CHAPTER XLVIII

MR. JORROCKS’S JOURNAL

We will again have recourse to our worthy friend’s journal for an outline of such proceedings as are not of sufficient importance to demand separate chapters to themselves. The following seems an original idea.

“Notice from the churchwardens and overseers, that in consequence of several mad dogs havin’ made their appearance, all dogs were to be muzzl’d, and requirin’ me to see that the ’ounds were properly muzzl’d before they went out to hunt. Wrote and told them I didn’t believe there were such a set of jackasses in Her Majesty’s dominions as to suppose an M.F.H. would go out with a pack of muzzled hounds.—Absurd! This is Mello’s doing. Will pay him off.

“New Year’s Day.—Sich a crowd! Sich compliments of the season, and sich screws. Old Doleful grinnin’ about on Fair Rosamond like Death on the Pale ’Oss. Found in the Cloud Quarries, but might as well have been in the clouds, the field surrounded it so and drove the fox into the mouth of the ’ounds. A young gentleman in nankeens and patent leather boots, rode over old Barbara. ‘That’s right!’ exclaimed Pigg, ‘ride amang ’em!—ride amang ’em! Kill a hund or two; we’ve plenty mair at hyem! It mun be a poor concern that won’t stand a hund a-day.’ Differ from Pigg there though. Howsomever, old Barbara ain’t worth much. Declared she was the best in the pack notwithstandin’.

“Staunton Snivey.—Batsay brought up shavin’ water, saying Binjimin wished to be excused ’unting, havin’ got the gout. All moonshine, I dare say! Boy has no passion for the chase. Have a good mind to stuff him full of Hunter’s pills, and see if they will have any effect upon him. Wot business has a boy like him with the gout! Only for rear-admirals, town counsellors, and such like cocks. Caught Charley pinchin’ Belinda under the table. Mounted him on Xerxes, as Ben couldn’t go. Largish field. Captain Thompson (who never pays his £3) observed he never saw a pack of fox-hounds without a whip before, and muttered somethin’ about Master livin’ out of the hounds. Shall set Fleecy at him.

“Drew Longford Plantations; then on to Fawsley Wood. Found immediately, but Reynard inclined to hang in cover. No great scent either, but cover surrounded with foot people and little holiday boys. Bin useful in coaxin’ them into crowds, to listen to his ‘hallegations,’ as he calls his lies. At length Reynard broke from the west end, and made straight for Iver Heath, runnin’ a wide circuit by Staunton Snivey, and over the hill up to Bybury Wood. Scent poor and pace bad. All the holiday hobbledehoy boys treadin’ on the ’ounds’ tails. A short check at Farmer Hayband’s, and thought all was over, when Priestess hit it off in a grass field behind the barn, and away they went with the scent improvin’ at every yard. Pace changed from an ’unting run to a reg’lar bust, and quite straight over the cream of the country.

“How the tail lengthened! A quarter of a mile, increasin’ as they went. Young gen’lemen, charged to bring home the brush, found their grass ponies beginnin’ to gape. Captain Shortflat made Duncan Nevin’s mare cry Capevi on Hutton Bank top, and many bein’ anxious to give in, great was the assistance he received. Major Spanker would bleed her in the jugular, Mr. Wells thought the thigh vein, and another thought the toe, so that the mare stood a good chance of bein’ bled to death, if Duncan’s man who was cruising about hadn’t fortinately cast up and saved her from her frinds.

“On the hounds went for Crew, passing Limbury, leaving Argod Dingle to the right, over the Lily-white Sand Railway near the station at Stope, pointing for Gore Cross, the fox finally taking refuge in a pig-sty behind the lodge of Button Park. Piggy at home and unfortunately killed, but who would grudge a pig after such a werry fine run?

“Pigg rode like a trump!—seven falls—knocked a rood of brick-wall down with his ’ead. What a nob that must be! Charley left one of his Yorkshire coat-laps in a hedge—Barnington lost his hat—Hudson his whip—Mr. Ramshay a stirrup, and Captain Martyn his cigar-case. Only seven up out of a field of sixty—day fine and bright—atmosphere clear, as if inclining for frost—hope not.

