CHAPTER XXX
SERVING UP A HUNT DINNER
THE important night drew on, and with it the cares and excitement of a double event. The interests of all hearts and minds were centred in that day. None looked beyond. The dinner and dance formed the boundary of their mental horizon. At an early hour in the afternoon numerous rural vehicles came jingling into Handley Cross, with the mud of many counties on their wheels. Here was Squire Jorum’s, the chairman of quarter sessions, green chariot, with fat Mrs. Jorum and three fat little Miss Jorums crammed inside, young Mr. Jorum having established himself alongside a very antediluvian-looking coachman, in dark drab, with a tarnished gold band on a new hat, who vainly plied the thong and crop of a substantial half pig-driver, half horse-breaker’s whip, along the ribs and hind-quarters of a pair of very fat, square-tailed, heavy, rough-coated, coarse-headed, lumbering nags, to induce them to trot becomingly into the town. Imperials, a cap-box, a maid in the rumble, all ensconced in band-boxes, proclaim their destiny for that day. Captain Slasher, with a hired barouche and four black screws, all jibbing and pulling different ways—the barouche full of miscellaneous foot cornets in plain clothes (full of creases of course), dashes down East Street, and nearly scatters his cargo over the road, by cutting it fine between Squire Jorum’s carriage and the post. A yellow dennet passes by, picked out with chalk, mud, and black stripes: two polar bear-looking gentlemen, in enormous pea-jackets, plentifully be-pocketed, with large wooden buttons, are smoking cigars and driving with a cane-handled hunting-whip. Then a “yellow,” with the driver sitting on the cross-bar, whose contents, beyond a bonnet and a hat, are invisible, in consequence of the window having more wood than glass in its composition, works its way up, and in its turn is succeeded by another private carriage with a pair of posters.
Then there was such a ringing of bells, calling of waiters, cursing of chambermaids, and blasting of poots, at the various hotels, in consequence of the inability of the houses to swell themselves into three times their size, to accommodate the extraordinary influx of guests. “Very sorry, indeed,” says Mr. Snubbins, the landlord of the “Dragon,” twisting a dirty duster round his thumb, “very sorry, indeed, sir,” speaking to a red-faced, big-whiskered head, thrust out of a carriage window, “we are full to the attics—not a shake-down or sofa unoccupied; can get you a nice lodging out, if you like—very comfortable.”
“D— your comfortables, you lying thief!—do you suppose I can’t do that for myself? Well, if ever you catch me coming to your house again I hope I may be—” The wish was lost by some one pulling the irate gentleman back into his chaise, and after a short parley inside, during which three reasonable single gentlemen applied to Mr. Snubbins for the accommodation of a room amongst them to dress in for dinner, the boy was ordered to drive on, and make the grand tour of the inns.
Weary, most weary were the doings at the “Dragon.” Ring a ding, ding a ding dong, went the hostler’s bell at the gate; “Room for a carriage and pair?”
“Whose o’ it?”
“Mrs. Grout’s!”
“No, quite full!” The hostler muttering to himself, “Mrs. Grouts and two feeds—sixpence for hostler.” Ring a ding, ding a ding, ding a ding dong. Hostler again—“Coming out!” “Who now?” “Squire Gooseander! four posters, piping hot, white lather, boys beery, four on to Hollinshall, bait there, back to hall—sixpence a mile for good driving—out they come—there’s your ticket—pay back and away.”
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, went a little bell, as though it would never stop.
“Waiter!” roared a voice from the top of the house, that came like a crash of thunder after the insignificant precursor, “am I to ring here all day? Where’s the boots? I sent him for a barber an hour ago, and here I’ve been starving in my shirt-sleeves ever since.”
“Now, Jane, Miss Tramp wants her shoes.”
“Where’s the chambermaid?” exclaimed a gentleman rushing half frantic down-stairs; “here’s a man got into my room and swears he will dress in it.”
“Oh! I begs pardon, sir,” replied the chambermaid, trying to smooth him over, “we really are so full, sir, and I didn’t think you’d be coming in so soon, sir.”
“Waiter! somebody has changed my place at dinner! I was next Mr. Walter Dale, and now they’ve put me below Mr. Barker—between him and Mr. Alcock. Who the devil’s done it?”
