CHAPTER L

POMPONIUS EGO

The great Mr. Ego having exalted the horns of the principal hunts in the kingdom, was now spending his time pleasantly between London and Paris—living at Calais—from whence he emerged at short notice to attend buttering matches in England; and the glowing account he gave of some great man’s establishment caused Mr. Jorrocks to pant for that enduring fame which statuary and stationery best can give. Accordingly he made the overture contained in the following letter:—

“Dear Mr. Hego,

“If your intercourse with Dukes and other great guns o’ the world leaves any margin for the doin’s of the pop-guns o’ the chase, I shall be werry ’appy if you will come here and take a look at our most provincial pack. In course I needn’t tell you that my ’ouse is not large enough to require a kiver ’ack to canter from the dinin’ to the drawin’ room, neither is the pack on a par with many you have seen; but I can give you a good blow-out, both in the way of wittles and drink, and shall be ’appy to ‘put you up,’ as they say in the cut-me-downs, on as good a quad as I can, and show you sich sport as the country will afford. Entre nous, as we say in France, I want to be famous, and you know how to do it In course mum’s the word.

“P.S.—Compts. to Julius Seizeher and all the ancient Romans when you write.

The following is Mr. Ego’s answer:—

“Dear Mr. Jorrocks,

“You remind me of Catullus! None but the old Latian could have put the point as you do. D—m all dukes! I’m for mercantile life—£ s. d.—I shall have great satisfaction in inspecting your pack, on Thursday next, which I have no doubt I shall find all I can desire. Pick me out an easy-going, sure-footed, safe-leaping horse, with a light mouth, and let him have a Whippy-saddle on—I can’t ride in any other. I like a bedroom with a southern aspect,—the feathers above the mattress, if you please; wax-candles and Eau de Cologne, will pitch the tune for the rest. Compliments to Mrs. Jorrocks, from, dear Jorrocks,

“P.S.—What would you like to be done in? The ‘Q. R.,’¹ the ‘H. T.,’ ‘Fraser,’ ‘Blackwood,’ ‘New Monthly,’ ‘Encyclopedia,’ ‘Life,’ ‘Field,’ ‘Era,’ or what?

This point being arranged, great preparations were made for the important event. Hounds may go on for centuries without being known beyond the limits of their country, but the one day that brings the Inspector-General lives for ever in the page of history. Where, then, is the master of hounds, where the huntsman, where the whip, where the member of a hunt, whose heart does not beat responsive with Mr. Jorrocks’ on this trying occasion? Who, in the familiar language of low life, does not wish him well out of it?

“Now, James,” said our Master to his huntsman, as they stood in the kennel-yard looking over the hounds, a few days before the appointed visit, “you must get all on the square; the great Pomponius Hego is a comin’, and we shall be all down in black and wite.”

“Whe’s he?” inquired Pigg, scratching his head.

“Vot! not know Pomponius Hego!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, in astonishment; “you surelie don’t mean to say so.”

“Ar’ dinna ken him, ar’s sure,” replied Pigg, with the greatest indifference. “Is he a skeulmaister?”

“A skeulmaister!” repeated Mr. Jorrocks, with a sneer and an indignant curl of his lip; “a skeulmaister! No!—A master of ’unting—not an M.F.H., like me, but a man wot makes hobserwations on M.F.H.’s, their packs, their ’osses, their ’untsmen—their everything, in fact.

“What’s he de that for?” inquired Pigg, with surprise.

“Vy, that the world at large may know what he thinks on ’em, to be sure. He prints all he sees, hears, or thinks in a book.”

Pigg.—“Ye dinna say se!”

“Quite true, I assure you,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “and if by any unlucky chance he blames an ’untsman, or condemns a pack, it’s all dickey with them for ever; for no livin’ man dare contradict him, and every one swears by wot he says.”

“Woons, man,” replied Pigg, in a pucker, “we maun be uncommon kittle then, ar guess.”

“You must exert your hutmost powers,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, most emphatically; “for dash my vig, if we fail, I, even I—John Jorrocks himself, will go perfectly mad with rage and wexation.”

“He’ll ken all aboot the hunds and huntin’ then, ar s warn’d,” replied Pigg, catching the infection of fear.

Mr. Jorrocks.—“Oh, yes!—at least he writes about them; and no one disputes print. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I almost fear I’ve made a mess o’ myself, by axin’ of him to come. I question if the world would not have been as ’appy without the mighty Hego. Hoil, butter, sugar, soap, all that sort o’ thing is werry pleasant; but then—oh, ’orror! the idea of being rubbed the wrong way by Hego! Death itself would be better!”

