills were supported by a stiff black mohair stock, with a broad front
and black frill confined with jet studs down the centre. His coat was
light green, with archery buttons, made very wide at the hips, with
which he sported a white waistcoat, bright yellow ochre leather
trousers, pink silk stockings, and patent-leather pumps. In his hand he
carried a white silk handkerchief, which smelt most powerfully of musk;
and a pair of dirty wristbands drew the eye to sundry dashing rings upon
his fingers.

Jonathan Crane, a little long-nosed old city wine-merchant, a member of
the Surrey Hunt, being announced and presented, Mrs. Jorrocks declared
herself faint from the heat of the room, and begged to be excused for a
few minutes. Nimrod, all politeness, was about to offer her his arm, but
Mr. Jorrocks pulled him back, whispering, "Let her go, let her go." "The
fact is," said he in an undertone after she was out of hearing, "it's a
way Mrs. J---- has when she wants to see that dinner's all right.
You see she's a terrible high-bred woman, being a cross between a
gentleman-usher and a lady's-maid, and doesn't like to be supposed to
look after these things, so when she goes, she always pretend to faint.
You'll see her back presently," and, just as he spoke, in she came with
a half-pint smelling-bottle at her nose. Benjamin followed immediately
after, and throwing open the door proclaimed, in a half-fledged voice,
that "dinner was sarved," upon which the party all started on their
legs.

"Now, Mr. Happerley Nimrod," cried Jorrocks, "you'll trot Mrs. J----
down--according to the book of etiquette, you know, giving her the
wall side.[25] Sorry, gentlemen, I havn't ladies apiece for you, but my
sally-manger, as we say in France, is rayther small, besides which I
never like to dine more than eight. Stubbs, my boy, Green and you must
toss up for Belinda--here's a halfpenny, and let be 'Newmarket'[26] if
you please. Wot say you? a voman! Stubbs wins!" cried Mr. Jorrocks, as
the halfpenny fell head downwards. "Now, Spiers, couple up with Crane,
and James and I will whip in to you. But stop, gentlemen!" cried
Mr. Jorrocks, as he reached the top of the stairs, "let me make one
request--that you von't eat the windmill you'll see on the centre of the
table. Mrs. Jorrocks has hired it for the evening, of Mr. Farrell, the
confectioner, in Lamb's Conduit Street, and it's engaged to two or three
evening parties after it leaves this." "Lauk, John! how wulgar you are.
What matter can it make to your friends where the windmill comes from!"
exclaimed Mrs. Jorrocks in an audible voice from below, Nimrod, with
admirable skill, having piloted her down the straights and turns of the
staircase. Having squeezed herself between the backs of the chairs and
the wall, Mrs. Jorrocks at length reached the head of the table, and
with a bump of her body and wave of her hand motioned Nimrod to take the
seat on her right. Green then pushed past Belinda and Stubbs, and
took the place on Mrs. Jorrocks's left, so Stubbs, with a dexterous
manoeuvre, placed himself in the centre of the table, with Belinda
between himself and her uncle. Crane and Spiers then filled the vacant
places on Nimrod's side, Mr. Spiers facing Mr. Stubbs.

[Footnote 25: "In your passage from one room to another, offer the lady
the wall in going downstairs," etc,--_Spirit of Etiquette._]

[Footnote 26: "We have repeatedly decided that Newmarket is _one_
toss."--_Bell's Life._]

The dining-room was the breadth of the passage narrower than the front
drawing-room, and, as Mr. Jorrocks truly said, was rayther small--but
the table being excessively broad, made the room appear less than it
was. It was lighted up with spermaceti candles in silver holders, one at
each corner of the table, and there was a lamp in the wall between the
red-curtained windows, immediately below a brass nail, on which Mr.
Jorrocks's great hunting-whip and a bunch of boot garters were hung. Two
more candles in the hands of bronze Dianas on the marble mantelpiece,
lighted up a coloured copy of Barraud's picture of John Warde on Blue
Ruin; while Mr. Ralph Lambton, on his horse Undertaker, with his hounds
and men, occupied a frame on the opposite wall. The old-fashioned
cellaret sideboard, against the wall at the end, supported a large
bright-burning brass lamp, with raised foxes round the rim, whose
effulgent rays shed a brilliant halo over eight black hats and two white
ones, whereof the four middle ones were decorated with evergreens and
foxes' brushes. The dinner table was crowded, not covered. There was
scarcely a square inch of cloth to be seen on any part. In the centre
stood a magnificent finely spun barley-sugar windmill, two feet and a
half high, with a spacious sugar foundation, with a cart and horses and
two or three millers at the door, and a she-miller working a ball-dress
flounce at a lower window.

The whole dinner, first, second, third, fourth course --everything,
in fact, except dessert--was on the table, as we sometimes see it at
ordinaries and public dinners. Before both Mr. and Mrs. Jorrocks were
two great tureens of mock-turtle soup, each capable of holding a gallon,
and both full up to the brim. Then there were two sorts of fish; turbot
and lobster sauce, and a great salmon. A round of boiled beef and an
immense piece of roast occupied the rear of these, ready to march on the
disappearance of the fish and soup--and behind the walls, formed by the
beef of old England, came two dishes of grouse, each dish holding three
brace. The side dishes consisted of a calf's head hashed, a leg of
mutton, chickens, ducks, and mountains of vegetables; and round the
windmill were plum-puddings, tarts, jellies, pies, and puffs.

Behind Mrs. Jorrocks's chair stood "Batsay" with a fine brass-headed
comb in her hair, and stiff ringlets down her ruddy cheeks. She was
dressed in a green silk gown, with a coral necklace, and one of Mr.
Jorrocks's lavender and white coloured silk pocket-handkerchiefs made
into an apron. "Binjimin" stood with the door in his hand, as the saying
is, with a towel twisted round his thumb, as though he had cut it.

"Now, gentlemen," said Mr. Jorrocks, casting his eye up the table, as
soon as they had all got squeezed and wedged round it, and the dishes
were uncovered, "you see your dinner, eat whatever you like except the
windmill--hope you'll be able to satisfy nature with what's on--would
have had more but Mrs. J---- is so werry fine, she won't stand two
joints of the same sort on the table."

_Mrs. J._ Lauk, John, how can you be so wulgar! Who ever saw two rounds
of beef, as you wanted to have? Besides, I'm sure the gentlemen will
excuse any little defishency, considering the short notice we have had,
and that this is not an elaborate dinner.

_Mr. Spiers._ I'm sure, ma'm, there's no de_fish_ency at all. Indeed,
I think there's as much fish as would serve double the number--and I'm
sure you look as if you had your soup "on sale or return," as we say in
the magazine line.