“Boots! Porter! Boots! run down to Mr. Ingledew the tailor’s—you know him, don’t you? Corner of Hill Street—just as you turn off the esplanade; and tell him he’s sent me the wrong coat. Not half the size of my own—more like a strait-jacket than anything else. And here! desire Mrs. Kirton to send some ball gloves for me to try on—lemon colour or white—three-and-six-penny ones.”
“Lauk, I’ve come away and left Miss Eliza’s stockings, I do declare!” exclaims Jemima Thirlwell, Miss Eliza Rippon’s lady’s-maid, pale with fear, “what shall I do? Never was anything so unlucky—just took them to run my hand through and see they were all right, and left them hanging over the back of the chair. Know as well where they are as possible—but what’s the use of that when they are ten miles off?”
“Waiter, what time’s dinner?”
“Five o’clock, sir, and no waiting—Mr. Jorrocks swears he’ll take the chair at five precisely, whether it’s served or not,” adds the waiter, with a grin.
Then there was such work in the kitchen—Susan Straker, the cook, like all the sisterhood, was short in her temper, and severe and endless were the trials it underwent in consequence of the jingling and tinkling of the bells calling away the chambermaids who were to have assisted her in the kitchen. Then Mr. Jorrocks deranged her whole system by insisting upon having a sucking pig and roast goose, that she intended for centre dishes, right under his nose at the top of the table; added to which, the fish was late in coming, and there was not half as much macaroni in the town as would make an inn dish.
“Now, Jun,” said Mrs. Jorrocks to her loving spouse taking a finishing look of our hero as he emerged from his bedroom in the full dress uniform of his hunt, “see and conduct yourself like a gen’leman and with dignity, and, above all, keep sober—nothing so wulgar or ungenteel as gettin’ intosticated. Belinda and I will call for you at ten minutes before ten, to take you on to the ball; for, in course, it carn’t commence till we come, and it won’t be politeful to keep people waitin’ too long.”
“Jest so,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, adjusting a capacious shirt-frill in the glass. “Binjimin, I say, run and fatch the fly.”
Mr. Jorrocks was uncommonly smart. Sky-blue coat lined with pink satin, finely starched white waistcoat, new canary-coloured shorts, below which stood a pair of splendid calves, encased in gauze white silk stockings, and his feet appeared in shining shoes with silver buckles. At either knee a profusion of white riband dangled in graceful elegance, looking for all the world like wedding favours. Benjamin, notwithstanding his boasting and taunting to Samuel Strong, knew his master too well, and the taste of his whip also, to attempt any of the exclusive tricks in the way of service, he gave himself credit for acting; so settling himself into his frock-coat, and drawing on a pair of clean white Berlins, sufficiently long at the fingers to allow the ends to dribble in the soup-plates, he wiped his nose across his hand, and running away down to the stand, very soon had a fly at the door. Jorrocks stepped in, and Benjamin mounted behind with all the dignity of a seven-foot figure footman. Away they dash to the “Dragon.”
Notwithstanding the descent of a drizzling rain, and the “inclement season of the year,” as newspapers phrase it, there was a crowd of servants, post-boys, beggars, and loiterers hanging about the arched gateway of the “Dragon” to get a sight of our renowned hero alighting from his fly; and great was the rushing and jostling to the door as it drew up. Mr. Snubbins, the landlord, a choleric, round-faced little man, with a snub nose and a pimple on the end of it, had put himself into a white waistcoat, with his best blue coat and black kerseymere shorts, to officiate behind Mr. Jorrocks’s chair, and hearing our master’s name bandied about on his arrival, met him at the foot of the stairs with all becoming respect, and proceeded to conduct him into the waiting-room. There was a strongish muster; but two melancholy mould-candles, in kitchen candlesticks, placed on the centre of a large table, shed such a dismal ray about the room, that little was distinguishable, save a considerable mass of white, and an equally large proportion of a darker colour. Some thirty or forty members of the Hunt, strangers and others, were clustered about, and there was a dull, funeral sort of hum of conversation, interrupted every now and then by the recognition of friends, and the entrance of another arrival into the dingy apartment. Then there was the usual hiding of hats and cloaks—the secretion of umbrellas, goloshes, and sticks, and the expression of hopes that they might be forthcoming when wanted.
