by R S Surtees
“Talli-ho!” cries Abel Snorem, in a loud, deep, sonorous voice from his fly, rubbing his eyes with one hand and raising his hat in the air with the other; “talli-ho! yonder he goes.” “It’s a hare!” exclaims Peter; “it’s a hare! pray hold your tongue, sir! pray do!” — It is too late; the mischief is done. Three couple of young hounds that did not like the gorse, having caught view, dash after her; and puss’s screams at the corner of the ploughed field are drowned in the horns of the masters, who commenced the most discordant tootleings, puffings, and blowings, as soon as Abel Snorem’s talli-ho was heard. Meanwhile the whipper-in has worked his way round to the delinquents, and, jumping off his horse, seizes the hind quarters of puss, whereupon Vigilant seizes him à posteriori in return, and makes him bellow like a bull. The masters canter round, the field rush to the spot, and all again is hubbub and confusion. “Lay it into them!” exclaims Barnington to his groom whipper-in; “cut them to ribbons, the riotous brutes!” “Don’t!” interposes Dumpling, “I won’t have the hounds flogged;” whereupon the ladies laud his feeling, and mutter something that sounds very like “Barnington and brute.” Just as stuttering Smith is in the midst of a long string of stammers upon the question of corporeal punishment, a loud, clear, shrill talli-ho is heard proceeding from the neighbourhood of the fir trees, and Peter on the white horse is seen standing in his stirrups, cap in hand, halloaing his hounds away to their fox.— “Hoic together, hoic!” and the old hounds rush eagerly to the voice that has led them to a hundred glories.— “Yonder he goes by Mersham Hatch, and away for Downleigh-crag,” exclaims a lad in a tree, and eyes are strained in the direction that he points.
“Forrard away! forrard.” “Crack! crack!” go a score of whips; “talli-ho!” scream a dozen voices. “Away! away! away!” holloas Peter, settling himself into his saddle. “Away! away! away!” echoes the groom whipper-in, as he stands rubbing himself, debating whether to mount or go home to the doctor. Barnington races round the cover, Dumpling takes the opposite side, followed by Smith, and Dennis O’Brian shoves his spavined steed straight through the cover, and goes bounding over the high gorse like a boat off a rough shore. Romeo Simpkins and his tail trot after a fat old gentleman on a black cob, dressed in a singlebreasted green coat, with mahogany-coloured top-boots, and a broad-brimmed hat, who makes for Ashley Lane, from thence over Downley Hill, from whence there is a full view of the pack running like wildfire over the large grass enclosure near Ravensdeen village, with no one but Peter within a quarter of a mile of them. Away they speed; and just as Peter’s white horse looks like a pigeon in the distance, and the rest diminish into black specks, a curve to the left brings them past Arthingworth clump, leaving the old tower on the right, and, skirting the side of Branston Wood, far in the distance they enter upon the tract of chalky land beyond. The old gentleman’s eye catches fresh fire at the sight; he takes off his low-crowned hat, and mops his bald head with a substantial snuff-coloured bandana, and again bumps off at a trot. He pounds along the lanes, turning first to the right, then to the left; now stopping to listen, now cutting through the backs of farm buildings, now following an almost imperceptible cart-track through a line of field-gates, until he gains Surrenden Lane, where he pulls up short and listens. “Hark!” he exclaims, holding up his hand to Romeo and his female friends, who are giggling and tittering at the delightful canter they have had; “hark!” he repeats, in a somewhat louder voice. A short sharp chirp is borne on the breeze; it is Heroine all but running mute. A deeper note follows, — another, and another, which gradually swell into chorus as the pack carry the scent across the fallow, and get upon turf nearer hand. The old gentleman is in ecstasies. He can hardly contain himself. He pulls his cob across the lane; his hat is in the air, no one views the fox but himself, the hounds pour into the lane; a momentary check ensues. Villager speaks to it in the next field; Dexterous has it too, — and Coroner, Harmony, Funnylass, and Ravenous join cry! — they run the hedge-row — a snap and crack is heard just by the large ash-tree. “Whoo-whoop!” holloas the old gentleman, putting his finger in his ear, and Peter comes bounding over the fence, and is among his pack fighting for the fox.
