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."