CHAPTER VII

MR. JORROCKS

“A man he was to all the country dear”

“WHERE can that be from, Binjimin?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks of his boy of all-work, as the latter presented him with a large double-headed letter, with a flourishing coat of arms seal.

Mr. Jorrocks was a great city grocer of the old school, one who was neither ashamed of his trade, nor of carrying it on in a dingy warehouse that would shock the managers of the fine mahogany-countered, gilt-canistered, puffing, poet-keeping establishments of modern times. He had been in business long enough to remember each succeeding lord mayor before he was anybody—“reg’lar little tuppences in fact,” as he used to say. Not that Mr. Jorrocks decried the dignity of civic honour, but his ambition took a different turn. He was for the field, not the forum.

As a merchant he stood high—country traders took his teas without tasting, and his bills were as good as bank-notes. Though an unlettered man, he had great powers of thought and expression in his peculiar way. He was “highly respectable,” as they say on ’Change—that is to say, he was very rich, the result of prudence and economy—not that he was stingy, but his income outstripped his expenses, and money, like snow, rolls up amazingly fast.

A natural-born sportsman, his lot being cast behind a counter instead of in the country, is one of those frolics of fortune that there is no accounting for. To remedy the error of the blind goddess, Mr. Jorrocks had taken to hunting as soon as he could keep a horse, and though his exploits were long confined to the suburban county of Surrey, he should rather be “credited” for keenness in following the sport in so unpropitious a region, than “debited” as a Cockney and laughed at for his pains. But here the old adage of “where ignorance is bliss,” &c. came to his aid, for before he had seen any better country than Surrey, he was impressed with the conviction that it was the “werry best,” and their hounds the finest in England.

“Doesn’t the best of everything come to London?” he would ask, “and doesn’t it follow as a nattaral consequence, that the best ’unting is to be had from it?”

Moreover, Mr. Jorrocks looked upon Surrey as the peculiar province of Cockneys—we beg pardon—Londoners. His earliest recollections carried him back to the days of Alderman Harley, and though his participation in the sport consisted in reading the meets in a bootmaker’s window in the Borough, he could tell of all the succeeding masters, and criticize the establishments of Clayton, Snow, Maberly, and the renowned Daniel Haigh.

It was during the career of the latter great sportsman that Mr. Jorrocks shone a brilliant meteor in the Surrey hunt—he was no rider, but with an almost intuitive knowledge of the run of a fox, would take off his hat to him several times in the course of a run. No Saturday seemed perfect unless Mr. Jorrocks was there; and his great chestnut horse, with his master’s coat-laps flying out beyond his tail, will long be remembered on the outline of the Surrey hills. These are recollections that many will enjoy, nor will their interest be diminished as time throws them back in the distance. Many bold sportsmen, now laid on the shelf, and many a bold one still going, will glow with animation at the thoughts of the sport they shared in with him.

Of the start before day-break—the cries of the cads—the mirth of the lads—the breakfasts at Croydon—the dear “Derby Arms,”—the cheery Charley Morton; then the ride to the meet—the jovial greeting—the glorious find, and the exhilarating scrambles up and down the Surrey hills.—Then if they killed!—O, joy! unutterable joy! How they holloaed! How they hooped! How they lugged out their half-crowns for Tom Hill, and returned to town flushed with victory and “eau-de-vie.”

But we wander—

When the gates of the world were opened by railways, our friend’s active mind saw that business might be combined with pleasure, and as first one line opened and then another, he shot down into the different countries—bags and all—Beckford in one pocket—order book in the other—hunting one day and selling teas another. Nay, he sometimes did both together, and they tell a story of him in Wiltshire, holloaing out to a man who had taken a fence to get rid of him, “Did you say two chests o’ black and one o’ green?”