_Mr. J._ Haw! haw! haw! werry good, Mr. Spiers. I owe you one. Not bad
soup though--had it from Birch's. Let me send you some; and pray lay
into it, or I shall think you don't like it. Mr. Happerley, let me send
you some--and, gentlemen, let me observe, once for all, that there's
every species of malt liquor under the side table. Prime stout, from the
Marquess Cornwallis, hard by. Also ale, table, and what my friend Crane
there calls lamen_table_--he says, because it's so werry small--but, in
truth, because I don't buy it of him. There's all sorts of drench, in
fact, except water--thing I never touch--rots one's shoes, don't know
what it would do with one's stomach if it was to get there. Mr. Crane,
you're eating nothing. I'm quite shocked to see you; you don't surely
live upon hair? Do help yourself, or you'll faint from werry famine.
Belinda, my love, does the Yorkshireman take care of you? Who's for some
salmon?--bought at Luckey's, and there's both Tallyho and Tantivy sarce
to eat with it. Somehow or other I always fancies I rides harder after
eating these sarces with fish. Mr. Happerley Nimrod, you are the
greatest man at table, consequently I axes you to drink wine first,
according to the book of etiquette--help yourself, sir. Some of Crane's
particklar, hot and strong, real stuff, none of your wan de bones (vin
de beaume) or rot-gut French stuff--hope you like it--if you don't, pray
speak your mind freely, now that we have Crane among us. Binjimin, get
me some of that duck before Mr. Spiers, a leg and a wing, if you please,
sir, and a bit of the breast.

_Mr. Spiers._ Certainly, sir, certainly. Do you prefer a right or left
wing, sir?

_Mr. Jorrocks._ Oh, either. I suppose it's all the same.

_Mr. Spiers._ Why no, sir, it's not exactly all the same; for it happens
there is only one remaining, therefore it must be the _left_ one.

_Mr. J._ (chuckling). Haw! haw! haw! Mr. S----, werry good that--werry
good indeed. I owes you two.

"I'll trouble you for a little, Mr. Spiers, if you please," says Crane,
handing his plate round the windmill.

"I'm sorry, sir, it is all gone," replies Mr. Spiers, who had just
filled Mr. Jorrocks's plate; "there's nothing left but the neck,"
holding it up on the fork.

"Well, send it," rejoins Mr. Crane; "neck or nothing, you know, Mr.
Jorrocks, as we say with the Surrey."

"Haw! haw! haw!" grunts Mr. Jorrocks, who is busy sucking a bone; "haw!
hawl haw! werry good, Crane, werry good--owes you one. Now, gentlemen,"
added he, casting his eye up the table as he spoke, "let me adwise
ye, before you attack the grouse, to take the hedge (edge) off your
appetites, or else there won't be enough, and, you know, it does not do
to eat the farmer after the gentlemen. Let's see, now--three and three
are six, six brace among eight--oh dear, that's nothing like enough. I
wish, Mrs. J----, you had followed my adwice, and roasted them all. And
now, Binjimin, you're going to break the windmill with your clumsiness,
you little dirty rascal! Why von't you let Batsay arrange the table?
Thank you, Mr. Crane, for your assistance--your politeness, sir, exceeds
your beauty." [A barrel organ strikes up before the window, and Jorrocks
throws down his knife and fork in an agony.] "Oh dear, oh dear, there's
that cursed horgan again. It's a regular annihilator. Binjimin, run and
kick the fellow's werry soul out of him. There's no man suffers so much
from music as I do. I wish I had a pocketful of sudden deaths, that I
might throw one at every thief of a musicianer that comes up the street.
I declare the scoundrel has set all my teeth on edge. Mr. Nimrod, pray
take another glass of wine after your roast beef.--Well, with Mrs. J----
if you choose, but I'll join you--always says that you are the werry
cleverest man of the day--read all your writings--anny-tommy (anatomy)
of gaming, and all. Am a hauthor myself, you know--once set to, to write
a werry long and elaborate harticle on scent, but after cudgelling my
brains, and turning the thing over and over again in my mind, all that I
could brew on the subject was, that scent was a werry rum thing; nothing
rummer than scent, except a woman."

"Pray," cried Mrs. Jorrocks, her eyes starting as she spoke, "don't let
us have any of your low-lifed stable conversation here--you think to
show off before the ladies," added she, "and flatter yourself you talk
about what we don't understand. Now, I'll be bound to say, with all your
fine sporting hinformation, you carn't tell me whether a mule brays or
neighs!"

"Vether a mule brays or neighs?" repeated Mr. Jorrocks, considering.
"I'll lay I can!"

"Which, then?" inquired Mrs. Jorrocks.

"Vy, I should say it brayed."

"Mule bray!" cried Mrs. Jorrocks, clapping her hands with delight,
"there's a cockney blockhead for you! It brays, does it?"

_Mr. Jorrocks. _I meant to say, neighed.

"Ho! ho! ho!" grinned Mrs. J----, "neighs, does it? You are a nice man
for a fox-'unter--a mule neighs--thought I'd catch you some of these
odd days with your wain conceit."

"Vy, what does it do then?" inquired Mr. Jorrocks, his choler rising as
he spoke. "I hopes, at all ewents, he don't make the 'orrible noise you
do."

"Why, it screams, you great hass!" rejoined his loving spouse.

A single, but very resolute knock at the street door, sounding quite
through the house, stopped all further ebullition, and Benjamin,
slipping out, held a short conversation with someone in the street, and
returned.

"What's happened now, Binjimin?" inquired Mr. Jorrocks, with anxiety
on his countenance, as the boy re-entered the room; "the 'osses arn't
amiss, I 'ope?"

"Please, sir, Mr. Farrell's young man has come for the windmill--he says
you've had it two hours," replied Benjamin.

"The deuce be with Mr. Farrell's young man! he does not suppose we can
part with the mill before the cloth's drawn--tell him to mizzle, or I'll
mill him. 'Now's the day and now's the hour'; who's for some grouse?
Gentlemen, make your game, in fact. But first of all let's have a round
robin. Pass the wine, gentlemen. What wine do you take, Stubbs."

"Why, champagne is good enough for me."

_Mr. Jorrocks,_ I dare say; but if you wait till you get any here, you
will have a long time to stop. Shampain, indeed! had enough of that
nonsense abroad--declare you young chaps drink shampain like hale.
There's red and wite port, and sherry, in fact, and them as carn't
drink, they must go without.

  X. was expensive and soon became poor,
  Y. was the wise man and kept want from the door.

"Now for the grouse!" added he, as the two beefs disappeared, and they
took their stations at the top and bottom of the table. "Fine birds, to
be sure! Hope you havn't burked your appetites, gentlemen, so as not to
be able to do justice to them--smell high--werry good--gamey, in fact.
Binjimin. take an 'ot plate to Mr. Nimrod--sarve us all round with
them."

The grouse being excellent, and cooked to a turn, little execution was
done upon the pastry, and the jellies had all melted long before it
came to their turn to be eat. At length everyone, Mr. Jorrocks and all,
appeared satisfied, and the noise of knives and forks was succeeded by
the din of tongues and the ringing of glasses, as the eaters refreshed
themselves with wine or malt liquors. Cheese and biscuit being handed
about on plates, according to the _Spirit of Etiquette_. Binjimin and
Batsay at length cleared the table, lifted off the windmill, and removed
the cloth. Mr. Jorrocks then delivered himself of a most emphatic grace.