Meanwhile the savoury smell of dinner fighting its way up the crowded staircase, in the custody of divers very long-coated post-boys turned waiters, and a most heterogeneous lot of private servants, some in top-boots, some in gaiters, some few in white cotton stockings, and the most out-of-the-way fitting liveries, entered the waiting-room, and the company began to prepare for the rush. All things, soup, fish, joints, vegetables, poultry, pastry, and game, being at length adjusted, and the covers taken off to allow them to cool, Mr. Snubbins borrowed a candle from the low end of the table, and forthwith proceeded to inform Mr. Jorrocks that dinner was served.
Great was the rush! The worthy citizen was carried out of the waiting-room across the landing, and half-way up the dining-room, before he could recover his legs, and he scrambled to his seat at the head of the table, amidst loud cries of “Sir, this is my seat! Waiter, take this person out.”—“Who are you?”—“You’re another!”—“Mind your eye!”—“I will be here!”—“I say you won’t though!”—“That’s my bread!”
Parties at length get wedged in. The clamour gradually subsides into an universal clatter of plates, knives, and forks, occasionally diversified by the exclamation of “Waiter!” or, “Sir, I’ll be happy to take wine with you.” Harmony gradually returns, as the dinner progresses, and ere the chopped cheese makes its appearance, the whole party is in excellent humour. Grace follows cheese, and the “feast of reason” being over, the table is cleared for the “flow of soul.”
A long web of green baize, occasionally interrupted by the inequalities of the various tables, succeeds, and clean glasses with replenished decanters and biscuit plates, for they do not sport dessert, are scattered at intervals along the surface. The last waiter at length takes his departure and eyes begin to turn towards the chair.
“Mr. Wice!” roars Mr. Jorrocks, rising and hitting the table with an auctioneer’s hammer, “Mr. Wice-President, I say!” he repeats, in a louder and more authoritative tone, amid cries of “Chair! chair! order! order! silence! silence!” “I rises,” says he, looking especially important, “to propose a toast, a bumper toast in fact, that I feels confident you will all drink with werry ’earty satisfaction—it is the health of our young, wirtuous, and amiable Queen (applause), a werry proper toast to give at a great sportin’ dinner like this, seein’ as how she is a werry nice little ’ooman, and keeps a pack of stag-’ounds. Gentlemen, I need not tell you that stag-’unting is a sport of great hantiquity, as the curiosity shopkeepers say; but they couldn’t do it in nothin’ like the style in former days that they do now, so in that respects we have the better of the old hancients. Who hasn’t seen Frank Grant’s grand pictor of the meet of the stag-’ounds on Hascot ’Eath? That will tell you how it is done now—French polish, blue satin ties, such as Esau never could sport. That’s a pictor, my bouys, and when I’ve ’unted your country to the satisfaction of you all, as I’ve no manner of doubt at all that I shall, then you subscribe and get Frank to paint me and my ’ounds. And now for the toast,” added Mr. Jorrocks, raising a brimming bumper high in hand: “The Queen and her Stag-’ounds!” Drank with a full and heavy round of applause. After resuming his seat for a few seconds, during which time he conned the next toast in his mind, Mr. Jorrocks rose and called for another bumper, just as Captain Doleful was rising to return thanks on behalf of her Majesty.
“Mr. Wice!” he roared out, “I rise to propose another bumper toast, as big a bumper as the last in fact, and one that I feel conwinced you will all be most ’appy to drink. We have just had the honour of drinking the health of the Queen; there is one near and dear to her Majesty, who, I feels assured, you will not be the less delighted to honour (applause). I need not say that I alludes to the great patron o’ the Woods and Forests, Prince Halbert, the best-lookin’ man i’ the country.” (Drank with immense applause—one cheer more—Huzzah!)
Mr. Jorrocks being an expert chairman, from frequent practice at “free-and-easys,” went on pretty briskly at starting, and the company had hardly drained their glasses, and got settled after cheering, before his hammer was at work again, and he called for another bumper toast.
