CHAPTER LII

A BAD CHURNING

After many prefatory twangs of his trumpet, the following account of the visit at length appeared in the “Heavy Triumvirate”:—

“All the world has heard of the renowned John Jorrocks—renowned as a citizen—renowned as a wit—and renowned as a sportsman; but all the world may not know, until I have the pleasure of proclaiming it, that I have lately done Mr. Jorrocks the honour of paying him a visit at Handley Cross Spa. But a few words by way of introduction: I first became acquainted with Mr. Jorrocks at a soapey-tailed pig-hunt at Moulsey Hurst, which I attended for the purpose of furnishing an original article on our great national sports and pastimes for the ‘Encyclopedia,’ the ‘Quarterly Review,’ the ‘Heavy Triumvirate,’ ‘Fraser,’ and ‘Blackwood’s’ Magazines; and, liking Mr. Jorrocks’s looks, I entered into conversation with him, without his having the slightest idea who I was. I subsequently met him at our excellent friend Ackermann’s, when, on a regular introduction, he fully developed those feelings of reverential awe that necessarily pervade even the most obtuse when suddenly ushered into the presence of transcendent genius, that—means—me. Of Mr. Jorrocks’s early life, habits, tastes, pursuits, &c., I would gladly furnish the numerous and intelligent readers of the ‘Heavy Triumvirate’ with some account, but unfortunately it does not lie in my power to accomplish so desirable an object. Many of my readers will doubtless ask why not? I answer them, because I do not know anything! Of his present fame, however, there is no doubt; and if he owes his position in the commercial world solely to the efforts of his own head, who will deny that it does him very great credit? An English merchant, in my eyes, is one of the most honourable and enviable of men. ‘Stat nominis umbria,’ as the elegant Junius writes, for his name is in a blaze of light. Though some may affect to decry the lustre of civic honour, such sentiments meet with no response in the breast of Ego, who knows what is estimable in commerce as well as in cover. But to my point.

“One day, as I was polishing off and weaving the quotations into an admirable article on the breed of the unadulterated ‘Genuine Jack-Ass,’ which many of the readers of the ‘Heavy Triumvirate’ will doubtless anxiously look for, I received an invitation from Mr. Jorrocks to inspect the Handley Cross hounds, of which I need hardly inform my readers he is the master. Now, this offer was very kind, and I will briefly explain why it was so. In the first place, Mr. Jorrocks, being a master of hounds, will naturally be supposed to have to mount his own men, and offering me the loan of a horse under such circumstances, converted such a favour into a double obligation. But have I no other reason for expressing myself in this manner? Undoubtedly I have. He accompanied the offer with an invitation to stay with him. Could I be so unwise as to neglect such an invitation? No; for in the language of the classic moralist—I feel

‘Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit!’

I regret that it was not in my power to go to him overnight, or I should doubtless have been able to present my numerous readers with many excellent jeu d’esprits, or bon mots, from the lips of this amiable man; but I hope the following sketch of our day’s sport will make some atonement for the omission.

“The meet was on Bumpmead Heath, a choice fixture, but though it has the reputation of never failing to show sport, I could discern on mine host’s countenance, as we rode along, an evident anxiety for the result. His conversation at first was strangely monosyllabic, and seeing little probability of getting ‘a rise’ out of him, I trotted on to have a little chat with his huntsman, a fellow of the appropriate name of Hogg. But what an example of a man was he! A great, lanky, hungry, ill-conditioned, raw-boned Borderer, speaking a language formed of the worst corruptions of Scotch and English, intelligible only to a master of languages like myself—a man devoid of the slightest idea of civility or respect, and whose manner would have baffled anyone who was to be borne down by impudent assurance. Thank God, however, such is not the case with Pomponius Ego!

“Still fame will work its way, and even this illiterate loggerhead, for I question if the fellow can write his own name, knew and venerated the name of Ego. May not I, then, without incurring the charge of vanity, exclaim with the ancient philosopher—

‘Quæ regio in terris noatri non plona laboris?’

I think I may!

“From the appearance of early morning I feared we should not have been able to hunt, so keen was the frost at the dawn; but the genial influence of an extremely powerful sun dispelled all fears, and before we reached the place of meeting, the country had quite laid aside its coat of white. I thought, what language can elevate the charms of Nature, and exclaimed, with the Tuscan poet—

‘Difficile est propria communia dicere.’

Prior to throwing off, Mr. Jorrocks presented the principal members of his hunt to me, by all of whom I was received with marked respect, and I am sorry to add, that he was also thrown off himself, by his horse pitching him over its head—an accident which I saw once occur to my friend Count Pitchinstern, at his château one morning, when I was chatting, with the charming Countess on my arm. I also remember, many years ago, as my readers may suppose it is, when I say it was in the days of Mr. Corbet, in Warwickshire, seeing Will Barrow, his huntsman—and a better never cheered hound—get precisely a similar fall, at the same time of day, just as he was turning his horse’s head for the cover, and, strange to say, I observed Mr. Jorrocks acted just as Will did on that occasion—he scrambled up as quick as he could, and remounted his horse.

