CHAPTER LXVIII

THE COURT RESUMES

Mr. Serjeant Horsefield, having refreshed himself with a glass of sherry and a water biscuit, now rustles back into court; and all parties being again prepared, he glances at his brief and exclaims, “Call William Bowker!” whereupon our versatile friend Bill emerges from a side room, or rather a closet, in which he had been ensconced, attired in the incongruous habiliments that theatrical people and cockneys consider peculiar to sportsmen. What a sight it is to see a fox-hunter put upon the stage! Mr. Bowker, who has come to assist his great patron out of trouble, by assuming the character of a fox hunter at short notice, has got himself, as he thinks, becomingly up. He has on a pair of Mr. Jorrocks’s drab shags and top-boots; and, as a red coat would be inappropiate in a court of justice, he preserves the character in a bright green one, with a black velvet collar, and a hare on a dead gold button, with a burnished rim. His capacious chest is covered with foxes’ heads on a double-breasted, worsted-worked, brown waistcoat, and his green cashmere neckcloth is secured in front with a gilt coach-and-four brooch. He has a cane-whip stick in one hand, and a hat with a red cord to it in the other.

“You are, I believe, Mr. Bowker,—a great merchant?” said Serjeant Horsefield, eyeing him intently, as one does a person we think we have seen before.

“Head of the great house of Bowker and Co.,” replied Bill with a slight bend of his body, as he dived his forefinger and thumb into a massive gilt snuff-box set round with brilliants, and a huge mock diamond in the centre of the lid.

“And a great sportsman, I believe,” continued the Serjeant.

“And a great sportsman,” repeated Bill, drawing the immense pinch off his thumb up his nose with a long and noisy sniff.

“You have hunted in many countries. I believe?” continued the Serjeant, “and are well acquainted with the minutiæ of the management of a pack of fox-hounds?”

“Perfectly so,” replied Bill, twirling his hat-string round his fore-finger.

“You are well acquainted with Mr. Jorrocks, the gentleman respecting whom we are met together this day?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Have known Mr. Jorrocks long and intimately.”

“Then would you have the kindness to state to the Court your opinion generally of that gentleman?”

“My opinion generally,” said Bill running his many-ringed fingers through his sandy locks, “my general opinion is—is—is—that he is quite the gent.”

“Ah! but the Court would like to know what you consider of him in relation to general life?”

“In relation to general life,” repeated Bill; “I should say he is a very good relation,—good as a grandmother to me, I’m sure,—liberal—hospitable—dines at five and never waits for any one.”

“I think you do not exactly understand the point I wish to arrive at. I wish you, as an old and intimate friend of Mr. Jorrocks, to state the impression that gentleman’s general conduct creates in your mind.”

Mr. Bowker.—“Mr. Jorrocks’s general conduct, I should say, is very much the conduct of opulent merchants generally,—he takes care of the pence and lets the pounds take care of themselves,—he’s very rich.”

“Then you consider him a good man of business?”

“Capital man of business—double entry—cash at Christmas, bill book off by heart, and so forth.”

“And in his amusements you consider him sober and rational?”

“Oh, quite! He’s president of our free-and-easy, chairman of the incorporated society of Good Fellows, and recorder of the Wide-awake Club.”

Serjeant Horsefield.—“Are those high offices?”

“Undoubtedly so.”

“And conferred on men of talent and standing?”

“Undoubtedly so. A fool would never do for recorder of a wide-awake club.”

Serjeant Horsefield.—“And in these clubs is he considered a wit?”

Mr. Bowker (with emphasis).—“Premier wag!”

Serjeant Horsefield.—“Does he ever favour them with any of his literary performances?”

“Frequently. Ode to April-fool’s day; elegy on a giblet-pie that was smashed in coming from the baker’s; ode to the Lumber Troop, in most heroic measure; odes to—I don’t know how many other things.”

“You are, I believe, acquainted with his establishment at Handley Cross, and having, as you say, had considerable experience in hunting matters, will you favour the Court with your opinion of his set out?”

“Certainly,” replied Bill, tapping his boot, or rather Mr. Jorrocks’s boot, with his Malacca cane-whip stick. “His set out is very good—quite the go, I should say.”

“Is it larger or smaller than you have been accustomed to?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Oh, smaller, decidedly. It’s what we fox-hunters call a two-days-a-week establishment. Melton men hunt six days a week, and think that too little.”

“And a five or six-days-a-week establishment is larger than a two-days-a-week one.”