Then when the Great Northern opened he took a turn down to Peterborough, and emboldened by what he saw with Lord Fitzwilliam, he at length ventured right into the heaven of heavens—the grass—or what he calls the “cut ’em down” countries.¹ What a commotion he caused! Which is Jorrocks? Show me Jorrocks! Is that old Jorrocks? and men would ride to and fro eyeing him as if he were a wild beast. Gradually the bolder ventured a word at him—observed it was a fine day—asked him how he liked their country, or their hounds. Next, perhaps, the M.F.H. would give him a friendly lift—say “Good morning, Mr. Jorrocks”—then some of what Jorrocks calls the “hupper crusts” of the hunt would begin talking to him, until he got fairly launched among them—when he would out with his order-book and do no end of business in tea. None but Jorrocks & Co.’s tea goes down in the midland counties. Great, however, as he is in the country, he is equally famous in London, where his “Readings in Beckford” and sporting lectures in Oxenden Street procured him the attentions of the police.

Mr. Jorrocks had now passed the grand climacteric, and balancing his age with less accuracy than he balanced his books, called himself somewhere between fifty and sixty. He wouldn’t own to three pund, as he called sixty, at any price. Neither could he ever be persuaded to get into the scales to see whether he was nearer eighteen “stun” or twenty. He was always “’ticlarly engaged” just at the time, either goin’ to wet samples of tea with his traveller, or with some one to look at “an ’oss,” or, if hard pressed, to take Mrs. J. out in the chay. “He didn’t ride stipple chases,” he would say, “and wot matter did it make ’ow much he weighed? It was altogether ’twixt him and his ’oss, and weighin’ wouldn’t make him any lighter.” In person he was a stiff, square-built, middle-sized man, with a thick neck and a large round head. A woolly broad-brimmed lowish-crowned hat sat with a jaunty sidelong sort of air upon a bushy nut-brown wig, worn for comfort and not deception. Indeed his grey whiskers would have acted as a contradiction if he had, but deception formed no part of Mr. Jorrock’s character. He had a fine open countenance, and though his turn-up nose, little grey eyes, and rather twisted mouth were not handsome, still there was a combination of fun and good humour in his looks that pleased at first sight, and made one forget all the rest. His dress was generally the same—a puddingey white neckcloth tied in a knot, capacious shirt frill (shirt made without collars), a single-breasted high-collared buff waistcoat with covered buttons, a blue coat with metal ones, dark blue stockingnet pantaloons, and hessian boots with large tassels, displaying the liberal dimensions of his full, well-turned limbs. The coat pockets were outside, and the back buttons far apart.

His business place was in St. Botolph’s Lane, in the City, but his residence was in Great Coram Street. This is rather a curious locality,—city people considering it west, while those in the west consider it east. The fact is, that Great Coram Street is somewhere about the centre of London, near the London University, and not a great way from the Euston station of the Birmingham railway. Jorrocks says it is close to the two best cover hacks in the world, the great Northern and Euston stations. Approaching it from the east, which seems the proper way of advancing to a city man’s residence, you pass the Foundling Hospital in Guildford Street, cross Brunswick Square, and turning short to the left you find yourself in “Great Coram Street.” Neat unassuming houses form the sides, and the west end is graced with a building that acts the double part of a reading-room and swimming-bath; “literature and lavement” is over the door.

In this region the dazzling glare of civic pomp and courtly state are equally unknown. Fifteen-year-old footboys in cotton velveteens and variously fitting coats being the objects of ambition, while the rattling of pewter pots about four o’clock denote the usual dinner hour.—It is a nice quiet street, highly popular with Punch and other public characters. A smart confectioner’s in the neighbourhood leads one to suppose that it is a favourite locality for citizens.

We may as well introduce the other inmates of Mr. Jorrocks’s house, before we return to our story, premising that they are now going to act a prominent part.

Mrs. Jorrocks, who, her husband said, had a cross of blood in her, her sire being a gent, her dam a lady’s maid, was a commonish sort of woman, with great pretension, and smattering of gentility. She had been reckoned a beauty at Tooting, but had outlived all, save the recollection of it. She was a dumpy figure, very fond of fine bonnets, and dressed so differently, that Mr. Jorrocks himself sometimes did not know her. Her main characteristics were a red snub nose, a profusion of false ringlets, and gooseberry eyes, which were green in one light and grey in another.

Mr. Jorrocks’s mother, who had long held a commission to get him a wife, had departed this life without executing it; and our friend soon finding himself going all wrong in his shirts and stocking-feet, and having then little time to go a courting, just went, hand over head as it were, to a ball at the “Horns” at Kennington Common, and drew the first woman that seemed inclined to make up to him, who chanced to be the now companion of his greatness.