The wine and dessert being placed on the table, the ceremony of
drinking healths all round was performed. "Your good health, Mrs.
J----.--Belinda, my loove, your good health--wish you a good
'usband.--Nimrod, your good health.--James Green, your good health.--Old
_verd antique's_ good health.--Your uncle's good health.--All the Green
family.--Stubbs, your good health.--Spiers, Crane, etc." The bottles
then pass round three times, on each of which occasions Mrs. Jorrocks
makes them pay toll. The fourth time she let them pass; and Jorrocks
began to grunt, hem, and haw, and kick the leg of the table, by way of
giving her a hint to depart. This caused a dead silence, which at length
was broken by the Yorkshireman's exclaiming "horrid pause!"

"Horrid paws!" vociferated Mrs. J----, in a towering rage, "so would
yours, let me tell you, sir, if you had helped to cook all that dinner":
and gathering herself up and repeating the words "horrid paws, indeed,
I like your imperence," she sailed out of the room like an exasperated
turkey-cock; her face, from heat, anger, and the quantity she had drank,
being as red as her gown. Indeed, she looked for all the world as if she
had been put into a furnace and blown red hot. Jorrocks having got rid
of his "worser half," as he calls her, let out a reef or two of his acre
of white waistcoat, and each man made himself comfortable according to
his acceptation of the term. "Gentlemen," says Jorrocks, "I'll trouble
you to charge your glasses, 'eel-taps off--a bumper toast--no
skylights, if you please. Crane, pass the wine--you are a regular
old stop-bottle--a turnpike gate, in fact. I think you take back
hands--gentlemen, are you all charged?--then I'll give you THE NOBLE
SPORT OF FOX-'UNTING! gentlemen, with three times three, and Crane will
give the 'ips--all ready--now, ip, 'ip, 'ip, 'uzza, 'uzza, 'uzza--'ip,
'ip, 'ip, 'uzza, 'uzza, 'uzza--'ip, 'ip, 'ip, 'uzza, 'uzza, 'uzza.--one
cheer more, 'UZZA!" After this followed "The Merry Harriers," then came
"The Staggers," after that "The Trigger, and bad luck to Cheatum,"
all bumpers; when Jorrocks, having screwed his courage up to the
sticking-place, called for another, which being complied with, he rose
and delivered himself as follows:

"Gentlemen, in rising to propose the toast which I am now about to
propose--I feel--I feel--(Yorkshireman--'very queer?') J---- No,
not verry queer, and I'll trouble you to hold your jaw (laughter).
Gentlemen, I say, in rising to propose the toast which I am about to
give, I feel--I feel--(Crane--'werry nervous?') J---- No, not werry
nervous, so none of your nonsense; let me alone, I say. I say, in
rising to propose the toast which I am about to give, I feel--(Mr.
Spiers--'very foolish?' Nimrod--'very funny?' Crane--'werry rum?') J----
No, werry proud of the distinguished honour that has been conferred upon
me--conferred upon me--conferred upon me--distinguished honour that has
been conferred upon me by the presence, this day, of one of the most
distinguished men--distinguished men--by the presence, this day, of one
of the most distinguished men and sportsmen--of modern times (cheers.)
Gentlemen--this is the proudest moment of my life! the eyes of England
are upon us! I give you the health of Mr. Happerley Nimrod." (Drunk with
three times three.)

When the cheering, and dancing of the glasses had somewhat subsided,
Nimrod rose and spoke as follows:

"Mr. Jorrocks, and gentlemen",

"The handsome manner in which my health has been proposed by our worthy
and estimable host, and the flattering reception it has met with from
you, merit my warmest acknowledgments. I should, indeed, be unworthy of
the land which gave me birth, were I insensible of the honour which has
just been done me by so enlightened and distinguished an assembly as the
present. My friend, Mr. Jorrocks, has been pleased to designate me as
one of the most distinguished sportsmen of the day, a title, however,
to which I feel I have little claim: but this I may say, that I have
portrayed our great national sports in their brightest and most glowing
colours, and that on sporting subjects my pen shall yield to none
(cheers). I have ever been the decided advocate of many sports and
exercises, not only on account of the health and vigour they inspire,
but because I feel that they are the best safeguards on a nation's
energies, and the best protection against luxury, idleness, debauchery,
and effeminacy (cheers). The authority of all history informs us,
that the energies of countries flourished whilst manly sports have
flourished, and decayed as they died away (cheers). What says Juvenal,
when speaking of the entry of luxury into Rome?"

  Saevior armis
  Luxuria incubuit, victumque ulciscitur orbem.

"And we need only refer to ancient history, and to the writings of
Xenophon, Cicero, Horace, or Virgil, for evidence of the value they have
all attached to the encouragement of manly, active, and hardy pursuits,
and the evils produced by a degenerate and effeminate life on the
manners and characters of a people (cheers). Many of the most eminent
literary characters of this and of other countries have been ardently
attached to field sports; and who, that has experienced their beneficial
results, can doubt that they are the best promoters of the _mens sana
in corpore sano_--the body sound and the understanding clear (cheers)?
Gentlemen, it is with feelings of no ordinary gratification that I find
myself at the social and truly hospitable board of one of the most
distinguished ornaments of one of the most celebrated Hunts in this
great country, one whose name and fame have reached the four corners
of the globe--to find myself after so long an absence from my native
land--an estrangement from all that has ever been nearest and dearest to
my heart--once again surrounded by these cheerful countenances which
so well express the honest, healthful pursuits of their owners. Let
us then," added Nimrod, seizing a decanter and pouring himself out a
bumper, "drink, in true Kentish fire, the health and prosperity of
that brightest sample of civic sportsmen, the great and renowned JOHN
JORROCKS!"

Immense applause followed the conclusion of this speech, during which
time the decanters buzzed round the table, and the glasses being
emptied, the company rose, and a full charge of Kentish fire followed;
Mr. Jorrocks, sitting all the while, looking as uncomfortable as men in
his situation generally do.

The cheering having subsided, and the parties having resumed their
seats, it was his turn to rise, so getting on his legs, he essayed to
speak, but finding, as many men do, that his ideas deserted him the
moment the "eyes of England" were turned upon him, after two or three
hitches of his nankeens, and as many hems and haws, he very coolly
resumed his seat, and spoke as follows:

"Gentlemen, unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, I am taken quite
aback by this werry unexpected compliment (cheers); never since I filled
the hancient and honerable hoffice of churchwarden in the populous
parish of St. Botolph Without, have I experienced a gratification equal
to the present. I thank you from the werry bottom of my breeches-pocket
(applause). Gentlemen, I'm no horator, but I'm a honest man (cheers).
I should indeed be undeserving the name of a sportsman--undeserving of
being a member of that great and justly celebrated 'unt, of which Mr.
Happerley Nimrod has spun so handsome and flattering a yarn, if I
did not feel deeply proud of the compliment you have paid it. It is
unpossible for me to follow that great sporting scholar fairly over the
ridge and furrow of his werry intricate and elegant horation, for there
are many of those fine gentlemen's names--French, I presume--that he
mentioned, that I never heard of before, and cannot recollect; but if
you will allow me to run 'eel a little, I would make a few hobservations
on a few of his hobservations.--Mr. Happerley Nimrod, gentlemen, was
pleased to pay a compliment to what he was pleased to call my something
'ospitality. I am extremely obliged to him for it. To be surrounded
by one's friends is in my mind the 'Al' of 'uman 'appiness (cheers).
Gentlemen, I am most proud of the honour of seeing you all here to-day,
and I hope the grub has been to your likin' (cheers), if not, I'll
discharge my butcher. On the score of quantity there might be a little
deficiency, but I hope the quality was prime. Another time this shall
be all remedied (cheers). Gentlemen, I understand those cheers, and I'm
flattered by them--I likes 'ospitality!--I'm not the man to keep my
butter in a 'pike-ticket, or my coals in a quart pot (immense cheering).
Gentlemen, these are my sentiments, I leaves the flowers of speech to
them as is better acquainted with botany (laughter)--I likes plain
English, both in eating and talking, and I'm happy to see Mr. Happerley
Nimrod has not forgot his, and can put up with our homely fare, and do
without pantaloon cutlets, blankets of woe,[27] and such-like miseries."