Then up come the field, the horses heaving, panting, and blowing, all in a white lather, and the perspiration streaming off the red faces of riders. There has been a desperately jealous tustle between Barnington and Dumpling which should ride first; and nothing but the badness of the start has prevented their being before the hounds. Dumpling has knocked in the crown of a new eight-and-sixpenny hat; while a strong grower that he bore before him through a stiff bullfinch, returned with a switch across Barnington’s nose, that knocked all the skin off the bridge.
“I claim the brush!” exclaimed Dumpling, still in the air. “No such thing!” responds Barnington, as they land together in the deep lane, from the top of the high bank with a strongly pleached hedge on the top. “I say it’s mine!” “I say it isn’t!” “I say it is!” “Peter, it’s mine!” “Peter, it isn’t!” “At your peril give it to him!” “You give it to me, or I discharge you!”
“Well, gentlemen,” replies Peter, laying the fox before him, “whichever way you please.” “Then, give it me.” “No, give it me.” “Isn’t it mine, sir?” says Dumpling, appealing to the gentleman on the cob, “my horse touched ground first, and, according to all the laws of steeple-chasing that ever I’ve heard, or read of in ‘Bell’s Life’ or elsewhere, that’s decisive.” “I should say it was Squire Hartley’s,” observed Peter, looking at the green-coated gentleman on the cob.
“Squire Hartley’s!” exclaim Dumpling and Barnington at the same moment; “Squire Hartley’s! How can that be? He’s not even a member of the hunt, and doesn’t give a farthing to it.” “It was his cover we found in,” replies Peter; “and in old master’s time we always gave the brush to whoever was first up.” “First up,” roars Dumpling, “why, he’s never been out of a trot!” “And ridden the road!” adds Barnington. “What do we know about your old master?” rejoins Dumpling, “he was a skirting, nicking, Macadamizing old screw.” “He was a better sportsman than ever you will be,” replies Peter, his eyes sparkling anger as he spoke. “Let us have none of your impertinence,” replies Barnington, nettled at the disrespect towards a member of the committee; “and let me advise you to remember that you hunt these hounds for the amusement of your masters, and not for your own pleasure, and you had better take care how you steal away with your fox again as you did just now.” “That he ha-ha-ha-had,” exclaims Round-the-corner Smith, as he creeps down the side of the bank, holding by the pommel of his saddle, into the lane, after having ridden the line with great assiduity without seeing a bit of the run; “I never saw such an impudent thing done in all the whole course of my li-li-li-life before.”
Poor Peter made no reply. An involuntary tear started into the corner of his eye, when, having broken up his fox, he called his hounds together and turned his horse’s head towards home, at the thought of the change he had lived to see. Arrived at Handley Cross, he fed his hounds, dressed his horse, and then, paying a visit to each of his masters, respectfully resigned the situation of “huntsman to the committee of management of the Handley Cross fox-hounds.”
CHAPTER VI. THE CLIMAX OF DISASTER.
“A FELLOW FEELING makes us wondrous kind,” says the adage, and the present case was no exception to the rule. Our three masters, having slept on their visit from Peter, met the next morning, when all jealousies were merged in abuse of the huntsman. He was everything that was bad, and they unanimously resolved that they were extremely lucky in getting rid of him. “Anybody could hunt a pack of hounds,” and the only difficulty they anticipated was the possibility of the groom-whipper-in not being sufficiently recovered from his bite from the hound to be able to take the field on the Friday, for which day the hounds were advertised to meet at Meddingley, three miles down the vale, in the cream of their country. Barnington would have no difficulty in hunting them if any one would whip-in to him; Dumpli
ng was equally confident; and Smith said he had no “he-he-he-he-si-tation about the matter.” It was therefore arranged that each should lend a hand, and hunt, or turn the hounds, as occasion required, and let the world at large, and Peter in particular, see what little occasion they had for his services. Meanwhile Beckford, Cook, Scrutator, and others, were perseveringly studied.
