CHAPTER XXXVII

MR. JORROCKS’S JOURNAL

We learn from the above veracious record, that when our worthy friend arrived at home after the foregoing memorable day, he found how it was that the prophet Gabriel Junks, the peacock, was not in the garden when he went to consult him about the weather. Among other letters, a highly musked, superfine satin cream-laid paper one lay on his table, from no less a man than Doctor Sebastian Mello, complaining in no measured tones of Gabriel having killed Mello’s fine white Dorking cock.

“Humph!” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, throwing it down, “that ’counts for the bird not bein’ forthcomin’ this mornin’. Wot business has he out of his own shop, I wonder?” Fearing, on second thoughts, that Mello might try to make him pay for him, and that too at the rate of the mania price for poultry, Mr. Jorrocks thought it best to traverse the killing altogether, which accordingly he did by the following answer:—

“M.F.H. John Jorrocks presents his compliments to Dr. Sebastian Mello, and is much surprised to receive a note complaining of the M.F.H.’s peacock, Gabriel Junks, havin’ slain the Doctor’s dung-’ill cock. The M.F.H. thinks the Doctor must be mistaken. The M.F.H. cannot bring himself to think that Gabriel with his ’igh and chivalrous feelins, would condescend to do battle with such an unworthy adversary as a dung-’ill cock. Nevertheless, the M.F.H. begs to assure the Doctor of his distinguished consideration.

“Diana Lodge.”

And having despatched Ben with it, and given him instructions to find out, if he could, whether anyone saw the bird at work, Mr. Jorrocks proceeded to make the following entry in his journal:—

“Letter from Bowker, requesting the loan of a £50. Stock been seized for rent and arrears,—seems to be always gettin’ seized;—no interest paid on former fifty yet. Queer chap, Bill, with his invoices, and flash of supplyin’ the trade, when £50 was all he set up with, and that I had to lend him—Never chop-fallen, seemingly, with all his executions and misfortunes.—Writes,

“ ‘I had a rum go in a ’buss on Saturday. Streets being sloppy, and wantin’ to go to my snuff-merchant in the Minories, I got into a ’buss at the foot of Holborn Hill, and seated myself next a pretty young woman with a child in her arms. Stopping at Bow Church, she asked if I’d have the kindness to hold the babby for a minute, when out she got, and cut down the court as hard as ever she could go. On went the ’buss, and I saw I was in for a plant. A respectable old gentleman, in black shorts and a puddingey white tie, sat opposite; and as the ’buss pulled up at the Mansion-house, I said, ‘Perhaps you’d have the kindness to hold the babby for a minute, while I alight;’ and popping it into his lap, I jumped out, making for Bucklersbury, threading all the courts in my line till I got back to Lincoln’s Inn.’

“Sharp of Bill;—deserves £50 for his ’cuteness. May as well lend it on an ‘I. O. U.,’ for it’s no use throwin’ good money after bad by usin’ a stamp.”

While our master was thus writing, Ben returned with the following minute account of Gabriel Junks’ transaction from the refined Mr. Sebastian Mello himself:—

“Sir,—I am surprised that you should contradict my assertion respecting your cock having killed my white Dorking fowl, on no better grounds than mere supposition. I tell you he did kill my cock. He passed through the Apollo Belvidere gardens and perched on one of the balls at my back gates, as if the place were his own. When my maid, Maria, fed the fowls, he flew among them, and because my cock resented the intrusion he killed him on the spot; and then his master adds insult to injury, by saying he does not believe it. These sort of manners may be very well for the City, but they won’t do for civilized life. I may take this opportunity of observing that you are very indecorous in your general proceedings. The day before yesterday you walked your hounds and your servants in scarlet before my windows, and stood there, a thing that I, as a religious man, would not have had done for ten sovereigns. I desire you will not do so again.

“Sulphur Wells Hall.”

To which Mr. Jorrocks makes a “Mem.—To take ’orns as well as ’ounds next time, and blow before his house— a beggar.”