Mr. Bowker.—“Undoubtedly so; more boots, more breeches—more breeches, more boots.”

“And requires more horses and hounds?”

“Undoubtedly so; more hounds, more horses—more horses, more hounds.”

“And the larger the establishment, the greater the consumption of food?”

“Of course; more hounds, more food—more food, more hounds.”

“You have heard, I suppose, of Mr. Jorrocks’s purchase of horses,—will you tell the Court your opinion of it?”

Mr. Bowker.—“My opinion as to the merits of the bargain or the prospects of remuneration?”

“No, your opinion of the policy of the step.”

“Upon my word, it is a difficult question to answer. Speculation is the soul of commercial life, and it is only by ventures of this sort that men get rich. If Mr. J. bought the horses to sell as sausages, there is no doubt he would have cleared a considerable sum by the spec.”

Serjeant Horsefield.—“No, but confining it to the simple question of buying them for the purpose of feeding his hounds upon, what would you say of the prudence of such a step?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Oh, I should say it was a very prudent step; the war was sure to raise the price of horse-flesh, and Mr. J. was making himself independent of fluctuations and foreign markets.”

“And you think there would not be more flesh than his hounds would require?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Certainly not; suppose they had half a horse for breakfast, a whole horse for dinner, and half a horse for supper. Let me see—one horse a day is seven horses a week, two horses a day—two horses a day is fourteen horses a week, fourteen horses a week is fifty-six horses per calendar month, and fifty-six horses per calendar month is——”

Serjeant Horsefield.—“Never mind any further calculation. Am I to understand, then, that you consider buying and stacking the horses was a prudent step on the part of Mr. Jorrocks?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Undoubtedly so;—war and all things considered, he must either have stacked or potted them.”

“Pray, Mr. Bowker,” inquired Mr. Smith, the Islington toy-shop-keeper, looking uncommonly wise, “may I inquire if Mr. Jorrocks is a Poor-law guardian?”

“No, he’s not,” replied Mr. Bowker, with a sneer.

Mr. Martin Moonface now proceeded to take Bill in hand.

“I think I understood you to tell my learned friend that you are a great sportsman?” observed he.

“Right!” replied Bill, taking a huge pinch of snuff.

“Pray do you keep hounds yourself?”

Mr. Bowker (flattered by the supposition).—“No, sir, not at present at least.”

Mr. Moonface.—“Then you have kept them?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Why, no, not exactly—thinking of it.”

Mr. Moonface.—“It will depend, perhaps, upon the verdict of this case?”

Mr. Bowker (nodding).—“Perhaps so.”

Mr. Moonface.—“Then you merely hunt with other people’s hounds.”

Mr. Bowker.—“Merely hunt with other people’s hounds.”

Mr. Moonface.—“Pray whose hounds do you hunt with?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Oh, just any that come in the way,—the Queen’s. Prince Albert’s—Prince Albert’s, the Queen’s.”

Mr. Moonface.—“Then you are not speaking from your own knowledge when you say Mr. Jorrocks’s hounds would eat a brace of horses a day?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Not of my own knowledge exactly.”

Mr. Moonface.—“Then what made you say so?”

Mr. Bowker (looking rather disconcerted).—“Why, I suppose they must eat—couldn’t hunt if they didn’t eat.”

Mr. Moonface.—“But might not they eat more than a brace of horses a day?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Undoubtedly they might.”

Mr. Moonface.—“Now might they not eat three just as well as two, for anything you knew to the contrary?”

Mr. Bowker.—“For anything I know to the contrary.”

Mr. Moonface.—“Ah, but say yes or no.”

Mr. Bowker.—“Yes or no?”

Mr. Moonface.—“Come, sir, don’t fence with the question. I want you to give a direct negative or a direct affirmative to that question,—whether, for anything you know to the contrary, Mr. Jorrocks’s hounds might not eat three horses a day, as well as two.”

“What! five a day?” replied Bill.

Mr. Moonface.—“No, sir;—might not Mr. Jorrocks’s hounds eat three horses a day for anything you know to the contrary?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Perhaps they might.”

Mr. Moonface.—“Well now, sir, having got that question answered, let me ask you another.”

“Certainly,” interrupted Bill.

“What would be the value of each horse?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Value of each horse!—how can I tell without seeing them? I give a couple of ’undred for some of mine.”

“I’m talking of dead horses.”

“I know nothing about dead horses—I’m not a Whitechapel knacker!”