Friday came, but like an old “Oaks day” it was very languid and feeble; there was no polishing of hack hunters, no borrowing of bridles or lending of saddles, no bustle or hurry perceptible in the streets; the water-drinkers flocked to the wells as usual, and none but the regulars took the field. Among the number was our old friend Squire Hartley on his black cob, attired in the same green coat, the same brown top-boots, and the same low-crowned hat as before. Snorem and Doleful came in a gig in the inspection style, and Dennis O’Brien smoked three cigars before any one looked at his watch to see how the time went.
At length Squire Hartley ventured to inquire if there was any possibility of the servant having mistaken his way, whereupon it simultaneously occurred to the trio that there might be something wrong. Joe had orders to bring the hounds by an unfrequented lane, so as to avoid collecting foot people, and after another quarter of an hour spent in suspense, the field proceeded in the direction they ought to come. On rising a gentle eminence out of Sandyford Lane, a scarlet-coated man was seen in the distance standing in the middle of a ploughed field, and a fustian-coated horseman was galloping about it, endeavouring to turn the hounds to the former, but in consequence of riding at them instead of getting round them, he made the hounds fly in all directions. The cavalcade then pressed on, horns were drawn from their cases, and our three masters cantered into the field, puffing and blowing most unsatisfactory and discordant blasts. Joe then disclosed how the pack had broke away on winding a dead horse hard by, and how, after most ineffectual efforts to turn them, he had lent a countryman his horse and whip, while he stood in the field holloaing and coaxing them away.
This feat being accomplished through the assistance of the field, the hounds, with somewhat distended sides, proceeded sluggishly to the cover. It was a long straggling gorse on a hill side, with a large quarry hole at the far end, which, from long disuse, had grown up with broom, furze, and brushwood. The hounds seemed very easy about the matter, and some laid down, while others stood gazing about the cover. At length our masters agreed that it was time to throw off, so they began, as they had seen Peter, with a whistle and a slight wave of the hand, thinking to see the pack rush in at the signal, — no such thing, however; not a single hound moved a muscle, and three or four of the young ones most audaciously sat down on the spot. The gentleman on the black cob smiled.
“Yooi over there!” cried Barnington, taking off his hat and standing erect in the stirrups.
“Yooi over there! get to cover, hounds, get to cover!” screamed whipper-in Joe, commencing a most furious onset among the sitters, whereupon some jumped and others crept into cover and quietly laid themselves down for a nap. Five or six couples of old hounds, however, that had not quite gorged themselves with horse-flesh, worked the cover well; and, as foxes abounded, it was not long before our friend on the cob saw one stealing away up the brook that girded the base of the hills, which, but for his eagle eye, would have got off unperceived.
“Talli-ho!” cried the old gentleman at last, taking off his hat on seeing him clear of the cover, and pointing southwards in the direction of Bibury Wood, a strong hold for foxes.
“Talli-ho!” responded Barnington without seeing him. “Talli-ho!” re-echoed all the others without one having caught view! and the old gentleman, putting the cob’s head straight down the hill, slid and crawled down to the brook followed by the field. Here with much hooping, holloaing, and blowing of horns, a few couple of hounds were enticed from the cover, and being laid on to the scent, dribbled about like the tail of a paper kite, taking precedence according to their several degrees. First old Solomon, a great black and white hound, with a strong resemblance to a mugger’s mastiff, gave a howl and a towl; then Harmony chirped, and Manager gave a squeak, and old Solomon threw his tongue again, in a most leisurely and indifferent manner, causing some of the young hounds to peep over the furze bushes to see what was going on.