[Footnote 27: "Blanquette de veau."]

"I hates their 'orse douvers (hors-d'oeuvres), their rots, and their
poisons (poissons); 'ord rot 'em, they near killed me, and right glad am
I to get a glass of old British black strap. And talking of black strap,
gentlemen, I call on old Crane, the man what supplies it, to tip us
a song. So now I'm finished--and you, Crane, lap up your liquor and
begin!" (applause).

Crane was shy--unused to sing in company--nevertheless, if it was
the wish of the party, and if it would oblige his good customer, Mr.
Jorrocks, he would try his hand at a stave or two made in honour of the
immortal Surrey. Having emptied his glass and cleared his windpipe,
Crane commenced:

  "Here's a health to them that can ride!
  Here's a health to them that can ride!
  And those that don't wish good luck to the cause.
  May they roast by their own fireside!
  It's good to drown care in the chase,
  It's good to drown care in the bowl.
  It's good to support Daniel Haigh and his hounds,
  Here's his health from the depth of my soul."

  CHORUS

  "Hurrah for the loud tally-ho!
  Hurrah for the loud tally-ho!
  It's good to support Daniel Haigh and his hounds.
  And echo the shrill tally-ho!"

  "Here's a health to them that can ride!
  Here's a health to them that ride bold!
  May the leaps and the dangers that each has defied,
  In columns of sporting be told!
  Here's freedom to him that would walk!
  Here's freedom to him that would ride!
  There's none ever feared that the horn should be heard
  Who the joys of the chase ever tried."

  "Hurrah for the loud tally-ho!
  Hurrah for the loud tally-ho!
  It's good to support Daniel Haigh and his hounds,
  And halloo the loud tally-ho!"

"Beautiful! beautiful!" exclaimed Jorrocks, clapping his hands and
stamping as Crane had ceased.

  "A werry good song, and it's werry well sung.
  Jolly companions every one!"

"Gentlemen, pray charge your glasses--there's one toast we must drink in
a bumper if we ne'er take a bumper again. Mr. Spiers, pray charge your
glass--Mr. Stubbs, vy don't you fill up?--Mr. Nimrod, off with your 'eel
taps, pray--I'll give ye the 'Surrey 'Unt,' with all my 'art and soul.
Crane, my boy, here's your werry good health, and thanks for your song!"
(All drink the Surrey Hunt and Crane's good health, with applause, which
brings him on his legs with the following speech):

"Gentlemen, unaccustomed as I am to public speaking (laughter), I beg
leave on behalf of myself and the absent members of the Surrey 'Unt, to
return you our own most 'artfelt thanks for the flattering compliment
you have just paid us, and to assure you that the esteem and approbation
of our fellow-sportsmen is to us the magnum bonum of all earthly
'appiness (cheers and laughter). Gentlemen, I will not trespass longer
upon your valuable time, but as you seem to enjoy this wine of my friend
Mr. Jorrocks's, I may just say that I have got some more of the same
quality left, at from forty-two to forty-eight shillings a dozen, also
some good stout draught port, at ten and sixpence a gallon--some ditto
werry superior at fifteen; also foreign and British spirits, and Dutch
liqueurs, rich and rare." The conclusion of the vintner's address was
drowned in shouts of laughter. Mr. Jorrocks then called upon the company
in succession for a toast, a song, or a sentiment. Nimrod gave, "The
Royal Staghounds"; Crane gave, "Champagne to our real friends, and real
pain to our sham friends"; Green sung, "I'd be a butterfly"; Mr. Stubbs
gave, "Honest men and bonnie lasses"; and Mr. Spiers, like a patriotic
printer, gave, "The liberty of the Press," which he said was like
fox-hunting--"if we have it not we die"--all of which Mr. Jorrocks
applauded as if he had never heard them before, and drank in bumpers. It
was evident that unless tea was speedily announced he would soon become;

  O'er the ills of life victorious,

for he had pocketed his wig, and had been clipping the Queen's English
for some time. After a pause, during which his cheeks twice changed
colour, from red to green and back to red, he again called for a bumper
toast, which he prefaced with the following speech, or parts of a
speech:

"Gentlemen--in rising--propose toast about to give--feel werry--feel
werry--(Yorkshireman, 'werry muzzy?') J---- feel werry--(Mr. Spiers,
'werry sick?') J---- werry--(Crane, 'werry thirsty?') J---- feel
werry --(Nimrod, 'werry wise?') J---- no; but werry sensible --great
compliment--eyes of England upon us--give you the health--Mr. Happerley
Nimrod--three times three!"

He then attempted to rise for the purpose of marking the time, but his
legs deserted his body, and after two or three lurches down he went with
a tremendous thump under the table. He called first for "Batsay," then
for "Binjimin," and, game to the last, blurted out, "Lift me up!--tie me
in my chair!--fill my glass!"



XIII. THE DAY AFTER THE FEAST:
AN EPISODE BY THE YORKSHIREMAN

On the morning after Mr. Jorrocks's "dinner party" I had occasion to go
into the city, and took Great Coram Street in my way. My heart misgave
me when I recollected Mrs. J---- and her horrid paws, but still I
thought it my duty to see how the grocer was after his fall. Arrived at
the house I rang the area bell, and Benjamin, who was cleaning knives
below, popped his head up, and seeing who it was, ran upstairs and
opened the door. His master was up, he said, but "werry bad," and his
misses was out. Leaving him to resume his knife-cleaning occupation, I
slipped quietly upstairs, and hearing a noise in the bedroom, opened the
door, and found Jorrocks sitting in his dressing-gown in an easy chair,
with Betsey patting his bald head with a damp towel.

"Do that again, Batsay! Do that again!" was the first sound I heard,
being an invitation to Betsey to continue her occupation. "Here's the
Yorkshireman, sir," said Betsey, looking around.

"Ah, Mr. York, how are you this morning?" said he, turning a pair of
eyes upon me that looked like boiled gooseberries--his countenance
indicating severe indisposition. "Set down, sir; set down--I'm werry
bad--werry bad indeed--bad go last night. Doesn't do to go to the
lush-crib this weather. How are you, eh? tell me all about it. Is Mr.
Nimrod gone?"