No children blessed the union; and a niece, the orphan daughter of a brother of Mr. Jorrocks, formed their family circle. Belinda Jorrocks was just entering upon womanhood—young, beautiful, and guileless. In person she was of the middle size, neither too slim nor too stout, but just of that plump and pleasantly-rounded form that charms all eyes, whether admirers of the tall or short. Her light-brown silken hair clasped the ivory forehead of a beautiful oval face, while the delicate regularity of her lightly-pencilled eyebrows contrasted with the long rich fringe of her large blue eyes; rosy lips and pearly teeth appeared below her Grecian nose, while her clear though somewhat pale complexion brightened with the flush of animation when she spoke. Her waist was small, and her feet sylph-like.

“Where can this be from, Binjimin?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks, taking the letter before mentioned as he sat in his red morocco hunting-chair in the back drawing-room in Great Coram Street.

“’Andley Cross! Where is that?” said he, looking at the post-mark. “Knows no one there, I think,” continued he, cutting the paper on each side of the seal with a pair of large scissors kept in the capacious black inkstand before him. Having opened the envelope, a large sheet of white paper and a gilt-edged pink satin-paper note, headed with an embossed stag-hunt, presented themselves. He opened the note first. The writing was unknown to him, so he took up the other, and folding it out, proceeded to read the contents. Thus it run:—

TO JOHN JORROCKS, ESQ.

“Honoured Sir,

“The committee of management of the Handley Cross fox-hounds being under the necessity of relinquishing their undertaking, we, the undersigned keen and determined sportsmen, having experienced the evils of a divided mastership, and feeling fully impressed with the importance of having a country hunted single-handed by a gentleman of known talent and experience, who will command the respect and obedience of his followers and the admiration of the world, look up to you, sir, as pre-eminently qualified for the distinguished, honourable, and much coveted situation.”

“My vig!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, jumping from his chair, slapping his thigh, and hopping round the table, taking up three or four holes of his face with delight—“My vig! who would have ever thought of such a thing!—O, John Jorrocks! John Jorrocks! you are indeed a most fortunate man! a most lucky dog! O dear!—O dear! Was ever anything so truly delightful!” Some seconds elapsed ere our worthy friend could compose himself sufficiently to look again at the letter. At last he resumed:—

“When we consider, sir,” it continued, “the brilliant position you have long achieved in that most illustrious of all hunts, ‘the Surrey,’ and the glorious character you have gained as an ardent admirer of field sports, we feel most deeply and sincerely sensible that there is no one to whom we can more safely confide this important trust than yourself.”

“Capital! bravo! werry good indeed! exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, laying down the letter again for the purpose of digesting what he had read. “Capital indeed,” he repeated, nursing one leg over the other, and casting his eyes up at a dirty fly-catcher dangling over his head. Thus he sat for some moments in mute abstraction. At length he let down his leg and took up the letter.

“In conclusion, sir,” it ended, “we beg to assure you that you possess alike the confidence and esteem of the inhabitants of this town and neighbourhood; and in the event of your acceding to our wishes, and becoming the manager of our magnificent hunt, we pledge ourselves to afford you our most cordial and strenuous support, and to endeavour by every means in our power to make you master of the Handley Cross fox-hounds, at the smallest possible expense and inconvenience to yourself.

“Capital, indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, laying down the letter, clapping and rubbing his hands; “wery good indeed—most beautiful, in fact—wot honour I arrive at!—wonder what these chaps are now!” added he; saying which, in taking up the letter his eye caught the pink satin paper note. It was in the same fine lady-like running hand as the letter, and purported to be from Captain Doleful, explanatory of their motives, and vouching for the respectability of himself and brother requisitionists. Mr. Jorrocks was all delight, and being the child of impulse and generous feelings, his joy found vent in stamping on the floor, thereby summoning his servant the aforesaid Benjamin into his presence.