Mr. Moonface.—“Well, sir, but you talked just now of horse-flesh rising in price in consequence of the war.”

“That was beefologically considered,” replied Bill, with a smile.

Mr. Moonface.—“You say Mr. Jorrocks is a good man of business—takes care of the pence and leaves the pounds to take care of themselves,—I suppose from that, you mean to say he is penny wise and pound foolish.”

Mr. Bowker.—“Pardon me; no such thing—pounds are supposed to be better able to take care of themselves than pence—Mr. Jorrocks has a very proper respect for a sovereign—very loyal!”

“You mentioned some clubs, I think, Mr. Bowker, that Mr. Jorrocks belongs to; pray what is the nature of them?”

“Nature of them, sir—nature of them, sir,—convivial intellectual, musical—musical, intellectual, convivial!”

Mr. Moonface.—“The free-and-easy, for instance what is that?”

“Convivial, musical—musical, convivial!”

Mr. Moonface.—“Where does it hold its sittings?”

“Sky-parlour of the ‘Pig in Trouble,’ Oxford Street sign, ‘Pig in the Pound;’ motto,—

“Never mind the motto,—tell the Court now what are the rules of that society.”

“Certainly, sir,—certainly. Fundamental rules of the ‘Sublime Society’ are, that members eat nothing but chops and Welsh rabbits; drink nothing but port wine, porter, or punch, and never take offence at what each other say or do.”

Mr. Moonface.—“The members may take all sorts of liberties with each other?”

“Undoubtedly! cut all sorts of jokes!”

Mr. Moonface.—“Call each other names, play tricks and practical jokes—like the officers of the Forty-sixth?”

“Undoubtedly so—undoubtedly so; jokes, tricks, names—names, tricks, jokes!—just like the officers of the Forty-sixth.”

“And Mr. Jorrocks is the president of this society?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Mr. Jorrocks is the president of this society.”

“And what are the distinguishing characteristics of a president?”

Mr. Bowker.—“All the distinguishing characteristics in the world—sits on a throne—wears the crown and robes—collar, grand order of Jerusalem—passes sentence on offenders—month in a muffin-shop—bucket of barley-water—kiss the cook—no appeal.”

Mr. Moonface.—“And what offences do you try?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Anything—not particular—anything to make fun—try a man for saying a good thing—try a man for saying a bad thing,—whatever comes uppermost.”

“And this you consider intellectual?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Pardon me, convivial.”

“Do you admit strangers to the ‘Sublime Society’?”

Mr. Bowker.—“On certain days—grand days, in fact, when the regalia is used—bishop’s mitre, caps and bells, and so on.”

“And do you proceed on the free-and-easy principle with strangers?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Undoubtedly so.”

“Then you must astonish them a little.

Mr. Bowker (with a wink).—“Galvanize them!”

Mr. Moonface.—“And pray what is the collar with the grand order of Jerusalem like?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Gold and enamel—enamel and gold, like my lord mayor’s.”

Mr. Moonface.—“And the order of Jerusalem, what is it like?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Simply a Jerusalem, suspended to a collar.”

Mr. Moonface.—“But what is a Jerusalem?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Jerusalem—jackass!—jackass—Jerusalem!” (Roars of laughter.)

Mr. Moonface.—“And the club has a button, I believe?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Jerusalem button—motto, ‘Ge-o, Neddy!’ ” (Renewed laughter.)

Mr. Moonface.—“And where does the Wideawake Club hold its sittings?”

Mr. Bowker.—“At the ‘Cauliflower,’ in Cateaton Street.”

“And what are the distinguishing features of that club?—What style of men, in fact, is it composed of?”

“All stylish men—velvet collars, Hessian boots, kid gloves!”

“No, I mean what class of men is it composed of?”

Mr. Bowker.—“First-class men—merchants, bankers, private gentlemen.”

“And Mr. Jorrocks is recorder of that society?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Mr. Jorrocks is recorder of that society.”

“Does he sit in state there also, in a crown and robes, with a Jerusalem round his neck?” (Great laughter.)

Mr. Bowker.—“No; the president is chosen every evening. After a constitution is obtained, the first member that says a good thing takes the chair, and it is the duty of the recorder to enter the saying, and the circumstances that led to it, in the book.”

“And then what do you do?”

Mr. Bowker (after a pause).—“Drink brandy and water!”

“And that is intellectual?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Pardon me; convivial—convivial decidedly.”