"Don't know," said I; "I have just come from Lancaster Street, where I
have been seeing an aunt, and thought I would take Great Coram Street in
my way to the city, to ask how you do--but where's Mrs. Jorrocks?"

_Jorrocks_. Oh, cuss Mrs. J----; I knows nothing about her--been reading
the Riot Act, and giving her red rag a holiday all the morning--wish
to God I'd never see'd her--took her for better and worser, it's werry
true; but she's a d----d deal worser than I took her for. Hope your
hat may long cover your family. Mrs. J----'s gone to the Commons to
Jenner--swears she'll have a diworce, a _mensa et thorax_, I think
she calls it--wish she may get it--sick of hearing her talk about
it--Jenner's the only man wot puts up with her, and that's because he
gets his fees. Batsay, my dear! you may damp another towel, and then
get me something to cool my coppers--all in a glow, I declare--complete
fever. You whiles go to the lush-crib, Mr. Yorkshireman; what now do you
reckon best after a regular drench?

_Yorkshireman._ Oh, nothing like a glass of soda-water with a bottom of
brandy--some people prefer a sermon, but that won't suit you or I. After
your soda and brandy take a good chivy in the open air, and you'll be
all right by dinner-time.

_Jorrocks._ Right I Bliss ye, I shall niver be right again. I can
scarce move out of my chair, I'm so bad--my head's just fit to split in
two--I'm in no state to be seen.

_Yorkshireman._ Oh, pooh!--get your soda-water and brandy, then have
some strong coffee and a red herring, and you'll be all right, and
if you'll find cash, I'll find company, and we'll go and have a lark
together.

_Jorrocks._ Couldn't really be seen out---besides, cash is werry scarce.
By the way, now that I come to think on it, I had a five-pounder in my
breeches last night. Just feel in the pocket of them 'ere nankeens, and
see that Mrs. J---- has not grabbed it to pay Jenner's fee with.

_Yorkshireman_ (feels). No--all right--here it is--No. 10,497--I promise
to pay Mr. Thos. Rippon, or bearer, on demand, five pounds! Let's demand
it, and go and spend the cash.

_Jorrocks._ No, no--put it back--or into the table-drawer, see--fives
are werry scarce with me--can't afford it--must be just before I'm
generous.

_Yorkshireman._ Well, then, J----, you must just stay at home and get
bullied by Mrs. J----, who will be back just now, I dare say, perhaps
followed by Jenner and half Doctors' Commons.

_Jorrocks_. The deuce! I forgot all that--curse Mrs. J---- and the
Commons too. Well, Mr. Yorkshireman, I don't care if I do go with
you--but where shall it be to? Some place where we can be quiet, for I
really am werry bad, and not up to nothing like a lark.

_Yorkshireman_. Suppose we take a sniff of the
briny--Margate--Ramsgate--Broadstairs?

_Jorrocks_. No, none of them places--over-well-known at 'em all--can't
be quiet--get to the lush-crib again, perhaps catch the cholera and go
to Gravesend by mistake. Let's go to the Eel Pye at Twickenham and live
upon fish.

_Yorkshireman_. Fish! you old flat. Why, you know, you'd be the first to
cry out if you had to do so. No, no--let's have no humbug--here, drink
your coffee like a man, and then hustle your purse and see what it will
produce. Why, even Betsey's laughing at the idea of your living upon
fish.

_Jorrocks_. Don't shout so, pray--your woice shoots through every nerve
of my head and distracts me (drinks). This is grand Mocho--quite the
cordial balm of Gilead--werry fine indeed. Now I feel rewived and can
listen to you.

_Yorkshireman_. Well, then, pull on your boots--gird up your loins, and
let's go and spend this five pounds--stay away as long as it lasts, in
fact.

_Jorrocks_. Well, but give me the coin--it's mine you know--and let me
be paymaster, or I know you'll soon be into dock again. That's right;
and now I have got three half-crowns besides, which I will add.

_Yorkshireman_. And I've got three pence, which, not to be behind-hand
in point of liberality, I'll do the same with, so that we have got five
pounds seven shillings and ninepence between us, according to Cocker.

_Jorrocks_. Between us, indeed! I likes that. You're a generous
churchwarden.

_Yorkshireman_. Well--we won't stand upon trifles the principle is the
thing I look to--and not the amount. So now where to, your honour?

After a long parley, we fixed upon Herne Bay. Our reasons for doing so
were numerous, though it would be superfluous to mention them, save
that the circumstance of neither of us ever having been there, and the
prospect of finding a quiet retreat for Jorrocks to recover in, were the
principal ones. Our arrangements were soon made. "Batsay," said J---- to
his principessa of a cook, slut, and butler, "the Yorkshireman and I are
going out of town to stay five pounds seven and ninepence, so put up my
traps." Two shirts (one to wash the other as he said), three pairs of
stockings, with other etceteras, were stamped into a carpet-bag, and
taking a cab, we called at the "Piazza," where I took a few things, and
away we drove to Temple Bar. "Stop here with the bags," said Jorrocks,
"while I go to the Temple Stairs and make a bargain with a Jacob
Faithful to put us on board, for if they see the bags they'll think it's
a case of necessity, and ask double; whereas I'll pretend I'm just going
a-pleasuring, and when I've made a bargain, I'll whistle, and you can
come." Away he rolled, and after the lapse of a few minutes I heard a
sort of shilling-gallery cat-call, and obeying the summons, found he had
concluded a bargain for one and sixpence. We reached St. Catherine's
Docks just as the Herne Bay boat--the _Hero_--moored alongside,
consequently were nearly the first on board.

Herne Bay being then quite in its infancy, and this being what the cits
call a "weekday," they had rather a shy cargo, nor had they any of that
cockney tomfoolery that generally characterises a Ramsgate or Margate
crew, more particularly a Margate one. Indeed, it was a very slow cargo,
Jorrocks being the only character on board, and he was as sulky as a
bear with a sore head when anyone approached. The day was beautifully
fine, and a thin grey mist gradually disappeared from the Kentish hills
as we passed down the Thames. The river was gay enough. Adelaide, Queen
of Great Britain and Ireland, was expected on her return from Germany,
and all the vessels hung out their best and gayest flags and colours to
do her honour. The towns of Greenwich and Woolwich were in commotion.
Charity schools were marching, and soldiers were doing the like, while
steamboats went puffing down the river with cargoes to meet and escort
Her Majesty. When we got near Tilbury Fort, a man at the head of the
steamer announced that we should meet the Queen in ten minutes, and all
the passengers crowded on to the paddle-box of the side on which she
was to pass, to view and greet her. Jorrocks even roused himself up
and joined the throng. Presently a crowd of steamers were seen in the
distance, proceeding up the river at a rapid pace, with a couple of
lofty-masted vessels in tow, the first of which contained the royal
cargo. The leading steamboat was the celebrated _Magnet_--considered
the fastest boat on the river, and the one in which Jorrocks and myself
steamed from Margate, racing against and beating the _Royal William._
This had the Lord Mayor and Aldermen on board, who had gone down to the
extent of the city jurisdiction to meet the Queen, and have an excuse
for a good dinner. The deck presented a gay scene, being covered with a
military band, and the gaudy-liveried lackeys belonging to the Mansion
House, and sheriffs whose clothes were one continuous mass of gold lace
and frippery, shining beautifully brilliant in the midday sun. The royal
yacht, with its crimson and gold pennant floating on the breeze, came
towering up at a rapid pace, with the Queen sitting under a canopy on
deck. As we neared, all hats were off, and three cheers--or at least as
many as we could wedge in during the time the cortège took to sweep past
us--were given, our band consisting of three brandy-faced musicians,
striking up _God save the King_--a compliment which Her Majesty
acknowledged by a little mandarining; and before the majority of the
passengers had recovered from the astonishment produced by meeting a
live Queen on the Thames, the whole fleet had shot out of sight. By the
time the ripple on the water, raised by their progress, had subsided,
we had all relapsed into our former state of apathy and sullenness. A
duller or staider set I never saw outside a Quakers' meeting. Still the
beggars eat, as when does a cockney not in the open air? The stewards of
these steamboats must make a rare thing of their places, for they have
plenty of custom at their own prices. In fact, being in a steamboat is a
species of personal incarceration, and you have only the option between
bringing your own prog, or taking theirs at whatever they choose to
charge--unless, indeed, a person prefers going without any. Jorrocks
took nothing. He laid down again after the Queen had passed, and never
looked up until we were a mile or two off Herne Bay.