Benjamin, or Binjimin, as Mr. Jorrocks pronounced the name, was one of those mischievous urchins that people sometimes persuade themselves do the work of a man without the wages. He was a stunted, pasty-faced, white-headed, ginnified boy, that might be any age from eight to eighteen, and as idle and mischievous a brat as it was possible to conceive; sharp as a needle, and quick as lightning, he was far more than a match for his over-easy master, whom he cheated and deceived in every possible way. Whatever went wrong, Benjamin always had an excuse for it, which generally transferred the blame from his own to some one else’s shoulders,—a piece of ingenuity that required no small degree of dexterity, inasmuch as the light-porter of the warehouse, Betsey, a maid of all work, and a girl under her, were all he had to divide it among. Not a note came into the house, or a letter went out of it, but Benjamin mastered its contents; and Mrs. Jorrocks was constantly losing things out of the store-room and closets, which never could be traced to anybody.

One unlucky Sunday morning, indeed, Mr. Jorrocks happened to turn back suddenly on his way to church, and caught him sitting in his easy chair at the breakfast table, reading Bell’s Life in London, and scooping the marmalade out of the pot with his thumb, when he visited Benjamin’s back with a summary horse-whipping; but that was the only time, during a period of three years, that he ever was caught in a scrape he could not get out of. This might be partly attributable to Betsey finding it convenient to be in with Benjamin, who winked at the visits of a genteel young man from a neighbouring haberdasher’s. The poor maid under Betsey, and the light porter, who was generally absent, were therefore the usual scape-goats, or somebody else’s servant, who had happened to come with a message or parcel. Such was Mr. Jorrocks’s domestic establishment, which, like most masters, he either thought, or affected to think, very perfect.

We left our friend stamping for Benjamin, who made his appearance as soon as he could slip down-stairs and come up again, he having been watching his master through the keyhole since delivering the letter.

“Now, Binjimin,” said Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing him with one of his benevolent looks, and not knowing exactly what to say; “now, Binjimin,” he repeated, “are the ’osses all right?”

“Yes, sir, and the wehicle too.”

“Werry good,” replied Mr. Jorrocks—“werry good,” taking a half-emptied pot of Lazenby’s marmalade out of a drawer in his library table. “See now! there’s a pot of marmeylad for you!” (Mr. Jorrocks had the knack of making the most of what he did, and treated the half pot as a whole one) “and mind be a good bouy, and I make no doubt you’ll rise to be a werry great man—nothing gains man or bouy the respect and esteem of the world so much as honesty, sobriety, and cleanliness.”

Mr. Jorrocks paused.—He would have finished with a moral, wherein his own fortune should have furnished the example, but somehow or other he could not turn it at the moment, so after scrutinizing Benjamin’s dirty face for a second, he placed the marmalade pot in his hand, and said, “Now go and wesh your mug.”

Uncommonly amiable and consequential was Mr. Jorrocks that morning. As he walked, or rather strutted into the City, he gave twopence to every crossing-sweeper in his line, from the black-eyed wench at the corner of Brunswick Square, to the breechless boy, with the red night-cap, at St. Botolph’s Lane; and he entered his dark and dingy warehouse with a smile on his brow, enough to illumine the dial of St. Giles’s clock in a fog. Most fidgety and uneasy was he all the morning—every foot-fall made his eyes start from the ledger, and wander towards the door, in hopes of seeing some member of the Surrey, or some brother sportsman, to whom he might communicate the great intelligence. He went on ’Change with a hand in each breeches pocket, and a strut that plainly told how well he was to do with himself: still some dear-bought experience had given him a little prudence, and all things considered he determined to sleep on the invitation before he answered it.—Perhaps the pros and cons of his mind will be best displayed by a transcript of what he wrote:—

“Gentlemen,

“I have the honour to acknowledge the receipt of your favour of the 4th, and note the contents, which I assure you is most grateful to my feelings: in all you have said I most cordially goinside.—It’s pleasant to see humanity estimating one’s walue at the price one sets on oneself. I am a sportsman all over, and to the backbone.—’Unting is all that’s worth living for—all time is lost wot is not spent in ’unting—it is like the hair we breathe—if we have it not we die—it’s the sport of kings, the image of war without its guilt, and only five-and-twenty per cent. of its danger.