The run, however, was of short continuance; after crossing three grass-fields they came to a greasy fallow, across which the hounds were working the scent very deliberately, when up jumped a great thumping hare, which they ran into in view at the well at the corner. Our sportsmen were somewhat disgusted at this, but made the best of the matter, and laid the mishap to the charge of the horse in the morning.
After consuming another hour or two in drawing hopeless covers, and riding about the country, they entered Handley Cross just in full tide, when all the streets and shops swarmed with bright eyes and smart dresses, and each man said they had had a capital day’s sport, and killed. After passing through the principal streets, the hounds and horses were dismissed, and the red coats were seen flitting about till dusk.
The next day, however, produced no change for the better, nor the following, nor the one after; and the oftener they went, the wilder and worse the hounds became. Sometimes, by dint of mobbing, they managed to kill a fox, but hares much more frequently fell a prey to the renowned pack. At length they arrived at such a state of perfection, that they would hunt almost anything. The fields, as may be supposed, soon dwindled down to nothing, and, what was worse, many of the visitors began to slip away from Handley Cross without paying their subscriptions. To add to their misfortunes, bills poured in a-pace for poultry and other damage; and every farmer’s wife who had her hen-roost robbed, laid the blame upon the foxes. Fleeceall had the first handling of the bills, but not being a man with a propensity for settling questions, he entered into a voluminous correspondence with the parties for the laudable purpose of proving that foxes did not meddle with poultry.
One evening as our masters returned home, quite dispirited after an unusually bad day, without having seen a fox, though the hounds had run into and killed a fat wether, and seized an old woman in a scarlet cloak, they agreed to meet after dinner, to consider what was best to be done under the circumstances. On entering the room, which they did simultaneously, two letters were seen on the table, one of small size, directed to “The Gentlemen Managers of the Handley Cross Hunt-Ball and Supper,” containing, in a few laconic items, the appalling amount of £ 290 3s. 6d. for the expenses of the memorable ball-night. The other more resembled a Government-office packet than a letter, and was bound with red tape and sealed; it was addressed to the “Honourable the Committee of Management of the Handley Cross Fox Hounds.” Barnington, more stout-nerved than his colleagues, tore off the tape, when out of the envelope fell a many-paged bill, secured at the stitching part with a delicate piece of blue silk. The contents ran thus: —
The Honourable Committee of Management of the Handley Cross Fox-hounds
To Walter Fleeceall, Dr.
£ s. d.
Sept. Attending you by especial appointment, when you communicated
your desire of taking the Hounds
0 13 4
Considering the subject very attentively
1 1 0
Attending Capt. Doleful, M.C., at Miss Jelly’s, the Pastry Cook’s, conferring with him on the subject, when it was arranged that a Public Meeting of the Inhabitants should be called
0 13 4
Drawing notice of the same
1 1 0
Making two fair copies thereof
0 10 6
Posting same at Library and Billiard Room
0 6 8
Long attendance on Capt. Doleful, M.C., arranging preliminaries, when it was agreed that Mr. Barnington should be called to the chair
0 13 4
Communicating with Mr. Barnington thereon, and advising him what to say
1 1 0
Attending Meeting, self and clerk
1 10 6
Making speech on
the merits and advantages of Fox-hunting (what you please) Making minute of the appointment of the committee of management
0 6 8
Attending Capt. Doleful, M.C., by especial appointment at Miss Jelly’s, when it appeared advisable to conciliate the farmers; writing to Mr. Stephen Dumpling, requesting his attendance
0 6 8
Carried forward
£8 4 0
£s. d.
Brought forward
8 4 0
Attending meeting, when Mr. Dumpling’s name was added to the committee, and title of hunt changed to “Handley Cross” Hounds
1 1 0
Making special minute thereof, and of appointment of self as secretary
0 10 6
Writing 353 letters soliciting subscriptions, inviting and exhorting gentlemen to become members of the hunt, describing the uniforms — scarlet coats with blue collars in a morning, and sky-blue coats, lined with pink silk, canary-coloured shorts, and white silk stockings in an evening (letters very long and very pressing)
25 0 0