The next entry of importance is the following:—

“Had Fleecey to see how the cat jumps in the money department. Sharp chap, Fleecey—manages to keep the expenses up to the receipts, what with earth-stoppin’, damage, cover rent, and law bills. Wanted to take credit for receivin’ no salary. Axed him what his bills were? Said public officers always had a fixed salary besides their bills. Had twenty-five pounds a-year from the Mount Sion Turnpike-road. Told him I knew nothin’ about ’pikes, but if he did not get me all arrears of subscription in by New Year’s Day I’d be my own sec., and save both his law bills and his salary.

“Read the Life—good letter on bag foxes.

“ ‘BAG FOXES.

“ ‘To the Editor of Bell’s Life in London.

“ ‘Sir,—As your journal is a sporting one, and unquestionably the first in the kingdom, I am very sorry frequently to see in it accounts of runs with bagged foxes. You, sir, who are so well acquainted with the sports of the field, must know what a very difficult thing it is to show sport with fox-hounds, and that very much of that difficulty arises from the almost entire impracticability of preserving foxes, occasioned in great measure by their being stolen and sold to hunters of bagged foxes. It matters not if the animal is turned out before hounds in a country where no regular fox-hounds are kept, the crime (in a sporting sense) and the evil done are always the same. I am sure you will acknowledge that fox-hunting is, of all others, the noblest of English sports, and cannot doubt that a moment’s consideration will show you, that your publishing accounts of runs with bagged foxes is giving a tacit approval of that practice (I will not term it sport). Should you, upon consideration, decline publishing accounts of any more of these runs, you will have the hearty thanks of every real sportsman, and you will show that you are determined that the character of your journal shall be that of The Sporting Chronicle of England.

“Waterbury Turnpike.—’Pikes are better for meetin’ at than publics. Gabriel Junks began screamin’ at daybreak; so put on my old hat and coat, ditto boots, and breeches.—Began to drop just as we left kennel. Useful bird Junks, to be sure,—no pack perfect without a peacock!—the most ’arden’d minister dirsn’t tax a peacock. Reg’lar downpour by the time we got to the ’pike. Duncan Nevin’s screws out as usual; and a groom in twilled fustian, with a green neckcloth, and a cockade in his ’at, leadin’ some rips up and down the road for soger officers. Home at one—wet as water. Paid for catchin’ my ’oss, 1s.”

“Turtle soup day. Roger Swizzle dined and got glorious;—says the true way to be healthy is to live freely and well.—Believes he has cured more people of indigestion than any man goin’.—Thinks Mello a cantin’ humbug.—Wishes he could ride, that he might hunt; subscribes twenty-five guineas to the ’ounds since I got them—pays too.—Showed him Mello’s letters.—Says the open in front of Sulphur Wells Hall is public property, and I may kick up whatever row I like upon it.—Will write to Bowker to send a company of mountebanks down to perform there.”

Passing over some intermediate matter, chiefly about horses that people sent for him to look at, believing on the strength of his lecture that he would not require them to be warranted—a supposition that they found themselves mistaken in—we come to the following entry about a gentleman with whom we shall presently have the pleasure of making the reader acquainted.

“Most purlite letter from a gentleman signin’ himself Marmaduke Muleygrubs, J.P., sayin’ that being a country gentleman, and anxious to do wot is right, he should be ’appy to encourage the ’unt, and would be glad if I would fix a day for dinin’ at Cockolorum Hall, and let the hounds meet before it the next mornin’.”

To which Mr. Jorrocks replied as follows:—

“M.F.H. John Jorrocks presents his compliments to Mr. Marmaduc Muleygrubs, and in reply to his purlite favour duly received, begs to say that he will be ’appy to dine and sleep at Cockolorum Hall as soon as ever his other ’unting arrangements will enable him to meet on that side of the country; and that with regard to the subscription so ’andsomely promised to his ’ounds, it can be paid either to his credit at Bullock and Hulker’s in the Strand, or to the M.F.H.’s account at Stumpey and Co.’s here—

The few next days disclose no feature of general interest—found, lost, killed, lost, found, killed, &c., being the burthen of the journal, so we omit them altogether.