“Then what is the intellectual portion of your entertainments?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Oh! why, when somebody sings or spouts, that is both musical and intellectual.”

“And then you all get very drunk, I suppose?”

Mr. Bowker.—“Pardon me; drunkenness is forbidden.”

“Then how far may you go with impunity?”

Mr. Bowker.—“By the twenty-first canon of the ‘Sublime Society’ of the free-and-easy club, it is enacted, that no member shall be considered drunk or liable to the pains and penalties contingent upon intoxication, if he can lie without holding.”

Mr. Moonface.—“Then after he is incapacitated from walking, if he can lie still on the floor he is considered sober?”

Mr. Bowker.—“He is not considered drunk.”

Mr. Moonface (eyeing the jury).—“He is not considered drunk.” To Mr. Bowker, “You may stand down.”

“With all my heart;” adding as he went, “never had such a wigging in my life.”

Our old friend Roger Swizzle was the next witness. Time, we are sorry to say—and perhaps port wine—had done little towards improving Roger’s figure and complexion. His once roseate face had assumed a very ripe mulberry hue, while his snub nose bore some disfiguring marks, called by the florists grog-blossoms. His bristly, brushed black hair was still strong, but sadly bleached, and his bright twinkling eyes were about the only features remaining as they were. Neither was his costume more becoming. His puddingy neckcloth was more clumsy, his brown coat more uncouth, his black waistcoat more stained, his drab trousers shorter, and his high-lows thicker and more developed.

Serjeant Horsefield received him with a bow. “You are, I believe,” said he, “a medical gentleman in extensive practice at Handley Cross, and well acquainted with Mr. Jorrocks?”

“I am,” replied Mr. Swizzle.

“Then will you have the kindness to favour the Court with your opinion of that gentleman?”

Roger Swizzle.—“Certainly, sir. He’s what I should call a very good fellow.”

“No, I mean with respect to his intellect. Do you consider him of sound mind?”

“Sound as a bell.”

“And capable of managing his affairs?”

“No doubt about it.—Why shouldn’t he?”

“That’s a trump!” observed Mr. Jorrocks aloud to himself, adding, “No doubt about it.”

Mr. Moonface then proceeded to cross-examine Roger Swizzle:—

“You say, Mr. Swizzle,” said he, “that you are in a great way of practice; pray is it among gentlemen afflicted with Mr. Jorrocks’ infirmity?” (Mr. Moonface putting his finger to his forehead).

“Why, no,” replied Mr. Swizzle, “principally among gentlemen afflicted with this infirmity” (poking his finger against his stomach).

Mr. Moonface.—“Just so; you are what they call a diet doctor.”

Roger Swizzle.—“I don’t know I’m sure what they may call me.”

Mr. Moonface.—“Suppose they were to call you a ‘lushy cove,’ would there be any truth in that?”

Roger Swizzle.—“None whatever!”

“And yet you like your wine?”

Roger Swizzle.—“Good wine.”

“And what do you consider good wine?”

Roger Swizzle.—“Two bottles of port is the best of all wine.”

James Pigg was the last witness.

“Now, Pigg,” said Serjeant Horsefield, “you are, I believe, huntsman to Mr. Jorrocks, and as such, have the management of his hounds and horses?”

“Ar has,” replied Pigg, with a sniff of his hand across his nose, and a hitch of his braceless breeches.

“And as such you have frequent opportunities of seeing and judging of your master’s conduct at home and abroad?”

“Yeas,” drawled out Pigg. “Out a huntin’, that’s to say.”

“Will you now favour the Court with your opinion of it generally?”

Pigg.—“Why, noo, ar should say he’s a varra good ard man, baith at hyeam and abroard—he gives me monny a shillin’, and monny a glass o’ brandy i’ card weather, and sic like times.”

Serjeant Horsefield.—“Ah, but I want to know more about his headpiece, you know—more how you think he manages his establishment indoors and out.”

Pigg.—“Why, noo, ar should say he manishes ’em all gaily well, barrin’ that bit bowdekite, Ben; but sink him! gin ar had him, ar’d soon manish him.”

Serjeant Horsefield.—“And his hounds, how do you think he manages them?”

Pigg.—“Why, noo, ar think the hunds ’ill be just ’bout the warst thing he does. He’s all for stuffin’ of their bellies till they’re not fit to gan, and his back casts are parfectlie ridicklus.”

Serjeant Horsefield.—“Well, but that is mere matter of opinion, isn’t it?”