With the reader's permission, we will suppose that we have just landed,
and, bags in hand, ascended the flight of steps that conduct passengers,
as it were, from the briny ocean on to the stage of life.

"My eyes!" said Jorrocks, as he reached the top, "wot a pier, and wot
a bit of a place! Why, there don't seem to be fifty houses altogether,
reckoning the windmill in the centre as one. What's this thing?" said
he to a ticket-porter, pointing to a sort of French diligence-looking
concern which had just been pushed up to the landing end. "To carry the
lumber, sir--live and dead--gentlemen and their bags, as don't like to
walk." "Do you charge anything for the ride?" inquired Jorrocks, with
his customary caution. "Nothing," was the answer. "Then, let's get on
the roof," said J----, "and take it easy, and survey the place as we go
along." So, accordingly, we clambered on to the top of the diligence,
"summâ diligentiâ," and seated ourselves on a pile of luggage; being all
stowed away, and as many passengers as it would hold put inside, two
or three porters proceeded to propel the machine along the railroad on
which it runs. "Now, Mr. Yorkshireman," said Jorrocks, "we are in a
strange land, and it behoves us to proceed with caution, or we may spend
our five pounds seven and sixpence before we know where we are."

_Yorkshireman_. Seven and ninepence it is, sir.

_Jorrocks_. Well, be it so--five pounds seven and ninepence between two,
is by no means an impossible sum to spend, and the trick is to make
it go as far as we can. Now some men can make one guinea go as far as
others can make two, and we will try what we can do. In the first place,
you know I makes it a rule never to darken the door of a place wot calls
itself an 'otel, for 'otel prices and inn prices are werry different.
You young chaps don't consider these things, and as long as you have
got a rap in the world you go swaggering about, ordering claret and
waxlights, and everything wot's expensive, as though you must spend
money because you are in an inn. Now, that's all gammon. If a man
haven't got money he can't spend it; and we all know that many poor
folks are obliged at times to go to houses of public entertainment,
and you don't suppose that they pay for fire and waxlights, private
sitting-rooms, and all them 'ere sort of things. Now, said he, adjusting
his hunting telescope and raking the town of Herne Bay, towards which we
were gently approaching on our dignified eminence, but as yet had not
got near enough to descry "what was what" with the naked eye, I should
say yon great staring-looking shop directly opposite us is the cock inn
of the place (looks through his glass). I'm right P-i-e-r, Pier 'Otel I
reads upon the top, and that's no shop for my money. Let's see what else
we have. There's nothing on the right, I think, but here on the left is
something like our cut--D-o-l dol, p-h-i-n phin, Dolphin Inn. It's long
since I went the circuit, as the commercial gentlemen (or what were
called bagmen in my days) term it, but I haven't forgot the experience I
gained in my travels, and I whiles turn it to werry good account now.

"Coach to Canterbury, Deal, Margate, sir, going directly," interrupted
him, and reminded us that we had got to the end of the pier, and ought
to be descending. Two or three coaches were drawn up, waiting to carry
passengers on, but we had got to our journey's end. "Now," said J----,
"let's take our bags in hand and draw up wind, trying the 'Dolphin'
first."

Rejecting the noble portals of the Pier Hotel, we advanced towards
Jorrocks's chosen house, a plain unpretending-looking place facing the
sea, which is half the battle, and being but just finished had every
chance of cleanliness. "Jonathan Acres" appeared above the door as the
name of the landlord, and a little square-built, hatless, short-haired
chap, in a shooting-jacket, was leaning against the door. "Mr.
Hacres within?" said Jorrocks. "My name's Acres," said he of the
shooting-jacket. "Humph," said J----, looking him over, "not Long Acre,
I think." Having selected a couple of good airy bedrooms, we proceeded
to see about dinner. "Mr. Hacres," said Jorrocks, "I makes it a rule
never to pay more than two and sixpence for a feed, so now just give
us as good a one as you possibly can for that money": and about seven
o'clock we sat down to lamb-chops, ducks, French beans, pudding, etc.;
shortly after which Jorrocks retired to rest, to sleep off the remainder
of his headache. He was up long before me the next morning, and had a
dip in the sea before I came down. "Upon my word," said he, as I entered
the room, and found him looking as lively and fresh as a four-year-old,
"it's worth while going to the lush-crib occasionally, if it's only for
the pleasure of feeling so hearty and fresh as one does on the second
day. I feel just as if I could jump out of my skin, but I will defer the
performance until after breakfast. I have ordered a fork one, do you
know, cold 'am and boiled bacon, with no end of eggs, and bread of every
possible description. By the way, I've scraped acquaintance with Thorp,
the baker hard by, who's a right good fellow, and says he will give me
some shooting, and has some werry nice beagles wot he shoots to. But
here's the grub. Cold 'am in abundance. But, waiter, you should put a
little green garnishing to the dishes, I likes to see it, green is so
werry refreshing to the eye; and tell Mr. Hacres to send up some more
bacon and the bill, when I rings the bell. Nothing like having your bill
the first morning, and then you know what you've got to pay, and can cut
your coat according to your cloth." The bacon soon disappeared, and the
bell being sounded, produced the order.

"Humph," said J----, casting his eyes over the bill as it lay by the
side of his plate, while he kept pegging away at the contents of the
neighbouring dish--"pretty reasonable, I think--dinners, five shillings,
that's half a crown each; beds, two shillings each; breakfasts, one and
ninepence each, that's cheap for a fork breakfast; but, I say, you had
a pint of sherry after I left you last night, and PALE sherry too! How
could you be such an egreggorus (egregious) ass! That's so like you
young chaps, not to know that the only difference between pale and brown
sherry is, that one has more of the pumpaganus aqua in it than the
other. You should have made it pale yourself, man. But look there. Wot a
go!"