Having given “The Prince of Whales,” as he called him, and “the rest of the Royal Family,” “Gentlemen,” said he, rising, glass in hand, “I have now to propose to your favourable consideration an important branch o’ British diwersion, and one for which this country long has, and ever will stand most howdaciously conspicuous (cheers). I allude to the noble sport of racin’ ” (“Hear, hear, hear,” from Mr. Strider, and a slight jingling of glasses from friends in his neighbourhood). “Gentlemen, racin’ is a sport of great hantiquity, so old, in fact, that I carn’t go back to the time when it commenced. It is owin’ to racin’ and the turf that we now possess our superior breed of ’osses, who not only amuse the poor people wot carn’t afford to hunt, by their runnin’, but so improve our breed of cavalry, as enables us to lick the world (cheers). I am sure, gentlemen, you will all agree that racin’ is one of the noblest and most delightful sports goin’, and honoured as we are, this evenin’, by the presence of one of the brightest hornaments o’ the British turf” (Mr. Jorrocks looking most insinuatingly down the table at Strider, as much as to say, “That will do you, my boy”), “I feels assured I need only couple with the turf the popular name of Strider (loud cheers), to insure a burst of hearty and enthusiastic applause.” Jorrocks was right in his surmise, for no sooner was the name pronounced, than there was such a thumping of the baize-covered tables, such a kicking of the floor, and such a shouting and clapping of hands, that the concluding words of his speech were audible only to the reporter, who was accommodated with a small round table and a large bottle of port immediately behind the chair.
Strider was rightly named Strider, for he was an immensely tall, telescopic kind of man, so tall that he might pass for the author of Longfellow’s poems, who now drew himself out from under the table as though he was never going to end. He had a frightful squint, so that when meant to look at the chair, one eye appeared settled half-way down the table, and the other seemed to rest upon the ceiling. He was dressed in a round, racing, cut-away coat with basket buttons, drab trousers, and a buff waistcoat, with a striped neck-cloth. He had made money by racing—if honestly, he was a much belied man—but as he spent it freely, and not one man in a hundred cares to ask how it comes, Strider was popular in his neighbourhood.
“He felt deeply sensible of the honour that had been done him by their distinguished chairman and that great meeting, not only by the manner in which his health had been proposed, but for the handsome compliment that had been paid to the great national and all-enjoyable sport of racing, which he felt assured required no recommendation from him, as no one could partake of it once without being fully convinced of its infinite superiority and worth. He was happy to see that his humble exertions in the great and good cause had not been altogether thrown away, for, in the list of races for next year, he saw many names that had never been put down before, and having now got a master of hounds whose name was closely associated with everything that was sporting and popular, he made no doubt things would proceed in a true railway style of progression, and the name of Jorrocks would be followed by every well-wisher to that noble animal, the horse. The list of Hashem races for the next year he would take the liberty of handing up to the chair,” producing, as he spoke, a long, half-printed, half-manuscript sheet from his coat-pocket, “and, in conclusion, he had only to repeat his most grateful thanks for the very distinguished honour they had conferred upon him.”
Thereupon three-quarters of the orator disappeared under the table—the list passed quickly up, for no one ventured to look at it, lest a subscription should be inferred, and on its reaching the president, he very coolly folded it up and put it in his pocket. Mr. Strider looked all ways except straight at Mr. Jorrocks, who very complacently proceeded with his list of toasts. “Gentlemen,” cried he, getting up again, “Mr. Wice-President and gentlemen!” he exclaimed; “the next toast is one that I feels assured you will drink with werry great satisfaction, and in a full bumper, with all the honours—it is the health of a gentleman now present, who, though no fox-’unter himself—the more’s the pity—is nevertheless a real friend to the sport, and not one of your selfish warmints wot destroys foxes because he does not care about Talli-hoing himself, but, with most trumpish consideration, does his best to promote the sport of his friends and neighbours, thereby settin’ an example worthy of imitation by all, both great and small (cheers). When I say it’s the health of a gentleman wot gives a brace of covers, free gratis, all for nothin’, to our ’unt, your percussion imaginations will readily supply the name of Yarnley (loud applause); and I propose we drink in a full bumper the health of Mr. Yarnley, and proprietors of covers, and promoters of fox-’unting.” This toast was drunk with very great applause, and some seconds elapsed before silence was restored. Mr. Yarnley then rose.