“I have no manner of doubt at all that I’m fully qualified for the mastership of the ’Andley Cross fox-hounds, or any other—’unting has been my ’obby ever since I could keep an ’oss, and long before—a southerly wind and a cloudy sky are my delight—no music like the melody of ’ounds. But enough of the rhapsodies, let us come to the melodies—the £ s. d. in fact. Wot will it cost?—In course it’s a subscription pack—then say how many paying subscribers have you? Wot is the nett amount of their subscriptions—how many couple of ’ounds have you? Are they steady? Are they musical? How many days a week do you want your country ’unted? Is stoppin’ expensive? What ’un a country is it to ride over? Stiff, or light, or middlin’, or what? Enormous, endless woodlands without rides, stiff wales, with small enclosures and unreasonable raspers amid masses of plough; or pleasant copse-like covers, with roomy grass enclosures to reward the adventurous leaper with a gallop? Is it, in short, a country where a man can see ’ounds without zactly ridin’ to tread on their tails? Are your covers wide of the kennel? Where is your kennel? I never heard of your ’ounds before—wot stablin’ have you? Is ’ay and corn costly? In course you’ll have your stock of meal by you? Are there any cover rents to pay—and if so, who pays them? How are you off for foxes? Are they stout and wild, and like to take a deal o’ killin’, or just a middlin’ sort of hanimal that one may look to who-hoop-in pretty often? Write me fully—fairly—freely—frankly, in fact, and believe me to remain, gentlemen, all your’s to serve,

“Well, come, this is more like business than any we have had yet,” observed Captain Doleful on reading the epistle—“though some of his questions will be plaguy troublesome to answer. What does he mean by ‘Are they steady?’—‘Are they musical?’ and as to the ‘stopping being expensive,’ of course that must depend a good deal upon how he lives, and whether he stops at an inn or not.—It’s a pity but I knew something about the matter, that I might make a satisfactory answer.”

Fleeceall had Blaine’s Encyclopædia of Rural Sports, but as he was thought rather too sharp, Doleful determined to try what they could do without him; accordingly, he concocted the following epistle, which having copied on to a sheet of sea-green paper, he sealed with yellow wax, and deposited it in the post:—

“Dear Mr. Jorrocks,

“Your kind and flattering letter has just come to hand, and I lose not a moment in supplying you with all the information in my power, relative to our celebrated dogs. Unfortunately the secretary to the hunt, Mr. Fleeceall, is absent on urgent business, consequently I have not access to those documents which would enable me to answer you as fully as I could wish. The dogs, as you doubtless know, are of the purest blood, having been the property for many years of that renowned sportsman, Michael Hardey, and are bred with the very greatest care and attention. It is perhaps not going too far to say that there is not such another pack in the world. There are at present thirty-two couple of old ones in kennel, besides an excellent white terrier with a black eye. They are very steady and most musical. Their airing yard adjoins the Ebenezer chapel, and when the saints begin to sing, the dogs join chorus. Handley Cross, where the kennel is situated, is in the most beautiful, fertile, and salubrious part of the country, within two miles of the Datton station of the Lily-whitesand railway, and contains a chalybeate spa of most unrivalled excellence. The following is an accurate analysis of the water taken by an eminent French physician, who came all the way from Rheims for the express purpose of examining it:—

“To this unrivalled spring, invalids from every part of the world, from every quarter of the globe, flock in countless numbers; and it is unnecessary to point out to a sportsman like yourself either the advantages that a pack of hounds confer on such a place, or the benefits accruing to the master from having the support of men with whom, to use a familiar phrase, ‘money is no object.’ Indeed I think I may safely say, that keenness is all that is required, and a gentleman like you would meet with support that would galvanize your most sanguine expectations. You must excuse my saying more at present, as I have been out since day break, and there is a piece of cold roast beef standing before me at this moment, whose beautifully marbled side, and rich yellow fat with a delicately browned outside, in conjunction with a crisp lettuce-salad in a china bowl, peremptorily order me to conclude, which I do with the earnest exhortation for you at once to declare yourself for the high honour of the mastership of the Handley Cross hounds. Believe me to remain in extreme hunger, dear Mr. Jorrocks, very sincerely your’s,

“Handley Cross.”