“Letter from Bowker, brimful of gratitude for the loan of 50l.” This letter being pasted into the journal, we give the greater part of it, containing, as it does, some further particulars of Bowker’s badger-baiting friend.

“You will be sorry to hear,” says he to Mr. Jorrocks, “that the Slender is found guilty, and ordered to be scragged on Monday morning, for though they have not found the exciseman, the jury found Billy guilty. Poor Slender! I’ve known him long, and safely can I aver that a nobler fellow never breathed. He combined many callings: bear and badger-baiter, dog-fancier, which has been unhandsomely interpreted into fancy gentlemen that fancy other people’s dogs, horse-slaughterer, private distiller, and smasher.¹ About five years ago he was nearly caught at the latter work. Sitting, as ‘was his custom always in an afternoon,’ at a public-house in the Hampstead Lane, upon ‘his secure hour,’ two policemen stole. The energetic firmness of Billy’s character was manfully displayed. Seizing a handful of banknotes, which he had in his pocket, he thrust his hand into the fire, and held them there until they were consumed. The flesh peel’d off his fingers.

“He once had a turn with the excisemen before. With his intimates Billy had no deceit, and used to boast that there was summat running under his heaps of old horse-bones that was the marrow of his existence. Well, the Excise strongly suspecting this, sent down a posse comitatus to Copenhagen-fields to bring up Billy’s body. He was busy with a bunch of sporting men at a dog-fight when Miss Aberford² came to give the office. Billy’s mind was soon made up. Sending all his sporting friends into the house, and locking the doors, he unmuzzled his two bears and turned them loose among the officers. The scramble that ensued beggars description. In less than five minutes the red-breasts ³—for it was before the crusher times—were flown. It is a singular fact and says much for the influence of female charms, that Mrs. Aberford could hold and fight the dogs when they were too savage for Billy.

“I always feared Billy’s illegitimate pursuits would lead him into trouble. ‘Master Bowker,’ said he to me one day, ‘Do you want to buy an ’oss cheap?’ ‘Where did you get him, Billy?’ said I. ‘Found him, master,’ said he. ‘As I was coming home on foot from Chiswick, I sees a gig and ’oss a standing all alone in Chiswick Lane—says I, Billy, my boy, you may as well ride as walk—so I driv it home, and now the body o’ the gig’s in the black ditch, the wheels are on my knacker-cart, and I’ve hogged the ’oss’s mane and cut his tail, so that his own master wouldn’t know him.’

“Altogether, Billy has been a queer one, but still hangin’s a hard matter, especially as they have not found the exciseman. Billy may now sport his own joke to Jack Ketch, of ‘Live and let live, as the criminal said to the hangman.’

“Your second letter about the mountebanks is just received—strange, that I should be writing about rope-dancing just as it came. I’ll see what I can do about sending you a troop. We of the sock and buskin do not call them companies. I rather think Polito is down in your part of England, perhaps his wild beasts would answer as well;—beef-eaters, tambourine, &c., would make a grand row before Sanctity Hall. Mello wants flooring. I’ll send him a broken dish by this post, requesting his acceptance of a piece of plate from his London patients. A basket of cats by coach would be a nice present, labelled ‘game.’