“Ar, but ar say it isn’t matter o’ ’pinion!” roared Pigg. “Ye gan and ax Payne, or Goodall, or any on ’em, if iver they mak back casts first, unless they see it fox has bin hidded.”

Serjeant Horsefield.—“But you don’t mean to say that, because a man makes back casts first, he is necessarily mad?”

Pigg.—“Mad, aye! nee doot! what else could he be?”

The Serjeant, looking sadly disconcerted, sat down.

“Well, Mr. Pigg,” commenced Mr. Moonface, in a familiar tone, “and so you fill the distinguished post of huntsman in this celebrated hunt of which Mr. Jorrocks is the head?”

“Ar does,” replied Pigg, wondering what they were going over the same ground again for.

Mr. Moonface.—“And if I am rightly informed, you were selected on account of your great knowledge and experience in these matters?”

“Ar’s warn’d ye,” replied Pigg; “it wasn’t like they’d chose me because ar was a feul!”

Mr. Moonface.—“Well, now, you told my learned friend something about back casts. Will you allow me to ask you if you think any man in his senses would make back casts?”

“Niver such a thing! Not at first hand like; always make the head good first. Sink it! ar’s talked, and ar’s battled, and ar’s cussed wor ard maister, till ar’s been fairly aside mysel’; but the varry next time—may be, afore iver the hunds have cast theirsels—up he’s com’d, blawin’ his horn, and taken them back o’er the varry same grund, while the fox all the time was gannin’ straight away.”

Mr. Moonface.—“And that you consider very ridiculous?”

“Parfectlie ridicklus!”

Mr. Moonface.—“And what no man that knew what he was about would do?”

Pigg (vehemently).—“Niver sec a thing! Niver sec a thing! Ax ard Sebright, or ony on ’em. Whativer ye de, always cast forrard for a fox;” saying which, Pigg hitched up his breeches again, and rolled frantically out of the witness-box.

The Commissioner proceeded to address the jury:—

“This was a case of great peculiarity,” he observed, “but he thought of little difficulty, inasmuch as the main question—the existence of a most extraordinary establishment—was admitted, and the only question for them to decide was whether such an establishment was compatible with their ideas of rational life and the steady course of mercantile pursuits. If he mistook not, they were all merchants; and it was for them to say what effect one of their body, arraying himself in a scarlet coat with a blue collar; or a sky-blue coat with pink-silk lining and canary-coloured shorts; or, again, in the crown and robes of a member of the Sublime Society, with the grand order of Jerusalem round his neck, would have upon their minds. The evidence, though slightly conflicting in some parts, was, he thought, very clear; nor did he think either Mr. Bowker or Pigg had done anything towards lessening the force of it. Indeed, the latter seemed to consider the very way in which the unfortunate gentleman managed his extraordinary establishment of hounds was strongly symptomatic of incompetence.

“There was no doubt that a man might be mad upon hunting as well as upon any other point. It was for them to consider whether Mr. Jorrocks had carried the thing so far as to amount to insanity. It was immaterial that other men were equally enthusiastic. It was no reason for permitting one madman to remain at large, that there were many others equally mad. The Court would consider their cases, and deal with them if their next-of-kin thought proper to bring them before it. It certainly did appear a most extraordinary pursuit for a rational being to devote himself to, in the manner Mr. Jorrocks appears to have done; and with that observation he should leave the case in the hands of the jury.”

The jury thereupon retired, more for the sake of appearances or for having a parting crack, than from any difference of opinion as to the state of our friend’s mind.

If indeed any doubt had existed, it would have been speedily dispelled by Hobbs, the court head-dress maker, putting himself in attitude, distending his great flobby cheeks, and exclaiming, “Fancy me in a red coat and cap ridin’ about ’Ampstead ’eath, with a pack of ’ounds at my ’eels!”

“Aye, fancy him!” exclaimed Coxon, the poulterer, who kept a trotting pony and called himself a sportsman.

Then they talked Jorrocks over.

One knew his face, another his figure, a third his “fist,” having had a bill of his once.

It was generally admitted that he was “respectable,” indeed, as Mr. Rounding observed, if he hadn’t been his friends wouldn’t have troubled a commission, and as Rounding’s feeding time was then long past, he got them to return into Court, where he delivered a verdict of “Insanity,” adding that “Mr. Jorrocks had been incapable of managing his affairs since he took the Handley Cross Hounds.”