“Dash my vig!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, laying down the letter, “what prime beef that must be! By jingo, I almost fancy I see the joint, with the nice, curly, crisp, brown ’orse radish, sticking to it in all directions.—I knows nothing better than good cold roast, tinged with red from the gravy in the centre.—Doleful must be a trump—feel as if I knew him. Keen fellow too—Peep-of-day boy.—Dare say he found the fox by the drag—Oh, vot joy is that! Nothing to compare to it.—Might as well have told me more about the ’ounds too,” he observed, as a glimmering of caution shot across his mind.—“Should like to have a fair black and white understanding what they are to cost. I’m rich, to be sure, but then a man wot’s made his own money likes to see to the spending of it.” Thereupon Mr. Jorrocks stuck his hands under his coat-laps and paced thoughtfully up and down the apartment, waving them sportively like the tail of a dolphin. Having pulled his wig about in all directions, he at last composed himself at his table, and drew up the following reply:—

“Dear Doleful,

“Your agreeable favour has come to hand, and wery pleasant it is. It appears to be directed to two points—the salubriosity of ’Andley Cross, and the excellence of the ’ounds. On the first point I’m content. I make no doubt the water’s capital. Please tell me more about the ’ounds and country—are you quite certain that people will not be backward in comin’ forward with the coin? I’ve lived a goodish while i’ the world—say a liberal ’alf ’under’d—and I’ve never yet found money good to get. So long as it consists of pen, ink, and paper work, it comes in like the hocean; many men can’t ’elp puttin’ their names down in subscription lists, specially when payin’ time’s far off, just as others can’t help noddin’ at auctions, but confound it, when you come to gether in the doits, there’s an awful fallin’ off. Now I think that no one should be allowed to hoop and holloa, or set up his jaw, wot hasn’t paid his subscription. Howsomever, you should know best; and suppose now, as you seem full of confidence, you underwrite me for so much, ’cordin’ to the number of days you want the country ’unted.

“Turn this over in your mind, and let me know what you think of it; also please tell me more about the ’ounds and the country, for, in fact, as yet I knows nothin’. Are there many old ’ounds in the pack? Are there many young ones to come in? What size are they? Are they level? Do they carry a good head? Have they plenty of bone? Cook says a weedy ’ound is only fit to ’unt a cat in a kitchen—I says ditto to that. What sort of condition are they in? Can they trot out fifteen miles or so, ’unt and come back with their sterns up, or do they whiles tire afore the foxes? How are you off for foxes? Are they ringers or straight runners? A ringer is only a hare with tail to it. Do you ever hunt a bagman? Again I say, write to me, without reserve—quite freely, in fact, and believe me, &c.,

This letter was a poser, for the worthy M.C. had no notion of running risks, neither had he the knowledge necessary for supplying the information Mr. Jorrocks required; still he saw the absolute necessity of persevering in the negotiation, as there was no probability of any one else coming forward. In this dilemma, it occurred to him that a bold stroke might be the policy, and obviate further trouble.

Accordingly he wrote as follows:—

“Dear Mr. Jorrocks,

“Your’s is just received. I was on the point of writing to you when it came. A rival has appeared for the mastership of the hounds: a great Nabob with a bad liver, to whom the doctors have recommended strong horse-exercise, has arrived with four posters, and an influential party is desirous of getting the hounds for him. Money is evidently no object—he gave each post-boy a half-sovereign, and a blind beggar two and sixpence. I have protested most strongly against his being even thought of until your final decision is known, which pray give immediately, and for your sake, let it be in the affirmative. I can write no more—my best energies shall be put in requisition to counteract the sinister proceedings of others. Pray write immediately—no time is to be lost. In the greatest haste,

This letter was a sad puzzler to our worthy friend. In his eyes a mastership of fox-hounds was the highest pinnacle of ambition, and the situation was the more desirable inasmuch as he had about got all the trade he could in the “cut-me-down” countries, and shame to say, they had rather put him out of conceit of the Surrey. Still long experience had tinctured his naturally ardent and impetuous mind with some degree of caution, and he felt the importance of having some sort of a bargain before entering upon what he well knew was an onerous and expensive undertaking. The pros and cons he weighed and turned over in his mind, and the following letter was the result of his cogitations:—

“Dear Doleful,

“I will candidly confess that to be a master of fox-hounds, or M.F.H., would be a werry high step in the ladder of my hambition, but still I should not like to pay too dear for my whistle. I doesn’t wish to disparage the walue of your Nabob, but this I may say, that no man with a bad liver will ever make a good ’untsman. An ’untsman, or M.F.H., should have a good digestion, with a cheerful countenance, and, moreover, should know when to use the clean and when the dirty side of his tongue—when to butter a booby, and when to snub a snob. He should also be indifferent as to weather; and Nabobs all come from the East, where it is werry ’to—all sunshine and no fogs.