The following seems to have been a good run; we take it verbatim from the journal, omitting some matters of no interest:—

“Candid Pigg.—Went with the ’ounds for fear of accidents. Large field, and many strangers. Lots o’ farmers. Mr. Yarnley in a yellow gig. Told us to draw his withey bed first. Trotted down to it, and no sooner were the ’ounds in than out went Reynard at the low end. Sich a fine chap! Bright ruddy coat, with a well-tagged brush. One whisk of his brush, and away he went! Pigg flew a double flight of oak rails, and Bin began to cry as soon as ever he saw them. ’Ounds got well away, and settled to the scent without interruption. Away for Frampton End, and on to Pippen Hall, past Willerton Brake, and up to Snapperton Wood. Here a check let in the roadsters; it was but momentary. Through the wood and away for Lutterworth Bank. Earths open, but Reynard didn’t know them, or hadn’t time to try them—headed about a mile to the north of Lutterworth Spinney by people at a football match, and turned as if for Hollington Dean, taking over the large grass enclosures between that and Reeve’s Mill, bringing the deep race into the line. Pigg blobbed in and out like a water-rat; out on the right side too. Barnington went over head, and his ’oss came out on one side, and he on t’other. Stobbs’ little Yorkshire nag cleared it in his stride; and Captain Shortflat went in and came out with a cart-load of watercress on his back; lost his hat too. Duncan Nevin piloted his pupils down to the bridge, followed by the rest of the field. Fox had run the margin of the race, and we nicked the ’ounds just at the bridge. Man on Stoke Hill holloa’d, and Pigg lifted his ’ounds, the scent bein’ weak from the water. Viewed the fox stealin’ down to the walley below, and Pigg capped them on and ran into the varmint in Tew Great Fields, within a quarter of a mile of Staveston Wood. Finest run wot ever was seen! Time, one hour and twenty-five minutes, with only one check. Distance, from p’int to p’int, twelve miles. As they ran, from fifteen to twenty. Many ’osses tired. Pigg rode young May’s ’oss, Young Hyson, and went well—worth his £30, I think;—shall ax £60 at the end of the season. Barnington got up before the worry, wet, but quite ’appy. Felt somethin’ movin’ in his pocket; put in his hand and pulled out a pike! Fishin’ as well as ’unting. Paid for catchin’ my ’oss twice, 2s.”

“Grumble Corner.—Drew the gorse blank, then to Finmere Diggin’s, crossin’ two or three turnip fields in our line. All blank; smelt werry strong of a trap. Barrack Wood. Found immediately. Away for New-timber Forest; but headed within a quarter of a mile by coursers. Field rather too forrard, or Pigg rather too backward, havin’ got bogged comin’ out of cover. Came up in a desperate rage, grinnin’ and swearin’ as he went. Barnington in front; swore at him just as he would at a three-punder. The idea of swearin’ at a gen’leman wot gives £50 a year to the ’ounds! Made nothin’ more of the fox. Came on rain, and give in at two. Lectored Pigg for swearin’ at a large payin’ subscriber. Paid for catchin’ my ’oss 6d.”

The following bunch of anathemas seem to have been produced by Mr. Jorrocks being brought up short by a double ditch, with a fence most unjustifiably mended with old wire-rope, whereby our energetic master lost another of the “finest runs wotever was seen,” from Screecher Gorse to earth at Sandford Banks—time and distance, anything that anybody liked to call it.

Con—found all farmers say I, wot deal in double ditches!

Con—found all farmers say I, wot mend their fences with old wire-rope!

Con—found all farmers say I, wot don’t keep their gates in good order!

Con—found all farmers say I, wot are unaccommodatin’ about gaps!

Con—found all farmers say I, wot arn’t flattered by ’aving their fields ridden over!

Con—found all farmers say I, wot grumble at the price o’ grain, and then plough out their grass!

Con—found all farmers say I, wot hobject to ’aving a litter o’ foxes billeted upon them!

Con—found all farmers say I, wot hobject to walkin’ the M.F.H. a pup!

Con—found all farmers say I, wot don’t keep their stock at ’ome, when the ’ounds are out!

Con—found all farmers say I, wot let their ’erds keep a cur!

Con—found all farmers say I, wot ’aven’t a round o’ beef or a cold pork pie to pull out, when the ’ounds pass!

Con—found all farmers say I, wot ’aven’t a tap of good “October” to wash them down with!

¹Coiner, or passer of forged notes.

²Billy’s daughter. The name of this singular man was Aberford.

³The Bow Street officers of former days wore red waistcoats.