Pigg.—“Hout, tout!—fear nout! there’s nout to boggle a man! Gin I were ye, with all yeer brass, ar’ wadn’t care for neone.”

Mr. Jorrocks.—“Ah! but, Pigg!—think of hambition!—think of fame!—think of that summut arter life wot prompts men to great hactions! Here, for five-and-thirty years, have I been a hardent follower of the chase—loved it, oh, ’eavens! for its own sake, and not from any hanxious longins arter himmortality! and now, when greatness has been thrust upon me—when I shines forth an M.F.H.—to think that all may be dashed from me, and ’stead of reignin’ King of ’Andley Cross—’stead of bein’ the great and renowned John Jorrocks—I may be dashed t’ oblivion! Oh, Pigg!—hambition is a frightful, a dreadful thing!”

Pigg.—“Hout, tout, fear nout. Does he ride, or nabbut looks at pack at cover-soide loike?”

Mr. Jorrocks.—“Both, both—fust, he’ll come and look us all over, ax the name of this ’ound and that—call ’em level—inquire ’ow each is bred—talk of Hosbaldeston’s Furrier, Lord ’Enry’s Contest, or Sutton’s Trueman—look at this nag—then at that—ax their pedigrees—their hages—their prices—their everythings—vether we summers them in the ’ouse or in the field—do a little about ’ard meat—’ow much corn they get—if we bruise it—vether we split our beans, or give them whole—then when we throws off he marks each motion—sees whether we put in at the right end of the cover or the wrong—observes whether the men have ’ands equal to their nerves, or nerves equal to their ’ands; books their seats and their names—not their seats by the coach, mind—but their seats in the saddle. To read his accounts of the runs you’d fancy he was everywhere at once, both before, behind, and above—with the fox—with the ’ounds—with the first and with the last man in the field—so knowin’ly does he describe every twist, every turn, every bend of the run. Oh, Pigg! my excellent, my beautiful Pigg! now that the fatal day ’proaches, and I sees the full brightness o’ my indiscretion starin’ me i’ the face, I begins to repent havin’ axed him to come. Wot can fame do for Jorrocks? I have as much tin as I wants, and needn’t care a copper for no man. Would that I was well out o’ the mess!”

“Never fear,” replied Pigg, “here be good like h’unds, and yeer husses can gan; if we de but find, the deuce is in it if we don’t cook him up a run.”

“Oh, Pigg! my buck of a Pigg!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, “those ifs are the deuce and all in ’unting—There’s nothin’ so difficult to ride as an ‘if.’ If we find a fox, then there’s the difficulty of gettin’ well away with him; or if we do get well away, then there’s the chance of his bein’ ’eaded back, or of there bein’ no scent, or of his takin’ a bad line, or of his bein’ chased by a cur, or of his gainin’ an earth we don’t know of, or of a great banging ’are misleadin’ the ’ounds, or of the fox beatin’ us disgracefully at the far end—these things are dreadful to the anxious mind of a M.F.H. at all times, but ’orrible, most ’orrible, at a time like the prisent.”

“Dinna fear,” replied Pigg, “dinna fear—you’ll see he’ll be nowt but mortal man after all. If you want to kill a fox, gan to big wood, and have somebody there with black bitch.”

“Black bitch,” said Mr. Jorrocks, thoughtfully, “black bitch—Wot should we want with black bitch when we have all the ’ounds out?”

“Hout, thou fondy!” said Pigg, “doesn’t thou ken what black bitch is?”

“No, I doesn’t—unless it’s a dog’s wife.”

“Dog’s wife!” roared Pigg; “ne sike thing. It’s a gun, man! Just pop a few shot corns into fox’s hintlegs, and h’unds ’ill soon catch him.”

“My vig!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, with an air of sudden enlightenment, “I’ve often seen chaps in welweteen with guns at cover sides, but never knew what they were there for. Ah, but,” added he, with a shake of his head, “Hego will be up to the black bitch rig—No, no, that won’t do—no use trying to ’oax him—it must be summut genuine. Oh, Pigg, if you could but manage to give him a real tickler, so that he might have summut good to put in his book, the gratitude of John Jorrocks should rest with you for ever and ever—you should drink brandy out of a quart pot for breakfast, dinner and supper.”

“You dinna sey se!” exclaimed Pigg, with delight. “Let’s see—dang’d if ar ken—yes, ar de tee—run a drag and sheck a bag-fox at far end loike.”

Mr. Jorrocks.—“That von’t do—no, not it. He’ll be sure to find out, and trounce us to all eternity; besides, if any of the Bell’s Lifers were to catch us, they’d never let us ’ear the end on’t.”

“Not they,” replied Pigg: “Nebody ’ill find out if ye de but had your gob—start i’ big wood—run drag round—bother him well—then out o’ur big loup—give him summut to glower at, instead o’ h’unds.”