“Again, if I am right, they hunt the jackall, not at all a sportin’ animal, I should say, from the specimens in the Zoologicals. Still, as I said before, I doesn’t wish to disparage the walue of your Nabob, who may be a werry good man, and have more money and less wit than myself. If he is to have the ’ounds, well and good—I can go on as I ’ave been doing, with the glorious old Surrey, and an occasional turn with the ‘cut-me-downs.’ If I’m to have them, I should like to know a little more about the £ s. d. Now, tell me candidly, like a good fellow, without any gammon, wot you think they’ll cost, and wot can be raised in the way of subscription. Of course, a man that’s raised to the lofty position of an M.F.H. must expect to pay something for the honour; and so far from wishing to live out of the ’ounds, I am well disposed to do what is liberal, but then I should like to know the extent of my liability. Dignity, in my mind, should not be too cheap, but betwixt you and I and the wall I rayther mistrust a water-drinker. To be sure there be two sorts o’ water-drinkers: those that drink it to save the expense of treating themselves with aught better, and those wot undergo water for the purpose of bringin’ their stomachs round to stand summat stronger. Now, if a man drinks water for pleasure, he should not be trusted, and ought to be called upon for his subscription in advance; but if he drinks water because he has worn out his inside by strong libations, in all human probability he will be a goodish sort of fellow, and his subscription will be underwritten for a trifle. All this may be matter of no moment to a Nabob, but to a man vot’s risen from indigence to affluence by the unaided exertions of his own head, it is of importance; and I should like to know werry particularly how many of the subscribers are woluntary water-drinkers and how many are water-drinkers from necessity.

“I am, as you doubtless know, a great grocer and tea merchant, dealin’ wholesale and retail, importing direct from China, which I suppose will be the country your Nabob comes from; and unfortunately at the present writing my junior partner, Simon Simpkins, senior, is on a trading tour, and I can’t well be wanted at the shop, otherwise I would run down and have a personal interview with you; but I had a letter this morning from Huddersfield, in which he says he will be back as on Friday at farthest; therefore as the season is spending, and the ’ounds should be kept going, I could, should your answer be agreeable, run down on the Saturday and make arrangements for taking the field immediately. Of course I presume there is everything ready for the purpose, and a mounted master is all wot is wanted. I only keep two ’osses—what the lawyers call ‘qui tam’ers’—‘’osses that ride as well as drive,’ and they would only do for my own riding. I have also a sharp London lad, who has been with me in the ‘cut-me-downs,’ who might make a second whip; and my establishment consists of Mrs. Jorrocks, my niece Belinda, Betsay the maid, and Binjimin the boy. Of course, Mrs. J., as the wife of the M.F.H., would expect all proper attention.

“I shall want a comfortable house to accommodate this party, and if I could get one with stabling attached, it would be agreeable. Perhaps you may know something of the sort, the willa style would be agreeable. I think that’s all I’ve got to say—indeed, I haven’t paper for more, so shall conclude for self and partners,

Doleful was in ecstasies when he got this letter, for he plainly saw the Nabob had told upon Mr. Jorrocks, and that he was fairly entering the meshes of his net. The letter, indeed, was unexceptionable, save the mention of his avocation of a grocer, which Doleful determined to keep to himself, merely announcing him as a gentleman of large fortune, whose father had been connected with trade. Recollecting that Diana Lodge was to let, he forthwith secured the refusal of it at three guineas a week, and calling on Fleeceall, concocted a most flattering list of subscribers and members of the hunt, which he forwarded to Mr. Jorrocks with the following letter:—