Our attention was attracted to a youth in spectacles, dressed in a rich
plum-coloured coat, on the outside of a dingy-looking, big-headed, brown
nag, which he was flogging and cramming along the public walk in
front of the "Dolphin," in the most original and ludicrous manner. We
presently recognised him as one of our fellow-passengers of the previous
day, respecting whom Jorrocks and I had had a dispute as to whether he
was a Frenchman or a German. His equestrian performances decided the
point. I never in all my life witnessed such an exhibition, nor one in
which the performer evinced such self-complacency. Whether he had ever
been on horseback before or not I can't tell, but the way in which he
went to work, using the bridle as a sort of rattle to frighten the horse
forward, the way in which he shook the reins, threw his arms about, and
belaboured the poor devil of an animal in order to get him into a canter
(the horse of course turning away every time he saw the blow coming),
and the free, unrestrained liberty he gave to his head, surpassed
everything of the sort I ever saw, and considerably endangered the lives
of several of His Majesty's lieges that happened to be passing.
Instead of getting out of their way, Frenchmanlike, he seemed to think
everything should give way to an equestrian; and I saw him scatter a
party of ladies like a covey of partridges, by riding slap amongst them,
and not even making the slightest apology or obeisance for the rudeness.
There he kept, cantering (or cantering as much as he could induce the
poor rip to do) from one end of the town to the other, conceiving, I
make not the slightest doubt, that he was looked upon with eyes of
admiration by the beholders. He soon created no little sensation, and
before he was done a crowd had collected near the Pier Hotel, to see him
get his horse past (it being a Pier Hotel nag) each time; and I heard
a primitive sort of postman, who was delivering the few letters that
arrive in the place, out of a fish-basket, declare "that he would sooner
kill a horse than lend it to such a chap." Having fretted his hour away,
the owner claimed the horse, and Monsieur was dismounted.

After surveying the back of the town, we found ourselves rambling in
some beautiful picturesque fields in the rear. Kent is a beautiful
county, and the trimly kept gardens, and the clustering vines twining
around the neatly thatched cottages, remind one of the rich, luxuriant
soil and climate of the South. Forgetting that we were in search of sea
breezes, we continued to saunter on, across one field, over one stile
and then over another, until after passing by the side of a snug-looking
old-fashioned house, with a beautifully kept garden, the road took a
sudden turn and brought us to some parkish-looking well-timbered ground
in front, at one side of which Jorrocks saw something that he swore was
a kennel.

"I knows a hawk from a hand-saw," said he, "let me alone for that. I'll
swear there are hounds in it. Bless your heart, don't I see a gilt fox
on one end, and a gilt hare on the other?"

Just then came up a man in a round fustian jacket, to whom Jorrocks
addressed himself, and, as good luck would have it, he turned out to be
the huntsman (for Jorrocks was right about the kennel), and away we went
to look at the hounds. They proved to be Mr. Collard's, the owner of
the house that we had just passed, and were really a very nice pack of
harriers, consisting of seventeen or eighteen couple, kept in better
style (as far as kennel appearance goes) than three-fourths of the
harriers in England. Bird, the huntsman, our cicerone, seemed a regular
keen one in hunting matters, and Jorrocks and he had a long confab about
the "noble art of hunting," though the former was rather mortified to
find on announcing himself as the "celebrated Mr. Jorrocks" that Bird
had never heard of him before.

After leaving the kennel we struck across a few fields, and soon found
ourselves on the sea banks, along which we proceeded at the rate of
about two miles an hour, until we came to the old church of Reculvers.
Hard by is a public-house, the sign of the "Two Sisters," where, having
each taken a couple of glasses of ale, we proceeded to enjoy one of the
(to me at least) greatest luxuries in life--viz. that of lying on the
shingle of the beach with my heels just at the water's edge.

The day was intensely hot, and after occupying this position for about
half an hour, and finding the "perpendicular rays of the sun" rather
fiercer than agreeable, we followed the example of a flock of sheep, and
availed ourselves of the shade afforded by the Reculvers. Here for a
short distance along the beach, on both sides, are small breakwaters,
and immediately below the Reculvers is one formed of stake and matting,
capable of holding two persons sofa fashion. Into this Jorrocks and
I crept, the tide being at that particular point that enabled us to
repose, with the water lashing our cradle on both sides, without dashing
high enough to wet us.

"Oh, but this is fine!" said J----, dangling his arm over the side, and
letting the sea wash against his hand. "I declare it comes fizzing up
just like soda-water out of a bottle--reminds me of the lush-crib. By
the way, Mr. Yorkshireman, I heard some chaps in our inn this morning
talking about this werry place, and one of them said that there used
to be a Roman station, or something of that sort, at it. Did you know
anything of them 'ere ancient Romans? Luxterous dogs, I understand.
If Mr. Nimrod was here now he could tell us all about them, for, if I
mistake not, he was werry intimate with some of them--either he or his
father, at least."

A boat that had been gradually advancing towards us now run on shore,
close by where we were lying, and one of the crew landed with a jug to
get some beer. A large basket at the end attracted Jorrocks's attention,
and, doglike, he got up and began to hover about and inquire about their
destination of the remaining crew, four in number. They were a cockney
party of pleasure, it seemed, going to fish, for which purpose they had
hired the boat, and laid in no end of bait for the fish, and prog for
themselves. Jorrocks, though no great fisherman (not having, as he says,
patience enough), is never at a loss if there is plenty of eating; and
finding that they had got a great chicken pie, two tongues, and a tart,
agreed to pay for the boat if they would let us in upon equal terms with
themselves as to the provender, which was agreed to without a debate.
The messenger having returned with a gallon of ale, we embarked, and
away we slid through the "glad waters of the dark blue sea." It was
beautifully calm, scarcely a breeze appearing on the surface. After
rowing for about an hour, one of the boatmen began to adjust the lines
and bait the hooks; and having got into what he esteemed a favourite
spot, he cast anchor and prepared for the sport. Each man was prepared
with a long strong cord line, with a couple of hooks fastened to the
ends of about a foot of whalebone, with a small leaden plummet in the
centre. The hooks were baited with sandworms, and the instructions given
were, after sounding the depth, to raise the hooks a little from the
bottom, so as to let them hang conveniently for the fish to swallow.
Great was the excitement as we dropped the lines overboard, as to who
should catch the first whale. Jorrocks and myself having taken the
fishermen's lines from them, we all met upon pretty equal terms, much
like gentlemen jockeys in a race. A dead silence ensued. "I have one!"
cried the youngest of our new friends. "Then pull him up," responded one
of the boatmen, "gently, or you'll lose him." "And so I have, by God!
he's gone." "Well, never mind," said the boatmen, "let's see your
bait--aye, he's got that, too. We'll put some fresh on--there you are
again--all right. Now drop it gently, and when you find you've hooked
him, wind the line quickly, but quietly, and be sure you don't jerk
the hook out of his mouth at starting." "I've got one!" cries
Jorrocks--"I've got one--now, my wig, if I can but land him. I have him,
certainly--by Jove! he's a wopper, too, judging by the way he kicks. Oh,
but it's no use, sir--come along--come along--here he is--doublets, by
crikey--two, huzza! huzza! What fine ones!--young haddocks or codlings,
I should call them--werry nice eating, I dare say--I'm blow'd if this
arn't sport." "I have one," cries our young friend again. "So have I,"
shouts another; and just at the same moment I felt the magic touch of
my bait, and in an instant I felt the thrilling stroke. The fish were
absolutely voracious, and we had nothing short of a miraculous draught.
As fast as we could bait they swallowed, and we frequently pulled them
up two at a time. Jorrocks was in ecstasies. "It was the finest sport he
had ever encountered," and he kept halloaing and shouting every time
he pulled them up, as though he were out with the Surrey. Having just
hooked a second couple, he baited again and dropped his line. Two of our
new friends had hooked fish at the same instant, and, in their eagerness
to take them, overbalanced the boat, and Jorrocks, who was leaning over,
went head foremost down into the deeps!