“No, Pigg, no,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, shaking his head and jingling a handful of silver in his pantaloon pocket; “it must be summut more genuine—Talli-ho! yondor he goes! then elbows and legs—elbows and legs;” Mr. Jorrocks suiting the action to the word by straddling and working an imaginary horse with his arms.

“Give him that tee,” replied Pigg; “stick chap up a tree to holloa away—another on a hill to had up hat, and so on.”

“Ah, but so many cuks will spoil the broth, Pigg; so many cuks will spoil the broth. S’pose, for a moment, one should peach! S’pose Hego should find us out! I should sit on pins—on wool-combers—with nothin’ but summer drawers on, till the account appeared, and then I question I should have courage to cut the pages. Oh, hambition! hambition! wot a troublesome warmint you are! Wish I’d let the great man alone.”

Pigg.—“A, man alive, niver fear; he cannot de thee ne harm. Let me manish him,—ar’ll give him summut to brag on.”

Mr. Jorrocks.—“I vish I dirst—you Scotchmen are cliver fellers; but s’pose he should smell a rat, ’ow he would trounce us, as much to show his own ’cuteness, as to punish us for our imperance!”

“Ye’ve nout to fear, ar tell ye,” replied Pigg, confidently; “ye’ve nout to fear; just leave it arl to me, and had your jaw about it, and dinna call me a Scotchman, and keep thy bit bowdekite quiet—ar’ll manish matters.”

With much fear, and many misgivings for his rashness in asking Ego to come, Mr. Jorrocks at length consented to entrust the management of the day’s sport to his northern huntsman and the feeder.

By these it was arranged to run a drag of aniseed and red-herring over some of the best of their country, and to turn down a fox at the far end, in some convenient unsuspicious-looking place. The evening before Mr. Ego was to arrive, James Pigg communicated the find, the run, and the finish to Mr. Jorrocks, with such other information as would enable our Master to ride to points without exciting suspicion, and Mr. Jorrocks undertook to say as much to Benjamin as would put the boy on his mettle, without letting him too much into the secret.

Accordingly, when Stobbs left the dining-room to play his usual game of beggar-my-neighbour with Belinda, Mr. Jorrocks rang the bell, and desired Betsy to send in the boy. The latter entered in his usual sneaking way, knowing that he had been guilty of several “piccadillies,” as his master would call them, for which he deserved to be well bastinadoed.

“Now, Binjimin,” said Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing his whipper-in with one of his most scrutinizing looks; “now, Binjimin,” repeated he, with great dignity, “you are on the eve of a most mo-men-tous crisis!”

“Yez-ir,” replied Benjamin, wondering what sort of a shaped thing it was.

“That renowned man, Mr. Pomponius Hego, ’unts to-morrow with our unrivalled ’ounds, and I would fain give him a stinger.”

“Yez-ir,” replied Benjamin.

“Now then, you see, Binjimin, James Pigg is a mighty ’unter—keen and game to the backbone, and thinks he can ’stonish him. Now, Binjimin, you must lend us a hand.”

“Yez-ir,” replied Benjamin.

“You are very fond o’ marmeylad,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, after a short pause, during which he considered how he had best put the point.

“Uncommon!” exclaimed Ben, with a grin of delight.

“Well, then, now you see, Binjimin, if you hact well your part, obey James Pigg, and do all wot he tells you—if all goes on smoothly and well on your part—wen you comes ’ome, I’ll give you a pot o’ marmeylad as big as your ’ead!”

“Crikey, oh!” exclaimed Benjamin, in ecstasies.

“But ’ark to me again, Binjimin,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, holding up his finger, and knitting his brow at the boy; “’ark to me again, Binjimin, if by any chance you bitch the thing, if all does not go on smoothly and well on your part, so far from givin’ of you any marmeylad, I’ll take you to one of the new-fangled matrimony-shops, and tie you hup with a stout gipsey wench, with sich a small hindependence of her own as ’ill find you in tons of misfortin’ and black language, fresh from the pit’s mouth, and make you miserable from now till the first Monday after eternity.”

“Oh-o-o!” groaned Benjamin, inwardly, at the thought.

“So now make yourself scarce, and mind wot you’re at,” said Mr. Jorrocks, dismissing him. Our Master then adjourned to the parlour, and endeavoured to compose himself for bed with a couple of very stiff glasses of B. and W., and got through the night better than might have been expected.

¹“Q. R.” stands for “Quarterly Review;” “H. T.” for “Heavy Triumvirate,” which carries the lead, known in the trade as the “Old and New Sporting Magazines,” and the “Sporting Review.”