He, too, was a tallish man, but coming after Strider he looked less than he really was, added to which, a frock coat (sky blue, with pink lining) rather detracted from his height; his face was long and red, his nose very short and thick, and his hair very straight. “Mr. President and gentlemen!” said he, very slowly, fixing his eyes steadily on a biscuit-plate before him, “for the honour you have done me—hem—in drinking my health—hem—I beg—hem—to return you—hem—my most sincere thanks—hem—and, gentlemen, I can only say—hem—that I have always been a friend—hem—to fox-’unting—hem (cheers)—and I always shall be a friend to fox-’unting, gentlemen (cheers)—which I am sure is a most agreeable sport (cheers)—hem, hem—and, gentlemen, I hope you will always find foxes in my covers—hem (applause)—for I can only say, gentlemen, that I do preserve foxes, gentlemen—hem (renewed applause)—and I always have preserved foxes, gentlemen—hem, hem—” when Yarnley, seeming about brought up, the company cheered, and drinking off his heel-taps, he concluded with saying, “and, gentlemen, I always will preserve foxes!”
“Mr. Wice-President,” roared Mr. Jorrocks, above the clamour that now began to prevail, as tongues became loosened with the juice of the grape, “Mr. Wice-President, having drank the first of all sports, let us not forget another werry pleasant branch of ’unting that many delight in who cannot partake of the other, and which is useful as well as pleasant—I mean ’are-’unting; it is a werry nice, lady-like amusement; and though we have had no ’are-soup at dinner, I makes no doubt we have some werry keen ’are-’unters at table for all that. I begs to give you ‘’Are-’unting and the merry Dotfield ’Arriers.’ ”
While Mr. Jorrocks was delivering himself of this eloquence, an evident uneasiness prevailed among divers fat, ruddy-faced members of the Dotfield Hunt, chiefly dressed in single-breasted green coats with bright buttons, and drab breeches, with woollen stockings, who were scattered among the company, as to who should acknowledge the honour that was done their calling, and gradually they turned to a sportsman near Mr. Jorrocks, one of the many masters who, bolder than the rest, returned thanks in a dribbling, cold-hunting sort of speech, while some dozen stood up to signify their approbation of the sentiments of the speaker, and their sense of the honour that had been individually done them.
Coursing followed hare-hunting, according to previous arrangement, which Mr. Jorrocks described as a fine useful sport, and expatiated largely on the merits of “ ’are-soup” and “jugged ’are.”
Captain Couples briefly acknowledged the honour.
Doleful now began twisting his face into a variety of contortions as the time approached for him to let off his cut-and-dried speech. He had it in notes under his biscuit-plate, at least all the long words he was likely to forget, and now was the time for pouring them upon the company. “Gentlemen!” said he, in a shrill, pennytrumpet sort of voice, hitting the table with his knuckles; “Gentlemen!” he repeated, without drawing the attention of the company to his upright position.
“Silence!” roared Mr. Jorrocks, like Jupiter himself, and the noise was quelled on the instant.
“Gentlemen!” shrieked Captain Doleful, for the third time, “often as it has fallen to my lot to address meetings of my friends and fellow citizens, never, no, never did I rise with feelings of such unmitigated embarrassment and trepidation as I do upon the present occasion, for I rise to take upon myself the high and important honour of offering to one of the most distinguished and enlightened assemblies human being ever addressed (loud cheers) a toast that no tongue can do justice in proposing, for it is the health of a man whose worth is superior to any form of words the English language is capable of supplying” (immense cheers). “ ’Ookey Valker,” said Mr. Jorrocks in an under-tone. “Gentlemen,” continued Captain Doleful, “deeply conscious as I am of my own unworthiness and incapacity, I would infinitely prefer comprising the toast in the magic name of the gentleman whose health it is, were it not for the honourable and important office of master of the ceremonies of this unrivalled town, which renders it imperative upon me to attempt, however feebly and defectively, a slight portraiture of his unrivalled and surpassing worth (cheers). Gentlemen, whether I regard our great master in his private relation as a friend and delightful companion, or look at him in that resplendent cynosure formed by the mastership of the Handley Cross Fox-hounds, I know not in which character I feel the greatest difficulty and barrenness of expression—the greatest paucity of words, of simile, of fitting comparison (loud cheers). In the one, our estimable chairman is all mildness, like the blessed evening-star; and in the other, all energy and daring, like the lion lord of the forest, rampant for his prey!” (Renewed cheers.) “ ’Ookey Valker,” again said Mr. Jorrocks, blowing his nose. “Unbounded in his liberality—unbounded in his hospitality—unbounded in his urbanity, his private character is equalled only by his public one (loud cheers). They are like rival moons!—opposition suns! (Immense cheers.) But, gentlemen, what boots it for an humble individual like myself to occupy your valuable time (cries of “Go on,” “Go on”) in attempting to do justice to a subject that, as I have already said, is beyond the reach of praise,—above the powers of words to accomplish; let me rather resume the place I humbly occupy at this festive board—resume it at least until my important avocations call me, and you, I hope I may add,” grinning like a death’s head upon the company, “to another and equally enchanting scene; but before I sit down, let me utter the magic words, ‘Health and long life to John Jorrocks!’ ”
The latter words were delivered in something between a screech and a yell, but fortunately the unearthly sound was immediately quelled by the instantaneous rising of the company, who, in the most uproarious manner—some standing on their chairs, others with one leg on a chair and another on the table—roared forth the most deafening discharge of applause that ever was discharged in the “Dragon,” while Mr. Jorrocks sat wondering how long it would last. After a lapse of some minutes, order began to be restored, the company gradually got shuffled into their seats, and, filling himself a brimming bumper of port, Mr. Jorrocks at length rose to return thanks.