“Dear Mr. Jorrocks,

“By the greatest good luck in the world, Diana Lodge, within a stone’s throw of the kennel, came vacant this morning, and not having the slightest doubt that on inspection of the accompanying list of subscribers to the hounds and members of our celebrated hunt, which you will see by the letters A. and B. prefixed to their names, contain very few of those most horrible characters water-drinkers from choice, you will immediately accept the honourable office of ‘Master,’ I have engaged it for you at the very moderate rent of four guineas a-week, including everything. It is a cottage ornée, as you say in France, entered by an ivy-covered trellis-work arch, tastefully entwined with winter roses, now in full blow. In the passage is a highly-polished Honduras mahogany table on claw-feet castors, for hats, whips, gloves, cigar-cases, &c. On the right is a dining-room of comfortable dimensions, with another Honduras mahogany table, capable of dining eight people, the orthodox size for a party, with a Honduras mahogany cellaret sideboard with patent locks, and a dumb-waiter on castors. The carpet is a Turkey one, and the rug a Kidderminster, of a pattern to match the carpet. On the left of the passage is a drawing-room of the same size as the dining-room, furnished in a style of unparalleled elegance.

“The chairs, ten in number, are of massive imitation-rosewood, with beaded and railed backs and round knobs along the tops, and richly-carved legs. In the centre is a beautiful round imitation-rosewood table on square lion-clawed brass castors, and the edge of the table is deeply inlaid with a broad circle of richly-carved, highly-polished brass. Against the wall, below a costly round mirror, supported by a bronze eagle in chains, is a square imitation-rosewood table inlaid with satin-wood in lines, containing two drawers on each side, with ivory knobs for handles. The carpet is a fine flowered pattern, richer than anything I can describe, and the whole is wonderfully complete and surpassingly elegant.

“There are four bedrooms, and a dressing-room which holds a bed, and a kitchen, back-kitchen, scullery, pantry, and other conveniences. To the back is a nice little outlet of a quarter of an acre, laid out in the style of the Jardin des Plantes at Paris; and there is a splendid old patriarch of a peacock, that struts about the walls, spreads his tail, and screams delightfully. In short, it appears to me to have been built with an eye to the residence of a master of hounds.

“And this leads me to tell you that the Nabob has been to the kennel, attended by two Negroes, one of whom held a large green parasol over his head to protect him from the sun, while the other carried a chinchilla, fur-lined, blue silk cloak to guard him from the cold. I hear he talked very big about tiger-hunting and elephant-riding, and said the waters here had done his liver a vast deal of good. I may observe that it is possible an attempt may be made by a few troublesome fellows to place him at the head of the establishment, particularly if you any longer delay appearing among us. My advice to you therefore is, to place yourself, your amiable lady, and accomplished niece, with your servants, horses, &c., on the mid-day Lily-white-sand train, on Friday next, and make a public entry and procession from the Datton Station into Handley Cross, showering half-pence among the little boys as you go. I will take upon myself to muster and marshal such a procession as will have an imposing appearance, and the Nabob will be a very bold man if he makes any attempt upon the hounds after that.

“I need not say that your amiable lady will receive from me, as M.C. of Handley Cross, all those polite attentions that are invariably paid by all well-bred gentlemen in the dignified situation I have the honour to hold, more particularly from those bearing Her Majesty’s Commission in the Army; and in the table of precedence among women that I have laid down for the regulation of the aristocratic visitors of Handley Cross Spa, the lady of the M.F.H. comes on after the members of the Royal Family, and before all bishops’ wives and daughters, peeresses, knights’ dames, justices’ wives, and so forth. Expecting then to meet you at the Datton Station on the Lily-white-sand Railway, at three o’clock on Friday next, and to have the supreme felicity of making the personal acquaintance of a gentleman who so worthily fills so large a space in the world’s eye, I have the honour to subscribe myself, with humble respects to the ladies, dear Mr. Jorrocks,

And Jorrocks seeing there was as much chance of getting information by correspondence as there was of getting the truth by interrogatories in the days of old Chancery suits, determined to stand the shot, and wrote to say that henceforth they might append the magic letters, M.F.H., to his name. And forthwith he became so inflated, that Great Coram Street itself could hardly hold him.

¹“Cut ’em down and hang ’em up to dry!”—Leicestershire phrase.