“Jan. 7th.—Reg’lar decided black frost—country iron-bound—landscape contracted—roads dry as bones—mud scrapins like granite—never saw so sudden a change; thought yesterday it looked like somethin’; the day changed, and hounds ran so hard in the afternoon; Pigg thinks it won’t last, but I think it will; ’opes he’ll be right.

“8th.—Frost semper $$$, ’arder and ’arder, as Ego would say; windows frost fretted—laurels nipped—water-jugs frozen—shavin’-brush stiff—sponge stuck to water-bottle, and towel ’ard. Pigg still says it won’t last—wish he may be right—little hail towards night.

“9th.—Alternate sun and clouds—slight powderin’ of snow on cold and exposed places—largish flakes began to fall towards afternoon, and wind got up—purpleish sunset—walked hounds before Sulphur Wells Hall, after feedin’, but they had a cold, dingy look, and I hadn’t heart to blow my ’orn. Gabriel Junks doesn’t seem to care about the cold, and gives no indication of a change—Oh, for one of his screams!

“10th.—A woke, and found the country under two feet of snow. Well, it’s always somethin’ to know the worst, and be put out of suspense. Wind high, and drifted a large snow-wreath before the garden-gate—tempester-some day—Can’t stir out without gettin’ up to the hocks in snow. Desired Binjimin to sweep the way to the stable and kennel. Boy got a broom, and began ’issing as if he were cleanin’ an ’oss. Letter from Giles Shortland, requestin’ the M.F.H. to subscribe to a ploughin’ match at Tew. Answered that I should be werry ’appy to subscribe, and wish I could see them at work. Old Dame Tussac came with eight turkey-heads in a bag—fox had killed them last night, and she wanted pay. The bodies were at home—told her to bring the bodies—will make werry good stock for soup: one doesn’t know but she may have sold the bodies. Wrote Bowker to go self and wife to sleep in my bed in Great Coram Street, to get it well haired. Shall run up to town and see the pantomine, and how things go on at the shop.

“Old Doleful called with a requisition for me to give a sportin’ lector—axed wot I should lector upon—said he thought ‘scent’ would be a very good subject. Told him, all that could be said about scent was that it was a werry queer thing. Nothin’ so queer as scent ’cept a woman. Told him to compose an oration upon it himself if he could. He then said summering the ’unter would be a good subject. Told him that corn and a run in the carriage was the true way of summering the ’unter. Ridin’ to ’ounds he then thought would do. Told him I wasn’t a ‘g-u-r-r along! there are three couple of ’ounds on the scent’ man at all, and ridin’ arter ’ounds wouldn’t draw. Didn’t seem to take the difference, but took his departure, which was just as well.

“LETTER FROM BOWKER.

“ ‘Honoured Sir,—Yours is received, and Mrs. B. and I will be proud to act the part of warming-pans. I suppose we may expect you in a day or two. You will be sorry to hear that poor Billy was hung this morning. He died game. As it was strongly suspected he had accomplices, a mitigation of punishment was offered if he would disclose his confederates. Billy listened sullenly to the offer, and passing his fingers through his thick curly hair, he said, “Look here, masters, if every hair on this head was a life, I wouldn’t peach to save a single one.” At length he confessed—“I did boil the exciseman!” said he. Poor Billy! All the little beggarly boys, and hoarse-throated scoundrels in the town are screaming his dying speech and confession about, when “I did boil the exciseman,” was all that he said. I am greatly distressed at poor Billy’s fate.

“ ‘London is suicidically gloomy to-day—I feel as if I could cut my throat—would that I could leave it!—But

“ ‘I’m about tired of Old Twist. Our business is fast falling off, and an old man’s trade never rallies. Might I take the liberty of asking if you think a snuff and cigar shop would answer at Handley Cross? I have a splendid new nigger, five feet six, with a coronet full of party-coloured feathers on his head, a sky-blue jacket with gold lace, and a pair of broad red-striped trousers, leaving half his black thighs bare, that I thought of setting at the door in Eagle Street, but would reserve him for the Cross, if you thought it would do. Of course, I would carry on business in Eagle Street as well—at least for the present; but I have plenty of canisters, wooden rolls of tobacco to stock a branch establishment, and Mrs. Bowker fancies a change of air would do her asthma good. Pray excuse the freedom, and believe me to remain.

“ ‘To J. Jorrocks, Esq.’ ”