“Well, now, dash my vig,” said he, sticking his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, “but frind Miserrimus has buttered me uncommon (laughter and cheers). Never was so reg’larly soaped i’ my life (renewed laughter). A werry little more might have made one doubt his sincerity. I’m the man for all sorts of larks, and no mistake—one that goes the extreme animal—the entire pig—without a doubt. ’Untin’ is the foremost passion of my ’eart! compared with it all others are flat and unprofitable (cheers and laughter). It’s not never of no manner of use ’umbuggin’ about the matter, but there’s no sport fit to hold a candle to fox-’untin’ (cheers from the blue-coated party). Talk of stag-’untin’! might as well ’unt a hass!—see a great lolloppin’ beggar blobbin’ about the market-gardens near London, with a pack of ’ounds at its ’eels, and call that diwersion! My vig, wot a go! (laughter) Puss-’untin’ is werry well for cripples, and those that keep donkeys (renewed cheers from the blues, with angry looks from the green-coated gentry). Blow me tight! but I never sees a chap a trudgin’ along the turnpike, with a thick stick in his ’and, and a pipe in his mouth, but I says to myself, there goes a man well mounted for ’arriers! (immense laughter and uproar continuing for some minutes, in the midst of which many of the green party left the room). I wouldn’t be a master of muggers for no manner of money! (Renewed laughter.) Coursin’ should be made felony! Of all daft devils under the sun, a grey’ound’s the daftest! (Renewed uproar, mingled with applause.—Captain Couples looked unutterable things.) Racing is only for rogues! (Strider squinted frightfully.) I never goes into Tat.’s on a bettin’-day, but I says to myself as I looks at the crowd by the subscription-room door, ‘There’s a nice lot o’ petty-larceny lads! I’d rayther be a black-faced chimley sweep nor a white-faced black-leg!” (Hisses and applause.)
Strider now drew himself from under the table, and shaking a fist towards Mr. Jorrocks, while his eyes looked across, and down, and round the room, everywhere but at the chairman, he stalked off, followed by Couples, and Couples’s son, and a gentleman for whom Couples had paid, and brought in the chaise, amid ironical cheers from the blues, who encouraged Mr. Jorrocks by the most vociferous applause. “Believe me, my beloved bouys,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, perfectly unconscious of the movement or the mischief he was doing, “that ’untin’, ’untin’, ’untin’ is the sport! Oh,” said he, with upturned eyes, “vot a martyr I am to the chase! It makes me perfectly mad,—I dreams about it night after night, and every night. Sometimes I’m tormented with foxes; I fancy I sees them grinnin’ at me from all parts of the bed-curtains, and even sittin’ upon the counterpane; then I kicks them off, and away we all go to the tune of ’eads up and sterns down. Presently I sees Binjimin a ridin’ on a whirlwind, and directin’ the chase; next minute I fancies myself on a pumped-out ’oss, a ’eavin’ and sobbin’ i’ the heavy, not a soul with the ’ounds, who are going away with a fresh fox, just as I sees the ’unted one dead beat, a crawlin’ down an ’edge-row; I outs with my ’orn, and, blow me tight, I carn’t sound it! At another time, a butcher’s bouy, without an ’at, comes tearin’ on a runaway tit, right among the ’ounds, who had thrown up in a lane, and the crashin’ and yellin’ is hawful. Again, I dreams, that jest as the darlin’s are runnin’ into the warmint, all savage and bristlin’ for blood, a flock of sheep cross their line, when every ’ound seizes his mutton; and then I sees a man with a long bill in his ’and, with a lawyer in the distance, makin’ towards me, and then I avakes.