“Now, then, for the sport! We quickly found our fox, and the scent being good, he soon saw it prudent to leave the cover and try his fortune in the open. The hounds got well together, and everything seemed indicative of sport, when one of those ‘untoward events,’ to which all countries are liable, occurred, and completely changed the aspect of affairs. The fox was shamefully headed by a man at work, forced from his line—one of the best he possibly could have selected—and driven upon ground all foiled with the stain of sheep and cattle. Seeing what had occurred, I pulled up in perfect despair, and almost vowed I would never come out hunting again. How strange it is that men will hoop and holloa when they see a fox, as though their lives depended on this exercise of their lungs! I have often meditated a paper upon holloas, and the events of this day made me more resolved to execute the intention than ever. The readers of this lively publication may now look for its appearance.

“All prospect of sport being unhappily annihilated, I complacently resigned my place of leader of the front rank, and contented myself with trotting quietly on, and observing the performances of the others. Of those who went well, I may particularly mention a Cheshire gentleman, of large fortune, by the name of Barnington, whose acquaintance I had the pleasure of making some years since in Oxfordshire, when the late Sir Thomas Mostyn hunted the country Mr. Drake now has, and I was happy to see that the fine hand and nerve he then possessed, had matured, with experience, into the formation of a good sportsman. Mr. Barnington asked me to dine and stay all night at his house, which, I was given to understand, is the best in Handley Cross—everything done in the most elegant style, which I so greatly admire—and kindly accompanied the invitation with the offer of a mount the next day the hounds went out; but the duties of preparing this article imperatively recalled me to my desk at home. But did Mr. Barnington do nothing else for me? I answer yes; he gave me some gingerbread-nuts! Unexampled kindness! He would seem to have sat for the picture so felicitously hit off by the ancient bard,—

‘Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer!’

“But I fancy I hear some of your readers exclaiming ‘Get forrard, Ego; get forrard; or you will be having Oxoniensis,¹ or some of the saucy critics flanking you.’ I answer, I do not care a sou for Oxoniensis or any critic on the face of the earth. I will, however, dismiss this subject in a few words. After a good deal of cold and slow hunting, we at last worked up to our fox, and Mr. Jorrocks most politely presented me with the brush, in terms far too flattering and complimentary to admit of my repeating it here. We then returned home. Arrived there, my most enthusiastic friend, who was evidently bent on showing off to advantage, proceeded to introduce me to his bet won hats, accompanying each castor with an account of how he got it. ‘This,’ said he, balancing a fine Jolliffe punt on the point of his finger, ‘I won by the Water-Witch beating the Weasel from Wapping to Margate. This,’ said he, producing a cream-bowl shallow, ‘I won at my great Maid of Honour match at Richmond—eat eighteen maids of honour while Billy Buttonhole was tucking in ten;’ an appalling feat, my myriads of fair friends would exclaim, were I not to add, that said ‘maids’ are a species of cheese-cake made at that beautiful locality on the Thames. Then a woolley whitey-brown hat was the product of prowess at the ‘Cope;’ a shaved drab, the fruits of his gun at the Red House; a green wide-awake was won at Hornsey Wood, and a horse-hair drab felt at Jemmy Shaw’s rattery, somewhere in Windmill Street. Having got through the history of these, he out with his foxes’ brushes, and proceeded to expatiate on them, each brush furnishing an account of the ‘finest run that ever was seen!’ At length he talked himself out of breath, blew himself, in short; and as he proceeded to arrange the brushes becomingly in the hats, and set them out on the side-board, like racing-cups, against dinner, I retired to the privacy of my apartment, there to ruminate o’er the doings of the day, and think how best I could furnish an account that would delight my anxious readers, and maintain the lustre of a glorious name.

“The Dinner.—At five o’clock precisely, for no man is more punctual than Mr. Jorrocks, I found myself comfortably seated with my legs under his mahogany, in a delightful little party, formed of my estimable host and his lady, a very Venus, and suggesting, by her complexion, the words of the Poet of Love, ‘ut flos,’ &c.; Miss Belinda Jorrocks, their niece, a most lovely and fascinating young creature, the Diana of private life, ‘rosy with dew,’ as Moore says; Mr. James Stobbs, a Yorkshire gentlemen—heir, I understand, to a pretty fortune, and who was evidently making love to Miss Belinda; and another gentleman of the name of Smith,² or Smyth, but which it was, I regret exceedingly to say, I am unable to state.