       *       *       *       *       *


A terrible surprise came over us, and for a second or two we were so
perfectly thunderstruck as to be incapable of rendering any assistance.
A great splash, followed by a slight gurgling sound, as the water
bubbled and subsided o'er the place where he went down, was all that
denoted the exit of our friend. After a considerable dive he rose to the
surface, minus his hat and wig, but speedily disappeared. The anchor
was weighed, oars put out, and the boat rowed to the spot where he last
appeared. He rose a third time, but out of arms' reach, apparently
lifeless, and just as he was sinking, most probably for ever, one of the
men contrived to slip the end of an oar under his arm, and support him
on the water until he got within reach from the boat.

The consternation when we got him on board was tremendous! Consisting,
as we did, of two parties, neither knowing where the other had come
from, we remained in a state of stupefied horror, indecision, and
amazement for some minutes. The poor old man lay extended in the bottom
of the boat, apparently lifeless, and even if the vital spark had not
fled, there seemed no chance of reaching Herne Bay, whose pier, just
then gilded by the rich golden rays of the setting sun, appeared in
the far distance of the horizon. Where to row to was the question. No
habitation where effective succour could be procured appeared on the
shore, and to proceed without a certain destination was fruitless.
How helpless such a period as this makes a man feel! "Let's make for
Grace's," at length exclaimed one of the boatmen, and the other catching
at the proposition, the head of the boat was whipped round in an
instant, and away we sped through the glassy-surfaced water. Not a word
broke upon the sound of the splashing oars until, nearing the shore, one
of the men, looking round, directed us to steer a little to the right,
in the direction of a sort of dell or land-break, peculiar to the Isle
of Thanet; and presently we ran the head of the boat upon the shingle,
just where a small rivulet that, descending from the higher grounds,
waters the thickly wooded ravine, and discharges itself into the sea.
The entrance of this dell is formed by a lofty precipitous rock, with a
few stunted overhanging trees on one side, while the other is more open
and softened in its aspect, and though steep and narrow at the mouth,
gently slopes away into a brushwood-covered bank, which, stretching up
the little valley, becomes lost in a forest of lofty oaks that close the
inland prospect of the place. Here, to the left (just after one gets
clear of the steeper part), commanding a view of the sea, and yet almost
concealed from the eye of a careless traveller, was a lonely hut (the
back wall formed by an excavation of the sandy rock) and the rest of
clay, supporting a wooden roof, made of the hull of a castaway wreck,
the abode of an old woman, called Grace Ganderne, well known throughout
the whole Isle of Thanet as a poor harmless secluded widow, who
subsisted partly on the charity of her neighbours, and partly on what
she could glean from the smugglers, for the assistance she affords them
in running their goods on that coast; and though she had been at work
for forty years, she had never had the misfortune to be detected in the
act, notwithstanding the many puncheons of spirits and many bales of
goods fished out of the dark woods near her domicile.

To this spot it was, just as the "setting sun's pathetic light" had been
succeeded by the grey twilight of the evening, that we bore the body
of our unfortunate companion. The door was closed, but Grace being
accustomed to nocturnal visitors, speedily answered the first summons
and presented herself. She was evidently of immense age, being nearly
bowed double, and her figure, with her silvery hair, confined by a blue
checked cotton handkerchief, and palsied hand, as tremblingly she rested
upon her staff and eyed the group, would have made a subject worthy of
the pencil of a Landseer. She was wrapped in an old red cloak, with
a large hood, and in her ears she wore a pair of long gold-dropped
earrings, similar to what one sees among the Norman peasantry--the gift,
as I afterwards learned, of a drowned lover. After scrutinising us for a
second or two, during which time a large black cat kept walking to and
fro, purring and rubbing itself against her, she held back the door
and beckoned us to enter. The little place was cleanly swept up, and
a faggot and some dry brushwood, which she had just lighted for
the purpose of boiling her kettle, threw a gleam of light over the
apartment, alike her bedchamber, parlour, and kitchen. Her curtainless
bed at the side, covered with a coarse brown counterpane, was speedily
prepared for our friend, into which being laid, our new acquaintances
were dispatched in search of doctors, while the boatman and myself,
under the direction of old Grace, applied ourselves to procuring such
restoratives as her humble dwelling afforded.

"Let Grace alone," said the younger of the boatmen, seeing my affliction
at the lamentable catastrophe, "if there be but a spark of life in the
gentleman, she'll bring him round--many's the drowning man--aye, and
wounded one, too--that's been brought in here during the stormy nights,
and after fights with the coast-guard--that she's recovered."

Hot bottles, and hot flannels, and hot bricks were all applied, but in
vain; and when I saw hot brandy, too, fail of having the desired effect,
I gave my friend up as lost, and left the hut to vent my grief in the
open air. Grace was more sanguine and persevering, and when I returned,
after a half-hour's absence, I could distinctly feel a returning pulse.
Still, he gave no symptoms of animation, and it might only be the effect
produced by the applications--as he remained in the same state for
several hours. Fresh wood was added to the fire, and the boatmen having
returned to their vessel, Grace and I proceeded to keep watch during
the night, or until the arrival of a doctor. The poor old body, to whom
scenes such as this were matter of frequent occurrence, seemed to think
nothing of it, and proceeded to relate some of the wonderful escapes and
recoveries she had witnessed, in the course of which she dropped many
a sigh to the memory of some of her friends--the bold smugglers. There
were no such "braw lads" now as formerly, she said, and were it not that
"she was past eighty, and might as weel die in one place as anither,
she wad gang back to the bonny blue hulls (hills) of her ain canny
Scotland."

In the middle of one of her long stories I thought I perceived a
movement of the bedclothes, and, going to look, I found a considerable
increase in the quickness of pulsation, and also a generous sort of glow
upon the skin. "An' ded I no tell ye I wad recover him?" said she, with
a triumphant look. "Afore twa mair hours are o'er he'll spak to ye." "I
hope so, I'm sure," said I, still almost doubting her. "Oh, trust to
me," said she, "he'll come about--I've seen mony a chiel in a mickle
worse state nor him recovered. Pray, is the ould gintleman your father
or your grandfather?"

_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