“Oh, gentlemen! gentlemen! none but an ’untsman knows an ’untsman’s cares! But come, never mind; care killed the cat! shan’t kill me—vot’s the toast?” said he, stooping, and looking at his list; “Ah! I sees,” reading to himself in a pretty loud voice, “Doleful, M.C.—great sportsman—pleasant feller. Gen’lemen!” roared he, resuming an erect position, “gen’lemen! pray charge your glasses—bumper-toast—no ’eel-taps, no sky-lights, but reg’lar downright brimmin’ bumpers to the ’ealth of a man wot shall be himmortal! Oh, gen’lemen, if ever it was hutterly unpossible to do the right measure of genteel by any one, it is upon the present most momentous crisis, when I rises to butter a man that is superior to butter—to hoil a man that is Macassar itself. Oh! surely Doleful there,” looking at the vice-chairman, “is a trump, and no mistake (laughter). Whether I looks at him as chief of the fantastic toers, or a leading sportsman of our brilliant ’unt, I doesn’t know which character is the brightest (immense laughter, for all who knew Doleful, knew how perfectly innocent he was of sporting; Doleful himself began to make wry faces). I loves him as a sportsman, though we all know he only ’unts on the sly! but then what a brilliant boy he is in a ball-room! Talkin’ of that, gen’lemen, this is his benefit ball-night, and after we have had our twelve shillings’ worth of liquor, I vote we should each spend a guinea with Miserrimus; no one will grudge that trifle to such a werry pleasant trump—such a werry agreeable cock; and though guineas don’t grow upon gooseberry-bushes, still you must all fork out one to-night, for nobody goes in for less.” Doleful, on hearing Jorrocks put this finishing stroke to his hash, wrung his hands in agony, and rushed out of the room, vowing, as he went downstairs, that Jorrocks was the biggest ass—the greatest fool—the stupidest sinner, that ever came to Handley Cross. “Talliho! gone away!” roared Mr. Jorrocks, as he saw Doleful bolt. “Hark back! hark back!” cried the company; but Doleful was deaf to the rate, and cut away home, half frantic with rage.
“Well,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “as the gen’leman’s hoff, it’s no use i’ finishin’ my oration; so, ’stead of the ’ealth of Old Doleful, I begs to propose, most cordially, that I sit down.”
Our friend then resumed his seat amidst great applause from the blues, and was considering how he could introduce a limping song he had composed in honour of Doleful, when a sudden rush of green and dark coats, headed by Strider, poured noisily into the room, and elbowed their way back to their places. The malcontents had held a consultation, and, advised by Doleful, were come to put their decision into execution.
“Gentlemen!” roared Strider, who had now reached his seat, “gentlemen!” repeated he, standing like the monument, and squinting frightfully, amid cries of “Hear, hear—chair, chair—order, order—go it long ’un!” from adverse parties.—“I rise to propose a resolution,” roared Strider, holding a slip of paper upside down; “I rise to propose a resolution,” now getting the paper the right way for reading, “that I feel assured will be acceptable to the majority of this meeting.—I move (reading) that Jorrocks John is the shabbiest fellow and greatest humbug we ever had at Handley Cross!” And Jorrocks, who had been crouching like a tiger for his spring, immediately rose amid immense uproar, and declared that he would move as an amendment, that “Jorrocks was a brick!” and putting the amendment, he declared that “the ‘bricks’ had it,” whereupon a scene of indescribable confusion ensued, the green coats going in at the blues like bulls, and upsetting some half-dozen of them before they knew where they were, while Jorrocks, getting hold of Strider, dealt a heavy blow in his ribs, and then split his coat up to the collar, just as a green biscuit dish grazed our master’s head and knocked off his wig
Lights were then extinguished, and the company fought their way out of the room as best they could Jorrocks lost a coat-lap, which now flaunts as a banner-screen in Mrs. Royston of the Dotfield Hunt’s drawing-room. And so ended what the veracious “Paul Pry” called “a most convivial evening.”