“We had an excellent repast, in the old English style, of abundant profusion, which I so greatly admire—pig at the top, pig at the bottom, and myself on one side—turkey to remove one and a couple of hares to supplant the other. For side dishes, there were what I never saw before in any country—a round of beef, cut in two, one half placed on each side of the table; on inquiry, I found it was done to get the real juicy part of the beef, without the salt. In addition to these, there were two pork-pies.

“But my readers will naturally inquire, ‘Had you, Ego, with all this eating, anything like drinking in proportion?’ Oh, indeed, I answer yes—Oceans of Port! We drank ‘Fox-hunting’ again, and again, and again. In short, whenever my inestimable host found himself at a loss for a joke, a toast, or a sentiment, he invariably exclaimed, ‘Come, Mr. Ego, let’s drink Fox-’unting again!’ Particulars I will not enter into, but I may be allowed to speak of myself. I paid such devotion to Bacchus, that I fancied I became the god myself! Ego’s forehead fancied the vine-crown around it! But he trusts he never, in his moments of deepest hilarity, forgot what was due to beauty and moral worth! Yet, the wine in—well may we say with the Augustan classic—

“Any particulars of the establishment of so celebrated a gentleman as Mr. Jorrocks, will, I am sure, be interesting to the innumerable readers of the ‘Heavy Triumvirate,’ I may, therefore, mention the first thing that occurred to me on returning to sensibility on the following morning. I was lying tossing and tumbling about in a very nice French bed, with white dimity furniture, with a splitting headache from my overnight’s Anacreonism, as Moore would elegantly call it, when a gentle tap at my door first drew my attention to the fact that I was not, as I fancied, in the Calais packet, off Dover. ‘Come in!’ at length I cried, after the knock had been more than once repeated, and in obedience to the order, little Benjamin, Mr. Jorrocks’s ‘buoy’ of all work, presented himself at my bed-side. His whole person was enveloped in an old faded green baize apron, but there was no mistaking the roguish ginnified countenance that appeared above it, even if he had suffered his tongue to lie dormant, which was not the case.

“ ‘I say, guv’nor!’ exclaimed he, in the slangy, saucy dialect, peculiar to the lower orders in London, ‘I say guv’nor, Betsy complains!’

“ ‘Sirrah! Remember what the Latian said!—

“ ‘Hold your tongue!’ cried I.

“Benjamin was struck with the language.

“ ‘What business have you here?’

“ ‘Vot business have I here? I’ll tell you vot business I have here,’ said he. ‘The old ’un,’ (meaning his master) ‘says, if your coppers are ’ot, you may have one of his sizeley (seidlitz) pooders,’ producing a box as he spoke.

“Mr. Jorrocks, however, I suppose, gets Ben on such terms as makes it convenient for him to put up with his impudence, as on no other score can I reconcile the idea of his keeping such a scoundrel. One word more relative to Mr. Jorrocks, and, for the present, I take leave of my most respected friend, of whom none but himself can be his parallel. It may not, perhaps, be generally known, that prior to Mr. Jorrocks becoming master of the Handley Cross Fox Hounds, his amiable lady and he did not live upon the most amicable terms, and frequent feuds disturbed the serenity of Great Coram Street. Since he got them, all goes on smoothly and well. Mrs. Jorrocks identifies herself with the sports of her husband, and not unfrequently graces the field in a fly. Is not this a compliment to hunting; and may not I, the chosen, the only real historian of the chase, take some little credit to myself for the accomplishment of so desirable an object?

“I think I may!

“Pomponius Ego!”

When Mr. Jorrocks, who had anticipated all sorts of flattering encomiums and agreeable comparisons—that would place him in the front rank of sportsmen, and astonish the chaps in the city—read the foregoing, he was half frantic with rage, and kept dashing the ‘Heavy Triumvirate” about the room, until he knocked all the number to pieces. He then deliberately kicked it together, and, taking the tongs, burnt it before a slow fire under a heavy discharge of depreciatory anathemas and declarations that it was as much out of date as an old six-inside coach.

The following is his entry in his Journal respecting the account to hear which he had summoned a select party to dinner:—

“Read Pomponious Hego’s account of me, my missus, my miss, my ’ats, my pork pyes, and my ’ounds. Never was such nonsense. This sort of hoiling won’t answer. Always one word for his host and two for himself. All nonsense payin’ chaps for butterin’ one when one can do it so much better oneself. Will take a leaf out o’ the Blackmore Wale chap’s books another time. Spoiled the best dinner that ever was cooked—turtle soup and turbot—haunch o’ doe wenison and Stilton—couldn’t eat a bit.”

And there, leaving him to recover, we will take another peep at his huntsman.

¹“Whipper-in to Bell’s Life.”

²“Being always most anxious for the accuracy of my statements, I have written twice to Mr. Jorrocks, to inquire which it was, but regret to add, that up to this time, the 25th of the month, I have not yet received an answer. Should it not arrive in time for insertion in the ‘Heavy Triumvirate’ this month, my readers may rely upon its appearing in the next number.—P. E.”